The Players And The Game by Julian Symons

bothered to remember which cards had fallen, and was liable to be led into erratic calls or responses by inability to keep her mind on the game. Alice now played regularly with a blue-rinsed, sharp-nosed woman named Mrs Clancy Tumbull, whose husband was director of an insurance company. Mrs Clancy Turnbull was a chain-smoker. The concentration of both women was terrifying to see, or at least it terrified Penelope, who felt like a hen that has taken an eaglet under its wing.
    She told Dick something of this one evening. She had left the club at teatime (they had another au pair after all, so there was no need to hurry home), and Alice had seemed hardly to recognise her when she said good-bye.
    ‘Unstable type.’ Dick got his pipe going. ‘Some sort of stress condition. Early menopause, very likely.’
    ‘What, at her age?’
    ‘Can come at any age. Get all sorts of ideas and habits. Start thinking your husband’s a pork chop and you don’t fancy pork. Extreme concentration on a particular idea or subject isn’t unusual.’
    ‘I’m worried about her, Dick. It seems so – abnormal. I mean, she wasn’t even interested in bridge.’
    Like most psychiatrists Dick considered normality such an illusory concept that he was not disturbed by departures from it. ‘Nothing to be done. May even be a good thing, give her something to think about. Once women start behaving oddly they’re liable to go on doing it for years.’
     
    When Paul got home it was to find Jennifer washing up things in the kitchen, making a tremendous clatter. Alice was laying the table. She said that Jennifer was in a mood, and this was quickly confirmed.
    ‘I come home in that filthy train, having to stand all the way, and the breakfast things haven’t even been washed up. Do you know what she’s been doing all day? Playing bridge. I can tell you I’m fed up with it.’
    ‘Now, Jen.’ He put an arm round her shoulders. He was a man who found something comforting in bodily contact. ‘I smell something cooking.’
    ‘Pork chops. You may have to live in Rawley, but I don’t. I’m getting a flat in London.’
    Alice came in. She gave the impression of floating rather than walking.
    ‘A couple of girls at work will come in with me. We’ve got one lined up. Twenty pounds a week, we split it three ways. You won’t have to subsidise me, don’t worry. I’ll be going at the end of the week.’
    Alice must have heard, but she did not give the impression that she was listening. She floated out again without comment.
    Jennifer turned the pork chops. ‘I can’t help it, I have to get away.’
    ‘I’m not arguing.’ The whole scene contrasted jarringly with that delightful chat in the pub. ‘I hope we’ll see something of you. Don’t cut yourself off.’
    ‘I expect I’ll be down most week-ends.’ She bent down to take plates from the oven. ‘You’ll look after her, won’t you? I don’t think she likes it much down here.’
    He talked to her about this after supper, when Jennifer had gone to her room. Alice said that she was perfectly content. Nor was she upset about Jennifer leaving. ‘She must do what she wants. But don’t worry about me, I have the bridge club. I know several people there.’
    He watched with distaste as she lighted a cigar. ‘You used not to smoke.’
    ‘And now I do. And I play bridge. Do you object?’
    ‘I suppose not.’
    You should face the fact that in many ways we are simply incompatible.’
    There seemed no answer to this. He said that they must do a show in London next week, and she assented, but again he had the feeling that she was not listening. Later he watched TV. She took out a book called 100 Bridge Problems for Advanced Players, got a pack of cards and lighted one of her cigars. Later they went upstairs and lay unspeaking in their separate beds.
     
    Joy Lindley’s father worked in the architect’s department of the Greater London Council. He liked to hear about things that happened in Joy’s