She got away from him at last, saying, Of course, of course, and what he said was so true, and it had been so nice to see them both. She went away across the fields and looking back as she crossed the stile, she saw Captain Sherston at a standstill outside the Anchor and Bell, looking at his watch to decide how long it was to opening time.
The whole thing, she said to Rodney, when she got back, was very sad.
And Rodney, seemingly purposefully dense, had said, ‘I thought you said that they all seemed very happy together?’
‘Well, yes, in a way.’
Rodney said that it seemed to him as though Leslie Sherston was making quite a success of a bad business.
‘She’s certainly being very plucky about it all. And just think – she’s actually going to have another child.’
Rodney had got up on that and walked slowly across to the window. He had stood there looking out – very much, now she came to think of it, as Leslie had stood. He said, after a minute or two, ‘When?’
‘August,’ she said. ‘I think it’s extremely foolish of her.’
‘Do you?’
‘My dear, just consider. They’re living hand to mouth as it is. A young baby will be an added complication.’
‘He said slowly, Leslie’s shoulders are broad.’
‘Well, she’ll crack up if she tries to take on too much. She looks ill now.’
‘She looked ill when she left here.’
‘She looks years older, too. It’s all very well to say that this will make all the difference to Charles Sherston.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘Yes. She said it had made all the difference.’
Rodney said thoughtfully, ‘That’s probably true. Sherston is one of those extraordinary people who live entirely on the esteem in which other people hold them. When the judge passed sentence on him he collapsed just like a pricked balloon. It was quite pitiful and at the same time quite disgusting. I should say the only hope for Sherston is to get back, somehow or other, his self respect. It will be a full-time job.’
‘Still I really do think that another child –’
Rodney interrupted her. He turned from the window and the white anger of his face startled her.
‘She’s his wife, isn’t she? She’d only got two courses open to her – to cut loose entirely and take the kids – or to go back and damn well be a wife to him. That’s what she’s done – and Leslie doesn’t do things by halves.’
And Joan had asked if there was anything to get excited about and Rodney replied, ‘Certainly not,’ but he was sick and tired of a prudent, careful world that counted the cost of everything before doing it and never took a risk! Joan said she hoped he didn’t talk like that to his clients, and Rodney grinned and said, No fear, he always advised them to settle out of court!
Chapter Seven
It was, perhaps, natural that Joan should dream that night of Miss Gilbey. Miss Gilbey in a solar topee, walking beside her in the desert and saying in an authoritative voice, ‘You should have paid more attention to lizards, Joan. Your natural history is weak.’ To which, of course, she had replied, ‘Yes, Miss Gilbey.’
And Miss Gilbey had said, ‘Now don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, Joan. You know perfectly well. Discipline, my dear.’
Joan woke up and for a moment or two thought herself back at St Anne’s. It was true the rest house was not unlike a school dormitory. The bareness, the iron beds, the rather hygienic-looking walls.
Oh dear, thought Joan, another day to get through.
What was it Miss Gilbey had said in her dream? ‘Discipline.’
Well, there was something in that. It had really been very foolish of her the day before to get into that queer state all about nothing! She must discipline her thoughts, arrange her mind systematically – investigate once and for all this agoraphobia idea.
Certainly she felt quite all right now, here in the rest house. Perhaps it would be wiser not to go out at all?
But her heart sank at the prospect. All day in the gloom, with the smell of mutton fat and paraffin and Flit – all day with nothing to read – nothing to do.
What did prisoners do in their cells? Well, of course they had exercise and they sewed mail bags or something like that. Otherwise, she supposed, they would go mad.
But there was solitary confinement … that did send people mad.
Solitary confinement – day after day – week after week.
Why, she felt as though she had been here for weeks! And it was – how long – two days?
Two days! Incredible. What was that line of Omar Khayyam’s? ‘Myself with Yesterday’s Ten Thousand Years.’ Something like that. Why couldn’t she remember anything properly?
No, no, not again. Trying to remember and recite poetry hadn’t been a success – not at all a success. The truth is there was something very upsetting about poetry. It had a poignancy – a way of striking through to the spirit …
What was she talking about? Surely the more spiritual one’s thoughts were the better. And she had always been a rather spiritual type of person …
‘You always were as cold as a fish …’
Why should Blanche’s voice come cutting through to her thoughts? A very vulgar and uncalled for remark – really, just like Blanche! Well, she supposed that that was what it must seem like to someone like Blanche, someone who allowed themselves to be torn to pieces by their passions. You couldn’t really blame Blanche for being coarse – she was simply made that way. It hadn’t been noticeable as a girl because she had been so lovely and so well bred, but the coarseness must always have been there underneath.
Cold as a fish indeed! Nothing of the kind.
It would have been a good deal better for Blanche if she had been a little more fishlike in temperament herself!
She seemed to have led the most deplorable life.
Really quite deplorable.
What had she said? ‘One can always think of one’s sins!’
Poor Blanche! But she had admitted that that wouldn’t give Joan occupation long. She did realize, then, the difference between herself and Joan. She had pretended to think that Joan would soon get tired of counting her blessings. (True, perhaps, that one did tend to take one’s blessings for granted!) What was it she had said after that? Something rather curious …
Oh yes. She had wondered what, if you had nothing to do but think about yourself for days and days, you might find out about yourself …
In a way, rather an interesting idea.
In fact, quite an interesting idea.
Only Blanche had said that she, herself, wouldn’t like to try it …
She had sounded – almost – afraid.
I wonder, thought Joan, if one would make any discoveries about oneself.
Of course I’m not used to thinking of myself …
I’ve never been a self-centred sort of woman.
… I wonder, thought Joan, how I appear to other people?
… I don’t mean in general – I mean in particular.
She tried to remember any instances of things people had said to her …
Barbara, for instance:
‘Oh, your servants, Mother, are always perfection. You see to that.’
Quite a tribute, in a way, showing that her children did consider her a good manager and housewife. And it was true, she did run her house well and efficiently. And her servants liked her – at least, they did what she told them. They weren’t, perhaps, very sympathetic if she had a headache, or wasn’t feeling well, but then she hadn’t encouraged them on those lines. And what was it that that very excellent cook had said when she had given her notice, something about not being able to go on for ever without any appreciation – something quite ridiculous.
‘Always being told when a thing’s wrong, Ma’am, and never a word of praise when it’s right – well, it takes the heart out of you.’
She had answered coldly, ‘Surely you realize, Cook, that if nothing is sai
d it is because everything is all right and perfectly satisfactory.’
‘That may be, Ma’am, but it’s disheartening. After all, I’m a human being – and I did take a lot of trouble over that Spanish Ragout you asked for, though it was a lot of trouble and I’m not one that cares for made-up dishes myself.’
‘It was quite excellent, Cook.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I thought it must have been as you finished it all in the dining-room, but nothing was said.’
Joan said impatiently, ‘Don’t you think you are being rather silly? After all, you are engaged to do the cooking at a very good salary –’
‘Oh, the wages are quite satisfactory, Ma’am.’
‘– and therefore the understanding is that you are a sufficiently good cook. If anything is not satisfactory, I mention it.’
‘You do indeed, Ma’am.’
‘And apparently you resent the fact?’
‘It’s not that, Ma’am, but I think we’d best say no more about it and I’ll leave at the end of my month.’
Servants, thought Joan, were very unsatisfactory. So full of feelings and resentments. They all adored Rodney, of course, simply because he was a man. Nothing was ever too much trouble to do for the Master. And Rodney would sometimes come out with the most unexpected knowledge concerning them.
‘Don’t pitch into Edna,’ he would say surprisingly. ‘Her young man’s taken up with another girl and it’s thrown her right out of gear. That’s why she’s dropping things and handing the vegetables twice and forgetting everything.’
‘How on earth do you know, Rodney?’
‘She told me this morning.’
‘Very extraordinary that she should talk to you about it.’
‘Well, I asked her what was wrong, as a matter of fact. I noticed her eyes were red as though she had been crying.’
Rodney, thought Joan, was an unusually kind person.
She had said to him once, ‘I should think that with your experience as a lawyer, you would get tired of human tangles.’
And he had answered, thoughtfully, ‘Yes, one might think so. But it doesn’t work that way. I suppose a country family solicitor sees more of the seamy side of human relationships than almost anybody else, except a doctor. But it only seems to deepen one’s pity for the whole human race – so vulnerable, so prone to fear and suspicion and greed – and sometimes so unexpectedly unselfish and brave. That is, perhaps, the only compensation there is – the widening of one’s sympathies.’
It had been on the tip of her tongue to say,‘Compensation? What do you mean?’ But for some reason she hadn’t said it. Better not, she thought. No, better to say nothing.
But she had been disturbed sometimes by the practical expression of Rodney’s easily awakened sympathies.
The question, for instance, of old Hoddesdon’s mortgage.
She had learned about that, not from Rodney, but from the garrulous wife of Hoddesdon’s nephew, and she had come home seriously perturbed.
Was it true that Rodney had advanced the money out of his private capital?
Rodney had looked vexed. He had flushed and answered heatedly:
‘Who’s been talking?’
She told him and then said, ‘Why couldn’t he borrow the money in the ordinary way?’
‘Security isn’t good enough from the strictly business point of view. It’s difficult to raise mortgages on farmland just now.’
‘Then why on earth are you lending it?’
‘Oh, I shall be all right. Hoddesdon’s a good farmer really. It’s lack of capital and two bad seasons that have let him down.’
‘The fact remains that he’s in a bad way and has to raise money. I really can’t feel that this is good business, Rodney.’
And quite suddenly and unexpectedly, Rodney had lost his temper.
Did she understand the first thing, he had asked her, about the plight that farmers all over the country were in? Did she realize the difficulties, the obstacles, the short-sighted policy of the Government? He had stood there pouring out a welter of information concerning the whole agricultural position of England, passing from that to a warm, indignant description of old Hoddesdon’s particular difficulties.
‘It might happen to anyone. No matter how intelligent and hard-working he was. It might have happened to me if I’d been in his position. It’s lack of capital to begin with and bad luck following on. And anyway, if you don’t mind my saying so, it isn’t your business, Joan. I don’t interfere with your management of the house and the children. That’s your department. This is mine.’
She had been hurt – quite bitterly hurt. To take such a tone was most unlike Rodney. It was really the nearest they had come to having a quarrel.
And all over that tiresome old Hoddesdon. Rodney was besotted about the stupid old man. On Sunday afternoons he would go out there and spend the afternoon walking round with Hoddesdon and come back full of information about the state of the crops and cattle diseases and other totally uninteresting subjects of conversation.
He even used to victimize their guests with the same kind of talk.
Why, Joan remembered how at a garden party she had noticed Rodney and Mrs Sherston sitting together on one of the garden seats, with Rodney talking, talking, talking. So much so that she had wondered what on earth he had been talking about and had gone up to them. Because really he seemed so excited, and Leslie Sherston was listening with such apparently tense interest.
And apparently all he was talking about were dairy herds and the necessity of keeping up the level of pedigree stock in this country.
Hardly a subject that could be of any interest to Leslie Sherston, who had no particular knowledge of or interest in such matters. Yet she had been listening with apparently deep attention, her eyes on Rodney’s eager, animated face.
‘Joan had said lightly, Really, Rodney, you mustn’t bore poor Mrs Sherston with such dull things.’ (For that had been where the Sherstons first came to Crayminster and before they knew them very well.)
The light had died out of Rodney’s face and he had said apologetically to Leslie:
‘I’m sorry.’
And Leslie Sherston had said quickly and abruptly, in the way she always spoke:
‘You’re wrong, Mrs Scudamore. I found what Mr Scudamore was saying very interesting.’
And there had been a gleam in her eye which had made Joan say to herself, ‘Really, I believe that woman has got quite a temper …’
And the next thing that had happened was that Myrna Randolph had come up, just a little out of breath, and had exclaimed:
‘Rodney darling, you must come and play in this set with me. We’re waiting for you.’
And with that charming imperious manner that only a really good-looking girl can get away with, she had stretched out both hands, pulled Rodney to his feet and smiling up into his face, had simply swept him away to the tennis court. Whether Rodney had wanted to or not!
She had walked beside him, her arm familiarly slipped through his, turning her head, gazing up into his face.
And Joan had thought angrily to herself, It’s all very well, but men don’t like girls who throw themselves at their heads like that.
And then had wondered, with a sudden queer cold feeling, whether perhaps men did like it after all!
She had looked up to find Leslie Sherston watching her. Leslie no longer looked as though she had a temper. She looked, instead, as though she was rather sorry for her, Joan. Which was impertinence if nothing else.
Joan stirred restlessly in her narrow bed. How on earth had she got back to Myrna Randolph? Oh, of course, wondering what effect she herself had on other people. Myrna, she supposed, had disliked her. Well, Myrna was welcome to do so. The kind of girl who would break up anybody’s married life if she got the chance!
Well, well, no need getting hot and bothered about that now.
She must get up and have breakfast. Perhaps they could poach an egg for her as a change? She was so tired of
leathery omelettes.
The Indian, however, seemed impervious to the suggestion of a poached egg.
‘Cook egg in water? You mean boil?’
No, Joan said, she didn’t mean boil. A boiled egg in the rest house, as she knew by experience, was always hard boiled. She tried to explain the science of the poached egg. The Indian shook his head.
‘Put egg in water – egg all go away. I give Memsahib nice fried egg.’
So Joan had two nice fried eggs, well frizzled outside and with hard, firm pale yolks. On the whole, she thought, she preferred the omelette.
Breakfast was over all too soon. She inquired for news of the train, but there was no news.
So there she was fairly and squarely up against it. Another long day ahead of her.
But today, at any rate, she would plan her time out intelligently. The trouble was that up to now she had just tried to pass the time.
She had been a person waiting at a railway station for a train, and naturally that engendered in one a nervy, jumpy frame of mind.
Supposing she were to consider this as a period of rest and – yes, discipline. Something in the nature of a Retreat. That is what Roman Catholics called it. They went for Retreats and came back spiritually refreshed.
There is no reason, thought Joan, why I should not be spiritually refreshed too.
Her life had been, perhaps, too slack lately. Too pleasant, too easy going.
A wraithlike Miss Gilbey seemed to be standing at her side and saying, in the well-remembered bassoonlike accents, ‘Discipline!’
Only actually that was what she had said to Blanche Haggard. To Joan she had said (really rather unkindly), ‘Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Joan.’
It was unkind. For Joan never had been in the least bit pleased with herself – not in that fatuous sort of way. ‘Think of others, my dear, and not too much of yourself.’ Well, that is what she had done – always thought of others. She hardly ever thought of herself – or put herself first. She had always been unselfish – thinking of the children – of Rodney.
Averil!
Why did she have suddenly to think of Averil?
Why see so clearly her elder daughter’s face – with its polite, slightly scornful smile.
Absent in the Spring Page 9
