The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “Good-bye, Rollo.”

  He turned towards her quickly, as if the use of his Christian name had moved him.

  “You’re being met?” He took the hand she held out.

  “No. Bus. I must fly.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ll drop you in the car, of course. Where is it—Little Compton? It’s practically on my way. Here, porter, another bag.”

  Disregarding a feeble protest, he seized and handed over her inferior suitcase, swept her along in his wake and installed her beside him in the family Sunbeam, beneath an overpowering fur rug.

  Away they glided, out of Tulverton through the narrow high street, past the market square, past the war memorial, between the more outlying rows of little red and yellow brick boxes, past the Baptist Chapel, past the gasometers, beyond the last lamps, over the bridge and skirting the duck pond—relic of a rustic Tulverton, long vanished—out along the damp, flat, field-and-allotment bordered, blue-flashing road that led to the old village.

  “This feels very grand,” she said. “I do wish I had a car.”

  “D’you live in London?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “A car’s almost more trouble than it’s worth in London. I find mine sits eating its head off in the garage most of the time.”

  And of course that’s the reason why I don’t bother to get one.

  “Every time I come along this road there’s a fresh outbreak of bungalows,” she said. “Look at that one! ‘Idono’ … If only I had the energy to set fire to every one of them in the middle of the night … except that they’d go and put up something worse. There’s one somewhere called Oodathortit.’”

  He laughed.

  “Don’t you mind about them?”

  He looked at her in some surprise.

  “I suppose I do rather … when I look at them. Nasty little brutes.”

  “You ought to mind about them.”

  “Ah, but I never do anything I ought.”

  “England gets squalider and squalider. So disgraced, so ignoble, so smug and pretentious … and nobody minds enough to stop it.”

  “Nobody can if it wants to.”

  She felt his mild obstinacy hardening against her, deliberate, refusing to be lectured, quite good-humoured, half-teasing. He went on:

  “It’s all very interesting and degraded, I agree. But what’s one to do?”

  “Can’t people be educated—?”

  “But they have been!” he said triumphantly. “This is the glorious result: Art homes.”

  Oh, well, sit back in one’s luxurious car then under one’s great expensive, tickling fur rug and ignore it all—give one’s mind to important things instead: like shooting pheasants …

  She was dumb.

  She stared out of the window and the flitting bungalows stared back at her, brazen, cocksure.

  “I’d—just like to blow the whole thing up.”

  “Oh, anarchy! But that’s not very constructive, is it?” He’s laughing at me …” You ought to have a remedy.” Getting his own back … “Personally I subscribe to the Society for the Preservation of Rural England, I think it’s called, so you see I do more than you … It’s a magnificent object and I’m all for it … I don’t grudge a penny of it.” He lit a cigarette. “And furthermore,” he said, “I’m all for the League of Nations. But if people want war they’ll have war.”

  “I see you’re what’s called a realist,” she said, looking out of the window, playing with the hand-rest. People like him … well-padded, cynical … Phrases from Colin and the rest clotted and obstructed her head, like lumps of used cottonwool …

  He laughed quietly.

  Some inner shock at the sound made her look round at him. What’s it all about? … His eye was fixed upon her, alight, hard, with a sort of unconscious wariness and determination … He’s enjoying himself … He’s … he wants … Her head whirled, snatching at questions, dissolving, her eyes stayed riveted on his … What is it? … Fighting, subduing me … What’ll happen? He might hit me, kiss me … She dropped her eyes suddenly. It was all over in two seconds. After a pause, she heard him say pleasantly:

  “I’m afraid you must find a desert island.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I don’t want to argue any more, or assert different views. Please. Forget about it; let everything be soothing, harmonious again. I don’t know anything and I don’t want to think now, to disagree with you …

  “What’s the matter?” he said suddenly.

  “Nothing.” She wrenched out a narrow smile and presented it to him. “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Rather. So sorry. Dozens.” His voice was kind, perturbed.

  I shall cry … Oh, God! God!

  “The thing is really” She applied herself elaborately to the match he held out.

  “Mm?” He went on holding the match with care and patience.

  “Why I’m coming home is—because my father is very ill—”

  He was shocked. His hand went impulsively out towards her on the rug.

  He’s sorry now he had that argument, thinks no wonder I was a bit touchy, tiresome …

  “I say, I’m most terribly sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? How awful for you …” Such sincere sympathy, such a warm solicitous voice … “I do hope you’ll find it isn’t so bad.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I expect he’ll be all right. I mean—I feel he may be …” I’ve betrayed him to Rollo … to excuse myself, to re-establish myself in Rollo’s favour.

  “I expect he will be, honestly I do. Daddy was most frightfully ill last winter—heart and kidneys and God knows what—all the works. They said he’d never be able to shoot or fish again, and have to live in an arm-chair if he ever left his bed again—and now you should see him. He’s as right as rain—practically.”

  “Is he? I’m so glad.” She could meet his eyes once more and smile. The shameful, half-hysterical emotion subsided. He’s not to be sorry for me. “Do give him my love if he remembers me.” Disarming of him so unselfconsciously to call Sir John Daddy.

  “Rather. I will.”

  “Give everybody my love—specially your mother.”

  “I will indeed. I believe Marigold’s coming down this week-end.”

  “Oh, Marigold … How lovely it would be to see her again—”

  “Well, why not? It isn’t impossible, is it?”

  She hesitated a minute.

  “No, it’s no good … It’s so long ago and—”

  Beyond Benson’s immobile cap, neck and shoulders appeared the village green, a cluster of cottages, the farm. There wasn’t much more time. She said with an effort:

  “You see your mother is a sort of symbol to me … I can’t quite explain … When I was a child I wanted her approbation. She’s stayed at the back of my mind—as a sort of standard for suitable behaviour … Often,—when I was in the middle of an upheaval—a few years ago, she used to appear before me like a reproachful vision.” She laughed. “Don’t look so startled. It’s quite irrational. But even now, when I’ve more or less—after enormous efforts—given up minding what people think of me, it would be distressing to feel I’d—I’d disappointed her … Even though—perhaps—her idea of what’s a—a good kind of conduct—might be—probably is—quite different—in some cases—from mine nowadays … Do you see?”

  “Yes,” he said, after a pause. “I see. All the same I think you underestimate Mummy’s wisdom. She’s a strange woman. She lives by the most rigid standards herself—and has almost complete tolerance for everybody else. It’s only that she doesn’t let on …”

  “Yes. Yes, I can believe that’s true. She’s one of the people who’ve chosen a behaviour long ago and stick to it.” Like the Queen’s toques—unfashionable, monotonous: but reliable, distinguished, right.

  �
�Besides,” he said, “if she likes a person she doesn’t change. I’ve never know her to. And I believe you were always a favourite of hers.”

  “Was I?”

  Once again, a start of surprise went through her, not at the fact, if fact it were, but at his calm statement of it. A hundred questions stirred. I was—am still—spoken of? Rollo listened?—asked questions about me?

  The turn of the drive was in sight. Benson was slowing down and changing gear.

  “Tell him to stop at the gate,” she said hurriedly. “Not drive in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, truly. You see, the noise … it might disturb …”

  “I see. Of course.” He tapped on the window.

  But it wasn’t so much that …

  “Well, give him your hag. Let him carry it up.”

  “Gracious no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She jumped out and seized it. “It’s very light.” Not a shadow of this meeting must colour my arrival. “Please” She gave him her hand.

  “Good-bye, Rollo. Thank you for kindness.”

  He kept her hand in his, leaning forward. Benson stood discreetly behind the door, holding it back.

  “I do hope so frightfully he’s all right.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  “I do wish there was something I could do.”

  “Oh, no … it’s quite all right. It’s sweet of you, but please don’t think at all about it …”

  “Might I ring up? Would it be a bore?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bore, only please don’t … Yes, do—if you like, I mean … if you think of it.”

  “Then I will. I’d awfully like to know. We all would.”

  “It’s very nice of you.”

  He let go of her hand, looking suddenly a trifle embarrassed.

  “Who would I ask for?—I mean—if I wanted to get hold of you? I’m so bad at names, I never remember.”

  “Oh!”—she hesitated, her colour rose. “Olivia Curtis I’m still that … I mean—I have been something else—I’ve gone back to that—Good-bye.”

  She took her case and hurried up the drive without looking back, hearing behind her, through a perturbed flurry, the soft mounting roar of the car as it swept him on and away.

  II

  Kate was at the front door to meet her.

  “Hallo.”

  “Hallo. Whose car was that stopped at the gate?”

  “The Spencers’.” Olivia went in past her and put her bag down in the hall.

  “The Spencers’?”

  “Mm … I met Rollo in the train coming down and he gave me a lift.”

  “Oh … I saw it from the window. I suppose he’s come down for the shooting.”

  “I suppose so. Where’s Mother?”

  “With him.” She looked Olivia sharply over in the familiar way, thinking: she’s altered the coat. Not bad.

  “No change, I suppose?” She said it in the casual way Kate would require of her, her heart beginning to beat thickly, in dread and anticipation.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How long’ve you been here?”

  “Since Tuesday.”

  Four days. And not a word to me. Did they think I’d be hysterical, or a disturbing influence or what?

  There hung his old hat, his cap, on their pegs, his woolly scarf and brown fleece-lined gloves folded on the table beneath them: poignant objects. They seemed to have taken on a life of their own; to be dumb, dark, monstrously urgent questions: as dogs are whose masters have gone away.

  From the top of the stairs a muted voice called down:

  “Is that Olivia?”

  Down floated Mrs. Curtis, smiling, to kiss her.

  “Mum” Tears sprang, her throat tightened. But her mother said with cheerful calmness:

  “It’s nice to see you, dear. I didn’t expect you for another half-hour. Especially with such a fog in London. I made sure your train would be late. What time did you get in?”

  “Quite punctually, I think. But I’m early because I ran into Rollo Spencer on Tulverton platform, and he gave me a lift out.”

  “Did he? Mr. Spencer? How very kind of him. It’s quite out of his way, too.”

  “I know. He insisted.”

  “A good three miles. Did he drive in?”

  “No, he dropped me at the gate.”

  “I thought I heard a car. I suppose he was on his way to Meldon?”

  “Yes. For a shoot.”

  “Ah, yes.” She wafted Rollo towards his home, his recreations, with a gracious nod. Apprehension sank away again. The lurking threats of change, of disaster, retreated before Mother’s impregnable normality. Rather pale, rather drawn and dark about the eyes, but neat, but fresh, erect, composed as ever, preoccupied with the supervision—in retrospect—of the arrival, checking up on detail with nearly all her customary minuteness and relish … Mother was being wonderful.

  “Did you get plenty of breakfast?”

  “Yes. I had some coffee on the train.”

  “Nothing to eat?”

  “I didn’t want anything. You know I hardly ever have breakfast.”

  “I know you’re a silly girl. No wonder you’re so scraggy.” She looked her daughter over with dissatisfaction.

  “Oh! Must we go through this old hoop again?” Olivia flung herself down on the oak settle, and studied her shoes.

  “How is Etty?” Mrs. Curtis passed on smoothly.

  “Fast asleep, I expect. She was snuggling down nicely again when I left.”

  “Does Etty ever do anything but sleep?”

  “Never—in the mornings.”

  “Hmm—”

  The special indulgent Etty voice was no longer used. Etty had not married—not even unfortunately. She both went to bed and stayed in bed too late. The whole thing was discreditable, suspicious. No longer was it tenderly remarked that Etty was such a frail little creature. She was as strong as anybody else: the trouble was that she’d been spoilt, she’d never had any backbone.

  “If Etty would see to it that that woman of hers, Mrs. Binns, isn’t it? who appears so very deaf over the telephone, came at a reasonable hour and cooked you both a good nourishing breakfast, if she’s competent to do so, which I doubt … How can you expect to do a proper morning’s work on an empty stomach?”

  “I don’t do a proper morning’s work—but it’s no good putting the blame on my stomach. However full it was it wouldn’t persuade people to let Anna photograph ’em, or pay their bills when she had—”

  “You don’t know—”

  Olivia giggled, drumming her heels. Mrs. Curtis gave her a searching glance. No, not satisfactory, not sensible … Not enough to eat, pretending to be warm enough in ridiculous underclothes … Probably a mistake, this being Etty’s p.g., though at the time it had seemed such an excellent plan: Etty just orphaned, with her little house and legacy, Olivia difficult, refusing to come back and live at home … But if Olivia was out, did Etty know where? with whom? … when she’d be in? Never. Fatuously cooing into the receiver … No attempt whatsoever at even the most tactful supervision. Idiotic … or deep? Slippery anyway.

  “I must go back,” she said briskly. “Dr. Martin will be here any minute—and Nurse must go off.”

  “Can I see him?” said Olivia.

  “Oh, not just now, dear. He’s having a little sleep. Later on you can just put your head in and peep at him. When he wakes up I’ll tell him you’re here. That’ll cheer him up. Kate, dear, I was wondering if you wouldn’t perhaps like to go for a little stroll with Nurse—?”

  “Oh, were you wondering that?”

  “I just thought it would be nice for her, instead of her going alone. You could take her the pretty walk. I tried to tell her yesterday how to go, but I don’t think she quite took in it
.”

  “I don’t expect she wanted to. I’m sure she loathes pretty walks. She’s all right. I’ve been quite enough of a pal for one day. I’ve already promised to cut out an evening dress for her. Turquoise blue satin. Scrumptious!”

  “Oh, well—Fancy! I wonder what she wants it for. You wouldn’t think she had many occasions to wear turquoise blue satin.”

  “I expect a grateful patient presented it—to match her eyes. He’s going to take her out to dinner in it.”

  “Who is? Is he?” Mrs. Curtis was confused.

  “A bottle of bubbly and a topping show,” said Olivia. “Oo! I wish I was her. Is she a peach, Kate?”

  “No. More of a jolly fine girl.”

  “Oh, well …” said Mrs. Curtis. “I must say it seems to me a bit cool to ask you to cut it out for her.”

  “It’s all right, Mum, I offered. I’d rather cut out every stitch she wears for the next five years than go for a walk with her.”

  “Oh, well” Really, this exaggeration and so forth …”

  “Just as you like, dear. There’s a fire in the schoolroom. And, Olivia, if you run through and just ask Ada she’ll make you some bovril. She and Violet have been so good with the trays and everything. They’re so anxious to help”

  Mrs. Curtis reflected an instant, then set off energetically up the stairs again.

  “I don’t want any bovril,” said Olivia, low.

  “Want must be your master,” said Kate. “Can’t you stop kicking against the pricks for one morning? Ada’s to make it and Violet’s to bring it up and we’re to drink it and we’ll all be doing our bit. I’ll go and order it. Meet you in the schoolroom.”

  “Put a swig of something in mine. Port or sherry or something.”

  But the door had swung to.

  Olivia went upstairs—ascending, ascending into the current of power …” In her mother’s wake it seemed to flow; to concentrate at the silent threshold of his door … He mustn’t cough, I can’t—won’t hear it. But there was no sound, no odour of sickness, and the door seemed guarded. A strong resistant life was in that blank white panelled shutter, a watchful eye in the wink of the brass door-knob: Nothing shall pass here, said she from within. By the power of domestic habit, by the compulsion of household routine, death shall be elbowed out: there shall be no room for it. By the virtue of family reunion, by the protective assertion of common habits of speech, of movement and expression; by the serene impartiality of my outwardly distributed attention, by the colossal force of my inward single concentration—death shall be prevailed against. Meals shall be punctual, sheets aired, fires lit, bovril prepared and drunk, all at my bidding; and therefore nothing shall alter, not one unit of the structure shall collapse. My reserves are barely tapped yet: they shall be sufficient. By the exercise of my will …