Seven Lean Years

by Celia Fremlin

  For every one of her premonitions had proved unfounded. She had worn the new dress—was still wearing it now. Leonard had turned up for the wedding—on time to the second. Everything had gone exactly as planned, and now here they were, the pair of them, smiled on and congratulated on every hand, enjoying the party so generously contrived by Melissa in their honour.

  For Leonard, too, was at his very best; smiling, talkative, affable towards everyone; now and then meeting Ellen’s eye with a kind of nervous eagerness, a suppressed anticipation, which she hoped everyone was noticing—for was it not immensely flattering?

  Wonderful, the change in him; and so sudden, too, for just before the party began he had fallen into a mood so black, so strange, that Ellen had been terrified. Terrified, that is, that after all Melissa’s kindness the whole party would be ruined by his moodiness. Beyond that, to the night that must follow the festivities, and indeed to all the days and nights that were in store, she was too dazed and excited to look.

  It was an odd little episode that had provoked him. Now, after it was all over, and she was sipping champagne luxuriously, Ellen tried to recall the events that had led up to the outburst. The four of them—herself and Leonard, and Melissa and Roger who had acted as witnesses—had just arrived home from the wedding, blinking in the dimness of the hall after the blazing sunshine outside. Roger had gone straight upstairs, and Melissa had hurried off to see to some final preparations in the billiard room. None of the guests had arrived yet, and standing there in the hall Ellen and Leonard found themselves alone, for the first time in several days. As the busy, reassuring tap of Melissa’s sandals receded through the billiard room door, Ellen was uncomfortably aware of constraint between herself and her bridegroom. Partly to dispel this, and partly because the matter was really on her mind, Ellen drew Cousin Laura’s cheque from her bag and showed it to Leonard, explaining the circumstances of its presentation.

  “And I don’t quite know what to do,” she confided. “Of course, we know it is of no value; and yet it was so terribly kind of her…. I suppose there is no risk of her finding out? If she wants to know what I’ve done with it, I mean…. something like that?”

  But Leonard had snatched the cheque from her. For a second he gripped it in both hands as if about to tear it in tiny pieces. Ellen watched in dismay, thinking she had angered him by the tactless raising of such a subject just now.

  But no. As he went on staring at the paper, he seemed to make an effort at self-control. He even smiled, a little stiffly.

  “Couldn’t you have refused it?” he said at last, quite lightly, fingering the cheque as if it was a piece of material whose quality he was assessing. “Wouldn’t that have been simpler? Couldn’t you give it back to her now, Ellen? Say—oh, anything—that you can’t accept it….”

  “I couldn’t. Not possibly,” said Ellen decisively. “It would have hurt her feelings even if I’d refused straight away; and it would be much worse to change my mind and give it back now. And there can’t really be any risk of her finding out, can there? I mean, if she’s always left everything to you, and never wanted to see any bank statements all these years….?”

  “Arguing about bank statements already?” Melissa, light heartedly tactless, had reappeared in the hall. “Roger and I didn’t start quarrelling about money for at least a fortnight —not until we’d both started working again, in fact, and had some money to quarrel about. But come on, both of you—come and tell me what you think of the feast, now it’s all laid out.”

  She led the way to the billiard room, and, throwing open the door, stood waiting, with justifiable confidence, for her companions’ expressions of pleased surprise.

  For the billiard room really did look lovely. The billiard table itself, in deference to Father’s prejudices, had merely been covered with gay check cloths; but every other surface was brilliant with flowers, food, and shining glass and china. Most of the junk had been somehow stowed out of sight, and the more immovable objects, such as the cases of moth-eaten birds, had been cunningly hidden behind trails of ivy and great bowls of roses.

  “It’s—beautiful!” gasped Ellen. “But—Melissa—what will Father say when he sees it? I mean——”

  “He’s seen it!” declared Melissa proudly. “And he doesn’t say anything, except that we shouldn’t be using the port glasses for champagne. It was the champagne, really, that did the trick, you know. As soon as Uncle saw it he realised he wouldn’t be able to come and drink it if he kept on making a fuss—he can think very quickly sometimes, can Uncle Richard—and so he decided then and there not to know that it was the billiard room. Tomorrow, of course, if he finds so much as a teaspoon lying about in here he’ll get in a rage and say, ‘Who’s been bringing teaspoons into the billiard room?’ But for tonight he’ll be O.K.”

  “You’re wonderful, Melissa,” said Ellen admiringly. “And after all the fuss he made, too. I don’t know how you did it!”

  “Oh, just a little tact,” explained Melissa deprecatingly—and rather implausibly, in view of her usual methods with her uncle. “After all, he’s a very old man, and you have to try and see his point of view. I suppose his father was terribly strict with him, and brought him up to think the billiard room was absolutely sacred. My goodness, I should think old Grandfather Fortescue must be turning in his grave at the sight of such sacrilege!” and she gestured laughingly towards the gay room.

  “What in God’s name do you mean?”

  Leonard, who had been standing so quietly beside them all this time was suddenly almost screaming. “What do you mean? You must be mad! How can Grandfather Fortescue know what you are doing? He’s dead and in his grave—how can he know—how can he see? You’re mad! You’re crazy!”

  Melissa stared, thunderstruck.

  “But … Good Heavens, Leonard!” she stammered. “It’s only a way of speaking! Of course he can’t know….”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” Leonard wiped his forehead, and blinked. He looked a little dazed. “Yes, of course. I see what you mean. It sounded for a moment as if you meant that the dead really could come back and watch us … know what is going on. But of course they can’t…. Of course not….” Again he wiped his forehead.

  Melissa looked at him consideringly.

  “What you need is a drink,” she diagnosed at last; and Leonard, now apparently quite in control of himself, smilingly agreed.

  “To the success of to-day’s undertaking!” he proposed gaily; and the other two smilingly drank the toast with him.

  Now, three or four hours later, Ellen felt that the whole queer little episode must have been a dream. For never had she seen Leonard in such spirits as he was this evening; he seemed like a man from whom a great load of care has been lifted. Watching him, she was reminded briefly of her own feelings when she woke this morning…. That sense of relief at a decision irrevocably taken….

  And Leonard’s gaiety was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that he usually hated parties; he tended to hang about on the outskirts of the jollity with an air of restrained superiority which Ellen always felt was aimed directly at her; and his subsequent assurances that he wasn’t trying to spoil her enjoyment but merely trying to understand how she could possibly be enjoying anything so stupid, never consoled her at all.

  But this evening, far from damping her exuberance, he was positively egging her on; plying her with champagne, even encouraging her mimicry of the gloomy builders’ foreman extracting the last ounce of grievance out of the faulty wiring in the attics…. She must have been telling the story well, for the little circle round her were helpless with laughter. Quite intoxicated by her own success, she went on to a description of Howard … his inefficiency and his buckets of plaster…. Everyone laughed at this, too, and Leonard himself capped the recital by telling the company that it was Howard who had fixed up the temporary ceiling of plaster-board in the attic that was to be their bedroom…. Yes, indeed, their bridal chamber was to be the leaky attic (more laugh
ter), and, yes, Howard’s ceiling was sure to come down on them in the night…. Ellen felt the attention, the laughter, veering away from her and towards Leonard; and in that moment she felt Cousin Laura’s hand plucking at her sleeve.

  “Ellen—Ellen, my dear,” the old lady was saying anxiously. “I can’t quite follow … all this noise…. Are they saying that you must sleep in the attic? The little attic? The Rose Room?”

  “Why—yes,” said Ellen. “That’s been my room for quite a while now, you know, and …”

  “Only since I’ve been here,” interrupted Cousin Laura. “I know you’ve given me your room, dear, and it’s very sweet of you. But you must have it back now. Really you must. You are a married woman now.”

  A kindly suggestion; but what an impractical one, at this time in the evening. Everything was arranged; all the beds made up; and, anyway, where was Cousin Laura to be if not in Ellen’s room? Hastily, Ellen assured her that the attic was perfectly all right, the bed quite as comfortable as her own, and if anything larger…. Cousin Laura mustn’t worry at all. But the old lady’s face still looked anxious.

  “But, Ellen, dear,” she protested “You don’t like that room. I know you don’t. You always hated it as a little girl, ever since the time Leonard gave you such a fright up there. Oh, he was a naughty boy, dressing up and painting his face like an old witch and pretending he was going to lock you in the chest! And borrowing my best dress for it, too—it was all smeared with rouge afterwards, it never came out properly, even at the cleaner’s. Of course, it was just a boyish prank.…. He couldn’t have known it would frighten you like that.”

  Ellen felt herself growing dizzy. She knew that, for the first time in her life, she had drunk too much: but what else could she have done, with Leonard pressing drinks on her so gallantly? And with everyone watching, too—it would never have done to keep primly and prudishly refusing them; for when a woman over thirty gets married people watch for primness and prudishness … watch like hawks….

  The dizziness was increasing … her head throbbed … all the elation was gone. Perhaps, if she lay down for a little, the discomfort would pass off. The party was well under way now, with Melissa and Leonard both in such good form. She would hardly be missed if she disappeared for a while…. In support of this supposition, a burst of laughter at this very moment seemed almost to split her throbbing head in two. With a quick word of apology to Cousin Laura, she slipped out of the door, shutting it quietly behind her.

  How dim, and cool, and quiet the rest of the house seemed. How empty, too; the little concentrated centre of bustle, light and laughter in the billiard room was like a corner of the brain still vividly dreaming while all the rest is deep asleep.

  Up the quiet stairs she stumbled, gripping the banisters tightly as she went. Up … up … into the silence and the gathering dusk. For already it was growing late; the party, which had started in a blaze of late afternoon sun, had already gone on for several hours, and would probably still be in full swing at midnight.

  Ellen had reached the attic stairs now; the steep, narrow steps were treacherous, and her dizziness was increasing. Slowly, resting for a moment on each step, Ellen began to mount. How the old steps creaked and groaned! One—two—three—how many of them were there?

  Sixteen. Yes, of course, there were sixteen steps. That’s all it was, then, the other night—someone going up the attic stairs. Slowly, laboriously, resting on each groaning step as she was resting now. Someone slow with age, or tiredness, or loaded down with a great weight…. Was there still something puzzling about the episode, or was it just her dizziness …? Ellen staggered for a moment, almost fell. Then, recovering her balance, she mounted to the top, reaching out to the treacherous wall for support; at every touch, little knobs of plaster scattered down like pebbles on a mountainside.

  Quiet, airless, its walls shadowy with dim brown stains, the Rose Room received her. Ellen felt half stifled. She threw open the tiny window, took off her dress, and wearing only her slip flopped down gratefully on the wide cool bed. At once her whirling senses grew steadier, the throbbing in her head less fierce. I shall be better, she thought with relief; I shall be better, in a few minutes, and then I will go back to the party.

  CHAPTER XXII

  FOR A WHILE Ellen lay staring up at the hastily improvised plaster-board ceiling, thankful for its newness, its unfamiliarity. The rough, careless joins, the slapdash nailing, were no longer visible in the advancing darkness, but even if they had been Ellen would have felt nothing but gratitude for the shoddy, botched-up job; for at least it had destroyed the familiar shapes and shadows on the old ceiling. For there was too much that was familiar in this little room. To many shapes and shadows had waited there unchanged for too many years—waiting for this, her wedding night.

  A boyish prank. That’s what Cousin Laura had called it just now, in her casual revelation of the real origin of Ellen’s nightmare memory. A boyish prank. With deliberate care Leonard must have set about terrifying the little girl four years his junior. Had dressed up as an old witch … had crept into the child’s room at midnight and threatened to shut her in the old chest of which he knew she was already afraid…. Was it just a piece of mischief—a silly thoughtless joke? Of course, Leonard couldn’t have been much more than thirteen at the time; but all the same, boys of thirteen are not entirely devoid of sense and imagination. Did not the whole episode suggest a streak of something more than thoughtless mischief? Was it not more like real, purposeful cruelty?

  As she lay there, staring into the darkness, Ellen fancied she was seeing the figure again as it sidled through the door. Again the grotesque, painted face seemed to be staring down on her as she lay in this same bed—and suddenly, with a flash of adult insight impossible at the time, she knew that this was no fairy-tale witch or ogre that Leonard had been portraying. The face had not been painted with a view to random hideousness—though that had been the effect. It had been painted with Cousin Laura’s own rouge and lipstick, and it was a clumsy attempt at a likeness … a likeness sufficient to deceive a sleepy child in a nearly dark room. A likeness to Cousin Laura.

  So Leonard had meant her to think it was his stepmother creeping in … his stepmother who would lock her in the great chest. Suddenly, whole tracts of her relationship with Leonard seemed to Ellen to be illumined. All his childishly exaggerated complaints of his stepmother’s unkindness to him —even at the time, Ellen had been vaguely aware that they were more a kind of boasting than genuine complaints. They were designed to impress—particularly to impress Ellen; to extract from her sympathy for his sufferings, admiration for his fortitude. To the self-pitying boy a stepmother was a heaven-sent asset, giving him an automatic claim on everyone’s sympathy.

  What had Roger said a few days ago? “Make sure that your rôle is not just that of audience for his self-pity.” And now it was clear that precisely that had been her rôle from the very beginning. It was the very basis of their relationship, and always had been.

  But how desperately Leonard must need her as audience—both then, when he was prepared to go to all that trouble to convince her that his kindly, well-meaning stepmother was really cruel, and now when he was undertaking the unwelcome responsibilities of marriage in order to retain her as audience! Wasn’t it rather flattering—even touching—to be needed so much, even for such a reason? To be needed for any reason by another human being is something to be grateful for. If need for a sympathetic audience was the nearest Leonard could get to love—well, who was she, Ellen, to complain? For she didn’t even love him at all.

  Poor Cousin Laura, though! It must be hard being a stepmother. All the fairy tales are against you, as well as all the popular articles on child psychology. And the comics, too, where week after week battalions of wicked stepmothers refuse to let the infant geniuses in their charge learn the violin, or ballet, or whatever. And doubly hard it must be if your stepchild happens to be a self-pitying type determined to cash in on the stepchild’s tradit
ional rôle of misunderstood victim. Ellen could understand how it had all happened; could understand, too, Leonard’s glee at finding that old, unhappy letter among Father’s unsorted papers; how he had fastened on it, forced it on the notice of his little companion; impressed on her its savagery, and its hostile import for herself. And how annoyed he must have been when the whole thing had seemed to slide over her, leaving her just as fond of Cousin Laura as before! The dressing-up episode must have been a desperate last resort to prove his point to the playmate whose admiration and regard mattered to him so much; if she wouldn’t believe in his tales of his stepmother’s cruelty by hearsay, she must believe in them by her own personal experience—experience which he proceeded, with desperate schoolboy clumsiness, to engineer. Yes: you could understand how a self-centred and totally inconsiderate boy in his early teens might feel and behave like that.

  But could you understand how he could go on behaving like that? As a youth—as a young man—as a fully mature, near-middle-aged man? Wouldn’t you expect a point to come when he would realise that he had been unfair and cruel to the disappointed, not very clever woman who had in fact tried hard to make him happy? When he would want to make up to her for the brash unkindness and injustice of his youthful accusations and aspersions against her?

  Well, and wasn’t Leonard doing just that, in supporting the old lady from his own earnings without her knowledge? The very awkwardness, the ill-judged quixotry, of the kindness, in itself suggested that a guilty conscience was the spur; for guilt feelings rarely inspire their victim to wholly rational and appropriate forms of recompense. It all fitted in perfectly…. Poor Leonard. Poor Cousin Laura….

  Ellen felt herself growing drowsy. She wished she could get properly into bed, and not go down to the party again at all. How lovely it would be just to close her eyes and sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep….