Jam
Yet more AU Wimsey fic. Comes after 110A Piccadilly:
Jam
Harriet sat down to a leisurely breakfast on Saturday morning, and was rather horrified to discover that the jam was almost gone. She could have sworn there had been at least half a jar left the last time she had looked. Peter must have eaten most of it on Tuesday, damn him. Harriet had in recent years got over any past scruples about having a gentleman friend to stay the night. But she did consider that things had been easier before rationing, as it seemed a little rude to ask the gentleman to bring his own jam. Oh well, there was no point getting too irritated about it. God knows, the man needed to eat, he was skin and bone.
That morning, she had an appointment with some friends to play tennis. Harriet had never considered herself very competitive, and in her professional life, she had long tried to cultivate an aloofness from the views of critics, if not the public. But in recent years she had discovered an unexpectedly combative streak which she allowed free rein on the tennis court. That morning she played well, and she treated herself to a regulation-breaking 5 and a half inches of bathwater when she got home.
After lunch, she walked down Oxford Street, looking idly for a birthday present for her goddaughter. There was just as little to see in the shops as there had been for many months, but it seemed to her that there was an unusually large crowd of optimistic window-shoppers, eagerly anticipating an end to rationing.
She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a window. That last haircut had been a success, and the fresh air and exercise of the morning had brought colour to her cheeks. But after four years of make do and mend (even despite having the money to buy), her summer wardrobe was really very shabby. Perhaps, if she looked in one of the trunks stored in the attic, something unnoticed which could be delightfully made over would miraculously appear. She laughed at her own sudden and unwonted desire for adornment. She could not hide from herself the reason for this change. But Peter would be in the countryside for a fortnight, so she had time to work on her personal appearance.
Before leaving for a dinner-party that evening, Harriet climbed the stone stairs to the attic, and opened one by one the dusty trunks of discarded belongings. There was very little left in the way of pre-war clothing, most of it having been pressed into service already. At the bottom of one trunk, she finally found an untouched bundle of wine-coloured cloth. Good heavens! It was the evening frock that Peter had persuaded her to buy in Wilvercombe years ago. Though the design was outdated, there should be ample material to make something up in the more restrained style of today, and if he noticed, the garment's provenance would amuse him. She shook the frock out, and was disappointed to discover that the moths had got to it, and it was full of holes.
There it was, and she was forced to confront it, instead of just walking around in a daze of happiness. Did she and Peter really have a future together, or would the relationship turn out to be but a relic of the past? Was she ready to commit herself to a man whose psyche appeared to be damaged, possibly beyond repair?
Being of an in-between generation, Harriet did not have close friends who had fought in the first war, but she was familiar with the stories of marriages poisoned when men returned home broken and despairing. Perhaps her sudden decision in the restaurant had been rash. It had certainly not been made out of pity or obligation; lust was closer to the truth, though she had not admitted it to him in so many words. But though no word of marriage had yet passed either his lips or hers, she knew that things could not continue much longer in that vein without giving rise to expectations.
Of course one could always continue blithely, hoping for the best, ignoring the currents beneath the surface until one or other of them were swept away. But that would not be fair to Peter, for if ever a man needed stability in his life, he did, now. Damn him, she thought, always disappearing off when he's most needed. And with that rather ambiguous thought, she repacked the trunks, and headed back downstairs to dress for dinner.
Jam
Harriet sat down to a leisurely breakfast on Saturday morning, and was rather horrified to discover that the jam was almost gone. She could have sworn there had been at least half a jar left the last time she had looked. Peter must have eaten most of it on Tuesday, damn him. Harriet had in recent years got over any past scruples about having a gentleman friend to stay the night. But she did consider that things had been easier before rationing, as it seemed a little rude to ask the gentleman to bring his own jam. Oh well, there was no point getting too irritated about it. God knows, the man needed to eat, he was skin and bone.
That morning, she had an appointment with some friends to play tennis. Harriet had never considered herself very competitive, and in her professional life, she had long tried to cultivate an aloofness from the views of critics, if not the public. But in recent years she had discovered an unexpectedly combative streak which she allowed free rein on the tennis court. That morning she played well, and she treated herself to a regulation-breaking 5 and a half inches of bathwater when she got home.
After lunch, she walked down Oxford Street, looking idly for a birthday present for her goddaughter. There was just as little to see in the shops as there had been for many months, but it seemed to her that there was an unusually large crowd of optimistic window-shoppers, eagerly anticipating an end to rationing.
She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a window. That last haircut had been a success, and the fresh air and exercise of the morning had brought colour to her cheeks. But after four years of make do and mend (even despite having the money to buy), her summer wardrobe was really very shabby. Perhaps, if she looked in one of the trunks stored in the attic, something unnoticed which could be delightfully made over would miraculously appear. She laughed at her own sudden and unwonted desire for adornment. She could not hide from herself the reason for this change. But Peter would be in the countryside for a fortnight, so she had time to work on her personal appearance.
Before leaving for a dinner-party that evening, Harriet climbed the stone stairs to the attic, and opened one by one the dusty trunks of discarded belongings. There was very little left in the way of pre-war clothing, most of it having been pressed into service already. At the bottom of one trunk, she finally found an untouched bundle of wine-coloured cloth. Good heavens! It was the evening frock that Peter had persuaded her to buy in Wilvercombe years ago. Though the design was outdated, there should be ample material to make something up in the more restrained style of today, and if he noticed, the garment's provenance would amuse him. She shook the frock out, and was disappointed to discover that the moths had got to it, and it was full of holes.
There it was, and she was forced to confront it, instead of just walking around in a daze of happiness. Did she and Peter really have a future together, or would the relationship turn out to be but a relic of the past? Was she ready to commit herself to a man whose psyche appeared to be damaged, possibly beyond repair?
Being of an in-between generation, Harriet did not have close friends who had fought in the first war, but she was familiar with the stories of marriages poisoned when men returned home broken and despairing. Perhaps her sudden decision in the restaurant had been rash. It had certainly not been made out of pity or obligation; lust was closer to the truth, though she had not admitted it to him in so many words. But though no word of marriage had yet passed either his lips or hers, she knew that things could not continue much longer in that vein without giving rise to expectations.
Of course one could always continue blithely, hoping for the best, ignoring the currents beneath the surface until one or other of them were swept away. But that would not be fair to Peter, for if ever a man needed stability in his life, he did, now. Damn him, she thought, always disappearing off when he's most needed. And with that rather ambiguous thought, she repacked the trunks, and headed back downstairs to dress for dinner.