The Game by A. S. Byatt Page A

round the mouth and had aged perceptibly, but seemed, like the rest of them, numbed, responding only to the cold. Deborah screwed graceless knuckles into red eyes. Thor said a few words, in a clear, hard voice about the continuation of consciousness. ‘He will live on, not only in the awareness of all of us – and countless others – which has been profoundly altered by our love for him, but in that larger consciousness which contains and transcends our individual love and knowledge. What was separate is restored to what is eternal, what was finite to what is infinite.…’ Julia thought, that has no meaning for me. But these generalities mean something to Thor; he experiences them, he finds his way round them. I only notice at times like this – death, meeting for worship – where his mind is.
    She remembered her wedding in this Meeting-house; she and her father had stopped, on their way in, in the spring sun, under a cherry tree. She was twenty, and had wanted to be married in a long, white, sophisticated dress with yards offloating veil and an armful of flowers. Her mother had overruled her. ‘I know these things are done, dear, but I always feel they are a little out of place in the simplicity of a Meetinghouse, doesn’t thou agree?’ She had worn short white muslin, with a sash, a round collar and a row of pearl buttons, a white hat like a Quaker bonnet and a posy of rosebuds and forget-me-nots. She looked more like a first communicant than a bride, which irked her, for she had meant Cassandra, a reluctant bridesmaid stumping along behind in grey poplin and a kind of glorified boater to see that she had achieved womanhood first. Her father had said, ‘He has a special love for thee, Julia. And we love him. Thou has known him only two months, and thou art very young. But he is a good man.’ ‘Yes,’ she had said, ‘I know. There are some things, if you don’t find out in two months, you never find out. If you’re willing to find them out.’ Well, it had been something to say. He had kissed her, and reiterated his assurance that Thor loved her, and they had gone in.
    Now, here was Thor, speaking at his funeral. His love for Thor had been deliberately given but at least he had never been given occasion to decide not to retract it. Thor had been all that a son should be. He had been moved by the spirit to claim his wife abruptly and dramatically. ‘In the fear of the Lord and in the presence of this assembly, I take this my friend, Julia Corbett, to be my wife.…’ He had startled her; she had thrust her flowers at Cassandra, who had fumbled with them. She had caught Cassandra’s hard grey eye. And thought, because she was willing herself not to, of Simon, sitting on the edge of his bed in that bare boy’s bedroom he had with a crucifix over the bed, a marble madonna smirking on the mantelpiece, the occasional dry slither and rustle of a snake in a cardboard box under the bed.
    We ought to do things properly. She wished Deborah would stop sniffing. It was too cold to cry. It was too cold to feel; she was glad when they all trooped home again, together with one or two worthy Friends who had struggled through the snow to be present. They ate tomato soup, roast lamb with mint sauce,apple pie. Elsie had been moved to prepare Jonathan Corbett’s favourite meal; this, at last, Julia found concrete and distressing.
    The next day the letters came through. There was a large sheaf of condolences from friends and relations for Mrs Corbett, two or three for Julia, one for Cassandra, and several businesslike long envelopes for Thor. Julia had one from Ivan; the cramped, square handwriting stirred her to sudden excitement.
    ‘Darling Julia, yours was a lovely letter, if a bit gloomy, tho’ of course that’s understandable. I’m sorry about your Dad, love; he was an admirable man, from all I’ve heard.
    ‘As for the rest of your letter, you do let things get you down, don’t you? And make an awful fuss about