Three Sons (Timeless Classics Collection)

by Ursula Bloom

  Then the priestly procession proceeded from the vestry, backed by a Bishop whom Adam had unearthed from the colonies, and they went down to the porch, returning with a silver-veiled, hyper-slender creature and half-a-dozen girls in white trailing after her. All of them had no eyebrows, just as Carolyn had said.

  Carolyn caught Marty’s eye and her lip corners twitched, whilst James earnestly sang ‘The Voice that Breathed o’er Eden’ in a nasal baritone.

  Marty never saw Penelope properly until they met in the vestry after the ceremony; she was rather like a wild rose, pink and gold with wide open eyes. He tapped Adam’s shoulder. ‘What price Garmeisch?’ he asked.

  Adam went rigid!

  Lately he had never been able to understand that affair, nor how he had been such a fool. The folly of youth, he supposed, but even that could not excuse it. On the way here a press photographer had asked where his brother was, as they wanted a photograph of him. Adam thought that most unsuitable, considering the dreadful pictures with suggestive names in which Marty played the lead. Adam disapproved of him. But Marty was in one of his more horrifying moods.

  ‘Well, Penelope,’ he said, ‘I’m the brother from Hollywood, who didn’t get a Hollywood divorce.’

  She smiled weakly.

  ‘And this is Hilda,’ he produced the entirely strange wife, he could not believe that she could look so different.

  ‘Ah, dear Hilda,’ said Adam, to be annoying.

  ‘You look to your own wife and leave me mine,’ snapped back Marty, surprised that he should take the bait that way.

  ‘Boys, boys,’ said James.

  Then everybody was bending over the register; the Bishop, who was a bit doddery, had probably had a couple of strokes, so Marty thought, and he had now made a mess of things, for nothing was filled in correctly.

  They went on to the house. Marty might have guessed that it would be pompously lavish with the typical marquee, and dangerously prominent pegs, the inane bride and Adam, not nervous but so composed that Marty wanted to kick him. Adam made the right speech in a calm voice, at the right moment, speaking of Penelope as ‘my wife’ with never a falter, greeted by the usual loud cheers. Marty wanted to run away. He wanted to take the strange Hilda by the hand and rip her fantastic new clothes off her, and kiss her, and love her, and get away from here at any cost. Only he couldn’t say so! He was ashamed suddenly that the words he wanted to speak to her wouldn’t come. Something was between them just as she had said. Something upright and strong and durable. Oh God, he thought, what a mess I’m making of all this!

  The bride was coming out of the door of the house, lovely and unapproachable, Adam with her in a new severe suit of clerical grey, chastely cut. Adam was the sort of man who would wear a dog collar under all circumstances. Wonder if he’s happy, wonder if she’s going to be happy, wonder what on earth they’ll talk about, Marty was thinking.

  ‘Good-bye, Adam.’

  ‘Good-bye, Marty.’ Then, turning to the others, ‘Good-bye, Mother,’ kissing her, but with no warmth, and Carolyn such a warmly exuberant creature, so dear! ‘Goodbye, Father,’ wringing his hand.

  They got into the car in a shower of confetti and rose petals.

  ‘Well, that’s that!’ said Marty.

  ‘Is it?’ Luke was standing laughing with a bag still half full of confetti. ‘I’d have said that was only the beginning. They’ll have marvellous children, the well-behaved kind, a boy first, then a girl, you’ll see.’

  ‘You know too much.’

  ‘I know that there’s a damned pretty waitress here, I’m just going to nip round behind stage for a word with her before I go. Keep Mummy busy.’ Off he went.

  Hilda looked at Marty from under the new hat; she smiled. ‘Luke’s a man now, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  On the way home they had supper at a little road house, where the cooking was good and the setting pleasant. There seemed to be time for it, no need to hurry, and the opportunity to sit on a terrace contentedly with the coffee and a liqueur. Marty wished that Hilda did not look so strange, and persuaded her to take off her hat; then he ripped the orchids from her shoulder.

  ‘You’re not orchids, you’re little flowers! Just my sweet!’

  ‘Marty darling, in this mood you’re so lovely, but you get it too seldom.’

  ‘I’d be in this mood more often if you encouraged me.’

  ‘I try to, only you haven’t much time for me now.’

  ‘I’ve got lots of time for you. Let’s make it a honeymoon night, you and I?’ He saw the colour flush to her usually sallow little face; for a moment she looked quite girlish again, with the old attraction. ‘That’s settled then!’

  Recently he was obliged to admit there had been no time for love-making. When a man has been married a year or so, the first rapture must die. Luke had once said that romance looked slightly silly wearing whiskers, and out of the mouths of babes and sucklings comes the truth. They drove back slowly, and when he had a hand free, he held hers.

  When they got into the blue and terracotta flat with the lights on and the warm glow on the parquet flooring, there was a message for him. Would he ring up Mike Wildford? He rang up. Mike was in a tetter of excitement, for to-night he had contacted Peterson (the great man who could entirely alter all Marty’s future). Peterson was in the club now, in the right mood, and all the evening Mike had been ringing up and trying to get Marty round there to meet him. There is a time in the affairs of men, he quoted!

  ‘Only I can’t come now. It’s so late,’ and he glanced at Hilda. She did not move.

  ‘Why work so hard for a career, if you don’t intend to clinch it when the moment offers itself?’

  ‘But I’m only just back from my brother’s wedding.’

  ‘Well, I warn you it’s now or never, and if it’s to be never, I’m through with you.’

  After an uneasy moment Martin said, ‘All right. I’ll be with you in ten minutes,’ and rang off. He glanced at Hilda, knowing that he had got to give her some explanation. ‘I shan’t be long,’ and he knew that it sounded to be pretty lame. For some unearthly reason he started babbling. ‘Send Adam a telegram, something rude. “Good night”, or something to upset him. I’ll be back inside half an hour.’

  But of course he knew that he wouldn’t. He felt a cad as he went out on to the landing, and rang for the lift, and he knew that the moment he had gone Hilda would have a cry.

  It was two in the morning when he got back.

  IX

  THE GREAT MAN

  Mike had been quite right when he said that it was now or never, and it had been now!

  It meant meeting a whole set of new people and it coincided with Hilda going down to Bonchurch for a long holiday with her mother. She had never liked London in the summertime, and this seemed to be a good idea.

  Before he realised what was happening, Marty was lost in the whirl of fresh rehearsals, which made him moody, so that it was as well that he had the place to himself, and anyhow she would be back for his first night.

  One day in the middle of it all, his mother met him for lunch, a scampered, hurried lunch after a particularly difficult morning, for the play was in labour pains and going badly. During the lunch she dropped one or two casual remarks that gave him the idea that she was suspicious that life was not well with him and Hilda.

  ‘Not well? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Everything is okay. Where did you get that idea from?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I thought you seemed a little strained at Adam’s wedding.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t feel a little strained at Adam’s wedding? I know where you got the idea that something was wrong; it was that awful hat that Hilda had got on! That dress, too. She looked peculiar, I admit, but that was what the trouble was.’

  Yet his easy explanation kept recurring in his mind all through the afternoon’s rehearsal. He couldn’t concentrate. The producer got at him about it, one of those difficult producers w
ho gave a man no licence, pouncing on any slackness. Because it worried Marty a lot, he rang Hilda up that night, and had some difficulty in getting through. When she came to the telephone she sounded offhand, probably bored, as he would be with all those Staffordshire china white dogs, and the frayed rose silk of a tired cottage piano.

  ‘Something you want, Marty?’

  ‘Only to know how you are.’

  ‘I’m all right. A bit tired.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I’ve been distempering my bedroom.’

  ‘Good heavens! Whatever for?’

  ‘It had to be done, and I liked doing it. Nice of you to ring up, Marty.’

  Then there was a silence, it was almost as if she were a stranger, and he did not know what to say next. ‘The rehearsals are going well,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘It’ll all be over in a fortnight now. You’ll be up for the first night?’

  ‘I expect so,’ rather hurriedly as though she were skimming over a dangerous abyss.

  ‘Well, good night, Hilda, God bless you.’

  ‘Good night, Marty,’ and he heard the click as she rang off. Funny, he thought. It irritated him that she should have been so quick to hang up; and when he came to think of it none of the conversation had been natural.

  Then rehearsals got him again; it was a most trying play, quite the worst he had done yet.

  In the final week they suddenly decided to change the complete last act. It had not been really satisfactory from the first, had been altered and patched in the hopes of getting it through, but even now it was no good. The author worked all night on it, and next day there was the new act ready to go into rehearsal. It meant very hard work with no time even for meals, having to snatch something when you could, and as you could. For the first time in his life Marty’s even disposition failed him, he felt himself getting on edge and becoming ruffled; he had a couple of scenes, one a violent argument with his dresser, the other less violent and far less satisfactory, with the producer.

  On the day itself he hardly knew that the fateful hour was at hand, for there had been so much to do and so little time in which to get through it. He was worked up. This had never happened before, but he was getting alarmed. Silly things frightened him. Supposing he fluffed his lines, or missed a cue? Supposing he became confused and could not think clearly? He became depressed that he was about to make a shattering failure of what should be the peak point of his career, a failure that he could not afford to make.

  At six o’clock he rang up the flat from the theatre, to know if Hilda had returned. If he could get a word with her she could calm him, he was sure. No, she wasn’t back yet. He started walking about his room, fiddling with his cues, the restlessness was difficult to manage, and he began making up too early. Then when the house was filling, he sent his dresser round to Carolyn’s box to fetch her. She seemed to be a very long time in coming to him.

  When she came in she was alone, he had hoped that Hilda would be with her, but that was not so. She had on a dead black frock with a couple of camellias at the shoulder, and her face looked tired, drawn, and older, much older than it had ever done before.

  ‘Mother, is something wrong?’

  ‘No dear, no, nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Is Hilda there with you?’

  ‘Not yet. I expect the train was late; there was an accident with the boats crossing from the Island this afternoon.’

  ‘She isn’t dead?’

  ‘No, of course not, there was no loss of life; it just meant delay.’

  He said, ‘That black frock of yours, it looks so like mourning, and your face is different. That is why I jumped at the silly idea.’

  ‘Hilda’s all right. I am quite sure she is all right. It was Arthur.’ She stood at the corner of his dressing-table leaning heavily upon it, and the sharp light lit up her face which had aged suddenly. ‘I suppose his being so long in the Sanatorium had given me the idea that he was safe.’

  ‘You mean that he’s dead?’

  ‘Early this morning. He had a sudden haemorrhage and went like a flash. I suppose it was far easier for him, poor darling, but it was a dreadful shock to me.’

  Marty had the feeling that she ought not to have made the effort to come here tonight. ‘Is Daddy with you?’

  ‘No, there was a law dinner, a lot of old judges and people. Luke’s with me.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Thank you, Marty. I do wish you every success, you’ll have it of course, but a few extra good wishes won’t come amiss.’ She kissed him, but her mouth was cold, and the strained look in her eyes worried him.

  After Carolyn had gone, he sat back for a moment, wondering how much Arthur had meant to her. They could not have seen one another for years, and if she had been in love with him why hadn’t she married him?

  She had, he knew, chosen James. None of it seemed to hang together.

  He heard the call boy, and grabbed a stick of grease paint. This, his peak moment, was no time for debating about his mother, for he would never know the answer anyway. He must stop thinking about other people. Hilda. Carolyn. His father at that stuffy old law dinner. Adam. Adam would be rising from dinner in his home, with Penelope opposite him in an ethereal evening dress, and no eyebrows. That made him laugh!

  If Hilda came late, she came late; it couldn’t be helped. Mechanically the dresser helped him into his coat, and Marty went off to the wings. He calmed as he climbed the uncovered stone steps, with match ends and cigarette tips drifting down them. But all that was part of the theatre; he came on to the big gaunt stage, with draughts blowing from every direction, frowsty stage hands standing by, the crude arc lights ready, and instantly he knew that he calmed outwardly, and the glow of exhilaration came into his heart.

  He could hear the muted orchestra from the other side of the curtain, knew that it died away, yet to him became faint and clearer, for the curtain was rising; the house was settling down to it, and the play had begun.

  The same old Marty went on when his cue came, the lines were here in his head, the simple actions, the gestures; he was somebody else; he had been re-born the hero of that play, he lived it. As the three quarters of an hour of the first act passed he could feel the audience with him. He did not need applause, he could feel their tenseness and response, and pride swelled in him.

  The curtain falling to applause and rising again ‒ for a moment, he glanced at the box where his people were. Carolyn had a set face, he could see the outline of Luke’s blond head, but there was no sign of Hilda! That made him angry. She ought to have done something about it to get here in time and see his triumph. Even if she missed the train due to the boat being late, she could have hired from Portsmouth and come up by car. There was no excuse.

  By the end of the third act there was no mistake about the play being a winner. Only when the relief came, did Marty realise how intensely nervous he had been at the beginning of the evening. He rang up the flat, Hilda was not there. He went out to supper with Carolyn and Luke, to a small restaurant, for they were a quiet party, Carolyn most unnatural, and even Luke’s gaiety blighted by it.

  ‘I can’t think why Hilda hasn’t turned up,’ said Marty at last.

  ‘Oh, she’ll be all right.’ Luke was completely calm over it. ‘People like Hilda never get lost. She’s one of the backbones of England. So much British vertebrae! That’s Hilda! You must forgive me if I take Mummy home soon, but she felt rotten earlier this evening, she oughtn’t to have come really, but would. You know what Mummy is.’

  ‘Yes, I know what Mummy is.’

  Marty walked back to the flat. He found that he was still wondering a good deal over Carolyn and Arthur, and could not think why. They ought to have married of course, why the devil hadn’t they? Arthur would have been a much kinder father than James had ever been. James was a body in a stone sarcophagus. You couldn’t get at him.

  Marty walked up Constitution Hill, with a y
ellow clear moon over the Palace gardens, and the bronze horses of the memorial to Edward the Seventh etched clear against it. It looked very beautiful. The trees hardly stirred, and there was no sound save for an occasional car, and the whispering of lovers curled together on the seats in the park, or the more convenient grass slopes. He strode across Hyde Park Corner, into Park Lane. Home at last. Now he had the feeling that Hilda would be here waiting for him, so that his step quickened and he felt his heart excited with hope.

  But when he entered the flat she was not there. He rang up Ventnor. It took a very long time; the operator appeared to be sleepy and irritated, and the Island delayed in answering; when he got the little house in the terrace, it was obvious that everybody had gone to bed. Then Hilda came.

  ‘Hilda, it’s Marty. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘But I’ve been waiting for you all the evening. It was my first night.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, whatever’s up? You’re behaving most extraordinarily, what on earth has happened to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Now he was losing his temper. ‘Look here, what are you playing at? You don’t seem to realise that it’s been a bit of a strain not knowing what had happened to you, when God knows I’d got strain enough with the play. Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘I’m not coming back, Marty.’

  ‘You’re not ‒?’ He stopped dead.

  ‘No, Marty.’

  When he could speak, he said, ‘Who is it? Tell me his name?’

  ‘There isn’t anybody else, Marty. Nobody at all. It’s just happened this way.’

  ‘But you can’t just refuse to come back? You can’t just leave me like this. Hilda, we’ve got to meet. We …’

  The operator had to butt in, telling him with obvious delight that his time was up.

  Marty could not go down to the Island till the week-end. Then he motored down after the show, spending the night in a hotel on Portsmouth Hard, and crossing by the first boat in the morning. He had a long wait at Ryde, feeling restless with anxiety. He could not imagine how this had happened. The train, which seemed to delay most unnecessarily, dawdled out of the St. Boniface tunnel, and came into Ventnor station. Marty was first through the exit, and out into the street beyond heading for Bonchurch.