Mariella splashed the water, hummed a little tuneless tune, laughed when a stone gave way beneath her foot and threw her headlong into the stream; and the bathing days with Jennifer returned to Judith with a pang. The body beside her now was like Jennifer’s in height, strength, firmness of mould: and yet how unlike! This body seemed as unimpassioned as the water which held it; and Jennifer’s had held in every curve a mystery which compelled the eyes and the imagination.
‘I really wish I’d brought Peter,’ said Mariella, stooping down to peer into the water. ‘He’d have been so excited about these little fishes. Martin and I have just made him a little aquarium and he’s so thrilled with it.’
‘What fun, Mariella! It must be fun having him to play with. He’s such a good age now.’
‘Well, he really likes playing by himself best,’ she said, looking faintly troubled. ‘He’s such a queer quiet little boy.’
‘Well that’s much better for him than always having to be amused, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is!’ She cheered up. ‘He – I s’pose it’s him being an only child and me being fairly busy – and then I do think it’s much better for a child to learn to play by himself, don’t you?’ She echoed Judith’s words complacently, as if they sprang from her own original and profound conviction.
After a pause she went on reflectively:
‘That governess of his is a very strict person. She says she must have entire charge of him.’
‘She’s new, isn’t she?’
‘Quite new.’ Then gravely, like a child pretending to be grown up: ‘I thought perhaps I might sack her. I’m not altogether satisfied with her.’
She seemed to be waiting to be encouraged in her desperate plan.
‘But why, Mariella?’
She hesitated, flushing.
‘Well, she’s so frightfully superior,’ she said at last, looking apologetic, a little sheepish. ‘I do hate bossy people, do you?’ Her eyes sought Judith’s with a flicker of appeal.
‘I should think I do.’
‘Well that’s what it is,’ she said with relief.
Judith took her arm and patted it, saying laughingly: ‘Mariella, you’re afraid of her, I do believe! You know you’d never dare sack her. Shall I come and do it for you?’
‘Well’ – Mariella dropped her voice and said in an embarrassed confiding way, ‘She simply doesn’t take any notice of me – absolutely none. His own mother! I really sometimes wonder if … Do you suppose –’ She stopped, and a feint flush suffused her whole face.
‘What, Mariella?’ said Judith softly.
‘Well, I sometimes wonder if Julian could possibly have told her I – I don’t know how to look after him.’
She stooped again over the water, and her curb fell forward, hiding her face.
‘Oh no, Mariella! He couldn’t… He’d never do a thing like that.’
But was it not more than possible?
‘Well p’raps not … But he might, you know…’ She picked pebbles out of the water, her face still hidden. ‘He never did think I was much good at looking after Peter. You see, the thing is I ought to be very grateful to him really …’
‘Why, Mariella?’ asked Judith. To herself she said: ‘In another minute I shall get to know Mariella’: and she almost held her breath to listen, waiting for the moment of revelation, and fearful lest a word or movement of hers should alarm the speaker, close her lips suddenly, and for ever.
‘Well, he’s very helpful about Peter.’ Still she picked pebbles from the stream and threw them away again. She went on as if with on effort: ‘The thing is, you see, he got that governess for Peter, interviewed her and everything. Isn’t he funny? He said poor old Pinkey – you remember her – wasn’t good for him and he must have somebody more suitable for his nervous temperament. I’m afraid he has got a very nervous temperament. I s’pose it’s being musical … He took simply terrific trouble to find that governess. I daresay she does manage nervous children well. Peter seems very cheerful with her I must say … And he doesn’t wake up with one of his screaming fits nearly so often … So I can’t say anything, can I? Julian always will think he knows best. He always was an awful boss, wasn’t he?’ She raised her face to smile with a suspicion of roguishness.
‘Yes, always.’ Judith smiled back, eager to encourage Mariella with a sense of shared amusement.
The stratagem was successful. Mariella swam a few strokes to the bank, sat down there, splashing the water with her feet, and said, more cheerfully: ‘Of course it’s very nice he takes such an interest.’
Judith came and sat beside her on the bank, and continued: ‘Where shall you send Peter to school?’
Her face clouded over again, troubled and alarmed.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t thought. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. He’s so delicate and … I suppose Julian will see about it… I think he’s got some plans … Of course Peter isn’t quite like other children because he’s so musical, Julian says …’
There was a long silence. The sun had dried their wet bodies, and they leisurely dressed again and continued to sit on the bank side by side, watching the flow of the water. The faintest ruffle of breeze had sprung up, and the sculptured fern cascades were coming to life, stirring now and then. The golden light on the beeches had become richer and more tender.
‘It must be very interesting to have a child,’ said Judith at last.
‘Oh, do you think so? Do you want one?’
Judith nodded.
‘I never wanted one.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I always thought puppies so much nicer than babies.’
‘But what did you feel when your baby was born, Mariella?’
She shook her head.
‘I can’t remember.’ Her lip quivered. ‘I didn’t feel much. I was awfully ill and – there seemed so many bothers going on. I didn’t see him for quite a long time and then – Oh, I don’t know! He was such an ugly miserable little baby and I simply couldn’t believe he was mine. It didn’t seem as if it could possibly be true that I had a baby. I just kept on thinking: What on earth am I to do with him? Then the doctor told me he might not live. And then I s’pose I suddenly wanted him to live.’
‘Yes. You loved him.’
‘I s’pose so … I began to think of names for him … And I thought after all it might be nice if he grew up and – and stopped being pale and thin. But he never has. Still we’re all more or less pasty-faced, aren’t we? Then there was Julian … and I thought – Oh I don’t know … Poor Granny was dying and I took him to see her. She was so happy because he’d been born; because you know she absolutely adored –’ She stopped, her high unnatural little narrative voice failing abruptly.
The simplicity, the pathos, the unreality of her life! … Judith felt the tears burn her lids as the remembered that strange marriage, the deaths of Charlie and of the grandmother – the only woman who had ever in all her life protected, cared for and advised her – and realized in what child-like bewilderment and dismay she had borne her child.
She had never talked at such length or with so obvious a satisfaction in talking. For once, Mariella had things she needed to say.
Judith put a hand tightly on hers as it by on the grass. It quivered a moment, startled, then lay still, and Mariella turned her amazing eyes full on Judith. Sun and sky were mirrored in them so that they swam with more than their usual blind radiance, but the expression of her lips was tremulously pleased and grateful. Soon she sighed and said:
‘I s’pose he’d have adored Peter too. He and Julian were like that about children. I s’pose he’d have done everything for him. He was looking forward awfully … It’s a pity really Peter’s not more like him – in looks I mean – not in –’ She checked herself.
Mariella was talking of Charlie: in a small, shy but unreluctant voice, she was
talking of him: she was preparing to say the things which it had seemed never could be said. In another few moments it would be possible to say gently: ‘Mariella, why did you marry him?’
She leaned her cheek on her elbow and continued:
‘I don’t really understand children.’
‘But later on, Mariella, when he’s older you’ll be so happy with him, – doing things together. You’ll be such a marvellously young mother for him.’
‘Oh, later on!’ was all she said; and added: ‘I don’t believe boys care much anyway about their mothers being young.’
If Julian had heard her say that, so shrewdly, would he not have been disconcerted?
Judith turned to her, opened her mouth to speak.
But then, as on another occasion, Martin burst in upon the pregnant moment – coming round the corner with a loud ‘Hullo!’ – fresh, pink and cheerful from his bathe; and Mariella rose from Judith’s side, her lips lifted lightly to smile him an agreeable welcome, her whole customary manner enfolding her in one instant.
‘Hullo!’ she called back. ‘Did you have a nice bathe? We did, didn’t we, Judy?’ Empty little voice, with perhaps a trace of relief in it … It was all over.
They went back to find Julian.
They slipped back towards home along the chalky roads in an evening heavy with dark shadows.
Martin drove in silence, and Judith sat beside him. Perhaps she would tell him to drive straight home without bothering to drop her; and then they might invite her to come in for a moment, and she would see Roddy – see for herself how ill he was.
Martin turned and looked at her suddenly, and said with a nervous twitch of his mouth:
‘It is such fun seeing you again.’
‘Such fun, Martin.’
‘At Cambridge –’ He stopped.
‘Yes Martin?’
‘It was ghastly not seeing you oftener at Cambridge.’
‘I know, Martin. It seemed so difficult with those disgusting rules. It was hopeless trying to see one’s friends.’
‘It wasn’t my fault we didn’t meet oftener,’ he stammered out. ‘I wanted to. I thought you were fed up with me, so I kept away.’
‘What made you think such a silly thing, Martin?’
He hesitated, and flushed.
‘Because I – didn’t get on – with your friends.’
She sighed.
‘You mean Jennifer?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘You didn’t like her, did you?’
Jennifer had always been at her worst when Martin was there.
‘I – I couldn’t hit it off … I – of course I could see she was – very nice … I could understand why you – were so fond of her …’ He floundered on, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, his foot gradually forgetting to press the accelerator. ‘But you seemed – quite different when she was there … at least you were different to me. It felt as if we were strangers.’
She sighed again, and said patiently:
‘I’m sorry, Martin.’
Imposable to try to explain to him. What he said was all so true. Let him think what he liked: she was not responsible to him for her behaviour, not obliged, as he seemed to think, to treat him with consideration. Dull, dull, tiresome Martin. No wonder he had roused a devil in Jennifer.
‘Oh!’ he said, overcome, ‘Good heavens, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I wasn’t meaning to accuse you.’
‘It sounded as if you were,’ she said in an aggrieved voice. It was an easy game, upsetting Martin.
‘Oh Judy, you know I wasn’t,’ he said unhappily; and in his agitation he completely forgot to accelerate, and the car slowed down till she scarcely crawled.
‘Hey sir!’ shouted Julian from the back. ‘May I ask what you are up to, sir? Does the road belong to you, sir, or does it not?’
Martin made a grimace over his shoulder and drove on.
‘All I meant,’ he said presently, very quietly, ‘was that I’d missed you awfully, and that I’m terribly glad I’ve – I’ve met you again.’
‘So am I, Martin. Honestly I am.’
She was remorseful.
‘I’m going away tomorrow – must get back to the farm.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wonder if – I’d awfully like you to meet my mother. Would it bore you frightfully to come and stay?’
‘It wouldn’t bore me one little bit. I’d love to meet your mother.’
‘Oh good!’ He beamed. ‘I’d love to show you my home. It’s rather nice.’
Mariella leaned over his shoulder to say:
‘Drive straight to the station, Martin. Julian will miss his train if we don’t hurry.’
In another ten minutes they were at the station.
‘We’ll come and see you off, Julian,’ said Mariella.
‘I mustn’t wait,’ said Judith. ‘Mamma’s having supper early. I promised I’d be back. Good-bye and thank you all very very much. Good-bye Julian.’
She held out her hand to him. He took it and elegantly kissed it.
‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Nous nous reverrons au mois d’août. Sans faute, n’est ce pas?’
She nodded.
‘Alors au plaisir …’
He gave her one searching look, waved his hand and disappeared into the booking-office.
Mariella, following him, turned back for a moment to say in a small voice:
‘Good-bye, Judith. I’ll see you again, shan’t I?’
Her face was for once without its little smile. It was composed and – yes – quite grown up: yes, it had turned into one of those unnumbered women’s faces, masked with a faint fixed perplexity and sadness: and, behind the mask, not alive at all.
She turned to Martin who still lingered beside her.
‘Then – if my mother writes to you? –’ he said.
‘Yes, Martin. I’ll come.’
‘You must come.’
‘I’d love to.’
To see one of the circle detached and against a separate background of home and parents would be interesting: though, alas, Martin’s father had died. It was he who had been brother to Mariella’s mother, and to the father of Julian and Charlie, and of Roddy. Martin’s mother was quite external … Still, there might be portraits, photographs, all sorts of family things …
She detached her hand from his, and started to run.
The train was not even signalled yet. In five minutes she could be with Roddy. She would make some excuse – say she had left something. She could reckon on a clear quarter of an hour at least in which to see him, tell him she was sorry, tell him … and quickly go away again.
She knocked on the sitting-room door.
‘Come in,’ said a cross voice.
‘Roddy,’ she said timidly, standing at the door. ‘I’ve come to see you. Just to ask how you are. Only for a minute. Am I disturbing you?’
‘Oh, come in, Judy.’ His voice was polite and surprised.
He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its own dark-blooded feverish pulse.
‘Nice of you to come, Judy.’ His voice made him utterly unapproachable. ‘How cool you look. Did you enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too hot to be comfortable anywhere.’
‘It was horri
d without you, Roddy.’
‘Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was bland and cold.
‘Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Roddy – it was all spoilt for me when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’
‘Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own stupid fault.’
‘Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’
He laughed.
‘I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so concerned about me.’
He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sympathizing with him.
‘Then there’s nothing I can do for you?’
‘Nothing at all, thank you Judith.’
He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expression. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient gesture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and started to draw figures on the blotter.
‘You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You ought to rest.’
‘I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions still bore the impress of his body. ‘I got sick of it. I had some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done. I’m going away tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Back to Paris?’
‘No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled for a minute. ‘She thinks I need a holiday.’
To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like Martin: ‘I want you to meet her?’
She came and stood beside him.
‘Well I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter wretchedness out of her voice. ‘I only came to see how you were.’
‘It was very sweet of you, Judy.’
His voice was all at once gentle and caressing. He took her hand up lightly, and played with the fingers; and she felt the old helplessness suit to drown her.
‘Well, it’s good-bye, I suppose, Roddy,’ she said very low.
‘It looks like it, Judy.’
‘Always, always going away. Aren’t you?’
He smiled at her.
Dusty Answer Page 24
