Priscilla got her skirt off, seemingly tearing it in the process. With a flash of pink petticoat she got herself between the sheets and lay there shuddering, staring in front of her with big blank suffering eyes.

I pulled up a chair and sat down beside her.

"Bradley, my marriage is over. I think my life is probably over. What a poor affair it has been."

"Priscilla, don't talk so--"Roger has become a devil. Some sort of devil. Or else he's mad."

"You know I never thought much of Roger--"I've been so unhappy for years, so unhappy--"I don't understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive."

"But lately it's been sort of pure intense hell, he's been sort of willing my death, oh I can't explain, and he tried to poison me and I woke in the night and he was standing by my bed looking so terrible as if he was just making up his mind to strangle me."

"How can you say that to me, how can you. This cold hatred and wanting to kill me and poison me--"Priscilla, calm yourself. You can't leave Roger. It doesn't make sense. Of course you're unhappy, all married people are unhappy, but you can't just launch yourself on the world at fifty whatever you are now--"

"Fifty-two. Oh God, oh God--"

"Stop it. Stop that noise, please. Now dry yourself up and I'll take you back to Paddington in a taxi. I'm going to the country. You can't stay here."

"And I left all my jewels behind and some of them are quite valuable, and now he won't let me have them out of spite. Oh why was I such a fool! I just ran out of the house late last night, we'd been quarrelling for hours and hours and I couldn't stand it any more. I just ran out, I didn't even take my coat, and I went to the station and I thought he'd come after me to the station, but he didn't. Of course he's been trying to drive me to run away and then say it's my fault. And I waited at the station for hours and it was so cold and I felt as if I was going mad through sheer misery. Oh he's been so awful to me, so vile and frightening--Sometimes he'd just go on and on and on saying, 'I hate you, I hate you, I hate you--"All spouses are murmuring that to each other all the time. It's the fundamental litany of marriage." '

'I hate you, I hate you-' "

"I think you were saying that, Priscilla, not him. I think--"And I left all my jewels behind and my mink stole, and Roger took all the money out of our joint account--"Priscilla, brace up. Look, I'll give you ten minutes. Just rest quietly, and then put your togs on again and we'll leave together."

"Bradley--oh my God I'm so wretched, I'm choking with it--I made a home for him--I haven't got anything else--I cared so much about that house, I made all the curtains myself--I loved all the little things--I hadn't anything else to love--and now it's all gone--all my life has been taken away from me--I'll destroy myself--I'll tear myself to pieces--"

"I'll destroy myself."

"Now make an effort. Get control of yourself. I'm not being heartless. It's for your good. I'll leave you now and finish packing my own bags."

She was sobbing again, not touching her face, letting the tears flow down. She looked so pitiful and ugly, I reached across and pulled the curtain a little. Her swollen face, the scene in the dim light, reminded me of Rachel.

"Oh I left all my jewels behind, my diamante set and my jade brooch and my amber ear-rings and the little rings, and my crystal- and-lapis necklace, and my mink stole--I closed the door and went back to the sitting-room and closed the sitting-room door. I felt very shaken. I cannot stand unbridled displays of emotion and women's stupid tears. And I was suddenly deeply frightened by the possibility of having my sister on my hands. I simply did not love her enough to be of any use to her, and it seemed wiser to make this plain at once.

I waited for about ten minutes, trying to calm and clear my mind, and then went back to the bedroom door. I did not really expect that Priscilla would have got dressed and be ready to leave. I did not know what to do. I felt fear and disgust at the idea of "mental breakdown," the semi-deliberate refusal to go on organizing one's life which is regarded with such tolerance in these days. I peered into the room. Priscilla was lying in a sort of abandoned attitude on her side, having half kicked off the bedclothes. Her mouth was wet and wide open. A plump stockinged leg stuck rather awkwardly out of the bed, surmounted by yellowish suspenders and a piece of mottled thigh. The graceless awkwardness of the position suggested a dummy which had fallen over. She said in a heavy slightly whimpering voice, "I've just eaten all my sleeping pills."

"What! Priscilla! No!"

"I've eaten them." She was holding an empty bottle in her hand.

"You're not serious! How many?"

I picked it up. The label meant nothing to me. I made a sort of dart at Priscilla, trying stupidly to pull the bedclothes up over her, but one of her legs was on top of them. I ran out of the room.

In the hall I ran to and fro, starting off back to the bedroom, then running towards the flat door, then back to the telephone. As I reached the telephone it began to ring, and I picked it up.

There were the rapid pips of the "pay tone," and then a click--Arnold's voice said, "Bradley, Rachel and I are just in town for lunch, we're just round the corner and we wondered if we could persuade you to join us. Darling, would you like to talk to Bradley?"

Rachel's voice said, "Bradley, my dear, we both felt--I said, "Priscilla's just eaten all her sleeping pills."

"What? Who?"

"Priscilla. My sister, just taken bottle sleeping pills--I--get hospital--"

"What's that, Bradley? I can't hear. Bradley, don't ring off, we--"Priscilla's taken her sleeping--Sorry, I must ring--get doctor--sorry, sorry--I jammed the phone down, then lifted it again and could still hear Rachel's voice saying, "anything we can do--" I banged it back, ran to the bedroom door, ran back again, lifted the phone, put it down, began to pull the telephone books out of the shelves where they live inside a converted mahogany commode. The telephone books slewed all over the floor. The front doorbell rang.

I ran to the door and opened it. It was Francis Marloe.

I said, "Thank God you've come, my sister has just eaten a bottle full of sleeping pills."

"Where's the bottle?" said Francis. "How many were in it?"

"God, how do I know--The bottle--God, I had it in my hand a moment ago--Christ, where is it?"

"When did she take them?"

"Just now."

"Have you telephoned a hospital?"

"No, I--"

"Where is she?"

"Oh Christ, where is the bloody bottle--I had it in my hand--The doorbell rang again. I opened it. Arnold, Rachel and Julian were standing outside the door. They were neat and smartly dressed, Julian in a sort of flowered smock looking about twelve. They appeared like a family advertising corn flakes or insurance, except that Rachel had a bruise under one eye.

"Bradley, can we--"Help me find the bottle, I had the bottle she took, I put it down somewhere--A cry came out of the bedroom. Francis called, "Brad, could--Rachel said, "Let me." She went into the bedroom.

"I must telephone the hospital," I said.

"What's this about a bottle?" said Arnold.

"I can't read the blasted telephone number. Can you read the number?"

"I always said you needed glasses."

Rachel ran out of the bedroom into the kitchen. I could hear Priscilla's voice saying, "Leave me alone, leave me alone."

"Arnold, could you telephone the hospital and I'll look for the--I must have taken it into the--I ran into the sitting-room and was surprised to see a girl there. I got an impression of freshly laundered dress, freshly laundered girl, girl on a visit. She was examining the little bronzes in the lacquered display cabinet. She stopped doing this and watched me with polite curiosity while I started hurling cushions about. "What are you looking for, Bradley?"

"Bottle. Sleeping pills. See what kind."

Arnold was telephoning.

Francis called out. I ran to the bedroom. Rachel was mopping the floor. There was a vile smell. Priscilla was sitting on the side of the bed sobbing. Her petticoat with pink daisies on it was hitched up round her waist, rather tight silken knickers cut into her thigh, making the mottled flesh bulge.

Francis, talking quickly, excitedly, said, "She was sick--I didn't really--it'll help--but a stomach pump--Julian said, "Is this it?" Without entering she thrust a hand round the door.

Francis took the bottle. "Oh that stuff--That's not--"Ambulance coming," called Arnold.

"She can't do herself much harm with that. Need to take an awful lot. It makes one sick actually, that was why--"Priscilla, do stop crying. You'll be all right."

"Leave me alone!"

"Keep her warm," said Francis.

"Leave me alone, I hate you all."

"She isn't herself," I said.

"Get her into bed properly, snuggle down a bit," said Francis.

"I'll make some tea," said Rachel.

They retired and the door shut. I tried again to pull the bedclothes back, but Priscilla was sitting on them.

She jumped up, savagely pulled the blankets back, then crashed onto the bed. She pulled the clothes violently over her, hiding her head. I could hear her mumbling underneath, "Ashamed, oh ashamed--Showing me to all those people--I want to die, I want to die--" She began sobbing.

I sat down beside her and looked at my watch. It was after twelve. No one had thought to pull the curtains back and the room was still twilit. There was a horrible smell. I patted the heaving mass of blankets. Only a little of her hair was visible, with a dirty line of grey at the roots of the gold. Her hair was dry and brittle, more like some synthetic fibre than like human hair. I felt disgust and helpless pity and a prowling desire to vomit. I sat for a time patting her with the awkward ineffectual gesture of a small child trying to pat an animal. I could not make out what forms I was touching. I wondered if I should firmly pull off the covers and take her hand, but when I plucked at the blankets she burrowed deeper and even her hair disappeared.

Rachel called, "The ambulance has come."

I said to Francis, "Could you deal with this?" I went out into the hall, past where Francis was talking to the ambulance men, and went into the sitting-room.

Julian, looking like one of my pieces of china, was back in her place by the display cabinet. Rachel was lying sprawled in an armchair with a rather odd smile on her face. Rachel said, "She'll be all right?"

"Yes."

Julian said, "Bradley, I wonder if I could buy this off you?"

"What?"

"This little thing. I wonder if I could buy it? Would you sell it to me?"

Rachel said, "Julian, don't be so tiresome."

Julian was holding in her hand one of the little Chinese bronzes, a piece which I had had for many years. A water buffalo with lowered head and exquisitely wrinkled neck bears upon his back an aristocratic lady of delicate loveliness with a many-folded dress and high elaborate hair.

"I wonder if--?"

Rachel said, "Julian, you can't ask people to sell you their belongings!"

"Keep it, keep it," I said.

"Bradley, you mustn't let her--"No, I'll buy it--"

"Of course you can't buy it! Keep it!" I sat down. "Where's Arnold?"

"Oh thank you! Why, here's a letter addressed to Dad, and one for me. May I take them?"

"Yes, yes. Where's Arnold?"

"He's gone to the pub," said Rachel, smiling a little more broadly.

"She felt it wasn't quite the moment," said Julian.

"Who felt?"

"He's gone to the pub with Christian."

"With Christian?"

"Your ex-wife arrived," said Rachel, smiling. "Arnold explained that your sister had just attempted suicide. Your ex-wife felt it was not the moment for a reunion. She retired from the scene and Arnold escorted her. I don't know where to exactly. 'To the pub' were 1r his words."

My mother was very important to me. I loved her, but always with a kind of anguish. I feared loss and death to an extent I think unusual in a child. Later I sensed with profound distress the hopeless lack of understanding which existed between my parents. They could not "see" each other at all. My father, with whom I increasingly identified myself, was nervous, timid, upright, conventional and quite without the grosser forms of vanity. He avoided crossing my mother, but he patently disapproved of her "worldliness" and detested the "social scene" into which she and Priscilla were constantly attempting to penetrate. His dislike of this "scene" was also compounded with a simple sense of inadequacy. He was afraid of making some undignified mistake, revelatory of lack of education, such as the mispronunciation of some well-known name. I shared, as I grew up, my father's disapproval and his anxiety. One reason perhaps why I so passionately desired education for myself was that I saw how unhappy the lack of it had made him. I felt for my misguided mother pain and shame which did not diminish but qualified my love. I was mortally afraid of anyone seeing her as absurd or pathetic, a defeated snob. And later still, after her death, I transferred many of these feelings to Priscilla.

It was the day after her exploit with the sleeping pills. The ambulance had taken her to the hospital from which she had been discharged on the same afternoon. She was brought back to my flat and went to bed. She was still in bed, in my bed, the time being about ten-thirty in the morning. The sun was shining. The Post Office Tower glittered with newly minted detail.

I had of course failed to find Arnold and Christian. Looking for someone is, as psychologists have observed, perceptually peculiar, in that the world is suddenly organized as a basis upon which the absence of what is sought is bodied forth in a ghostly manner. The familiar streets about my house, never fully to recover from this haunting, were filled with non-apparitions of the pair, fleeing, laughing, mocking, overwhelmingly real and yet invisible. Other pairs simulated them and made them vanish, the air was smoky with them. But it was too good a joke, too good a coup, for Arnold to risk my spoiling its perfection. By now they were somewhere else, not in the Fitzroy or the Marquis or the Wheatsheaf or the Black Horse, but somewhere else: and the white ghosts of them blew into my eyes, like white petals, like white flakes of paint, like the scraps of paper which the hieratic boy had cast out upon the river of the roadway, images of beauty and cruelty and fear.

Lying horribly awake that night I decided that the matter of Christian and Arnold was simple. It had to be simple: it was either simplicity or insanity. If Arnold "made friends" with Christian I would simply drop him. In spite of having solved this problem I could not sleep, however. I kept following series of coloured images which, like the compartments of a swing door, simply led me round and landed me back again in the aching wide-awake world. When I slept at last I was humiliated in my dreams.

"Well, why did you rush away in such a hurry? If, as you say, you decided ages ago to leave Roger, why didn't you pack a suitcase and go off in a taxi some morning when he was at the office, in an orderly manner?"

"I don't think one leaves one's husband like that," said Priscilla.

"That's how sensible girls leave their husbands."

The telephone rings.

"Hello, Pearson. Hartbourne here."

"Oh, hello--"

"I wondered if we could have lunch on Tuesday."

"Sorry, I'm not sure, my sister's here--I'll ring you back--Tuesday? My whole concept of the future had crumpled.

Through the open door of the bedroom as I laid the phone to rest I could see Priscilla wearing my red-and-white striped pyjamas, flopped in a deliberately uncomfortable position, her arms spread wide like a puppet, still steadily crying. The horror of the world seen without charm. Priscilla's woebegone tearful face was crumpled and old. Had she ever really resembled my mother? Two hard deep lines ran down on either side of her blubbering mouth. Beyond the runnels of the tears the dry yellow make-up revealed the enlarged pores of her skin. She had not washed since her arrival.

"Oh Priscilla, stop it, do. Try to be a bit brave at least."

"I know I've lost my looks--"As if that mattered!"

"So you think I look horrible, you think--"I don't! Please, Priscilla--"Roger hated the sight of me, he said so. And I used to cry in front of him, I'd sit and cry for hours with sheer misery, sitting there in front of him, and he'd just go on reading the paper."

"That's just nonsense, Priscilla." *> "Oh Bradley, if only we hadn't killed that child--She had already been onto this subject at some length.

"Oh Bradley, if only we'd kept the child--But how was I to know I wouldn't be able to have another one? That child, that one child, to think that it existed, it cried out for life, and we killed it deliberately. It was all Roger's fault, he insisted that we get rid of it, he didn't want to marry me, we killed it, the special one, the only one, my dear little child--"Oh do stop, Priscilla. It would be well over twenty now and on drugs, the bane of your life." I have never desired children myself and can scarcely understand this desire in others.