(no subject)
A sequel to The other way round, Take II
In which nothing of any great interest happens, but is that not the definition of "happily ever after"?
Harriet woke in a bad mood, which was not improved by stubbing her toe on a very heavy book which Peter had left on the floor on her side of the bed. She was never quite sure which was worse - to have to put up with the consequences of a husband of untidy habits, or to be surrounded night-and-day (especially night) by servants who picked up after him. The obvious solution - for her husband to learn to do it himself - was one she had briefly considered. But when one married a man already in middle age and set in his ways, some things were beyond hoping for. Remarkably, not even two-and-a-half years in a Nazi POW camp had brought out his practical side. As far as Harriet could make out, he had spent those years playing the piano in the camp theatre, and had practically starved to death for his inability to do anything more useful.
She thought grumpily about what Miss De Vine had said many years ago about the dangers of two equally independent and intelligent people marrying. Peter was just fine about the big things. But the minutiae of everyday life was where disagreement always arose, and that did not have much to do with intelligence. What would Miss De Vine know about marriage anyway, muttered Harriet to herself, never even having lived with anybody?
Peter himself had flown out to Berlin the previous evening. After acting as a British Government observer at Nuremberg, he was now permanently attached to MI-6. It was somewhat ironic, thought Harriet, that a man who talked so much worked for a secret intelligence service. But he enjoyed the work, and drawing down a salary (however unnecessary) seemed to take the edge off his old responsibility anxieties. Moreover, it was a great relief to Harriet to have him out of the house all day. The months after the war while he had been on medical leave had not been good for her productivity, and they hadn't even been living together then.
Harriet settled down after breakfast to continue adapting one of her earlier novels as a play. The BBC had produced two radio plays based on her work, and they had been a resounding success. Now they wanted a third. So far, Harriet had greatly enjoyed the process. In particular she enjoyed the challenge of figuring out what worked and didn't work as a play in contrast to a book. But this novel, written in a hurry at a time when she had been particularly short of money, was not one of her favourites, and she found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand.
Her mood was not improved by being disturbed mid-morning by a trunk call from Duke's Denver. It was her sister-in-law, Helen, looking for Peter, and so apoplectic with fury that Harriet at first could not make out what the problem was. Finally she understood that it was some complicated matter of an insurance policy the Duke had omitted to pay the premium for, and which was required for a mortgage that the he had recently taken out unbeknownst to his wife. Whether Helen was furious with her husband for being so absent-minded, or the bank for having the temerity to demand the insurance policy, or Peter for not being there to sort everything out, Harriet was not quite sure. She sighed, and promised to tell Peter when he called from Berlin that evening.
Peter's mother had been a dear, and very fond of Harriet. But she had died the previous year, at the ripe old age of 88. The rest of the family was rather chaotic, and Harriet usually did her best to avoid them. The finances of the estate having been thrown into disarray by a combination of the war and the subsequent Labour government, the Duke had retreated into a state of depression, from which he emerged periodically to go down to the stables to talk to the horses. The Duchess had reacted by attempting to keep up a Victorian standard of propriety in all things, with the result (in these more democratic times) that she found it impossible to retain household staff for any period of time. Lord Saint-George had married in the early years of the war, and produced two boisterous boys. Not having any solid source of income, he and his wife (who lacked vitality) lived with his parents, and seemed to spend all their time fighting with them over the boys' education. As the only solvent member of the family, poor Peter was frequently called upon to clean up messes like this issue of the mortgage.
That afternoon, Harriet was just getting into her stride with her work, when she remembered that she had scheduled an appointment with her agent to discuss a new contract. Damn it, she thought. There was just enough time to get there if she left immediately. She dashed out of the flat, and had just pulled up at her agent's office in a taxi before she realized that she had left her purse on the writing desk. The cabbie was very good and waited while she went and borrowed ten bob from the receptionist. But Harriet cursed herself for being so stupid, and was unreasonably cross with poor Mr Challoner as a result, even though the shoddy deal she was being offered was not his fault.
So by the time she got home afterwards, she was just too tired to enjoy having the evening to herself. She had let the cook go home early, planning to dine out, but now she didn't have the energy. Instead she made some cheese-on-toast, and curled up in the drawing room with a guidebook to Greece. She and Peter were planning a holiday in the Greek Islands so she could do some research. But the book was ponderous, and the room was warm, so she dozed off until awoken suddenly by the telephone.
It was Peter, on an atrociously bad line from Berlin, so they had to yell at one other. She told him as best she could about Helen, and the mortgage, and he made some harrumphing noises. She didn't tell him about her contract; that could wait. He apologized for not calling earlier, but he had been trying to wrap things up quickly, so he could come home tomorrow. And suddenly all her bad mood melted away. He would be home tomorrow, and he would laugh at her about the incident of the taxi and poor Mr Challoner, and she would rail at him about leaving books on the floor on her side of the bed, and they would go together to the theatre to see a play she had been wanting to see for some time.
In which nothing of any great interest happens, but is that not the definition of "happily ever after"?
Harriet woke in a bad mood, which was not improved by stubbing her toe on a very heavy book which Peter had left on the floor on her side of the bed. She was never quite sure which was worse - to have to put up with the consequences of a husband of untidy habits, or to be surrounded night-and-day (especially night) by servants who picked up after him. The obvious solution - for her husband to learn to do it himself - was one she had briefly considered. But when one married a man already in middle age and set in his ways, some things were beyond hoping for. Remarkably, not even two-and-a-half years in a Nazi POW camp had brought out his practical side. As far as Harriet could make out, he had spent those years playing the piano in the camp theatre, and had practically starved to death for his inability to do anything more useful.
She thought grumpily about what Miss De Vine had said many years ago about the dangers of two equally independent and intelligent people marrying. Peter was just fine about the big things. But the minutiae of everyday life was where disagreement always arose, and that did not have much to do with intelligence. What would Miss De Vine know about marriage anyway, muttered Harriet to herself, never even having lived with anybody?
Peter himself had flown out to Berlin the previous evening. After acting as a British Government observer at Nuremberg, he was now permanently attached to MI-6. It was somewhat ironic, thought Harriet, that a man who talked so much worked for a secret intelligence service. But he enjoyed the work, and drawing down a salary (however unnecessary) seemed to take the edge off his old responsibility anxieties. Moreover, it was a great relief to Harriet to have him out of the house all day. The months after the war while he had been on medical leave had not been good for her productivity, and they hadn't even been living together then.
Harriet settled down after breakfast to continue adapting one of her earlier novels as a play. The BBC had produced two radio plays based on her work, and they had been a resounding success. Now they wanted a third. So far, Harriet had greatly enjoyed the process. In particular she enjoyed the challenge of figuring out what worked and didn't work as a play in contrast to a book. But this novel, written in a hurry at a time when she had been particularly short of money, was not one of her favourites, and she found it hard to concentrate on the task at hand.
Her mood was not improved by being disturbed mid-morning by a trunk call from Duke's Denver. It was her sister-in-law, Helen, looking for Peter, and so apoplectic with fury that Harriet at first could not make out what the problem was. Finally she understood that it was some complicated matter of an insurance policy the Duke had omitted to pay the premium for, and which was required for a mortgage that the he had recently taken out unbeknownst to his wife. Whether Helen was furious with her husband for being so absent-minded, or the bank for having the temerity to demand the insurance policy, or Peter for not being there to sort everything out, Harriet was not quite sure. She sighed, and promised to tell Peter when he called from Berlin that evening.
Peter's mother had been a dear, and very fond of Harriet. But she had died the previous year, at the ripe old age of 88. The rest of the family was rather chaotic, and Harriet usually did her best to avoid them. The finances of the estate having been thrown into disarray by a combination of the war and the subsequent Labour government, the Duke had retreated into a state of depression, from which he emerged periodically to go down to the stables to talk to the horses. The Duchess had reacted by attempting to keep up a Victorian standard of propriety in all things, with the result (in these more democratic times) that she found it impossible to retain household staff for any period of time. Lord Saint-George had married in the early years of the war, and produced two boisterous boys. Not having any solid source of income, he and his wife (who lacked vitality) lived with his parents, and seemed to spend all their time fighting with them over the boys' education. As the only solvent member of the family, poor Peter was frequently called upon to clean up messes like this issue of the mortgage.
That afternoon, Harriet was just getting into her stride with her work, when she remembered that she had scheduled an appointment with her agent to discuss a new contract. Damn it, she thought. There was just enough time to get there if she left immediately. She dashed out of the flat, and had just pulled up at her agent's office in a taxi before she realized that she had left her purse on the writing desk. The cabbie was very good and waited while she went and borrowed ten bob from the receptionist. But Harriet cursed herself for being so stupid, and was unreasonably cross with poor Mr Challoner as a result, even though the shoddy deal she was being offered was not his fault.
So by the time she got home afterwards, she was just too tired to enjoy having the evening to herself. She had let the cook go home early, planning to dine out, but now she didn't have the energy. Instead she made some cheese-on-toast, and curled up in the drawing room with a guidebook to Greece. She and Peter were planning a holiday in the Greek Islands so she could do some research. But the book was ponderous, and the room was warm, so she dozed off until awoken suddenly by the telephone.
It was Peter, on an atrociously bad line from Berlin, so they had to yell at one other. She told him as best she could about Helen, and the mortgage, and he made some harrumphing noises. She didn't tell him about her contract; that could wait. He apologized for not calling earlier, but he had been trying to wrap things up quickly, so he could come home tomorrow. And suddenly all her bad mood melted away. He would be home tomorrow, and he would laugh at her about the incident of the taxi and poor Mr Challoner, and she would rail at him about leaving books on the floor on her side of the bed, and they would go together to the theatre to see a play she had been wanting to see for some time.