But that night, the house of an old friend of his mother’s, family solicitor and executor, wakeful upon the inhospitable spare mattress, that epitaph rose up before his eyes and haunted him. Beloved mother of Thomas Fuller Fairfax—so ran the last line. And he bethought himself that he was the last of his family; that no one would ever write upon his memorial tablet beloved father … or even beloved husband (not if Grace had the job—not unless Annie were to remind her). Somehow he had always seen himself as a family man—slippers warming—children running to meet him—blowing on his watch—pouring out his tea—that sort of thing. And none of it had happened or ever would. He had been cheated, and would go to his grave childless. It was not fair, of course, to blame Grace: perhaps she had minded in her own peculiar way about the baby; but she had not seen it, as he had: whatever she had suffered through the supposed properties of the maternal instinct, she could not know, he was sure, would never know as he knew what it really meant to look down suddenly at that form without life, and think all at once, with a most unexpected, appalling and unforgettable pang: My son!
Not for the first time, but more rebelliously than ever before, he found himself stumbling over a point in Christian morals. There he was, tied to one woman, and so frustrated in his natural desire and capacity to beget. The unfairness of the system—the stupidity! Of course, one must bear one’s cross … Why must one? The only hope was for Grace to die; and (though one could not altogether control dreams of a timely widowerhood) he did not want her to die: not Grace herself, no, no: only—(how terrible thoughts were in the night watches!)—only his cold and barren wife.
The possibilities of his holiday were at an end. What was he to do with himself? And suddenly the answer was obvious: join Grace. Yes, he thought, in a rush of contrition, affection, and returning cheerfulness, send her a wire in the morning and jog along South to join her for a few days. Probably he would enjoy a taste of the simple life. They would go for some good tramps together and get fit. He saw himself entering into the spirit of the thing: saying good-day to rustics, supping off bread and cheese and beer, having a chat with a farmer, sitting on stiles—generally giving his attention, in fact, to rural conditions.
Surely by now she would have had enough of her freak notion of being on her own. Probably in her heart of hearts she was as bored, as lonely as he was. He would pop down and see what she was up to.
And in the back of his mind swam some confused idea of starting again on another footing—trying to rub along better, to share, to understand more. She was a funny girl, Grace: moody, touchy, queer in the things she laughed at, and the things that upset her. She was deep, was Grace. Sometimes he felt he was positively afraid of her. The times she brought him up with a jerk, made him wonder where, how, why he had got it wrong again!—the times he had stopped himself flinging at her shut face: “Now, what’s the matter?”—and decided to take no notice after all. Women had moods. Anything for a quiet life … And then there was a quality about Grace, in spite of her being so big and quiet looking—a woman with a presence, as Potter said—that made him think to his inmost self, “Poor little Gracie,” as if he divined in her something he could not deal with, but only pity: a youthful spirit, pathetic, girlishly impulsive, too sensitive for him: something that could be fitted with endearing, foolish, small-girl’s nicknames. The first year or so of marriage had been full of nicknames—extraordinary to look back on now. Perhaps he was to blame: he had absorbed himself in his business and his masculine recreations, and left her too much to herself. He would send her a wire in the morning, and make a good start by admitting how much he had missed her; and she would say, smiling in the way that still struck him as jolly, “I’ve missed you too, Tom,” and there would be a general feeling of having blown away cobwebs and turned over a new leaf.
But Grace’s reply telegram, received at the moment of his setting forth, had told him not to come. Do not come, writing, Grace, were her precise words. No reasons given. So he had wired once more, Going home—breathing into the curt message (but would she see it?) all his forlornness, his disappointment and wounded feelings. Then he had taken the road North again. He was still waiting for that letter of explanation.
This was his third evening in the deserted home. Thank God, only another couple of days before going back to the office.
For the first time he knew the meaning of solitude in the midst of a crowd. Potter and one or two other pals were all away. He had even rung up Norah to suggest a game of bridge—a thing he had never quite liked to do before. In spite of her being so pleasant always when they did meet, there was a tacit understanding that the relationship was between herself and Grace, not conjugally inclusive. He had pictured himself, however, pleading with her in a jocular way to take pity on a poor grass widower; but Norah, so the caretaker had informed him, was absent with her family in Brittany. He laid down the receiver with a secret sense of discomfiture; for the word Brittany seemed symbolic of an indubitable social difference. The MacKays, though badly off, took holidays as a matter of course in places that sounded correct as well as romantic. One could not mention Scarborough or Whitby with the same air as that with which one would throw off such names as Bordighera or Seville—or even, he thought, Ostend.
He stood at the sitting-room window and watched the traffic pass in the August evening sunlight, and heard, far off, the music of merry-go-rounds. For the annual fair had come to town; and it was towards the common that all the feet and faces were so briskly set.
What was he to do with himself? He had read the Daily Mail and the Mirror twice over from cover to cover and done all the puzzles. There was still the evening paper. He would go out and buy one, and browse in it while he ate his dinner. What restaurant, he wondered, should he try to-night? A decent one for a change, and blow the expense? Why not the swell place, Barnard’s? Damn it, he would go to Barnard’s, and put a jolly good dinner inside him, the best the place could provide—and drown his melancholy in a bottle of wine.
The waiter set him in a corner at a little table adorned with a pink shaded lamp and a small metal vase containing artificial flowers—one rose and one yellow one, not classifiable. He felt, as he marched in with manly tread and took his seat, that he could hold his own in any assembly. His appearance, reflected from different angles in several mirrors, did him credit, on the whole. He could not, he thought, be called stout.
He studied the menu, and ordered sole bonne femme, a mixed grill, salad, trifle, a welsh rarebit; and a bottle of Burgundy. Barnard’s was all right, no doubt of that.
The orchestra sent forth the preliminary wail, neurotic, voluptuously provocative, of the latest sentimental song-hit. The broken rhythms poured down like syrup from the gallery. He had heard it among the palms and pillars of the Scarborough lounge, the merry-go-rounds were sending it down with the wind from the common. Here, the diners paused in their talk as they recognized it, whistled or hummed a bar or two, swayed their shoulders, looked dreamy, tapped with their feet. He found himself marking the measure with mouthfuls of fish. This sort of music gave one a funny jog-up, and no mistake. He wished once more that he had kept up with this modern dancing. In the old days, he had romped round in a rollicking waltz with the best; but this syncopated jigging defeated him. He should have prepared for this freedom by taking a few dancing lessons.
He watched his own reflection, raising a wine glass to its lips with dignity and assurance. The large mirror presented all the elements of a restaurant scene in a film—lights, dishes, hurrying waiters—with himself as focussing point—the man of the world, distinguished, solitary, on whom romance was about to centre. Where was The Woman?
The wine stole warmly through his blood and he thought of himself with regret and self-reproach, as one who had not had the courage to seek and seize his opportunities. All that was changed now. Should adventure beckon to-night he was ready for it. The question was, where and in what manner to assume the offensive. He was
ridiculously ignorant of the ways and means of the town.
He had reached the savoury before the behaviour of a group of young chaps behind him became distinctive enough to engage the attention of everybody else in the room. Staring eyes, knowing glances, expressions of indulgence, surprise, disapproval, were directed towards their table. Passing waiters paused in their flight, hovered over them with amusement.
He turned round. A celebration of some sort, by the look of it. They were all a trifle merry. He put on his spectacles and recognized with astonishment a couple of clerks from the office, several other local young fellows known to him by sight, and in the midst, surely—yes—young Miller: young Miller, somewhat flushed, to all appearances performing in dumb show upon the table, with the aid of knives and forks, cruets and rolls, and other objects. They were all leaning towards him.
Gusts of laughter rose again and again above his head.
What was he up to now? He was a nice young chap, but he lacked stability. If the old boss himself were to ask him his opinion, that was what he would say: “Your grand-nephew is a great favourite with us all, Sir Lionel. He’s got brains and to spare, but what he lacks is stability.”
He recalled one or two frivolous incidents in the office; shook his head, seeing the old order changing, and the direction of the firm passing from the venerable hands that had shaped it, and bullied it, and won it name and fame, and paid him year after year a fair salary for conscientious services, into the hands he saw now over there, so nonsensically skilful, so irresponsibly busy.
The orchestra was playing to Hugh now, to him alone. “Bravo!” he shouted, as each tune came to an end. “Now for another! Come on!”—and the meagre violins gathered tone, the pianist performed his most elaborate convolutions.
A strange current arising from the heart of that intemperate table began to spread over the room. Like the Gulf Stream, cutting a path of warmth through chilly seas, leaving a green hint in its passage past winter-bound coasts, the relaxing influence flowed. Or like a draught, stirring up stagnant air with an exhilarating breath … or like yeast working headily in a doughy mixture. …
But multiplication of phrases is vain: there was nobody among that company to whom these similes would have appealed. On the contrary, the more one element expanded, the more the other contracted, withdrawing uneasily from the pagan stimulus, the convivial contagion; and stiffening gradually into one frigid and solidly resisting mass of outraged orthodoxy.
But Hugh remained unaffected. Cold breaths might blow around him, but could not penetrate. He was at the top of his form.
“Now for the roundabouts and swings,” Tom heard him cry.
Threading his way a trifle unsteadily through the tables, he kicked against Tom’s chair, and turned round to apologize; recognized him, and greeted him with enthusiasm.
“Hello; it’s old Uncle Tom. Uncle Fairfax. Mr. Fairfax. …”
He stopped and collected himself.
“How are you,” he said politely; adding, with a disarming smile, “we call you Uncle Tom in the office. You don’t mind, do you? It’s a term of—what’d you call it?—affection. Had a decent holiday?”
“Oh, yes, very jolly, thanks, Mr. Miller.”
“How’s Mrs. Fairfax?”
“Oh, very well, very well indeed. I needn’t ask how you are,” said Tom, heavily jovial. It was impossible to help feeling a little flattered. There was no doubt he had a way with him. Old Uncle Tom, indeed! But you couldn’t take offence. …
“Oh, I”—he chuckled—“I am damned well. Going up to the fair?” (What was he up to, dining in state on his own?)
“Well—I rather think I will, just for half an hour. …”
“Oh, you ought to. Marvellous show. Penny a ride on an ostrich. Palace of Beauty—Indian dancer—fat woman, I believe—all sorts of thrills.”
He surveyed Tom with a twinkling eye, then added hurriedly (for horrors! the old villain had pricked up his ears—would offer to accompany him in another moment):
“Well, I must get along. Phew, it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Fresh air for me.”
He smiled, throwing over his shoulder as he moved away:
“It’s Brown’s birthday.”
Brown’s birthday, was it, thought Tom: Brown, that meek and mouse-like clerk, incapable, one would have thought, of calling attention to his own existence, much less celebrating it. At whose instigation was he having champagne birthdays? Undoubtedly, he thought, there had been a new tone in the office of late: a tendency among the young public-school clerks to throw their weight about. Was it the influence, he wondered, of young Miller?
He called for his bill, checked the amount with a carelessness that masked dismay; and took his departure.
Pansy paid her sixpence at the gate, and was borne along on the ever-flowing human stream into the grounds of the fair.
Aimlessly drifting, dazed in the kaleidoscopic confusion of sensory impressions, flares of lights assailed her, shouts of showmen; moving bodies jostled her, bodies that would not move, lumpishly fixed, staring before some stall; crash of china smote her, ceaseless knocking, wooden, hollow, ceaseless thump and bump of balls, ninepins, cocoanuts; smell of trampled grass, of beer, cigarette ends, pervasive smell of people, whistle and shriek of sirens, shiver of tambourines, metallic, brassy blare of merry-go-rounds, mournfully trumpeting, hot-sounding. Above her the swing-boats creaked, shook, shot up, shot down, so fast, so giddily, she could not look. Over the top they’d go, surely, surely. They’d be tipped out. The danger of it! And the switchbacks, whizzing downhill on their shaky wooden scaffolding, with that horrible roar! Listen to the people yelling! And those little motor cars bumping into each other!—didn’t the people look silly sitting behind the toy steering wheels! Useful, though, so one heard, any of these jolting, rushing things, give your inside a good shake up—bring it on.
That music, how loud it was, it fairly hurt one’s ears! Round and round the couples rode, as quiet as quiet, smiling a bit, dreamy-looking; and one little boy, been there all the evening, pennyworth after pennyworth, now on an ostrich, now on a horse. He’d be sick, he would, sooner or later. The whirl slackened, the tune stopped, lights ceased from spinning. E. Pettigrew’s Grand Electric Leaping Animals, she read: all sorts of funny birds and beasts. They went on turning, turning, after the music, slower and slower, in a kind of sick way. That kid was off at last, feeling in his grubby pockets. Empty. No more rides.
“Here.” She held out a penny. “Want another go?”
He took it, hardly looking at her, dashed back again just in time. Out blared the music. She saw him scramble on and go sailing away. Well, his stomach was his own look-out. Seemed a shame he should have to stop for want of pence, when he enjoyed it so.
What a nice tune—so gay, such a swing to it! But all this gave you a nasty feeling on the chest—suffocating, faint-like, as if there was too much of everything—too much life. A year or two ago you’d have done anything, gone anywhere, for a bit of fun. Nowadays nothing seemed fun. It must be having that weakness in the chest.
“Like a ride?” said some one.
Up went the pierrot face, gazing into his. She had noticed him there beside her for a long time: great, burly man, sheepish-looking, ruddy complexioned, heavy-featured, but handsome too, quite the gentleman—nice, refined voice.
Her lips lifted, decorously smiling, red against white.
“No, thank you all the same. I don’t care for these whirligig things, they upset me.”
“Dare say they would me too. I haven’t tried ’em for years,” he said.
“I’m just the same on a boat. I went once on an all-day excursion—with a friend. Never again. Isn’t the sea terrible? Don’t you hate it?”
“No, I like the sea all right. I was in the navy once.”
“Oh, yes, were you really?”
She gave him anoth
er smile. That sounded all right.
After a bit she sighed, moved away without another look at him. She felt so sad, somehow, all of a sudden; the music, perhaps, or something about him standing there beside her, watching her so heavy and so hangdog, blocking out everything with his bulk. It would be like pushing at a mountain or an elephant to try to push him away.
There he was, there he was! Oh, what a jump her heart gave! There he was, at last! Just as she had expected: she’d known he would be along some time. Lucky she had put on her black and white printed crêpe-de-chine, and her new hat. He was coming out of that Palace of Beauty with a lot of others, and laughing fit to burst. He didn’t look as if he’d admired them, anyway. No wonder. Beauty through the ages, indeed—Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, and all. Painted old tarts, she’d seen them. Ought to be ashamed of themselves in their tights and bits of bare skin showing, and sticking gold saucer things over their nasty great chests, to call attention.
Weren’t his teeth lovely, and the way he smiled—oh! … Really, his head was lit up like as if he’s got a halo. If he only knew, if he only knew—there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him. …
He was going to do the whole round of the sideshows, from the look of it. There he went now, knocking the ninepins down one after the other, never missing practically; quite sour the keeper of the stall looked, dealing out prize packets of Gold Flake. How he did enjoy himself, letting fly with those balls one after another, as fast as fast, whizz, whizz, whizz! aiming so sure and flinging his arm out so strong and free. Down clattered the ninepins. It was quite exciting.
Follow him. Never let him out of sight. Sooner or later he’d be bound, be bound to see you, as he strolled from stall to stall, topping the crowd by head and shoulders, laughing, talking with his friends.
Now the shooting gallery, next the dart-throwing. There was nothing he couldn’t do. He beat everybody. He was giving back his prizes now: he didn’t want them. He was joking with the dark, suspicious-looking owners, and they were smiling, watching him. He looked so careless, such a happy nature; like as not he’d had his pockets picked, but that wouldn’t upset him.
A Note in Music Page 15
