Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I
don't
want
you
to
put
electricity
into
my
head,'
she heard
herself
whisper.
'Nothing
like
that.
We
want
you
to
remember,
not
forget.’
'"We"?'
'I
want
you
to
remember.’
She
shook
her
head.
'I
know
who
I
am.
I
tell
you
about
my
childhood.
About
Maitland
and
me,
how
happy
we
are.
There
isn't
anything
wrong
with
me.
I
want
to
go
home.’
'Your
husband
would
want
you
to
stay
here
until
you
are
well.’
Dr
Cadell
made
the
point
un-emphatically,
not
giving
it
any
importance,
something
as
obvious
as
that.
But
the
effect
was
disastrous.
'Maybe
he
has
his
reasons,
reasons,
called
Janet,
reasons
called
Janet!'
And
she
could
have
laughed
and
then
she
was
appalled.
It
was
an
idea
that
had
got
into
her
head,
a
ridiculous
idea;
but
things
stayed
in
your
head,
like
mice
you
didn't
see
them
just
a
tremble
of
light
to
darkness
in
a
corner
and you
knew
one
had
found
its
way
out
of
the
field
into
the
room
with
you;
and
ideas
were
like
that,
even
ridiculous
ones.
And
it
should
have
been
kept
inside
her
head.
And
to
make
that
noise,
such
a
bitter
sound.
She
had
let
herself
down
–
and
Maitland.
Almost
it
would
be
better
to
be
forgivably
mad.
'Who
is
Janet?'
'Nobody,
it
doesn't
matter.’
But
his
silence
told
her
it
did.
'She's
a
neighbour.
In
the
village
where
we
live.’
'She's
a
young
woman?'
'Not
so
young.
Yes,
younger
than
me.
And
pretty,
before
you
ask.
More
than
pretty.
And
no,
I
don't
really
think
she's
having
an
affair
with
my
husband!'
'An
affair.
Was
that
what
you
meant
when
you
talked
about
"reason"?'
'Isn't
that
what
you
thought
I
meant?'
But
he
wasn't
the
one
who
was
there
to
answer
questions.
'If
you
want
to
know
I
feel
sorry
for
her.
We
used
to
see
one
another
quite
regularly.
She
was
my
friend.
Is
my
friend.
Only
she
hadn't
been –
hadn't
been
out
at
all – round
the
village,
I
mean.
There
had
been
a
party
–
and
she
was
dancing –
and
then
Ewen,
that's
her
husband,
he
made
a
scene.
Afterwards
he
hit
her-
when
they
were
home
that
is,
but
people
knew.
He
gave
her
a
black
eye.
And
then
I
was
ashamed
about
not
going
to
see
her
and
I
went
and
she
was
reading
–
I
don't
know
how
to
describe
it.
Some
silly
story
about
pirates
or
highwaymen,
but
all
just
an
excuse
to
write
about
sex.
Do
you
know
the
kind
of
thing
I
mean?
And
poor
Janet
was
sitting
there
in
the
middle
of
the
morning,
reading
rubbish
like
that.
Of
course,
I
felt
sorry
for
her.’
'She
was
pretty,
you
said.’
'…
And
younger
than
me,'
said
Lucy;
who
wasn't
stupid
and
had
been
taught
by
implication
the
rules
of
this
peculiar
game.
'What
conclusion
do
you
draw
from
that?'
'I
was
jealous
of
her?
...
I
never
felt
I
was.
Maybe
when
she
talked
about
age,
as
if
she
was
getting
old.
I
would
have
swapped
with
her.
I
told
her
so,
I'd
cheerfully
change ages
with
you.
But
that's
not
anything.
I
think
everyone
feels
like
that.
Men
just
as
much
as
women.’
She
had
been
staring
down
at
her
hands
twisted
together
in
her
lap.
Glancing
up,
she
caught
him
making
that
same
swift
sideways
jerk
of
the
chin,
by
which
perhaps
he
was
only
easing
his
neck,
although
it
appeared
to
her
still
as
a
tic
of
boredom
or
exasperation.
'The
night
at
the
theatre,'
he
said,
'I
am
sure
we
are
not
going
to
progress
until
you
can
talk
about
what
happened.’
'That
thing
about
Janet,'
she
said,
staving
him
off,
'I suppose
it
shows –
it
is
hard
to
know –'
'Miss
Lindgren
was
sitting
beside
you.
She
was
among
the
volunteers
who
went
up
on
to
the
stage
for
the
performance.
Shortly
afterwards
she
died.’
'You
told
me
I
don't
have
much
self-esteem.
It
seems
it must
be
so.
For
whatever
reason.’