Mr Challis hesitated, and moved the rackets under his arm. She continued to gaze up at him, slowly colouring under his look.
‘You mustn’t let them wear you out, you know,’ he said at last. ‘It is more than kind of you to look after the children, but they can be very exhausting – who should know it better than I!’ added Mr Challis, who encountered his grandchildren for perhaps ten minutes every evening, ‘and your profession itself is an exhausting one. Do you like teaching?’ he added abruptly, moved by a playwright’s interest in character but with a feeling that he must not let himself be drawn into a lengthy conversation.
Margaret shook her head. She could not speak.
‘Then get out of it, at all cost,’ he said vehemently. ‘It can be the most soul-destroying of all the professions. Have you private means?’
‘Oh no, nothing –’ she said, and a wild desire to laugh came over her. Private means! If he only knew! What sort of a home did he think she came from? But, of course, when she was not there, he never thought about her at all.
He shook his head. ‘That’s a pity. You are the type of woman who needs to ripen in the sun; do nothing for a few years; let your soul grow. But without money one can’t do that.’ He smiled and added kindly, ‘It’s a pity; money is a damned nuisance. Well – I shall be late. Good-bye,’ and he hurried away.
She walked slowly on towards the house. It was the most human conversation that she had ever had with him, but it had only fanned the fire of her discontent, ‘divine discontent,’ as it was called. In all his plays there was no fulfilment or ripeness or satisfaction, only yearning and the subtle joys which flowered from renunciation.
She stopped for a moment by the door and stood looking down at a little bed of radishes, which had caught her eye by the bright purple of their globes embedded in the earth; stout, large, juicy radishes, grown by Barnabas under the instructions of Cortway; each with a pair of rough astringent leaves and each with its rosiness fading away into succulent white flesh towards its tapering end. There’s something satisfying about those, she thought dreamily. They give me the same feeling as Emma’s cheeks and Dickon’s voice and the rain on my face yesterday … it’s silly, of course, compared with what he said.
Mr Challis’s eldest grandson was kneeling up in bed in his pyjamas and asking questions about Grantey. Would she go straight to Heaven? Would she be able to see everything he and Emma and Jeremy did now she was in Heaven? Would her ghost come and haunt them? Could he and Emma go to the funeral? – and so on.
Margaret sat beside him and, subduing her own instinct to give indefinite answers to these questions, told him firmly that Grantey’s spirit (‘the mind-part of her’) was met by an angel and taken straight to Heaven the minute she died. The angel was sent by God so that the soul should not feel lonely and surprised when it went away from the earth. No, Grantey would not be able to see everything that he and Emma and Jeremy did; she would be having a happy time, resting and being with all her friends and relations who were dead too. They would have lots to talk about, wouldn’t they?
‘Laughing?’ asked Barnabas.
‘Yes,’ answered Margaret decidedly, beginning to straighten the bedclothes.
‘And dancing about?’
‘I expect so, later on, when she’s used to it,’ said Margaret, laughing herself. Emma was standing up naked in her cot and slowly, silently dropping the pillow, sheets, blankets and her nightgown over the side, one by one. Jeremy was asleep in the next room.
‘Good night, Barnabas,’ said Alex Niland, slouching into the room in slippers and smiling ‘good evening’ at Margaret.
‘Dad!’ exclaimed Emma with a radiant smile and dropped the last blanket over the side.
‘Aren’t you a shameless wench?’ said her father, beginning to gather up the bedclothes. ‘Come on now, put it on,’ and he clumsily and tenderly drew the little nightgown over her head while Margaret finished tidying Barnabas’s bed. She was not nervous of Alexander now, for his personality barely inspired respect, much less awe. She wondered what was the story behind his reconciliation with his wife.
‘There! you notty boy,’ said Zita crossly, entering with some Bovril and toast. ‘Another time you will have a proper supper, I hope.’
‘Co-co!’ cried Emma with widening eyes, stretching out her arms towards the cup.
‘No, no co-co to-night, Emma must go to sleep,’ said Zita, trying to put her down on the pillow.
‘No, oh no!’ she cried, struggling up again and trying to pull off her nightgown.
‘Better leave her, she’ll go to sleep when she’s tired,’ suggested Alex, picking her up between his big hands and giving her a loud kiss, ‘She can’t get her nightie off; I’ve buttoned it up. Good night, Barnabas, my old companion,’ and he gave his son another loud kiss. ‘I want you to stay and read to me,’ said Barnabas rather plaintively.
‘Not to-night, I want to be with Mummy.’
‘What are you going to do? Have a nice time?’
‘We’re going to the local.’
‘Now?’
‘No; first of all we’re going to sit on the sofa together, and then go to the local.’
‘Are you glad to be back?’
‘Yes, very, in some ways.’
‘Not in all ways? Zita says you’re a great artist and very selfish. Are you?’ asked Barnabas, not with complete ingenuousness.
‘Zita’s quite right,’ said Alex, darting a look at Zita that completely altered his pale face and made her flush, and change the shocked protest she was beginning into an excited laugh. ‘Now you go to sleep, I want to be off.’
After he had gone out of the room Margaret lingered, settling Emma and thinking about this little scene. That look had showed her that there was another side to his nature, a fact which she had been too inexperienced to realize. It disturbed her, for it had been – lawless? That was the word nearest to it. She was not surprised that Zita’s disturbance had expressed itself in excited laughter, while she herself had strongly disliked the sense of adult impulses and behaviour that had suddenly invaded the nursery.
Barnabas consented to lie down with a picture-book until he felt sleepy, and Margaret was just going out of the room when he remarked:
‘Grantey promised to take us to Kew. S’pose we shan’t go now.’
‘Did she, Barnabas? You and Emma? Well, I’ll take you if you like. Would you like that?’
‘Don’t mind,’ said Barnabas, shrugging his thin shoulders under the bedclothes, but Margaret knew that he was pleased.
‘All right, then, and perhaps Zita and Jeremy could come too.’
‘Not Jeremy.’
‘Why ever not? Poor Jeremy.’
‘I hate him. So does Emma hate him.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’
‘Yes, she does, don’t you, Emma?’ appealing to the cot, but the only answer was a murmur of ‘Co-co’; Emma was playing with the wooden beads on the rail.
‘Well, anyway, I’ll see if we can all go next Saturday, if you’d like to. Good night. Go to sleep soon, like a good boy.’
And Margaret went downstairs to try to come unobtrusively across Seraphina or Hebe and ask if the children could go with her to Kew. She was apprehensive of seeing Alex and Hebe locked in an embrace on the great sofa in the hall, and was relieved to see them walking down the front garden hand-in-hand. Apparently the kisses were over and they were on their way to the local.
And now – on her way home with the arrangements for next Saturday’s expedition settled, amid grateful thanks from the subdued Mrs Challis – her hero-worship for Mrs Challis’s husband was all revived. How beautiful he had looked! How kindly he had spoken! How generously he had overlooked what she had said about his play! Perhaps there was another side to his nature, also; a warm, expansive side that she had never encountered until to-day. She would always remember those words – You are the type of woman who needs to ripen in the sun. Ah, how true that was! The sun of happiness, of warm, untroubled love!
>
Her mother’s manner on her return was a little less stony; she had had a telephone call from a Lukeborough friend who was staying in London, and she wanted to talk over Lukeborough gossip; her daughter was better for this purpose than no one. Besides, she looked forward to telling one piece of news.
‘Who do you think is married?’ she asked suddenly, looking steadily at Margaret.
‘Goodness knows. Someone we know?’
‘Someone you used to know very well. Frank Kennett.’
‘No! is he? Who to?’ said Margaret, with a pang – of what feeling, it would be difficult to say.
‘Pat Lacey. That blonde at the Luna. I wish him joy of her, that’s all. I’ve always believed that child of hers wasn’t legitimate.’
‘Reg said she was married. I suppose she got a divorce or perhaps her husband was killed.’
‘She was no more married than you are,’ said Mrs Steggles, whose expression had become hard again at Reg’s name.
‘It’s queer to think of Frank married to her, he used to say she wasn’t his type,’ said Margaret thoughtfully. Her mother’s jibe passed her by, for marriage, as a way of achieving happiness, was no longer a state for which she longed. Love, yes; but not marriage.
‘Oh well, I hope they’ll be happy,’ she said, as she went out of the room, and meant it, but Mrs Steggles only smiled bitterly as she answered. ‘There’s no harm in hoping.’
Margaret stood at her window for a moment, gazing out into the summer night and thinking how far away Lukeborough seemed now, with its mean ugly streets and commonplace people; the boys and girls whom she had watched growing up; the local characters who had done something wrong or unusual (the terms were identical in Lukeborough’s eyes) and who drifted about the town, growing older; and all about it the flat, featureless countryside, so gentle as to be almost without character, as unnoticed as the green of grass or the grey of the sky on a spring day. Thank heaven, at least I’ve got out of that, she thought and then she remembered Hilda, of whom she had not thought for many days, and remorsefully decided that she really must ring her up.
Mr Challis was also thinking about Hilda, who had promised to go to Kew with him on the following Saturday afternoon. True, the beauty of the flowering trees would be practically over, but there would be the rusted coverts of the may, as Walter de la Mare beautifully calls the withering hawthorn flowers, and all that was Yellow-Bookish in Mr Challis was attracted by the perverse charm of dying blossoms; Hilda’s youth would shine dazzlingly amidst the brown petals lying along the fresh spring grass, and I – he thought, leaning out of the window for a moment and gazing into the rich, dark trees standing motionless – I shall tell her, at last, that I love her.
He withdrew his head and retired – full of fluttering yet masterful anticipations – to bed.
27
The next evening Margaret went to Westwood-at-Brockdale. It seemed a long time since she had been there, but everything appeared to have gone well in her absence, except that Dick seemed worried and irritable. He kept these signs, of course, for Margaret, and did not display them too plainly before Linda, but when the child had gone to bed, and he and Margaret were washing-up, he became so moody and silent that she began to feel that she must make some comment, and at last said abruptly:
‘Are you fed up with me about anything?’
‘Of course not. Why should I be? You’ve been kindness itself.’
‘Oh … that’s all right then, I only wondered.’
He smiled faintly but said no more, and presently took up the evening paper. She had some mending to do for Linda, and sat down opposite to him with it. They were in the little drawing-room, which overlooked the garden, and there lingered a rich, fading glow in the sky by which they could see to read and sew. Margaret felt disturbed and uneasy; she was sure that something was the matter and gradually romantic suppositions began to fill her head and she became embarrassed; a deep flush came up in her cheeks and burned painfully there while her hands became moist and her heart beat heavily. In a quarter of an hour I will go home, she thought, there are all those books to be corrected. I’ll just wait for the nine o’clock news.
Presently she felt his eyes fixed upon her, and finding this unbearable, she glanced up and found him staring moodily at her. He smiled at once, however, and put down the paper.
‘You aren’t engaged, are you?’ he said.
Margaret’s heart gave a great bound. Oh, what was coming? She shook her head and answered with schoolgirl clumsiness:
‘No, worse luck,’ and her hands began to tremble so that she had to put down her sewing and pretend to search for the scissors.
‘It’s a pity. You’d make a grand wife for somebody.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ faintly.
‘Don’t you like the idea? Or haven’t come across the right person, is that it?’
‘I expect that’s it,’ she said, managing to regain some self-possession and even to smile. He did not return the smile, but continued to stare at her sombrely with a hangdog look. She glanced at the clock, and exclaiming, ‘Oh, it’s just on nine, shall I turn it on,’ went over to the wireless cabinet and adjusted the dials. Big Ben began to strike faintly.
‘I think I won’t wait, if you don’t mind, Dick; I’ve got a lot of correcting to do to-night,’ she said, beginning to put Linda’s clothes away.
‘Just as you like,’ he answered in a surprised, rather sulky tone, and she went upstairs to get her coat.
‘Margaret?’ called Linda’s voice through an open door.
‘Yes, darling. What’s the matter? Can’t you get to sleep?’ and she went in to the curtained room, which was in the soft dusk of the lingering sunset, and bent over the bed. Linda’s strange little face looked placidly up at her from the pillow and one hand crept out towards her own.
‘Linda’s cold, Margaret.’
‘Poor girl, Margaret will make it better. We thought two blankets might not be enough, didn’t we? Margaret will put on another one. There, is that better?’
‘Margaret made it better for Linda,’ Linda said, putting her unshapely arms under the bedclothes, and then she smiled, revealing her tiny teeth, pointed and white as a little cub’s. Margaret looked down at her in a sudden passion of pity. There was much here of the elements of beauty; fine dark hair and firm flesh and smooth skin, yet behind these elements there was no controlling mind to fuse them into a whole; there was only a marred force that expressed itself in misshapenness. When Margaret remembered Claudia and Emma and Dickon, with their quick minds dancing behind their eyes, how could she help a faint, pitying shudder over Linda? And as she bent to kiss the child good night there drifted through her mind the disturbing thought – the Nature of God may be completely different from what we imagine, but she firmly pushed it aside, for she had enough problems to worry her, she felt, without starting on God.
In the hall she found Dick waiting.
‘I’ll walk up to the station with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go up and tell Linda we’re going.’
‘You needn’t bother, really, Dick.’
‘I feel like a walk,’ he said, and as she waited for him her embarrassment and apprehension were all renewed. Was he going to tell her that he loved her; perhaps ask her to marry him? Oh, what shall I say if he does? she thought.
‘Ready?’ said Dick. ‘She’ll be all right, she’s nearly asleep.’
In the wide, quiet, shady road the masses of faded blossom on the may trees were lifted against the twilight sky and under Margaret’s feet rustled the fallen acacia petals. Gusts of warmth came out from the dark hedges and shrubs, and the air was full of delicious faint scents.
They walked in silence. Margaret was only anxious to get to the station as soon as possible without a declaration from him, and yet she knew that if he said nothing she would be bitterly disappointed. But he continued to walk along in silence, with his head lowered and his hands in his pockets, and she was silent too, though she felt that she o
ught to say something; he would think this mutual silence so strange, and perhaps encouraging.
‘Are you coming over to-morrow evening?’ he asked at last.
‘Of course, unless you’d rather I didn’t? I mean, I took it for granted I should go on coming here every evening until Mrs Coates comes back. How is she, by the way?’
‘About the same.’
She said no more, and in a few moments they reached the station. He saw her into the building and bought her ticket for her and then hesitated for a moment, looking away from her, and seeming unwilling to go.
‘Well, good night,’ she said, smiling. The danger was over now; and yet she felt disappointed. As she looked up at his thin face with the suffering that had eclipsed its youthful ardour lying upon it, she felt that she could easily love him.
‘Good night,’ he said suddenly. ‘We’ll see you to-morrow then.’
He made a vague farewell gesture and hurried away and Margaret descended into the tube and on the way back to Highgate thought seriously about the duties and responsibilities and sacrifices involved in marriage to a divorced man with a backward child. There’s one thing, she thought heartily, as she walked up the road towards her own home, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind him kissing me.
The next evening she arrived at Westwood-at-Brockdale to find Dick in the same mood as on the previous evening; so much so that, after supper, she announced her intention of putting Linda to bed instead of letting the child do it herself, as she had now learned to do; for she felt that she could not endure to sit in a meaningful silence downstairs with Linda’s father until it was time to go home. If she did, it looked like giving him a chance – and yet, if she hid herself upstairs with Linda, would he not feel equally encouraged by such shyness and assume that she loved him? Oh dear, she thought, I wish I were more experienced in dealing with men.
But he made no attempt to bring her downstairs, even though she lingered, laughing with Linda and supervising her toilet and praising the progress she had made in tending herself, until nearly half-past eight. Downstairs all was silent; Dick was apparently reading through the three evening papers as he did every night, and Margaret was beginning to wonder whether she might get through the evening more comfortably than she had hoped, when she heard him calling at the foot of the stairs:
Westwood (Vintage Classics) Page 37
