‘Well, it’s only me,’ he answered, keeping his voice quiet and normal.
He felt neither. The sight of her face, and the spectacle of Peggy babbling like an ordinary girl – Peggy – had shaken him out of his carefully-prepared state of mind. If she was really broken, if she really had had it, then this was his chance, and he might never get another, and he was frightened, because he wanted nothing but Peggy; nothing in the world.
‘I saw something on the placards, coming down,’ he said indifferently.
‘How did you know I was … how did you … where I was?’
‘Guessed.’ He firmly took her arm, and, turning her, began to walk back in the direction of the public house. His confidence faltered for an instant; established, as it was, over so much longing and so much fear. ‘How … are you? Long time no see …’
The silly question and the cliché died off into silence. It was a warm night; over a gate in the hedge to the right he noticed a field of long grass, silvery in the starlight. The whole field suddenly shivered towards them, under a caressing wind. He wanted to press her arm.
‘You can see how I am, can’t you?’ Her voice quivered. ‘I should think … anyone could …’
‘You needn’t mind me. You know I love you.’ He had not meant to say it, and he broke into a sweat of fear.
‘Oh shut up – shut up, can’t you? I don’t want anyone to love me …’ she began to sob again, dragging her arm away and standing still, in the middle of the road, pushing her hands down into her coat pockets. ‘It’s all … you don’t know what it’s like … you don’t know … I never dreamt … I didn’t imagine, not for a second, that he’d …’
Quite an effort, that, from our Peggy, he thought wryly; I don’t suppose she’s ever talked to anyone before – except that chap. The warm wind, gathering strength, poured itself against him, laden with the scent of dry grass.
‘I suppose he’s let you down,’ he said bluntly, but almost holding his breath.
‘That’s it – that’s it – he would come back here, and I was to stay here while he settled things up and he’s gone back to her – the bitch –’ she went on into a maze of what used to be called obscenities; he listened with disgust, with satisfaction, with pity. But the pity was stronger than the satisfaction and the disgust, and slowly, from the depths into which he had thrust them, there rose up the words poor kid. She was twenty-two. Not, thought, Arnold, a great age.
‘Take it easy,’ he said suddenly, taking her arm again, ‘this kind of thing’s happening all over the world, all the time –’
‘She’s pregnant. I couldn’t believe it – she – she – I thought –’
She wrenched herself free and flung herself down into the dust and loose flints of the road, and lay there writhing, uttering choked sounds. Arnold stooped and gripped her and shook her. He was suddenly frightened almost out of his wits.
‘Peggy! A car’s coming – get up.’
The sound of the engine had grown upon his ear even through the shocking sounds that came from her. He wrenched her body aside as the car swept past, after fully revealing the two of them for a second in its powerful headlights. (The occupants, already late for a television programme specializing in scenes of violence, preferred to indulge their taste without risk of involvement, and ignored the girl lying in the road and the man stooping over her.)
He wanted to wipe his face. He was streaming with sweat. He pulled her up, so that she crouched beside him, moaning, ‘It’s my life. It’s my life. You don’t understand.’
‘I understand absolutely. You had an affair with a chap who’s married and he went back to his wife. It’s always happening. Didn’t you know that – dear?’
‘I knew we’d be different – he said – he said – I knew it would be different – at least, I didn’t even think about that – I just knew – he said –’ Arnold shrugged.
‘You mustn’t take any notice of what we say. When we want you, we’ll say anything. You really didn’t know that?’ She shook her head (at least, he thought, something’s getting through to her) as he pulled her to her feet.
‘Now, pull yourself together,’ he commanded. ‘You used to be pretty good at the stiff-upper-lip. Let’s see a bit of it … it seems to have slipped up somewhat.’
‘Shut up and leave me alone.’ But she let him take her arm; she let him begin to lead her steadily along the road. They walked in silence for some time; then, as the lights of the public house were seen some hundred yards ahead, she pulled away from him, and stopped.
‘I’m not going into that hole. They’re all on … her … side … she’s lived here ever since she was born or something, and they had the bloody nerve to disapprove … I didn’t notice, at first … but then … I’m not going in, I won’t.’
‘There’s no need to. The car’s outside. All we’ve got to do is to get into it.’
She said nothing, but let him lead her to it, and stood, motionless, hands in her pockets, staring sullenly at the lights and the regulars coming and going all around them, while he unlocked the doors and opened them.
‘I suppose you don’t want your things?’ he asked, as she slid into the seat beside him. ‘Do you owe them anything?’
‘No, I don’t. I took bloody good care not to.’
‘What about your things?’
‘It was only a suitcase – nothing much.’
Her tone was indifferent, harsh with crying, and exhausted. But it was undoubtedly more like her usual one, and he began to feel some relaxation of anxiety and fear. If only he could play upon these signs of ordinary humanity in Peggy! Even the monotonously recurring ‘bloody’, he felt, was reassuring in its school-girlishness.
She was a woman – a girl – and therefore she was not as strong as a man. And he could manage her. Because he was a man, and she was not. It was as simple as that.
It was a black day for you, dear, when you let the upper lip slip, he thought. Or was it? Perhaps – he let the thought shine out for an instant – she needed, and wanted, a master.
‘Any plans?’ he asked presently.
She shook her head.
‘Want to come to Morocco?’
She turned to look at him. The beauty of her eyes was familiar, and struck him with the old, accustomed pain. The stars were bright in their drowned dark depths, glittering between her swollen lids.
‘Not particularly. Why? Are you going?’
‘I could be. Not to any luxury hotels, I don’t mean that kind of trip. I’d camp in the desert, spend five or six months out there, wander about.’
As he spoke, he thought how much he would dislike it; the lack of mildly congenial male society, the solitude, the intrusive and omnipresent sense of Nature uncurbed by the hand of man. Yet what had been his aim in life for over thirty years? To find, and frequent, smart bars, where there were men he could grouse with. To play golf; to drink; to want, and lack, wonderful women.
In the desert there would be Peggy.
‘We might go to Brazil,’ he said presently, ‘see some of those blank spaces on the map they talk about.’
She said nothing. Rather sadly, he offered what he had not wanted to offer. ‘I’ve got plenty of money. We could do things – in style. If you liked,’ he added.
‘I know that,’ she answered crossly. He welcomed the crossness; it suggested that the emotional temperature was sinking.
‘All right,’ she said grudgingly, at last, and at once hurried on, ‘but I’m not sleeping with you. We’d better get that clear from the start.’
‘I haven’t asked you to,’ he said mildly. ‘We’d better get married, though; it’s better, for all sorts of reasons – I’m not thinking only about what people’ll say.’
If Peggy was looking into the cage, testing the strength of its bars with her eye, and measuring the length of the space prescribed for her walking, none of this showed in her face, where there was only sullenness and exhaustion. But perhaps some warning of what this would mean did p
enetrate her numb, inward anguish. She turned to look at him.
‘You must get it clear –’ she said, forcing the words out, ‘I hardly care whether you’re alive or dead. I won’t sleep with you. If ever … he … wants me back I’ll go … though we’re in the middle of Brazil.’
‘Oh, it would take a long time from there; long enough for you to change your mind,’ said Arnold almost jocosely. And added, ‘You may change your mind about a lot of things, before we’re through.’ He took one hand off the wheel to give her arm a friendly pat. ‘You did say “hardly”. I shall keep on hoping.’
She turned away, and for the rest of their journey to London looked at the meaningless traffic and houses going by. But presently, as they were passing through the outskirts of the city, she spoke slowly.
‘You were right. I’ve changed my mind already.’
‘What?’ he exclaimed, unable to control a note of alarm.
‘Not about that … I mean about going back. I wouldn’t now. I hate him.’
Oh, then we’re all right, Arnold thought, more hopeful than he had been throughout the crisis. If you hate him, it was just a pash, and from now on I can begin to move in. Deathless adoration, eternal whatsit – and you hate him. Well, well. That isn’t the way I love you, and it’s not the way you’re going to love me. One of these fine days. Some enchanted evening.
33
Mrs Lysaght was sitting in her drawing-room, a week later. It was ten minutes past eleven, and she was sipping her coffee and reflecting that Gretl did not make it as well as a Continental girl should. Gretl was sitting in the kitchen, sipping hers and reflecting with complacence that it tasted just like that served in the London coffee-bars.
Mrs Lysaght’s chair commanded a view over the quiet tree-lined road at the back of the flats. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation. Could that be the Rolls, Cora’s car? gliding between the parked ranks of lesser machines? Yes, and Frobisher looking more glum than usual. She got up from her chair.
‘Gretl! Gretl! Mrs Corbett will be here in a minute. Listen for the bell, dear,’ she called musically, at the opened door.
‘Ollright.’
‘And don’t say that, dear. “Yes, Mrs Lysaght”.’ Her employer sat down again, and glanced round the room. Yes: charming. One did not try to compete …
The bell. Gretl’s voice, Frobisher’s voice, not a word from Mrs Corbett? Mrs Lysaght thought it more graceful to get up and move towards the door as it opened.
‘Cora! What a lovely surprise.’
‘All right, Frobisher, wait, will you, please,’ her friend said heavily. Face, voice, expression, her summer suit and stole of pale brown ermine, all seemed burdened; her elaborate white hat had no airiness. She turned lifelessly to Mrs Lysaght, who was staring.
‘Helen, I felt I must have someone to talk to. Dorry and Madge and Cis can be so unkind about Arnold …’
‘Of course, dear, of course. Come and sit down, let me take your fur …’ Mrs Lysaght was so full of thrilled anticipation that she omitted to calculate, as she gently removed it, what it must have cost. ‘Is something wrong? Is it Arnold? Not an accident? He isn’t—?’ She broke off, in hushed, staring alarm.
‘Oh no,’ Mrs Corbett said bitterly. ‘He’s perfectly well. I heard from him this morning. By phone, from a hotel in Fez. He’s there with … Peggy. They were married last Tuesday.’
‘Cora! I can’t believe it!’
‘Well, it’s true. I couldn’t believe it either at first. I hardly know where I am, I’m so shocked, so hurt, so …’
‘Here dear, you must have …’ Mrs Lysaght found enough kindness and pity in herself to forgo the spread feast, and hasten to the door and command Gretl, in carefully controlled tones, to bring another cup. ‘And biscuits, Gretl. Hurry, please.’
‘Packet finish,’ reported Gretl, leisurely, through the crumbs of the last three.
‘Open another, then.’ Mrs Lysaght shut the door and hurried back to Mrs Corbett, who was slumped in her chair and staring at the carpet, and sat down close to her.
‘Hadn’t you any idea at all?’ she asked gently.
‘I knew he wanted to marry her. He broke down and told me one evening. I could hardly believe that, either. The last type of girl … and he said he knew where she was and was going to find her. I ought to have been prepared, I suppose. He did warn me. (I keep on telling myself that.) But – so sudden. No engagement – nothing. I used to look forward to – to having … having …’ she began to cry, hopelessly, ‘… grandchildren,’ she ended, crying with bent head, into her tightly-gloved hands.
Mrs Lysaght sat gently patting her. It spoilt the excitement to have her taking it like this. Why couldn’t they have talked about Peggy’s slyness, and the couple’s future plans, and what they would do in Fez, and money?
Gretl came in with biscuits and cup, and, on Mrs Lysaght’s mimed instructions, put them down and went out again. Mrs Lysaght muttered. ‘Tt-tt.’
‘What is it, Helen?’ Her friend looked up, a little relieved by tears.
‘Oh nothing – she’s brought the packet in – really, these girls … go on, dear.’
‘There’s nothing more to say, really.’ Mrs Corbett wiped her eyes. ‘It’s all so … I don’t know … I shall just have to put up with it, that’s all, I suppose. One thing, I can’t have many more years to suffer.’
‘Now – now,’ Mrs Lysaght gave her a playful shake which Mrs Corbett disliked extremely but was too miserable to shrink from. ‘You mustn’t talk like that – next year you might have a lovely little grandson.’
‘What – with that girl? Don’t you believe it,’ cried Mrs Corbett, roused, ‘she’s as hard as nails – dreadfully, dreadfully hard. I’m sure she’ll never have children. She won’t want them.’
‘“With God”,’ pronounced Mrs Lysaght, ‘“all things are possible”.’ To which Mrs Corbett muttered ‘Oh … God –’ and a silence fell which Mrs Lysaght felt might be preliminary to the resumption of the dyed ermine stole, and departure – before the juice had all been squeezed from the situation. A dazzling notion burst upon her.
‘Cora!’ she cried. ‘I know. Now’s the time. You’re coming along with me – to Mrs Pearson for a sitting. No –’ as Mrs Corbett began to speak. ‘I won’t hear a word. It will take your mind off it. I’ll ring her up now.’ She started from her chair.
‘Don’t be silly, Helen – how can I? Peggy’s mother.’
‘Oh … yes, of course … do you know, I’d forgotten! But you’ll have to meet her some time –’
‘Why should I? horrid spooky woman – oh dear, why did you remind me? – and living in a slum –’
‘Frobisher can drive us!’
‘Oh Helen, do be quiet – my head’s splitting – there’s all that to think about, too. I wish I was dead,’ she wailed.
‘That’s easy to say. We’ve all felt like that. Why, when Ronald died –’ She broke off. No, we had not all felt like that. She never had. Mourned, missed, regretted, yes; but not beyond the bounds of commonsense. ‘You must be brave,’ she advised.
‘I hate being brave. I’ve always hated it. Charlie took care of me. When he was alive I didn’t have to be brave. And now I shan’t even have Arnold. He did at least see about super-tax and things … and I can’t bear Mr Truscott, he’s so blunt.’
‘Well, I’m going,’ said Mrs Lysaght, undeterred. ‘I shall ring her up now. Oh come on, Cora,’ catching girlishly at her hand, and just stopping herself from adding ‘be a sport’. ‘It’ll cheer us both up.’
‘Helen, I can’t. You know how I hate creepiness. I don’t know how you can suggest such a thing. All I wanted was … a little sympathy …’ She turned away, looking desolately around for her stole. She no longer wanted to go on pouring out her troubles to Helen.
Mrs Lysaght, seeing that the last drops were unforthcoming, lifted the two yards of ermine reverently from a chair-back and draped it about her. ‘I didn’t mean to be cross,’ Mrs Corbett added, ‘
but you must see how difficult it all is. Comes of marrying the wrong type of girl – all sorts of things crop up.’
‘There’s her father, too,’ said Mrs Lysaght, as they moved towards the door; she could not resist this sentence, which brought a fresh burst of alarm, tears, and lamentation before Mrs Corbett was packed into the Rolls and, waving weakly and mouthing promises to meet again soon, was driven away. Mrs Lysaght had not suggested prolonging the visit; she was already moving, in spirit, towards further pleasures.
She had come down to the car with her friend. She returned to her flat with light and purposeful step. The news had stimulated her and lifted her spirits, as well as giving her the perfect excuse (one almost coloured by duty) for telephoning Mrs Pearson.
Mrs Pearson lay looking out at the summer weather. The splendour of the morning had soothed even her wearing anxiety about Peggy. She could see a few feet of sky, its vivid blue delicately tempered by the net across the windows, and the chimneys on the roof of the house opposite, glowing in the sun’s rays to wallflower-red. Her mind was empty; her soul dreamt; only her heart carried its burden, and that seemed remote this morning; her heart was numb.
She was thinking that a drive into the country would be nice – it was years since she had seen open fields – when the telephone bell in the hall rang. The faint insistent noise penetrated the shut door and her passive dreaming. She did not move but turned her eyes questioningly towards it, frowning.
It went on and on.
Erika must be still asleep. Resolved to ignore it, Mrs Pearson let her thoughts dwell on the child: she had been different since the death of Mr Fisher, giving up her excursions to buy stockings, or to meet a girl friend who knew plenty of boys, to be with Mrs Pearson; hardly leaving her room and sitting up with her all night. Her broken sleep had to be made up by late rising. She had bought flowers and taken them to the old man’s grave too, and she was more silent. At least, thought Mrs Pearson, turning her eyes again to the blue sky and the red chimneys, most of that worry with Tom about boys seems to have stopped. Not that I grudge her, it’s natural, but …
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