One evening, a woman arrived at her friends flat. Her friend, now on her second marriage, had endured a rocky and dreary first one; that husband drank heavily, made their home joyless, and finally abandoned her for someone else. It was the sort of bleak chapter people only talk about late at night. Through all that, Beatrice had comforted heralways there with a cuppa, tissues, quiet words of relief. Thats what friendships for, isnt it?
A decade drifted by. MargaretI suppose thats her name nowmet someone else, a thoroughly respectable man, clever and well-employed. Nothing like that ghastly first husband. Beatrice was thrilled for her old friend; she even brought a Victoria sponge and thoughtful gifts when she visited their newly-purchased flat in Oxford. The place was perfectly done upthe wallpaper like whispers in the nightso lovely, Beatrice nearly clapped.
They sat at a table draped with lemony sunlight, sipping tea, trailing crumbs. Margarets new husband was impossibly quick-witted, with a pile of books on every surface, always dashing off some joke. Most of them with Beatrice at the centreher narrow worldview, her odd fancies, how cluttered her head must be, he said, hooting. Never so much as glanced at Murdoch nor Coe, have you? he teased. Science, you know, dismisses half the superstitions you rattle off. He smirked at her choppy haircutStuck in the nineties, are we?and the shape and shade of her skirt.
Laughter circled, making Beatrices mind feel like melting jam, and Margaret giggled, cheeks pink, basking in her husbands gleam. In dreams, the rules change, and so when Beatrice tried to shift the conversationI have a cat at home; I found her, shes white as milk in moonlighthe crowed even louder. Disease carriers, all of them. Only people with unquiet minds and battered egos pick up stray creatures. The word spinster was let loose, prowling around the room, crawling into corners.
Margarets laughter was like shards now, sparkling and sharp, and Beatrice felt her eyes spill tears as if the air had turned to rain. She mumbled an apology, blamed a headache, then slipped away.
Her head throbbed in the misty dusk, the city of London chilly despite Augusts promise. Tears gone, replaced by a metallic shamehow childish to cry! How feeble to be lost for words! Her ignorance of clever novels, her foolish dream shed mentionedit all weighed her down like wet coats.
But shame, perhaps, should fall elsewhereon those who invite a friend into their home and watch them be mocked. On anyone who lets loved ones or treasured memories be trampled in the company of others. Its the same as posting a favourite quote from Woolf online, only to allow others to heap scorn over it. Its all one dismal pattern: quiet betrayal.
To betray is to deliver your own to ridicule or ruin. Thats betrayal. Though Beatrice didnt have this thought clearly. She wasnt well-read, not a person of sharp intellectshe only hurried back home, dreaming of her cat, whod never opened a book nor made clever remarks but curled up silent on the sofa, and purred. Her company was warm and wordless.
Beatrice never returned to Margarets home. There wasnt much opportunity anywaysoon enough, Margaret and her clever husband became strangers, dividing the flat, flinging accusations through letterboxes and courtrooms. That sparkling intellect proved aggressiveas often happensthe one betrayed returns the favour, starting another quiet chain.
Its always so simple. All it would have taken was a gentle word, a hand on an arm, to halt the jokes before they cut too deep. To not let harm come to your friend in your own kitchen. Perhaps then, respect might have grown, or courage found. But the house of betrayal is built quickly, and ever so easy to knock down.
No one respects the betrayertheyre always the first to be left behind. Some things are certain, even in dreams.
