Clarissa strolled through St Jame’s park, What a Lark! the ponies pivoting around on their stalks, children absentmindedly quashing them, their laughter hurtling through the procession of trees- towards the drunks, the courtiers, and the flocks of nursemaids; all of this wrapped in a mesh of blue fog, Clarissa silently applauded it all, it was London.
-A shiny hound bounded through the nearby flowerbed, scattering the petals across the walkway like the confetti at her new years eve party the year before last- Refused! Ms Kilman had refused to drink the sherry she had specially ordered from that little shop in Victoria road (the lime green one), and Elizabeth had refused to talk to Mrs. Pemberton (or ms after her husband succumbed to tuberculosis-so unexpected), even though Clarissa had insisted, explained to her. But she could not see, how clarissa could that the seating had been uneven, and Mrs Pemberton had been too at odds with the rest of the room, perhaps a little too far back.
As clarissa watched the heavy chow, race through the walking sticks, the prams, under the coat tails and across the tops of confidently polished brogues, she thought of Richard and his love for large messy animals. He was at committee meeting right at this moment, as she understood it.
Humph-A rather squat woman bumped passed her, paddling across Clarissa as if she were the faceless surface of lake. What an ugly Coat, Navy. She wondered idly if the nameless woman would have bemoaned over her expressionless garments, in the same bitter and accusatory manner as Ms Kilman. The very notion of the woman, Clarissa noticed, had ordered the leaves on the trees to hush towards darker ivy tones, curling, stiffening, straightening like Clarissa’s spine. And that attachment to Elizabeth, such a discomfort, such a source of rejection for Clarissa that if she were ever reminded, as she was today, of Ms Kilman’s adhesion to severity, in would burst open the monstrous sensation, of her thin stomach plunging downwards- striking her, as if big ben were booming suddenly, pulling the world down with it. Even today it felt as though her lower organs had fallen from her shrivelled body, left utterly alone on the walkway: next to the, food stalls, the fine ladies dressed in mauve and lemon yellow, and clerks who spoke so pleasantly in tired oxfords.Clarissa observed the absurdity and the sadness in her daydream, she wondered how long before (maybe noon) she would be blamed for her missing parts, how long before a doctor would pick it from the stone walk, with triumph, and hold her in his gloved hands as if she were the organ, only the organ. And how he would presume to know her, in the most intrusive unsolicited way. It was perfect idiocy, Clarissa understood, to care so much about others speculations about her, but it was a tendency that Clarissa recognised in herself, though she new enough people who saw her, who choose not just to remark on her clothes but to recognise her, that she felt she often failed to contrive the freshness of-Magenta!, What a nice hat, Lady bexborough ( who was always direct, the way Clariss often pined to be) had one just like it in her Bazar, it was pink, far too young for Clarissa of course, too loud for Elizabeth, who was not invigorated by neither hats nor the political denial of hats, Clarissa puzzled this as she continued down Bond st.
A buzzing specimen of a boy, waved a newspaper at her-a taxation decision made by a familiar moustache in three piece suit, the heading was dull, so long- yes he was invited tonight, as a guest of a guest clarissa asserted(she would be greeting him, she would be greeting the prime minister!). But should she happily implore him about the heading? She wondered what Peter would offer, no doubt, something impassioned and upright, something about Wagner. He would scould her, for taking no interest in the meat of the topic, in the densest, thickest part of the article. She would blush. But he should not be the one mad at her, no, she ought to be the one to scould him, the one who was disappointed in him, he was the failure, the flake, the one who had done nothing they talked of. India! Still, clarissa could never accuse him of much, only an indecipherable urgency, he assured her he was quite happy. And still she imagined, she would forget to care about the crushing text, and he would still throw his head up as if she were Hugh to him -Poor Hugh, he had done nothing but be chivalrous, never had an ugly word to use, as was the charm of Hugh. Peter had never forgiven Hugh, for what crime Clariss was not aware, nor cared to satisfy. For such an idealist and a romantic she had never understood why Peter had been so at odds with him. And Peter’s life so opposite from her’s now too, out of reach. It was as though he was a beloved character from a book she had once read-she supposed reading the letters was decent, the right thing, anybody who might inquire would agree that it was the acceptable, esteemable way to reach him.
To think of marriage with Peter now, made her feel old, reminded her she was barely a girl, barely a woman. How he’d always made her feel so aggravated, invigorated, not quite like Sally could, though she felt it brightly in it’s own way. But his face after she remarked about the man who had married the housemaid (who’d had a baby), his reaction- that face, was not what the face of a husband should be. And then Rob, with all his fur and licks, had been her partner and it had not been Peter. She barely recalled his criticism now, only the way he stood around her, against her, like an interviewer. At the time, how could she tell him, when he wanted to know-“tell me the truth, tell me the truth”, the truth that their exchanges, laughter, screaming, were not ones of marriage, of prosperity, but simply of doom. For each to be kept together, to be forever adhered together from that day on by the fountain- Clarissa, of course, the ornate fountain and Peter the trickle of water that would not flow through it properly- would secure their downfall. And if she had not fully understood it then, she understood it now.
