Nothing

by Henry Green

  “Damned if I can make ’em out at all,” he said. “You know your father is crazy. Did you hear what he did with little Penelope the other day? When our Italian maid sent her in dressed as a bride for fun, he actually married Pen.”

  “Married her!”

  “Pretended to of course,” he explained. “Don’t you think it most odd?”

  “But Philip what on earth are you saying?”

  “Went down on his knees in front of Mamma and from all I can make out ran through some bogus form of church service with the poor old thing. It knocked Penelope cold! She screamed the house down three days. Still she’s forgetting now at last.”

  Miss Pomfret did not seem impressed.

  “If your mother let him, then I’d say she was insane,” she commented.

  “Oh I don’t know,” he said. “But I do agree that generation’s absolutely crazy.”

  “So are little girls, believe you me.”

  “And grown ones?” he enquired.

  “Now to whom d’you refer may I ask?” she cried delightedly.

  “Like when you went up to Derek Wolfram at the party and announced it was time for bed?”

  She blushed.

  “No but which beast told you?” she demanded.

  “Oh that’s all over the office,” he announced, at which she began to giggle, he joined in and presently they left, each going their several ways with broad smiles, well content it seemed.

  •

  A fortnight or so later Mrs. Weatherby was with her son Philip in the sitting room of their flat.

  “Dear boy,” she was saying “I’m really worried about sweet Pen this time!”

  “How’s that Mamma?”

  “She’s such a little saint.”

  “She always was.”

  “Always!” his mother fervently agreed. “But I fancy if she doesn’t soon what Richard calls snap out of it then we shall just have to take her to a psychologist.”

  “Mr. Abbot? Where does he come into things?”

  “My dear,” she replied. “You must not mind your mother putting her problems to old friends.”

  “OK Mamma. But you’re about to take matters rather a long way forward surely?”

  “Pen doesn’t seem to get over it. Oh Philip I’m so distressed. She’s just wrapped the whole thing up in her sweet mind!”

  “What with? You see I don’t understand.”

  “I never told you. I don’t think one should tell one child the other’s secrets. Philip I’d say it must be four weeks ago now. Oh dear doesn’t time fly. John Pomfret mistakenly came to tea and Isabella so stupid of her as things turned out dressed my precious Penelope up as a real bride. Then before I could stop him he was down on his knees marrying her with the actual words out of our church service.”

  “Which you said over them?”

  “My dear wasn’t it wicked of him,” she went on, ignoring her son. “And now she’s desperate, yes desperate! I am so worried. I think I shall have to take her along, don’t you darling?”

  “But psychologists are supposed to dredge back into the past aren’t they, and sister’s only six?”

  “Isn’t that just what she needs Philip?”

  “My point is it’s only the other day.”

  “Yet things have already gone so very deep,” she wailed. “All so hopeless! Though she doesn’t say a word. She’s been a little brick. I can tell though. Darling she’s at breaking point!”

  “How do you know Mamma?”

  “How do I know? How could I tell with you when you were small?”

  “You mean Penelope’s really ill?”

  “Sick in her mind poor little soul, perhaps even dangerously so. Oh Philip!”

  “But look here Mamma . . .”

  “No my dear I mean it, I’ve never been more serious in my life. And thank God your father isn’t all over us to complicate matters.”

  “Well I don’t see why we have to blackguard Father because we’re worried about Pen.”

  “Don’t you? I do. But I’m afraid Philip! I’ve got to act, rid her of this somehow.”

  “You put it down to the what d’you call it, the pretence?”

  “I know I’m right!”

  “And for that you’re going to take her to a trick cyclist Mamma?”

  “Don’t Mamma me or use that precious slang of yours.” As she said this she sweetly smiled upon him.

  “Likely enough the man’ll only lead her back to when she used to wet her bed,” he protested.

  “Philip I never thought I should have to complain of schoolboy smut in you again” she announced. “I’m surprised. It really doesn’t suit you. And over your own sister please. Philip it’s nasty!”

  “What is?”

  “The way she is taking on, the little martyr. Oh I see what there must be there deep down.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Mind your own business,” she replied darkly. “Pen’s really suffering the sweet.”

  “Why after all?”

  “She feels wounded. Wouldn’t anyone? Oh wasn’t all of it gross of him poor well-meaning John, sweet idiot of a man. For I blame myself. Oh yes I can’t forget. I’ve had to give her sleeping draughts every night since that fated afternoon.”

  “Now you haven’t . . .”

  “Well no of course, not actually although she is just in the state I get in when I have to take them.”

  “I should show her to Dr. Bogle.”

  “Dr. Bogle?” she cried. “The man we go to for pills!”

  “What’s the use of these specialists Mamma?”

  “For especial emergencies Philip. Which little girl has ever before been married at six? Tell me out of the whole history of the world!”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “I can’t understand where you get your false insensitive side my dear. She wed poor John in her own mind as sure as if she was actually in church and your father had come back from the grave to give her away, the precious! There you are. And what can you answer to that?”

  “You mustn’t worry,” he protested.

  “Then my dear she made a picture,” his mother proceeded. “In her long white veil! Somewhere she’d found a lily she was carrying, I can’t imagine how unless there were some among the flowers Dick sent me. The shade of that tall lamp was askew so she stood in a shaft of light as utterly sweet as if she had been in the aisle with the sun shining through your father’s memorial rose window Philip! So absurd of me my dear but the tears came to my eyes and I really couldn’t see. That was the true reason why I couldn’t stop it all until too late!”

  “She’ll recover.”

  “But the responsibility dear heart. You know what one comes across with those awful books of Freud’s I haven’t read thank God.”

  “They’re completely out of date nowadays.”

  “They are? You’re sure? Yet there must be something in them when he’s been so famous.”

  “He wrote about sex Mamma.”

  “Well isn’t this sex good heavens? Sex still has something to do with marriage even nowadays hasn’t it? Rising seven and to have an experience like that, I can’t ever forgive myself!”

  “Why not run her down to Brighton?”

  Mrs. Weatherby began to glow at this suggestion.

  “D’you know I think I really might,” she said at last. “What a brilliant idea of yours Philip, just when the weather has been so perfectly vile. Let’s see, we could go tomorrow. Oh no I am meeting John. Then Sunday I was to lunch with Dick but I could put him off, that won’t hurt Richard. But how will you get along dear?”

  “Oh I shall be all right.”

  “Why not ask some girl in and have Isabella cook you one of her delicious Italian things?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “I would if I were you.” Mrs. Weatherby had become her old self once more. She shone on Philip the whole light of her attention. “With Chianti. Only it must be white remember. And not Bethesda please!”
/>   When he frowned she laughed.

  “Darling you mustn’t mind my little teases. Don’t bother. I know I’ll never be told who. But one thing I am sure of. She’ll be a very lucky girl.”

  He awkwardly smiled.

  “No you must really have pity on the poor fainting souls Philip! Just imagine them sitting by their telephones bored to tears with their sad mothers who’re themselves probably only dying to have an old flame in, waiting waiting to be asked, eating their lovely hearts out!”

  She leant forward as though she were about to hug him.

  “I might,” he said.

  “In a little sweat of excitement in their frocks!!” she said turning swiftly away the beautiful innocent eyes soft with what seemed to be love, her great mouth trembling.

  His face showed acute embarrassment. She may have sensed this for she changed the subject.

  “Do you see much of Mary Pomfret?”

  “At the office,” he replied.

  “I can’t understand someone like John having a girl like it.”

  He did not answer. She again went off at a tangent. “Philip what would you say if I married a second time?”

  He jumped up as though he had anticipated this question, walked over to stand at the window with his back to her, a rigid back which she fixed with an apologetic look of ladylike amusement.

  “It would be your own affair,” he said at last, indistinctly.

  “Yes I expect it could be,” she replied with a small smile. “But that wasn’t quite exactly what I asked. What would you say Philip?” she repeated.

  “Me?” he mumbled. “Why, is there anyone?”

  She laughed with great kindliness and then looked at the floor.

  “Oh,” she murmured “we are so queer together. You know this conversation is the wrong way round, I mean it’s me should be asking you if there was someone. No of course there isn’t just now for me. But suppose one day there still might? Would you find the idea so very horrid?”

  He turned round. He seemed all at once to be a schoolboy. She kept her face straight.

  “No, I wouldn’t mind,” he said.

  “I’d’ve imagined you would have liked that Philip,” she went on. “Surrounded with nothing but women the whole day long, even at the office from all I can make out.”

  “Honest,” he said “don’t bother about me. I’m OK. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference.” He smiled.

  “These things do happen,” she murmured reproachfully.

  “Not putting up the banns then?”

  “Don’t be so silly dear!”

  “Who’s it to be Mamma?”

  “No but really I shall be quite cross with you in a minute. There’s no one. But your mother’s not so long in the tooth yet that it mightn’t come about. Philip wouldn’t you a little bit like to have a stepfather?”

  “I don’t think you’d marry again just to give me one.”

  “My dear how sharp you are sometimes,” she laughed. “You got me there all right or did you? Not that I don’t think of you and you of me, you are simply sweet to me always, bless your heart.”

  “Well let me know when and I’ll put the wedding march on the record changer. I say look at the time. I must be off.”

  “Good heavens yes,” she cried, “and I’ve stockings and shoes to get for our little nervous case, the martyr.”

  At this she went up to Philip, kissed him with fervour and they both left.

  •

  At the same time on the identical day Mary Pomfret sat with her father in their living room.

  “What would you say if your devoted parent married a second time?” he asked.

  “Oh Daddy how thrilling for you. Who?”

  “I don’t know wonderful, I was only wondering.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You seem very certain someone would agree.”

  “Of course!”

  “And you wouldn’t mind?”

  “But is it Miss Jennings?”

  “Now wait a minute Mary. I wasn’t even making up my mind to ask anyone. Mine is just an idle question.”

  “Well are you very discontented as you are then Daddy?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I can’t see why any man ever marries his girl,” she said. He laughed.

  “You’re dead right,” he answered. “It often comes as a great surprise.”

  “Not to the man; he has to ask.”

  “To both,” he insisted. She considered this. Then she said,

  “Why did you want to know whether I minded?”

  “Surely nothing could be more natural dear? Of course I’d have to know first.”

  “Don’t I still look after you and the flat all right then?”

  “But you are perfect, absolutely perfect.”

  “I thought perhaps you might wish for a change.” Her face expressed embarrassment. He yawned.

  “My dear,” he said gently “one doesn’t remarry to get a change of housekeeping. Not yet at all events.”

  “That’s what will happen when that happens in case you don’t realize.”

  “Oh Mary no. Not at my age!”

  “But of course I’d have to go,” she said in a distressed tone of voice. “I couldn’t stay to witness you and your bride.”

  “My dear,” he objected “it would not be so romantic and after all there’s room in plenty in the flat for three people.”

  Her blue eyes filled with tears she was so young.

  “Liz wouldn’t like it,” she insisted.

  “Now Mary,” he said and seemed alarmed, “I told you there was no one. I just thought I’d ask to get your reactions. Good Lord you’ll be going off one day and wouldn’t expect me to stay on here alone.”

  “I don’t see why not. I mean you can invite in anyone you want can’t you?”

  “I could be lonely,” he explained with what appeared to be a false voice as he selected a cigarette.

  “I’m always here now,” she said.

  “But you ought to go out more Mary.”

  “How shall I when nobody asks me.”

  “They will. I say let’s give an entertainment. Why not? Lots of young men for you and hang the expense!”

  “Oh I shan’t want anyone.”

  “Nonsense, that’s because you don’t know them. You leave it to me darling.”

  “No honestly, you have your own friends in if you’re dull.”

  “Who says I’m dull?”

  “Well you’ve just explained that you’ll re-marry, haven’t you Daddy?”

  “But good Lord one doesn’t go through all that again simply because one’s dull.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, reached up a hand to where she stood by his chair and pulled her down to kiss an ear. She sat on the arm.

  “Anyway I never shall,” she laughed.

  “You will,” he said. They lapsed into easy silence.

  “It’s dark. Wouldn’t you like me to put the light on?” she asked.

  “No. Let’s save money for our party. This fiendish rain!” he commented.

  “You must miss your mother?” he said at last. He asked the question once a year and each time got a different answer. On this occasion she replied,

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember her.”

  “It must be very dull for you here alone with me.”

  She ignored this. “Who was her best woman friend?” she murmured.

  “Jane.”

  “Mrs. Weatherby?” she exclaimed in great surprise. “You never told.”

  “Oh they were always together,” he assured his daughter. He laughed. “Never out of each other’s pockets at one time.”

  “I had no idea, not in the least. Well that does make a bit of difference!”

  “How d’you mean darling?”

  “I’ll look at her quite differently,” Miss Pomfret said in an altered voice.

  “She’s very nice,” her father assured he
r.

  “You aren’t thinking of marrying Mrs. Weatherby then Daddy?”

  “Now listen, I told you didn’t I? There’s not a soul, there really isn’t. I’m sorry I spoke. It was just a stupid thing one says glibly, then regrets.”

  “But marriage might be right for you.”

  “There isn’t time,” he wailed in his affected voice. He twisted round to smile on her face. “All this work! We none of us have the leisure to wed! It’s too frightful!”

  “Oh by the way, talking of her,” she mumbled, “I told Philip to come round to tea.”

  “Not Saturday!”

  She frowned. “No, no,” she said. “But he seems rather blue at home.”

  Mr. Pomfret opened wide eyes. He had a question wandering round his mouth. But he shut his lips. Then he asked with indifference,

  “How’s little Pen?”

  “Oh she’s all right. She’s just spoiled,” the daughter said. “Why did you never tell me about Mrs. Weatherby Daddy?”

  “What about her?”

  “That she was Mummy’s best friend.”

  “Oh I must have often,” he yawned.

  “No. Never before. And I wonder why?”

  “Well I don’t say often enough what a wonder you are do I? I suppose the obvious soon gets forgotten. I forgot you didn’t know and in case I forget again I’ll say this once more, you’re wonderful love and no man could have a nicer daughter.” He yawned again.

  It was too dark to see the expression on her face.

  “Don’t get all woolly stupid,” was what she replied. There was a pause.

  “How’s the job going?” he drowsily enquired,

  “Oh much the same.”

  “Still scissors and paste?”

  “Some of the girls have gone out and bought their own to cut with,” she answered. “The ones they issue now are quite hopeless. Yes we snip bits out of the newspapers, stick them on folio sheets, and it’s still all cabled out to Japan where the press people hardly use any of what we send. It’ll go on like that for ever.”

  “See much of Philip?” His voice came even lower. She looked down but could make out no more than the dark top of his head. She glanced up at the framed reproductions and in this light they were no more than blurs.

  “See him?” she murmured.

  “What’s that?” he mumbled.

  “He’s in C Department,” she softly answered, beginning to space out the words, stroking his hair so the tips of her fingers barely touched his head. “In C Department,” she repeated even softer, as if to sing them both to sleep. “But yes I see him. Sometimes,” she whispered. “Sometimes but not often.” A small silence fell. “Not often,” she went on at last so low she could hardly be heard. Her father began to snore. “But I do sometimes,” she ended almost under her breath, got up and left him slumbering.