The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “We neither of us had the least idea about anything. How to behave or what things cost or how to set about anything. No practical technique whatever.” His two hundred a year, my hundred had seemed any amount of money, for a start.

  “I know. You never had. You always thought me earthy for saving up my pocket money.” An old grievance soured Kate’s voice.

  “We’re not all born with our wits about us like you, my love. But I bet I could give even you some tips nowadays about how to live on nothing at all. One learns if one must. But in those days I thought the Lord provided for people like us.”

  “One of you was to make daisy-chains, while the other coaxed the shy wild things to come around you.”

  “Exactly.”

  He was romance, culture, aesthetics, Oxford, all I wanted then. Oxford had been a potent draught, grabbed at and gulped down without question. To live the remainder of one’s life in that condition,—towery, branchy, cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmed—had seemed the worthy summit of human happiness.

  “We just shouldn’t have married, that’s all.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not, of course not … It’s all very well to be so frightfully shrewd and sensible about other people’s arrangements. You know as well as I do it’s mostly luck. And one’s first choice is more or less a matter of—of picking blindfold—practically at random, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “‘Sometimes’! Don’t you be so jolly superior. Rob wasn’t your first fancy, was he? Supposing you’d married—the person who was …?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” said Kate sharply; and she coloured, after all these years, and put on the look that accused one of tactless insensibility. It was rather a shame to bring it up. No doubt it was true too that Kate would have made a go of it, whoever she’d married … That was her nature; that was just the difference.

  “What we should have done was to live together for a bit. Then we’d have had a chance of discovering …” How shortlived desire could be; how there could be nothing, nothing left, overnight almost; only reluctance, heaviness, resentment, only the occasional, corrupted revival of excitement, and tears and nerves, and the unforgivable words, and the remorse … “But you wouldn’t have approved of that either, would you?”

  “I shouldn’t have cared what you’d done,” said Kate with a yawn. “It was none of my business. The point is, you wouldn’t have approved of it. It’s no good pretending you were so frightfully unconventional and free-lovish—in those days anyway.”

  Olivia was silent. It was true enough. And the trouble is I’m the same now really: wanting to make something important enough to be for ever.

  “Oh, no,” she said finally. “I was all for regularity. I must say for poor Ivor he had some qualms—but I hypnotised him. We were in love so we must be married. I never thought of anything else. I suppose one never gets away from a good upbringing.”

  “One never gets away from being an idiot,” said Kate. “Not speaking personally.”

  “I must say, it’s funny considering how sure you all were it would turn out badly how squawky you all were when I left him. You ought to have been delighted.”

  “Nobody was squawky. It’s entirely your diseased imagination. Naturally Mother was anxious. Wondering what the hell you’d do next …”

  “Why couldn’t she trust me?” Wondering was there another man? … Wondering what will people say? …

  “And no money,” added Kate, treating the question as rhetorical.

  “Well, I didn’t ask any of you for any.” Olivia lit another cigarette with unsteady fingers. The blood started to beat in her face. Damn them all.

  “No, you didn’t,” agreed Kate mildly. “I can’t think how you managed.” Never thought she would.

  “I’ve managed because I swore I would.” Olivia smoked with frenzy. “But it’s been no picnic, I can tell you.”

  “I bet it hasn’t.” Kate was reasonableness itself.

  “I have a hard life” Her voice quavered.

  “I expect it’s been much more satisfactory, being on your own. I should have done the same.”

  Olivia laughed suddenly.

  “It isn’t hard really. I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s all comparative. It’s taught me a bit anyway—about the way some people have to live, I mean …”

  “What’s-her-name does pay you, doesn’t she?—Anna?”

  “Oh, yes. As much as she can afford—more, really. And commission. But that’s not very frequent. Nobody seems to want to be photographed. Nobody I know can afford it.”

  “I must try and bring the children,” murmured Kate.

  “She’s not very good with children.”

  “I shouldn’t think she was,” said Kate, with transparent meaning. “Besides, you know, she is expensive.”

  “She’s far better than any one else.” That’s as may be, said Kate’s silence. “However, you’ve done your bit, coming yourself.”

  “Oh, well, Rob wanted me done.”

  “She thought you were wonderful.”

  “She couldn’t have.” A flicker of scornful pleasure crossed Kate’s face. “I know I was looking awful that day. I always do after that early train journey. And her beastly lights made my eyes water. Not that it mattered much one way or the other. The results weren’t so bad, I must say.”

  “Anna’s not used to fresh young matrons from the country. She was quite overcome.”

  “Oh! … Fresh young matrons my foot! I know my looks aren’t what they were, so you needn’t go on.”

  “Nonsense!” Nonsense it was. She glanced at her. Something was gone, but Kate was a striking-looking woman. “Anyway, compared with me you’re still in your teens.”

  Kate said nothing. It was so untrue, yet so true on the surface, it didn’t bear arguing about. Those infinitesimal lines beneath her eyes, the line one side of her crooked mouth, her thinness, really almost a frail look, blast her … If only she’d feed up and preserve her energy with more underclothes … She looks like … I don’t know what: nothing to do with real age: like an old child … Bother—Bother …

  After a while Olivia said :

  “How are the children, Kate?”

  “Flourishing. Jane had a touch of earache last week but it went off. She didn’t have a temperature, so I wasn’t too worried. I must ring up George at lunch-time. Oh, Lord! I’ve got a million things to do next week. It couldn’t have happened more awkwardly. Can’t be helped.”

  “Perhaps he’ll … Perhaps you’ll be able to get away.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I could stay on another few days if necessary.”

  “We’ll see.” Kate got up and stretched. “When are you coming to stay?”

  “I don’t know, Kate. I’d like to.”

  “You always say that, but you never come. The children are always asking. You’re popular, for some reason. Polly doesn’t even know you.”

  “Sweet Polly—the flower of the flock, I thought, at three weeks.”

  Kate said with a funny look, as if she were saying something a tiny bit embarrassing, on the sloppy side:

  “We think she’s a little like you. She’s got your eyes.”

  “Really? How flattering of you and Rob! … Family likenesses do seem such a compliment … I don’t quite know why. I suppose it’s because they make you feel powerful.”

  “Hmm … Rob ought to feel powerful enough after Priscilla, Jane and Christopher. All the dead spit. However, I suppose I ought to rejoice.” Kate rubbed her eyes. “I did think Christopher might be different. You’re always told the boy favours the female …” She added with bitterness: “And Mother going on every time as if I’d done it on purpose. Raking their faces for the Curtis chin and the West nose …”

  “Anna was mad to know if
the children looked like you. She got quite moral and indignant when I said no.”

  “Did she?” Kate’s lip curled a little; but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eye.

  “Not but what Rob is a fine well-set-up specimen. In fact I think he’s jolly attractive.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The thing is really we’re too special to be repeated … Hadn’t I better adopt Polly? Three’s quite enough for you to go on with. When I see the prams in the Park, I simply ache to have one to push, and lift up the steps and leave in the hall.”

  Kate went suddenly serious. Standing on the clipped wool hearthrug, she pulled her skirt up to let the fire get at the backs of her legs, and said finally:

  “Why don’t you divorce him?”

  Olivia laughed.

  “I follow the train of thought.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Too much trouble.”

  “You don’t want to go back to him by any chance, do you?”

  “God, no!”

  “One day you’ll want to be free and he could make it awkward for you if he wanted to.”

  “Why should he want to?”

  “Well, you never know. You say yourself how spiteful he is. You’re bound to want to marry again one day.”

  “Oh—I don’t know. Shouldn’t think so. Don’t know any marrying men.”

  “And what about him wanting to be free? He might start some funny business on the sly—to get evidence.”

  “Oh, Lord! You think of everything, don’t you?” Olivia blew out a great sigh and closed her eyes.

  “You can think me as nasty-minded as you like—but he might. He might land you in a mess.”

  “He might—but he’d be hard put to it. My life is blameless and chaste—worse luck!”

  She began to feel horribly depressed.

  “You don’t seem to want to give yourself a chance.” Kate was implacable. “It’s all very well now to knock about London on your own like you do. But you don’t want to do it for ever, do you?”

  “Perhaps not.” Perhaps not indeed.

  “Even frightfully nice—” Kate stumbled: unusual for her: went on a trifle lamely: “I mean even the most broadminded men are a bit—well, on their guard about a woman who’s legally married to some submerged person in the offing. They don’t want to get mixed up—”

  “Don’t they? Don’t they really?” Olivia opened her eyes wide.

  “No, they don’t,” said Kate sharply. “Look here, why don’t you let Rob go and have a talk to him? I’m sure he would. The longer you leave it the more difficult it’ll be. Rob would be able to sort of put it to him and suggest he should give you evidence without putting his back up. Rob’s awfully good with people.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Tactful … Look here, old chap, we’re men of the world … Cool but amiable, standing no nonsense …

  Olivia burst suddenly into a loud vulgar chuckle.

  “Now what’s the joke?”

  “I was only thinking of Ivor taking a tart to Brighton for the week-end. Oh dear, it would be funny … the conversation”

  “You’re hopeless,” said Kate coldly.

  Out of patience, she gathered up an armful of blue satin and tissue paper and left the room.

  In disgrace, thought Olivia, left alone. She went and knelt on the old hard cocoa-coloured couch by the window, and leaning on the sill looked out. Away spread the blue damp garden—just as I imagined—lit with a ghost of iridescent mist. The leaves of the walnut were down, and Higgs was sweeping them up, all lemon-yellow, into a barrow. Soon I must go down and say charmingly: “Hallo, Higgs? How are you all?” At the end of the garden rose the elm-tops with a gold shout, plump still, full sailing, but thinning, black-branch-threaded. A flock of starlings pecked on the lawn, on the path. Up they flew all of a sudden and scattered; and she heard a car change gear, hoot, and turn out of the drive: Dr. Martin.

  The telephone rang, faint to her ears: someone inquiring. Kate would answer. It couldn’t be Rollo: not yet. Not ever, of course. Rollo would think about ringing up, sometime tomorrow maybe; and then he wouldn’t do it. Because nice men don’t like to get mixed up … Rollo was undoubtedly in the category of nice men, broad-minded. They are on their guard …

  What a queer meeting, what a queer conversation … getting on so well, such a long way …Or didn’t we really? … What was it happened in the car? What did it mean? I was to be punished, subjugated … He must dominate. What were we near? I couldn’t have been mistaken … Very near, very far … He could be brutal. I want to, I must, shall I never see him again? …

  Oh … This mood, this time, will pass. This heavy weight shall be lifted. Whatever happens we shall all go jogging on again somehow. The dust will settle once again upon these fly-blown images. … Are these all my mind shall contain? Shall no piercing­ shock of resurrection dislodge their tentacles, crumble them for ever? Can it be that what I expect will never be?

  The smutty window, the brown street blighted with noise and rain; the stained walls; the smell of geyser, of cheese going stale in the cupboard, of my hands smelling of the washing-up bowl, nails always dirty, breaking; the figures on the stairs, coming and going drably, murmured to reluctantly, shunned at the door of the communal, dread, shameful W.C. on the middle landing … The despised form in the bed, nose buried, asleep at eleven o’clock in the morning, the sheets are dirty, he is my husband, this is my life, my shoes are shabby. I shall never have a child in the country …

  Rollo, it wasn’t all my fault, I did try. If we’d both been different, if …

  Rollo, this isn’t me, cynical, flippant: you remember me: don’t judge me by what I say. They befog me with their explanations and solutions, they lay my cards on the table for me, they disapprove, they sympathise.

  If I could escape to a new country, I’d soon strip off these sticky layers, grow my own shape again.

  The ordinary, the unnatural day wore on. The telephone rang, was answered; rang again. Footsteps went up and down the stairs, along the passages, creaking, subdued. Meals were swallowed punctually; tags of conversation picked up, dropped, resumed again. Soon after lunch, Dr. Martin’s car returned; and when the early, fog-breathing motionless dusk crept over, there it was still, looming black, extinct, monstrous in a corner of the drive. Kate and Olivia sat over the drawing-room fire, Kate knitting with rapid fingers, Olivia darning a stocking with slow ones: a couple of dummies performing automatic gestures. As darkness fell, they gave up talking; their ears were strained for sounds from above; their bowels stirred, breathing seemed arrested. They existed only in suspense. All else, all energy and emotion, had been drained out of them to concentrate in the silent space on the other side of the ceiling; and they were powerless as ghosts.

  Kate got up and lit the lamp, Olivia poked the fire. They looked out. With the increase of light in the room the darkness without had grown suddenly complete, uncompromising. It’s night. Mother’s been away too long, I want her to come … Draw the curtains. No. The waiting car won’t let us …

  They sat down again. All at once they heard voices, the front door opening and closing. The black oppressive bulk in the drive became a normal car, throbbed, blazed, drew away with its old familiar long-drawn rising moan and settle on the change-up.

  Prepare now.

  The door opened, soft, precise: the white cap was there, stuck wide, angular, vivid in the doorway.

  “Hallo! All in the gloaming down here, aren’t you?” Her voice was brisk and level. “Don’t you believe in having light on the scene then?” … She gave a little laugh. “His temperature’s down. He’s sound asleep—breathing ever so much better. Thought I’d just pop in and tell you. Why don’t you draw those curtains? Make it more cheerful, wouldn’t it? Bye-bye for the present.”

  “What about his pulse?” said Kate. But she was gone.


  “Nice of her,” said Olivia.

  “She’s a good sort.”

  “Isn’t it good …?”—Choking. “I suppose we’d better just wait.” … Carefully steadied.

  They drew the curtains and stood over the fire, exchanging a brief sentence now and then. Half an hour went by. The door opened again. There wasn’t one particular moment when she appeared, but there she towered, alarming, triumphant, with an unfamiliar white incandescent face.

  They faced her, speechless.

  “Here I am, dears.” She came forward to them, smiling in secret power and triumph. “He’s through it. He’s sleeping—such a peaceful sleep—like a child. His pulse is steady.”

  “That’s good,” said Kate, through pale lips; and she began to breathe deeply as if she had been running.

  “Of course, he’s not out of the wood yet …”

  “No,” Olivia nodded, vehement, rigid …

  But he will be: you’ve brought it off, you extraordinary woman, you know you have.

  “But Dr. Martin thinks he stands a good chance now … with every care, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nurse is with him, now. She insisted I should come down for a short time. She’s been such a treasure. This room strikes me as chilly. Not a very cheerful fire. What it needs is a log. Olivia, ring the bell, dear. Have you had tea?”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “I think we could all do with a cup of tea.”

  III

  Opening his eyes, he saw brass bed-rails, blue curtains, drawn, shrouding the window; darkness, suffused with muffled faint illumination. Night then … Who’s here? Who lit the lamp? His lids fell down again, pressed upon by an infinite but gentle weight.

  A clicking, a rustle,—alive, secretive, wary: that was coal shifting, settling in the grate. All was well. This sound, this darkened room were from the beginning. The bed, the muffled light, the blue curtains; tick, flap, hush-sh-sh, the fire in the grate, in the winking bed-knobs; wide, shrunk, wide, shrunk in the fluttering ceiling. All this I know …

  Someone in the room, just stirring. This also was awaited … Call out, perhaps …