As soon as Winifred began to ask Laura questions in return, Laura turned the conversation to Aunt Dee and what she thought of Winifred’s prospective move to Europe. It was not surprising to hear that she found it quite unbearable, all of a piece with Winifred’s inability to find a husband. ‘As for Giles …’ Winifred said, and Laura realised she was curious to see him. ‘You know he was chucked out of the Air Ministry. The poor thing is out in some odd medical place in Bristol now.’ There seemed to be a note of pity in Winifred’s voice. That was new. Hadn’t she always rather looked up to her brother, even when she had been angry or irritated by him?
And just then Giles came in with Alistair. Giles with an unexpected little beard, rather messy-looking, but Alistair apparently unchanged, his sharp blue gaze taking everyone in. Their gestures were as expansive, their voices as loud as ever, and as everyone was seated the energy rose; there were greetings and explanations, menus were opened, wine was ordered. But soon the group seemed to splinter. Sybil had become even more unbending, and was looking at Giles with a tight face as he recounted some anecdote about his new workplace – where they were researching brain waves, Laura understood him to say, in frogs and monkeys as well as people. There was a fragile edge to his confidence now, as though he had to exaggerate his words to believe them himself.
Meanwhile Alistair was talking sotto voce to Edward, asking him what he thought of his new novel, a thinly disguised autobiography. Edward had been holding it on the journey back, but Laura guessed from his diffident responses to Alistair that he had not read it, or had not liked it. Toby, on Laura’s right, had sunk into silence and Laura felt she had to try to rouse him by asking him more about the children. Nobody seemed comfortable in their conversations, and Winifred was observing Edward, Laura realised. Laura was quick to jump in to talk when the shutter came down over his face and he lost the thread of the conversation, but as the evening wore on Winifred’s glances towards him were frequent.
After the plates of the main course were cleared, Winifred stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said, touching Laura’s shoulder. Thinking she was just going to the bathroom, Laura stood up with her and left the room. Once they were out of the restaurant, however, Winifred took Laura’s arm in a tight grip and led her through to the bar. ‘Two martinis,’ she said to the barman and then turned to Laura. ‘So, what is up with Edward?’
There was a line that Laura had already used a lot, and she used it now, without a pause. ‘He’s had a breakdown. It all stemmed from overwork – it’s just been the most fearful strain. You know he hasn’t stopped working for all these years; we’ve hardly had a holiday. They put too much responsibility on him in Washington. No wonder he had a crack-up.’
The drinks came, and Laura took refuge in hers, fishing out the olive and putting it unwanted into her mouth, where it sat, salty and inedible.
‘What sort of crack-up – mad?’
Laura swallowed down the olive and took a sip of the cocktail. Too weak and not cold enough. What could she say about the weeks after Hiss’s sentence and Joe’s funeral, Edward’s days of torpor and sudden breaks into crazed energy, her desperate attempts to stop him drinking? Better to say nothing. At least other people could still believe in their marriage. So she glossed over it, telling Winifred that she had asked the embassy herself for sick leave for Edward so that he could come home and rest.
‘And they agreed?’
‘Had to, really – he’s been so wonderful over the years. They don’t want to lose him. They say he has to get treatment; they’ve recommended a psychiatrist …’ Laura could not go on. This was her new fear, blotting out the rest. What would happen if Edward did go to a psychiatrist? What might he say? How would he manage, to talk without talking, to try to be frank without ever letting slip a word? She tried to smile, but her face seemed tight. ‘You know, I don’t know how a psychiatrist will help – I’m not sure of that kind of thing …’
To her surprise, Winifred began to give quick advice. ‘Don’t let them send him to any old quack, send him to Lvov – you remember him? He’ll understand.’
Winifred said that as if there was something she understood, something that she knew and Laura knew. And at that moment Laura felt that there might be, like an oasis ahead of her, the prospect of laying down, just for a while, the dragging burden of secrecy. She looked at Winifred, longing and afraid. ‘But is he really trustworthy – it has to be someone who can help him get back to work, not just embark on some, you know, trawl through any troubles …’
‘He will understand. Look, I’ll tell you a secret,’ said Winifred. ‘You’ll have to swear not to tell a soul, though.’
Laura nodded, as another gulp of her martini hit her throat.