A Girl in Winter by Philip Larkin

Author:Philip Larkin [Philip Larkin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: a_girl_in_winter
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2012-02-23T16:00:00+00:00

Where they were going was no more exciting than into the village. Yet Katherine was more expectant than she had been for a week—since she had first arrived, in fact. Apart from this bold attempt by Robin to get Jane out of the way, she had not foreseen how it changed her position. Hitherto Robin had been in command, with Jane second and Katherine herself third. Now she led, and Robin and Jane followed. When the rain stopped they walked down the drive, and she gave way to a silly impulse to quote a verse of romantic poetry that she had once admired, with no prefacing explanation. They gaped at her.

“Here, hold on,” said Robin. “Let’s all start level.”

“I reserve the right to talk English,” said Jane obstinately. She was wearing sandals that showed her small, perfectly-formed feet and was thereby the smallest of the three. “And if I ask what you’re talking about, you’ve got to tell me.”

“Then you must ask properly,” said Katherine, and sweeping ahead under Robin’s eye she told Jane how to ask for a sentence to be repeated or translated. Jane repeated the sentences dubiously.

“Well, shall we start?” said Robin. “Katherine had better begin.”

There was a pause. It was hard to know what to say first. Finally she asked Robin why he was going to the village. He replied solemnly that he was going to buy some postage stamps and a packet of envelopes.

Did he write many letters, then?

No, but he had no more postage stamps or envelopes.

Whom did he write to?

School friends, relations.

Any girls?

Only one.

And did she write nice letters back?

Oh, very nice.

Where did she live?

Robin repeated Katherine’s address, and they burst out laughing. Katherine could not help blushing. It was really too easy. Jane gave a suspicious and unconvinced smile.

“Are you talking about writers?”

“Yes, about writers,” said Katherine.

Jane, after much warning and preliminary inquiries, managed to ask what English writers Katherine liked the best. Obviously she was doing her level best to stand her ground.

She had read very little. Shakespeare. Byron.

—What about Dickens, asked Robin.

She had read no Dickens.

That was a pity. Many English people liked Dickens.

—Ah.

But he was, perhaps of all writers, the most English.

Katherine turned out of a sort of distorted kindness to Jane and asked her if she liked Dickens. “Eh? Was that something about Dickens? Do I read Dickens?”

“Like.”

“Do I like Dickens? No, I don’t. He’s too dull.”

Robin observed that Dickens made a great deal of money by his writings.

—And you? Are you a writer?

—Eh?

—Have you ever written anything?

—No, of course not.

—Not ever?

—Not ever.

—One might think you had the artistic nature.

Robin’s face wore a baffled expression, centred round a small frown similar to the one he had worn when she had started to win at tennis. Then he laughed, not at all put out.

—You’re always very sarcastic.

—Think so if you like.

—What is an artistic nature then?

—One that cares nothing for other people.

—Cares nothing for other people, he repeated, as if to fix the precise meaning. And I care nothing for other people?

“This seems a very important point,” said Jane.

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