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.I think the relief of having no party to attend had something to do with her benign approach.Looking back, Nora probably already knew what was going to happen at her birthday celebration the following weekend, and so she was more at ease.But she wasn’t about to give anything away, not that night.And I don’t blame her.‘Thank Christ for that,’ groaned Georgie as the evening came to an end.We waved and closed the door behind Helly Her father had come to collect her, as he often did.I never quite got that, that over-the-top kind of protectiveness.It’s not as though her family had broken apart in the way Claire’s had done, or even silently imploded, like mine and Georgie’s.Georgie’s parents, as well as my own, never bothered all that much to hide their hurry to be shut of their children.Or child, as in Georgie’s case.But Nora’s family was different.They were almost too ordinary, too buttoned-down and respectable.Nothing had ever fallen apart there, so why the paranoia about the eldest daughter? We never understood it, and it was one more thing for Georgie to grumble about.Anyway, we gave Helly a good send-off.She was thrilled to bits with the whole evening.And I was glad to have had the chance to make up for my earlier lack of enthusiasm about Frank.‘No party,’ said Claire with a grin, as Georgie leaned her shoulder against the front door.It always needed a firm shove.‘There you go, Georgie, no party’Georgie turned around, her face bright.She led the way back into the kitchen, calling out to us: ‘We’ll just have to have one of our own!’ And she grabbed the bottle of Pedrotti, holding on to it as though it was her dancing partner.She waltzed around the table and then stopped abruptly.A party of our own, with people we invite! On home ground! With no hovering and no helicopters!’ She poured us all another glass of red wine and we toasted each other.And Helly, too, at Claire’s and my insistence.I also remember that we did, indeed, throw an impromptu party.We held off on inviting people until a few days beforehand, in case the Gresham went on fire or war was declared or Helly’s parents changed their mind at the last minute.It was a very good party, keeping up the reputation of number 12, Rathmines Road.At least, I think it was good: Claire and Georgie told me it was.My memory of it is different – hazy but different.Given what I think Ray got up to.Never mind that.I can still remember the look of triumph on Nora’s face when she marched into the Buttery early on the following Monday morning, where we were having what passed for breakfast.It was one of those small habits that had developed in the flat over the months, one to help us ease our way into the start of each new week.We had breakfast together in the Buttery, just Georgie, Claire and me, before our ten o’clock lecture.It all started because Georgie refused to do any housework at the weekends.It was a matter of principle with her.Weekends were for fun, she said, not wasted on domestic stuff like groceries or cleaning bathrooms or changing beds.Instead, we did each of those things on different days during the week.We shopped on a Monday afternoon, the three of us together, lugging bags of cheap fruit and vegetables from Moore Street all the way to Rath-mines Road.I hated shopping day.Naturally, on Sundays, the cupboard was always bare.There would be hardly enough food to scrape together a dinner, and so breakfast on a Monday just didn’t happen.The few slices of grey sliced pan curled together at the bottom of the bread bin tempted nobody.Nora always had breakfast at home, of course, but she’d sometimes arrive before we finished and join us for a cup of tea.‘Look!’ she blurted now, and managed to knock into the table, slopping coffee into our saucers.‘Ah, Jesus, Nora!’ Georgie said.‘Will you for f.’ I gave her a look and she trailed off.Instead, she grabbed a tissue from her pocket and tried to soak up the mess.She was feeling a little rough around the edges, as the party had spilled over well into Sunday.I was still wrapped up in a miserable combination of hangover and disappointment.I’d got to sleep at four on Sunday morning after a crying fest that had left my eyes swollen and my face blotchy.I refused to move from my bed for the rest of the day.The upshot was that I couldn’t sleep on Sunday night.I spent all of it reading, losing myself in Middlemarch.I’ve always loved the happy, romantic endings of Victorian novels.I would gladly have stayed in bed on Monday as well, but Georgie hauled me out.I was drained, exhausted.And it had nothing to do with George Eliot.But I do remember thinking, sourly, how appropriate it was that a woman had to pretend to be a man so that she could make a name for herself [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]