Doves of Venus

by Olivia Manning

  She returned to the house with her shoes wet, her fingers icy.

  When Tom came down for luncheon, he seemed to have forgotten Ellie’s storm of tears. His manner was abstracted. She felt he had taken a step away from her: no more than a step, but it was enough. Were she to try and move closer to him, she would find the step was a gulf.

  He talked much as usual at table, but his manner was without warmth. He might have been talking to an older person whom he did not much like. The food and wine were as good as ever, but there was no pretence that they had been specially ordered for Ellie’s delectation.

  She accepted this situation humbly. She was conscious of her guilt. What was worse, it came to her that she had, in some way, betrayed not only herself but the other girls.

  She said: ‘I know you’re disappointed in me, but you mustn’t think that Nancy has ever done anything wrong.’

  He replied with a contemptuous lack of interest: ‘What do I care about Nancy? She’s just an old maid.’

  ‘But she isn’t . . .’ Ellie’s defence started with fervour, then stopped uncertainly – ‘at least, I think . . .’

  ‘My dear child, I little care what Nancy is or is not.’ Tom, impatient of the subject, lifted his head and looked from the window: ‘The rain has stopped. We might take a stroll.’

  When they went out, Tom led Ellie through the front gate. They walked a long way between bare fields in a rutted lane where the puddles reflected the grey cold of the sky.

  Tom made a few cross comments on the shortcomings of local farmers, but most of the time he was silent. At the end of the lane they came out on the by-pass. They walked uncomfortably on the verge, beset by the smell and uproar of Sunday traffic. Why, she wondered, had Tom brought her here when they might have walked comfortably in his own garden? She supposed it was the intimate quiet of the garden or his own fireside that Tom wished to avoid. He wanted no more confidences, no more tears, nothing more of that matter that had ended their pleasant relationship. He wished her to know the whole thing bored him.

  A few hundred yards down the by-pass they turned into another lane that would lead them back to Clopals. There they were approached by a family; a down-at-heel couple with four children. The father was carrying one child, not cradled as a woman would, but spread-eagled against himself, its head hanging in sleep. The woman, holding a second in the crook of her arm, pushed a third in a wheel-chair that also held a bundle of clothes. The fourth stumbled along at her heels. The whole family had the feckless, slipshod look of the incurably poor.

  The man stepped in front of Tom, touched his hat, and at once launched upon his story. He was a farm-labourer who had been evicted from his cottage when he lost his job. To avoid being separated by the local authorities, the family had set out to walk into Buckinghamshire, where, it was rumoured, there were jobs with tied cottages. If the jobs had ever existed, the family had arrived too late.

  Before the man could finish, Tom paid up. Ellie did not see what he gave, for it was covertly handed over, but the family moved aside to let them pass and the husband and wife spoke their thanks after them as they went.

  Ellie said: ‘You are kind.’ Tom made no comment.

  Soon after she had arrived, Tom had mentioned that early on Monday morning he was driving into London: he would take Ellie with him. Now she was not certain whether this offer held. During tea, she said nervously: ‘Perhaps I should catch the train?’

  ‘And why, pray?’

  ‘You might not want me to drive to London with you now.’

  ‘Don’t be childish.’

  Tom went to bed directly after dinner. Ellie went soon after from lack of anything better to do.

  On the early drive to London, he sat at some distance from her on the wide, thickly upholstered back seat of the car. He displayed a certain self-conscious hauteur, but whether in reproof of her or in anticipation of his London visit, she could not tell. She knew she would never be invited to Clopals again. She felt a deep sadness that this friendship, so hopefully begun, was lost like everything else. Because of her long period of stress, she was heavy-headed and sleepy. When Tom lit a cigar, the scent of it made her feel sick. She thought she would be glad to sleep and never wake again, but she knew she would live. She told herself: ‘At least, nothing worse can happen to me.’

  Once or twice on the journey Tom glanced askance at her, then he said: ‘I know you girls want to look pr’hy, but I think, don’t you know, it’s a pity to colour yourself up.’

  At this Ellie’s spirit raised its head. She said: ‘If you mean my hair, it’s naturally this colour.’

  Tom gave it a glance of disbelief: ‘Then it’s most remarkable hair,’ he said.

  She felt she could spare herself protest. Tom would believe anything against her now. It was all part of her downfall.

  Tom ordered Partridge to drive straight to Primrose’s. When he dropped Ellie, he did not leave the car or kiss her forehead, or make any of his small gestures of affection. When she looked back to thank him, he did not lean towards her or smile: he gave, merely, a lift of the hand that held his cigar butt, then glanced away, intent on more important matters.

  When she reached her room that evening, Ellie found a note written to her by Mrs Mackie: ‘Your mother rang up. Said she was disappointed. Said she wants to hear from you.’

  The guilt Tom had roused in her was nothing to the guilt Ellie felt now. She knew she had treated her mother abominably. She was stung by her own ingratitude. She wanted to write: ‘Forgive me. I love you, but . . .’ But what? ‘But you do not understand?’ Of course her mother would not understand. No explanation that Ellie could give would be an acceptable explanation. She did not know what to write. She delayed until it was too late to write at all. Mrs Parsons, hurt, no doubt, and indignant, did not write to her. For three months there was silence between them.

  4

  Quintin, arrived that morning by air from Zurich, was a prisoner in his club. He had come to England with the intention of making a settlement of his affairs so that he could, without worry, stay indefinitely in Switzerland. He had made an appointment with his solicitor and was about to order a taxi when he was told a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone. Had she given her name? Yes: a Mrs Valance. Quintin knew no one called Valance. It might be some member of the solicitor’s staff. When he spoke into the receiver, Petta replied: ‘Darling!’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I got it out of Verney. Don’t blame him.’

  ‘I do blame him.’

  ‘I went to see him, to find out where you were. Your telegram was on his desk.’

  ‘And why “Mrs Valance”, may I ask?’

  ‘Would you have come to the phone if I’d said “Mrs Bellot”? Quintin darling, I must see you.’

  ‘You certainly won’t see me.’

  ‘It’s imperative. Just for a few minutes. My situation is impossible.’

  ‘I intend to regularise it. I’m seeing Verney today to arrange, among others things, our divorce.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You have no grounds.’

  ‘I have all the evidence I want. You lived openly with Theo.’

  ‘My dear, I’ve lived with you again since then. That cancels out Theo. And you deserted me! I have your letter . . .’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘I don’t think so. What’s more, you’re living with Alma.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not. We’re being pretty careful about that. You’ll get no evidence against me.’

  ‘Verney will put you right, darling. You haven’t a leg to stand on. You’ve missed your chance . . .’

  ‘Very well,’ Quintin broke in angrily. ‘You can divorce me.’

  ‘But I don’t want to. I shall never divorce you.’

  ‘Petta, be reasonable.’

  ‘I’m not reasonable. You’ve often told me I’m not. Why should I be more reasonable on your behalf than I’ve ever been on my own? I don’t wa
nt to lose you, sweetheart. What I want more than anything is to come back to you. We must meet. You’re going to Verney’s. I’ll see you there.’

  She put down the receiver before he could protest. At once he rang and arranged for Verney to come that afternoon to the club: then he told the porter he would take no more calls and see no one except the solicitor.

  He was still hopeful that the evidence he held against Petta would enable him to divorce her, yet he had been disturbed by her confidence. He had never before gone into the question of divorce. Petta might, for once, know what she was talking about. It was possible she would again get the better of him.

  He took a seat in the large window overlooking Green Park and spent the morning there, on view but out of reach, half-hoping to see Petta attempt an entry. By midday he had seen nothing of her, but he did see Tom Claypole’s arrival. Both himself and Claypole appeared infrequently in the club and this was the first time they had chosen to come on the same day.

  Claypole struggled out from the plump, enveloping seat of the car, using heels and elbows with the activity of an old man who will not accept assistance. Though he was sunburnt and held himself tautly, his appearance had aged ten years since Alma’s dinner-party. He was raddled and thin with the thinness of the old.

  Quintin felt a momentary compassion for him, then forgot him until he saw the old fellow coming across the room. Tom made straight for the two arm-chairs in the window alcove, smiling towards Quintin with a sort of conspiratorial pleasure.

  Quintin did not much mind. At that moment, anyone would serve to take his mind off things. He rose with an appearance of delight that was partly genuine, and said: ‘I haven’t seen you for a long time.’

  ‘No. I had a little “turn” in the spring. Nothing much, but it made me feel a bit cheap. I’ve just had a spell on the Riviera. Done me good. I’ve picked up wonderfully. In the pink, in fact. I thought I’d just have a few days’ relaxation in town.’

  ‘Relaxation, eh?’ Quintin smiled the sort of smile he felt was expected of him.

  Claypole protested pleasurably: ‘Dear me, no, nothing like that. In fact I am in retreat from, not in search of, feminine frailty.’

  Quintin laughed aloud: ‘Then, my dear Claypole, we are fellow sufferers.’

  ‘Splendid. If you are free, let us console ourselves with a really excellent luncheon. You must be my guest. Yes, I insist. We can have another chat about those happy days at Chudleigh. What are you drinking?’

  Tom took the second arm-chair and ordered drinks. He settled himself comfortably, with the expectant look of a man prepared to do the talking.

  Usually when Quintin adjusted the appearance of entranced listener, he could not himself tell where entrancement ended and boredom began, but now, with this nagging doubt implanted by Petta, the entrancement soon fell away like a badly fitting mask. Behind it, he contemplated the possibility of never getting free of her.

  He was roused by Claypole’s tapping his knee: ‘Not a serious matter, eh? I mean your “bit of trouble” with the Fair Sex?’

  Quintin answered seriously: ‘My wife and I no longer live together. She refuses to give me a divorce. It is an impossible situation.’

  ‘My dear fellow!’ Tom looked concerned. There was no doubt all his sympathy was for Quintin and his look conveyed that he had not forgotten how difficult Petta had been during their one meeting.

  Quintin smiled and asked in a lighter tone: ‘And you?’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders: ‘A little disappointment. Shall we say – a little ideal fallen? Not important.’ He glanced reflectively aside, then started to laugh. ‘Women!’ he said. ‘I fear, had we to suffer their monstrous regiment, there would be complete moral anarchy.’

  Quintin gazed across at Tom, encouraging him to talk with an expression of sympathetic interest that gave his face a compelling charm. Tom, settling himself more deeply into his chair, had a look of contented relaxation, like one under hypnosis. The conversation seemed fixed upon feminine frailty. Tom, though he deviated to mention his Menton visit, almost immediately recalled a meeting he thought would amuse Quintin:

  ‘Once, in Nice, not so very long ago, I met a most charming young creature whose frailty, I may say, was of international repute. Her hotel bills had been paid by gentlemen of every nationality under the sun. After I had done my best – such a reputation is, after all, something of a challenge – I asked her how she rated the prowess of the different races and colours who had sought her – um – favours. What do you think she said? Um, um?’ Tom laughed ruefully. ‘She said she’d never found anyone to equal a well-fed Turk.’

  ‘A Turk, indeed!’

  ‘A well-fed Turk, my dear Bellot. That reminds me of another little lady, much sought after – I must confess I could not at first see why. Quite a nice little mug, don’t you know, but no beauty; nothing remarkable about her. However, I was soon to discover the secret of her success. As soon as . . .’

  At the approach of the waiter, Tom dropped his voice and finished his anecdote in a rapid whisper. Quintin’s appreciation caused Tom’s old cheeks to redden. He said: ‘Shall we repair to the dining-room? One of the finest in London, I always say. By jove, Bellot, I’m glad I ran into you. You’ve cheered me as few people could have done at that moment.’

  He led the way to the dining-room, walking with a little back-thrust of the shoulders, a strut, masculine, self-sufficient, yet defiant.

  Quintin, a step behind, noting the defiance, thought: ‘To grow old! There is no greater tragedy.’

  5

  After the disastrous outburst at Clopals, Ellie did not cry again. That stage of her grief was over. She simply told herself that, if she lived another eighty years, she would never know happiness, never care whether she was alive or dead, never love another person. Her life, in short, was finished.

  Meanwhile, she began to feel acute exasperation with her position at Primrose’s. She hated her little windowless basement room: she loathed the disgusting little blotters and boxes stacked up about her. She worked on them in a frenzied way, slapping on white paint and antiquing mixture, covering them with varnish; all at conveyor-belt speed.

  As she worked, she thought only of Quintin and the disappearance that is death.

  By the beginning of her third week in the basement she had completed all the boxes and blotters. As soon as she heard Klixon’s voice on the stairs, she ran out breathlessly to him: ‘I’ve finished work. Can I go back to the studio? Could I go now? Straight away?’

  His smile had disappeared at the sight of her. He seemed discomforted. He said irritably: ‘I don’t know, kiddo. Why ask me? Why don’t you ask Mrs P.?’

  ‘I can’t. She just ignores me.’

  ‘You never treated her right, from the start. You ought to have jollied her along.’

  ‘I’d like to see her face if I jollied her along. She doesn’t like me. I expect she doesn’t like girls.’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s got a smasher in the studio at the moment.’

  ‘In the studio? A new girl?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? A luscious piece. Primrose’s Perfection Pink! Schiaparelli overalls and mink sandals.’

  ‘No?’ said Ellie, hoping this was a joke.

  ‘Yes,’ said Klixon seriously. ‘Not a word of a lie. Says she’s been to the Beaux Arts. Lived for three years in Paris. Speaks with an American accent. Quite a dish, I can tell you.’

  ‘And her designs? Are they any good?’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Ellie rubbed cold sweat from the palms of her hands. Suddenly she was flooded through with relief: ‘But she won’t do “antiquing”?’

  ‘That’s being done in the paint-shop now.’

  ‘I bet they’re making a mess of it. Please, Mr Klixon, let me go back to the studio!’

  ‘’Fraid you can’t. You’re to stay here.’ Klixon edged past her. ‘Daze wants to see you for something. He’ll be sending down.’ He hurried away.

  The call
from Daze came late in the afternoon. As Ellie entered his office, he was sitting with his head on one hand, picking paper-fasteners from a dish and dropping them back again. When he saw her, he said ‘Ah!’ and sat upright in a businesslike way, but he seemed to have nothing to say.

  Ellie said: ‘I’ve finished the job in J50.’ She spoke eagerly, trustingly, with an innocent air of willingness to do anything, go anywhere, in the service of Mrs Primrose. Daze gave her a suspicious look.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s the lot, Miss Parsons,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean I can go back to the studio?’

  ‘No.’ He threw down the paper-fasteners in his hand, then fixed his eye on an ink-pot as though by closely watching it he might turn it into something of more use to the present situation. ‘The thing is . . .’ he said and paused for a long time. ‘The thing is . . . Mrs Primrose fears you have become redundant. There simply is no more work to be done in J50.’

  ‘I’d much rather be in the studio,’ said Ellie.

  ‘You no longer work in the studio, Miss Parsons.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand. Why did they ever take me out of the studio? I had a lot to do there. I was decorating a little table. It was my first decorating job. Bertie Hawkins promised to show it to Mrs Primrose if he liked it. I still have to finish that.’

  Daze shook his head. He began to tap on his desk with his thin, red fingers.

  Ellie persisted desperately: ‘And Miss Claypole’s still away. Surely I could stay until she comes back. I’m quite useful for “antiquing”.’

  Daze let Ellie plead, but the droop of his shoulders told her her case was hopeless. When she was silenced, he said:

  ‘Your job in the studio came to an end three weeks ago. Didn’t you realise that? Mrs Primrose found you that work on the blotters and things because she wanted to help you. She’s very good that way.’