Love and the Loveless

by Henry Williamson

  The excited, painted little doll stood beside her in bright nervous jerks, adjusting his toupé, false teeth, set of padded shoulders, and shooting his cuffs.

  “Go on, Willie, I know it so well, you tell it differently every time. Go on, don’t mind me, I want to say something to Valentine here before I forget. Go on with your lines, dear, they all want to hear.”

  But the marionetting enlarged doll seemed to be broken in several places. Flossie was whispering into the ear of a pink-and-white-faced young Irish peer, who had been telling her of his vain attempts to get posted to Paris, where the love of his life awaited him. Jack had told Phillip that Valentine had been wounded during the Retreat, left for dead by the Germans, and repatriated through Switzerland. His only brother Dermot had been killed at Loos, so Valentine had not been sent back to his regiment, though he had asked to be posted, because there was no other heir.

  “Good lord, I saw his brother then! He thrashed some of the 24th Division men, who were leaving the battlefield on that Sunday, with a hunting whip! I was with them, and saw the advance party of Guards going up, my cousin among them!”

  “Yes, the whole line gave way, I remember. I was with the Yeomanry then, waiting for the Gap.”

  He looked at the young Irish lord with interest. So people in high society had their problems just like anyone else. “Leave it to me, I’ll talk to Max, darling,” Flossie was saying. Valentine, his fresh oval face topped by raven hair, thereupon called for more Veuve Cliquot, to drink to the damnation of the Boche who had found him wounded during the Retreat, left him for dead, and kicked him when they had seen that he was alive. He and the playwright called Freddie seemed to be great friends. Here I am, thought Phillip, among the famous and the beautiful, in the very hub of the world, although I hope to God I won’t revolve in this hot room, that would be too damned awful, I mustn’t drink any more fizz. Has it always been like this, he thought, as the red-bearded painter he had seen in the Café Royal, and again at Albert, came in, to kiss Flossie’s hand. He was in the uniform of a major, with one gold ear-ring hanging from an ear. Has it always been like this, or is it the war? What fun war is—except in the front line. But for the war, I, Phillip Maddison, would never have known such wonderful scenes and people! If only I had the power to express all this in words!

  A gramophone was now blaring out a Highland reel, The Dashing White Sergeant, and everyone was dancing, it was a sort of kaleidoscope pattern, ever shifting like the sort of telescope he had got when a child from the Cave at Beereman’s at Christmas, you turned it and bits of coloured glass made gaudy patterns like spiders’ webs thick with coloured bundles and blobs of flies. They were yelling now, Highland Chieftains, a chap in a kilt was yelling in a high cutting yelp-voice. Hell, hell, the noisy kaleidoscope was revolving, he knew that fatal sign, and staggered out.

  *

  When he was better he tottered to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, leaving on the light. He awoke to feel someone taking off his shoes, very quietly and gently. A voice whispered, “Darling, you’re shivering. I’m going to get a hot-water bottle and put you to bed.” A hand cooled his forehead, fingers smoothed his hair. Undid his belt. He felt an eiderdown covering him. Later was vaguely aware of the door opening again, and cool fizzing. “Drink this, darling. It will make you better.” He drank. Hid face under eiderdown to muffle what he hoped was only a belch. “How very polite you are, darling. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got two sons—or one, perhaps I should say. Although Robin still comes to me, the pet.”

  He felt better. He looked about him. “Two sons, Sasha? They must be babies.”

  “Yes, always my babes, darling. Ninian was killed last September, on the Somme, bless him. His aeroplane simply stopped flying! Alex his brother is still at Eton.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. But—are you joking? You can’t be older than I am, surely?”

  “I am old enough to be your mother, darling. But what does age matter? It’s how one feels that matters. Only the few understand. Painters, like Augustus John and Jimmy Pryde—composers like Ralph Williams and Frederick Delius—poets like your beloved Francis Thompson. Heavenly creatures, all of them! And poor Valentine, bless him. He’s a poet really, such a nice boy, but so wild! And all because his mother disliked him, and loved Dermot, his brother. Poor darling Valentine, he’s mad about that gel in Paris. He ought to be allowed to go to her, to be loved by her. If he had a son, I’m sure his mother would forgive herself, and love Valentine.”

  “Sasha!”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I know it’s not the thing to ask questions, but I am so puzzled about you.”

  “There’s nothing you needn’t ask me, darling. But first, let me put your pyjamas on for you. May I open your haversack?” “I’m afraid I forgot to bring any.”

  “Of course, there was no room, was there, with those great big books of poems, darling. Why wear pyjamas, anyway? I’ll pull off your slacks, they must be folded, ready for tomorrow. Undo your braces, and the top buttons, darling. I am a trained valet. I’ve done it so many times.”

  When he was in bed she said, “Well, good night, darling, sleep well.”

  He held her hand. “Don’t go.”

  She slipped off her gown, kicked off shoes, wriggled, pulled and unbuttoned, and stood naked, as he saw in a glance, her breasts sagging from the feeding of her sons. Then the light clicked, and a sweet-scented spirit was moulding itself warmly into the shape of his body. He had no feeling of her being a woman, only of warm, child-like kindness. Damn, his mouth was beginning to run with saliva.

  “Sasha, do forgive me, but I think I’ll have to go outside for a moment.”

  “Poor darling, won’t it pass when you feel warmer? I hope it’s a false alarm.”

  “I have a hydrometer which is an infallible warning!”

  “Oh, lucky you! Would you like me to hold your head?”

  “Oh no, thanks all the same. I’m quite used to this sort of thing.”

  Cold, shivering, he crept back to her warmth, lying against her back. Her arms were crossed over her breast, like a Crusader effigy on a tomb. He did not know what to think, until, remembering Lily, it seemed to be very simple. She was what she said she was. But if she loved her husband, as she said she did, how could she go to bed with other men? Or had she really fallen in love with him? When Lily had done so, she had given up all others. But then Lily had said she had not loved them, only been sorry for them. Then fear arose—Clewlee.

  “I can feel you thinking, darling.”

  “I’m a bit puzzled.”

  “What about, darling?”

  “Do you mind if I’m frank?”

  She turned round. “Of course not, darling! Say anything you like!”

  “I was wondering if you were a sort of Club. I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “It’s a very natural question, in the circumstances, isn’t it? It’s a compliment in a way to be likened to Flossie, but no, I don’t think I’m exactly what you’d call a sort of club. That doesn’t help much, does it, my pet?”

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind my being frank?”

  “Of course not, darling. I told you I didn’t.”

  “How many men have you loved? It’s awful to continue questioning you like this, I know.”

  “How many? Goodness knows. I was always bad at arithmetic.”

  He laughed. “I think you’re playing with me.”

  “I’m so glad, darling. Play on!”

  “Twenty? Thirty? Forty?”

  “I honestly don’t know, darling. Such things as numbers don’t count with me.

  “But how about having babies? Would your husband mind if you did?”

  “Unfortunately I can’t have another baby. Alex had a rather hard time arriving, he took three days, poor darling, and afterwards I couldn’t have another,” she said, hugging him.

  “And your husband doesn’t mind you—loving others?”

  “O
h no, darling. If he were that sort, I’d be no good to him. He’s my second husband—my first was killed on the Aisne, exactly two years, to the day, before Ninian was shot down over Mossy Face Wood, his friends call it. The Germans were very good. They dropped a letter giving the time of the funeral, and didn’t fire or anything when Ninian’s great friend flew over and dropped a wreath. He did have an idea to land on their field, to thank them personally, but thought it might not be understood when he got back, so he hedge-hopped, and got fired at, but it was his fault, for not keeping height.”

  “But do you tell your husband, the one you have now, about your affairs?”

  “The details, you mean? Of course not. I don’t even remember them myself. They are unimportant. He knows the real ‘me’, and did before I married him, and understands. If he had all my love, it would swamp him. I can’t help loving people—I told you, didn’t I, darling?”

  “What would he say if he walked in now, and found you with me?”

  “Well, if he could walk, he’d say hullo, darling, and feel a bit sorry for you, knowing you’d feel rather odd, and then find himself another bed somewhere.”

  He lay still. What a frightful bounder he was, to ask all those questions. So the man with no legs was her husband. At length he said, “Oh, I am so frightfully sorry. Yes, of course I understand. Oh, what must you think of me.”

  “Darling, please don’t worry. Oh, you are so tired. Now you must go to sleep, darling.” She could feel him lying very still. “I’m not turning you down, darling, you do what you want.” After some minutes, “Don’t worry, darling. If you were the aggressive sort, I would not be able to love you. The rings I have on my door bell at night, from men I’ve never met, who think I’m—what’s your word, darling?—a club.”

  “Sasha.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I am so ashamed I asked those questions. I didn’t realise that the man at your table was your husband.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. He thought you were very sweet. You see, he was rather badly hurt, as well as losing his legs.” With a touch of her lips on his cheek, she breathed the word darling, and turned round, crossed her arms on her breast, and lay still.

  He could not sleep. He floated down long corridors of the mind, revisiting scenes of past defeats and disasters. When he thought of Lily, he breathed deeply, and held to the steadiness of her eyes. Francis Thompson had known someone like her, in Dream Tryst.

  When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy

  And dawn’s grey eyes were troubled grey;

  And souls went palely up the sky,

  And mine to Lucidé …

  “Darling, why do you sigh so absolutely silently?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you. Were you asleep?”

  “Yes, I was. But also I was thinking about you.”

  “I think you are Mother Eve. And I feel tremendous love for your husband, really.”

  “Darling, how sweet of you to say that. I think you understand, like God. I felt you did, when I saw you at the thé dansant, sitting alone. You have the most gentle mouth, darling. How your mother must love you.”

  He lay still, thinking of himself in Mother’s bed when he was little, wiggling his toes to get rid of twistings in his mind, and Mother saying, Oh Sonny, do keep still, dear, and let me sleep. It had been torture to lie still, in the white night beyond the darkness.

  Rising gradually, he dressed with prolonged quietness, then felt his way slowly to the table, and having part-covered the electric reading lamp with a towel, turned the brass switch. In the glow he wrote on a piece of writing paper taken from the box, Thank you, Sasha. Then a similar note to Captain Hobart, in an envelope. He laid them on the floor, then removing the towel, crept to look at her. Her face looked quite different in repose, without the eager expression which made her so young, and her lips, parted and loose, seemed fuller, but without colour. It was a face devoid of all feeling, yet not heavy; almost she might be dead, so peacefully did she lie across the pillow. He knelt to kiss her a gentle goodbye, and without moving head or opening eye she put out a hand and touched his face, murmuring, “Good-bye darling.” Was she dreaming? For she lay as before, across the pillow, curly head almost hanging over the edge.

  *

  He walked down Whitehall and along the Embankment to Vauxhall Bridge, and crossing the Thames, continued down the long tramless highway of the Camberwell New Road until, thinking to take a shorter line, turned up Rye Lane and came to a Common, which he had never seen before. It was six o’clock, and too early to make directly for home. He thought to arrive by half-past seven, by which time it would be growing light. He circled the open grassy space, braced by what he thought of as “the hard glitter of the ebon night”, seen jubilantly with the delayed effects of wine. Then by the Pole Star he set off in the direction of Wakenham, and arrived at Hillside Road as the sky was showing a smoky red line low in the east, thinking that now along the Western front, from North Sea to Alps, hundreds of thousands of weary men were standing-to, or perhaps attacking across livid wastes, sharing equal fear with the attacked.

  It was early yet, so he sat on the brick wall under the porch until he heard the alarm clock going off; then his mother coming downstairs. He rattled the letter box. She was in her old dressing gown, and her hair, tied by a frayed riband, hung wispy and grey over the collar. Her face lit with joy at seeing him, then showed a feeling of anxiety, despite the smile.

  “Embarkation leave! We’re going out soon—in about a week’s time.”

  “Oh, Phillip——”

  “Don’t worry, it’s a safe job this time. The chances of being hit are about equal with those in a Zeppelin raid at home.”

  She made him some tea, a little hurt that he had not kissed her; but he looked tired, and, like his father, was liable to sudden periods of exhaustion. While they talked, he brightening with the tea inside him, they heard Richard unlocking the door of the bathroom, to call down the passage to the end bedroom, “Mavis! I’m out. Come along, now!”

  Richard, his face pale by prolonged office work on top of chilly night patrols as a sergeant of Special Constabulary, shook hands punctiliously. “So you’re going out again, Phillip! My word, the authorities nowadays don’t give a fellow much time to recover after wounds, do they?”

  “I asked to go, Father.”

  “Oh!”

  Rashers of streaky bacon were put before them. The flap of the front door clicked, a newspaper fell. Phillip went to get it, glanced at the big black headline. “Good lord, Lloyd George is Prime Minister! Poor old Asquith!”

  “Well, my boy, all I can say is that nemesis has overtaken him, with his everlasting ‘Wait and see’ policy!”

  “But it was The Daily Trident that continually said that Asquith said ‘Wait and see’, Father!”

  “And quite right too, Phillip! Asquith is responsible for all the bungling so far.”

  Phillip caught his mother’s eye. She was silently laughing; but frowned at once and shook her head at her son.

  “As for his wife, who had the effrontery to visit German prisoners at Donnington Hall——”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Father, Margot never went there. I happen to know that from one of her great friends, Mrs. Kingsman——”

  Hetty, anxious to avoid an upsetting argument, again shook her head at Phillip. “What time will you be home tonight, Dickie?”

  “Oh, late as usual. About nine. I have to go on patrol duty from ten until two.” He looked at his watch. “Is Mavis out of the bathroom, I wonder?”

  “I don’t suppose she’ll be long, Dickie.”

  “She ought to get out of bed earlier! Morning after morning it is the same thing. She stands about, day dreaming. I’ve watched her from my bedroom window, just standing there. ’Pon my soul, she has not the slightest consideration for anyone at all! I shall not have time to clean my teeth, before leaving for my train!”

  He was putting the watch back in its wash-leather c
overing when there was a rumbling noise, as of far-off gunfire. “Another daylight raider——?” he was saying, when Doris cried from upstairs, “It’s Mavis, Mother!”

  Pushing back his chair, Phillip strode out of the room and up the stairs three at a time.

  “The door is locked! I think she’s ill!” he called down the stairs.

  “Oh, Mavis, Mavis!” lamented Hetty. “I told her never to touch tripe again!”

  Richard came up the stairs carrying the pick with which he had sub-soiled his allotment. Using the end as a ram, he burst the lock. Phillip saw his sister, in bloomers and vest, with ashen face and froth on lips, and eyes like those of a man just shot, lying on the floor. He lifted her arms, Richard her feet, and between them the unconscious girl was carried to her bedroom.

  “I’ll see to things,” said Phillip, looking at his father’s distraught eyes. “You clean your teeth. I can put on the lock. Only the screws came out, I can plug the holes with matches. I’ll do it when I’ve been to Cave-Browne. May I use your Sunbeam bike? Thanks.”

  The doctor arrived, and said she must rest. When he had gone, Phillip said, “Mother, what’s the matter with her, really?”

  “Doctor Cave-Browne says we are not to worry, it is purely functional, Phillip. Your sister is very run down.”

  “But is it epilepsy?”

  “You must not use that word, Phillip! It is not a mental disease, but purely functional, as I said. Mavis needs a complete change. Life is not easy nowadays, for anyone. And your sister feels things very deeply.”