He shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. It’d be too easy for people to find out it wasn’t true.”
“Haven’t you got a sick relation who could send for you?” asked Julia, “that’s what they always do in books They have telegrams calling them away, saying somebody is ill, or something.”
“Not a relation, but I tell you what I’ve got—a pal who’d do anything for me.”
“Oh, that’s an idea,” cried Julia, “men are always supposed to be such good friends to each other. Where is he?”
Leo was thinking it over. “It’s old Hopkinson,” he said at last, “he was a captain’s steward. He’s retired now. Started a chicken farm New Forest way. If I write to him, and tell him to wire me saying he is ill or something, he will. Look, this’s his address.” He took out a note-book, scribbled down the address, tore out the page and gave it to Julia. “When I’m fixed up, I’ll stay with him a day, give him all his instructions about letters, and get across to this farmhouse of yours.”
Julia gazed at him admiringly. Directly a plan of action had been thought of, Leo became the dominant partner. It was wonderful to have everything decided for her like this; to see his bright and eager face, and his intent eyes.
“You’ll have to write a lot of picture-postcards,” she said gaily, “and date them different days, and your friend Hopkinson can post them for you.”
“Oh, I’ll do that all right,” said Leo, with a grin, as he remembered what good cause Hopkinson had to be grateful to him.
“I suppose he’ll have to open your letters,” said Julia, “and wire you if there’s anything important in them. You don’t mind your letters being opened, do you?”
“Not a bit,” said Leo.
That means he isn’t hiding anything from me, said Julia’s heart. That means he isn’t keen on Elsa, not even the tiniest little bit. Aloud she said:
“It’s worth separating and even losing these precious days of your leave, if we can have three or four days together. It doesn’t seem possible, Leo. It’s too good to be true.”
“It’s going to be possible,” said Leo. “You’ve only just got to do what I say.”
How lovely it was, thought Julia, just to let herself go, and to have life arranged for her by this eager lover. For that was what he was. Somehow, without any open declaration, without ever saying the words, “I love you,” she knew it for a truth. She, like other women, was going to have her lover at last.
A lover, thought Julia, and savoured the word upon her tongue. It made her feel free, and splendid, merely to think of it. And her lover was coming to her because he wanted her, because she wanted him, because she loved him. Not because, like Gipsy, she had tired of battling for a living, and was content to give gratitude and affection. Not because, like Marian, she was hungering, questing and unsatisfied. But because she knew what she wanted, and she was going to have it; because Leo wanted it too.
She left Torquay that afternoon, and her mother saw her off, anxious, and half weeping. Julia knew her mother thought it was a pity that she could not get on with Herbert. After all, once you were married, you were married, and there it was. That gentlemen were odd, Mrs. Almond was the first to admit, but then she had always told Julia so. Julia ought to know that gentlemen must be humoured.
“All that’s stuff and out of date,” said Julia, when Mrs. Almond tried to give faltering expression to these convictions upon the platform of Torquay station. “Don’t you worry about me,” she added, putting her head out of the window. “I shall enjoy a little peace at Saint Clement’s Square. Besides, it means I can send Emily off for her holiday at once. I’ll look after Bobby. As a matter of fact, one of the girls at the shop wanted to spend her holidays with me. We may go off to Mrs. Rainbird’s, or we may not. I’ll let you know. Tell Bertha to look after Herbert, she likes doing it,” and with that the train began to draw out of the station, and Mrs. Almond was left upon the platform.
Julia wired to Mrs. Rainbird that she would be coming after all, gave Emily a present of an extra pound to help her with her holidays, and then departed to Essex, taking with her Bobby, his brush and comb, his chamois leather and his blanket, all of which paraphernalia excited him profoundly.
The farm was all Julia had remembered it. A simple white two-storeyed house, made pleasant by its simple and unsuspicious occupants, who thought it would be very nice for Julia when her “cousin who is on leave from the navy” could come and see her. Mrs. Rainbird knew a lot of people who were officers now who wouldn’t have been before the war, and was not surprised. Besides, now Julia had got on in the world, Mrs. Rainbird was never tired of exclaiming at her elegance.
She only had from the Saturday to the Monday alone with Bobby, just long enough to explore, to find again the great circle of the mere, a deep olive-green lying in the cup of thickly-wooded hills that rimmed it all about. Ancient trees hung their branches over the edge, dipping their leaves into its tranquil waters. A little stream, in which movement was hardly perceptible, led into it from the river. A gentle little river that ran between flat meadows and lines of willows; while in the distance were the shapes of big curving fields, pale with oats, or golden with corn, or patterned with haycocks. Fields divided by dark hedges and dark plumy elms, whose spreading tops drooped over against the sky.
Julia, rather alarmed, launched herself and Bobby in the punt and paddled gently round the mere, keeping in under the overhanging branches; and then as she grew bolder, and Bobby ceased barking distrustfully, and showed signs of settling down, taking the punt through the outlet into the river. The river, at least, was shallow, whereas they told her at the farm that the mere was bottomless, and if you fell in, and couldn’t swim, you were drowned and your body never came up again.
They were full of information at the farm about Constable, of whom Julia remembered hearing before. This was “Constable country” and the Rainbirds seemed proud of it.
Julia received a very practical letter from Leo. He had managed it. Hopkinson had duly sent him a wire saying that he was ill and asking him to come and help him as Leo had instructed him. He showed the wire, and the letter that followed it, to Elsa. Leo had helped the obliging Hopkinson more than once out of a bad place, and the little steward was doing his best to repay him now. Twice when he had got drunk, when the aircraft-carrier had been in the Mediterranean, and once when he had over-slept at the Maison Tolérée at Ste. Maxime, Leo had managed to save him. Hopkinson asked no questions, and repaid his debt.
Therefore, the “cousin from the navy” arrived, and found rooms at the village inn, strolled over, and was casually introduced by Julia, and approved of. A very nice young gentleman; he would be company for her. Mrs. Rainbird did not like to ask Julia whether she had lost her husband—she had merely stated that she married in the war when writing from Saint Clement’s Square—but somehow she had received that impression. There was no photograph of him in Julia’s bedroom, and the few picture-postcards she sent off she posted herself.
On Julia and Leo’s first day together Mrs. Rainbird gave them a picnic lunch of sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and home-cured ham, and mustard and cress; and Leo brought beer from the inn.
They went down to explore the river and the mere. It was one of those days, rare in England, that are hazy with heat. There was a little hut at the mere’s edge where the punt was moored, and there Julia changed into her bathing-suit. Leo was ready for her when she came out. Each avoided meeting the other’s eyes, the old taboo of class and custom strong upon them for the first few minutes. They were alone together, and they were almost naked.
Julia was pleased, as never before, that she had a lovely figure. Even on the days when her face was plain, she knew that her neck, and the way her head was set upon it, her sloping shoulders, and her small firm bosom, her slim hips and long straight legs were lovely. Thanks to poverty, which had always caused Mum to buy her shoes a size too large
while she was growing up, her feet were not misshapen in any way. Like this, in her skin-tight green suit, she felt at least equal to Marian, and to all the Darlings that came into the shop.
After the first minute she moved forward, putting her feet timidly on the grassy edge, full of tiny stones and twigs. Leo looked splendid, she thought, stealing a glance at him. Yes, as splendid as she did.
“I hate cold water, you know,” she said at last. “I can only swim a very little. They say it’s awfully deep.”
“I’ll keep in here by the edge,” he promised her, “and I won’t let go of the back of your belt. I’ll take care of you. Just let yourself go, and don’t be a bit frightened.”
Julia obeyed him with a voluptuous sense of pleasure. The almost stagnant water was fairly warm. Leo swam strongly and easily, with his one hand, holding her up with the other. Julia had left Bobby with Mrs. Rainbird, who already loved him; for he didn’t like things he didn’t understand, and he was no dog for the water. It was only with the greatest coaxing that he had trusted himself the day before in the punt—a nasty contraption that had the habit of sliding away as soon as his front paws were on it.
“Not too much, Leo, not too much. Oh, I’m out of breath, and I don’t want to get cold. Oh, Leo, I’ve put down my feet and I can’t feel the bottom. Take me in.”
Leo laughed and turned her head to the shore. “Hang on to this bough,” he said, “like this.”
He made her clasp both her hands round the overhanging bough of a big tree. They hung on to it, side by side, letting their feet trail down into the depths of the water.
“Isn’t it lovely? Look up,” said Julia, “look, layers of leaves, and leaves and leaves ever so far up to the sky. It’s like being in a room, a lovely green room.”
“Does nobody come here?” asked Leo.
“One other family has the key to the gate at the top of the meadow, but they’re not here yet. There’s nobody but you and me. The farm people don’t do this sort of thing.”
She swung herself along to the shore, her hands on the bough. She had never known the enjoyment of good physical exercise. She had been brought up in surroundings where games held no place, and in a family which had never heard of them. This was almost the first time she had felt a healthy tingling through her body. Dancing was the only thing she had learned to do. It would be lovely, she thought enviously, to be a good swimmer, and to play tennis and golf, and do those things the Darlings did. But then, being so short-sighted, she would have to wear her specs, though she could manage without for swimming, thank goodness.
Everything was all dapple sun and shadow, gleaming water and green leaves. She ran into the hut and rubbed herself down, feeling glowing and alive as never in her life before. It had always been cold when she had bathed in the sea on her holidays; besides she wasn’t a good swimmer, and waves frightened her. This deep, cool, secret greenness was the place for her. It was a magic place, thought Julia excitedly, as she slipped on her one simple under-garment, and her white cotton frock, and passed over her head the green beads that Leo had brought her from his last voyage.
They lounged in the punt, lying half in and half out of the sun, opposite to each other, suddenly silent, although they had talked rather more than usual during the meal.
In the circle of the mere there was nothing but silence and peace. The trees dipped their heavy branches into the water over which they skimmed, to Julia’s delight, strange fugitive insects that progressed rapidly, but with immense determination, in many directions, all of which were apparently important, since they seemed to be making such a fuss about the exact course they took over what was, apparently, a featureless stretch of glossy, olive-brown water.
Odd little things, thought Julia, skimming here and there so eagerly, as though it mattered where they went. Swallows dipped and curved into the sunlight, their glossy blue-black backs and creamy throats, and sharp-forked tails, seeming to flicker like flames about the air. Brilliant peacock-blue dragon-flies, with large heads, darted hither and thither. Two were clasped in a nuptial embrace, and fell blindly about the air, always recovering themselves before hitting the water or the branch of a tree. It looked and sounded more like anger than love, thought Julia, as they buzzed past in their quick erratic course.
Leo leaned forward and taking up a paddle, with a few quick strokes drove the punt into an immense bed of rushes. The rushes parted to meet them, and then closed on them again. Leo shipped his paddle beside the gunwale, where it would be out of the way.
“Comfy?” and the simple little childish word knocked at Julia’s heart. She nodded and looked at him.
“These cushions are lovely and soft.”
“They always say,” said Leo, “that you should never change places in a boat, but I’m going to, all the same. I’m coming there beside you, Julia.” She moved a little to one side to make room for him. Leo lay down beside her and threw one arm across her breast.
She looked up into his face, seeing it really clearly for the first time as he bent over her. He looked a very lovely, human animal, as lovely as someone called Alfie had looked, for there had been someone called Alfie who had taught her something of the joys she should have been having for years; and now she was going to have complete joy, and love also. For what was love if it was not this quickening of the pulses at a footfall, this deep contentment at a mere presence? This exquisite weakness that was coming over her as his hand began to slip down her and his mouth to come nearer to hers. Oh yes, this was love. It must be. And then fierce pleasure took hold of them, and even Julia forgot for a while whether it was “love” or not.
Julia was completely happy. She ceased to worry about Herbert, about Elsa, even about how she and Leo were one day to get married—for, of course, they must get married. She knew that much even while she was so happy in the possession of her lover. Life wasn’t all like this holiday. It had to be lived somehow, on the lines that society had laid down; and for young people like Julia, with a living to earn, and a family who thought divorce disgraceful, the problem was a difficult one. Besides, still further back in her mind, or tucked away in the very bottom of her heart, was the knowledge that she wanted to keep Leo always, and that Leo might not be so very easy to keep. He was young, full of animal health, and his profession took him away. She had little of glamour and excitement to offer in London. Stolen meals, for which they had to lie and plan, stolen visits to the pictures, stolen walks—what were these for someone like Leo? But she let none of this worry her on this magic holiday.
Herbert could not be unreasonable for ever. He must agree to a divorce eventually, and she would just have to steel herself to meet the inevitable rows before he gave way. All that lay in the future, but for the first time in her life Julia was not worrying about the future. The present was a golden cup, full to the brim with wine, and she laid her mouth to it and drank in slow and completely-realised sips of ecstasy. The deep woods knew their love, which had seemed so essentially a thing of London streets; the mere knew of it, and Julia’s own body, appeased at last, held, during waking and sleeping hours, the knowledge of that appeasement.
On the fourth and last day, when they went down to the mere to bathe, Julia had a sudden inspiration, and when she came out of the hut where she had undressed, and stood in the green, light-filled air chequered with dapplings of sun and shade, she was naked. She stood there smiling, confident, happy. Leo was a little shocked. In his experience of love, and he had only known bought love, he had seen a naked woman, but he had imagined always that nice women did not care for that sort of thing. Julia was always surprising him. He did not realise that years at l’Etrangère’s, and mixing with Marian and Gipsy, and the Darlings, had taught Julia a greater freedom than would ordinarily have been hers. But as he stood looking at her, his moment of criticism was lost in excitement. Even her changing face held to-day a brightness that was beauty, and her body had a changeless qualit
y even in clothes; its assertion was always complete.
She slipped, laughing, into the water, and he put his hands round her. Then, glancing about, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up to the grassy edge of the mere. She lay looking up at him, and laughing. He rubbed her down gently with the towel she had dropped, and then forgot everything—even the fear of some wandering onlooker. They both surrendered themselves completely, and though when they were dressed, and at lunch in the punt, Leo might with any other woman have felt again a return of his moment’s embarrassed criticism, with Julia it was impossible to do so. She had been free for the first time to give full play to the greatest of her gifts, and at last she knew what that gift was, and she was completely happy.
Later Leo fell asleep in the punt, his head resting on her knees, and looking down at him she felt her mood change, not suddenly, but with a natural and inevitable gradation. It was as if her child, instead of her lover, lay asleep. She felt the melting pity that every imaginative human being feels on looking at the helplessness of sleep. “Sleep, the little death.” Where had she heard that? It was true, anyway. How helpless, and oddly innocent he looked, his young full mouth slightly open and his thick lashes upon his cheeks. No, it was not in the expression of his face that his helplessness lay. It lay, thought Julia—blindly groping after her thoughts—in the withdrawing of his mind; of the safeguard, when awake, the mind exercises over the body. It was as though he lay there helpless, at the mercy of anyone who saw him. Not physically, of course, his alert senses would always bring him to full consciousness in a flash; but it was as though everyone were helpless in sleep, without the majesty of death. Death was majestic. Julia knew that much; even her ineffectual little father, even the over-fretful Mrs. Starling, had struck her, when she saw them dead, with a sense of awe and of her own inferiority. Because nothing she, or anyone else, could do, could hurt a dead person any more. But a sleeping person lay inviting wounds, ready to be chilled by a breath, yielding, infinitely pathetic.
A Pin to See the Peepshow Page 29
