The Echoing Grove

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘I hope not. But probably. However, he seems happy enough for the moment.’

  ‘Terribly happy. I can see she’s attractive in a way. Can’t you?’

  ‘Mm. Yes. Not unattractive.’

  ‘Amusing too, I expect. What did you find to talk about at dinner?’

  ‘I can’t remember. You know I never can. Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Well, at least you weren’t bored. I was so relieved, knowing you were feeling low. You looked absolutely engrossed, whatever it was. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘I feel all right now.’

  ‘Pain gone?’

  ‘Pain gone.’

  It was true. No pain. No vertigo. Nothing in his head now but vacancy, which, when he tested it, as he had done once or twice with acute apprehension, seemed to give out merely a hollow continuous ringing whisper like the sound of a sea shell held against one’s ear.

  They danced on in silence for a couple of minutes. She saw their reflections in the wall of mirrors at one end of the room—an ungratifying spectacle: a not-so-young woman dressed rather showily, like a rather respectable tart, her hair set unbecomingly, trying to adapt herself to the slack grasp and shuffle of a bored and exhausted-looking man.

  She said in a thin nasal voice:

  ‘At least you might look as if you could just bear to dance with me—even if you can’t.’

  He gave a start. Holding her at arm’s length away from him, he gaped at her, his jaw dropping with theatrical imbecility, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ she said, smiling. ‘I know it’s frightful for you to have to dance with me, but need you look quite so abject with self-pity? Could you possibly, for the sake of social decency, try to put a better face on it?’

  On the edge of the dance floor, close to the band, he came to a dead stop; his arms dropped down nerveless, a thick dusky surge of blood suffused his neck, face, forehead. Then very deliberately he swung on his heel and walked away, treading a steady path between the tables. For a split second his back, portentous, was printed in empty space; then she obliterated him. She remained where he had left her, exposed to the grin, the insinuating eyes of the coloured drummer; then with a distant gracious smile and nod of acknowledgement towards the demonic convulsions of wrists, knees, ankles, instruments, strolled in the direction of Rickie’s vanished figure. Pausing by the exit, she looked back, cautiously scanning the whole room, half expecting to see him materialize treading a gay measure with a member of the party—or perhaps with a total stranger picked up to pay her out—or drinking and joking at their table. But topped by two bottles in an ice bucket, the table was deserted; she marked them all down one after the other on the floor, dancing to her favourite rumba. She sauntered through into the corridor, passing on her right the claustrophobic little lounge with its modernist bar and furniture and discreet strip lighting: empty. The avant garde clock on the wall said 2 a.m. A solitary attendant in uniform stood by the revolving entrance door. Should she stroll up and sweetly inquire if a tall fair gentleman had just gone out? No, she would not … He might be in the Gents, might emerge in a minute. Perhaps taken ill there … The man was watching her curiously, waiting for the question he could answer. The answer would be yes … She turned purposefully and entered the door marked Ladies, lingered a few moments pouring cold water on her wrists, combing her hair, repainting her stiff lips, gave the attendant a dreamy smile, hurried back to the noise and lights. Through the bonfire effect produced by smoke and rose illumination she saw them all sitting round their table. No Rickie.

  Well, he’d done it, he’d simply gone—walked out on her. Public humiliation. Where was he? It might have been a vanishing trick by Maskelyne. Let him wait, let him just wait till … I’ve put up with a lot, God knows I have and so do all our friends, but make no mistake I won’t stand for this sort of thing. What do you suppose they thought of you? I told them, I told them exactly what had happened, well, what else could I do? They all agreed, too monstrous, your bloody-mindedness, insufferable rudeness to me, to everybody, how you’re going to apologize to Clara and Tim I cannot think, their party ruined, all so sorry for me, pleasant for me, wasn’t it? … Supported by this inner monologue, she approached them with a smile, sat down, opened her bag, took out her compact and powdered her nose.

  ‘Madeleine, my dear child, allow me to pour you out a little glass …’

  ‘No more, thank you, Tim darling. Really, I must go home soon.’

  ‘Just a soupçon. We’re all going home soon. Getting on towards bed-time, I begin to think.’ He glanced at her, arrested by a certain tenseness. ‘What’s wrong, eh? Where’s that husband of yours?’

  She leaned towards him and murmured, rueful, close to his ear:

  ‘My dear, he’s slipped off home. Ssh! He didn’t feel awfully well. You know since this wretched gastric trouble he collapses rather if he has late nights. He just hasn’t got any reserve energy, though he won’t admit it. And of course he really ought not to drink, though it seems such a shame on a festive occasion, I can’t bear to be governessy about it.’

  ‘Oh, the poor old chap!’ exclaimed Tim, all compunction and concern. ‘I am sorry. Was he feeling like hell?’

  ‘Ssh!—no, nothing much. Just a bit giddy and sick. He’s put down a good deal tonight, you know. We went outside to get some air, then he thought—we both thought—he’d better not come back. Don’t make a thing about it, will you? He told me to make his excuses—he was so afraid of breaking up the party.’

  ‘Bless his heart. But what a shame. I wish I’d known. It did strike me he looked all in a little while ago—never gave it another thought. Rotten. Take a turn with me, my dear. Or are you worried?’

  ‘No, I’m not worried. I know so well it’s only sleep he needs. I’d love to take a turn with you.’

  They took a long turn together. Tim’s style of dancing was a restful affair of shuffle, sway and turn, coupled with a potent grip of his outspread palm and thumb on her shoulder blades. They discussed the improvement in Rickie’s health, schools for their respective sons, the possibility of sharing a villa near Dinard for September, and other soothing topics. Presently she ceased to cast surreptitious glances towards the entrance, to brace herself for Rickie’s reappearance, the blood of murderous hate still mantling his black face. While Tim’s ripe, husky, rather coaxing and deprecatory voice meandered on, she felt almost herself again. The boiling sense of outrage, the icy sense of panic—both had sunk down. She felt purged, confident, also coolly charitable, almost amused: almost as if all of it had happened in a dream. Owing this to Tim and wishing to show affectionate gratitude, she listened and responded to his conversation with particular sympathy. Goodwill flowed between them; a cosiness with a nostalgic undercurrent. He permitted his memory to dwell upon a romantic passage in a Sussex garden the deuce of a long time ago. He’d been a callow cub then, experimenting with girls and demi-girls and other sorts, considerably more business-like than idealistic; but he’d never quite forgotten how sweet she’d been at eighteen years old, the prettiest girl in the room, and the most oncoming you’d think—and then like as not wincing away like a filly or turning the ice on between one minute and the next. Ready to meet you half-way and a good bit more, solemn, teasing, anxious, laughing—you never knew where you were with her … one kiss in the dark, gauche, inexpert, with no sequel; he’d found out what he wanted to know. She was hot stuff all right—would be when she got into her stride. Might have flown off the handle … never had? Surprising under the circumstances … They must get on well in bed together. That often kept a woman faithful when the chap had other women. Might still? … Nothing would be easier, tonight, more tempting to suggest; nothing, thank God, more absolutely out of the question. Ah well, they were all settling down now, there were compensations …

  Prey to the fervour of devoted gratitude aroused in him, not for the f
irst time, by the lineaments of ungratified desire, he gathered her to his chest and pressed her tenderly. She relaxed against him, kind masculine friend to whom one could confide so much but never would. So she was still attractive to him: a comfort; had often wondered if he remembered that never since mentioned episode in the Vances’ garden the night of Sylvia’s coming-out dance. Almost her first house party and her frock split at the waist. Fairy lights in the trees, a bush of syringa they’d buried their faces in, his anticipated but in the event unbargained-for embrace which, shaken in her self-respect, she had discussed next morning in her bedroom with a girl friend. ‘I’m afraid he’s very physical.’ ‘How far did he go?’ ‘Well … I can only say I hope I’ll never be kissed like that again.’ ‘Perhaps you ought to have slapped his face?’ ‘Perhaps I ought.’ ‘You don’t think you encouraged him?’ ‘Certainly not.’ ‘And you didn’t sort of enjoy it?’ ‘No, not at all.’ Hysterical gales of giggling, comparing notes and agreeing that men must have desires completely unknown to women, and thoroughly distasteful. Next year when after a few weeks only of part-tearful, part-ecstatic sensations of inevitability, she had got engaged, he had written her a letter saying: Darling Madeleine: congratulations. Rickie is a very lucky man. Ah me!—which she had taken as a pleasing delicate hint that he hadn’t forgotten, or dismissed that incident in a cynical way; and ever since she had felt with him a secret emotional security; almost as if in some half dream, unanalysed, on the threshold of experience, he had taken, without violence, her virginity.

  And he’s never been able to stand Dinah—thought Rickie must be out of his senses: Clara had said as much at the time of the worst trouble—another consolation … Oh, she could tell him anything. She would tell him now, he would give her sound advice. She looked up suddenly with her great blue-black dilated eyes, her forehead puckered.

  ‘What’s the big worry, my sweet?’ He gave her another hug.

  ‘I am worried. Oh, Tim, it’s Rickie. What am I to do?’

  He looked blank, bending his ear down towards her lips. ‘Couldn’t catch.’

  ‘You’re too tall. You never do hear what I say.’

  ‘I always hear what you say. But the band makes such an infernal row. Try again.’

  ‘I said I was wondering what to do.’

  ‘What to do about what, my love?’

  ‘Wondering where he is. Rickie.’

  ‘Wondering where he is?’ He looked at her in simple astonishment. ‘Why, just about tucked up in bed by now, I should hope.’

  ‘Do you think so? I don’t. I can’t somehow picture it. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps that’s where he is—tucked up and sleeping peacefully.’

  But no, it was implausible. Something cataclysmic had occurred, too terrible to explain. Before her eyes he had performed an act of total rejection, stepped over the dance floor into limbo. She had no bearings now.

  ‘Even supposing he walked home,’ said Tim, ‘it couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen minutes. But he’d take a cab surely if he was feeling a bit queasy?’

  ‘I don’t know what he did.’ Direction, goal, motive all equally unpredictable. And after all she could not tell Tim anything. She had cried out to him: ‘I don’t know what to do’—a cry from the heart, and he had not even heard her. A grotesque flop—ironic. ‘But sweetie,’ she went on, ‘I think I’ll disappear. You do understand, don’t you? I know it’s fussy but I’ve slightly lost my nerve since he had that haemorrhage. I’m glad we had this’—she lightly caressed his shoulder—‘but now I’d like to go. Explain to Clara. I’ll give her a ring in the morning.’

  This sort of appeal, to his sentimental protectiveness, was what he most enjoyed. Deprecating her wifely anxiety yet responsive to it, he escorted her out with his arm through hers, summoned her taxi and, as she leaned out from it for one more grateful farewell, dipped his sleek head in and kissed her cheek.

  ‘You’re a ravishing woman,’ he said. ‘Always were and always will be. God bless.’

  ‘Good night, dear Tim. Don’t forget me.’

  Silly thing to say. He wouldn’t question it; one more sweet titillating nothing, appropriate to the silly time and place.

  Not a valediction.

  He had not come back. Hall, study, dining-room, drawing-room: she opened doors and saw the face of each in turn, sunk in lugubrious hostility, emanating greyness and decay, like animals behind bars, or manic-depressives in a private bin. Already midsummer dawn fainted pre-natally in the high uncurtained windows. He was upstairs … But already she knew along the vibrations of her nerves that there was nobody on the next floor. The house of a widow. Above the married floor, the floor of the children sunk in the routine of normal nursery sleep seemed cut off as if by a zone of concrete.

  She climbed slowly to her bedroom; and it was not till she had rapidly undressed and washed that she looked almost perfunctorily into his dressing-room and saw his empty bed, pyjamas laid out upon it, sheet turned down. She shut the door, drew the blue silk curtains close, got into her big bed and switched the lamp off.

  He was everywhere outside in the whole of London, he was nowhere. Gone to his club. Walking the streets. Gone to a hotel. Picked up a tart and gone home with her. Gone—but it wasn’t possible?—to Dinah. Yes, it was possible. Certain in fact. She’d known it all the evening. Almost at once she fell into bemused half-consciousness, then slept a whirling sleep for half an hour, started broad awake again, the inside of her head stretched dry and taut, and ringing like a shaken tambourine. Someone was moving in the house. Above, in the night nursery? No. Below her, far down, and not a noise at all, but ponderable silence, as if someone heavy with intention were standing still: as a burglar might stand, or a murderer. She lay in a super-sensory trance, conjuring footsteps, breathing, creaking, a hand brushing her forehead, from invaded space. He was in the house. He was weight, silence. He was still no one, nothing.

  The door of his dressing-room flew open soundlessly. He turned from the wash-basin and saw her standing in the doorway in her nightdress, her hair rumpled, her eyes like hot coals boring into him. He finished drinking a tumblerful of water in long gulps without a break.

  ‘Thirsty,’ he said. He put down the glass and mopped his forehead with a towel. ‘Whew! Ain’t it stuffy? The air’s like a damp dishcloth in this house.’

  His voice was level, matter-of-fact: he might just have come in from the office on an ordinary day. He twisted himself to examine his dinner jacket: one sleeve and shoulder were streaked with whitish dust. He picked up a clothes brush and started removing this in a collected way. His face in the half light looked perfectly calm, unnaturally pale.

  She vanished, closing the door noiselessly.

  He took off his clothes and lay down on the bed naked, his feet crossed, his hands behind his head—a reflective pose. After a while he swung himself into a sitting position on the bed’s edge, propped his elbows on his knees, sank his forehead in his hands and remained thus, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his hair till it stood on end, and groaning once or twice vaguely under his breath like a person disturbed in sleep. Presently he got up, opened the door into her bedroom, stood a moment considering the dark blot of her head against heaped pillows, the mound of her body curled sideways under the blanket, then stalked across the room and sat down on the bed, near the foot of it.

  After a few minutes she turned on her back and scrutinized him under lowered eyelids. What an extraordinary sight—planted there in an attitude that seemed one of contemplation, without a stitch on, his hands clasped loose between his thighs, his powerful shoulders easy. A long time since she had seen him stripped. A fine specimen, with muscle and youthful spareness still intact. What happens next?

  ‘What time is it?’ she said at last in an exhausted voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ was his amiable reply. ‘Between four and five, I should think.’ He yawned. ‘Sorry
if I woke you up.’

  ‘You didn’t wake me up. I haven’t been asleep.’ Disregarding the bitter meaning in this statement, he said with a sort of sprightliness: ‘I’m jolly hungry.’

  She stretched an arm out to the painted biscuit box on the table beside her, handed it to him.

  ‘Ah, thank you,’ he said, opening it. ‘Digestive. Excellent. Have one?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Offering her the biscuit tin, his mouth full, his hair standing up in a mad crest, he looked, in his nudity, extremely comic. She wanted to laugh, and turned her head away upon the pillow. This was not the scene, not any sort of scene that could have been imagined. He was in a very queer frame of mind: not guilty or repentant or aggressive or on the defensive. Simply null and void, as if he had been washed up somewhere by a broken dam—stranded irrevocably in the flood’s wake and resting now in a state of harmless emotional regression; as indifferent to the moral challenge, or to the rudiments of etiquette, as a babe new-born. Above all, out of reach—stubbornly so: as if his will had operated a deliberate assumption of irresponsibility; an absolutely ruthless withdrawal into self-preservation. There he sat naked, munching biscuits, yawning, complaining of thirst, of the weather …

  ‘No pyjamas?’

  He cocked a distrait eye at his abdomen and said as if mildly surprised:

  ‘No. More comfortable without—cooler. Do you object?’

  ‘Not in the least. I merely thought perhaps they hadn’t been laid out and you didn’t know where to look.’

  ‘I’m quite capable of finding my own pyjamas.’

  ‘Well …’ Her tone was lightly sceptical, exposing the whole area of his acknowledged incompetence: ransacking of shirts known to be at the laundry, failure to recognize anything in the airing cupboard for what it was, mislaying of studs, loss of cuff links …

  ‘By the way, did you find those links?’

  ‘No.’