Nothing

by Henry Green

“You’re perfectly wonderful the way you take everything John,” Mrs. Weatherby insisted.

  “But who told Penelope about me?” he asked.

  “I did,” the mother wailed. “You know how truly fond of you she is, why, she dotes on you John, and I wanted to make Pen a little bit sad—you see at that instant minute she was creating such a dreadful noise and racket, so I told her your news the little pet, and my dear it came off all too well, she’s been quiet as a mouse jabbing great pins in her leg ever since.”

  Mrs. Weatherby gaily laughed and so did John Pomfret. Then she went on quite serious again,

  “And if Pen let go, should one of those pins get inside her, it might even travel right to her little heart, darling isn’t that too awful just for words?”

  Jane turned her eyes, which immediate fright made still more enormous, full on him.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said smiling.

  “Yet darling mother had one in her all her life. It entered through the seat.”

  “She sat on a pin?” he interrupted, broadly smiling now. “Yes she was one of the first to be X-rayed,” Mrs. Weatherby continued, “it travelled all over, just think, and then when she died she had pernicious anaemia after all, poor wonderful darling that she was.”

  “I expect Pen will be all right,” he comforted.

  “She’ll have to be,” Mrs. Weatherby replied with great conviction. “John tell me about yourself. How serious is it really?”

  “Well I have to take things easy for a bit you know. I can’t throw up the office worse luck but I’ll have to be careful in the evening.”

  “It’s extraordinary my dear your saying what you have just done about the office,” Mrs. Weatherby exclaimed. “I was only thinking the other day over your sweet Mary and how bad all this working life is for these girls.”

  “Why Jane what on earth do you mean?”

  “Oh nothing, certainly nothing which concerns the ghastly talk we had last time about their plans or rather the endless lack of plans they seem to have. But John don’t you think she should get right away before she settles down?”

  He turned rather white..

  “Rid ourselves of her for a bit?” he enquired.

  “Now don’t turn so damned suspicious,” she said equably. “I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if my little plot didn’t bring precious Philip up to the boil though poor darling I don’t really know how much else he can do when he’s already proposed and given her a ring.” At this Mr. Pomfret seemed on the point of speech but Jane waved him down. “No,” she gaily cried “I won’t allow you, just let it pass, I was only joking. But you know what things are for a girl. And whatever we may do to help them, in the end there probably won’t be much money. No I think she ought to have a change first.”

  “She’s only just out of the nursery Jane where she’s rested all her short life so far.”

  “Then they often start a baby so much too soon,” Mrs. Weatherby went on imperturbably, “terribly exhausting after all the excitement of the wedding. No John no you really don’t understand about girls, how should you? And after that it’s just one long grind darling until they’re too old to enjoy a thing. I think you should send her to Italy for at least two months.”

  “But the money,” he cried.

  “Sell a pair of cufflinks,” she sweetly suggested. “As a matter of fact I had a letter from Myra Smith only yesterday. She’s been in Florence all this time, fancy that! She wants to hear of an English girl to stay with her and as a return she asks to be taken in herself over here, she wants to see London again she says.”

  “But good God I couldn’t put Myra up at my place. It wouldn’t look decent!”

  “With Mary not there, married to Philip you mean? Oh well I’d negotiate my fences as they came if I were you John. Still, if it amounted to all that I could take the woman in here.”

  “I can’t quite seem to see . . .” Mr. Pomfret began when Jane interrupted him.

  “I know you can’t,” she said “but you must remember you’ve been so fortunate all your life and now you have a touch of illness I simply shall not allow it to warp your judgement. Or Arthur Morris now? He has no use for his flat while he’s at the clinic. He could lend it to Myra.”

  “My dear Jane we’ve to get Mary out in Italy for two months first surely. In any case I’m sorry to say there’s bad news about poor old Arthur. He’s not so well at all they tell me.”

  “No no John,” she cried “I simply don’t want to hear!”

  “Yes,” Mr. Pomfret went on “it seems they’ve told him he’ll have to have his leg off now above the knee.”

  She covered her ears with two fat white hands.

  “Too too disagreeable,” she moaned. “And now that all one’s friends have reached middle age is there to be nothing but illness from now on, first Arthur then my dear you? Oh tell me are you really all right?”

  He laughed. “There’s nothing the matter with me compared with poor old Arthur,” he assured Mrs. Weatherby.

  “That’s all right then,” she replied lowering her hands. “Let me get you another drink.” When she had brought this and placed it on the table by his chair she leant down and put her cheek against his own. Not for many years had she done the same. He closed his eyes. Her skin was the texture of a large soft flower in sun, dry but with the pores open, brilliant, unaccountable and proud.

  “You swear you’re all right?” she murmured.

  “Oh yes.”

  “Because you of all men just must be,” she said, gently withdrawing. For the rest of the time she did not mention Liz or the children and was particularly attentive.

  •

  A few evenings later Mr. Pomfret said to his girl Mary,

  “Monkey I’ve been thinking things over and I should like you to go to Italy for a bit.”

  “Italy Daddy? Whatever for?”

  “Oh nothing in particular. I thought it might be a good idea that’s all.”

  “But why?”

  “Wouldn’t you care to travel then?”

  “Daddy, did Mrs. Weatherby also think of this?”

  “Good Lord no Mary. Whoever put it in your head?”

  “I just wondered that’s all,” she explained rather grimly.

  “Myra Smith would have you at her place in Florence,” Mr. Pomfret went on “and you could do the picture galleries and things.”

  “Be serious Daddy. However could I get leave from my job?”

  “I’ve thought of that too,” her father replied. “Why don’t you simply throw it up? You slave frightfully hard all day at menial tasks; there’s no future there Mary as you yourself said the other day.”

  “Give up my work!” she gasped.

  “But they pay you so badly. When you’re married you may have to find something that brings in more.”

  “I’m glad someone has mentioned the marriage at last,” she said. “Just recently there’s been almost what I’d call a plot of silence about it.”

  “I was only talking to Jane on the subject the other night dearie.”

  “When she suggested I should go?”

  “Now monkey I’ve already told you. It was my plan and she thoroughly agreed as a matter of fact. Indeed it was herself said there could be no manner of fun in getting married these days, I mean things aren’t easy still, girls have an awful grind to put a home together. Take a few weeks off before you settle down.”

  “But could you afford it?”

  “Oh we’ll find ways and means I suppose.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better though to save for the honeymoon if you’re so keen for me to go to Florence?”

  This silenced him a moment.

  “No,” he replied eventually. “Venice for newly marrieds, Florence for girls before they become engaged. Next time you go round to see Philip just ask their Isabella!”

  “I’m not sure I want to go Daddy.”

  “Oh go on and have some fun.”

  “I don’t wish for fun, or r
ather that kind of gay time. I’m not sure it would be enjoyable.”

  “But you haven’t ever been abroad dear, you’ve not seen anything in your life. As things are you may never have the chance again.”

  “What made you get this idea Daddy?”

  “Nothing. I just had it,” he said in rather a surly voice.

  “You didn’t speak to Philip about Italy?”

  “I promise not.”

  “Because he mightn’t like my throwing up the job. He’s funny that way you know.”

  “But if he heard you were to go to a better paid one?”

  “My dear you don’t understand at all. He’s very serious-minded Daddy. He thinks we ought all to be in Government jobs.”

  “What’s so odd about that? Practically everyone is.”

  “Well I’m not going to try and explain Philip to you! Who is this Mrs. Smith anyway? Would she like me?”

  “Oh we all knew her at one time. Can’t say I saw much of Myra ever. She was more a friend of Jane’s to tell the truth.”

  “There Mrs. Weatherby comes into it again,” his daughter murmured.

  Mr. Pomfret seemed to ignore the comment.

  “Rather a sad story,” he mused aloud. “Drove poor William hopelessly to drink then left him when the poor fellow was done for. She’s quite different now of course from all I hear, settled down quite remarkably from many accounts. You ought to ask old Arthur Morris. He keeps in touch I believe.”

  “But has she a flat or what?”

  “My, aren’t you being practical all of a sudden love! I suppose it’s this wedding business.”

  “Now you of all people are not to laugh at me! I’m sure someone in this family must be sensible and it won’t ever be you darling as you’ll admit.”

  “All right poppet,” he laughed. “So anyway you don’t say no to your Italian trip.”

  “I haven’t said yes have I?”

  “I don’t want you hanging about while there’s still so much to be decided Mary,” he declared and was serious. “Everything’s going to come out the way you want, you’ll see my dear but it might be best if you kept out of the picture a few weeks.”

  “Oh Daddy you do think so?”

  “I do.”

  “I see. Well I’ll try and get after Arthur Morris. When all’s said and done I can’t make up my mind without I know something about this Mrs. Smith can I?”

  At which Miss Pomfret retired to bed.

  •

  Four days later Miss Jennings was giving Mr. Abbot dinner at her flat.

  “Yes there she went poor child,” Liz wailed “right through the teeming rain to ask him and when she got to the clinic she walked straight into that lift large enough to take a hearse. Dear Mary rose all the way to his floor and you know the long passages they have there, well she wandered down and knocked on Arthur’s door just as she had done so often.”

  “Were you with her?” Richard Abbot interrupted.

  “No Mary told me. Who else has she got these days the darling? And when the child knocked a nurse happened to come from a next room and cried out ‘oh but you can’t go in now.’ Anyway Mary was shown to one of those alcoves off the corridor with three armchairs and the occasional table. There she sat thinking Arthur was to be washed or something when at last the sister came. It makes one’s heart sink Richard to picture it, the poor love thrown over by her own father, oh she has told me all, waiting to ask so much she shouldn’t know of the one person who could give it as she thought, poor Arthur, then the nursing sister saying she was afraid Mary could go in no more!! When the child wanted to be told why, it all came out of course, he’d just died Richard, not an hour ago, wasn’t it frightful!”

  “Yes I heard at the Club. I’m very sorry,” Mr. Abbot said. “What was the cause?”

  “Well the extraordinary part is they didn’t have the address of a single one of his relatives, they wanted Mary at the clinic to give them names but he was absolutely alone Richard, if you’d been at the grave this afternoon with me you’d have seen there wasn’t a soul except old friends, isn’t that perfectly awful? Of course Jane cried enough for his mother and sister combined if they’d been spared,—oh I know what you’re about to say,” and she solemnly raised a trembling hand to restrain him “I expect she may have been quite genuine, minded Arthur being dead I mean, but naturally John had to make all the arrangements just as though he was the next of kin.”

  There was a pause while Liz got out a handkerchief which she pushed with a forefinger at the corner of her eye.

  “So what did Arthur die of?” Mr. Abbot enquired in a neutral voice.

  “The clot. Flew straight to his heart,” she replied tragically. “Oh Richard it makes one wonder who will be next?”

  “These things happen,” the man answered. “But what did Mary wish to know?”

  “Well I suppose you’ll think this is none of my business,” she said. “At the same time, fond as I am of John and Jane, I’m not so blind Richard I can’t see all that goes on right in front of my own nose. I don’t care what you say my dear but Jane’s sending the child away to Italy and making her throw up the job for it, must be clearing the decks for action like they do in the Navy.”

  “How can Jane send Mary?”

  “But Richard by working on John. I never even see him now. The moment those two children tried to get engaged Jane has had the man living in her pocket.”

  “I know what you mean,” Mr. Abbot admitted at last, though he seemed to speak with reluctance. “No more than natural all the same.”

  Mr. Abbot appeared ill at ease.

  “Natural?” she cried. “Yes I suppose so in a farm yard sort of fashion.”

  “Then you think it’s all come to life once again between them.”

  “If I said ‘over my dead body’ then I might be six foot underground this minute,” she replied and they both laughed.

  “Sounds bad,” he muttered.

  “Well every word’s true isn’t it Richard?”

  “Shouldn’t be surprised,” he answered with a return to his usual manner. “As that film star said when he landed this side of the Atlantic and the reporters asked about the lady in his life, ‘I’m just a thanks a million man.’ Damn good you know.”

  “But are you all right Richard?”

  “All right?”

  “Yes, in your own health and strength? Here’s John with diabetes and Arthur Morris gone. Who’s next?”

  He laughed. “Me? I’m fit as a fiddle,” he protested.

  She laughed. “Now don’t you just be too sure,” she warned. “Though one of the things I so like about you Richard is you keep your figure beautifully, still look really athletic I mean.”

  “Pure luck,” he replied. “Some are born that way. Well then about Mary? What did she want of Arthur?”

  “They’re sending the child off to this sort of Mrs. Smith in Florence. I never knew the woman so Mary couldn’t ask me though she has since. All I could tell the child was, Myra used to be a great friend of the whole bunch while I was still doing French grammar in my rompers. So you see Richard, Mary the poor angel doesn’t know what’s up. Frightfully wicked they are.”

  “Expect everything’s for the best. After all Liz whoever can tell what may come?”

  “Oh I agree more than you’ll ever realize. Yet how wrong to play with one’s own children’s feelings!”

  “They don’t. They’re thinking about themselves and I don’t altogether blame ’em.”

  “I realize everyone does,” she admitted. “I quite see even with a baby in arms a great deal of oneself comes into it. But they really ought not to work on Philip. They’ll ruin his life, what there is left.”

  “D’you reckon John realizes what he’s up to?”

  “Not consciously of course, yet he can’t be so reckless he mayn’t take advice. Oh Richard he’s gone back so the last few months! Was it his diabetes d’you suppose?”

  “Diabetes?”

  “
Weakened him my dear. I can’t abide men who turn wet. He’s come to be like a sponge, going round to her place every other day, sometimes twice in the twenty-four hours as he does.”

  “Nothing we can do.”

  “There is then!”

  “How’s that Liz?”

  “Just you wait and see Richard.” She laughed light-heartedly.

  “Well you’ve been wrong once and you can be again,” he said.

  “When?” she demanded.

  “Not so long ago you told me since John had diabetes Jane would hurry the marriage along between Mary and Philip for reasons of her own.”

  “I also said she’d been against it Richard.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “On the other hand you tell me now Jane is packing Mary off to her father’s old battlefields so that she can marry John.”

  “Because I’ve begun to see Jane must have it both ways. She’ll prevent the wedding so that when poor sweet Mary travels home it’ll be too late and the child’ll have to look for a room on her own or in a wretched hostel.”

  “Come Liz you could put the girl up at a pinch what?”

  “I might have my own plans Richard.”

  “General post eh?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a stern voice.

  “I say,” he exclaimed. “Dreadfully sorry and all. It was nothing.”

  “That’s better,” she agreed, smiled sweetly at the man.

  Now that the meal was done Miss Jennings got up from table to switch on lights and draw curtains to hide heavy rain pouring down outside. He rose to help. As she straightened the heavy folds he came behind, turned her with a hand on her shoulder and kissed the woman hard on the lips.

  “Here,” she cried drawing back. “What’s this?”

  “Oh nothing Liz.”

  “I like that after all we’ve discussed.” She gaily laughed. “Anyone would think you’d taken our little gossip seriously.”

  “Must have been this excellent meal you’ve just given us,” he grumbled in a goodhumoured voice.

  “That’s better,” she approved, patted his cheek and led the way next door to the sitting-room.

  •

  At the weekend John Pomfret asked Mrs. Weatherby round for drinks at his place. When he had settled her in, she immediately began.