At the back of her mind, without knowing the exact day, she’d been vaguely conscious that she’d lost interest in Jos. He was an interruption in her relationship with Sara, a figure who came and went and didn’t share in anything. She’d probably wanted him to go for some time.
As she confessed this to herself, she felt uneasy. It was like speaking ill of the dead, bringing with it a superstitious dread that the words would rebound upon her disastrously. There was going to be a return to endless hours spent thinking as well as longing, she saw, so she had better get herself in hand. In the old days, before Jos and Sara or any of that, her broodings had always led to the same miserable conclusion, the unhappy realization that she was the unluckiest and most unfortunate girl in the world, and floods of tears. She couldn’t see all that returning. Her mind might slip back occasionally to Jos, the way it was doing now, but she felt placid about the prospect. She had Sara and a future. What was more, she had had and rejected all the other things she had ever wanted, like sex and a man and what was exactly the same as marriage. It just wasn’t true that to have and to lose, or give up, was worse than never having at all.
Coming to the end of one section of the pattern, she came on to something she couldn’t understand. The hieroglyphics meant nothing. She would have to take it down to Peg in the morning, even if she didn’t relish the prospect of actually seeking her company. Peg had nothing. So much had happened to her, and at the end of it all she had Sara, but nothing had happened to Peg. The same old nothing too. It wasn’t nice to have Peg around, not that it ever had been in one sense. It ought to make her feel happy because she was so well off and Peg so badly off, but it didn’t. She felt nervous in Peg’s presence.
She turned the light off and resolved to try to go to sleep again. There was a lot to be done when the real morning came. She had it all planned out. First, she would have to go round to James’s and ask her mother if Sara could be left downstairs in the kitchen while she taught upstairs. Then she would have to contact all her former pupils, or rather their mothers and schools, and try to explain her absence as best she could. With luck, they wouldn’t have bothered to find anyone else. She must also make very discreet inquiries about how she could become Sara’s legal guardian. If she gave too much information away, some busybody might turn up and take the baby away. That she refused to think about. It was a nightmare she must push right to the very back of her mind and pretend didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to such self-denial. All her nightmares previously had been seized on at regular intervals, gloated over masochistically, and not put back until every drop of pessimistic misery had been squeezed out of them. Now, this one must be treated quite differently, different from the thought of dying which before had been her most nervewracking one, never gone into too deeply. Neither Meredith nor Jos wanted, or would ever want, Sara. She had nothing to fear from anyone else. Full stop, full stop.
In the end, George did sleep, for a couple of hours. This time Sara woke her up, and she sprang to look after her, grateful for all the activity that would chase away any thinking. She followed the routine of feeding, bathing and changing with pleasure and satisfaction, and looked with pride on her charge when she was settled in her pram and ready to go out.
It was too far to walk all the way to James’s, so she had to invest in a taxi. The taxi driver was very helpful about taking the pram to bits and putting the carry cot part in the back seat. He said Sara was the spitting image of George. George said nothing, only hoping his gushing meant a reasonable fare. When they arrived at James’s, she asked him to carry the cot to the doorstep and lean the pram frame against the wall. There was no point in setting it all up again until they were inside. She rang the bell, even though she had her own key and could have let herself in, because she felt a bit of an intruder.
Doris looked up at George and down at the baby.
‘No,’ said George, ‘it isn’t. It’s Meredith’s.’
‘I didn’t think it was yours,’ said Doris. The relief showed plainly in her face. ‘Where’s Meredith then?’
‘Can I come in?’ George said. She pushed the frame into the hall and set it up. Doris helped her lift the cot on to it.
‘She’s a lovely baby,’ said Doris. ‘Are you going to put her in the garden?’
‘Yes,’ said George, and wheeled the pram through the hall and into the back. She put the hood up to keep off the wind, and went down the basement steps into the kitchen.
‘Well,’ said Doris.
‘I know,’ said George. ‘I forgot all about everything.’
‘What’ve you been up to?’ asked Doris. ‘Your father didn’t say much.’
‘There isn’t much to say,’ said George. ‘I’ve been looking after Jos, and the baby.’
‘Why couldn’t Meredith look after them,’ objected Doris, ‘she can’t have been in hospital all this time, surely?’
‘She left,’ said George. ‘I don’t know where she went, so it’s no good asking.’
‘Left? Left where?’ said Doris. ‘You don’t mean she left her husband and that baby?’
‘That’s right,’ said George.
‘Well,’ said Doris, and then, ‘How’s he going to manage with a baby?’
‘I don’t know,’ said George.
‘George,’ said Doris, ‘you haven’t let yourself be landed looking after them two?’
‘No,’ said George, ‘only the baby. Sara.’
Doris stared. ‘Not for keeps,’ she said, flatly.
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘Oh don’t talk silly,’ said Doris, in a sudden burst of temper. ‘You’ve had some daft ideas but this beats the band. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous and – and stupid in all my born days. What do you know about babies? Think of its future – you’ve nothing to offer it, nothing.’
‘I’ve got myself,’ murmured George.
‘Don’t be soft,’ snapped Doris. ‘That’s soft talk, you’re not right in the head carrying on like that. I don’t know what you’re thinking of.’
‘The baby,’ said George simply.
‘Then it’s time somebody told you a few home truths,’ said Doris.
‘Such as?’ said George. She’d expected all this.
‘You’re not fit to bring up a child. You’re not married and never likely to be with a ready-made baby round your neck, apart from anything else. You haven’t any money, nor a proper home, and no security at all. You ought to be ashamed of yourself even thinking about it.’
‘I’d look after it better than a Dr Barnardo’s Home or somewhere,’ said George.
‘I’d like five minutes with its proper mother and father,’ said Doris.
‘That wouldn’t do much good. They don’t want it,’ said George.
‘They should have thought about that before they had it,’ said Doris.
‘Obviously,’ George agreed.
‘The poor little thing,’ sighed Doris. ‘It’s a shame.’
‘I know,’ said George. ‘I feel so sorry for her. None of this is her fault.’
They were silent for a minute, united in the heartbreaking thought of Sara’s pathos.
‘All the same,’ said Doris, though with a slight change of tone. ‘It wouldn’t be right for you to keep her. You mustn’t think of it.’
‘I can’t help it,’ pleaded George.
‘You’ll just have to help it,’ said Doris firmly, ‘you won’t get a man and a baby of your own that way.’
‘I don’t want a man or any other baby except Sara,’ said George. ‘There isn’t any point talking about it.’
‘What have you come here for then?’ said Doris, abruptly. ‘I’ll have no hand in it.’
‘I want you to look after Sara while I give lessons here,’ said George. ‘I’ll pay you.’
‘I don’t want to be paid,’ said Doris. ‘I don’t know how you could suggest it. I won’t, anyway.’
‘It would only be for a few hours,’ said George. ‘She’s no trouble,
really.’
‘That’s nothing to do with it,’ said Doris. ‘No.’
‘All right,’ said George, ‘I’ll have to put her in a nursery. It doesn’t really make much difference, it would have been handier, that’s all.’
Doris set her lips, grimly. She wasn’t going to be got round. ‘They’ll ask questions at any nursery,’ she warned, ‘and then you’ll cop it. They’ll soon find out you’re not fit to bring up a child.’
‘What do you mean – “fit”,’ shouted George, ‘I’m sick of hearing you say it. I’m not a crook, or blind or anything. I don’t go around drinking or swearing or gambling. You’d think I was a prostitute the way you’re talking. I’m perfectly fit.’
‘It’s no good shouting,’ said Doris. ‘You’re not married.’
‘What’s so marvellous about being married?’ yelled George. ‘You’d think only married people were human, or had a prerogative on decency. Meredith was married and she didn’t even want her baby. There are some lousy married mothers and some wonderful unmarried ones.’
‘Exactly,’ said Doris. ‘That’s what people would think. They’d see a single girl with a baby and there you are.’
‘Oh God,’ stormed George, ‘Who cares what people think?’
‘Sara, or whatever you call her, might,’ said Doris. ‘People might say things to her. You haven’t thought of that.’
‘It wouldn’t matter,’ protested George. ‘It would be so easy to explain everything. Sara would know the truth right from the beginning.’
‘Would she?’ said Doris.
For some reason she didn’t understand, George’s heart began to beat very fast, as though she were afraid.
‘All she would understand,’ said Doris, ‘would be that everyone else had a father as well as a mother.’
‘Widows’ children have the same problem,’ said George. ‘It would be no worse than being in a home and having neither.’
‘Yes it would,’ said Doris. ‘There, everyone would be the same. That matters to children.’ George was silent. ‘You want to think of yourself,’ warned Doris.
‘I have,’ said George. ‘I’m not being noble. I know what it would mean, but it would all be worth it.’
‘Suppose a man came along when Sara was seven or eight,’ said Doris.
‘He won’t,’ said George. ‘And anyway even supposing, just to please you, that he did, I wouldn’t be interested in anyone who didn’t want Sara.’
‘That’s what you say now,’ said Doris. ‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘It’s no good arguing,’ said George, ‘I’ve made my mind up. I’m sorry I bothered you. Where’s the nearest nursery in this stinking neighbourhood? I bet they don’t have L.C.C. nurseries, they’re too bloody posh.’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Doris. ‘Aren’t you moving a bit quick?’
‘Why?’ said George.
‘Things have changed here, though you may have been too busy to give a thought to that,’ said Doris sarcastically. ‘Mr James might not be willing to let you have that room for your classes. I suppose you hadn’t thought of that.’
George stared at her.
‘No, I hadn’t,’ she said blankly. ‘Why should he object?’
‘His new wife might not like it,’ said Doris.’
‘His new what?’ said George.
‘Wife.’
‘He can’t be married,’ said George. She was going to say that he would have asked her first, but thought better of it. ‘When did he get married? Nobody told me.’
‘Why should they?’ said Doris, tartly. ‘You haven’t shown any interest in his affairs up to now, not even coming to the funeral like that.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked George. ‘Where did he meet her? How long has he known her?’
‘It’s no good asking me,’ said Doris. ‘I’ve never even seen her and I don’t know anything about her. She’ll be like the last one, I expect. Whatever she’s like, it’ll be an end to the nice easy ways of the last few weeks that’s certain.’
‘Doesn’t she live here?’ said George. ‘I mean, if you haven’t seen her. Are they on their honeymoon?’
‘They aren’t married yet,’ said Doris. ‘He’s just told us, that’s all. He came out with it weeks ago and we’ve been waiting ever since. He can’t spend much time with her anyway, he’s never been out. Your father did ask him when the happy day was to be, but he never gave a proper answer. Real secretive, he is. Sits there and says “we’ll see” and that’s all.’
George felt a rush of relief, and was ashamed of herself. She hadn’t given a thought to James ever since her affair with Jos had begun. He belonged to a farcical episode in the past which one day she would laugh about with Jos. She hadn’t even bothered to give him the answer he had so dramatically demanded, because when she’d found Jos it had seemed so ludicrous that there was any answer to be given. Somehow she’d expected him to realize that. Now hearing about his intended new wife, she felt unreasonably annoyed, as though he had no right to be interested in any woman except her. It made even more of a fool out of her, somehow.
‘Is James in now?’ she said.
‘No,’ said Doris. ‘I don’t know where he is, but I don’t expect he’s gone far. Ask your father. He’s in the dining room polishing the silver.’
George wandered off to find Ted. He had all the silver spread out on a thick, green, baize cloth at one end of the table – one pile to his left, dull with the polish he’d put on, and another to his right, gleaming from the friction of his soft, yellow duster. He was wearing a dark blue apron, with the strings brought twice round his middle and tied in a bow at the front. She thought he looked very old and sulky.
‘Hello, dad,’ she said, and sat down at the table, idly picking up one of the polished forks and twisting it round and round to catch the light.
‘Give me that,’ said Ted, snatching it away. ‘I’ve just cleaned it. You don’t want to go making marks all over it.’
‘Sorry,’ said George. ‘Is this in honour of the new Mrs Leamington?’
‘I clean the silver once a month as you very well know,’ said Ted sharply. ‘This is my silver-cleaning morning, that’s all.’ He looked up. ‘If you’ve just come to make trouble,’ he said, ‘you can go away again.’
‘It was a joke,’ said George.
‘I don’t like them sort of jokes,’ said Ted, viciously polishing the handle of a knife.
George kept quiet, watching him. She could imagine his delight at Mrs L.’s death. He must have been in sole control of James all these weeks, relishing his dependence upon him. It was all to go. James would be a zealous and devoted husband for a time, and Ted couldn’t know what humiliations might lie ahead. James needing to get married he would see as a betrayal, some slight upon himself. There would be no question of leaving his service whatever the new Mrs L. was like, indeed no, that was what must make it all so worrying.
‘Never mind, dad,’ said George suddenly. ‘She might not be so bad.’
‘What you getting at?’ said Ted, furiously.
‘The new Mrs L.,’ said George, ‘she might not bas bad as the last one.’
‘I don’t know what you’re driving at,’ said Ted, ‘but you mind your own business. If Mr James chooses to get married again then it’s a very good thing. He’s in the prime of life isn’t he? What’s more natural? You just watch what you’re saying if you’re going to come round here again my girl. That’s all.’
George got up and went up to her music room. The key was on the outside, but the door was locked. She turned it, and went in. The room had an overpoweringly musty smell. The piano had a fine coating of dust and the mirror was covered with a thin film of dirt. She was surprised it had such a neglected air after so short a time.
She went over to the windows and pulled them both wide open, drawing back the curtains as far as they would go to let as much air as possible in. With her scarf, she dusted the piano and opened it. Instead of automa
tically thumping out some tune, her fingers hovered uncertainly over the keys, not knowing which notes to strike. The last time she had played was before Sara was born, when she’d had everything before her and not known it. She had played then, discontented and frustrated, thinking of all the empty, useless hours surrounding her. This room had seen her crying there in the mirror, dejected and miserable, full of a restlessness that she could find no outlet for. It was gone. She felt quiet, sad, but she wasn’t unhappy. Slowly, she began to play a lullaby for Sara, smiling slushily at herself in the mirror.
The sound of the piano was what James had been waiting for. He came in from his club in time for lunch, and heard the music from outside, standing on his doorstep. Gently, he let himself in, hoping Ted wouldn’t hear and come rushing out, spoiling everything. He’d known that sooner or later she would come back, without him asking or doing anything to make her. Whatever she’d been doing would come to an end and she would be driven back to that room.
He opened the door very quietly and stepped inside, pushing it to behind him. She looked up immediately.
‘Don’t stop playing,’ he said.
George felt herself blushing violently. ‘I wasn’t really playing anything,’ she said. She was afraid he would make some heavy joke about her answer.
‘It sounded very nice to me,’ said James. And then, ‘you look different. What have you been doing to yourself?’
‘Nothing really,’ said George, peeking at herself in the mirror. She looked exactly the same. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife’s death.’
‘Were you?’ said James steadily.
‘Of course,’ said George, ‘it was just that I was very busy at the time. That’s no excuse, but really I was sorry.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said James. He walked over towards her, and stood beside the piano with his arms clasped behind him. ‘It was a shock at first, naturally,’ he said, ‘and I don’t like death and all that business. But I wasn’t sorry, not when I realized it meant I was free.’
Georgy Girl Page 17
