The Essence of the Thing. Madeleine John St.

       18

      Michael Gatling (very distantly related to the inventor of the gun) had just returned from taking his daughter Nicola to the station for the London train. His wife Elinor was still washing up the tea things.

      ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her,’ he said, getting out the sherry. ‘I suppose he will, in due course,’ said Elinor, rattle, rattle. ‘He’s just running a little trial.’ ‘Bloody cheek,’ said Michael. ‘The trial’s on the other foot, as far as I’m concerned. The nerve of these chaps.’

      ‘Still,’ said Elinor, ‘at least she’ll be able to keep the flat. Such a very charming place. It’s a pity we couldn’t help her more.’

      ‘Tush,’ said Michael. ‘I’m only a poor civil servant. She hardly expected anything at all, she’s more than grateful for the five thou’. So she should be.’

      ‘Ah, my baby. My last child. How sad it all is, somehow.’

      ‘Honestly, Nellie, you do talk some awful rot. It’s fathers who are meant to be sentimental, not mothers. Here, stop washing up and drink this.’ He handed her a glass of amontillado. She sat down. She was frowning slightly. ‘I do hope they’ll be happy,’ she said. ‘We must look out something for a housewarming present, once it’s all settled.’

      ‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘Wait until it’s time for a wedding present.’ ‘Just something very small,’ said Elinor. ‘I might go into Brighton this week and have a poke around the junk shops.’ ‘Alright,’ said Michael. ‘But something truly small. They might feel we’re putting the pressure on, otherwise.’

      ‘Oh, but we wouldn’t dream of doing that,’ said Elinor. ‘Would we?’ ‘Not us,’ said Michael. ‘Not card-carrying moderns like us. Nevertheless, I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her.’

      Nicola, travelling back to London in a second-class compartment on the Brighton – Victoria line, was almost delirious with happiness. It had all happened so fast – just a few days ago she had been holding that appalling letter in her hand, her heart beating with fear and dismay: now with a turn of the kaleidoscope all the pieces of her life had been rearranged into a different and more beautiful pattern. Jonathan and she were going jointly to purchase the leasehold of the Notting Hill flat; they would own a half share each, because her total contribution to the cost would take into consideration the discount due to her as the sitting tenant. Her parents having so magnificently chipped in with £5,000 she should be able quite easily to borrow the remainder of her share from the bank: you could almost hear the click as everything fell into place.

      ‘Well – I might as well put Crawford Street on the market straight away,’ Jonathan had said before leaving her, that night of the letter. He was going to do nicely out of Crawford Street, which he’d bought at the very beginning of the property boom. ‘You’d better wait until I see my parents,’ Nicola had replied. ‘I don’t know that I’ll be able to manage my share without them.’ ‘Oh, everything will work out,’ said Jonathan airily. He was so very much richer than she: he could afford to be airy. But now everything had in fact worked out; it was almost magical.