Greyglass by Tanith Lee (fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

what you’re giving my grandchild for her lunch. Bits of smashed china ruined by careless servants.”

Then she gazed at Susan again. Her eyes were full of – what was it – milk, or venom?

“I shall be taking soup, homemade, of course. Cream of celery, I think. Then a casserole of lamb with dumplings. Roast potatoes and green peas. Then there is some Stilton, but naturally I have raspberry ice-cream, if anyone were to want it.”

“Mother, I’m sorry. Perhaps next Sunday –”

“You haven’t eaten a meal in this house for ten years.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is true. What is the point,” said the old woman in the pumpkin house, “of my being alive? There you are, the two of you, flesh of my flesh, children of my body, there you are and I am alone. Alone with a petty thief. This is what I have come to.”

Or tears. Was that what it was in her eyes? Thick resinous and opaque as glasses fitted under the lids. But Susan’s grandmother never wore glasses, not even to read. Her eyesight, like her hearing, was still phenomenal.

“Oh for God’s sake, Mother.” Exasperated, Anne. “Then we must stay. We’ll stay for lunch. Yes, very well. Only I wish you’d made this more clear before I’d peeled all those potatoes at home.”

“No, no,” said the old woman. “No, I can’t ask you to stay, I’m afraid. If you’d said before. But there isn’t enough for three. Oh, there might be, if that woman didn’t squirrel so much of it away for herself. But as it is…”

Somewhere, in another room, a clock struck. One o’clock, or two, who knew, in this limbo of mind-fuck and exasperated despair.

Mrs Danvers, however, re-entered, punctilious as a robot.

“Yes?” asked the grandmother. “Lunch? Already?”

It seemed it was.

“Well, goodbye, Anne. Goodbye, Susan.”

They shook themselves, outside, like dogs shaking off the fluids of the vegetable house. They walked for thirty minutes back to the flat in the rain.

“Can we play the card game this afternoon?”

“No. I’ve got to get ready and go out.”

“Oh. Oh –”

“Don’t start, Susan.”

“You said you’d read through my essay with me.”

“I will. Tonight.”

“You’ll be in late tonight.”

“For Christ’s sake, stop it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere.”

“To the pictures?”

“Perhaps.”

“I wish I could go.”

“You can. I’ll give you the money tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Monday. It’s school.”

“Don’t talk as if it’s spelled H E double L.”

“It is.”

“I mean, I will take you tomorrow night. If you promise not to make a fuss about getting up on Tuesday morning.”

“Will you? Will you? Won’t you mind if you’ve already seen it?”

“No I won’t mind. Eat your chips.”

“China chips,” said Susan.

“Poor old bitch,” said Anne. “God, what can I do?”

“I said we shouldn’t go.”

“You were quite right.”

“Why do we? She hates us. Doesn’t want us there, even though she says all that stuff.”

“She doesn’t hate us. She’s very fond of you.”

“She isn’t.”

“Yes she is. It’s just difficult for her to understand. She’s a very old lady.”

“You said bitch.”

“Yes. She is a bitch. So am I. I expect you will be too, when you’re older.”

Susan, cheered by this inspiring prospect, finished her lunch.

Later, she sat on the edge of the tub as her mother had a bath, admiring Anne’s taut curved body, the shallow but beautifully rounded breasts, the fleece of pubic hair, not black or blonde or auburn, but a cool mouse brown.

Then Susan watched her mother paint her toenails, put on a new dress, redo her make-up and spruce up her hair.

“Just made it.”

“When will you be back?”

“No later than eleven. Now remember, supper is in the fridge. Don’t open the door to anyone, even if they insist they’re your fairy-godmother. TV if you like, or that book I’ve just read was good. It’s on my bed, I think. Bye for now.”

No information was given, and no question asked about whom she might be going with. Who all the delicious scent and powder and scrupulous time-keeping were for.

A man, Susan did know that. Susan knew about men. Her father had been one, after all, even if she had never seen him. Her mother had only seen him, apparently, one more time than Susan.

When she was younger, Susan hadn’t liked being alone so well. Even so, she had been alone a lot. Now she didn’t mind. Sometimes it made her feel grown-up, the fifteen – or twenty-year-old phase.

She fetched the nail scissors, and began cutting out more thin paper figures.

At nine p.m. the phone went.

Susan answered and gave the number, as people still did then, something which, ten years later, she would never have done. A woman spoke.

“Is that Susan?”

“Yes.”

“Can I speak to your mother, please, Susan.”

“Mum’s out.” Should have said Mummy.

“Oh.” A long pause. “When will she be back?”

Well drilled in this, as in so much, Susan said, “I’m not quite sure.”

“Where is she, do you know?”

“Just at a neighbour’s.” Also part of the drilling.

The voice sounded relieved. “Oh then, would you mind going along to fetch her for me?”

“I’m not supposed to go out.”

“No, but this is urgent. I’m afraid you must. You won’t have to go far if it’s just one of the other flats –”

Susan did not know whose the voice was. Presented with the now insuperable dilemma of not revealing that her mother was out until eleven o’clock, (or after) at a location Susan could not be sure of, Susan hesitated.

The voice said, “This is Mrs Marks, Susan. I need to speak to your mother at once.”

Susan did not know what to do, and so she put the receiver down. She had seen her mother respond with this solution quite frequently. When the phone rang again, Susan ignored it, but when it kept on and on ringing it began to make her panicky. She went into the front room and turned up the TV. Finally the phone stopped ringing.

Then it rang every quarter of an hour, rang twenty or thirty times. It began to seem alive, the phone, an enemy.

At five to midnight, when Susan’s mother came in, looking tired and drained and lipstickless, the phone