Dreaming of the Bones

have... But what about—”
    ”Literary posterity?” Nathan supplied helpfully. ”I rather thought that the wishes of the living people involved came first.”
    Vic stared at him for a moment, then gave a deflated sigh and rubbed her cheekbones with the tips of her fingers. ”You’re right, of course. You couldn’t in good conscience have done anything else.” She shook her head. ”What’s happened to me? Am I turning into some sort of dreadful vulture?”
    Nathan grinned at her. ”Next thing you know you’ll be applying for a job on the Sun,”
    ”God forbid I should come to that,” Vic said, smiling back in spite of herself. ”But, oh, Nathan, I was so ignorant when I took this on. I actually thought that biography was an academic and critical pursuit—can you imagine that? But it’s as much fiction as any novel. How else can you create a whole person out of the bits and pieces we leave behind? And where do you draw a morally defensible line as far as privacy is concerned, for both the living and the dead?”
    ”I don’t know, my dear,” said Nathan, all trace of levity vanishing. ”But I trust your judgment. And I think if you are going to be happy with yourself, you’re going to have to trust your judgment, too. And don’t be afraid to follow your instincts, else you might end up fat and self-satisfied. What was it that Rupert Brooke advocated to his friends? That they should all live together in licentious freedom on an island, then kill themselves when they reached middle age?”
    ”You’re not fat or self-satisfied.”
    ”Vic—”
    She interrupted him, intent on following her train of thought. ”All right, then, what am I missing about Daphne? In Adam, I caught the occasional glimpse of what Lydia must have seen, but I couldn’t imagine Daphne had ever been anything but a middle-aged and very proper headmistress.”
    ”For starters, Daphne was anything but proper,” said Nathan with a glint of amusement. ”And she was gorgeous. They both were, but in different ways. Daphne could have posed for any number of mythical or biblical paintings—you know, Rape of Lucretia sort of thing. She had that timeless, feminine, com goddess quality, all heavy breasts and flowing copper hair.” He paused, then said more slowly, ”While Lydia—there was something more androgynous about Lydia , with her slender body and her triangular, almost feline little face—but she was no less appealing for that. And she certainly made up for any sexual aggressiveness that Daphne lacked,” he added, as if it were an afterthought.
    Frowning, Vic said, ”But I thought... that it was always you and Daphne. And Adam and Lydia . I mean...”
    ”Are you trying to be tactful, Vic?” Nathan asked, the veiled amusement evolving into a wicked grin. ”I’d never have thought it of you.”
    She felt herself blushing and said defiantly, ”All right, then. Are you telling me that you slept with them both?”
    ”You must remember that this was, after all, the early sixties, and that we thought we had invented it all.” His tone was still teasing, but the laughter had gone from his eyes. ”It all seemed so daring and liberated, and we were so smug with it.”
    ”You don’t sound as if you enjoyed it much.”
    ”I was... what? Nineteen? Twenty? I’m not sure enjoyment is the operative word with males at that age. It’s a bit more basic than that.”
    Vic tried to imagine Nathan as he had been then, but his presence now was too real, too strong. She found the thought of him making love to Daphne and Lydia surprisingly arousing, and found also that it gave her an odd sense of connection to the two women. She would have to see Daphne again. And she would certainly have to revise her picture of Lydia’s University days, which up until now had been gleaned mostly from Lydia’s early poems and the oh-so-innocent letters to her mother. ”Nathan,” she said as she slid from her chair and positioned herself at his feet, her chin resting on his knee, ”tell me what it was really like.” He stroked her hair. ”Maybe when you’re older.”
    ”No, seriously.” She looked up at him. ”I need to know.”
    ”Seriously,” he countered, ”I will. But not tonight. It’s getting late and I’m afraid you’re going to turn into a pumpkin.”
    ”Not until you’ve taken off my glass slippers,” Vic said, and smiled.

    Newnham
    29 April 1963

    Dear Mummy,

    Oh, glorious, glorious red-letter day. Now I truly