Mr. Baldock’s voice was unexpectedly gentle.
“She’s ten years younger than you are, and in some ways she’s more like a daughter than a sister to you.”
“I’ve mothered her, yes.”
He nodded.
“And you realise, being intelligent, that maternal love is a possessive love?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. And I don’t want it to be like that. I want Shirley to be free and-well-free.”
“And that’s at the bottom of pushing her out of the nest? Sending her out in the world to find her feet?”
“Yes. But what I’m so uncertain about is-am I wise to do so?”
Mr. Baldock rubbed his nose in an irritable way.
“You women!” he said. “Trouble with all of you is, you make such a song and dance about things. How is one ever to know what’s wise or not? If young Shirley goes to London and picks up with an Egyptian student and has a coffee-coloured baby in Bloomsbury, you’ll say it’s all your fault, whereas it will be entirely Shirley’s and possibly the Egyptian’s. And if she trains and gets a good job as a secretary and marries her boss, then you’ll say you were justified. All bunkum! You can’t arrange other people’s lives for them. Either Shirley’s got some sense or she hasn’t. Time will show. If you think this London idea is a good plan, go ahead with it, but don’t take it so seriously. That’s the whole trouble with you, Laura, you take life seriously. It’s the trouble with a lot of women.”
“And you don’t?”
“I take bindweed seriously,” said Mr. Baldock, glaring down balefully at the heap on the path. “And greenfly. And I take my stomach seriously, because it gives me hell if I don’t. But I never dream of taking other people’s lives seriously. I’ve too much respect for them, for one thing.”
“You don’t understand. I couldn’t bear it if Shirley made a mess of her life and was unhappy.”
“Fiddle de dee,” said Mr. Baldock rudely. “What does it matter if Shirley’s unhappy? Most people are, off and on. You’ve got to stick being unhappy in this life, just as you’ve got to stick everything else. You need courage to get through this world, courage and a gay heart.”
He looked at her sharply.
“What about yourself, Laura?”
“Myself?” said Laura, surprised.
“Yes. Suppose you’re unhappy? Are you going to be able to bear that?”
Laura smiled.
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Well, why not? Think about yourself a bit more. Unselfishness in a woman can be as disastrous as a heavy hand in pastry. What do you want out of life? You’re twenty-eight, a good marriageable age. Why don’t you do a bit of man-hunting?”
“How absurd you are, Baldy.”
“Thistles and ground elder!” roared Mr. Baldock. “You’re a woman, aren’t you? A not bad-looking, perfectly normal woman. Or aren’t you normal? What’s your reaction when a man tries to kiss you?”
“They haven’t very often tried,” said Laura.
“And why the hell not? Because you’re not doing your stuff.” He shook a finger at her. “You’re thinking the whole time of something else. There you stand in a nice neat coat and skirt looking the nice modest sort of girl my mother would have approved of. Why don’t you paint your lips pillar-box red and varnish your nails to match?”
Laura stared at him.
“You’ve always said you hated lipstick and red nails.”
“Hate them? Of course I hate them. I’m seventy-nine! But they’re a symbol, a sign that you’re in the market and ready to play at Nature’s game. A kind of mating call, that’s what they are. Now look here, Laura, you’re not everybody’s fancy. You don’t flaunt a banner of sex, looking as though you weren’t able to help it, as some women do. There’s one particular kind of man who might come and hunt you out without your doing anything about it-the kind of man that has the sense to know that you’re the woman for him. But it’s long odds against that happening. You’ve got to do your bit. You’ve got to remember that you’re a woman, and play the part of a woman and look about for your man.”