Unfinished Portrait
Page 15
Seeing his stricken face she knew that he did indeed love her, with a love that feared to grasp at a treasure much desired.
Three weeks later Peter sailed.
A year and three months later Celia married Dermot.
9 Dermot
1
Peter came gradually into Celia’s life; Dermot came with a rush.
Except that he too was a soldier, no greater contrast could have been imagined between two men than between Dermot and Peter.
Celia met him at a regimental ball at York to which she went with the Lukes.
When she was introduced to this tall young man with the intensely blue eyes he said: ‘I’d like three dances, please.’
After they had danced the second, he asked for three more. Her programme was full up. He said:
‘Never mind. Cut somebody.’
He took her programme from her and crossed out three names at random.
‘There,’ he said, ‘don’t forget. I’ll be early so as to snatch you in time.’
Dark, tall, with dark curling hair; very blue eyes that slanted, faun-like, and glanced at you and away quickly. A decided manner, an air of being able to get his own way always – under any circumstances.
At the end of the ball he asked how long Celia was going to be in this part of the world. She told him she was leaving the next day. He asked if she ever went to London.
She told him that she was going to stay with her grandmother next month. She gave him the address.
He said: ‘I may be in town about then. I’ll come and call.’
Celia said: ‘Do.’
But she never thought seriously that he would. A month is a long time. He fetched her a glass of lemonade, and she sipped it, and they talked about life, and Dermot said that he believed you could always get everything you wanted if only you wanted it enough.
Celia felt rather guilty over the dances she had cut – it wasn’t a habit of hers – only, somehow, she hadn’t been able to help it … He was like that.
She felt sorry that she would probably never see him again.
But, to be truthful, she had forgotten all about him when on entering the house at Wimbledon one day she found Grannie leaning forward animatedly in her big chair, talking to a young man whose face and ears were rather pink with embarrassment.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten me,’ mumbled Dermot.
He was by now very shy indeed.
Celia said of course she hadn’t, and Grannie, always sympathetic to young men, asked him to stay on to dinner, which he did. And after dinner they went into the drawing-room, and Celia sang to him.
Before he left he propounded a plan for the morrow. He had tickets for a matinée – would Celia come in to town and go with him to it? When it turned out that he meant alone, Grannie demurred. She didn’t think Celia’s mother would like it. The young man, however, managed to get round Grannie. So Grannie gave in, but she said on no account was he to take Celia anywhere to tea afterwards. She was to come straight home.
So that was settled, and Celia met him at the matinée and enjoyed it more than any theatre she had ever seen, and they had tea at the buffet at Victoria, because Dermot said that didn’t count.
He came twice again before Celia returned home.
The third day after Celia had returned she was having tea with the Maitlands when she was summoned to the telephone. Her mother spoke:
‘Darling, you simply must come home. Some young man of yours has turned up on a motor bicycle – and you know it worries me to have to talk to young men. Come home quickly and look after him yourself.’
Celia went home wondering who it was. Her mother had said that he had mumbled his name so that she hadn’t been able to hear it.
It was Dermot. He had a desperate, determined, miserable look, and he seemed quite unable to talk to Celia when he did see her. He just sat muttering monosyllables and not looking at her.
The motor bicycle was a borrowed one, he told her. He had thought it would be refreshing to get out of London and do a few days’ tour round. He was putting up at the inn. He had to go off tomorrow morning. Would she come for a walk with him first?
He was in much the same mood the next day – silent – miserable – unable to look at her. Suddenly he said:
‘My leave’s over, I’ve got to go back to York. Something’s got to be settled. I must see you again. I want to see you always – all the time. I want you to marry me.’
Celia stood stock still – utterly startled. While she had recognized that Dermot liked her, it had never entered her head that a young subaltern of twenty-three would contemplate marriage.
She said: ‘I’m sorry – very sorry – but I couldn’t – oh, no, I couldn’t.’
How could she? She was going to marry Peter. She loved Peter. Yes, she still loved Peter – just the same – but she loved Dermot also …
She realized that she wanted to marry Dermot more than anything in the world.
Dermot was going on:
‘Well, I’ve got to see you, anyway … I expect I’ve asked you too soon … I couldn’t wait …’
Celia said:
‘You see – I’m – engaged to someone else …’
He looked at her – one of those quick sidelong glances. He said:
‘That doesn’t matter. You must give him up. You do love me?’
‘I – think I do.’
Yes, she loved Dermot better than anything in the world. She would rather be unhappy with Dermot than happy with anyone else. But why put it like that? Why should she be unhappy with Dermot? Because, she supposed, she didn’t know at all what he was like … He was a stranger …
Dermot was stammering.
‘I – I oh! that’s splendid – we’ll get married at once. I can’t wait …’
Celia thought: ‘Peter. I can’t bear to hurt Peter …’
But she knew that Dermot could bear to hurt any number of Peters and she knew that what Dermot told her to do she would do.
For the first time she looked right into his eyes which no longer gave a glance and flashed away.
Very, very blue eyes …
Shyly – uncertainly – they kissed …
2
Miriam was lying on the sofa in her bedroom, resting, when Celia came in. One glance at her daughter’s face told her that something unusual had happened. Like a flash it went through Miriam’s mind. ‘That young man – I don’t like him.’
She said, ‘Darling – what is it?’
‘Oh, Mother – he wants to marry me – and I want to marry him, Mother …’
Straight into Miriam’s arms – her face buried on Miriam’s shoulder.
And above the agonizing beating of her strained heart, Miriam’s thought ran frenziedly:
‘I don’t like it – I don’t like it … But that’s selfishness – because I don’t want her to go.’
3
There were difficulties almost at once. Dermot could not override Miriam high-handedly as he overrode Celia. He kept his temper because he did not want to put Celia’s mother against him, but he was annoyed at any hint of opposition.
He admitted that he had no money – a bare eighty pounds a year beyond his pay. But he was annoyed when Miriam asked how he and Celia proposed to live. He said he hadn’t had time to think yet. Surely they could manage – Celia wouldn’t mind being poor. When Miriam said that it wasn’t usual for subalterns to marry, he said impatiently that he couldn’t help what was usual.
He said, rather bitterly, to Celia: ‘Your mother seems determined to bring everything down to pounds, shillings, and pence.’
He was like an eager child denied the thing it had set its heart on and unwilling to listen to ‘reason’.
When he had gone, Miriam felt very depressed. She saw the prospect of a long engagement with very little hope of marriage for many years to come. Perhaps, she felt, she ought not to have let them be engaged at all … But she loved Celia too dearly to cause her pain.
‘It seems so hopeless, my darling. You’ve neither of you got anything. And he’s so young …’
‘But, some day – if we wait …’
‘Well, perhaps …’
‘You don’t like him, Mother. Why?’
‘I do like him. I think he’s very attractive – very attractive indeed. But not considerate …’
At night Miriam lay awake going over her small income. Could she make Celia an allowance – however small? If she sold the house …
But, at any rate, she was living rent free – running expenses had been reduced to a minimum. The house was in bad repair, and there was very little demand for such properties at the minute.
She lay awake, tossing and turning. How to get her child her heart’s desire?
4
It was awful, having to write to Peter and tell him.
Such a lame letter, too – for what could she say to excuse her treachery?
When Peter’s answer came it was exactly like Peter. So like Peter that Celia cried over it.
Don’t blame yourself, Celia [wrote Peter]. It was my fault entirely. My fatal habit of putting things off. We’re like that. That’s why, as a family, we always miss the bus. I meant it for the best – to give you a chance of marrying some rich fellow. And now you’ve fallen in love with someone poorer than I am.
The truth of it is you feel he’s got more guts than I had. I ought to have taken you at your word when you wanted to marry me and come out with me here … I was a cursed fool. I’ve lost you, and it’s my own fault. He’s a better man than I am – your Dermot … He must be a good sort, or you wouldn’t have taken a fancy to him. Best of luck to you both – always. And don’t grieve about me. It’s my funeral, not yours … I could kick myself all round the town for being such a confounded fool. God bless you, my dear …
Dear Peter – dear, dear, Peter …
She thought: ‘I should have been happy with Peter. Very happy always …’
But with Dermot life was high adventure!
5
The year of Celia’s engagement was a stormy period. She would get a letter from Dermot suddenly:
I see now – your mother was perfectly right. We are too poor ever to marry. I shouldn’t have asked you. Forget me as soon as you can.
And then, two days later, he would arrive on the borrowed motor bicycle, take a tear-stained Celia in his arms, and declare that he couldn’t give her up. Something must happen.
What happened was the war.
6
The war came to Celia as to most people like an utterly improbable thunderbolt. A murdered archduke, a ‘war scare’ in the newspapers – such things barely entered her consciousness.
And then, suddenly, Germany and Russia were actually at war – Belgium was invaded. The fantastically improbable became possible.
Letter from Dermot:
It looks as though we’re going to be in it. Everyone says if we are it will be over by Christmas. They say I’m a pessimist, but I think it will be a jolly sight more like two years …
And then the accomplished fact – England at war …
Meaning to Celia one thing only – Dermot may be killed …
A telegram – he couldn’t get away to say goodbye to her – could she and her mother come to him?
The banks were closed but Miriam had a couple of five-pound notes (Grannie’s training: ‘Always have a five-pound note in your bag, dear’). The ticket office at the station refused to take the notes. They went round through the goods yard, crossed the line, and entered the train. Ticket collector after ticket collector – no tickets? ‘No, ma’am, can’t take a five-pound note –’ endless writing down of names and address.
All a nightmare – nothing was real but Dermot …
Dermot in khaki – a different Dermot – very jerky and flippant, with haunted eyes. No one knows about this new war – it’s the kind of war where no one might come back … New engines of destruction. The air – nobody knows about the air …
Celia and Dermot were two children clinging together …
‘Let me come through …’
‘Oh, God, let him come back to me …’
Nothing else mattered.
7
The awful suspense of those first weeks. The postcards faintly scrawled in pencil.
‘Not allowed to say where we are. Everything goes well. Love.’
Nobody knew what was happening.
The shock of the first casualty lists.
Friends. Boys that you had danced with – killed …
But Dermot was safe – and that was all that mattered.
War, for most women, is the destiny of one person …
8
After that first week and fortnight of suspense there were things to be done at home. A Red Cross hospital was being opened near Celia’s home, but she must pass her First Aid and Nursing exam. There were classes going on near Grannie, and Celia went up to stay.
Gladys, the new, pretty young house-parlourmaid, opened the door. She and a young cook now ran the establishment. Poor old Sarah was no more.
‘How are you, miss?’
‘Very well. Where’s Grannie?’
A giggle.
‘She’s out, Miss Celia.’
‘Out?’
Grannie – now just on ninety years of age – more particular than ever about letting injurious fresh air touch her. Grannie out?
‘She went to the Army and Navy Stores, Miss Celia. She said she’d be back before you came. Oh, I believe there she is now.’
An aged four-wheeler had drawn up at the gate. Assisted by the cabman, Grannie descended cautiously on to her good leg.
She came with a firm step up the drive. Grannie looked jaunty, positively jaunty – the bugles on her mantle were swaying and glinting in the September sunshine.
‘So you’ve arrived, Celia darling.’
Such a soft old face – like crinkled rose leaves. Grannie was very fond of Celia – and was knitting bed socks for Dermot, to keep his feet warm in the trenches.
Her voice changed as she looked at Gladys. More and more did Grannie enjoy bullying ‘the maids’ (well able to take care of themselves nowadays, and keeping bicycles whether Grannie liked it or not!).
‘Now then, Gladys,’ sharply, ‘why can’t you go and help the man with the things? And no taking them into the kitchen, mind. Put them in the morning-room.’
No longer did Poor Miss Bennett reign in the morning-room.
Piled inside the door were flour, biscuits, dozens of tins of sardines, rice, tapioca, sago. Grinning from ear to ear the cabman appeared. He was carrying five hams. Gladys followed with more hams. Sixteen in all were deposited in the treasure chamber.
‘I may be ninety,’ said Grannie (who wasn’t, yet, but anticipated the event as more dramatic), ‘but I shan’t let the Germans starve me out!’
Celia was taken with hysterical laughter.
Grannie paid the cabman, gave him an enormous tip, and directed him to feed his horse better.
‘Yes, mum, thank you, mum.’
He touched his hat and, still grinning, departed.
‘Such a day as I’ve had,’ said Grannie, untying her bonnet strings. She displayed no signs of fatigue and had obviously enjoyed herself.
‘The Stores were packed, my dear.’
Apparently with other old ladies, all carrying off hams in four-wheeled cabs.
9
Celia never took up Red Cross work.
Several things happened. First, Rouncy broke up and went home to live with her brother. Celia and her mother did the work of the house with the disapproving aid of Gregg, who ‘didn’t hold’ with war and ladies doing things they weren’t meant to do.
Then Grannie wrote to Miriam.
Dearest Miriam: You suggested some years ago that I should make my home
with you. I refused then, as I felt too old to make a move. But Dr Holt (such a clever man – and enjoys a good story – I’m afraid his wife doesn’t really appreciate him) says my eyesight is failing and that nothing can be done about it. That is God’s will and I accept it, but I do not fancy being left at the mercy of maids. Such wicked things as one reads of nowadays – and I have missed several things lately. Do not mention this when you write – they may open my letters. I am posting this myself. So I think that it will be best for me to come to you. It will make things easier, as my income will help. I do not like the idea of Celia doing things in the house. The dear child should reserve her strength. You remember Mrs Pinchin’s Eva? Just that same delicate complexion. She overdid things and is now in a Sanatorium in Switzerland. You and Celia must come and help me to move. It will be a terrible business, I’m afraid.
It was a terrible business. Grannie had lived in the house at Wimbledon for fifty years, and, true product of a thrifty generation, she had never thrown away anything that might possibly ‘come in’.
There were vast wardrobes and chests of drawers of solid mahogany, each drawer and shelf crammed with neatly rolled bundles of materials and odds and ends put away safely by Grannie and forgotten. There were innumerable ‘remnants’, odd lengths of silks and satins, and prints and cottons. There were dozens of needle books ‘for the maids at Christmas’, with the needles rusted in them. There were old scraps and pieces of gowns. There were letters and papers and diaries and recipes and newspaper cuttings. There were forty-four pin-cushions and thirty-five pairs of scissors. There were drawers and drawers full of fine linen underclothes all gone into holes, but preserved because of ‘the good embroidery, my dear’.
Saddest of all there was the store cupboard (memory of Celia’s youth). The store cupboard had defeated Grannie. She could no longer penetrate into its depths. Stores had lain there undisturbed while fresh stores accumulated on top of them. Weevily flour, crumbling biscuits, mouldy jams, liquescent mass of preserved fruits – all these were disinterred from the depths and thrown away while Grannie sat and wept and lamented the ‘shameful waste’. ‘Surely, Miriam, they would do very nicely for puddings for the kitchen?’