But depression with no particular focus or definition hangs about me for days after this encounter. At night my sleep is thin and plagued by bad dreams. By day I feel almost too tired to move. Rain falls persistently from a grey sky. The light is wintry, and cold draughts seem to invade the house from every direction, making me shiver. I go nowhere and see no one. Even Wittgenstein fails to drop in. Cuthbert’s mother has been scheduled for surgery, and he is spending all his spare time at the hospital. Pam Wright has phoned to thank me for my help and tell me she has managed to persuade Mrs. Blot to go back and look after Sebastian.
“And let me tell you, my dear, Metternich, or whoever it was, simply also ran as a diplomat. I have to say it was nothing short of brilliant, the way I managed to fix this up. Bribery on the one hand – a raise for Mrs. B. – and quite shameless appeal to principle on the other. We simply can’t go on imposing like this on Rowena, it isn’t fair, she has her own life, where’s your pride, I asked him, and he simply had to agree. So now that’s over, and I must say I feel absolutely born again, though not in the religious sense, far from it, for well I know my motives have not been the least bit pure – for one thing our sex life had sunk to a truly dreary level with me being so exhausted all the time, so it was pure selfishness on my part getting us both off the hook like this, anyhow you’ve been so sweet, Rowena, and I’ll never forget it.”
Instead of cheering me up, this news depresses me further. Not only has a job opportunity vanished, but I find I miss Sebastian and our talks over the evening tray, which were beginning to extend to a later and later hour. I have a feeling, too, that he may miss my company as much as I do his. The more I think about it, the harder it is not to resent Pam’s interference. I also think it inconsiderate of Cuthbert’s mother to need an operation at this juncture, thus depriving me of his promised visit. In this low state, I forget all about Tom’s annual church bazaar until Marion turns up at the door to take me there.
“You’re surely not going like that,” she says with a scathing glance at my old grey skirt and sweater, which is even older than my beige skirt and cardigan. “Hurry up and change – the best things will be gone if we don’t get there early.”
Obediently I toil up the stairs and change into the beige outfit. Ignoring the glum eye of that all-too-serious widow in the mirror, I pull a brush through my hair and cram an old beret on top of it. Outside the grey rain is still falling drearily, spreading broad puddles everywhere and dripping coldly from the bare trees. Scarcely has Marion started the car when she discovers a flat tire, and the delay while it’s fixed at a nearby service station makes her cross.
“I do wish you’d been ready on time,” she grumbles. “Tom is going to wonder what on earth is keeping us.”
“What does it matter?” I say, trying not to sound irritable. “You can’t be all that keen to buy other people’s old stuffed toys and battered paperbacks, can you?”
Something seems to have happened, not to her, which itself is discouraging, but to me or our relationship, because today she makes me feel edgy, even slightly tearful.
“That’s you all over, Mother – you always miss the point. We’re going there to help Tom, not to – oh, what’s the use? By the way, I suppose you’re all right for money at the moment?”
This is not the time or place, I feel sure, to tell her Cuthbert is supporting me. So I mumble, “Oh, yes. Fine. Quite all right.”
“Well, I suppose those Wright people have been paying you something to look after the old man.”
“No, they haven’t. For goodness sake, I was just doing them a favour for a few days.”
Marion makes an impatient sound with her lips, but perhaps reminding herself in time of the First Guide Law, says nothing more.
By the time we arrive it is so late that the parish hall is half empty. The booths with their dubious, pawed-over goods have a forlorn look, and the attendants droop wanly in their chairs. Voices echo under the roof and there is a strong smell of wet umbrellas. The only people enjoying themselves are some children in stocking feet sliding with shrieks of glee along the margins of the polished floor.
“Ah, the charming Hill ladies,” says Tom, approaching us with dignity. He runs a finger under his dog collar to loosen it and mops his forehead with a white handkerchief. He always expends much energy at these affairs, bustling to and fro to greet everyone and bully them cheerfully into buying articles they don’t want and can’t use.
“Now, my dears, you must see the delightful things Mrs. Carraway has here in the china booth. What about this grand old moustache cup with the roses on it, eh? Or this cake plate with slots for a ribbon? They don’t make things like that any more, do they?” (I’m glad they don’t, I think gloomily.) “And here’s a vase with water-lily handles, you’ll like that, Rowena.”
Marion dutifully buys the cake plate and I the moustache cup. We also buy a toasting fork with a loose handle, a velvet cushion with the painted motto “Rest,” and some beribboned sachets that smell of medicine. By now the hall is nearly deserted and most of the booth attendants have disappeared. Marion twitches up her sleeve and steals a restless look at her watch.
“Well, Mother, I’d better get you home. I’ve got my first-aid group tonight.”
“There now, my dear,” puts in Tom, “don’t you bother about Rowena – I’ll run her home as soon as we close up here. You young people are always so busy – thanks for coming along, Marion dear; I do appreciate it.”
With evident relief Marion says goodbye and speeds off.
“A thoroughly good girl,” he says, looking after her with approval. “What a comfort she must be to you.”
After a pause I say, “Yes.”
“And now,” he goes on, rubbing his substantial hands together, “let’s count the loot. I believe we’ve done particularly well this year.” From a battered cash-box he pours out a cascade of change and small bills. When totalled it comes to nearly five hundred dollars. Tom breaks into a little jig of delight.
“This is glorious,” he says. “Now we can get those eavestroughs fixed and have a bit left over towards the vestry carpet. Glory be! The best take ever!” He fumbles in a pocket and produces a key to the door giving access to the church. “I shall give thanks,” he says. “Will you wait here for me?”
“No, I’ll come with you.”
What prompts me to do this I cannot say, because though I go occasionally to a service, it is purely for literary reasons, the language of the Jacobean prayer book being a sort of religion in itself. But the physical interior of churches always oppresses me with a sense of some impersonal presence far beyond my comprehension or reach, and makes me feel snubbed. The discreetly ornate decoration of this Anglican space is no exception. The ruby sanctuary lamp presides over a chilly white altar. The one stained-glass window depicts Abraham about to sacrifice Isaac, in obedience to one of those cruel and arbitrary edicts the Old Testament God used to specialize in. Clearly, I think, such a deity is someone who does not want to be understood or even liked, and what kind of a Creator is that?
Tom drops to his knees after genuflecting to the altar and without the least self-consciousness says in a ringing voice, “Thanks be unto thee, O Lord, for thy great goodness and bounty to us and to all men. Amen.” His lifted face is full of a very sweet and simple joy. Rather awkwardly I kneel, too, and try to formulate an appropriate prayer, but no words will come. Not until we are on our feet again and filing out do I think, Help me to forgive Edwin and Marion, whether they deserve it or not. Perhaps it is sheer happen-stance, but the pall of depression that has weighed on me all week now begins to lift.
“And now, my dear,” says Tom, taking me cosily by the arm, “the evening is ours. In fact, I’ve planned a little surprise for you. Just look here.”
From under the crëpe-paper skirt of one of the booths, he produces a carton of what looks like groceries. Nestled in one corner is a bottle of cognac. “Donated by Miriam,” he says, “and purchased by me, for our
enjoyment. Now we’ll adjourn to my house and have a nice little picnic supper together – how does that sound?”
“Very nice,” I say, my spirits rising. As if to encourage this trend, we find when we go out to the parking lot that the rain has stopped at last, and a rising copper-coloured moon is glorifying the dispersing clouds.
The Fosters’ house was furnished some time in the thirties, and Tom and Marjory thereafter never saw any reason to change the stamped velvet armchairs with bowed legs, the cut-glass ashtrays or the swags of befringed curtains. All these things combine, in fact, to create a restful air of permanence reassuring to anyone over forty. It all reminds me comfortably of Clive and Nana’s apartment. I find something appealing in the extreme ugliness of the wall sconces with their crystal droplets, and the pagoda shape of the silk lampshades. As soon as he has disposed of our coats and stowed the food in the kitchen, Tom pours us each a glass of brandy. Then he goes to the long walnut cabinet that houses a record-player. Moments later the husky rhythms of “I Won’t Dance” pour from the clothbound mouth of the speaker.
“Your health, my dear.”
“And yours, Tom.”
“Life is good,” he says comfortably. “It pleases me that monks were the inventors of brandy. Why should love of God mean distrust of pleasure? A contradiction in terms is what that is.”
The pensive strains of “Blue Moon” now give way to a bouncy rendition of “Let Yourself Go,” and seizing my hand, he pulls me out of my chair. Before I can protest he has clasped me firmly to his front and set us both revolving round the room. His dancing style dates from about the same uncomplicated era as mine, and I find it easy to follow him. Like many big-boned people he is remarkably light on his feet. Very soon I am enjoying myself. It is not long, though, before I find he is pressing me extremely close and his breathing, redolent of brandy, becomes heavy.
“Tom, I think–”
“You dance like a sylph, my dear.”
“But, Tom, I –”
His grip tightens. His hand moves from my shoulder-blade down to a much lower location. When I open my mouth to protest, he kisses me with such vehemence we both nearly lose our balance. But instead of being outraged or disgusted as might be appropriate, I am without warning swiftly caught up in a chain reaction of sensations that dazzle me. Seconds later he has pulled up my skirt and, bracing us awkwardly against the wall, without further ado proceeds to astonish me even further. Long before I want it to end, it does. There is no sound in the room but our hurried breathing.
“Thank you,” he says simply – though whether addressing me or God is not altogether clear. “That was lovely.”
With this I entirely agree, though some sort of pride makes me conceal my surprise that such pleasure is possible in any circumstances, especially these. But even so preoccupied, I have time to wonder that there is no contradiction at all between Tom’s prayer an hour earlier and his remark now, after what must surely be the most secular of acts. It makes him seem much more interesting a man than he has ever appeared before; so much so that I feel almost shy with him, and attempt a small joke.
“Well, Tom, I don’t know what the ladies of the parish guild would say about this –”
“What the parish ladies don’t know will never hurt them. Besides, Rowena,” he adds with a grin, “you might as well know, if you haven’t guessed before – quite a few of them wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.”
Rather sheepishly pulling up and pushing down various items of my clothes, I still have to smile at this. Tom is zipping his trousers in a matter-of-fact way as he adds tranquilly, “God would never have made this act such a pleasure if he hadn’t meant us to enjoy it.” And I am in no mood to argue with that. It is hard now to remember how depressed I’ve been lately, and why. When I do, it is only to think, Well, Edwin, what have you got to say now? But I can remember almost with pity those prudish, tormented hang-ups of his. Nothing in the past seems to have any real relevance to the remarkable experience I’ve just had.
A familiar smell is stealing into the room, and Tom beams at me proudly. “Dinner’s nearly ready, my dear,” he says. “Dream Pies.”
CHAPTER SIX
Twenty-nine dollars and eighty cents. With reluctance and dismay I count it up again. How could my funds have sunk this low? Of course, I tell myself, trying to be calm, it was paying the fuel bill last week that has so depleted the money Cuthbert left with me; but how can I possibly mention this to him now, worried as he is about his mother, who is hanging on, but only just, after her operation? Indeed, I almost resent poor Cuthbert for providing for me so generously, because without him, I would have been forced some time ago to face up to my situation. It would of course make more sense to blame Edwin for it, as for everything else, because it was his endless preoccupation with money that has made me react by being disorderly and even reckless with it since his death.
On the other hand, I tell myself sternly, you’re in charge now. The very thought of turning to Marion for help makes my mouth harden. I will not do that unless there is absolutely no alternative. I will deal with this somehow on my own.
To help me concentrate, I pace the length of the house a few dozen times. How can I earn money? What can I do that anybody would pay for? Eventually the dining-room table catches my eye. What was it that Cuthbert once said about place mats? Smocked dresses for toddlers?
Ten minutes later I am making for a children’s clothing shop in the plaza I’ve often noticed in passing. A cold wind is bouncing hard little pellets of snow along the pavement and I turn up my coat collar. Past the supermarket, the library, the wool shop; and there is the sign: Yankee Doodle.
The shop window displays a number of absurd and charming small garments: a T-shirt with a large red-felt heart sewn on the front, a jogging suit made to fit someone aged six months, a brown velvet frock falling from a yoke over a deep cream-lace petticoat frill. I stand in the cold wind looking earnestly at these for some time, while the pavement whitens around my feet. At last I gather up my courage and approach the door. It confronts me as blandly as those impenetrable doors Alice faced in Wonderland. You read too much, I tell myself sternly, and taking a deep breath I walk in.
Two bars of Yankee Doodle announce my arrival, but the shop is quite deserted, except for a disembodied voice grumbling in some distant stock-room. This is a relief; it gives me time to rehearse my spiel once more: “I do hand-smocking and embroidery, and I wondered whether you ever take orders for that kind of thing, or sell hand-made things for babies, on commission, by any chance.”
No one appears, though the deep voice from the stockroom can be heard more distinctly now. It sounds considerably annoyed. I inspect a rack of little dresses in denim, rayon and cotton, interested to note their prices range from fifty dollars up – mostly up. I do hand-smocking and embroidery and I was wondering whether you ever –
“Completely god-damn irresponsible,” says the hidden voice, causing me to jump slightly. A faint, querulous second voice can now be heard as counterpoint. “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times!” shouts the baritone. I do hand-smocking and embroidery, I repeat to myself, inspecting a tie-dyed denim dress with stud fastenings priced at sixty dollars. “The fact is, you’re nothing but a stupid bitch,” the deep voice shouts. The invisible second now bursts into tears. I edge defensively a little nearer the door. Excuse me, but I do hand-smock … A ponderous silence now falls. From the back regions a tall woman in a yellow leisure suit appears, frowning. She approaches me in a menacing manner, her professional smile only heightening the effect of the scowl on her forehead. “Can I help you?” she snaps. It is obviously the baritone of the stockroom. She eyes me with hostility and repressed rage.
“Ah, well – I – er – was just wondering …” Fumbling, I cram the little dress back onto the crowded rack. “I was wondering if – if you – have any small toys.”
With a scornful wave of the hand she indicates a shelf six inches away crammed wit
h small toys. I seize a miniature teddy bear and mutely hold it out to her.
“Six ninety-five,” she says furiously.
I produce the money, mutter thanks, and make for the door. Outside the snow stings my hot cheeks. I do hand-smocking fades hopelessly from my mind. A block away the sign for Dream Pies swings in the wind, and with a sigh I head for it. Probably Arlene and Steve will have me back; they said as much when I left. As for the teddy bear, I’ll give it to Tom at the first opportunity, for his next bazaar. It’s not something I’ll want to keep around as a reminder.
“The thing is,” I say next morning to Mrs. Wilson over early breakfast tea, “if I’m this bad at wage-earning, how am I going to survive? Five dollars an hour – it’s better than nothing, but not much.”
“Providence,” she says vaguely. “Whatever that may be.” But she is in one of her dreamy moods and keeps glancing past my head at a row of sparrows having a conference on the telegraph wire.
“I’m not aggressive enough, that’s the trouble. But how can you be aggressive if it just isn’t your temperament? I do think it’s so unfair, because after all I do quite nice needlework.”
“French knots and good manners are both out of style these days. It’s nothing personal.”
“Maybe not. But what am I going to do? Dream Pies may be all very well, but it doesn’t pay enough to live on. And that undertaker’s bill – I mean it was twice what I ever – how can anyone afford to die? So that insurance money I sort of thought of as a cushion will just about vanish by the end of the month. I don’t know … at first I was so numb, what with one thing and another; none of it seemed real; but now I wake up at night in a panic.”
A Serious Widow Page 11
