The Echoing Grove

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘You didn’t strike me in that light.’

  ‘Yes, sexy and priggish—disgusting mixture … But Mr Mackintosh was really very nasty … vicious.’ She sniffed.

  ‘But he wasn’t the first,’ persisted Madeleine on a point of order.

  ‘No, no,’ said Dinah, keeping up her tone of airy readiness and reticence combined. ‘Not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Oh, nobody you knew. When I was sent to that dear family in Paris to be polished—if you remember. A married man I met. Sort of ami de la maison.’

  ‘Did you fall in love with him?’

  ‘Not in the least. It was entirely his idea, my defloration. But he was very considerate and charming. And a thorough expert of course, which made a difference.’

  ‘You enjoyed it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She reflected. ‘Yes, I did. I was grateful to him. I learnt a lot of French, too.’

  ‘And there were others after that,’ said Madeleine after a pause; eliminating, she hoped, any suggestion of a prying attitude by putting the question in the form of a firm statement.

  ‘Oh, one or two. Several. I forget really.’

  ‘Experimenting …’

  ‘I dare say that was it.’

  ‘More like a man …’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘How very extraordinary. All that going on and I never knew.’

  ‘It wasn’t so sensational or abnormal as all that. Besides, we never did swop that sort of confidence. You may have had lovers too, for all I know.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t. Neither before nor after marriage … What would Mother have said?—about you, I mean, if she’d known.’

  ‘I can’t imagine … I think it was on my nineteenth birthday she did bring up the matter of the facts of life.’

  ‘What did she say? She never even mentioned them to me, not even on my wedding eve.’

  ‘She only said she had the impression that they were in the nature of an open book to me.’

  This time the silence that fell between them was penetrated sharply with a third ambiguous presence; emptied slowly, unelucidated.

  ‘Did Rickie know?’ said Madeleine. Her head, which had been bent, returned to its former sky-gazing pose. Dinah did not reply at once; then said with a different sort of reserve:

  ‘He knew I was in trouble.’

  ‘In trouble?’

  ‘Over Charles. Oh, not in the popular sense. Miserable. In a muddle. About going to bed with Charles.’

  ‘You confided in Rickie?’

  ‘Not exactly. He …’ Uncharacteristically she hesitated, stopped.

  ‘He guessed, I suppose. He would obviously have been madly jealous. I realized he was afterwards, looking back. He was already madly in love with you, I suppose.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t in love with me.’

  ‘Well, madly attracted to you.’ Before the intentness of her stare the globe in the sky divided; twin moons swam in and out of one another. ‘And I suppose knew you—weren’t inhibited like me. I wonder, if you hadn’t already … If he hadn’t known—which he did know. I suppose—that you weren’t …’

  ‘Quite likely not,’ said Dinah with reserve.

  ‘And had you started to be afraid?’ She focused carefully; the twin discs slid together like a pair of folding lenses.

  ‘Yes. Then. It was then that fear began.’

  ‘I see. Because of the very peculiar circumstances. Well, I don’t wonder … I wasn’t getting at you. What’s the point now? I didn’t mean to bring that up.’

  ‘Nor did I. It wasn’t the circumstances. I was afraid because I fell in love.’

  ‘With Rickie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s like a man too,’ said Madeleine presently. ‘Men are always afraid of love.’

  ‘I was afraid for years. Fear governed everything I did. That was the root cause of the appalling way I behaved—though not, of course, an excuse or a justification.’

  ‘But you got over it? I can tell you have. When did you? How?’

  ‘I did get over it. But not for a long time. Not till I’d been … broken open and pounded to pieces.’

  ‘As I am being now?’ asked Madeleine of herself with terror, with one flare of hope that arched and vanished.

  ‘Jo saved me,’ said Dinah. ‘Loving him—daring to love him. Being loved by him.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Tears came suddenly, streamed down her exposed face.

  ‘Luckily for me, people don’t always get what they deserve.’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s not so simple as it seems. I expect you did deserve it somehow. You were always strong. I expect you saved yourself.’ Speaking up into the sky she added faintly: ‘How do you manage now?’

  ‘Without Jo, you mean? Oh, I go on. I’ve got accustomed to it. It’s a different sort of life, of course, not to be compared … But it’s not so bad. I enjoy some of it very much; and the rest is tolerable—interesting.’

  ‘Have you got anybody …’

  ‘A lover? No. Nor want. It’s all over, it won’t happen any more. I like company and I’ve got a few friends. I don’t miss having an emotional life.’

  ‘It must be peaceful.’

  The words, an extinguished heart-wrung cry, brought Dinah’s eyes to rest on her again; to watch her fumble in her handbag, extract a small handkerchief and dab her cheeks. Presently she said weeping:

  ‘Well, I shall not be saved.’

  ‘Madeleine, you will be. You are saved. It may not make sense to you just now, but I know it is so.’

  ‘There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.’ She blew her nose. ‘I didn’t think I needed to be broken open. I’ve never been put together. And now … oh well … Sorry to be so idiotic.’

  ‘God blast him,’ said Dinah, spitting the words.

  ‘Yes, it was horrible. He was awful. However, there it is and I don’t seem to be able to start talking about it.’

  ‘No hurry. Let’s go in. I don’t know about you, but I shall be crippled tomorrow with rheumatism.’

  She unwound herself and rose to her feet. Dully following her energetic movements as she folded the rug and stooped to place a kiss on Gwilym’s head, Madeleine got up also and followed her into the house. Momentarily released from tension, grateful for Dinah’s outburst, she trailed obediently after her into the kitchen, standing by with sagging shoulders while her sister busily put on the kettle, opened the Aga stove, riddled it, heaved up a load of coke, stoked it and closed it. What was left of her consciousness, a small dry kernel, observed these housewifely activities in a spirit of critical appreciation. Dinah was as efficient as herself, possibly even quicker, neater. A vague immense surprise at the undramatic intimacy, the naturalness of this domestic scene persisted in the background. Instead of nothing, she had been granted this breathing space, the quiet interior, sparsely furnished, without ornament or colour or perspective; but decent, ventilated: a place where some semblance of normal existence, or realistic action, could still plausibly continue.

  The trivial round, the common task

  Should furnish all we need to ask …

  One might yet find a niche in the community, serve others, put one’s talents to wider use.

  Refined educated lady of good appearance (early forties) cheerful disposition artistic tastes widow (one child, girl, school holidays), thoroughly domesticated, country lover, fond animals, experienced cook gardener washerwoman, able drive car, undertake all household duties, rough (coals, boots, wood-chopping, scrubbing, etc.) not objected to …

  A perfect woman nobly planned.

  Emotionally frustrated unadaptable class-conscious matron victim circumstances upbringing personal tragedies, exploited rejected (grounds age, moral intellectual maladjustment) by lover renovating sexual requirem
ents, unwilling accept suggestions re courage pride eventual resignation, unable contemplate living (a) alone (b) for others i.e. family friends community spiritual values or any other form abhorrent vacuum, seeks instantaneous return status quo, failing which immediate euthanasia …

  Dinah lifted the lid of a saucepan, peered, stirred with a wooden spoon, poured part of its contents into a soup bowl set to warm nearby.

  ‘Try it,’ she said, ‘it’ll slip down easily. Do you good.’

  Madeleine accepted it with a show of alacrity, saying: ‘Thank you, how wonderful. It smells delicious.’

  Dinah spooned up the remainder from the pan, sipping it slowly, her expression critical, engrossed. Presently she asked:

  ‘What about a sleeping pill? Have you got something?’

  ‘I have, but I won’t. I think I shall sleep. Besides he might ring up again … or perhaps I ought to put a call through, just to find out. You did say, didn’t you, he said no message?’

  ‘No message.’ Dinah looked into the saucepan, tilting it slowly.

  ‘But I expect it was only he felt it might be as well to check up.’ Her lip twisted. ‘In case of an accident. I might have staged a smash on the way back. He may be a little anxious.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother too much to relieve his mind,’ said Dinah, carrying the saucepan to the sink and running the hot up into it full blast.

  ‘It would be awkward for him.’ With spurious satisfaction she pictured the panic-stricken face, the stammer, the whole confident personality stripped of glamour, abject in collapse; his projects blasted … ‘On the other hand he may be hoping for it. Something to feed his guilt. That’s what he lives on.’

  ‘You must do exactly as you feel like,’ said Dinah, now occupied in scouring out the pan. ‘I can’t advise. What happened when you got there? Was he in?’

  ‘Yes. Alone, thank God. Eating cheese and biscuits.’ She laughed weakly. ‘I let myself in—I’ve got a latchkey. I expected—I don’t know what. However, there he was, looking exactly the same, munching away and reading the Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats.’

  ‘You startled him, presumably?’

  ‘Yes. He went stiff all over, quite perceptibly. His eyes came out on stalks. He didn’t get up. I almost thought—I still think—he looked terrified for a moment. Perhaps he thought I’d come with a gun. He said: “Hello!’’ She laughed again. ‘Then he quickly pulled himself together and said: “I told you I couldn’t see you any more”—angrily: no, sulkily more, scowling at me. I said “I know you did, but I had to come …” After that he was quite pleasant in a way. Asked me if I’d had lunch. Said I was looking very smart.’

  ‘Did he explain the situation?’ asked Dinah, after waiting for a moment.

  ‘Oh yes. He was quite collected. Said he’d intended to spend the afternoon writing me a letter. That’s one blessing—I shan’t have to open that and read it … Oh, it’s just as I—as we supposed. He’s found somebody else. It’s happened before, as I told you, several times: once I found out, once I suspected and he lied to me, once I never had an inkling—and he told me afterwards. But I stopped minding when he was unfaithful—at least minding horribly; perhaps partly because he never for a moment stopped wanting me; partly because I thought in the end he might learn to be faithful—choose it, if I left him free. It seemed a sort of compulsive thing—having to make someone fall for him, or having to fall for someone, some ghastly girl who was after him. But only occasionally. And it never lasted any time. He was never serious about anybody else. He always said he knew he’d be bound to come back … However he says this time it’s different. He won’t come back.’ Pronouncing the words, she totally rejected them. It came to her again, not in a flash but in a kind of dark electric storm that stabbed her nerve ends, that he had telephoned, of course, to say it was all untrue, he must come back. This must be fought. She brought out breathlessly: ‘He said this time his feelings may well be permanent.’

  ‘What a pedantic boring thing to say.’

  ‘It’s the way he’s inclined to talk when he’s being cornered about his feelings. He puts on a clipped donnish sort of voice … Still,’ she said, stubbornly turning the screw, ‘he wasn’t like that today. He wasn’t superior or huffy or dramatic … or apologetic either. Just unapproachable.’ She shuddered. ‘He wanted to give me a friendly good-bye kiss but I couldn’t—I was afraid if I touched him I’d find he was made of concrete.’ A recollection struck her and she uttered the same weak laugh. ‘He kept on looking in the glass so I knew it was Jocelyn. It’s one of his habits. As if he was watching himself and wondering who he was.’

  Dinah exclaimed abruptly: ‘Rob did that.’ Adding, ‘Someone I used to know. Very disquieting habit.’

  ‘That young man—the one I met? Wasn’t his name Rob? That time I came to your flat …?’

  ‘Oh yes. Funny, I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten. I often used to wonder … what happened to him?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Dinah. She took the steaming kettle and filled first Madeleine’s hot-water bottle, then her own. ‘He joined the Navy—killed in the Battle of Narvik. I only heard afterwards, by chance.’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that about looking in the glass. Something about Jocelyn always reminded me of him—I can’t think why, they weren’t a bit alike. You may think it mad considering I only saw him once for a few minutes … but you talked about him afterwards …’

  Dinah added briefly: ‘It might be there was a likeness.’ One eyebrow lifted. She screwed in the caps of the bottles and shook out a few spilt drops. ‘This girl—does he propose to marry her?’

  ‘He says so.’ Madeleine looked bewildered. ‘It’s crazy. He hardly knows her. He only met her a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her?’

  ‘Only what he told me today. She works in some publisher’s office. She’s twenty-seven.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Painfully she pronounced it. At once the obscure amorphous image advanced itself, became consolidated.

  Dinah’s eyebrows shot up again. ‘How odd,’ she said in a casual voice. ‘I’ve met her.’

  Another step—no, a leap forward, terrible, the spring in the dark in the jungle.

  ‘You haven’t, have you? How incredible.’ Don’t tell me, don’t describe. ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Oh, I scarcely know her. I came across her a few years ago. She came in on a campaign about some Spanish political prisoners I was helping to organize.’

  ‘I see. How very interesting. He told me she was—very serious, progressive … public-spirited.’

  ‘Oh well …’ She made an equivocal grimace. ‘Interested, certainly, in publicity. I can’t say she struck me as a girl to go to town on. I rather think I didn’t take to her.’ She frowned, as if aiming at disinterested accuracy. ‘Enthusiastic. Not amusing or amused. Enlightened more than intelligent … and making heavy weather of it. Ambitious—yes. Frank … Steel-true wanton, I rather thought. Well-developed figure, trinkets, head scarves, cheek-bones, on the grubby side. New Statesman girl. Not nasty.’

  ‘She sounds appalling!’

  ‘N-no.’ Dinah shrugged. ‘Just not our sort.’

  ‘He told me she wanted so much to meet us …’

  ‘Ah, self-abnegation!—yes, that fits. She’d serve her Man. Total Acceptance—conflicts, impotence, neurotic drinking bouts—all the works.’ Her lip curled. She added bitterly: ‘Oh, she’s a piece of cake for a modern hero.’

  ‘Do you know what he said? He said he saw no reason why we shouldn’t go on seeing one another—from time to time.’

  ‘How very common.’ She advanced briskly, nursing her hot-water bottles, handed one to Madeleine. ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head; went on feebly, shaking it; then said as if concludi
ng: ‘Well, if that’s what he thinks, if that’s how they’ve fixed it between them, if that’s the sort of person he wants—prefers …’

  But it would not do. She heard her own voice, female, vindictive, counterpointing the spinsterish asperity of Dinah’s, stridently vocalizing love’s degradation and betrayal. She said, despairing: ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t try. It doesn’t really help.’

  ‘But I must! How can I possibly get through it otherwise?’

  Taking the almost untouched soup bowl from the table, Dinah poured its contents into a large enamel dish, blew on it, tasted its temperature with one finger and set it down before the dog.

  Watching him drink it splashily, she said: ‘I only meant don’t try to analyse it now. It’s too soon. One can’t see the wood for the trees at first, and one goes stumbling about … Still, one has to do that, of course. Whatever I say now you’ll think I’m wrong. And I may be.’

  ‘He said he still loved me.’

  ‘I expect he means it.’

  ‘Then how can he …? We were so happy—not always, but most of the time, as he agrees. Do I understand nothing? He says I don’t. Does it always wear out? Are men bound to get sick of making love to the same woman, even if it’s—if it seems to her—very successful? Is that all there is to it?’

  Glancing at the childishly quivering face, Dinah said with pity and kindness:

  ‘It’s not all there is to it by any means; but it does seem almost insoluble. I can’t help thinking it’s particularly difficult to be a woman just at present. One feels so transitional and fluctuating … So I suppose do men. I believe we are all in flux—that the difference between our grandmothers and us is far deeper than we realize—much more fundamental than the obvious social economic one. Our so-called emancipation may be a symptom, not a cause. Sometimes I think it’s more than the development of a new attitude towards sex: that a new gender may be evolving—psychically new—a sort of hybrid. Or else it’s just beginning to be uncovered how much woman there is in man and vice versa.’ She pondered. ‘Perhaps when we understand more, unearth more of what goes on in the unconscious, we shall manage to behave better to one another. It’s ourselves we’re trying to destroy when we’re destructive: at least I think that explains the people who never can sustain a human relationship. It’s not good and evil struggling in them: it’s the suppressed unaccepted unacceptable man or woman in them they have to cast out … can’t come to terms with.’