Caroline

by Richmal Crompton

  Philippa was gathering her things together.

  “Time we were starting back, Richard, I’m afraid. What about the infant? She’s had nothing to eat at all.”

  “I had a huge lunch,” smiled Fay. “I just don’t feel hungry now. . . . It’s been such a lovely day.”

  “Glad you haven’t got to wear goggles,” said Neil, helping her into her coat, “though you’d have looked a nice little owl in them. . . . When is Caroline going to let you come and stay with us? We keep asking, you know.”

  The glow faded again.

  “I—don’t know. I’m—terribly busy working for my exam, now.”

  “Always some excuse!” said Neil.

  “Don’t tease her, Neil,” said Marcia. “We’ll wait till Philippa’s living in town, too, then we’ll make a grand concerted effort.”

  “That sounds lovely,” laughed Fay, but she knew that, however much of a grand concerted effort they made, Caroline would never let her go and stay with them. “Darling, I just couldn’t spare you. I do so miss my baby when she’s away from me. . . . I know Marcia’s kind and means well, but—darling, I couldn’t trust her to look after you properly. . . . I tell you what, sweetheart, we’ll have a day in Town together next week, just you and I—shall we?—for a treat. We’ll go to the National Gallery. We’ve never been there yet. I’ll show you the Italian Primitives, and we can eat our sandwiches in Trafalgar Square. Won’t that be fun?”

  She followed the others slowly out to the car. It was almost ended—the lovely, lovely day. Soon it would be only a memory, the sort of memory you go over and over again every night in bed, the sort of memory you cling to when everything seems so hateful that you can hardly bear it. . . . It wasn’t only the concert, though the concert had been heaven. It was—everything. The happy care-free atmosphere, the absence of strain and effort (she tried hard not to think “the absence of Caroline”), the affectionate teasing of Neil and Richard, the underlying kindliness and understanding of them all. . . . It had gone so terribly quickly, but—never mind, she reassured herself, you’ll have it to think about and to remember always. . . .

  Neil and Marcia stood at the door waving as they set off.

  “Don’t forget,” Neil called to her. “You’re coming to stay with us soon.”

  She curled up on the back seat, and her mind floated off over the roseate memories of the day. The sound of Philippa’s and Richard’s voices was wafted back to her, blending happily with her dreams.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CAROLINE was alone in the drawing-room when they reached home.

  They told her of the day’s doings, and Philippa gave her the oculist’s report.

  Caroline laughed.

  “I rather thought there was nothing in that scare,” she said. “Some of these young mistresses are intolerably officious.”

  “But he said that she ought to see a doctor,” Philippa reminded her gently.

  Caroline smiled at Fay, who was still flushed and bright-eyed with excitement.

  “She looks as if she needed to see a doctor, doesn’t she?” she said, slipping an arm round her affectionately. “But, of course, I’ll make an appointment. The jacks-in-office shall be satisfied at every point, shan’t they, darling? Well, did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes . . . awfully,” said Fay, but she spoke constrainedly. She couldn’t tell Caroline how much she’d enjoyed it. For one thing, she wouldn’t have understood; for another, she hated you to enjoy anything without her, and you were such a coward that you nearly always pretended that you hadn’t enjoyed things much if she’d not been with you. And—the reaction was setting in now. All the glory of the day was fading, leaving a heavy depression. Her head had begun to ache, and she felt so miserable that it was all she could do to keep the tears back.

  “There’s some supper for you in the dining-room,” went on Caroline briskly, “so you’d better have it quickly and go to bed. It’s the French test-paper tomorrow, isn’t it? I want you to be fresh for that. Come along, darling. I’ll just see that you’ve got all you want.”

  When she returned a few moments later Philippa was sitting in the armchair by the fire, and Richard was standing on the hearthrug, smiling down at her. The suggestion of friendliness, of intimacy almost, between them struck her like a blow in the face. She frowned and tightened her lips. Surely she wasn’t jealous, she told herself. Jealous of her own mother. And Richard. It was absurd. Yet, as they turned to her, she had again the sensation that they were united in a bond of alliance against her. The smile—intimate, understanding—faded from their faces. They looked wary, on their guard. Allied against her. The pain in her heart sharpened, deepened, till it was almost intolerable. She spoke in her quiet, unmodulated voice.

  “I think you made a mistake in taking Fay to the concert, Richard. That sort of thing only unsettles her. If I’d known you had any idea of it I’d have asked you not to. I suppose that she didn’t like to refuse, but I’ve just been telling her that it would have been more—well, more honest not to have gone. She decided herself to give up music because it was taking up too much of her time and thoughts, and she ought to have kept to her decision in the spirit as well as the letter. It’s no use putting one’s hand to the plough and looking back.”

  “But, Caroline,” protested Philippa, “she needs some recreation.

  Caroline looked at her with blue eyes narrowed.

  “I understand Fay, Philippa, thank you.” She turned to Richard. “Richard knows I do, don’t you, Richard? I’ve made a study of her from babyhood.”

  Richard would support her there, at any rate—Richard, who knew that she had been more than a mother to Fay; Richard, who had often resented her devotion to the child. But Richard was looking self-conscious and embarrassed.

  “Well, I don’t really know, Caroline,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I think music means more to her than you quite realise.”

  She drew in her breath sharply. That Richard—Richard—should suggest there was anything about Fay that she didn’t understand, that the child wasn’t an open book to her, wasn’t, in a way, her own handiwork! She’d moulded her character, formed her tastes, from babyhood. And Richard dared to say, “I think music means more to her than you realise.” The colour faded from her cheeks. She seemed to feel the foundations of her kingdom shake beneath her. It wasn’t the first time. She’d felt it once before when Richard had said “You shouldn’t have spoken to your mother like that.” Your mother . . . yes, it was Philippa’s coming that had assailed the security of her kingdom. It had been as firm as a rock before. And now Richard—oh, but he had spent the day with Philippa. He’d had tea with Marcia and Philippa. She thought of that little tea-party round Marcia’s fireside as a monarch might think of a meeting of disaffected subjects. Marcia had been disloyal from the beginning, and that sort of thing spread like rot, like canker, through a group. Richard, weak, perhaps, but never disloyal till now. . . . Richard, affected by the taint. And Fay. . . . No, Fay was still loyal, thank God! What a fool she’d been to let Fay go with them! She would be more careful in future. Again she tried to think that she was fortunate in having discovered Richard’s true character before it was too late, but all she was conscious of was the fact that he had deserted her and the pain of it was like physical torment. Why had she let this woman come into her life, wrecking her happiness, poisoning the minds of everyone around her? She gave a short unsteady laugh.

  “My dear Richard,” she said, “you really can’t teach me anything about Fay.”

  “I wasn’t trying to,” he said with a smile. “Well, goodbye, Caroline . . . goodbye, Philippa.” Again the special intimate smile for Philippa that tore at Caroline’s heart. “Give Fay my love. I won’t disturb her at supper. No, don’t see me out. Goodbye.”

  He was gone, leaving Caroline to wrestle with this new anguish that seemed to rack soul and body. Absurd and impossible that she should have come really to love him just now when he had proved himself so unworthy of
her . . . and yet the memory of the love that he had offered and that she had so casually rejected filled her suddenly with a blind sick longing she had never known before. She pulled herself up sharply. She must fight this thing, she mustn’t yield to it even in her thoughts. She must stand alone, as she had always done, strong in the knowledge of her own rectitude. She should not have expected sympathy or even understanding from anyone. She had given, given, given, all her life. She must go on giving, without stint, without hope of reward. She was strong enough for that. She tried to ignore the pain that still tore at her heart.

  “Is Susan in bed?” Philippa was saying.

  “No. . . . She’s gone to Dr. Bennett’s.”

  “Why? Isn’t she well?”

  Caroline shrugged.

  “She’s been a bit nervy lately, and I thought she’d better get a tonic. She suggested going to Dr. Bennett’s herself, as a matter of fact. He had to attend a consultation this afternoon, that’s why he gave her such a late appointment. She ought to be back any minute.”

  Fay came in to say goodnight. She said it docilely, like a little girl, kissing first Caroline, then Philippa. She looked very pale, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  “The whole day’s been too much for her,” said Caroline, as soon as she had gone out of the room. “I shall take care that it doesn’t happen again.”

  She tried to speak calmly but was aware that her voice sounded quite unlike her usual voice, unsteady, almost shrill.

  There was a sudden tension in the room. The sound of the opening of the front door came as a relief to both women. Then Susan entered, slowly and draggingly. Her eyes were dilated in her white face, and there was a strange dreamlike air about her, as if she were walking in her sleep. She sat down, fixing her eyes on Caroline, but as if she were focussing something a long way off, and spoke in a low toneless voice.

  “Caroline . . . I’m going to have a baby.”

  Caroline drew in her breath.

  “Oh, my dear! When did you know?”

  “Not till tonight. Dr. Bennett told me. I wasn’t sure, I mean. I’d begun to suspect last week.”

  “Darling,” said Caroline, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I ought to go back to Ken—now.”

  A cold steel-like glint came into Caroline’s eyes, but her voice was deep with tenderness.

  “Darling—not now. You can’t now. You’ve—the child to think of now as well as yourself. You can’t give your child a drunkard and a libertine for a father.”

  “He wanted a child. He’d have been so glad.”

  “I wonder if he would. He’d probably have grudged every penny he had to spend on it, just as he grudged every penny he had to spend on you.”

  “He often said he wanted a child.”

  Caroline shrugged.

  “That sentimental sort of talk came easy to him. It meant no more than the breath he used to say it with. Do you remember how, when you were engaged, he said he’d rather die than cause you a minute’s unhappiness, and now——”

  "Don’t!” cried Susan sharply.

  “Oh, my dear, I understand. I do honestly, sweetheart. I suffer for you in this almost as much as you’re suffering yourself . . . but we’ve got to be practical. We’ve got to face facts. Don’t you see, darling? I keep on telling you it’s no use thinking of an idealised Kenneth who never really existed except in your imagination. The real Kenneth is very very different. You’ve no right to give your child a father like that. Its life is in your hands to make or mar. Before this you could have gone back to him.”

  “Why didn’t you let me, then?” said Susan. “Why didn’t you let me?”

  Caroline’s eyes hardened again. Another tremor in the foundations of her kingdom.

  “Did I ever stop you?” she said. “Didn’t you go back and find him—drunk? Hasn’t he told you since then that he doesn’t want you back? Wasn’t it he himself who suggested a divorce? Can you go crawling back to him after that—and with a child? What sort of a life would you be condemning your child to—not to speak of yourself? Come, Susan . . . this isn’t my brave girl. You’ve been so plucky up to now.”

  Susan eyes, dark and heavy with despair, moved from Caroline to Philippa, then from Philippa back to Caroline. Her face looked wan and drawn. Her figure sagged despondently.

  “But, Caroline”—she threw out her hands helplessly—“what can I do? I can’t—cadge on you? And how can I go on teaching if I have the child?”

  Red patches burnt in Caroline’s cheeks. A feeling of exultation possessed her. A child of Susan’s . . . her child, really . . . to care for and guide and train. Oh, she would spend herself gladly for it. Another life given into her charge, another character to mould with loving care from babyhood as she had moulded Fay’s. Perhaps a girl . . . like Fay . . . sweet and loving and malleable. Or a boy . . . like Robert . . . staunchly loyal and dependable. How reverently and lovingly she would undertake this new task!

  “Ken must help, anyway,” Susan was saying wearily. “With money, I mean.”

  Again that hard glint came into Caroline’s eyes.

  “I don’t want Kenneth to help,” she said. “I can manage perfectly well. I don’t want Kenneth to have any claim on the child at all. He’s forfeited his rights.”

  Yes, she’d manage. The child should not suffer in any way. She’d manage. It would mean taking on more work. She couldn’t afford to relax now that this fresh responsibility was laid on her shoulders. Oh well, she’d been giving, giving, giving, all her life. She’d go on giving, more unremittingly, more generously. It was her nature to sacrifice herself for others. Only so could she find her true fulfilment.

  Susan dropped her head into her hands with a little sob.

  “Oh, it would have been so different if——”

  Caroline put her arms around her.

  “I know, darling, but listen. Caroline won’t fail you. She’ll stand by you. . . .”

  “You’re so good, Caroline.”

  “Nonsense! You can go on teaching for a few months yet, can’t you? When is it to be?”

  “In May.”

  “That leaves us plenty of time to make our plans. You’d better go into a nursing home for it. I think that would be best. We’ll get a good nurse for the child, of course, because we shall both be working, and—we’ll all be so happy together, sweetheart. We’ll give our baby a real home. She—let’s pretend it’s going to be a girl, shall we?—will have everything she can possibly need. There’s the old nursery—the one you and Fay and Robert had. We’ll start getting it ready, at once, shall we?”

  Her cheeks still flushed, her eyes bright and dreamy, she went on planning, scheming, making arrangements. To do so dulled the pain of Richard’s defection, the pain that nagged so unceasingly at her heart. (Yes, no use thinking of Richard. There would be no room for Richard in her life now.)

  Susan’s eyes were shut, her lips a tight bitter line.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MAGGIE fussed happily about the drawing-room, shaking up the cushions and altering the positions of the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

  It was the last day of Philippa’s visit, but she didn’t feel unhappy about it, because the visit had been so lovely, and Philippa had said that she would come again soon.

  It had been Maggie’s idea to invite Philippa over for a week-end. She had missed Philippa very much since she went to live in London. When she was living with Caroline she would often call to see Maggie, bringing flowers or the sugared almonds that Maggie loved, and she would always ask to see Maggie’s garden and hear Sweetie sing.

  Caroline, of course, was too clever to care about things like that, and when Maggie mentioned them used to frown in a way that brought the familiar quiver of fear and dismay over Maggie and made her hair come down. Philippa never frowned. She laughed instead, and Maggie had to laugh, too, though often she didn’t know what they were laughing at. Maggie enjoyed laughing, and there hadn’t been very much of i
t in her life on the whole. When she woke up in the morning there was something exciting in the thought that she might meet Philippa in the town, or that Philippa might call with a bunch of flowers or a bag of sugared almonds and ask to hear Sweetie sing and say how nice Maggie looked in her necklaces and give her that happy feeling inside that only Philippa could give her.

  And so when Philippa left Bartenham altogether and went to live at her flat in London, Maggie felt lost and forlorn. It was so dull going into the town and knowing that by no possible chance could she meet Philippa there. It was so dull waking up in the morning and knowing that by no possible chance could Philippa pop in with a bag of sugared almonds and ask to hear Sweetie sing. And then came the idea of inviting Philippa to stay with them for a week-end. Charles was at first taken aback by her suggestion (they’d never had anyone to stay with them before), but finally he became almost as much excited by it as Maggie.