Doves of Venus

by Olivia Manning

  He said: ‘Would you like some fresh coffee? You can drink it while I ring round the hotels.’ He turned to the bar from where the girl was looking at them with distaste. She had heard what he said. She said sullenly: ‘We’re closing.’

  Petta was gazing at Quintin. It seemed to him she was drawing up from some inner source a sadness that filled her glance and weighed down her shoulders, hanging on her like a cloak. He felt trapped. This was neither the time nor the place for an argument with her: and it was too late to go elsewhere.

  He said: ‘I’ll get a taxi. You had better come back to my flat and I’ll telephone from there.’

  When they entered his flat, she looked restored. No doubt she thought she was home. Her manner regained its old vivacity. The lamp had been left on in his bedroom. She walked in there and, after glancing round it with an expert eye, gave him a grin. She picked up his comb. ‘Auburn,’ she said. ‘Has Gem Primrose dyed her hair?’

  Smiling coolly, he took the comb from her and said: ‘We’d better go into the sitting-room.’

  There she settled herself on the sofa. She said: ‘How prosperous it all looks after Chelsea. An Adam’s fireplace down in the hall; ruby carpet on the stairs.’ She looked about her. ‘You’ve brought all your painted satinwood here! I like your lime-green curtains. Sumptuous, aren’t they?’

  He said nothing.

  Now she was safely in out of the dark, she was rapidly coming to life. She gave him a smile that would have left a stranger helpless. It roused no response in him. He observed her critically. For years she had looked much younger than her age; now the mask of her youth was fading. She behaved as though unaware of this. She said: ‘Darling, give me a drink,’ and kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the cushions. She curled her toes inside her transparent stockings, laughed and said: ‘Cold,’ then, wrapping her coat round her, she settled into the sofa corner and smiled at him. She lifted her lashes seductively as though she were here for love.

  She had with her a lizard-skin-covered box with golden clasps. She opened it and took from among the gold-topped bottles a box that had once held five hundred cigarettes. When she started smoking her movements became cramped as though she lit and inhaled her cigarette with difficulty.

  He handed her a glass of gin. ‘You know you can’t stay here.’

  ‘But, darling, I could sleep on this sofa.’ She stretched into the cushions. ‘I could sleep here for ever, for ever, for ever.’

  ‘No doubt. I prefer to be alone here. I too have a private life.’

  ‘Darling!’ she laughed at him as though that were some sort of joke. She stretched out her hand to him, still making all her little movements of charm, perhaps knowing they had no effect upon him, yet pretending to herself they were irresistible. She said: ‘You never asked me for a divorce. Didn’t you want to marry Gem?’

  ‘She didn’t want to marry me. She has always been quite satisfied with Berthold.’

  ‘You mean, Berthold is richer than you.’

  ‘I mean, Gem and I understood one another. She said from the first: “I know what you’re after, and it isn’t marriage”.’

  Petta made a gesture of distaste: ‘A vulgar beginning!’

  ‘But a propitious one. We knew we were two of a kind.’

  ‘Indeed! Clever Gem! She was to get you by being the one who did not want you. Yet not so clever after all. It didn’t work. And there’s no retreating from a line like that.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’ Already he was irritated by her. His natural good humour always went to pieces in her company. He said: ‘Gem and I are still friends.’

  Petta laughed: ‘Serve her right.’

  ‘You flatter me; but the implications of your remarks have no basis in fact. Gem is an intelligent and capable woman, an independent career woman, and fond of her husband. The question of my getting my freedom never arose.’

  ‘After all,’ said Petta, ‘there are disadvantages in freedom. It leaves you open to remarriage.’

  ‘There are disadvantages in everything,’ he said more bitterly than he had intended. He moved about the room, unwilling to give her, by sitting down, excuse to stay longer. He said: ‘I’ll ring Worple’s in Clarges Street. I know the clerk there. He’ll find you a room.’

  At once her front broke down. ‘Oh, no—’ her eyes filled with tears – ‘Quintin, darling! I just can’t set out again tonight. I’m too tired. And a bleak hotel bedroom, now, when I’m so depressed about things! Please! Don’t send me away! Just give me a blanket and let me sleep here. I promise I’ll go in the morning.’

  Exhausted, knowing himself defeated, he dropped into a chair and told himself defeat had resulted less from Petta’s appeals than from the lateness of the hour. If he did find her a room – and it would not be easy – he would have to escort her to the hotel: and she was quite capable of crying or making a scene in front of the reception clerk.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You will go in the morning. That’s a promise,’ as though her promises meant anything.

  ‘Yes, darling. I will. I will.’ Her face was strained with her desire to convince him. Her hand lying along the sofa back twitched nervously. It looked the hand of an invalid. It caught him, in spite of himself, into a painful pity of her. This must have been visible on his face, for at once she turned on him her gentlest smile and said: ‘Had you been willing to take our marriage seriously, it would have meant everything to me. I would have been thankful for a stable emotion in my life.’

  ‘Really! You expect me to believe that?’

  He never had believed it, and he would not be induced to believe it now. When she was married to her first husband, she had racketed around with anyone who came along. She had gone off with him, Quintin, on a violent sex spree (he could think of no better term for it) without any preliminaries – and then, giving no warning, she had turned up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, saying: ‘I want only you. I’ve come to you. I know you won’t send me away.’

  He became increasingly angry at the memory of it. He had tried to reason with her: ‘Petta, this is ridiculous. You must go back to Henry at once. You can’t leave a young child like Flora. You can’t just abandon your home like this.’

  She said: ‘I had to get away from them. I was so bored.’

  ‘I shall ring Henry and ask him to come and fetch you.’

  At that, she had started screaming: ‘No, no, no! If you send me away I shall kill myself. I mean it. I shall. I shall!’

  He had not known her then as he did now. In the end she was triumphant, but he had never ceased to resent the fact that marriage, a state he had long avoided, should be so forced upon him. And now the same trick (a trick that had probably been played on Theo) was being played on him again! He could scarcely speak for anger. Some moments passed before he was able to ask her:

  ‘What caused the break-up with Theo?’

  ‘Oh!’ She dropped her hand and a weight of gold bracelets fell from her coat sleeve to her wrist. ‘He behaved abominably. You know I haven’t seen Flora for ages! I wanted to take her there for Christmas. Theo wouldn’t hear of it. Said he hated young people. Wouldn’t have one around.’

  ‘But you know Henry wouldn’t let you take Flora to Theo’s flat.’

  ‘How would he know where I was taking her? I’ve a right to see her sometime. I intended telling him we were going to the country, or something.’

  As though she could deceive Henry any longer! Quintin smiled wearily. And why had she suddenly decided she must see Flora? A whim, an excuse for a row, for bringing another wretched relationship to a conclusion!

  Watching his face, she said: ‘The truth was, I wanted to come back to you. I would never have left had you behaved just a little better.’

  ‘I had no intention of behaving “better”, as you put it. I never shall behave better, so please have no illusions about it. A person who is blackmailed into marriage cannot be expected to take marriage seriously. You are being absurd.�
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  ‘But why? I loved you. Someone must take something seriously some time, or nothing means anything.’

  She smiled as though it had been an encounter of wits and she had got the better of it. He turned away from her. She said: ‘How have you managed alone here in this little flat?’

  ‘Well enough. There’s Mrs Trimmer in the basement. Alma Wheeldon lives just down the road. She’d probably look after me if I needed looking after.’

  ‘Poor Alma! I hear she’s become a widow.’ Petta put out her hand to him again: ‘Quintin! Do believe me when I say you are the only one who has meant anything to me.’

  He did not believe it. He did not want to believe it. He had no intention of believing it. He had had enough of the whole business. He said: ‘I’ll make up the bed for you in my dressing-room.’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here.’ She closed her eyes and at once seemed to be asleep. He had often seen her collapse in this way after emotional outbursts. He felt too tired to argue with her. He went to the airing-cupboard for blankets.

  While he was out of the room she had roused herself and taken her sleeping-tablets from the case. As he entered she whispered: ‘A glass of water, darling!’

  ‘You won’t need tablets tonight.’

  ‘Yes, I must take them. You see, I may not sleep – and being afraid of not sleeping keeps me awake.’

  He gave her the blankets and fetched the water. As he said Good-night, she lifted her face to him. He ignored the movement, but asked suddenly:

  ‘Why did you choose Westminster Bridge?’

  For a moment she had no reply, then she said mildly: ‘It has a low parapet.’

  The answer seemed absurd to him and yet, he realised, it was reasonable enough. Perhaps, after all, he was wrong in thinking she had contrived the whole thing. Although more intelligent than most women – which did not mean much – she was capable of great silliness. At their first meeting he had found her mysterious. He had said to her (as he often said to women): ‘You are a mystery; a delicious mystery.’ In propinquity her mystery seemed merely the darkness of the void. He concluded she had no character at all. Her actions were as purposeless as the actions of a branch caught up in a gale.

  One day she wanted him, the next she wanted Theo, then some other man. After years of neglecting the child, she had suddenly decided she must have Flora to stay with Theo. That was typical of her – and these whims could lead her to violent action, to rages, to attempted suicides, to bouts of despair; all meaningless.

  Himself, he was a peaceful man. How could he be expected to live with a storm-tossed cipher? He knew that at the moment he was being weak with her, but not without reason. A branch flung about by the wind could blind a human being and shatter a life. He was a sensitive man. He was capable of suffering. He had no intention of provoking an action that might cost him years of remorse.

  The truth was, she had once frightened him badly. Before that he had treated her threats of suicide as a joke. She had acted suddenly, without any warning, over some wretched girl in a dress-shop who had meant nothing to him.

  They had been walking down Piccadilly to Gem Primrose’s sherry party. The dress-shop girl had been scarcely mentioned for days. They had, in fact, walked for two hundred yards without speaking, when Petta said: ‘I can stand no more of it,’ and stepped off the pavement in front of a speeding bus. In the second before the bus could strike her, he pulled her back. She had been pale, but he had been much more disturbed than she. Indeed, her calm had seemed to him abnormal. As she gazed after the bus, showing no emotion, she said: ‘I might have been dead by now.’

  ‘Then let that be a lesson to you,’ he said and, overriding his repulsion from her extravagant behaviour, he caught her arm and led her towards the Rivoli. She looked at him with an expression of contempt and sadness, and said: ‘You are rather a stupid man, Quintin. Kind enough in your way, but stupid. You look intelligent, even perceptive, but you’re nothing of the kind. You’re nothing but the homme moyen et sensuel.’

  ‘A very good thing to be,’ he said with mock heartiness. He ordered a couple of double brandies. Apparently he needed a drink more than she did, for she barely sipped hers. In the end he drank both of them. Seated in a corner, her pale flower-pretty face enhanced by her pretty hat, she watched him with an ill-fitting gravity. Her look disconcerted him. He did not know what to say when she said: ‘Death is no retaliation, is it? How could one get at you?’

  Her hand lay limp on the table. He covered it with his own hand and at once her calm had collapsed. She looked as though she might burst into tears: instead she caught at his hand and held it fiercely. She seemed unable to speak for some moments, then she whispered: ‘Quintin, please, no more girls in dress-shops!’

  He agreed at once: ‘No more girls of any sort,’ for his interest was centred then on Gem Primrose, a mature woman, not to be taken lightly in any way. It was because of Gem that Petta went off with Theo.

  The next morning Quintin awoke to the sound of Petta’s laughter in the next room. She was charming Mrs Trimmer, making an ally of the woman, resolved no doubt to stay here until she found herself a new Theo.

  Quintin, his will restored by sleep, told himself that would not happen.

  Mrs Trimmer brought in his breakfast tray. He could see she was bursting to speak of Mrs Bellot. He gave her some orders for the day but made no mention of his wife.

  ‘Isn’t madam staying?’ Mrs Trimmer asked.

  ‘No.’

  When he had eaten and put the tray aside, he lay for some time considering how best to deal with the situation. Because of his distrust of himself, he felt his wisest move would be to tell her he was going out to keep some engagement. He would expect her to be gone when he returned. He must arrange a genuine engagement: he could not trust his resolution if his statement were not backed by truth. How could he best engage himself?

  It was Christmas Eve, nearly mid-day, so he could make no business arrangement. Then he remembered Ellie and her departure for Eastsea. He rang her at once.

  He bathed and dressed and entered the sitting-room, to find Petta still on the sofa. Sleep had restored her too. Although she had slept all night in her clothes, she had still the elegance that was her one creative gift. However she lived, her appearance was always exquisite.

  At the sight of him she smiled and stretched herself. ‘I slept so well, and your Mrs Trimmer makes delicious coffee.’ She tucked in her feet and said: ‘Come and sit beside me.’

  He sat in the chair opposite. ‘I have soon to go out,’ he said, ‘but first we must arrange things for you. Where are you thinking of going when you leave here?’

  She shook her head: ‘I don’t know.’ She spoke sadly, looking at him with wide, uncertain eyes. She had made up her face with her usual subtlety. Observing the delicate rose and white of her lips and skin, the film of blue-mauve shadowing her eyes, each colour exactly toned to the ash-fairness of her hair, he thought how few of the women he had known understood this art as she did. Her beauty could still move him. He looked away.

  She said: ‘Perhaps one of those service flats behind Knightsbridge? But surely I haven’t to go at once? You will let me take a bath?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t be silly. Go and have one while I ring up the flats.’

  He went to the telephone, but she did not move from the sofa. He arranged her bookings. ‘There!’ he said. ‘You can take a taxi round as soon as you’re ready. I have to go out, so I’ll say good-bye.’

  She broke in protestingly: ‘Oh no. Surely you haven’t to go just yet. Do sit down again and talk.’ As he did not sit down, she pleaded: ‘Quintin! Darling!’

  He looked at his watch. Thank goodness he really had an appointment. He said firmly: ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I must go. I’m seeing a friend off at Victoria.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘Oh!’ She raised her eyebrows and tried to give a small amused twist to her mouth, keeping up a show of vivacity
, but he could see desolation come down on her like a weight on her shoulders. She glanced about her with a frightened and defenceless air, like someone lost in the world.

  She said: ‘It’s Christmas, of course. I’d forgotten. We used to have a lot of fun at Christmas when I was a child.’ Her lower lip shook and she pressed her teeth against it. After a pause, she said: ‘Are you going away?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Trimmer wants a holiday. I’m going to my club. There will be no one here, so, in any case, there could be no question of your staying.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ she assured him, tears welling in her eyes. She added quickly, as though speaking before her voice could break: ‘I’ll have a bath now. I promise I’ll be gone before you return.’ She nodded to him, smiling, but not hiding her desolation that was, he supposed, genuine enough. No doubt all her emotions were genuine, but her moods were so contradictory, each denied the other. He found it better to believe in none of them.

  She went into the bathroom. As he put on his overcoat in the hall, she came out again: she had forgotten her case. In the time she had been alone, she had started crying. Her nostrils were pink, her mouth hung trembling like a baby’s, she was dabbing at her eyes. He took up his hat and gloves, appearing to notice nothing. He must hurry. Exposed to the emptiness of the flat, she would fly like a bat exposed to light. He imagined she’d find some sort of companionship, somewhere.

  He called ‘Good-bye,’ and was gone.

  3

  Ellie was packing her suitcase when the telephone rang down in the hall. She had nothing to hope for. She and Quintin had said their good-byes, yet from habit she followed the sound of Mrs Mackie’s feet trudging up to the first floor, then to the second . . . She was coming to the top! She knocked on Ellie’s door.

  ‘Telephone,’ she shouted.

  ‘Oh, who is it?’ Ellie asked, wanting her to say, as she sometimes did: ‘It’s a gentleman.’ Instead she muttered blackly: ‘How should I know?’ Passing her, Ellie sped downstairs.