Читать книгу The Essence of the Thing - Madeleine John St. - Страница 7

And although she was still in a state of extreme shock, and still trembling, she was beginning now to see – to realise – to understand – that the thing which was truly wrong was not so much the dreadful scene into which she had just been precipitated, as the misapprehension (whatever it might be) which had given rise to it: she was beginning now to understand – and she became more certain by the minute – that Jonathan’s ‘conclusion’, however rational in itself, could have derived only from a hugely wrong, a wholly false, initial assumption, and that all that was now necessary was the careful discovery of this assumption and the calm revelation of its falseness. Now that she knew what she must do there was nothing truly to worry about, nothing truly to fear. She had stopped trembling; she went and made the tea, and took it into the sitting room.

They were both silent while she poured it out; she handed Jonathan – still standing at the mantelpiece – a cup and then she began to take the cellophane off the cigarette packet.

‘I’ve asked Winkworth’s to send someone round on Monday morning to do a valuation,’ Jonathan said. ‘I thought that was the fairest way. Property prices haven’t moved much since we bought this place, but I thought if we got a valuation now, I’d be prepared to give you your share of the current value or your original stake, whichever is the greater. If you see what I mean. Can’t say fairer than that; I hope you agree.’

Nicola lit a cigarette. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t possibly be fairer.’ She inhaled. ‘There is a problem, though,’ she went on. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re thinking about the f and f,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m sure we can sort that out easily enough.’ ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Nicola.

‘What then?’

‘Jonathan, do sit down.’ He looked reluctant, but did so. She took another drag. Even though she had seen what she must do, it wasn’t easy to begin. ‘The problem,’ she said, ‘the problem is, that I don’t actually understand what all this is about. I mean, something has evidently gone wrong, badly wrong: and I don’t have a clue what it is.’

Jonathan looked surprised, and even slightly pained. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s gone wrong. Nothing in particular, that is. No, truly. It’s just the whole thing. It’s us. We’re wrong. I mean, as a couple. I thought you’d realised that as well as I had. You know how it’s been. Well. Need I go into it?’

If this was the initial assumption, the revelation of the falseness of which would lead to the collapse of Jonathan’s entire argument, then hard as it had been to begin, it would be harder still to continue: his speech had thrown her into a state of even deeper shock and pain. She began to tremble again.

‘I evidently don’t know how it’s been,’ she said shakily. ‘Of course we’ve had out sticky moments, every couple does, but – but – I thought we were happy’. And with these words she began, at last, to cry. Her tears began to fall quite heavily; she could not speak further, and began even to sob. Jonathan, sitting at the other end of the sofa, took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently – a large square of rumpled, but clean, linen. She buried her face in it and wept uncontrollably for some minutes. The world she had inhabited having been smashed to pieces (whose jagged edges cut her wherever she turned), it was the only natural thing to do.