by MARY HOCKING
In answer to his enquiry as to whether Louise’s studies might be adversely affected, she said vehemently, ‘Absolutely not! Do her the world of good. Blow away a bit of this hothouse atmosphere.’ Seeing his surprise at this description of sixth-form life, she went on, ‘They get much too intense about it, you know; take themselves too seriously. I’m all for them having time off, quite a bit of time off, seeing other things.’ She waved a hand vaguely. ‘You don’t want Louise to be an academic, do you?’
‘I doubt if she is suited for that.’
‘I should hope not!’
They chatted for a few minutes and then she strolled away. ‘More a woman of the world than some of the others, wouldn’t you say?’ Mr Fairley asked Judith as he watched Miss Bellamy’s orange bandana mingling with the more sober hats.
Judith was looking at Miss Lindsay, who was wearing a particularly sober hat and suit in mud-coloured linen. As Miss Lindsay took Louise in English and History, whereas Miss Bellamy – however worldly – only taught art, Judith decided to ask her opinion.
Miss Lindsay, who did not believe in saying what people wanted to hear, even if it happened to be the truth, meditated. Pain tautened her never very happy face. She had bad period pains and was disposed to be spiteful. As she was more intelligent than Miss Bellamy, she was immediately aware of all the nuances of the situation. ‘They have said “yes” and now they wish they had said “no”,’ she thought. And of course, in their terms, it would have been wiser to have said ‘no’ – particularly if they wanted Louise to have the slightest hope of getting her Higher School Certificate. But the only, interesting thing about Louise, who could hardly have been said to have a first-class brain, was that the morals and values dear to the Winifred Clough Day School for Girls had failed to have a deadening effect on her. In this respect, she was not unlike Daphne Drummond, but there, of course, the resemblance ended: Daphne was an altogether more fine-bred, subtle creature than Louise Fairley, who had a streak of the peasant quality one noticed in her mother. Daphne Drummond might well lead a life of great daring, whereas the most one could hope for from Louise would be a little irregularity here and there. Nevertheless, the girl was in her way an original, and it would be amusing to promote her extra-curricular activities.
She said, ‘I really don’t think a little play-acting will affect Louise’s university prospects one way or the other.’ She chose her words carefully, because she did not want to lie in giving an intellectual assessment: on the intellectual level, she refused to compromise even in the interests of making mischief.
‘I don’t know what we are to make of that,’ Stanley Fairley said when Miss Lindsay had left them.
Claire came running up to them. ‘You must come and watch the high jump. Maisie is in it and her parents aren’t here, so you must come.’
The next day Stanley Fairley spoke to Jacov, who was producing the dream sequence and had responsibility for the production as a whole.
‘I will consent to my daughter taking part on the understanding that you do this dream business first and she comes home immediately afterwards.’
‘I’m sure we could usually manage that at rehearsals . . .’
‘I’m not interested in “usually”.’
‘At rehearsals, then. But it would make a more balanced evening if, on the night, we did the two one-act plays first and ended up with the Dear Brutus scene. It is much the best, you see, and the evening will lead up to it . . .’
‘You can have a balanced evening, or you can have my daughter playing Margaret. It is up to you to decide; I don’t seek to dictate to you on artistic matters.’
‘We will do the dream first.’
‘And I shall want her home not later than nine o’clock each evening.’
‘Yes, we will see to that, except at the dress rehearsal . .’
‘And at the dress rehearsal.’ Stanley Fairley had in his view made a considerable concession, and he was determined that he would not give an inch more.
Louise was delighted. But Judith, as she watched her daughter, was uneasy. In some ways mother and daughter were alike, high- spirited and strong-willed in pursuit of their objectives. There was, however, a big difference between them. In Falmouth in her youth Judith had perceived very clearly the pattern of life, and had determined within the limits set by the pattern to make the best of things for herself. Louise intended to break out of the pattern. Judith was a little hostile to her eldest daughter, unable to forgive her this nonchalant attitude to constraints which had shaped her own life; just as Judith’s mother had never quite forgiven her for turning her back on Falmouth. Yet, Louise moved her more than the other two; and she could not bear the thought of all that energy and hope being drained away by Guy Immingham, who was conventional and pedestrian, and would grow up to be the kind of man from whom she had escaped when she left Falmouth.
‘I hope you’re going to he sensible about this, now that Daddy has given way,’ she said.
Louise said, ‘Yes, of course,’ though what was her view of sense was anyone’s guess.
Louise, in fact, had one more scheme in mind. For some time she had wanted her parents to meet the Imminghams, and this had now become a matter of some urgency; it would be unfortunate if they met for the first time on the night of the play, when her father might not be at his best. Her attempts to bring this about met with little response from her mother. ‘Your father knows Mr Immingham, what more do you want?’
‘Just because Daddy has preached at their chapel, it doesn’t mean they know each other.’
It was, however, through the chapel that Judith and Mrs Immingham were to meet.
In the first week of August the Women’s Bright Hour had its annual trip to the sea. This year, not without some disagreement, it had been decided that the sea cadets should be included in the party. They could travel in a separate compartment, accompanied by two of their officers, and there was, Mr Fairley insisted, no reason why they should in any way inconvenience the members of the Women’s Bright Hour. ‘The beaches are surely extensive enough to accommodate both parties.’ Mr Fairley, unfortunately, would be unable to accompany the sea cadets because he had to attend a headmasters’ conference; he would, however, meet the party at the station on its return and receive the good reports of his officers. Mr Fairley took his position as commander of the sea cadets very seriously.
An invitation had been sent to other chapels whose women’s groups might wish to join the party. Guy represented this to his mother as a personal invitation from Mrs Fairley. His mother was not best pleased at the amount of time which he spent with Louise, and he was naïve enough to imagine that closer acquaintance with Louise’s parents would remove her objections.
‘I shall be going,’ he told her.
‘Don’t be silly, Guy! You don’t belong to the Women’s Bright Hour.’
‘I shall help with the sea cadets.’
Mrs Immingham, suspecting he would spend his time with Louise, consented to join the party.
It took Mrs Fairley and Mrs Immingham only a short time to realize that the only thing they had in common was the dislike of the friendship of their offspring. Mrs Immingham thought Mrs Fairley rather too swarthy of countenance; and the Cornish accent, which years in the civilizing atmosphere of London had failed to eradicate, sounded harshly in Mrs Immingham’s sensitive ears. Judith thought Mrs Immingham a silly, affected woman. When they arrived on the beach, further differences became apparent. Judith liked to paddle and sunbathe. Mrs Immingham liked to sit in the shade as far from the sea as possible.
Deck chairs were hired and Mrs Immingham sat, still wearing her panama, a parasol in one hand while with the other she tried to secure her frilly voile dress from the breeze. The members of the Women’s Bright Hour regarded her with tolerant amusement as though she were a harmless freak. Louise said to Guy, ‘Didn’t you tell your mother we’d be spending the day on the beach?’
He had noticed on previous holidays that his mother wore
more formal clothes than other people, but had accepted this as a mark of her superiority. Now he began to be embarrassed for her. ‘I’d better see what the lads are up to,’ he said. ‘I promised to lend a hand.’
Louise sat in the shelter of the deck chairs and began to change into her bathing costume. ‘You need to find a bathing hut, my lady!’ Mrs Immingham said, joky but unamused.
‘The bathing huts are down the posh end. We never go down the posh end.’ She gave a final wriggle and pulled her dress off over her head.
Mrs Immingham turned her attention to the other people on the beach. It worried her to see them enjoying themselves in circumstances which would not be acceptable to her. ‘I can’t see why people want to sit so near the sea, can you?’ she said fretfully to Judith. ‘There is a lot of spray coming off the sea, and the sand is so much finer here; wet sand is very unpleasant. I’m sure we are in much the best place.’ She looked around her cautiously for a few minutes and then said, ‘I can’t understand why some people wear headscarves. They don’t protect the eyes, and the sun must be very hot on the head. It is so much better to wear a panama.’ She looked at Judith. ‘You don’t wear anything on your head.’
‘I don’t feel the heat.’
‘Yes, well, you have got very thick hair, haven’t you?’
She watched disapprovingly as Louise rubbed oil on her legs. There was something offensive about so much glistening flesh. ‘I always use Cool Tan,’ she said. ‘Cool Tan is really much the best way to prevent burning. It’s not so messy as oil, either, and it doesn’t smell.’
‘Oil makes you go browner.’
‘Go brown, indeed! I’m sure your mother doesn’t want you to go a horrid brown.’ She looked at Judith, but Judith happened to be paying no attention.
‘Could you do my back for me?’
‘I’ll do your back.’ Judith turned from whatever had preoccupied her. ‘Mrs Immingham doesn’t want oil all over that nice dress.’
They watched Louise as she walked towards the sea, toeing the sand lightly, not hurrying, making the sea wait for her. Judith was aware of that lessening of noise which can come when a lot of different conversations are momentarily suspended. She felt proud, yet dismayed, because Louise made the most of her opportunities – and where might this power to attract lead her when she grew older?
‘She doesn’t wear a bathing cap, then,’ Mrs Immingham observed. This reminded her to worry because Guy was not wearing a panama. While Mrs Immingham talked, Judith watched the people bathing. One young woman was accompanied to the water’s edge by a ragged black-and-white mongrel. He was not apparently a sea-going dog; shepherding was more his line. He marked a stretch of beach to west and east of his mistress’s position and ran up and down, occasionally stopping to take a fix on his errant charge, sitting alert and worried, but with no intention of getting his paws wet. When she finally emerged, he leapt about in hysterical relief that this madness was over – or perhaps he was telling her that, if things had really gone badly, he would have attempted a rescue.
‘Dogs are great companions,’ Judith said.
She had touched a chord in Mrs Immingham. ‘They are, indeed! And so affectionate. As long as I was there our Sandy was happy; he didn’t want anyone else. No one gives us love like that. I cried for a week when he died.’ There were tears in her eyes now; tears were never far below the surface, springing from some reservoir of untapped grief within her. She dabbed her eyes. When she could see clearly, she was rewarded by a sight, the memory of which would give her cause for tears for the rest of her life. Guy had now left the sea cadets and was standing at the sea’s edge, while Louise, breast-high in water, lured him with siren calls and outstretched arms. While Mrs Immingham watched, he suddenly let his trousers drop. He had bathing trunks on, but they were light-coloured and just for a moment . . . Mrs Immingham was sick with shock and disgust. Ever since the untoward disclosures of her wedding night, she had turned her head away while her husband undressed. She hauled herself unsteadily out of her deck chair, calling out, ‘He mustn’t . . . not when he’s so hot . . .’ She began to thread her way down the beach, which was like an obstacle race – full of castles and sunken canals, with the added menace of hard-flung quoits and misdirected toddlers. There was a strong smell of seaweed and oily bodies which made her faint with nausea, but she hurried on, impelled by a premonition that calamity threatened her son. She waved to him, moaning under her breath, ‘Oh, my boy, my boy!’ He did not turn his head and, long before she reached him, he had swum out to join Louise.
‘It’s very safe swimming here,’ Judith said, idly aware that all was not entirely well with Mrs Immingham when she returned.
‘Guy burns so easily. He shouldn’t go in when he’s hot.’
‘Young people are never sensible, are they? I suppose we weren’t ourselves.’
Mrs Immingham rummaged in her handbag for her cologne.
At half-past twelve lunches were unpacked. Mrs Immingham had not brought any food. She looked at Guy. ‘I think perhaps we should look for an hotel, dear.’
Guy rubbed an irresolute hand across the back of his neck, which was fiercely red.
‘You can have some of ours,’ Louise intervened, and turning to the members of the Women’s Bright Hour she called out cheerfully, ‘Loaves and fishes, everyone!’ It was plain to see she was a very managing young woman.
A miscellany of jam sandwiches, sausage rolls, bananas and treacle tart were good-naturedly provided.
Judith said to Louise, ‘Perhaps Mrs Immingham and Guy would prefer to go to an hotel. You must leave them to decide.’
Louise looked at Guy. Decision did not become him. He said awkwardly to his mother, ‘Well, since these good people have so kindly offered . . .’ He stretched out a hand for a banana.
When their lunch had had time to settle, several of the women expressed a wish to go out in one of the motorboats that did a trip round the bay. Judith would have liked to accompany them, but Mrs Immingham said that she was already feeling sick with the heat of the sun, and could not possibly go ‘tossing about out there’. Her face had become moist and blotchy, and she looked so sorry for herself that Judith felt she should not leave her alone. ‘I’ll just see them off and take a few snaps.’
‘I’d like to go in a speedboat, wouldn’t you?’ Louise said to Guy.
‘Better not,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘My mother gets awfully upset if my father or I go out in a boat.’
‘Don’t you ever do anything she doesn’t want you to do?’
‘Yes, of course, when it really matters. Only there’s no point in spoiling her day, is there?’
‘What about spoiling my day?’
He looked down at her in concern. The way in which he responded to her most unconsidered remark was one of the things which endeared him to her. I could do anything with him, she thought, anything! She found this exciting, though of course she would never do anything which would really hurt him. ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’ he was asking. ‘I am so much and I thought . . .’
‘I was only teasing. Don’t you tease one another in your family?’
He put his arm round her waist. As his fingers touched her ribs, her head came up sharply and they looked at each other, surprised by a sensation more exciting than the speed of a boat or spray whipping sunburnt flesh. ‘I’m going in again,’ she cried, ‘Come on, come on!’ She danced ahead and then turned, flicking water at him until he caught her by the shoulders and ducked her; after which they trod water, laughing as they clung to each other. He told her that if she lay still on her back he would show her how to lifesave, but she twisted away from him and he caught at her foot. Sure of their powers of survival, they drifted, she on her back and he holding her foot, unconcernedly beyond their depth. Louise was not such a good swimmer as Alice, but she was more reckless and had little respect for the destructive power of the sea. To Guy, the sea had always seemed friendly, the one element in which he felt free. He enjoyed seeing the fi
gures on the beach growing smaller and smaller.
Mrs Immingham, meanwhile, had consented to walk down the beach with Judith to watch the party embark. As they walked, she drew Judith’s attention to the fact that there was indeed a stronger breeze here, and the sand was undoubtedly wet, and the people who were sitting here would have been much better advised to sit further back.
The Women’s Bright Hour had been haggling with the boatmen and had now decided in favour of the Saucy Sally, which was newly painted in bright blue. It was at this moment that the Women’s Bright Hour and the sea cadets came together. The sea cadets were naturally interested in the launching; indeed, they would have liked to go out in the boat, but had insufficient money. Abandoning their game of cricket, they came and splashed around the boat while the man in charge was taking ticket money. They were mildly envious, but far from having bad intentions. The weather was fine, they had had a good lunch, enjoyed their games on the sand and felt at one with the world.
The sea was choppy and the boat rose and fell; the members of the Women’s Bright Hour let out shrill cries of delight mixed with pleasurable anticipation. ‘We shan’t go out of sight of land, shall we? Now you promise us that.’ Spray fell on burnt arms and they gasped. ‘Not going to be sick, are you, Lill? She’s green already, look at ‘er!’ The motion of the boat was of professional interest to the sea cadets, who had been told that a boat is pushed out on an incoming wave. Now, they decided, was the time for them to demonstrate their seamanship. The man in charge was taking the last of the tickets and the whole party was aboard. A particularly big wave was coming in and, obeying a common impulse, the sea cadets put their shoulders to the boat and heaved. The sea cadets had been trained in seamanship. The Women’s Bright Hour had not. When the sea cadets pushed the boat out, several women – unevenly distributed fore and aft – stood up and screamed. The boat up-ended, and the women came out like so many shelled peas.
One moment Judith had been taking a snap of a group of brightly arrayed women, the next she was helping to pull ashore so much lank, streaming seaweed. Mrs Immingham, who was doing nothing to help and getting in everyone’s way, was pushed aside by a fisherman, causing her to stumble. Not only did she sit in wet sand; she fell foul of a very tarry rope.
