Mary Parrish took out the photograph and held it in her chilly gloved hand.
The black angry eye glared up at them.
“Tear it up,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“Why not? What’s the use of keeping the beastly thing?”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” she said seriously, returning it to her handbag.
“Oh, fair” he said bitterly, with an impatient shrug.
They moved off side by side to the bus stop where they would catch a bus back to their hotel. Their feet crunched sharply on the hard earth. The stillness, save for the small shouts of the men at work on the half-finished building, save for the breathing noise of the machine, was absolute. And this queue of people waited like the other across the square, waited eternally, huddled up, silent, patient, under the snow; listening to the silence, under which seemed to throb from the depths of the earth the memory of the sound of marching feet, of heavy, black-booted, marching feet.
The Other Woman
Rose’s mother was killed one morning crossing the street to do her shopping. Rose was fetched from work, and a young policeman, awkward with sympathy, asked questions and finally said: “You ought to tell your dad, miss, he ought to know.” It had struck him as strange that she had not suggested it, but behaved as if the responsibility for everything must of course be hers. He thought Rose was too composed to be natural. Her mouth was set and there was a strained look in her eyes. He insisted; Rose sent a message to her father; but when he came she put him straight into bed with a cup of tea. Mr. Johnson was a plump, fair little man, with wisps of light hair lying over a rosy scalp, and blue, candid, trustful eyes. Then she came back to the kitchen and her manner told the policeman that she expected him to leave. From the door he said diffidently: “Well, I’m sorry, miss, I’m real sorry. A terrible thing—you can’t rightly blame the lorry-driver, and your mum—it wasn’t her fault either.” Rose turned her white, shaken face, her cold and glittering eyes towards him and said tartly: “Being sorry doesn’t mend broken bones.” That last phrase seemed to take her by surprise, for she winced, her face worked in a rush of tears, and then she clenched her jaw again. “Them lorries,” she said heavily, “them machines, they ought to be stopped, that’s what I think.” This irrational remark encouraged the policeman: it was nearer to the tears, the emotion that he thought would be good for her. He remarked encouragingly: “I daresay, miss, but we couldn’t do without them, could we now?” Rose’s face did not change. She said politely: “Yes?” It was sceptical and dismissing; that monosyllable said finally: You keep your opinions, I’ll keep mine. It examined and dismissed the whole machine age. The young policeman, still lingering over his duty, suggested: “Isn’t there anybody to come and sit with you? You don’t look too good, miss, and that’s a fact.”
“There isn’t anybody,” said Rose briefly, and added: “I’m all right.” She sounded irritated, and so he left. She sat down at the table and she was shocked at herself for what she had said. She thought: I ought to tell George…. But she did not move. She stared vaguely around the kitchen, her mind dimly churning around several ideas. One was that her father had taken it hard, she would have her hands full with him. Another, that policeman, officials—they were all nosey-parkers, knowing what was best for everybody. She found herself staring at a certain picture on the wall, and thinking: Now I can take that picture down. Now she’s gone I can do what I like. She felt a little guilty, but almost at once she briskly rose and took the picture down. It was of a battleship in a stormy sea, and she hated it. She put it away in a cupboard. Then the white empty square on the wall troubled her, and she replaced it by a calendar with yellow roses on it. Then she made herself a cup of tea and began cooking her father’s supper, thinking: I’ll wake him up and make him eat, do him good to have a bite of something hot.
At supper her father asked: “Where’s George?” Her face closed against him in irritation and she said: “I don’t know.” He was surprised and shocked, and he protested: “But Rosie, you ought to tell him, it’s only right.” Now, it was against this knowledge that she had been arming herself all day; but she knew that sooner or later she must tell George, and when she had finished the washing-up she took a sheet of writing paper from the drawer of her dresser and sat down to write. She was as surprised at herself as her father was: Why didn’t she want to tell George? Her father said, with the characteristic gentle protest: “But Rosie, why don’t you give him a ring at the factory? They’d give him the message.” Rose made as if she had not heard. She finished the letter, found some coppers in her bag for a stamp, and went out to post it. Afterwards she found herself thinking of George’s arrival with reluctance that deserved the name of fear. She could not understand herself, and soon went to bed in order to lose herself in sleep. She dreamed of the lorry that had killed her mother; she dreamed, too, of an enormous black machine, relentlessly moving its great arms back and forth, back and forth, in a way that was menacing to Rose.
George found the letter when he returned from work the following evening. His first thought was: Why couldn’t she have got killed next week, after we were married, instead of now? He was shocked at the cruel selfish idea. But he and Rose had been going together now for three years, and he could not help feeling that it was cruel fate to cloud their wedding with this terrible, senseless death. He had not liked Rose’s mother: he thought her a fussy and domineering woman; but to be killed like that, all of a sudden, in her vigorous fifties—He thought suddenly: Poor little Rosie, she’ll be upset bad, and there’s her dad, he’s just like a big baby; I’d better get to her quick. He was putting the letter in his pocket when it struck him: Why did she write? Why didn’t she telephone to the works? He looked at the letter and saw that Mrs. Johnson had been killed as long ago as yesterday morning. At first he was too astonished to be angry; then he was extraordinarily angry. “What!” he muttered, “why the hell—what’s she doing?” He was a member of the family, wasn’t he?—or as good as. And she wrote him stiff little letters, beginning Dear George, and ending Rose—no love, not even a sincerely. But underneath the anger he was deeply dismayed. He was remembering that there had been a listlessness, an apathy about her recently that could almost be taken as indifference. For instance, when he took her to see the two rooms that would be their home she made all kinds of objections instead of being as delighted as he was. “Look at all those stairs,” she had said, “it’s so high up,” and so on. You might almost think she wasn’t keen on marrying him—but this idea was unsupportable, and he abandoned it quickly. He remembered that at the beginning, three years ago, she had pleaded for them to marry at once; she didn’t mind taking a chance, she had said; lots of people got married on less money than they had. But he was a cautious man and had talked her into waiting for some kind of security. That’s where he made his mistake; he decided now he should have taken her at a word and married her straight off, and then … He hastened across London to comfort Rose; and all the time his thoughts of her were uneasy and aggrieved; and he felt as anxious as a lost child.
When he entered the kitchen it was with no clear idea of what to expect; but he was surprised to find her seated at her usual place at the table, her hands folded before her, pale, heavy-lidded, but quite composed. The kitchen was spotless and there was a smell of soapsuds and clean warmth. Evidently the place had just been given a good scrub.
Rose turned heavy eyes on him and said: “It was good of you to come over, George.”
He had been going to give her a comforting kiss, but this took him by surprise. His feeling of outrage deepened. “Hey,” he said, accusingly. “What’s all this, Rosie, why didn’t you let me know?”
She looked upset, but said evasively: “It was all over so quickly, and they took her away—there didn’t seem no point in getting you disturbed too.”
George pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. He had thought that there was nothing new to learn about Rose, after three years. But now he
was giving her troubled and apprehensive glances; she seemed a stranger. In appearance she was small and dark, rather too thin. She had a sharp, pale face, with irregular prettiness about it. She usually wore a dark skirt and a white blouse. She would sit up at night to wash and iron the blouse so that it would always be fresh. This freshness, the neatness, was her strongest characteristic. “You look as if you could be pulled through a hedge backwards and come out with every hair in order,” he used to tease her. To which she might reply: “Don’t make me laugh. How could I?” She would be quite serious; and at such moments he might sigh, humorously, admitting that she had no sense of humour. But really he liked her seriousness, her calm practicality; he relied on it. Now he said, rather helplessly: “Don’t take on, Rosie, everything’s all right.”
“I’m not taking on,” she replied unnecessarily, looking quietly at him or, rather, through him, with an air of patient waiting. He was now more apprehensive than angry. “How’s your dad?” he asked.
“I’ve put him to bed with a nice cup of tea.”
“How’s he taking it?”
She seemed to shrug. “Well, he’s upset, but he’s getting over it now.”
And now for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say. The clock’s ticking seemed very loud, and he shifted his feet noisily. After a long silence he said aggressively: “This won’t make any difference to us; it’ll be all right next week, Rosie?”
He knew that it wasn’t all right when, after a further pause, she turned her eyes towards him with a full, dark, vague stare: “Oh well, I don’t know….”
“What do you mean?” he challenged quickly, leaning across at her, forcibly, so that she might be made to respond: “What do you mean, Rosie, let us have it now.”
“Well—there’s Dad,” she replied, with that maddening vagueness.
“You mean we shan’t get married?” he shouted angrily. “Three years, Rosie …” As her silence persisted: “Your dad can live with us. Or—he might get married again—or something.”
Suddenly she laughed, and he winced: her moments of rough humour always disconcerted him. At the same time they pained him because they seemed brutal. “You mean to say,” she said, clumsily jeering, “you mean you hope he gets married again, even if no one else’d ever think of it.” But her eyes were filled with tears. They were lonely and self-sufficing tears. He slowly fell back into his chair, letting his hands drop loosely. He simply could not understand it. He could not understand her. It flashed into his mind that she intended not to marry him at all, but this was too monstrous a thought, and he comforted himself: She’ll be all right tomorrow, it’s the shock, that’s all. She liked her ma, really, even though they scrapped like two cats. He was just going to say: “Well, if I can’t do anything I’ll be getting along; I’ll come and see you tomorrow,” when she asked him carefully, as if it were an immense effort for her to force her attention on to him: “Would you like a cuppa tea?”
“Rose!” he shouted miserably.
“What?” She sounded unhappy but stubborn; and she was unreachable, shut off from him behind a barrier of—what? He did not know. “Oh, go to hell then,” he muttered, and got up and stamped out of the kitchen. At the door he gave her an appealing glance, but she was not looking at him. He slammed the door hard. Afterwards he thought guiltily: She’s upset, and then I treat her bad.
But Rose did not think of him when he had gone. She remained where she was for some time, looking vaguely at the calendar with the yellow roses. Then she got up, washed her hands, hung her apron on the hook behind the door, as usual, and went to bed. “That’s over,” she said to herself, meaning George. She began to cry. She knew she would not marry him—rather, could not marry him. She did not know why this was impossible or why she was crying: she could not understand her own behaviour. Up till so few hours before she had been going to marry George, live with him in the little flat: everything was settled. Yet, from the moment she had heard the shocked voices saying outside in the street: “Mrs. Johnson’s dead, she’s been killed”—from that moment, or so it seemed now, it had become impossible to marry George. One day he had meant everything to her, he represented her future, and the next, he meant nothing. The knowledge was shocking to her; above all she prided herself on being a sensible person; the greatest praise she could offer was: “You’ve got sense,” or “I like people to behave proper, no messing about.” And what she felt was not sensible, therefore, she could not think too closely about. She cried for a long time, stifling her sobs so that her father could not hear them where he lay through the wall. Then she lay awake and stared at the square of light that showed chimney-pots and the dissolving yellowish clouds of a rainy London dawn, scolding herself scornfully: What’s the good of crying? while she mopped up the tears that rose steadily under her lids and soaked down her cheeks to the already damp pillow.
Next morning when her father asked over breakfast cups: “Rosie, what are you going to do about George?” she replied calmly, “It’s all right, he came last night and I told him.”
“You told him what?” He spoke cautiously. His round, fresh face looked troubled, the clear, rather childlike blue eyes were not altogether approving. His workmates knew him as a jaunty, humorous man with a warm, quick laugh and ingrained opinions about life and politics. In his home he was easy and uncritical. He had been married for twenty-five years to a woman who had outwardly let him do as he pleased while taking all the responsibility on herself. He knew this. He used to say of his wife: “Once she’s got an idea into her head you might as well whistle at a wall!” And now he was looking at his daughter as he had at the mother. He did not know what she had planned, but he knew nothing he said would make any difference.
“Everything’s all right, Dad,” Rosie said quietly.
I daresay, he thought; but what’s it all about? He asked: “You don’t have to get ideas into your head about not getting married. I’m easy.” Without looking at him she filled his cup with the strong, brown, sweet tea he loved, and said again: “It’s all right.” He persisted: “You don’t want to make any mistakes now, Rosie, you’re upset, and you want to give yourself time to have a good think about things.”
To this there was no reply at all. He sighed and took his newspaper to the fire. It was Sunday. Rose was cooking the dinner when George came in. Jem, the father, turned his back on the couple, having nodded at George, thus indicating that as far as he was concerned they were alone. He was thinking: George’s a good bloke, she’s a fool if she gives him up.
“Well, Rosie?” said George, challengingly, the misery of the sleepless night bursting out of him.
“Well, what?” temporised Rose, wiping dishes. She kept her head lowered and her face was pale and set hard. Confronted thus, with George’s unhappiness, her decision did not seem so secure. She wanted to cry. She could not afford to cry now, in front of him. She went to the window so that her back might be turned to him. It was a deep basement, and she looked up at the rubbish-can and railings showing dirty black against the damp, grey houses opposite. This had been her view of the world since she could remember. She heard George saying, uncertainly: “You marry me on Wednesday, the way we fixed it, and your dad’ll be all right; he can stay here or live with us, just as you like.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rose after a pause.
“But why, Rosie, why?”
Silence. “I don’t know,” she muttered. She sounded obstinate but unhappy. Grasping this moment of weakness in her, he laid his hand on her shoulder and appealed: “Rosie girl, you’re upset, that’s all it is.” But she tensed her shoulder against him and then, since his hand remained there, jerked herself away and said angrily: “I’m sorry. It’s no good. I keep telling you.”
“Three years,” he said slowly, looking at her in amazed anger. “Three years! And now you throw me over.”
She did not reply at once. She could see the monstrousness of what she was doing and could not help herself. She had loved him then. Now h
e exasperated her. “I’m not throwing you over,” she said defensively.
“So you’re not!” he shouted in derision, his face clenched in pain and rage. “What are you doing then?”
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly.
He stared at her, suddenly swore under his breath and went to the door: I’m not coming back,” he said, “you’re just playing the fool with me, Rosie. You shouldn’t’ve treated me like this. No one’d stand for it, and I’m not going to.” There was no sound from Rose, and so he went out.
Jem slowly let down the paper and remarked: “You want to think what you’re doing, Rosie.”
She did not reply. The tears were pouring down her face, but she wiped them impatiently away and bent to the oven. Later that day Jem watched her secretly over the top of the paper. There was a towel-rail beside the dresser. She was unscrewing it and moving it to a different position. She rolled the dresser itself into the opposite corner and then shifted various ornaments on the mantelpiece. Jem remembered that over each of these things she had bickered with her mother: the women could not agree about where the dresser would stand best, or the height of the towel-rail. So now Rose was having her own way, thought Jem, amazed at the sight of his daughter’s quiet but determined face. The moment her mother was dead she moved everything to suit herself…. Later she made tea and sat down opposite him, in her mother’s chair. Women, thought Jem, half-humorous, half-shocked at the persistence of the thing. And she was throwing over a nice, decent chap just because of—what? At last he struggled and accepted it; he knew she would have her way. Also, at the bottom of his heart, he was pleased. He would never have put any pressure on her to give up marriage, but he was glad that he did not have to move, that he could stay in his old ways without disturbance. She’s still young, he comforted himself; there’s plenty of time for her to marry.
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