Caroline

by Richmal Crompton

  “When are you coming home?” he said again.

  “I’m coming home when Evelyn’s gone—not before,” she replied calmly.

  He was silent from sheer surprise. Evelyn . . . who’d relieved Effie of all the worry and responsibility of housekeeping, who was always so patient and affectionate to her. He’d taken for granted that Effie was, at the bottom, deeply attached to her, that she would have refused even to contemplate a return to the old muddling, haphazard, Evelyn-less life. She had been moody and ungracious to Evelyn, but she was like that to everyone occasionally, even to Caroline, even to him. That was just “nerves,” of course. The idea that she could even think of getting rid of Evelyn came as a shock to him and—he discovered with some surprise—a relief. He realised suddenly that he was tired of Evelyn’s brightness and briskness and unfailing efficiency. He was tired of her, and—though he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself—afraid of her. He was, in fact, a frightened little boy who had run to Effie for comfort and protection. He had tried to forget last night’s nightmare and the large sleek feline Evelyn who had pursued him, but he hadn’t quite succeeded.

  Effie was watching him with that new detached smile.

  “Perhaps you’d better consult Caroline before you give me a definite answer,” she said.

  “Of course I won’t,” he replied indignantly.

  As if he’d ever let Caroline, dearly as he loved her, interfere in any detail of his dealings with Effie!

  “Because I can save you the trouble of doing that,” went on Effie. “I can tell you just what she’ll say. She’ll say that you mustn’t give in to my childish whims and fancies, that if once you begin doing that there’ll be no end to it. She’ll say that it’s far kinder to me in the long run to make a firm stand over the question, and that for the sake of the children, and incidentally yourself, it’s your duty to insist on Evelyn’s staying.”

  “Nonsense!” he said.

  “That’s what she’d say if you asked her.”

  “I’m not going to ask her.”

  “You mean—you’ll get rid of Evelyn?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him and the smile died out of her eyes.

  “Listen, Robert. You remember what things were like before Evelyn came, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can’t promise that they’ll be any better. I think they will, but I can’t promise. The point is that you’ve got to put up with me as I am, or let me go altogether. I won’t be treated again as if I were a child by either you or Caroline.”

  “But, Effie . . .”

  “No, listen. Don’t interrupt. I mean just that. I’m to be the mistress of the house, and if I manage it badly then I manage it badly, and you’ll have to put up with it. I won’t submit again to having someone set over me.”

  “Set over you?” he repeated in pained expostulation. He could hardly believe that he had actually heard the words aright.

  “Yes. Set over me. You don’t see it that way, but that’s what it was. Evelyn was set over me by Caroline. I won’t put up with anything of that sort again. I won’t have Caroline interfering in my affairs again in any way at all.”

  “Caroline never has interfered in your affairs, Effie.”

  “Oh yes, she has. She’s interfered right from the beginning. She couldn’t bear to let you go, just as she couldn’t bear to let Susan go, just as she can’t bear to let Fay go. . . . Oh, never mind,” as she noticed the look of utter bewilderment on his face. “It doesn’t really matter whether you see it or not. I think I like you better for not seeing it. The point is that it’s got to stop. It’s what I say that must go in future, not what Caroline says. Will you promise that?”

  “Of course. I hadn’t realised . . . Effie, if I ever have let Caroline interfere, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to. You see, she was so awfully good to me when I was a child. I can’t forget that.”

  “I don’t want you to forget that, Robert.”

  “But, of course . . . she doesn’t quite understand. I realise that. Poor old Caroline!”

  Effie drew a deep breath.

  “It’s worth a lot to me to hear you say that, Robert.”

  “Say what?”

  “‘Poor old Caroline.’ But—you do understand, don’t you, Robert? If you have me back, you must just accept me as I am with all my faults. I won’t be reformed or altered by anyone. I’ll try to reform and alter myself, of course, but that’s different.”

  “Effie, I don’t want you altered in any way.”

  She smiled at him—the old warm smile.

  “I expect we’ll muddle along somehow. We’ll start fresh anyway.”

  “Then—when will you come, Effie?”

  “I told you. I’ll come as soon as Evelyn’s gone.”

  “I’ll send her off tomorrow.”

  “Poor Robert! You’ll hate doing it, won’t you?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think I shall.”

  “Won’t you? I used to think you liked her so much better than you liked me.”

  “Effie!”

  “When I went I had the feeling of nobly giving you up to her, because she’d make you far happier than I ever could.”

  “Effie!”

  “It was silly, of course, because I knew at the bottom that she was hateful. I was insane, I think, Philippa’s made me sane again.”

  He looked at her, and again that vague jealousy swept over him. Again he saw innumerable males of irreproachable good looks, impeccable manners, and untold wealth, surrounding her on all sides. Suppose she were only coming back to him from a sense of duty. . . .

  “Effie,” he said hoarsely, “there isn’t—anyone else, is there?”

  She turned to him with a sudden movement, and he caught her in his arms. It was the old Effie, warm, loving, who clung to him.

  Chapter Twenty

  IT had been arranged that Maggie should hold her birthday party at Philippa’s flat. Maggie was always childishly excited about her birthday and generally gave a party, consisting of Charles, Susan, Robert, Effie, Caroline, and Fay, to celebrate it. Nana would make a large iced cake for the occasion, and Maggie would cover it with candles. She liked the entire cake to be covered with candles. Their number never had any connection with her age.

  Since Philippa went to live in London, Maggie had been a frequent visitor at her flat. She would go up in the morning, have lunch with Philippa, go to the pictures (Maggie adored the pictures) in the afternoon, then return to Philippa’s flat for tea. She was so delighted by these expeditions that, when the time for her birthday party came round, she could not consider its taking place anywhere but at Philippa’s. They must all go up to London, she said, go to the pictures, and then have the birthday tea at Philippa’s flat.

  The guests were to be unusually few in number this year. Susan and Kenneth had gone to Liverpool and were living in rooms while they looked for a house. Susan’s letters radiated a deep quiet happiness. Ken liked the work, and they were making a lot of new friends.

  Robert and Effie were away, too. Effie had engaged a nurse to look after the children, and she and Robert had gone to the Lakes for a holiday together. They were staying at the same hotel where they had spent their honeymoon. So that only left Caroline and Fay. Maggie had, however, invited Richard as well. She had met Richard several times at Philippa’s, and had taken a fancy to him. She’d known him, of course, for many years in Bartenham, but she’d always been afraid of him in Bartenham, just as she was afraid of almost everyone there. Somehow one couldn’t be afraid of people at Philippa’s. . . .

  Caroline had been at first inclined to refuse the invitation, giving Fay’s work as the excuse, for Fay’s scholarship exam took place next week and every minute was precious. Then it occurred to her that a day’s holiday might be good for Fay. Fay had been making a great effort to control herself. There had been no more tears or nerve storms, but there was a look of strain about the child that made C
aroline uneasy. She must certainly take a long holiday once this exam was over. . . . All Caroline’s anxious love was now concentrated on Fay. Susan had deserted her, deserted and betrayed her with a callousness the memory of which still tore at her heart. Susan had spurned her love, thrown back her sacrifices in her face, taken from her, not only herself, but that new life on which Caroline had been building such high hopes, for which she was prepared to pour out all the riches of her tenderness and devotion. She had chosen, instead of Caroline’s tried and tested love, the fickle passion of a selfish youth, who had known her only for a few short months and had already failed her at every turn. She would never all her life forget that moment when Susan had rushed in from the night, radiant, starry-eyed: “Caroline . . . I’m going back to Ken . . .” and had run upstairs to pack her bag, deaf to all Caroline’s expostulations and entreaties. “I can’t stop. . . . He’s at the gate . . . he’s waiting for me. . . . Darling, it’s all right. . . . I’m so happy I can hardly bear it. . . . You don’t understand. . . . Oh, you don’t understand. . . . I love him so terribly. . . . We’ve both been so silly. . . . I’m going now. Goodbye. No, I don’t know where we’re going. I’ve no idea. Oh, I’m so happy. . . .” And had rushed downstairs with her erratically packed suitcase, cutting off Caroline in the middle of a sentence.

  Caroline connected Susan’s desertion with Philippa. It was Philippa who was the centre of disaffection, Philippa whose disloyalty had spread slowly but surely throughout the group. Even Robert was different, though Robert had had so few dealings with Philippa. It wasn’t that Robert wasn’t kind. He was, indeed, kinder than he had ever been, but there was a touch of gentleness, of forbearance, almost of pity, in his kindness that made it intolerable to her. The old deference, the old unquestioning acceptance of her every opinion, had gone. He had not even asked her advice about dismissing Evelyn. She couldn’t understand that. She’d hardly been able to believe it when he told her that he’d dismissed Evelyn, given her a month’s wages, and asked her to go the next day. Caroline wasn’t quite as indignant about the actual dismissal as she would have been a few months earlier. She hadn’t liked Evelyn’s manner lately, and had begun to think that perhaps she’d been mistaken in her. Effie, of course, never had known how to manage her employees, and in Evelyn’s case had let her get far too familiar. And then it had been a mistake to leave her for so long mistress of the house. That, again, was Philippa’s fault. . . . Philippa, who had lured Effie away from her obvious duties and probably completely unsettled her. And that brought her back to the difference in Robert. He had even allowed Effie to engage a nurse for the children, though everyone knew that Effie had simply no idea of how to engage maids, and had always made a mess of it in the days when they’d let her do it, and had been almost short in his manner to Caroline when she offered to do it instead, or at any rate to be there to help Effie when she interviewed the applicants. And Effie . . . Effie had been very pleasant and polite and distant, quite sure of herself and of Robert. Caroline felt bewildered by it. That Effie, of all people, should be polite and assured. . . . And it was absurd of her to want another holiday after her long stay in London. But that, Effie told her suavely when she remonstrated, was Robert’s suggestion.

  Robert, apart from his sentimental idea of a second honeymoon, was glad to get away from the house for a short time. It seemed full of Evelyn’s devastating rage. The memory of the interview in which he had dismissed her still set his heart beating unevenly.

  “And may I ask the reason?” she had said slowly when he told her of his decision.

  “My wife wishes to take over the management of the house herself,” he said, trying to speak with dignity, but feeling a little pompous and ridiculous and, beneath it all, more than a little frightened. And then she had laughed, and there had been something so offensive in her laugh that he had lost all his fear of her and felt only dislike.

  “I’ll pay you your month’s salary,” he said, “and I’d be glad if you could see your way to going tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes. . . . I’ll even see my way to going today,” she had said insolently.

  He felt that he ought to thank her for all she had done for them—for she had certainly done a lot—and was trying to find appropriate words to do so, when she began to speak in a quiet voice, covering both Effie and him with abuse, ridiculing his little mannerisms and domestic habits, imitating his way of speaking, with a concentrated venom that brought the blood flaming to his cheeks. And then she’d gone at once, packing her trunks and sending for a taxi without another word. He had rung up Effie and Effie had arrived the next morning. It had been heaven to get her back. . . .

  And now they had gone to the Lakes for a month. They had come to say goodbye to Caroline the night before they set off.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the children for you,” said Caroline, deciding not to bear malice against them to the extent of withholding her co-operation.

  “That’s quite all right, thank you,” Effie had said, with the new dignified friendliness that was so disconcerting. “Nurse is really awfully good with them, and I think it’s better for her to be left in complete charge while we’re away.”

  And Robert had agreed with her. It was ridiculous the way Robert had begun to defer to and agree with Effie. It seemed to renounce and reject all Caroline had done for them both in the past. It hurt her inexpressibly.

  And so they, too, had gone, and Caroline was left alone, shaken and bewildered by the crashing of the walls of her kingdom about her ears. There was no one left her but Fay, not even—no, she daren’t let herself think of him. He had been to see her a week ago, but his visit had been worse than his long neglect. It was so obviously a duty visit. The atmosphere had been strained, the conversation unnatural. And he could not hide from her—did not attempt to hide from her—his growing friendship with her mother.

  She was glad when he went. . . . She wouldn’t admit her love for him even to herself. It was undignified, it was shameful, to love a man who did not even make a pretence of loving her in return. . . . Her heart sickened as she remembered that afternoon, shortly before Philippa’s arrival, when he had pleaded with her to marry him and she had refused him. If only time could be set back again! If only she had known then how she would be deserted and betrayed by those for whom she had sacrificed so much!

  Her lips took on a bitter curve as she thought of it. That bitterness was invading her every thought now. It marred the serenity of her lips, the quiet austerity of her expression. But—Fay was still left her, her baby, her darling. And at that thought all the bitterness faded. She would be on her guard with Fay. She would fight to the last to save Fay from the influence that had stolen the others from her. With Fay she was warned in time. And Fay was docile, malleable, sensitively responsive to her love. Just now she seemed quiet and listless, but that, of course, was because she was working so hard.

  And so her first impulse was to refuse the invitation to Aunt Maggie’s tea party. Fay made no objection, but her look of disappointment when she heard Caroline’s decision—a disappointment poignantly resigned and unchildlike—sent a pang of compunction through Caroline’s heart. The child needed a little relaxation, and it couldn’t possibly do any harm. It would not be like allowing her to visit Philippa alone. She would be there and Aunt Maggie and Uncle Charles and—no, she wouldn‘t admit to herself that the fact that Richard would be there influenced her decision in any way. If she’d let herself admit that, she couldn’t have gone, of course.

  Fay’s face had lightened when she told her that they were going to Philippa’s, after all. Yes, thought Caroline, watching her, she did look tired. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes. . . . These competitive exams, were very trying. Perhaps they might go abroad after it for a real change . . . to France or Germany, where Fay could keep up her languages and yet have a holiday at the same time. She told Maggie that, though she and Fay could not come to the pictures with her, they would be very much pleased to come to tea at Ph
ilippa’s. Instead of going to the pictures she took Fay to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

  Maggie, Charles, and Richard were in the flat when Caroline and Fay arrived. Philippa noticed with secret anxiety the suggestion of tension that lay over the sisters. Caroline looked worn and Haggard. About Fay was the glancing tremulous brightness, the suggestion of hysteria, that marks intense nervous strain. . . . She had looked pale when she entered the room, but now her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. There was an unsteady note in the laughter with which she received Richard’s friendly teasing. Philippa greeted Caroline with grave tenderness, but there was no mistaking the cold hostility of Caroline’s response.

  Maggie, who was by now completely dishevelled and in a state of great excitement, at once began to tell Fay the plot of the film she had just seen. She had already told it twice to Philippa, although Philippa had been with her when she saw it. Charles began to talk to Caroline about the state of the London streets and how much more difficult it was to get about now than it had been when he was a young man, while Philippa and Richard busied themselves with the cake and preparations for tea. Fay sat by Maggie, making mechanical little interjections of interest, but not listening to anything she said. She was holding herself in tightly. She’d been holding herself in tightly for weeks. She felt that, as long as she could do that, it would be all right, but that, if ever she let go, something dreadful would happen. She didn’t know what it would be, but it would be something dreadful. At times she felt as if she were clinging on to a narrow ledge with both hands, and that if she let go she would fall down, down, down into some endless abyss. . . . It was somehow frightening living alone in the house with Caroline now that Susan had gone. Susan’s coming had been terrible, but her going had been more terrible still, bringing that hard tight look to Caroline’s face, so that, though her tenderness to Fay had increased, Fay felt an odd fear of her that she couldn’t overcome. A fear and a shrinking repugnance that made her feel desperately ashamed. She dreaded Caroline’s speaking to her. She felt that, if ever Caroline tried to have one of the old affectionate intimate talks with her, she wouldn’t be able to hold on to herself any longer. She’d let go, and that dreadful thing—whatever it was—would happen. Fortunately, Caroline hadn’t attempted an intimate talk. . . . Fay was aware of her brooding sultry tenderness surrounding her on all sides, aware that Caroline watched her furtively, could hardly bear her out of her sight, but that yet Caroline herself was a long way off, in some dark region of torment where no one could follow her. Fay pretended to be absorbed in her work. She hurried from the house to school, from school back to her homework. Sometimes, when Caroline came into the room where she was working and hesitated there as if she were about to say something confidential, Fay’s heart would begin to beat in loud hammer-strokes. When in passing Caroline laid her hand affectionately on Fay’s shoulder, a shudder of revulsion would run through her, and she would have to stiffen every nerve in her body to hide her shrinking. And yet she loved Caroline . . . she did love Caroline. She couldn’t understand it. The only explanation was that she herself was wicked, utterly wicked, so wicked as to be beyond all hope of forgiveness. Her headaches were more frequent and more severe now, but when Caroline asked her if her head ached she always said “no.” She felt that she wouldn’t be able to bear Caroline’s sympathy and tenderness if she admitted it. One just went on . . . a minute at a time . . . a minute at a time . . . one daren’t look forward or backward. She wasn’t worrying about the exam. now. Not getting the scholarship seemed an ordinary everyday sort of trouble compared with the vague unformulated terrors that haunted her even in her sleep. She felt like someone stumbling blindly along a dark road at the edge of a precipice. . . .