Mrs. Walsh

Mrs. Walsh said she would buy the mosquito nets herself.

It was a hot, sickly sticky day in India that day, and all days, for the days were long and hot; hot as the porridge Mrs. Liamor cooked up for breakfast (she would not have any of that sub-continental stuff, heavens no!). The sun was out; was burning even though Mrs. Walsh was in her lightest white cotton dress. Peter was probably off at some meeting somewhere, she could never keep track. Was it the Pakistanis this time? Or the Bangladeshis? She could never keep track. Going on about this and that when all she, Mrs. Clarissa Walsh, was trying to do was plan her samosa party.

The Walsh's home was frightfully open; one's home had to be in this climate; but at night that openness meant the return of the bloodsucking, malarial menace; affectionately termed "The Mosqiuto." Mrs. Walsh had no time for such affectionate terms, and in fact never said their name out loud. (Peter, dear, would you please deal with "the problem.")

As she walked down her path, the sides of which were laden with all types and varieties of beautiful tropical flowers, and turned to the right, to follow the lane which led towards the village, she felt the breeze move through her skirts, heard the rustle which this momentary motion produced, and felt herself transported, at once, back to Bourton.

She could remember the passion which Peter inspired in her; for that was why she had picked to marry him over that stuffy old Dalloway character, whom Sally had once called Wickham; what a ruckus that had caused! She could also remember that there were very few mosquitoes in Bourton...and she reminisced deeper into the recesses of her mind.

Just then, lost amidst the thoughts comprising her reverie, and continuing down the lane as if in a daze, she nearly collided with a small group of children on bicycles. They were racing; Clarissa leapt out of the way and her heart leapt in her chest and she remembered what it felt to be ill; so ill as she had been; with the virus which "the problem" carried; and she had been confined to her bedroom; which she now did not share with her husband; and her heart would leap as it had just leapt as she had leapt out of the way of the passing children.

Oh, how she longed to live in England with Dalloway.


[This semi-pastiche stems from our discussion today, where Joey claimed that Clarissa would be so much happier had she married Peter, and I claimed that one could write a story (which Mr. Mitchell called Mrs. Walsh) which was the same as Mrs. Dalloway, but in which Clarissa had married Peter. So there. :)]