in fact been a wonderful gardener, a man with 'green fingers'. His hobby was growing chrysanthe- mums, and the whole of his garden was filled with them. He would spend hours nipping out the top leaves with those cruel fingers. In autumn they would unfold their hard buds into plate-sized blooms of bronze and white and pink and yellow, each one a mass of petals as tightly curled as watch springs. Then he would sell them to the local florist for a good price. He would never bargain. 'You get what you pay for; take it or leave it,' he would say.
At the time I recall most clearly, Sarah had become a total invalid. She had gone into a coma once, after eating too much sugar. A few weeks later, she had a mild stroke, which left her speech slurred and the side of her face paralysed. Not long after that, she had some of her toes amputated; she had developed gangrene. She spent her time in bed, gossiping with neighbours who called to see her. My own mother spent a lot of time with her, especially while Alfred was at work.
Her illnesses had not improved her temper. She would frequently burst into fits of rage for the least thing. Alfred continued to weather these storms. When she shouted at hirn, he smiled - I once heard her say to him, 'What good are you to anyone? You let Norman die. You let Jack marry that bitch. You can't even stop what's happening to me.' I had overheard their conversation as I came up the steps to their back door. 'Hello, my old fellow-my-lad,' Alfred had said, 'Don't worry about Sarah. Every cloud has a silver lining, you know.'
'I don't know how he puts up with it. If it was me, I'd strangle her!' my father used to say. 'Don't you say that,' my mother would reply, 'You should be ashamed of yourself.' But I couldn't help wondering if Alfred ever shared my father's thoughts. What went on behind Alfred's enigmatic smile? What feelings did it hide?
It was about this time that my mother arranged for me to go to their house every afternoon to practise on the Philps's piano.