Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  He laughed self-consciously. ‘I was fit enough from the second day if it wasn’t for this leg. I’m pinned down like a fly on a paper, and it’ll be weeks yet. That night – I shall never forget it.’

  ‘How did – Dan Massington–’

  ‘They say he was found on the stairs. Cordelia, I’m expecting the Inspector of Police this afternoon: they’re still trying to settle the blame. I don’t want you involved. Can I let you know?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She got to her feet. ‘Will you write me again?’

  ‘I hate to see you go so soon. I think of you so often and now when you come to see me … When can you leave Brook?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s been so desperately ill. And he depends on me. If I left him in this state the shock might bring on a collapse.’

  ‘Don’t you think I need nursing too?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ She smiled. ‘I should love that. In a few weeks perhaps.’

  ‘Do they suspect nothing?’

  ‘Not yet. There’s been no time. Brook’s been too ill, and his father too worried. When is the inquest?’

  ‘It’ll start again on Friday. Don’t stay with the Fergusons until they find out. Your room’s kept at the hotel. Go soon, so that I can join you.’

  There was a moment’s pause. The tempo of the conversation had increased, so that now they were talking as if against a time limit.

  ‘Stephen, are you sure everything’s all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You still – do you want to keep to our arrangement? Nothing has changed?’

  ‘Good Heavens, do you suppose anything would change? Come here, my girl, I can’t reach you; this leg is maddening. Cordelia, don’t you believe me?’

  She smiled at him. ‘ Of course, Stephen.’ If he said so like that it was all right. ‘I’ll go now. I’m sorry to have been an inconvenient visitor. I’ll send you three days’ notice next time.’

  He glanced away and said: ‘Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Come Thursday, now. Can you come Thursday?’

  She was about to reply when the bedroom door opened and a tall dark young woman came in. She was wearing a hat and a cape.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, overcasually. ‘I didn’t know you had a visitor. I’ve been to Town. Er – d’you mind if I come in, Stephen?’

  After a second Stephen said sharply: ‘Well, it’s all private. Come back in five minutes.’

  She was handsome, this dark young woman, her hair parted in the middle under her jaunty set-back hat, her dark eyes large and hostile.

  It was too late to do anything; it had to come out.

  ‘Are you Mrs Ferguson?’ asked Virginia.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cordelia.

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Won’t you introduce us, Stephen?’

  Stephen stared bitterly in front of him. ‘ I’m married, Cordelia – or was – and this is my wife. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. It’s not important, it hasn’t the least importance, for we’ve been separated for years and it’s not at my invitation that she’s here now. She came just to–’

  ‘I heard of Stevie’s injury,’ she said. ‘and after all I am his wife, so I thought I’d come and look after him. You’re looking after your husband – for a change. Stephen hasn’t raised any great objection. I think he likes to have a woman about the house – some woman. As I said when I came down–’

  ‘Virginia! Would you leave us now? I want to talk to Cordelia.’ His face was angry, exasperated, anxious. ‘It happened this way. Every time I came to the point of telling you–’

  ‘I’ve often wanted to meet you, Mrs Ferguson,’ Virginia interrupted. ‘When we first discussed you some months ago I said, ‘‘Well, why can’t we all three meet like intelligent human beings?’’ And your husband, too, for that matter. What does he think about it all? Or doesn’t he know yet?’

  ‘If you don’t leave us,’ said Stephen, ‘I shall ring–’

  ‘No, please,’ said Cordelia. ‘ I must go.’ I must go at once or I shall be sick.

  ‘You must not indeed! Nothing of the sort. It was to avoid this that I wanted you to go, Delia, but now there’s no hurry. I shall have to explain right from the beginning before you properly understand, and it’s a long story. Virginia means nothing to me now–’

  ‘Except that I happen to be his wife …’

  ‘I’ll go now, Stephen,’ Cordelia said in a low voice. ‘ Some other time, perhaps …’

  ‘You must listen to me!’ He struggled to get out of bed and fell back with a gasp of pain. Let me turn back to him, she thought, listen, listen, believe everything, anything. ‘It was wrong of me to have hidden it from you, but – Cordelia, are you taking any notice? I couldn’t prevent her coming–’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘Look,’ said Virginia, with a little brittle twist to her lips, ‘there’s no need to go on my account. I’ll leave you here in peace. If you feel like that about him, let him have a chance of explaining.’

  ‘I don’t want an explanation,’ Cordelia said passionately. I must go, get out. She turned blindly to the door.

  ‘Cordelia!’

  ‘Oh, let her go. She’ll come back; you ought to know that now; your women always do …’

  Out in the passage. He was shouting to her, half appealing, half commanding. For once he would be disappointed; this woman wouldn’t come back. Get out before I fall. Down the stairs …

  Stumbled on the last step. A servant. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ ‘No, thank you.’ Through the front door. Steadily down to the gate, knowing the servant is watching. Door closed. Now. Grip the gate. Walk through. Out in the roadway. Oh, God, send me a cab. The day was heavy and an early dark was falling.

  She walked along and saw a seat, a circular wooden seat built round a big tree. She sat on it, trying to steady her hand, her breathing, her heart.

  Thereafter was a dreadful blackness of spirit like nothing she had known before. Through all the heart-searchings of Stephen’s courtship, through the trials of Brook’s desperate illness, there had been the uplifting knowledge that she loved someone and was loved. She was armoured within. But now the armour had broken and crumbled like shoddy tin-foil.

  His letter was waiting for her when she got home, and later a long letter came. It was his apologia. He explained his reasons for never telling her about his marriage, his consuming love for her at the beginning and his uncertainty about hers for him, his fears of her revulsion at the news, his putting off each time until another time, the lack of the right opportunity.

  As for Virginia [he went on], her coming was Dad’s idea. She means nothing to me now and has meant nothing for years. After I met you I went to her and asked her to divorce me, and I have been trying to persuade her to do so ever since. At first she said she would consider it in three months, then in six months. When I found her here waiting for me, I thought, If I turn her out there’s nothing to gain, if I tolerate her for a few days I may be able to talk her into being reasonable. Anyway, whichever way it turns, it can’t affect us for long. Oh, yes, she’s in the way as Brook is in the way; but we love each other, and nothing can bedevil it if we’re true to that. In a month’s time we shall be away together and the world can go hang.

  Write to me, please, to tell me you have forgiven me; I’ll not rest easy till you do.

  All my love to you, Delia, S TEPHEN

  Oh, Stephen, she thought, everything you say is right and reasonable, except that in this one doesn’t go by reason. I almost wish you didn’t put your case so well.

  She wanted to believe, to accept it all just as he said; half of her wanted not to be desperately hurt and affronted and humiliated. Any escape from this desolation of the heart.

  Brook was making progress now; slowly, painfully, re-establishing his grip on life. A trying time. Cordelia felt ill herself with worry and anguish and overwork. The inquest was resumed and concluded. The
tragedy had shocked the country, and the owners were going to have to do something about it. Crossley, Sr, aware of expensive repairs and his son’s coming indiscretion, was negotiating to sell.

  Still no breath of scandal. Cordelia was so low in spirit that she didn’t care what happened to her, but chance and the death of Massington left her name untouched.

  After a few days Stephen wrote to her again, but she did not reply. She realized that from his point of view her attitude might look indefensible. His marriage was no greater bar than hers. Even his secrecy he had explained and explained away. But to her nothing could quite excuse his lack of candour. It was something fundamental, a first principle. Their intimacy had been such that no important secret should have existed between them, could have existed on her side.

  Well, there was pride as well, hurt pride. And Virginia’s remark rankled like a sore. ‘She’ll come back; you ought to know that now; your women always do …’ She knew she was only putting off the issue. As soon as he was able to get about again he would be here in person to force a decision. Until then she must concentrate on getting Brook well. Only then would she feel able to make her choice freely.

  Sometimes she felt cheated and deceived by everyone, and her deceit nothing compared to theirs. Often she felt like running away, not with Stephen but from the cynical impositions of life.

  Robert said Brook must get away as soon as he was well enough. Another letter from Stephen. He said:

  If you knew the purgatory I’d been through these lonely weeks, not knowing what you were doing or thinking, not having even a word from you. Haven’t I explained that what I did I did out of love, out of the fear of losing you? It’s so hard to say by letter what I can say to you in person in five minutes. Let me have just a line. I shall be able to walk a little in another week, and if you don’t come this week I shall come to see you next, and all the Fergusons in creation won’t keep me out.

  The first day Brook went downstairs they had tea alone in the drawing-room and as usual she read to him after tea. He looked worse downstairs than he had up – more wasted, more frail.

  He said: ‘You’ve been a good nurse, Delia. You pulled me through. I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish,’ she said uncomfortably.

  ‘It isn’t rubbish. I shall never be able to repay you.’ He was silent a moment. ‘I only hope it will be worth it.’

  She put down her book. ‘In another month you’ll be as well as ever.’

  ‘I was always ailing before; what shall I ever make now? I wish to Heaven I could at least sleep.’

  ‘You will when you can knock about more.’

  He said: ‘I couldn’t fix Uncle Pridey’s book up in London. Nobody will look at such nonsense. Anyway, you’ve got to have a scientific training in the first place.’

  ‘He was so set on making something of it.’

  ‘My poems will be out in February. I got a letter today.’

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful. Isn’t that something to look forward to?’

  He stared into the fire, frowning. ‘It’s queer,’ he said. ‘One of Margaret’s chief troubles was insomnia. In those days I used to sleep like a log. Funny it’s come to me.’

  ‘Yes, but she used to take something for it, didn’t she?’

  ‘Sleeping pills. She was always having them.’ He glanced at her. ‘I see you’ve heard all about it.’

  ‘I’ve never been told anything.’ She was unable quite to hide the bitterness in her voice.

  ‘No, I remember now, Father said the fewer people who knew about it the better, and that it would only upset you.’

  ‘What would upset me?’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to bring a new wife into a home and fill her up with gloomy stories about the old. We may be lacking in some things, but give us credit for having the tact to see that.’

  ‘Wasn’t it more than gloomy stories, Brook?’

  ‘You mean the trouble at the end? Well, I don’t know. Naturally we didn’t want to advertise it.’

  ‘Is it true there was nearly an inquest?’

  He glanced at her again, surprised at her tone.

  ‘Yes, I thought that was what we were talking about. Robert had issued a new box of sleeping pills the night before she died. There were supposed to be twenty in the box and the next morning there were only four. I didn’t know where they’d gone. I didn’t even know she’d got a new box. I knew she sometimes took a second one in the middle of the night if she couldn’t get off. Father was away for a couple of days in Oldham, otherwise he might have acted more quickly to stop the rumours. I expect you know how, if once a thing gets about, there’s no stopping it whatever you do. Most people hear the truth, but there’s always someone left to spread the old lie.’

  ‘What lie?’

  ‘About her having committed suicide, of course.’

  ‘How do you know it was a lie?’

  He said: ‘ Why are you suddenly so upset about it?’

  ‘I’m not upset. How could you stop an inquest?’

  He bit his fingers for a moment.

  ‘We stopped it by finding the pills. I found them the following day at the back of her writing desk. She’d put them away in an old box. I blame myself for it. I should have known. She got like that; she was – she grew suspicious of everyone and was always hiding things. There are some things we’ve not found yet and probably never shall find.’

  Cordelia did not speak.

  ‘Like that diary you mentioned once,’ he said. ‘And one of the household accounts books, and – and some earrings I gave her. Oh, well, I’m glad that time’s over anyway.’

  They’d found the pills. She thought all round it. Mr Ferguson had not even been in the house.

  ‘When you didn’t tell me anything about it,’ she said with a sort of inner anger, ‘did it ever occur to you that I might hear – the old lie?’

  ‘What?’ He looked at her. ‘Why, did you hear something?’

  ‘D’you think I never met Dan Massington?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said with contempt. ‘Him. Well, he was just being malicious. Anyone could see that.’

  ‘Perhaps you knew him better than I did.’

  ‘Of course. But you don’t mean to say you believed his stories, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you come and ask me?’

  Why didn’t she go and ask him? Because she didn’t love him, she supposed. ‘ I did try several times, but you always put me off.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember. I expect it was with Father trying to hush it up. I really don’t recall you asking at all. I thought you naturally would if you wanted to know anything. Anyway, it’s not really important. You know the truth now.’

  Not important. Somebody else had said something was not important: a trifling matter of being already married. Had no one any imagination, any conscience, any concern for what she might feel? ‘Dan Massington said Robert Birch owed your father a lot of money, so it was in his interest to hush it up.’

  Brook smiled thinly. ‘ Robert isn’t that sort of a person, Delia. You ought to know him by now. It’s his fault it ever got out. When this practice came vacant Father helped him to buy it. He’s paid about half back. But I don’t think Dan had any room to talk about borrowed money. D’you know how much Father lent him altogether, over about five years? Nearly six hundred pounds.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He was always in debt. It was Father’s idea that a relative of his should be given a chance to start afresh. He paid all his debts twice. But I don’t think he ever got any thanks for it.’

  That night she sat in front of the mirror in her bedroom brushing her hair. Brook, who had been in bed since eight, lay watching her. He liked this time of his invalidism best.

  Suddenly she put down her brush and burst into tears. Greatly astonished, he stared at her. In all their married life she had ha
rdly ever cried before, certainly never like this.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter? Aren’t you well?’

  She didn’t answer but sat there with her hands in front of her face.

  He said again: ‘ What is it? Aren’t you well?’

  She put her head on her hands and sobbed and sobbed. Impatience began to give way to alarm. He sat up further and pushed back the bedclothes.

  ‘What’s the matter, Cordelia. Can’t you say something? Cordelia!’

  She still would not answer, or could not. Laboriously, shakily, he got out of bed, moved towards her.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘Go away,’ she said in a muffled tone. ‘Leave me alone.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Tell me, dear.’

  She got up quickly, glanced at him out of half-hostile, glinting eyes, and moved quickly to the window, holding her side, trying to choke back her sobs. But they came like sickness, shaking and twisting her body. He stood looking after her, plucking at his lip, convinced now it was something he had done, but not knowing what.

  He waited a time and then poured out a glass of brandy and water. She was a little better and gulped it down, then she returned to the dressing-table and put her face in her hands again, her fair hair falling forward. He put on his dressing-gown and drew up a chair and sat beside her and waited.

  ‘Tell me what it is.’

  There was silence. Her face was streaked and she was inclined to shiver. His first alarm was passing with her tears.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry something’s upset you, but I don’t feel well enough to sit here all night. If you still don’t feel like telling me what’s the matter, why don’t you come to bed? I expect you’ve over-tired yourself.’

  She said: ‘I haven’t over-tired myself.’

  ‘Then what the devil is it?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  She slowly raised her head and pushed back her hair. She gave him a deep strained look.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

  She never forgot the expression on his face. After a moment she couldn’t stand any more, but got up again, walked to the window, winding her handkerchief round her fingers. How was she to tell him the rest?