Cordelia

by Winston Graham

She said: ‘I don’t know if I’ve been conceited or blind. When I first met him there were things … But there was another side – or so I thought – warm, generous, impulsive – that I came to love. I thought, from the way things seemed, I thought I was important to him – apart from being in love – that in a way he needed me. Well – if he ever did, if that was ever true. It isn’t true any longer. Whatever might have been five years ago, now – it’s too late …’

  ‘Go on.’

  She stared at the table-cloth, the embroidered velvet table centre, the artificial flowers. ‘I knew – by the time we finished lunch I knew I could win him back. I suppose I should have been gratified – she must be very fascinating. But really I’d lost. There was this something else. It wasn’t that she had supplied it but that he no longer felt the need of it. Or so it seemed to me. It was gone. That was the something I couldn’t ever win back …’

  ‘If it was ever there.’

  ‘If it was ever there. I feel as if I don’t know anything any more.’

  ‘What did he say about Brook?’

  ‘I never told him. I found I couldn’t. If once he knew that, then he’d know exactly why I’d come to London, why I’d come to see him. I thought at first that, as he didn’t mention the other girl, I never could mention her either. But gradually it came nearer and nearer to the edge of my tongue …’

  Pridey stopped in his chewing. His face creased into an encouraging smile.

  ‘He – wanted me to go back with him to his rooms. Just before we left the restaurant, when he’d promised everything I asked, I suddenly found I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I suddenly said to him, ‘‘What about Freda Gerald?’’ He was astonished, of course. And annoyed. When I told him how I knew about her, he said I’d not treated him fairly. Then he started to explain. From being sweet to each other it gradually all changed. Sometimes I think we don’t talk the same language. He jumped to the wrong conclusions, started making excuses for the wrong things. Of course I was jealous when I saw the girl last night. But how could I blame him? I’d given him no promise ever to see him again. I couldn’t expect him to stay away from all women all his life. What I wanted was his confidence and his trust today. I told him so. He got angry then and said how could I expect him to know all that, seeing that when I last saw him with a woman I’d walked out and had nothing more to do with him for five years? And I said if he’d been honest with me in the first place I shouldn’t have deserted him – ever …’

  Her voice faded away. It was impossible really to tell a third person. In telling, even as it occurred, it seemed so petty. After all these years it had apparently ended in a lovers’ quarrel over another woman. The girl’s name had immediately obscured all the real issues. Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps it was inevitable.

  For the real issues went deep, deep. They were as fundamental as those which had divided Brook and his father.

  ‘I left him soon after that.’

  ‘D’you still love him?’

  ‘I – don’t know. At present I think I’m cured. Aghast. Like a great awakening. And brave. It’s in two or three days – or perhaps tonight – I shall begin to feel it. I shall wake up then in a different way. For five years everything I’ve done and thought … I shall wake up and find all that gone …’

  ‘Where’ve you been since this afternoon?’

  ‘Walking. I lost my way. I didn’t much care.’

  ‘Silly young thing. You’ll be doing the same as Brook.’ Pridey put down his knife and fork and sighed deeply. His glance roved round the table. ‘You know, Mrs Cowdray’s very mean with her suppers. I do miss a substantial meal in the evenings.’

  She put her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Pridey, what shall I do?’

  ‘Do? It’s perfectly plain what you must do.’

  ‘Is it?’ she said through her fingers after a moment. ‘ What?’

  ‘Oh-ho, it’s no good me giving advice. You wouldn’t take it. People never do. Just wasted air.’

  ‘But what can I do?’

  He limped off into his bedroom and came back with the old paper bag. ‘ Have a sweet.’

  Reluctantly she fumbled in the bag. ‘Thank you.’ It was a good move. Difficult for one’s heart to break while one is sucking a toffee.

  He said: ‘Mr Gladstone’s developing a taste for tea. Most peculiar. Drinks quite a saucerful some mornings. I wonder if you’ll be here on Saturday. Wilberforce is coming round in the evening.’

  ‘I can’t stay here indefinitely.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Just the right age.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Now, look,’ he said. ‘Do you want my advice or don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Pridey. I feel lost. Terribly lost – as if I shall never know my way again.’

  ‘Very good then. You’re twenty-six. And you’ve come up to London to join your lover, that’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘That was it.’

  ‘And you came to me. Now I’m an ignorant old man. I judge things as an ignorant man should – by the light of common sense. But I didn’t say to you, Cordelia, ‘‘You’re a fool, throwing yourself away on that man,’’ did I?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I didn’t say to you, ‘‘Look what you’re doing; you’ve just got out of one bad marriage, now you’re going to jump into another.’’ Why didn’t I say that? Because I knew you wouldn’t take any notice. And besides – it’s not for me to manage your life. People should mind their own business. That’s what’s been wrong with Frederick – trying to interfere. When I feel like that I say to myself, God doesn’t interfere. Do I think myself cleverer than God? Have another sweet.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘But you want my advice, so now I’ll give it. Go back to Grove Hall.’

  She stared at him wanly.

  ‘Oh, that’s impossible.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible – yet. Take your son back. That’s where you belong. It’s not a bad place. You should never’ve left it.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t do that. I won’t do that.’

  Pridey limped over to the fire, chewing excitedly.

  ‘You’re twenty-six. But so much older than your years – in the head, I mean. You know the value of money. Don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know all that. I realize I shall be throwing away–’

  ‘Throwing away a hundred thousand pounds. All round it’ll be that. A house and a works and Lord knows what besides. There’s my money and Tish’s money – though we can’t touch it – and Frederick’s money. It’ll all come to you. You’re an heiress, even the way money goes today.’

  She said: ‘I do know all that; but I’ll not go back there to a life of being under Mr Ferguson’s thumb. Brook never had any free life–’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. You’ll not be under Frederick’s thumb. Brook, maybe, and Tish and I, and all the servants. But not you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I am.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not. Don’t you know you’re his pet? Especially since you gave him a grandson. You can handle him. You’ve got the same sort of minds. Though you use ’ em differently. Didn’t you realize that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, why d’you think he’s given way all along the line about Ian’s upbringing?’

  ‘But he hasn’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he has. All the important things. The things that have seemed important to you. Remember about the perambulator. And the cold baths. And not having meals with the family except on Sundays.’

  ‘But I’ve given way on heaps of things too.’

  ‘Why does he let you go to see your family as often as you please? Why was the new greenhouse put where you wanted it? And the holiday last year, remember that? And why did he make you a partner along with Brook? Because he can work with you. He knows you’re as clever as he is and will stand up to him when you choose to.
Ah!’ Pridey sat down. ‘Damned sciatica reminding me again.’

  There was silence.

  He said: ‘You say you thought sometimes you didn’t talk the same language as young Crossley. Well, you talk the same language as Frederick. Seen it over and over again. Doesn’t mean you’re alike in character. But when you choose to stand up to him you always do it when he’s put himself in the wrong and his own judgment makes him back down. We people get wild at the wrong times, put ourselves in the wrong. Under Frederick’s thumb! What nonsense! He’d be under your thumb in another year or two if you were that sort of a woman!’

  She lowered her hands from her face.

  ‘No, Pridey. It’s not really like that at all. And anyway – I don’t always want to be fighting. It takes so much out of me. And I should have to over Ian. I left more because of him than for anything else. If I saw him growing up into another Brook, cowed, beaten, weak … That’s the real reason why I can never go back.’

  ‘Nonsense again. All stuff and nonsense. But if it was a tussle for a year or two, wouldn’t it be worth it? Money counts. How old d’you think Frederick is? I’ll be seventy-two in a few weeks, worse luck. He’s just seventy. He can’t go on and on. Every year you’ll be stronger, he’ll be weaker. In five years’ time you’ll own Ferguson’s. Ian’ll only be nine then. He can’t come to much harm.’

  She said: ‘You make me feel like some scheming peasant woman – adding up when so-and-so will die.’

  He clutched his beard. ‘Ought to’ve known better. Gave up arguing with women long ago. Thought you were different. No stability. No damned logic. Go on. Go and drown yourself in the Thames. That’s feminine. That’s understandable.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I know you’re advising for the best, but …’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You don’t want that sort of argument. Sordid, you think. Mercenary. What about the other. You’re twenty-six. Just the right age. You’ve got looks. You’ll go on having looks for another fifteen years. They’ll get better for five or ten. I know your sort. Even though I am ignorant I didn’t always keep mice. You’ve just lost your husband and jilted your lover. Your heart’s broken. So you think. Well, I’m sorry if it is. But has it occurred to you that there are twenty-two million odd people in England and Wales, and that somewhere among them there may be other men you could fall in love with? And that if you’re a bit more experienced and a bit more choosy next time you may find one who’s neither a weakling nor a knave. People aren’t born wise in this life, they buy experience, and if they’re lucky they buy it in time. You’re not an unlucky heart-broken woman; you’re lucky. Stop being sorry for yourself and use your head again!’

  ‘I’m not sorry for myself!’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Frederick’s not comfortable to live with. I ought to know. But he’s not all black. Brook wasn’t all his fault, you know. He didn’t make him ail. And I don’t suppose this last quarrel was his fault. Longer I live, more sure I am there’s no black and white in this life, only different shades of grey. He’s masterful, sentimental, complacent, bit of a Pecksniff. But in his own way he’s enlightened, philanthropic, go-ahead, got his own courage and integrity. Anyway, it’s no good arguing over spilt milk. Brook’s gone and that’s that. What you must consider is what’s best for you. You asked my advice. Well, I tell you go back to Grove Hall. Tell Frederick any story you like. Say Stephen’s married again–’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t know anything about Stephen.’

  ‘He won’t be too particular about the excuse you make. He’ll be too glad to see you. Go back to Grove Hall and try to forget the past. Brook and Stephen as well. And any grievances you’ve got against Frederick. I’ve had some, but I’ve lost most of ’em. When you look at him the right way, he’s not powerful, he’s pathetic. Think of the future. You enjoy tinkering about down at the works, don’t deny it–’

  ‘I don’t deny it.’

  ‘And think of the future. Don’t go rushing into the first marriage you see. If you’ve got sense you won’t tie yourself to the works the way Frederick’s done. Enjoy your life. Come up to London when you please, go abroad if you fancy. Educate your son properly. Can’t do that for nothing. Three things. Make him broad-minded. Teach him the value of money. Keep him modest.’ Pridey stopped a moment, fumbled in his paper bag. ‘ If there’s any danger to Ian it’s from you.’

  ‘From me!’

  ‘Yes. Don’t get too close to him. Keep your distance. Give him room to breathe. Expect you will. You’ve got enough sense for that. But just keep an eye on yourself all the same.’

  ‘You make me feel awful. Perhaps you’re right – about him, I mean.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being right. It’s a question of common sense. Using your head. Well … Are you going to throw everything away?’

  She did not answer.

  ‘Are you going to be a goat and go on butting your head against a stone wall, saying, ‘‘ I won’t learn, I won’t learn, I won’t learn’’? Pah! Believe you are. Really believe you are!’

  She went up to him, diffidently touched his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pridey. I’m sorry to seem obstinate. But I don’t think I could face it. I don’t think I could ever go back there again.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The morning train from London was ten minutes late. It steamed into London Road Station, and from a first-class carriage a fair young woman in mourning and a little boy got out. The young woman looked tired and ill.

  A porter lifted out the single box, and she allowed Ian to drag her up to look at the steaming engine with its enormous driving wheel and shining brass-work. Then they walked off towards the exit.

  It was fine outside but grey. The afternoon was coming to an early close. London Road looked busy as they came down the steps; but it was busy with a slower-moving traffic: dray horses with magnificent hairy hoofs pulling wagons and striking sparks off the road, women in clogs carrying wicker baskets, a horse drinking at a trough, two covered dust-carts with spades sticking out of the back, a boy asleep in the straw at the back of an open lorry, buses toiling up the hill.

  It looked like home.

  They climbed into a cab and she tipped the porter. ‘Eh, that’s right,’ said one woman to another, hastening to catch a train. The cabbie clicked to his horse and they moved creakily off, down the hill, not hurrying, at a jog trot.

  She thought: So I am coming back after all. It’s not as Pridey said, not all of it. But part of it’s true. In two days of despair she had gone over every word Stephen had spoken, every gesture. Freda Gerald was not important – except as a symptom. The final break would have come without it and come unobscured.

  Only five days ago, on the journey up to London, she had thought it the narrow standards of Grove Hall which had blinded her to the richness and colour of life with Stephen. Now she realized the narrow standards of Grove Hall could only be blamed for giving her the excuse to think that.

  And then, having deceived her, memory had begun at once to whisper and confirm. Isn’t this the man who … Isn’t this in keeping? …

  Some times other and contrary thoughts restlessly claimed her, whispering what she had said to Pridey; it might have been; five years ago when they were both younger, if they had gone away together, as he was then, it might have been; but now too late, too late …

  Or did she underestimate some new element in her judgment, new maturity, new standards of comparison and experience which, had she possessed them five years ago, would have made the adventure impossible at the outset? She didn’t know, would never know.

  Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, over the sets and round the Green.

  She thought: I’m not going back for my own sake. But all – all Pridey says about Ian is true. She was going back to accept a challenge. She would take up the reins where they had been dropped. The house and the works, and the new houses for the men who worked there; and her position and her family, and …
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  She didn’t know if Frederick Ferguson would still be in the mood in which she left him. Inevitably, if he was to live, he would recover from defeat, climb out of this abyss; inevitably, being the man he was, he would claim the old allegiances, put on some of the old pretensions. There would be conflict in the future as there had been in the past.

  Yet there would be times, too, and it would be dishonest to disguise it, when she would find herself working along with him in amity, as she had done in the past. This morning early when she had been lying awake she had thought that but for Frederick Ferguson, for all his impositions, she might have remained a milliner’s assistant, have married a tradesman and gone to her grave with such abilities as she possessed unrecognized.

  And the queer thought had come to her that a cynic, looking at this phase of her life with a proper detachment, might say that ultimately the most important thing in it had not been her relationship with Stephen or Brook, dearly as these had cost her in emotion and grief, but that other relationship with Frederick Ferguson, crystallizing in the background, almost unnoticed, through the years.

  The familiar streets, the familiar sights, the familiar smells. Trees now, and muddy lanes and the Grove.

  She thought: If people really knew, what would they think? That I’m a calculating, designing woman – or a prude – or a wanton? Some perhaps one and some another. I’ve been faithful and unfaithful, cared nothing for possessions yet at the last am coming back to claim them. In fact nobody will ever know, nobody, not even Pridey, will know everything – all the facts – except me. And to me it doesn’t seem that I have been any of these things. But then, although I know most of all, I can judge least of all, for I have been the centre of it. So I shall go on – as everyone goes on – to the end of my days, blown by every wind that comes. And the only steadying force will be my own reason, my own understanding. I’m alone. So I must hope and pray for reason and understanding. And judgment and patience and faith.

  She looked down at her son who was dozing against her arm. His fair curls were escaping from his hat. Alone except for Ian, whom she must guide without leading strings, influence without oppressiveness, love without demanding anything in return. Pridey had called her an heiress. But it was he, Ian, really who was the heir. Ian Ferguson. She realized she was returning to perpetuate the crowning paradox of all.