Patrick White - The Aunt's Story

She went upstairs. And down. She stood at the back door, and her voice had a frail sound of disguised ineffectuality as she called at the trees of a deciduous variety that grew on that side of the house.

‘Darned if she ain’t …’ Mrs Johnson wavered into silence. ‘Kept on talking, she did, of some guy called Holstius. Not that I fell for that.’

‘But perhaps you fell for Miss Pilkington. Perhaps you ain’t seen her,’ her husband said.

Because Mr Johnson and the mild man were by this time also in the house. Mr Johnson had sat, to isolate himself from those who stood, and who were conducting this unpleasantness. He sat on the chair with the two carved knobs. His wife continued to stand at the door. She screwed up her eyes. She decided she had not heard her husband’s remark.

Theodora, who had come round to the front window, could both see and hear. It was a strange and interesting situation. As if she were dead.

‘An interesting supposition,’ smiled the mild man.

His voice carefully decontaminated words. There would never be accusation in anything he said. But Theodora knew that she must not shiver.

‘I am afraid that I have set you a problem,’ she said now. ‘Actually I do exist.’

She left the window, and came at once, quietly and decently into the room.

‘Why,’ said Mrs Johnson, ‘for a moment I sure thought you’d walked out on us again. This is …’ she continued, ‘that is, I’d like you to meet …’

‘My name is Rafferty,’ said the mild man, coming forward with considerable bland confidence. ‘I’ve come to take you down with me to town, where there are folks who’ll make you comfortable.’

He looked at Theodora, sharing a secret and not.

She laughed.

‘You Americans,’ she said, ‘make life positively pneumatic. But how agreeable.’

And she held her head on one side as she had seen ladies do on receiving and thanking for a cup of tea.

Then they all laughed.

‘Shall we be getting along then?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Theodora agreed.

They went outside towards the hot car.

‘Here,’ said Mrs Johnson. ‘I brought your hat, that you forgot.’

So Theodora Goodman took her hat and put it on her head, as it was suggested she should do. Her face was long and yellow under the great black hat. The hat sat straight, but the doubtful rose trembled and glittered, leading a life of its own.