Passing On by Penelope Lively Page B

a saint. I honestly think he’s never thought anything nasty about anyone in his life, which is what makes him occasionally so impossible. Just as well he never got married — no one could have stood that. Not of course that it was ever on the cards.’
    ‘He has been a bit edgy,’ said Helen. ‘Mother, maybe.’
    Louise sighed. ‘He’s left it about forty years too late to get uptight about mother.’
    ‘Is there some trouble with Tim?’
    ‘Tim and I,’ said Louise heavily, ‘are going through what is called a bad patch. We get on each other’s nerves, to put it bluntly. Hence me here and him there. He is not, so far as I know, having it off with anyone and I certainly am not, more’s the pity in a sense, though to be honest I’ve never felt less inclined in my life.’ She stared glumly at the window. ‘Frankly, I seldom get a glow about anyone these days, including Tim, which I daresay is partly what’s wrong. How sex does bugger things up … Sorry. I shouldn’t talk like this. I know you . .
    The sentence was left unfinished.
    ‘You know I what?’ said Helen tartly.
    Louise gave her a searching look. ‘Now you’re starting to sound like Edward. I don’t know what’s got into you both. I just meant I know you’re… it’s not a subject you get very enthralled by. Sex, I mean. There! Your expression’s gone all peculiar at once. Anyway … Tim and I are just simply out of sync at the moment — I can’t think how else to put it. We’re not connecting.
    Don’t worry — we’re not going to split up, at least I trust not.’
    Suzanne came into the room, the earphones clamped to her head, exuding a distant tinny jangle. She sat down by the window, smiling vaguely.
    It’s not that we don’t love each other,’ explained Louise.
    ‘Within the context of how long we’ve been together. It’s that . .
    ‘Ssh . .’ murmured Helen.
    ‘She’s dead to the world. Lucky little beggar. Extraordinary, isn’t it? Were we like that? No, of course we weren’t. Not even me. Anyway, as I was saying, Tim. .
    Edward appeared, looking agitated. ‘There’s a boy digging up the old kitchen garden.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘It’s Ron Paget’s son. You know about it.
    This is Saturday.’
    ‘Do I? Oh — yes. Is this a good idea? Surely we’re not really going to grow vegetables?’
    ‘Ron Paget?’ said Louise. ‘Nobody told me about this. Anything set up by Ron Paget has got to be suspect.’
    Helen explained.
    ‘One fifty an hour would be considered exploitation in London but I daresay it’s par for the course round here. I wouldn’t put it past Ron to be taking a cut for himself. Mind you give it to the boy personally. What’s he like?’
    ‘I didn’t notice,’ said Edward. He went to the window and stood there wiping his glasses: they could all hear, now, the distant thwack and flump of spade-work. Edward turned round, walked irresolutely around the room and then headed for the door, where he halted. ‘I’m off now. There’s an RSPB field-trip — I won’t be back till late. ‘Bye Louise … and, er . . — he glanced at Suzanne, who smiled blankly and placatingly. ‘Oh Helen, by the way, I forgot — that lawyer rang, he wanted you to ring back.’
    ‘When did he ring?’ asked Helen after a moment.
    ‘Um … Yesterday, the day before . .
    Edward left. Suzanne, who had neither moved nor altered her expression, continued to jangle by the window in her private world. Louise began to recount further discontents, unheard now by either her daughter or her sister.
    Helen postponed telephoning, as one might hoard some delicacy, to savour it the longer in anticipation. When at last she did so Giles Carnaby was warmly effusive. ‘Oh, what a relief! I was beginning to think I must be in the doghouse for some reason.’
    He spoke as though they knew each other well and over a long period. ‘You didn’t get the message? I shall have to speak severely to your brother. Anyway — now that