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.‘My girls have frightful voices,’ said Binny, thinking of tape machines.‘And their language—’ Her eyes filled with tears.She put down her spoon and stared distressed at a segment of grapefruit on her plate.Nobody noticed.Edward was telling the Simpsons that houses like these were a jolly sensible investment.Gilt-edged in fact.With inflation and so forth, and the cutting back of the government building programme, superior properties in London would eventually be unobtainable.‘We’ve seen the end of the downward spiral in prices,’ he said.‘The slump is over.’‘How many floors are there?’ asked Simpson.The house didn’t seem particularly superior, what little he could see of it.He wondered if the place was divided into flats.There was certainly something wrong with the electricity supply; the room was full of shadows.He sought with his foot for the table leg and gently worked at removing his shoe.‘Three,’ said Edward.‘Four with the basement,’ Binny said.‘I’ve let it at the moment.’ She tried not to look at Simpson.Edward had told her that Simpson’s little sortie to the VD clinic was to do with some woman he’d met in the bar at a theatre.She’d written her telephone number on his programme when his wife had slipped off to the Ladies.Edward said Simpson had given good money for getting his leg over, because that way his lapse would be more likely to be understood, should he be caught out.Binny hadn’t been able to understand it.Neither she nor any of her friends had ever been paid for doing it.She’d thought at the time that Simpson had made the whole thing up out of his head; he was boasting.Now she wasn’t so sure.‘My dear girl,’ cried Edward.He rapped boisterously on his plate with a spoon.‘Who’s telling a little white lie?’ He turned to Muriel and explained that Binny’s ex-husband had sold off the basement several years ago to meet various business commitments.As he spoke he regretted that he’d addressed Binny as his dear girl; Simpson had warned him about hanky panky.‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘the basement isn’t really much of an asset.It’s a little dark and there’s no garden to speak of at the back.No garden at all, actually.We’ve got quite a large garden – fruit trees, roses, one or two vegetables.I do a little potting in the greenhouse.take a few cuttings.nothing special.Are you a gardener, Miriam?’‘Muriel,’ said Simpson.Confused, Edward poured out more wine.He said loudly, ‘Helen’s not too keen on the spade work, but she likes it in summer – tea on the lawn, that sort of caper.’Binny rose abruptly and took the saucers to the sink.‘Get up, George,’ ordered Muriel.‘Take things into the kitchen.’ She herself, seeing Edward was puffing at his pipe, took a cigarette from her handbag and lit it.Simpson carried the sugar bowl and spoons through to Binny.As she stood there at the stove, the top of her tongue protruding as she concentrated on arranging chops and grilled tomatoes on a large blue plate, he thought how young she looked.Of course he knew the lighting was poor and she was no chicken, but the droop of her narrow shoulders and the little curls falling about her neck enchanted him.Muriel was tall with wide shoulders and strong as an ox.She had on two occasions moved their upright piano single-handed from one wall to another.He had refused to help, on the grounds that he might strain his back.He didn’t want to mark the parquet floor and he never dreamt she could do it alone.Putting her firm buttocks against the back of the heavy instrument and bending at the knees like Groucho Marx, she had shoved it clear across the room.‘You mustn’t lift that,’ he said, stricken, as Binny gripped the blue plate in both hands.He took it from her, thinking she was far too fragile to carry such a load.Edward was speaking in low tones to Muriel.He champed on the stem of his pipe and nodded his head emphatically.Binny, bringing the roast potatoes to the table, imagined he was saying that there was nothing between them, that he just felt sorry for her.At the arrival of the meat, Edward jumped to his feet and removed his jacket.He flung it carelessly on the sofa.A comb and a fountain pen slid from his pocket and fell to the carpet.Because of his belly, which was large, he was obliged to wear braces to keep up his trousers.Finding the elastic too uncomfortable on his shoulders, he jerked the braces free and let them dangle about his thighs.‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Binny.He looked a sight, with his rumpled shirt and those striped lengths of elastic hanging like two large catapults from his waist.‘It’s damned hot in here,’ he said, forgetting that earlier he had used the coldness of the room as an excuse to close the shutters.He scooped up his belongings from the floor, lost his balance, and careered against the table.Spluttering with laughter and red in the face, he collapsed heavily on to his chair.‘Aren’t there any greens?’ he asked.‘Salad only,’ Binny told him.‘Rabbit fodder,’ he said sadly, and undid the top button of his shirt.Simpson couldn’t help admiring the man.He was definitely an eccentric.Of course he could afford to be, on his salary, but still.He asked if anybody minded if he too removed his coat.‘Do as you please,’ said Muriel.She found the food plentiful and well cooked; the salad had the right amount of garlic in the dressing and the roast potatoes were crisp.It was obvious to her that Edward Freeman was in no danger from Binny.It was just the reverse.He was evidently using her.Some women liked that sort of thing, she knew.Binny was the right size and weight to be submissive; perhaps she had a father complex and liked some big rough man treating her in a patronising fashion and ticking her off about the vegetables.She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Edward didn’t slap her now and then.He, for his part, found Muriel very pleasant to talk to.Simpson must have been over-reacting when he’d implied she might be standoffish this evening.After all, any woman who had been involved in that X, Y and Z business must be jolly approachable; he couldn’t imagine anyone asking Helen if they could borrow the spare room.Muriel cared about gardening too, he could tell.She wasn’t lyrical over it, but she seemed knowledgeable about insecticides.‘Of course, I was brought up in the country,’ he said.‘So I suppose it’s in the blood.This feeling for the land.My father inherited an estate in Norfolk and I learned early to have a healthy respect for the soil.Just a small estate,’ he added hastily, hoping Binny hadn’t overheard
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