“Were you frightened or were you miserable? How can I understand you?”
“You don’t need to. Just say we’ll be together.”
“Vicky . . .”
“It’s no good, Raymond. I don’t understand myself. It’s just that when you said like that ‘I’m not a ghost’ something sort of clicked in my mind. Oh Raymond, I’ve been awake for hours living with ghosts—ghosts of the past, you and me together, ghosts of the future, you and me again but separate. Why be separate? Why? Just say we can be together, Raymond, and I’ll let you go in peace.”
“Darling, that’s the awful thing. I’ve got to go. Harry’s waiting over at the hotel to let me in and lock up.”
“Then just promise—”
“Promise what, Vicky? Oh, my darling, promise what?”
“Promise you won’t go out of my life again, Raymond. I can’t stand it twice over. Once was awful enough. Let’s pretend we were never divorced.”
“Oh Vicky—God knows I wish we never had been, but—”
“Make it as if it never had been then, Raymond. Marry me again if you like.”
I could feel Raymond, like myself, trembling, but his voice when he finally spoke, was low and grave.
“Vicky! How can I . . . ? Oh, God you do make it difficult for me! Would you mind taking your arms away one minute?”
“No. I refuse to. How can you—what?”
“How can I take advantage of your mood to promise a thing I like that? To-morrow you’d be regretting it.”
“Would you, Raymond—regret it to-morrow?”
There was no answer. No sound in the cottage but Raymond’s heavy breathing. No sound from outside except a tudden half-drowsy chirp from a bird.
“Would you Raymond?”
Shameless in my utter confidence, I clung to him and repeated my question.
“You know damn well I wouldn’t, Vicky,” said Raymond at last in a voice so resolute that it was almost grim.
With a sigh of utter content, I released him.
“Very well. Good. Now you can go,” I said.
“Vicky!” He made an involuntary move as if to take me in his arms again, and then, as quickly, checked himself. “I’ve promised nothing!” he declared.
“Haven’t you? I think you have. Anyway, you will. You’ll never be rid of me now, Raymond,” I asserted, a little lightheaded with triumph and exhaustion.
“Vicky! Oh my shameless lovely woman, you know as well as I do that you’ve tricked me and that there are so many many things I ought to say—”
“—which you haven’t time to now,” I finished impudently, “because Harry’s waiting.”
“—Which I shall say to-morrow,” corrected Raymond.
“I’ll be here,” I promised in a satisfied voice.
Chapter 16
*
And so, in the end, only a few of Raymond’s �“many many things” got said.
We did talk together, of course, an enormous amount on and off the next day, but more in a happy light-hearted way about the future, the immediate future (for we decided we wanted to get married as quickly as possible) than about the past. Somethings, such as Raymond’s reasons why he ought not to marry me, I flatly refused to discuss. When Raymond finally pinned me down with one definite question—would I ever have thought of wanting to marry him if he hadn’t happened to come back at that particular time? I replied, as honestly as I could, that I had not asked him to marry me because I was in a hysterical mood—I admitted the hysteria—but that my wrought-up state had permitted me to say things which in cold blood I could never have said but which all the more came from the heart. I suggested that sooner or later something of the sort would have happened, anyway, and Raymond nodded and said that that was exactly what he had been afraid of, although, he added, he had thought I was the “safe” one and he the “dangerous.” A little shyly, I said that he wasn’t ever to tease me about my behaviour the evening before. I knew it was shocking, but I hadn’t cared at the time and wasn’t proposing to feel ashamed now.
It was a novel and sweet delight to be cosseted and told that, on the contrary, it was behaviour of which to be proud, and that my utter shamelessness had endeared me more to him than anything else I had ever done. It was not the sort of thing we had ever said to each other in earlier days. It made me see what a lot we had missed in our first marriage. We had loved each other and laughed with each other. We had not been mutually dependent on each other in the slightest. Henceforward, I felt, we might grow to be.
I, in my turn, did ask Raymond one definite question. I asked him whether he had ever thought of “proposing” formally to me? He answered, quite simply, that he had never allowed himself to think of such a thing. I had made a better life for myself out of the wreckage of our marriage than he had done, I seemed happy in my home, my child, my work. Why should a tubercular crock think he had any right to butt in and upset things again?
I would not listen to any talk about T.B. No talk at all, and told Raymond so quite firmly—(so that disposed of the chief of the “many many things”).
I did not at any point say, and Raymond did not ask me to say, that I was once more “in love” with him. I think he realized that all I should be able to answer was that I was absolutely sure I wanted to marry him, and that, on this firm foundation the future could be left to take care of itself. We were both delighted at the prospect of sharing Antonia.
On the whole our conversation was not very coherent. Either one of us began to laugh out of sheer light-heartedness, or else Antonia interrupted us or else Harry or Margaret put in an appearance. (And what fun it was to play before them the game of “civilized divorce” knowing all the time of the secret that lay between us.) Neither of us did more than just brush the topic of what had happened between us five years ago. Some day, I thought, I would ask Raymond a little more about Sandra—but not yet. Some day I would find out if he had thought I wanted to marry Charles—but not yet.
I quite forgot to ask Raymond more about his adventures on the previous evening until Harry looked in and spoke as if I knew all about what had befallen them. I pretended, of course, that I did, and afterwards asked Raymond to coach me quickly in all that he was supposed to have already told me. It seemed that they had had a most difficult time—the car had broken down and, after spending a long time trying to get it going again they had finally abandoned it by the roadside and got a lift to within a mile of the hotel, completing the journey on foot. Harry had taken it for granted that Raymond would spend the night at the hotel, and Raymond had seen no way of avoiding the anti-climax of meeting me again. It was Harry who had suggested, when they had seen the bungalow light go on, that Raymond should stop and tell me what had happened, and again Raymond had acquiesced to avoid awkward explanations.
“Quite quite cold-blooded and cool-headed?” I mocked.
Raymond grinned.
“Not entirely,” he admitted. “As a matter of fact the prospect of seeing you again—just for a minute or two—attracted me strongly. I thought if I allowed myself that one last agonizing treat I could make a better and quicker get-away in the morning, I thought, even if I did find myself most unwisely kissing you good-bye, it would be pretty ‘safe’ because I had to tear myself away again immediately because of Harry. All the same I was pretty wrought-up on the doorstep, I can tell you.”
“So was I!” I said, and we laughed happily at the vision of ourselves quaking on either side of the bungalow front door in the middle of the night.
“It does seem the most extraordinary chain of events that’s led to this equally extraordinary but very gratifying conclusion,” I said. “That first accidental meeting, due to Philip beginning to be born and the telephone breaking down . . .”
“That meeting was a dead end. At least I meant it to be,” interrupted Raymond.
“All right. Dead end. Start again at Betty’s house. That was another accidental encounter.”
“Yes and no.”
; “You mean Betty engineered it?” I said surprised.
“No. No. I only mean Betty treated us as we had led our friends to suppose we wanted to be treated—no need for tact to see we didn’t meet or anything of the sort. Given those circumstances we were bound to run into each other sooner or later.”
“All right. Perhaps. Anyway, our next meetings weren’t accidental.”
“You’re right. They weren’t.”
“But the fact that you came down here yesterday (good Lord, it was really only yesterday!) and then the way things went did depend on all sorts of odd accidental happenings. Raymond,” I urged, “if Antonia hadn’t been ill, I shouldn’t have been here, anyway. If Mrs. Massingham hadn’t infuriated me to the point of making me refer to you as ‘my husband,’ I wouldn’t have annoyed you by wanting to tell Harry and Margaret about it as a joke, and then you wouldn’t have let me see quite so clearly how little of a joke it was to you. Even then nothing might have happened if Harry’s car hadn’t broken down. Don’t you think it’s all rather extraordinary, Raymond?”
But Raymond refused to appear impressed.
“It does seem rather peculiar, Vicky,” he admitted coolly. “But I think that’s all an illusion you know.”
“What do you mean—an illusion?”
“I mean you can always make your head spin by arguing aldng those lines, but after all the slightest trivial encounter or happening anywhere in your life is just as much due to just as extraordinary a chain of circumstances. Isn’t it?”
I thought a moment. “I suppose it is. How disappointing!” I said. “I was quite hoping Destiny had marked you and me out as specially interesting and much more important than other people and had thoughtfully managed all this for our benefit.”
“A suggestion which takes us perilously near one of those splendid semi-philosophical talks on pre-destination,” remarked Raymond. “No. Destiny can keep her hands off me, as far as I’m concerned. All the same I don’t think it’s all quite a toss-up, Vicky.”
“No?”
“No. I mean given the characters:—you and me—and the scene, set by chance, I agree, but likely to be set sooner or later out of sheer probability—well then some drama is bound to take place, isn’t it? And the lines along which it will develop depend more on your character and on mine than on Fate, don’t you think?”
“I see what you mean. Brilliant exposition of the old ‘Dear Brutus’ theme in fact?”
“More or less.”
“We two—if we meet at all—there’s something between us that’s got to be worked out,” I said slowly.
“Yes. It looks like that anyway.”
“It’s not unlike what I was thinking about Rene once—only the other way round.”
“What did you think about her?”
“Oh!—only that I seemed to have been so unlucky with her over all sorts of tiny things that had put us across one another, Then I saw it wasn’t bad luck at all—it was incompatibility of character. Something unfortunate was bound to occur.”
Raymond grinned.
“And what precisely is going to occur to Rene now?” he enquired.
I stared at him, aghast, and then burst out laughing.
“Raymond! What a problem! Honestly I’ve no idea.”
* * * * *
Raymond went back to London early on that Sunday evening. On Monday morning Antonia and I set out for Harminster. I was not due back at the office until the following Friday. I had resolved that by that date I would have everything settled, including the date of our wedding—a staggering task, but I faced it blithely.
In the train I told Antonia that she and I were going to move from Harminster and live in another house with Raymond. I was going to be married to him, I explained.
“Why?” said Antonia.
Her tone was interested but entirely casual. I was intensely grateful for the innocence of extreme childhood. Had she been twelve or thirteen the news might have been much more disturbing for her.
“Because I like him, and because I think it will be fun you and me and him living all together, and him being your Daddy,” I explained. “Don’t you think it will be rather fun?”
“Yes,” agreed Antonia readily. “What colour will the curtains in my new bedroom be?”
“I really don’t know, darling. What colour would you like them?”
“Pink,” said Antonia instantly. “Pink with little flowers.”
Probably we should have to take a furnished house, at least to start with—Raymond and I had already discussed it and decided that it must be in a “safe” area and yet accessible for daily travel to London. Nevertheless, I recklessly promised Antonia that I would try to arrange “pink with little flowers” curtains for her. I felt grateful to her for being so amiable about it all. If I was to have such a big excitement and thrill why shouldn’t she have a corresponding little one of her own? Even if it meant hunting for material and getting curtains specially made up.
“But don’t say anything to Auntie Rene yet,” I warned her. “Just for a little it’s a secret.”
I had already made up my mind that, just as I had once tackled Rene for Mother, so Mother should now tackle Rene for me, and break the news to her.
“You mean it’s a secret about how they’re going to be pink with little flowers?” said Antonia.
“Yes, darling. At least that’s your secret. Mine is that I’m going to be married. Don’t tell Auntie Rene either of those things just yet.”
“No, I won’t,” promised Antonia, looking pleased and important.
I dare say my expression was much the same.
It was certainly fortunate that Mother was on the spot when I got home. My mood was such that I could not have borne delay and laborious explanations by letter. It was also fortunate that Mother had, that morning, moved out to the little hotel round the corner. As soon as Antonia was in bed that evening I was able to leave Rene in charge of the house and pour out the news to Mother in privacy.
Mother had, I think, already got over her greatest shock, when she had recognized Raymond’s voice on the telephone the previous Thursday evening. Mother had never comprehended the rules of the game of “civilized divorce” as played by myself and my friends. To her it seemed inconceivable that divorced couples should arrange to meet each other unless “something was up”—and she showed me very clearly (with a slight suggestion of patting herself on the back for her feminine intuition) that she had considered “something was up” when she had learnt the other night that Raymond and I already had a tentative agreement to meet and spend a day together.
I did not disillusion her. I simply told her that Raymond and I had talked over the whole question and decided to marry again—and make a proper go of it this time. The last bit I added for Mother’s benefit and because she was so obviously expecting the sentence to end that way.
“Darling, I’m absolutely delighted!” said Mother warmly. “As you know I always liked Raymond” (I could almost see her swallowing the phrase ‘however he behaved over that woman’), “and he’s Antonia’s father and it will be lovely for her to have a Daddy again, won’t it?”
“Yes. She and Raymond took to each other at once too, which was nice. I’ve already told her we’re going to move and live in a little house together. She seemed quite pleased.”
“Have you told her he’s her father?”
“I’ve said he’s going to be her Daddy. That’s as far as I’m going at the moment; it’s all so utterly above her head. I’ll have to ask Raymond how much more to tell her later on.”
I saw Mother nod in a satisfied way, and guessed, amused, her thoughts. (“Ah! this sounds better! Vicky saying she must consult her husband! That’s more like it!”)
“Well, darling, I’m delighted,” said Mother again. “Although, of course . . .” She checked herself and flashed me her ‘No, I’m a well-trained Mother’ glance.
“Although what?” I queried indulgently.
“Although of c
ourse you can’t expect me not to think that all these years apart haven’t been so—so unnecessary. Such a waste.”
“I don’t think so, Mother. I don’t honestly. I think we have a much better chance of being really happy now than if we’d never got divorced. People say it’s dangerous to marry your first love, and both Raymond and I did. Now we’re not.”
Mother looked a little scandalized.
“I don’t mean anything very shocking, Mother,” I said hastily. “I only mean that now we’re both ten years older and both rather different people. It really hardly seems to me that it’s the same Raymond marrying the same Vicky. It isn’t so. It’s a different Raymond marrying a different Vicky. That’s all I mean. However, don’t let’s talk about the past,” I added hastily. “It’s the future that really interests me now.”
“Will you give up your job, Vicky?”
“Oh no! You never could really believe, could you Mother, that that wasn’t a bone of contention between us? Only, at least, in so far as it affected the question of having a child. Perhaps we’ll have another one day now—not just at once but sometime.”
“Will you and Raymond go on living here, Vicky?”
“No, definitely not. It’s too far for Raymond to travel up every day. It would be frightfully tiring for him.” (Again I saw a shade of satisfaction cross Mother’s face—Vicky considering her husband’s comfort. Splendid!) “Besides,” I added, “personally I’d much rather start afresh in a new place. I can easily give the cottage up. I only have it on a three-monthly lease you know, which I’ve just been renewing all the time. There’s one thing I must do to-morrow—write to Blakey, and ask her if she’ll come back to me when I move. She will, I’m sure.”
“I don’t quite understand why she ever left you,” said Mother. “I know she can be tiresome, but she was devoted to you, Vicky. Such a very faithful soul, I always thought.”
“Oh very! I really want nothing better than to have her back again. She didn’t exactly leave me, you know. I sacked her—because of Rene. It’s a frightfully long story which I’ll tell you one day. In the meantime we’ve got this Dabchick woman arriving to-morrow of course. Oh well! One thing, I really don’t care in the circumstances what she’s like. I just can’t be bothered to train her.”
Company in the Evening Page 25
