She could do it in a kind of dance, as if she measured indecision with every set of steps. The music acted as a design for movement. Slow, over the difficult stairs; fast down the smoother corridors, like a waltz, or a polka needing a partner at every turn. Without George she was rootless. She went round the house, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, looking for him. Looking for someone. It was a big house; the empty ground floor echoed to the sound of footsteps. When they stopped Isabel wondered where they were: when they began again she wanted to scream. Poor soul. No cat to trail round after her, no man to mouth kisses, poor Mummy, who had to make do with her daughter and a daft dog. Serena liked the sound of her own steps: she put on her boots and stamped; she made as much noise as an army on the march, except at night, when she tiptoed. She wanted to talk all the time. Isabel stayed silent, wanting to punish. She took refuge, in her bedroom, in the corridors – so that she would know which way to run when the footsteps came towards her – and, finally, in the bathroom.
