Madeleine John - The Essence of the Thing

‘Were we?’

‘For heaven’s sake. We were talking about love. After all.’

‘And nothing is more serious than love.’

‘No, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.’

There was another brief silence. ‘Actually,’ said Geoffrey reflectively, ‘I suppose nothing is as serious as love.’

‘No, nothing. Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Love, eh?’

‘Yeah. Love.’

‘Listen. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that, will you? About nothing being as serious as love. I’ll never be able to show my face on a squash court again.’

‘When did you ever show your face on a squash court?’

‘Well, you know what I mean. It’s the principle of the thing.’

‘Alright. I mean, when all’s said and done, what would I want with a man who had no squash court credibility?’

‘Exactly .’

‘All the same, I still can’t see how a reasonably intelligent and actually attractive lady like Nicola—’

‘Oh, you think she’s intelligent do you?’

‘Yes, and attractive, yes; how she can—’

‘I didn’t realise you thought she was attractive.’

‘Well, isn’t she?’

‘Apparently’

‘Right. So I can’t see how she could love a twit like Jonathan.’

‘He’s rather tasty.’

‘What?’

‘If you like that sort of thing.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Try me.’

‘How?’

‘That’s your problem.’

‘God. Jonathan. Tasty . God.’

‘I think they make quite a good couple, in a way. They look right together.’

‘ Look right?’

‘Yes, you know. They look good together.’

Geoffrey, still astounded, did his best to consider this proposition. ‘I suppose they do,’ he said. ‘I suppose they do.’

‘You can generally tell whether people are basically right for each other by whether they look good together, don’t you think?’ said Susannah. ‘The idea never once occurred to me,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘It’s not even occurring to me now. Do we look good together?’

She laughed. ‘What do you think?’ she said. He was still in a state of utter perplexity. She laughed again, and flapped the tea-towel in his face. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked. ‘I still don’t see how she can love him,’ he said, ‘however good they may or may not look together. Or however tasty he may or may not be. Not that he is.’

‘He can do the Times crossword.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Shall we go to bed?’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do the Times crossword?’

‘We’ve only got a Guardian .’

‘Won’t that do instead?’

‘For some reason, it doesn’t seem to count the same.’

‘I suppose we’ll just have to go to bed then.’

‘Oh, by the way, I told Nicola she could come and stay here, if this situation doesn’t get sorted out pronto. If she really has to leave.’

‘Well, by the way , I think that was rather unilateral of you.’

‘What else could I do?’

Geoffrey heaved a sign and looked at her. ‘Let’s just assume,’ he said, ‘that the situation will get sorted out. After all, they’re basically right for each other, as you pointed out. This is just a storm in a teacup.’

‘Poor Nicola,’ said Susannah sadly.

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, quite seriously. ‘One way or another, poor Nicola.’

‘And even poorer Jonathan,’ said Susannah.

‘Sod Jonathan,’ said Geoffrey. He had had enough. ‘Yes, well,’ said Susannah, ‘let’s go to bed, shall we?’ So they did.

After all, Nicola told herself, alone under the covers, the flat silent around her, Jonathan absent in the country: he could not really, not surely, have meant it.

Of course, yes, he meant it: but only because he was mistaken. The thing that was wrong was a mistake, and she would, as soon as ever she could, discover this mistake and put it right: and then everything Jonathan had said, and meant, would be rescinded. As soon as ever she could!

He was bound to return on Sunday night, because the house agent was coming at his invitation on Monday morning: so she would see Jonathan again on Sunday night. Everything will be sorted out quite soon, thought Nicola: in just two days from now, this episode will all have become a bad dream, nothing more. Because otherwise, it is too bad to be true.

She dared now, just, to feel her way towards the contemplation of the scene of the previous night as if it might represent all of the truth, as if it might be an irreducible, however ugly, reality: as if Jonathan had not only meant what he had said, but had known what he meant: as if there were no mistake in the matter but her own – her own blindness to, ignorance of, Jonathan’s true and natural feelings.

And now she allowed, she admitted, she was entirely bound to admit, that Jonathan might have meant what he said, might have known what he meant, and so wanted, not only truly, but justifiably, and with all his heart, to separate from her: yes, this unspeakable horror really was a logical possibility. Such events may truly occur. Love can grow cold, and become indifference – even dislike – even hatred.

She saw therefore that, whatever the truth of the matter, whether he meant or did not truly mean what he had said, Jonathan had become an absolute mystery to her. He was no longer the lover, comrade, companion she had known, but a frighteningly unreckonable creature as of faery. There can’t be an awful lot of solicitors who seem like that , she thought; and she almost smiled. Susannah would have been proud of her.

‘Is that all you’re having? Just cereal? Don’t you want some eggs and bacon? Goodness! Perhaps you’d like porridge. No? Well, I suppose you know best.’

‘Of course he does. Of course he knows best. Truly to God, Sophie, you’d think he was five years old. Croissants, that’s what he wants. That’s what they eat for breakfast up in London. Croissants, French croissants. Should’ve got some in. What?’

‘Don’t be silly, Hugo. The very idea. Jonathan doesn’t eat croissants. You don’t eat croissants, do you, Jonathan? No, see, he’s having some toast. Have some of that marmalade, darling, it’s from the last lot I made for the WI stall, a bit runny, but you just have to eat it fast before it drips. Oh, but you used to love marmalade! I remember sending it to you at school. Didn’t I? Well, I gave you some to take back with you. I remember. Marmalade. You used to insist on it.’

‘Lot of rubbish.’

‘What?’

‘Lot of rubbish. Here. Listen to this.’

Hugo Finch, JP, began reading from the Telegraph . ‘Senior back-benchers,’ he began, ‘are reported …’ and so it went on: a further chapter in the gruesome, yet frequently hilarious, saga of the island people who had given the planet its common language and virtually all its games. What exactly were they working on now? None could truly say; many were the vain attempts to do so, but the question was beyond the scope of the merely human intelligence. Hugo concluded his reading.

‘Splendid stuff,’ said Jonathan, at the end of his tether. His father stared. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’ He looked apoplectic.

‘Splendid,’ said Jonathan. ‘Splendid!’

‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?’

‘Yes, he’s joking, Hugo. He doesn’t mean it.’

‘I’ll tell you what he can do if he does: he can go straight back to London on the next train.’

‘I’ve got a car.’