Why shouldn’t Raymond see Antonia sometimes? The query, originated by myself during the course of my telephone conversation with Raymond that evening, recurred idly to me as I undressed. Many divorced couples shared the children—a violently unsatisfactory state of affairs—but, even though I was the “innocent” party, wasn’t I extraordinarily lucky in having complete and utter possession of Antonia?
I stopped short, really amazed at having stumbled on such a new idea, and equally amazed at the reflection that never had I really seen the thing from the angle before. I had violently refused to accept any alimony from Raymond, but there again I had been lucky to be in a sufficiently secure financial position to behave so proudly. On my twenty-first birthday I had inherited a substantial legacy from my grandfather, and more money had come to me on my father’s death. I could have supported Antonia and myself on my private means alone—at least until the war came. Now I was extremely glad to have my office earnings as well, but that was an irrelevant fact, nothing to do with my attitude at the time.
Supposing I had revealed to the courts that I was expecting a child? As far as I knew, that would have been no reason for not granting me a divorce, but would not the Judge have directed that the father was to “have access” to the child or something of that sort?
What had Raymond thought of it all? So obsessed had I been at the time with my own defensive attitude—that the baby was my fault and therefore entirely my affair—that I had simply never given a thought to Raymond’s possible rights. Like a wounded animal I had, figuratively speaking, crept away into a corner, and snarled at anyone who approached me. Pride and misery had combined to make me absolutely impervious to Raymond’s possible sufferings. He might well, I saw now, have reproached me bitterly, even abused me—had I ever given him the chance, which I had denied him. At the time I believe I thought he ought to be, if not grateful, at least relieved. But then at the time I thought he was going to marry Sandra. At the time I regarded the coming baby purely as an encumbrance.
I passed from this reflection which now, in view of my devotion to Antonia, seemed almost fantastic, to another thought. How would Raymond and Antonia get on together when they met or Saturday?
I found, rather to my amusement, that I had absolutely no idea. They would each, I thought, be a complete novelty to the other. Men of Raymond’s age were hardly a familiar feature in Antonia’s life. Children were as far as I knew an unknown quantity to Raymond.
It was a curious thought.
Chapter 15
*
I have often heard it stated that children do not like to be “talked down to,” and I consider the statement absolute nonsense. All the children I have known like adults to descend to their conversation level very much, to talk about things that they, as children, find sensible and interesting, rather than the silly topics that grown-ups ordinarily discuss. If this is not “talking-down” to them I do not know what is. But of course to be well-done it must be done directly and simply without too much of a show of condescension.
How Raymond knew this I do not know, but his manner with Antonia was, right from the beginning, excellent. He paid her the compliment of treating her as a person, and spoke to her directly without shyness or facetiousness, while at the same time remembering that she was a child with a child’s simple concrete interests. Antonia and I took a bus down to the village to meet Raymond’s train, as I wanted also to do a little shopping. Raymond seemed to understand instantly Antonia’s housewifely preoccupations over the cakes we went to buy for the tea-party that afternoon. Eventually I left them together in the shop, debating seriously the question of a Swiss roll versus rock-buns. Raymond took up the very satisfying attitude that the whole question needed thorough consideration. Who was coming and what did each person personally prefer? Antonia was only too ready to tell him. It all took rather a long time but fortunately the woman in the cake-shop seemed to be amused, and I was able to get the rest of the shopping done expeditiously and by myself.
When we got back it was time for Antonia’s mid-morning rest. Raymond, whom Antonia invited cheerfully into the bedroom, was amused at the spectacle of the small child in the vast bed.
“At night we take it in turns,” explained Antonia. “But I can always have the nice bed at this time because grown-ups don’t rest before lunch you see.”
When we got back into the sitting-room Raymond asked me, with amusement, whether there was anything correspondingly “nasty” about the other bed.
“Oh no! It’s very comfortable. It’s merely that Antonia has conceived a passion for that ridiculously unsuitable double bed. It’s the high spot of the holiday for her, I assure you.”
“Do you set an alarm clock and change over once an hour during the night?”
“No. She just sleeps in it till I come to bed and then has to move over. ‘Night’ for a child means two big stretches you know—one before the grown-ups come to bed, one after.”
“So it does,” said Raymond thoughtfully. “I’d quite forgotten, but of course I remember now it does.”
“It’s probably awfully spoiling letting her have her way about things like that,” I said. “But this absurd system of ‘turns’ in very easily arranged. Anyway, I’m afraid I’m a pretty indulgent Mother, and it amuses me so much to see her in that vast bed . . .”
“Good heavens, yes!” said Raymond easily. “Surely one’s permitted to enjoy one’s child—one doesn’t need to act on principle the whole time?”
“Well in practice one feels one ought to act mostly on principle but often can’t be bothered,” I explained.
“Well, the results seem very nice anyway,” said Raymond.
I felt a pleasant glow, such as every mother feels on receiving even the mildest compliment about her child, but, with great restraint, forebore to angle for further praise, and turned the conversation.
Presently we all went across to the hotel for lunch. I introduced Raymond to Harry and Margaret, who promptly invited us to share their table. They seemed to get on well with Raymond, and I had the comfortable feeling that we were all very friendly and civilized people. No precise introductions between Raymond and Antonia had been performed—I had quite simply funked explaining to her that he was her father—and during the course of lunch, Antonia began guilelessly to call him “Raymond.” I do not personally care for children calling their parents by their Christian names, but in the circumstances I thought it a good solution.
After lunch we all had coffee in the garden, and Richard’s mother tactfully sent Richard over with a message asking Antonia to join her and Richard’s coffee-party which was taking place a little distance away. Antonia, who was enjoying’ herself very well with us, looked a little reluctant, but I quickly succeeded in fooling her into thinking it a lovely special invitation. I saw Raymond shoot a glance of amusement at me, and I suddenly realized that I, as a mother, was as much of a novelty to him as Antonia as a child. I returned his look with a slightly triumphant grin as Antonia ran off with Richard.
We all stayed on the lawn talking and drinking coffee until it was time to go back to the bungalow and begin getting the cakes out and the table ready for tea. The bungalow had a gas-ring and a little china of its own, so we were independent of the hotel for this tea-party except for milk and bread and butter, which Margaret had promised to send across.
Richard and Antonia got down to things in the sandpit. Richard, it seemed, was scornful of more sand-castles or simply paddling in the adjacent paddling-pool. He took charge of the proceedings and promptly began to develop a quite complicated scheme for building a seaside town in the sandpit. The sea, I need hardly say, consisted of water fetched in buckets from the paddling-pool, and naturally needed constant replenishment. When I had first noticed the extreme proximity of the sandpit and the paddling pool I had thought that inevitably any child of spirit would instantly set about thoroughly mixing the two elements, and had tentatively asked Margaret if there was a local rule that water was not
allowed in the sandpit. She had assured me that indeed there was not. All the children always wanted to make mud-pies, and if their parents didn’t mind she didn’t.
I certainly didn’t mind. I liked to see Richard and Antonia bare-legged, filthy, happy and absorbed. I saw them started, and then went in to lay the table. Raymond, I offered a deckchair and a newspaper in the front garden (the children were in the back. He accepted, but presently, as I glanced out of one of the front windows, I saw that he had disappeared, and, a few minutes later, saw him in the sandpit with the children. He was evidently playing the role of consulting engineer for a pier that was now being constructed, and seemed to be about as absorbed as the other two.
I had just finished laying the tea when I saw Mrs. Massingham wheeling her baby and also a large parcel in a pram past the bungalow front door. Because I was feeling vaguely pleased with myself for playing so competently at Mummies and Daddies and houses and hostesses, I spoke to her through the open window and asked her if she was going down to the village to the post, as the parcel seemed to suggest.
“Yes,” Mrs. Massingham said, fretfully. “And it’s a horrible long way on such a hot afternoon and I’m very late in getting off but I must get this parcel off so that it gets there first post on Monday.”
“Wouldn’t you like to leave Susan with me, and catch the bus by yourself?” I suggested. “It’s such a push up the hill with a pram, isn’t it? Susan wouldn’t mind would she? She could sit in her pram and watch the others or crawl about on the grass.”
Mrs. Massingham’s long rather anxious face brightened at this suggestion.
“Well, thank you very much. That would save me a lot of trouble, if you really don’t mind. Susan will be as good as gold, I’m sure. She’s a marvellously friendly little soul. She’ll go to anyone.”
The emphasis on the last word was not precisely flattering to me. With an inward grin I put Susan’s vaunted friendliness to the test by taking the handle of the pram and preparing to wheel it round the corner of the house, remarking to the child that I was going to take her to see my little girl now and that Mummy would be coming back soon for her. As I spoke we heard what sounded like the bus-coming down the road, and Mrs. Massingham hurried off, shouting over her shoulder to me that Susan would love to get out and crawl on the grass a little. I took the pram round the corner of the house and introduced Susan to Richard and Antonia, who, in the manner of children already completely occupied, showed not the faintest interest. Susan’s face registered no expression whatsoever. She seemed to be an easy guest, if perhaps a trifle stolid. Presently I remembered her mother’s parting suggestion for her entertainment. I fetched a rug and deposited her upon it. She did not appear very mobile for a one-year-old, and therefore was very little responsibility.
I suddenly realized that it was nearly half-past four and that the promised bread and butter and jugs of milk had not arrived over from the hotel. This was distinctly tiresome for one who was playing the hostess with such smug enjoyment. I decided to run over to the hotel and enquire from Margaret personally what had happened. Ringing up seemed a little peremptory and too much like the usual complaining guest, I thought.
I decided that Susan had better go back into her pram and accompany me. However, when I picked her up and began to put her back it immediately became apparent that the child had been enjoying herself on the rug more than she had let on. She burst into tears and struggled fiercely. This was disconcerting. I stopped, perplexed, Mrs. Massingham was due back any minute, and the last thing I wanted was for her to find Susan screaming. Was she the sort of child to keep it up or not? She did not look a passionate nature, but her stolid appearance might conceal a fiery and not easily appeased temperament, for all I knew. Wildly I looked round for some object with which to distract her attention, but the lawn appeared devoid of anything but filthy buckets, and Susan was dressed irreproachably for an afternoon pram promenade.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Raymond, coming up.
“She doesn’t want to go back in her pram,” I explained.
“Then why put her back?” queried Raymond with pleasant masculine lack of principle.
“I wouldn’t, only I must dash over to the hotel to see why the tea hasn’t come and I thought I’d better take her too.”
As I spoke I put Susan back on the rug, the better to consider the situation. The screams stopped instantly. Susan clutched at a daisy and began intently pulling it to pieces.
“You’d better leave her here. She’s perfectly all right,” said Raymond easily. “I’d offer to go over to the hotel myself only I’d have to wash so much first.”
“You would,” I said, looking at his bare sand-caked feet and rolled-up trousers. “All right then—I won’t be more than a few minutes. If Mrs. Massingham comes, explain what’s happened, won’t you, and don’t let on the child howled. She’s very much the ‘anxious mother’ type.”
Hastily I erased all traces of tears from Susan’s face, and hurried off.
I could not have been gone more than ten minutes, for I met the bread and butter just starting from the hotel, and returned straightway with it. I was all the more appalled at the sight that greeted my eyes on the bungalow lawn.
Mrs. Massingham was kneeling in horror beside Susan, holding up Susan’s frock and dabbing at it angrily with a handkerchief. Raymond was standing apologetically beside them. The two older children were still absorbed in the sandpit.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I heard Raymond say as I hurried up. “I’d really no idea Susan could move at all, or I’d have watched her more carefully.”
“Not move at all! Why she’s a year old and can crawl about all over the place when she wants to!” retorted Mrs. Massingham angrily.
Poor Raymond, usually so tactful, had not for once found the right thing to say, I reflected, torn between amusement and apprehension.
“I’m sorry. I ought to have foreseen then that she’d want to,” said Raymond.
“You certainly ought!” snapped back Mrs. Massingham. “Who are you, anyway? I left Susan in the care of Mrs. Heron.”
Too bad, I thought, hurrying up, too bad of me to have let Raymond in for this.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Massingham,” I said, completing my entrance at a run. “Has Susan got into an awful mess?”
I did not think, examining the child myself, that the situation was very desperate. Evidently the trouble was that she had succeeded in reaching one of the discarded buckets, and had rubbed it, all wet and dirty as it was, over her frock. Even so, she was not as dirty as Antonia and Richard, or even Raymond. But they were dressed for it and Susan wasn’t. I did feel apologetic, much as I resented Mrs. Massingham’s tone.
“The whole lawn is sopping wet with filthy water!” exclaimed Mrs. Massingham, feeling the ground around her offspring furiously. “It won’t be surprising if Susan catches a cold, will it?”
“Oh surely—in the summer—a little damp . . .” I said hopefully.
To say the whole lawn was sopping wet was an exaggeration. Susan’s rug had been on a safe dry patch. It was peculiarly provoking of the child to have crawled towards the area between the paddling-pool and the sandpit, where undoubtedly a certain modicum of water had been spilt.
“Well, I don’t know what you think you’re doing to let your children make such a mess of the sandpit and of themselves,” announced Mrs. Massingham. “Certainly when I entrusted Susan to you I had no idea what was going on here.”
I began to lose my temper.
“I really don’t think it’s your business what I let my child do, Mrs. Massingham,” I retorted tartly. “Personally I’ve no objection to sand and water at all. I quite see, however, that it’s very annoying for you about Susan’s frock. Will you let me have it washed for you?”
“Certainly not. Those grass-stains need the greatest care to get out without ruining the fabric. What I really object to, Mrs. Heron, is the way you calmly go off and leave my child, as well as yours,
in the charge of a casual stranger.”
“Yes, I heard you attacking him as I came up,” I said, really angry now, for, genuinely sorry as I was about Susan’s beastly frock, Mrs. Massingham in a maternal rage was really unbearable. “Casual I may be, according to your standards, but not quite as casual as that. As a matter of fact—”
I do not know quite what I was going to say, but Mrs. Massingham decided me by interrupting with a sharp, “Who is he, anyway?”
“He’s my husband,” I said simply.
I did not dare look at Raymond, but I felt silent support for this outrageous statement flowing from him. The children, I am glad to say, were some distance away and paying no attention to us.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Massingham, nonplussed. “I’m—I’m sorry. He isn’t staying here with you, is he? I’ve never seen him before. You never said anything about him. I rather took it you were a widow.”
Even in her semi-apology she sounded accusing.
“Naturally he can’t leave his work to take an extra holiday with me,” I said, lying so convincingly and with such an appearance of common sense that I almost felt I was speaking the truth.
“Well, even if he is your husband he ought to have been more careful.”
What a shrew! I thought. Is anything ever going to end this scene? To my relief, Raymond did.
“Yes, I ought to have been. I’ve apologized before and I apologize again now,” he said politely and yet with a certain finality in his tone. “As you see it really wasn’t my wife’s fault.”
Again I did not dare to catch Raymond’s eye. “My wife,” indeed!
Mrs. Massingham accepted from Raymond this dismissal of the subject better than, I suspected, she would have taken it from me. Without further accusations or reproaches she dumped Susan in the pram and prepared to quit the field of battle. Susan, I take great pleasure in recording, cried again on being put into her pram and Mrs. Massingham’s exit was accompanied by shrieks.
Company in the Evening Page 23
