After all, when Davis (with whom Dermot played nearly every week-end) and his wife came to stay, she, Celia, had to entertain Mrs Davis all day. Mrs Davis was nice but dull. She just sat about and had to be talked to.
But she didn’t say these things to Dermot because she knew he hated to be argued with. She asked the Petersons down and hoped for the best.
Ellie had changed very little. She and Celia enjoyed talking over old times. Tom was a little quiet. He had gone a little grey. He seemed a nice little man, Celia thought. He had always seemed a little absent-minded but very pleasant.
Dermot behaved angelically. He explained that he was obliged to play golf on Saturday (Ellie’s husband didn’t play), but he devoted Sunday to entertaining his guests and took them on the river, a form of spending an afternoon which Celia knew he hated.
When they had gone he said to her: ‘Now then, have I been noble or have I not?’
Noble was one of Dermot’s words. It always made Celia laugh.
‘You have. You’ve been an angel.’
‘Well, don’t make me do it again for a long time, will you?’
Celia didn’t. She rather wanted to invite another friend and her husband down two weeks later, but she knew the man wasn’t a golfer, and she didn’t want Dermot to have to make a sacrifice a second time …
It was so difficult, thought Celia, living with a person who was sacrificing himself. Dermot was rather trying as a martyr. He was much better to live with when he was enjoying himself …
And, anyway, he was unsympathetic about old friends. Old friends, in Dermot’s opinion, were usually a bore.
Judy was obviously in sympathy with her father over this, for a few days later when Celia mentioned her friend Margaret, Judy merely stared.
‘Who’s Margaret?’
‘Don’t you remember Margaret? You used to play with her in the Park in London?’
‘No, I didn’t. I never played with a Margaret anywhere.’
‘Judy, you must remember. It’s only a year ago.’
But Judy couldn’t remember any Margaret at all. She couldn’t remember anyone she had played with in London.
‘I only know the girls at school,’ said Judy comfortably.
5
Something rather exciting happened. It began by Celia being rung up and asked to take someone’s place at a dinner party at the last minute.
‘I know you won’t mind, dear …’
Celia didn’t mind. She was delighted.
She enjoyed the evening frightfully.
She wasn’t shy. She found it easy to talk. There was no need to watch whether she were being ‘silly’ or not. Dermot’s critical eyes were not upon her.
She felt as though she had been suddenly wafted back to girlhood.
The man on her right had travelled a lot in the East. Above everything in the world Celia longed to travel.
She felt sometimes that if the chance were to be given her she would leave Dermot and Judy and Aubrey and everything and dash off into the blue … To wander …
The man at her side spoke of Baghdad, of Kashmir, of Ispahan and Teheran and Shiraz (such lovely words – nice to say them even without any meaning attached). He told her, too, of wandering in Baluchistan where few travellers had been.
The man on her left was an elderly, kindly person. He liked the bright young creature at his side who turned to him at last with a rapturous face still full of the glamour of far lands.
He had something to do with books, she gathered, and she told him, laughing a good deal, about her one unlucky venture. He said he’d like to see her manuscript. Celia told him that it was very bad.
‘All the same, I’d like to see it. Will you show it to me?’
‘Yes, if you like, but you’ll be disappointed.’
He thought that probably he would. She didn’t look like a writer – this young creature with her Scandinavian fairness. But, just because she attracted him, it would interest him to see what she had written.
Celia came home at one A.M. to find Dermot happily asleep. She was so excited that she woke him up.
‘Dermot – I’ve had such a lovely evening. Oh! I have enjoyed myself! There was a man there who told me all about Persia and Baluchistan, and there was a nice publisher man – and they made me sing after dinner. I sang awfully badly, but they didn’t seem to mind. And then we went out in the garden, and I went with the travelling man to see the lily pond – and he tried to kiss me – but quite nicely – and it was all so lovely – with the moon and the lilies and everything that I would have liked him to – but I didn’t because I knew you wouldn’t have liked it.’
‘Quite right,’ said Dermot.
‘But you don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Dermot kindly. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. But I don’t know why you’ve got to wake me up to tell me about it.’
‘Because I have enjoyed myself so much.’ She added apologetically, ‘I know you don’t like me to say so.’
‘I don’t mind. It just seems to me rather silly. I mean, one can enjoy one’s self without having to say so.’
‘I can’t,’ said Celia honestly. ‘I have to say so a great deal, otherwise I’d burst.’
‘Well,’ said Dermot, turning over, ‘you’ve told me now.’
And he went to sleep again.
Dermot was like that, thought Celia, a little sobered as she undressed, rather damping but quite kind …
6
Celia had forgotten all about her promise to show the publisher man her book. To her great surprise he walked in upon her the following afternoon and reminded her of her promise.
She hunted out a bundle of dusty manuscripts from a cupboard in the attic, reiterating her statement that it was very stupid.
A fortnight later she had a letter asking her to come up to town to see him.
From behind a very untidy table strewn with bundles of manuscript he twinkled at her from behind his glasses.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I understood this was a book. There’s only a little more than half of it here. Where’s the rest? Have you lost it?’
Puzzled, Celia took the manuscript from him.
Her mouth fell open with dismay.
‘I’ve given you the wrong one. This is the old one I never finished.’
Then she explained. He listened attentively, then told her to send him the revised version. He would keep the unfinished one for the moment.
A week later she was summoned again. This time her friend’s eyes were twinkling more than ever.
‘The second edition’s no good,’ he said. ‘You won’t find a publisher to look at it – quite right too. But your original story is not bad at all – do you think you could finish it?’
‘But it’s all wrong. It’s full of mistakes.’
‘Now look here, my dear child, I’m going to talk to you quite plainly. You’re not a heaven-sent genius. I don’t think you’ll ever write a masterpiece. But what you certainly are is a born storyteller. You think of spiritualism and mediums and Welsh Revivalist meetings in a kind of romantic haze. You may be all wrong about them, but you see them as ninety-nine per cent of the reading public (who know nothing about them either) see them. That ninety-nine per cent won’t enjoy reading about carefully acquired facts – they want fiction – which is plausible untruth. It must be plausible, mind. You’ll find it will be the same with your Cornish fisher folk that you told me about. Write your book about them, but, for heaven’s sake, don’t go near Cornwall or fishermen until you’ve finished. Then you’ll write the kind of grimly realistic stuff that people expect when they read about Cornish fisher folk. You don’t want to go there and find out that Cornish fishermen are not a breed by themselves but something quite closely allied to a Walworth plumber. You’ll never write well about anything you really know about, because you’ve got an honest mind. You can be imaginatively dishonest but not practically dishonest. You can’t write lies about something you know,
but you’ll be able to tell the most splendid lies about something you don’t know. You’ve got to write about the fabulous (fabulous to you) and not about the real. Now, go away and do it.’
A year later Celia’s first novel was published. It was called Lonely Harbour. The publishers corrected any glaring inaccuracies.
Miriam thought it splendid, and Dermot thought it rather awful.
Celia knew that Dermot was right, but she was grateful to her mother.
‘Now,’ thought Celia, ‘I’m pretending to be a writer. I think it’s almost queerer than pretending to be a wife or a mother.’
16 Loss
1
Miriam was ailing. Every time that Celia saw her mother, her heart had a sudden squeezed feeling.
Her mother looked so small and pathetic.
And she was so lonely in that big house.
Celia wanted her mother to come and live with them, but Miriam refused energetically.
‘It never works. It wouldn’t be fair to Dermot.’
‘I’ve asked Dermot. He’s quite willing.’
‘That is nice of him. But I shouldn’t dream of doing it. Young people must be left alone.’
She spoke vehemently. Celia did not protest.
Presently Miriam said:
‘I’ve wanted to tell you – for some time. I was wrong about Dermot. When you married him, I didn’t trust him. I didn’t think he was honest or loyal … I thought there would be other women.’
‘Oh, Mother, Dermot never looks at anything but a golf ball.’
Miriam smiled.
‘I was wrong … I’m glad … I feel now that when I go I’m leaving you with someone who will look after you and take care of you.’
‘He will. He does.’
‘Yes – I’m satisfied … He’s very attractive – he is attractive to women, Celia, remember that …’
‘He’s a frightfully stay-at-home person, Mummy.’
‘Yes, that’s lucky. And I think he really loves Judy. She is exactly like him. She’s not like you. She’s Dermot’s child.’
‘I know.’
‘So long as I feel that he will be kind to you … I didn’t think so at first. I thought he was cruel – ruthless –’
‘He isn’t. He’s frightfully kind. He was sweet before Judy was born. He’s just one of those people who hate to say things. It’s all there underneath. He’s like a rock.’
Miriam sighed.
‘I’ve been jealous. I haven’t been willing to recognize his good qualities. I want you so much to be happy, my darling.’
‘I am, Mother dear, I am.’
‘Yes, I think you are …’
Celia said after a minute or two:
‘There’s really nothing I want in the world – except another baby, perhaps. I’d like a boy as well as a girl.’
She had expected her mother to be in sympathy with her wish, but a slight frown crossed Miriam’s forehead.
‘I don’t know that you will be wise. You care for Dermot so much – and children take you away from a man. They are supposed to bring you together, but it isn’t so … no, it isn’t so.’
‘But you and Father –’
Miriam sighed.
‘It was difficult. Pulling – always pulling both ways. It’s difficult.’
‘But you and Father were perfectly happy …’
‘Yes – but I minded … There were heaps of things I minded. Giving up things for the sake of the children annoyed him sometimes. He loved you all, but we were happiest when he and I went away together for a little holiday … Don’t ever leave your husband too long alone, Celia. Remember, a man forgets …’
‘Father would never have looked at anyone but you.’
Her mother answered musingly.
‘No, perhaps he wouldn’t. But I was always on the look out. There was a parlourmaid – a big handsome girl – the type I had often heard your father admire. She was handing him the hammer and some nails. As she did it she put her hand over his. I saw her. Your father hardly noticed – he just looked surprised. I don’t suppose he thought anything of it – probably imagined it was just an accident – men are very simple … But I sent that girl away – at once. Just gave her a good reference and said she didn’t suit me.’
Celia was shocked.
‘But Father would never –’
‘Probably not. But I wasn’t taking any risks. I’ve seen so many things. A wife who’s in bad health and a governess or companion takes charge – some young, bright girl. Celia, promise me you’ll be very careful what kind of governesses you have for Judy.’
Celia laughed and kissed her mother.
‘I won’t have any fine big girls,’ she promised. ‘They shall be thin and old and wear glasses.’
2
Miriam died when Judy was eight years old. Celia was abroad at the time. Dermot had got ten days’ leave at Easter, and he had wanted Celia to go to Italy with him. Celia had been a little unwilling to leave England. The doctor had told her that her mother’s health was bad. She had a companion who looked after her, and Celia went down to see her every few weeks.
Miriam, however, would not hear of Celia’s remaining behind and letting Dermot go alone. She came up to London and stayed with Cousin Lottie (a widow now), and Judy and her governess came to stay there also.
At Como, Celia got a telegram advising her return. She took the first train available. Dermot wanted to go too, but Celia persuaded him to stay behind and finish his holiday. He needed a change of air and scene.
It was as she was sitting in the dining car on her way through France that a curious cold certainty seemed to invade her body.
She thought:
‘Of course, I shall never see her again. She’s dead …’
She found on arrival that Miriam had died just about that hour.
3
Her mother … her little gallant mother …
Lying there so still and strange with flowers and whiteness and a cold, peaceful face …
Her mother, with her fits of gaiety and depression – her enchanting changeableness of outlook – her steadfast love and protection …
Celia thought: ‘I’m alone now …’
Dermot and Judy were strangers …
She thought: ‘There’s no one to go to any more …’
Panic swept over her … and then remorse …
How full her mind had been of Dermot and Judy all these last years … She had thought so little of her mother … her mother had just been there … always there … at the back of everything …
She knew her mother through and through, and her mother knew her …
As a tiny child she had found her mother wonderful and satisfying …
And wonderful and satisfying her mother had always remained …
And now her mother had gone …
The bottom had fallen out of Celia’s world …
Her little mother …
17 Disaster
1
Dermot meant to be kind. He hated trouble and unhappiness, but he wanted to be kind. He wrote from Paris suggesting Celia should come over and have a day or two to cheer her up.
Perhaps it was kindness, perhaps it was because he funked going home to a house of mourning …
That, however, was what he had to do …
He arrived at the Lodge just before dinner. Celia was lying on her bed. She was awaiting his coming with passionate intensity. The strain of the funeral was over, and she had been anxious not to upset Judy by an atmosphere of grief. Little Judy, so young and cheerful and important over her own affairs. Judy had cried about Grandmamma but had soon forgotten. Children ought to forget.
Soon Dermot would be here, and then she could let go.
She thought passionately: ‘How wonderful that I’ve got Dermot. If it weren’t for Dermot I should want to die too …’
Dermot was nervous. It was sheer nervousness that made him come into the room and say:
‘Well, how’s
everybody, bright and jolly?’
At another time Celia would have recognized the cause that made him speak flippantly. Just at the moment it was as though he had hit her in the face.
She shrank back and burst into tears.
Dermot apologized and tried to explain.
In the end Celia went to sleep holding his hand, which he withdrew with relief when he saw she was really asleep.
He wandered off and joined Judy in the nursery. She waved a cheerful spoon at him. She was drinking a cup of milk.
‘Hullo, Daddy. What shall we play?’
Judy wasted no time.
‘It mustn’t be noisy,’ said Dermot. ‘Your mother’s asleep.’
Judy nodded comprehendingly.
‘Let’s play Old Maid.’
They played Old Maid.
2
Life went on as usual. At least, not quite as usual.
Celia went about as usual. She displayed no outward signs of grief. But all the spring had gone out of her for the time being. She was like a run-down clock. Both Dermot and Judy felt the change, and they didn’t like it.
Dermot wanted some people to stay a fortnight later, and Celia cried out before she could stop herself.
‘Oh, not just now. I just can’t bear to have to talk to a strange woman all day.’
But immediately afterwards she repented and went to Dermot, telling him that she didn’t mean to be silly. Of course he must have his friends. So they came, but the visit wasn’t a great success.
A few days later Celia had a letter from Ellie. Its contents surprised and grieved her very much.
My Dear Celia [wrote Ellie]: I feel I should like to tell you myself (since you’ll probably hear a garbled version otherwise) that Tom has gone off with a girl we met on the boat coming home. It has been a terrible grief and shock to me. We were so happy together, and Tom loved the children. It seems like some terrible dream. I feel absolutely broken-hearted, I don’t know what to do. Tom has been such a perfect husband – we never even quarrelled.
Unfinished Portrait Page 22
