never-to-be-forgotten Friday. Of course it was a Friday.
“I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday,” she used to say afterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other side of her, holding her hand.
“No, no,” Mr. Darling always said, “I am responsible for it all. I, George Darling, did it. Mea culpa, mea culpa.” He had had a classical education.
They sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every detail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the other side like the faces on a bad coinage.
“If only I had not accepted that invitation to dine at 27,” Mrs. Darling said.
“If only I had not poured my medicine into Nana’s bowl,” said Mr. Darling.
“If only I had pretended to like the medicine,” was what Nana’s wet eyes said.
“My liking for parties, George.”
“My fatal gift of humour, dearest.”
“My touchiness about trifles, dear master and mistress.”
Then one or more of them would break down
