Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  Queer sensations now. The old battlefield. Cool head and warm heart. Triumph and defeat.

  He said roughly: ‘Now you’re here you must stay for a few days.’

  ‘I have to leave London tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  ‘I must.’

  It wasn’t playful, conventional, as it had been a few minutes ago. His eyes were weighing on her.

  She said: ‘What have you been doing all this time? Did your divorce go through?’

  ‘Of course. I told you that.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘Oh … I’ve been working hard. And thinking of you.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘Virginia?’ He frowned a little. ‘She’s all right. She’s still living in Maida Vale. Listen, Cordelia, you must realize now that she means nothing at all to me any more—’

  ‘Oh, I do.’

  There was a flicker of surprise in his expression.

  ‘Well, that’s good then. That’s one obstacle cleared out of the way. Have another drink?’

  She refused, wanting all her reason, and he went over to pour himself another. She wondered what he was thinking, could not yet fathom what was in his heart.

  There was a mirror by the table, and she suddenly realized that he was watching her through it. She lowered her gaze. He was in just the same position, wondering what she felt and why she had come. Despite the physical attraction coming to life again in his breast, never dead in hers, they were strangers fencing across the debris of five years.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this calls for a celebration! I wish we could spend the day together … But I’ve work on hand. I wonder if I could cut it …’

  Work? ‘No, please don’t. I’ve promised to be back at Pridey’s lodgings for lunch. Really, Stephen, thank you.’

  But his old ebullience carrying him on, over his own hesitancies, the outside obstacles, he said: ‘Have you ever seen London before? Good! Couldn’t be better. Look, will you wait here while I make some arrangements? Five or ten minutes. I think I can fix it all right.’

  She protested, though not vigorously. What she had come for today was too important to be shelved. She could send a note. Stephen went off, and she was left to stare out of the narrow window into the unheeding street.

  He came back and said it was arranged. He’d ordered his carriage. It was a good day for the time of year. They’d go a drive until lunch. Then he’d show her one of the best restaurants. After that … Well, after that they’d just decide when the time came. He’d arranged to spend the whole day with her. Not this evening. He couldn’t manage this evening. But until then. He wouldn’t have her going back to Manchester feeling she hadn’t been royally entertained. He pressed her to have another drink, and put on his check coat and monogrammed silk muffler, and then the boy came to say the carriage was here.

  It was a victoria like the one he had had in Manchester. The sight of it brought a flood of bitter-sweet memories to her, and while he helped her in he reminded her of some of them.

  They drove out along the embankment to Chelsea, and he went on talking, persuasively. Did he realize that the memory of those old times had pain for her as well as pleasure?

  He insisted on keeping his hand on hers under her muff. His hands were as she always remembered them, warm and firm, long-fingered.

  Once, conscious of how little she had to say in reply, he turned to her, watching her expression and unable to read it.

  ‘You’re quiet, my sweetheart. What’re you thinking?’

  ‘I’m listening to you,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Well, it was good, wasn’t it? Every moment of it was glorious – even the scrapes and the near discoveries, even Dan Massington’s interference. The tragedy was the fire and Brook’s illness – and of course the misunderstanding about Virginia. We’ve both paid for that, undeservedly. Isn’t it time we made up for some of the happiness we’ve lost?’

  She said: ‘Can you ever make up for happiness you’ve lost?’

  ‘That’s a dismal thing to say.’

  ‘I mean – if you have happiness later – can it be the same?’

  He was silent, glanced at a passing carriage smarter than his own, came back reluctantly to the question she had put him.

  ‘Maybe not if it’s a long time. But this is only five years; you said so yourself. When I met you last in Wales, was it January, ’sixty-eight? No, ’sixty-nine. Not much more than four, then. It isn’t as if you’d changed. You’re exactly the same, except a bit more grown up, and more beautiful. I haven’t changed, have I?’

  ‘… Very little.’

  ‘Well, then, in that case, I don’t see that there need be any difference at all. When I’m sitting beside you like this I fancy myself back in Manchester and it seems like yesterday. Does it seem like that to you? Don’t you remember it all?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember it all.’

  They made a wide detour from Chelsea and came back through Hyde Park and St James’s. They drove up Piccadilly, but when the coachman seemed about to draw up half way along Stephen tapped sharply and said: ‘No, not here! I told you Berridges.’

  They turned off and got out at a luxurious and discreet little restaurant with a carpet like new-mown hay to tread on and royal purple curtains and softly lit tables in alcoves. He was on terms with the head waiter, who seemed to know all his requirements without being told and brought oysters and champagne and delicacies cooked on a trolley before their eyes.

  Under the friendly influence of the champagne Stephen began to talk about himself, about the theatre he had managed in New York and the repertory in Boston. He said it had been a wise move of his father’s to suggest the job: he’d learned a lot, unlearned a lot. One day he was going back, but at present … He stopped, and to cover his hesitation he beckoned the waiter and spoke to him about the port.

  She said: ‘And your schemes for changing the character of music halls: are you still going on with those?’

  ‘Yes, Dad is. But I’ve lost interest in it since the Manchester days. Possibly we were attempting what couldn’t be done. It’s confused thinking to imagine you can improve them and keep them the same.’

  ‘I think perhaps you’re right,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’ he said, again in surprise.

  A man went past in a loud suit and a bow tie. Seeing Stephen, he veered towards him, then, catching sight of Cordelia, he hunched one shoulder and coughed and walked away again.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Stephen, and got up and went to speak to him. The man had a booming voice, and she could catch occasional words, ‘… the manager says …’ and ‘… you can’t argue with her …’ and ‘… but it was his nephew they owed the money to …’ He wore a sapphire ring that winked as he gestured.

  Stephen came back, cleared his throat, and glanced a moment after the retreating figure, then returned his attention to her. It was a sleek transition.

  She said: ‘Have you many friends in London? You must know a lot of people.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But I miss the old days. And I’ve missed you.’ He sipped his wine and frowned at her. ‘Yes, I’ve many friends but there’s only been one Delia. I wish you’d understand what these years have meant to me. I don’t think you do at all. You care for Brook more than I realized. It’s the truth now, isn’t it?’

  ‘More than I realized too,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got him. But I’ve had nobody. Some men would be content with second best. But I couldn’t. Even in America it was the same. I’ve been miserable and lonely and restless all along. Well, you’ve come to see me again. I can’t believe it was just out of interest – or pity …’

  ‘No,’ she said as he waited. ‘It wasn’t that.’

  She looked up suddenly, and he smiled to hide his feelings. His eyes had said: I remember you.

  ‘Why must you leave tomorrow?’

  ‘Tell me about your friends,’ she said. ‘I’d like to hear about
them.’

  ‘Is Pridey staying up here all the time?’

  ‘For a while. Do you often come here, Stephen?’

  ‘Then couldn’t you make an excuse – fairly soon – to spend a holiday with Pridey? We’d have such rare fun. I’d show you all the things you most want to see, the restaurants, the theatres, the operas. London can be very gay if you know your way about. I’d show you.’

  He watched her face as she stared dreamily across the room. ‘You’re an enigma today,’ he said chidingly. ‘Once it used to be easy to tell what you were dunking. I could read what you felt in your eyes.’

  She turned and smiled at him. ‘I’ve grown up, Stephen. We’ve both grown up.’

  He said slowly: ‘ When you wouldn’t see me that last time after Slaney-Smith’s death, I didn’t know what to do. In the end I called on Robert Birch.’

  She looked quickly at him. ‘ Oh?’

  ‘He told me about you having a baby. I didn’t know until then. For a minute – for a wild minute – I wondered if it might have been mine. When I realized it couldn’t have been I was miserable. I went off determined to forget you for ever.’

  Had he been looking then he would have seen a darker, softer glance in her eyes than had been there all day. In that moment she nearly blurted out the secret she had kept so long.

  ‘Was that when you decided to hate me?’

  ‘That was when I decided to hate you. It didn’t work.’

  She lowered her head.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘don’t get it into your mind that there’s someone else. You know me better than that. I’ve told you I’m in love with you still, haven’t I, now? I’ll tell you it every day you’ll consent to stay on. I can’t say more than that.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You can’t say more than that, Stephen.’

  The waiter brought the port. A little was poured out, first into his glass, then into hers. He sniffed it.

  ‘It’s the ’sixty-eight, sir. The same as you had last time.’

  ‘Very well.’ He waited till the man had gone. He gazed at Cordelia. ‘Here’s to us, my sweetheart.’

  They tipped glasses and drank. He refilled them, only lowering his eyes a second to do so.

  He said: ‘Presently – when we’ve had coffee, we’ll slip away. I’ll show you my rooms. There’ll be nobody there. The man who looks after me lives in the basement and never comes up unless rung for. The fire will be laid. We can have tea cosily together. You’ll make it for me, won’t you? Then I’ll prove to you, not only that I still love you, but that we can recapture all the old fun, yes, and the passion. You’ll forget the four years, your little boy, Uncle Pridey, Brook. I’ll promise you that … Darling, you’re so sweet, so precious. Will you come?’

  She said: ‘And afterwards? If I leave Brook?’

  His eyes travelled over her face. The last caution going now, without a thought, his imagination aflame. ‘Better still. We’ll – go to America then. I can arrange that. Give me a month, that’s all.’

  ‘And – you’re not interested in any other woman, Stephen?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Why d’you doubt me?’

  ‘What about tonight? You said you were engaged tonight.’

  He said: ‘It was a business engagement. An important one. But if you want me to I’ll cut it. Anything you say.’

  She slowly looked up and met his gaze. Her eyes searched into his.

  ‘Am I really as important to you as that?’ she said.

  Chapter Ten

  Pridey and Ian had been to the Zoo. They had seen the leopards, the monkeys and the alligators: they had fed the sea lions and ridden on the camel. When they got home Pridey read the note waiting for him and said:

  ‘Your mama’ll not be home just yet. Where shall we go this afternoon, my lad?’

  ‘Back to the Zoo, Uncle, please,’ said Ian.

  So they went off again and this time tried the snake house and the polar bear pit and the small mammal house and the parrot house, and Pridey got into trouble with a cockatoo and its keeper, but chiefly with the cockatoo, for trying to pull out what he thought was a loose tail feather for the boy.

  When they arrived home a second time Cordelia was not yet back and there was no further message. Ian was tired out with so much walking and so much excitement, and after tea he allowed Pridey and Mrs Cowdray in tart collaboration to put him to bed. Then the old man limped round to his friend Wilberforce to tell him he couldn’t come and see his rabbits that evening. Once there, he found such interest in seeing the rabbits he had said he was not coming to see that it was nine o’clock before they parted and nine-thirty before he arrived back at his lodgings, having forgotten his supper. A cold meal was laid, and Mrs Cowdray was in the basement knitting stockings for her sailor son. No, she hadn’t fed his mice, what did he think? No, Mrs Ferguson hadn’t come back. She wondered at people forgetting their duty like that. No, the boy hadn’t wakened; if he had she’d have gone up to him. Yes, he could make a pot of tea for himself if he felt inclined.

  Pridey brewed his tea and was going to limp upstairs with it, but Mrs Cowdray slapped down her knitting and said, ‘Here, let me,’ so Pridey brought up the rear with his stick.

  First there were his little friends to be fed and talked to and told about the rabbits he’d seen; then the top of Ian’s curly head had to be furtively reviewed; at last he was free to pour out his tea and kick off his boots and warm his hands at the fire.

  On this came Cordelia.

  She stood there in the door for a moment as if hesitating, not sure of what she would find, while Pridey wrinkled his eyebrows at her and the hot tea steamed his face.

  ‘Neet brings crows home,’ he said. ‘ Just in time for supper. Mrs Cowdray’s worst meal.’

  She came forward and sat in the chair opposite him, quietly and meekly, and slowly pulled her gloves off, unpinned her hat.

  ‘Oh, Pridey …’ she said.

  He sipped his tea. ‘We’ve been all day at the Zoo. Seen everything behind bars except men. Suppose one has to go to Wormwood Scrubs for that.’

  She looked at him and her eyes were suddenly blind with tears. She tried to stop them but it was no use, they had been held back too long. They overflowed her lashes and she put up her hands to her face.

  He said: ‘Here, here, this won’t do. Calm yourself. Have some boiled ham.’

  She did not give way as she had done that other time more than four years ago, but she sat there silently struggling. Pridey put down his cup.

  ‘Won’t do at all. Go out for the day to meet your lover and come back and flood the place. What’s the matter?’

  She took no notice. Pridey was alarmed because she was trembling. He got up and rubbed his head and made noises at her. Then he rubbed her head for a change. He went to the door to call Mrs Cowdray but changed his mind and came back. He poured her out a cup of tea and offered it to her. Conscious that she must at all costs get away to her own room, Cordelia chose this moment to rise, and her shoulder jogged the tea-cup out of his hand.

  Coming now, the accident was just enough to steady her, to weigh the balance towards self-control. Apologizing amid the ruins, not aware of any relief, as there would have been after a complete break-down, she went on her knees and helped him to mop up the mess.

  He said it was a cracked cup anyhow, and the saucer was safe; he’d saved the saucer, and he’d heard tea was good for carpets; he remembered a case in his bedroom at home when tea had been spilt on top of an ink-stain and the effect was quite artistic, like a single chrysanthemum.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘ I just couldn’t help it. I’m so desperately tired and unhappy. I’ve never felt like this before. I think I want to die.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Can’t want to die at your age. Go and wash your face. Do you all the good in the world.’

  ‘I feel awful. I expect I look it. I feel like Aunt Tish.’

  ‘Had a spare cup somewhere. Yes, I remember. Been
keeping lentils in it.’

  He went out, and with an effort she got up and went into her bedroom and tried to bathe her face. When she came back he had found the cup and was sitting at the table stirring his second cup of tea. She slipped into her seat with a last surreptitious wipe of her nose.

  ‘Wilberforce has some fine rabbits,’ he said. ‘ Fat, flabby, helpless things. One has had forty-two young in twelve months. Terrifying!’

  She said: ‘It was awful, Pridey.’

  ‘Should think it is,’ he said. ‘In four years, if they all lived, one rabbit could have over a million descendants. You must meet Wilberforce.’

  There was a pause. Outside two drunken men were shouting, quarrelling.

  ‘I found Stephen quite easily this morning, at the theatre. We – went out together.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Pridey. He looked at her and pushed a dish across. ‘Have some salad.’

  ‘I can’t eat,’ she said with a break still in her voice.

  ‘Why not go to bed? Tell me in the morning.’

  She watched him for a moment as he began his meal.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear?’

  He waved his knife uneasily. ‘Talk away. Talk away. But don’t think in the morning: wish I hadn’t told that old buffer so much.’

  She said: ‘No … I won’t do that. What I’m sorry for is not telling you before, years ago. I’ve never had anybody I could tell anything. There was nobody who wouldn’t have been shocked.’

  ‘Well, you won’t shock me. I breed mice.’

  She half laughed but checked herself. Laughter was so close to that loss of control which was still very near. At the moment her mind was clear. It must stay clear.

  ‘In a way, I felt mean – underhand, not telling him what I knew. But he’d got to mention her first, because it was something important; anyone could see that. I thought before I went out this morning, if he says, ‘‘Cordelia, I’m in love with someone else,’’ or even, ‘‘I’m engaged or married to someone else’’ – if he’ll say that straight out …’ She twisted her hands. ‘But it wasn’t like that at all.’

  Pridey helped himself to the ham.