Appointment with Yesterday by Celia Fremlin Page B

flat, and set himself to polishing them assiduously with his handkerchief . His mild brown eyes blinked owlishly without them, creating a barrier of gentle non-seeing-ness between himself and his aggrieved wife. Only after he had settled the glasses on his face again and returned the handkerchief to his pocket, did he seem constrained to answer her.
    “I got a lift,” he explained. “Carstairs has to go to the Library Committee lunch, and so he offered to drop me on the way. But don’t worry, dear, finish what you’re doing, I’m in no hurry.”
    “Finish what I’m doing!” His wife, with a huge sigh, pushed her papers aside and ostentatiously fitted the lid back on to the typewriter. “I sometimes think I’ll never finish anything I’m doing! First Alison woke up early from her morning sleep—and now you’re home! You don’t know how lucky you are, Arnold, being allowed to work when you’re working! How I envy you that room of yours at the University … all your things to hand…. No one bothering you …!”
    “They do bother me, you know, dear, sometimes,” he pointed out mildly. “The telephone goes a lot in my room, you’d be surprised. Committees. Visiting lecturers. Trouble in the typing pool. All sorts of things. I can’t always get on with my work as I’d like to.”
    “But you don’t have Alison screaming her head off!” countered Mrs Graham. “And lunch to see to … and then I’ve got this new woman this morning, I’ve had to settle her in. It’s amazing how many questions they seem to have to ask … Mrs Er ! ”—here she raised her voice to a ringing shout to reach Milly in the kitchen—though in fact Milly could already hear every word of her clear, carrying, complaining voice.—“Mrs Er! Could you hurry the potatoes a bit? Professor Graham is back earlier than he planned….”
    How one hurried potatoes, Milly wasn’t quite sure. They boiled at the speed they did boil, no matter who went down on their knees to them. But she judged (rightly) that the shoutedinstruction was meant more as a reproof to Professor Graham than as a command to Milly: and so she simply went on with her preparations for the meal as quickly as she could, and radiated respectful sympathy—on, off, on, off—as Mrs Graham flapped in and out of the kitchen bemoaning her unfinished correlations.
    Thanks to Milly, lunch was on the table, and Alison strapped in her high-chair, on the dot of one, and so Professor Graham had nothing to complain of, as his wife assured him, three or four times in succession. He’d said one o’clock, hadn’t he?
    And indeed he wasn’t complaining. He sat consuming his lamb chops, mashed potatoes and sprouts with obvious enjoyment , a copy of Scientific American propped against the bottle of ketchup in front of him, and on his face the look of a man at peace with the world: a look off which his wife’s barbed attempts at conversation bounced harmlessly.
    So after a bit she turned her attention to Milly, and began explaining to her about Alison’s diet, and how important it was that she should have plenty of salad now that she was eleven months old and on mixed feeding. She pointed out to Milly, with modest maternal pride, that a tomato and a shredded lettuce leaf had been added to Alison’s share of the meal: and Milly murmured suitable words of approval, meanwhile watching with fascinated admiration, Alison’s skill in extracting from the mush in front of her every scrap of tomato and lettuce leaf and throwing it on the floor. Like most babies in this diet-conscious age, she had a passion for all non-protein, non-vitamin foods, and it seemed to Milly that she and her mother had evolved a very good working arrangement: Mrs Graham talked fluently and enthusiastically to all comers about how much salad she gave Alison and how many vitamins it contained, and what a good effect they had on the child’s teeth and complexion (which were indeed perfectly all right), while