He sat down, leaned forward to stroke her cheek and neck. Presently he said, coaxingly: “We were morbid this afternoon, weren’t we, darling? I was in rotten form—I’m so sorry. Fancy spoiling our first time together after such ages … What do you say to staying here? Let’s! I slipped upstairs just now and had a peep into one or two bedrooms. They might be a lot worse.”
“Oh, good. Let’s stay then.”
It was all to be as before. Leave out one or two moments of recklessness and indiscretion and carry straight on …
She sipped her drink.
“I like this funny room,” he said. “What a lot of funny rooms we’ve been in together, haven’t we, darling?”
“Yes … The unlikely fires we’ve lit! … Do you realise it’s nearly a year?”
They began to say do you remember—remembering the first week-end, the night of Cochran’s revue, other times: not the lake and the chestnuts. She moved closer, clung against his knee …
Everything’s all right, what was the fuss about?
“How’s your father, Rollo?”
His smile faded, he looked troubled.
“Oh, poor Daddy—he’s no better. He’s having injections and things, but they can’t cure him. If he’d let ’em operate six months ago he might have had a chance, but he wouldn’t. And now they can’t, his heart’s too dicky. They’ve been in London.”
“Oh, have they? For treatment, I suppose.”
“Yes. I lent them the house while we were away. But he wanted to get back to Meldon, so they’ve gone. He’s restless.”
“Your poor mother.”
“Yes, isn’t it wretched for her? She’s marvellous of course.” He brooded. “You ought to have looked them up—they’d have been pleased. You were always a favourite.”
Look them up! … Take it easy; keep things comfortable all round; what people don’t know about can’t worry them. Cover your tracks and what’s the harm in anything? It’s a little deception here, a little there, that makes the world go round.
“I couldn’t see them now. I can’t keep things separate like you. I suppose I’ve got a worse conscience. I should want to break down and confess all.” She added vehemently, emotionally, “I’ll never see them again—never!”
So be off with you, Lady Spencer, Goddess of Morality, sententious, interfering old woman … Don’t you listen to this—this is between somebody you don’t understand—as usual—and another person you know nothing about. If you only knew what I’m going to tell him …
He had glanced at her, startled, saying mildly: “All right, darling.” He put his fingers through her hair, lifting it lightly back, caressing her. She buried her eyes against his thigh.
“Rollo, darling, shall I tell you what happened?”
He’ll be so tender, so sorry for me; think me so brave. We shall be so close … Nobody was as good as he at comforting words.
She began to tell him about what had happened.
He seemed too dumbfounded, too appalled to speak; that is, except for exclaiming “God!” under his breath, again and again.
“But it’s all right now. It’s over …” She caught-him by the arm, insisting, trying to make him look at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me …” he said at last. But not reproachfully, with indignant love and distress for keeping herself from him, not allowing him to help, to share; more as if—yes, as if trying to suppress the extreme of revulsion and dismay. And quickly he took away his hands.
“You seemed so far away,” she said, panic-stricken, struggling for words to explain, to put it right for him. “I couldn’t get near you. After a bit—almost at once really—I felt so awful—I didn’t want you to see me like that. And then I got into the state where you can’t make any effort, not even to write a letter. The only thing that mattered was to get through each day somehow and go to sleep again. And of course not to let anybody know …”
“Does anybody know?”
“Not a soul—except the man who did it. I didn’t see anybody at all, so as to make sure. I lived in a wilderness—on a desert island …”
“Christ!” He propped his head on his hands, ruffled his hair up wildly. “Was he awful? Didn’t he want the hell of a packet? They always do, don’t they?”
“It wasn’t too bad. I had enough. I borrowed a little from Kate …”
“You should have let me—you must let me pay for it …”
“No, no! Don’t let’s think about it even any more.”
“Please! For God’s sake! Surely it’s the least—”
She cried, stopping her ears:
“You did! … I sold your ring.”
He was silent at that, then said quietly:
“What, the emerald?”
“Yes.” She burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I did mind. What could I do? I couldn’t go on. He sprang it on me—I had to find the money at once. I couldn’t write to you for it—I’ve never asked you for … And I couldn’t explain why in a letter, I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to bother you. I thought I’d better get through it by myself as quick as possible. Because you see, I knew … it was no good—we couldn’t have it … You’d never—you always said never, it wouldn’t do … I knew … I thought—well, it’ll make it a little better to do it by myself—it’ll redeem it a little—because I’m the one to mind—I wanted it … You didn’t. For you it would be just a tiresome mistake, but for me it was a grief … so I must bear it by myself. I told myself—all through the worst, it was for you … I said your name. That helped. Something to do for you. Not sordidly getting rid of something not wanted. Oh, I did! I did want it. I wish I’d never told you now. I’m sorry about the ring. I minded too. And I’m sure I didn’t get nearly enough …”
“Hush! Stop!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, not roughly, but not gently. “As if it mattered about the blasted ring. I’m glad it’s gone—if it was some use … Only it’s the idea of you—” His voice failed. “… Going through that by yourself … I feel such a—”
“You needn’t feel anything—anything. It’s finished.”
“But are you sure you’re all right?”
“Quite all right.” She dried her eyes, blew her nose. The storm of tears had eased her, and she felt calm now, clear-headed. “Perhaps it wasn’t quite like I said. I didn’t mind with the whole of me at the time—far from it. My chief idea was to stop being sick—and the relief when I did! It’s really since—I’ve never stopped minding—and longing for it. I suppose it’s Dame Nature’s revenge; one’s body cheated …”
“What a shame,” he said helplessly. “Oh, darling, what bad luck.
“Sometimes I laid the craziest plans for going through with it—going away somewhere abroad to have it, and then coming back in a year and presenting you with the finished article. I thought you’d get such a thrill when you saw it, you’d be glad after all, you’d … I don’t know. I suppose it would never have worked out.”
He shook his head slightly, plunged it in his hands again, drew in his breath.
“I don’t honestly think it would. I’m rather glad you didn’t … I should have been awfully—”
An extraordinary sound burst out of him—a kind of groan—almost a laugh.
“I know it was a wonderful ring—but I didn’t love it like this one.” She turned the cat’s eye on her little finger. “As long as I’ve got this … This is our ring, isn’t it?”
He smiled briefly, took up her hand and kissed it, let it fall again. He said nothing.
Steps sounded on the brick passage. The woman in the white blouse came in, amiably smiling, carrying an oil lamp with a white glass shade. She set it down on the table in the middle of some green plush and woollen fringe, and struck a match.
“Thought this would brighten things up a bit,” she said. “It does get late early and no mistake,
as the saying goes. This room’s no artist’s studio when it comes to light at the best of times. Still, visitors seem to like it. It’s old, you know—genuine—that’s what appeals to them. That’s why we didn’t have the electric light put in this part—more in keeping like. I don’t care for antiques myself—can’t see the point. You don’t go to make a show of a lot of senile old crocks in bath-chairs, so why anything else old? It doesn’t make sense to me.” She uttered a high, harsh thrill of laughter. “Oh, dear! Winter’s coming on. I’m rheumaticky already. Last year we had the floods right up the garden. It’s enough to give any one the pip … There! Quite comfy? Fire all right? What time d’you want your dinner? Eight? Righty-ho.”
He suggested a stroll before supper, and they walked arm in arm along the willow-bordered road as far as the lock. They leaned over the parapet of the bridge and watched the weir plunge dizzily and boil below them. The sound of it bemused them, breathing its eternal monotone into the noise of the wind and the rainy murmur of the poplars behind the lock-keeper’s cottage.
“Why is water so fascinating?” he said. “I could watch it for ever.”
They said it would be nice to be a lock-keeper. They admired the old bridge of rose-coloured brick with its long smooth-curving span and Gothic arches. They strolled back again, down through the inn garden beneath a straggling pergola to the bank of the river, where there was a raft, and a skiff tied up, and a punt with a green canvas shelter over it. On the farther bank, opposite them, the bank rose abruptly into broken knolls clothed with woods and crowned with a square grey church tower: an un-English looking outline. With sunset a deep glow had come into the sky. Dark fire-fringed masses of cloud raced along the west, splitting around a perilous intense green core of light. Earth, sky and water reflected one another in one unifying, clear, liquid element. A short way out a fleet of white ducks lay at anchor, bobbing and dipping with soft, creaking, gossiping noises. Two swans sailed out round the bend heading for the middle of the river, taking the full, living and dying, light-and-wind-shaken, midstream current with round full breasts of peace. They stood on the bank watching the swans float away downstream.
Look!
It was seeing too much. She turned away her head and looked at him instead.
What’s to come next?
Oh, I see! … An illumination went through her, sharp, piercing and gone again; what I’ve been waiting for. All the pieces fell together … like the broken-up bits in James’s kaleidoscope we used to look through, exclaiming at the patterns.
“Oh, I see”
She was scarcely aware of saying it aloud until she saw his unconscious lips move, murmuring some vague word of query or endearment.
But it’s nothing to do with him … We are born, we die entirely alone; I’ve seen how it will be. To suffer such dissolution and resurrection in one moment of time was an experience magnificent enough in itself. It was far above the level even of the lake, the chestnuts. It should have no sequel.
Everything went away again … There it is: a fact in the world that must be acted on …
“Look at those creatures,” he said presently.
She strolled with him to the fence and looked over. On the step of a thatched cottage an old woman in a black print dress was setting down saucers of milk for three ginger cats.
“I’ve always wanted a ginger cat.”
“Shall I give you one, darling?”
They strolled up again, arm in arm, beneath the ramshackle pergola.
The transfiguring light was gone, and it was dark and cold now, blowing up for rain.
The dining-room was in the new wing: a long, dreary, pallid room with curtains of pink casement cloth, and big tables with white cloths, and a number of palms in stands. It was lit by three electric lamps hanging from the ceiling beneath ornamental orange-tinted shades of bogus marble. Built doubtless to accommodate summer parties from steamers or charabancs, it contained that evening only one other couple, silently masticating at opposite sides of an expanse of table at the farther end. A youngish, flat, pinched pair of weather-beaten holiday makers. The male wore grey flannel trousers and a blazer, the female a royal blue stockinette frock with a crochet neck. Both had long indefinite noses and brownish eyes set close together.
“Campers; out of that punt with the shelter, I bet.”
“Come in for a hot meal and a night’s lodging, I suppose.”
“That means it must be going to be a dirty night. I’m sure they’re very nearly waterproof.”
Tinned apricots followed the stringy, over-roasted chicken, and then a sour and tepid cup of coffee. Afterwards the sallow and now servile woman conducted them to a narrow brittle-looking bedroom with an art frieze of black, blue and orange leaves, and narrow twin beds with orange art bedspreads. The fireplace had a fan of paper in it. It was too meanly proportioned and grudging to hold a fire worth lighting. After she had left them he made a wry face.
“I’m sorry, darling. I must have been tight when I saw it before. The sun was streaming in and it didn’t look too bad.”
“These beds look a close-fisted respectable pair, I must say … Made for people like those campers. Of all the art specimens this frieze takes the cake …”
“The walls are made of cardboard. The campers are next door, I’m afraid. I saw the chap prancing in with a haversack.”
“We shall hear them brushing their plates.”
“I don’t somehow feel we’ll hear much else, do you?”
“What do you suppose he says to her?”
Flippancy, foolish jokes had never come easier; she’d made him laugh all through dinner. We’re hollow people, and our words are so light and grotesque … Clown’s patter. I could always make him laugh. The laugh’s on me …
“I am sorry it isn’t nicer, darling. I feel I’ve let you in for it.”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Because I suppose I shan’t sleep here with him, after what’s going to be. How, where shall I go? Will I stay out all night somewhere, walk about or lie in a ditch or get a lift in a lorry to London or what? It’s all very awkward. It’s a cold night. Could he possibly make it unnecessary for me to go away? … If only he could. He’s so ingenious …
“We’ll try and manage to forget about it, won’t we, darling?” He put his arm round her. She twisted herself lightly away, moving as if to look at herself in the glass above the dressing-table. He glanced at her. She felt him shrink under the snub, taken aback, puzzled. He’s so sensitive in those ways. What’s he thinking? “Is she going to turn touchy too? …” That look on his face—somebody else caused it long ago, has seen it often … It was so immediate, it must come from an old wound.
“Have you signed the register?” she said brightly, powdering her nose.
“Not yet. Who shall we be this time?” His heaviness lifted; anxious, as always, to be comfortable …
They giggled, remembering or inventing names.
“Shall we go down for a bit by the fire, darling? I’ve booked the old oak parlour:” Thinking, “She’ll soon come round …”
“Oh, good!”
He thought of everything.
The room was overpoweringly close, its former complex smell submerged beneath the single smell of oil lamp. She threw open the garden door and drew the dark plush curtain across. Now if I must I can get out that way. They stood together on the hearth lighting cigarettes. Now it was like the first time, in Etty’s house—standing up side by side saying thank you for matches, stubbornly resisting the pressure, like grindstones, that was already irresistibly bearing in on them, forcing them together. Already they couldn’t see each other any more; their eyes were blank, too close.
Olivia said:
“Where is she?”
“She’s still in the country. But she’ll be back morrow.”
“How is she?”
> He said in his rueful half absent-minded way:
“Well, apparently she’s all right now. Never been better. I went down last week-end.”
“Some people do feel their best at these times—specially quite often the delicate ones.”
He seemed to grow heavier, blanker where he stood; and he kept his eyes fixed on a point above and beyond her head,” She said:
“She’s going to have a baby?”
He said yes, and then it was said. It had long been a fact. There was no change between the moment before and the moment after saying it. Nothing could have been simpler.
“Who told you?” he said.
“Nobody …” Your mother told me clear as a factory whistle. I didn’t listen … “When?”
He gave a kind of stifled groan under his breath—as if saying, must we talk about it? …
“Sometime next spring. I’m not quite—April, I suppose.”
Let’s see … Last July then …
“But how exciting! I suppose everybody’s thrilled … all the friends and relations? …” Guarding her, cherishing her so carefully now that she was justifying herself: the precious vessel for the heir. Imagine any scandal coming to her ears—at such a time … Unthinkable.
“I suppose so,” he said sullenly. “They haven’t said much to me.”
“I do hope for everybody’s sake all will go swimmingly this time.” Talking like in a modern play: slick irony: almost enjoying it—feeling nothing. “Let’s hope it’s a boy.”
He turned away. His broad-backed figure blocked the garden exit, the escape. He said:
“How did you guess?”
“Oh … I have visitations, you know … Messengers from the beyond to lay bare mysteries … Voices and great lights.”
“Was it when we were down by the river?”
“Yes, it was.” So he’d been aware of that much.
“I thought something happened,” he said. “I couldn’t think what.”
The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels) Page 34
