Chapter Two
1
Mr. Baldock was busy in his garden when Laura came up the path. He grunted and immediately asked:
"What do you think of my begonias? Pretty good?"
Mr. Baldock was actually an exceedingly poor gardener, but was inordinately proud of the results he achieved and completely oblivious of any failures. It was expected of his friends not to refer to these latter. Laura gazed obediently on some rather sparse begonias and said they were very nice.
"Nice? They're magnificent!" Mr. Baldock, who was now an old man and considerably stouter than he had been eighteen years ago, groaned a little as he bent over once more to pull at some weeds.
"It's this wet summer," he grumbled. "Fast as you clear the beds, up the stuff comes again. Words fail me when it comes to what I think of bindweed! You may say what you like, but I think it is directly inspired by the devil!" He puffed a little, then said, his words coming shortly between stertorous breaths: "Well, young Laura, what is it? Trouble? Tell me about it."
"I always come to you when I'm worried. I have ever since I was six."
"Rum little kid you were. Peaky face and great big eyes."
"I wish I knew whether I was doing right."
"Shouldn't bother if I was you," said Mr. Baldock. "Garrrrr! Get up, you unspeakable brute!" (This was to the bindweed.) "No, as I say, I shouldn't bother. Some people know what's right and wrong, and some people haven't the least idea. It's like an ear for music!"
"I don't think I really meant right or wrong in the moral sense, I think I meant was I being wise?"
"Well, that's quite a different thing. On the whole, one does far more foolish things than wise ones. What's the problem?"
"It's Shirley."
"Naturally it's Shirley. You never think of anything or anyone else."
"I've been arranging for her to go to London and train in secretarial work."
"Seems to me remarkably silly," said Mr. Baldock. "Shirley is a nice child, but the last person in the world to make a competent secretary."
"Still, she's got to do something."
"So they say nowadays."
"And I'd like her to meet people."
"Blast and curse and damn that nettle," said Mr. Baldock, shaking an injured hand. "People? What d'you mean by people? Crowds? Employers? Other girls? Young men?"
"I suppose really I mean young men."
Mr. Baldock chuckled.
"She's not doing too badly down here. That mother's boy, Robin, at the vicarage seems to be making sheep's eyes at her, young Peter has got it badly, and even Edward Westbury has started putting brilliantine on what's left of his hair. Smelt it in church last Sunday. Thought to myself: 'Now, who's he after?' And sure enough there he was when we came out, wriggling like an embarrassed dog as he talked to her."
"I don't think she cares about any of them."
"Why should she? Give her time. She's very young, Laura. Come now, why do you really want to send her away to London, or are you going too?"
"Oh no. That's the whole point."
Mr. Baldock straightened up.
"So that's the point, is it?" He eyed her curiously. "What exactly is in your mind, Laura?"
Laura looked down at the gravel path.
"As you said just now, Shirley is the only thing that matters to me. I-I love her so much that I'm afraid of-well, of hurting her. Of trying to tie her to me too closely."
Mr. Baldock's voice was unexpectedly gentle.
"She's ten years younger than you are, and in some ways she's more like a daughter than a sister to you."
"I've mothered her, yes."
He nodded.
"And you realise, being intelligent, that maternal love is a possessive love?"
"Yes, that's exactly it. And I don't want it to be like that. I want Shirley to be free and-well-free."
"And that's at the bottom of pushing her out of the nest? Sending her out in the world to find her feet?"
"Yes. But what I'm so uncertain about is-am I wise to do so?"
Mr. Baldock rubbed his nose in an irritable way.
"You women!" he said. "Trouble with all of you is, you make such a song and dance about things. How is one ever to know what's wise or not? If young Shirley goes to London and picks up with an Egyptian student and has a coffee-coloured baby in Bloomsbury, you'll say it's all your fault, whereas it will be entirely Shirley's and possibly the Egyptian's. And if she trains and gets a good job as a secretary and marries her boss, then you'll say you were justified. All bunkum! You can't arrange other people's lives for them. Either Shirley's got some sense or she hasn't. Time will show. If you think this London idea is a good plan, go ahead with it, but don't take it so seriously. That's the whole trouble with you, Laura, you take life seriously. It's the trouble with a lot of women."
"And you don't?"
"I take bindweed seriously," said Mr. Baldock, glaring down balefully at the heap on the path. "And greenfly. And I take my stomach seriously, because it gives me hell if I don't. But I never dream of taking other people's lives seriously. I've too much respect for them, for one thing."
"You don't understand. I couldn't bear it if Shirley made a mess of her life and was unhappy."
"Fiddle de dee," said Mr. Baldock rudely. "What does it matter if Shirley's unhappy? Most people are, off and on. You've got to stick being unhappy in this life, just as you've got to stick everything else. You need courage to get through this world, courage and a gay heart."
He looked at her sharply.
"What about yourself, Laura?"
"Myself?" said Laura, surprised.
"Yes. Suppose you're unhappy? Are you going to be able to bear that?"
Laura smiled.
"I've never thought about it."
"Well, why not? Think about yourself a bit more. Unselfishness in a woman can be as disastrous as a heavy hand in pastry. What do you want out of life? You're twenty-eight, a good marriageable age. Why don't you do a bit of man-hunting?"
"How absurd you are, Baldy."
"Thistles and ground elder!" roared Mr. Baldock. "You're a woman, aren't you? A not bad-looking, perfectly normal woman. Or aren't you normal? What's your reaction when a man tries to kiss you?"
"They haven't very often tried," said Laura.
"And why the hell not? Because you're not doing your stuff." He shook a finger at her. "You're thinking the whole time of something else. There you stand in a nice neat coat and skirt looking the nice modest sort of girl my mother would have approved of. Why don't you paint your lips pillar-box red and varnish your nails to match?"
Laura stared at him.
"You've always said you hated lipstick and red nails."
"Hate them? Of course I hate them. I'm seventy-nine! But they're a symbol, a sign that you're in the market and ready to play at Nature's game. A kind of mating call, that's what they are. Now look here, Laura, you're not everybody's fancy. You don't flaunt a banner of sex, looking as though you weren't able to help it, as some women do. There's one particular kind of man who might come and hunt you out without your doing anything about it-the kind of man that has the sense to know that you're the woman for him. But it's long odds against that happening. You've got to do your bit. You've got to remember that you're a woman, and play the part of a woman and look about for your man."
"Darling Baldy, I love your lectures, but I've always been hopelessly plain."
"So you want to be an old maid?"
Laura flushed a little.
"No, of course I don't. I just don't think it's likely that I shall marry."
"Defeatism!" roared Mr. Baldock.
"No, indeed it isn't. I just think it's impossible that anyone should fall in love with me."
"Men can fall in love with anything," said Mr. Baldock rudely. "With hare lips, and acne, and prognathous jaws and with numb-skulls and cretins! Just think of half the married women you know! No, young Laura, you just don't want to bother! You want to love-not to be loved-a
nd I dare say you've got something there. To be loved is to carry a heavy burden."
"You think I do love Shirley too much? That I am possessive?"
"No," said Mr. Baldock slowly, "I don't think you are possessive. I acquit you of that."
"Then-can one love anyone too much?"
"Of course one can!" he roared. "One can do anything too much. Eat too much, drink too much, love too much…"
He quoted:
"I've known a thousand ways of love
And each one made the loved one rue."
"Put that in your pipe, young Laura, and smoke it."
2
Laura walked home, smiling to herself. As she entered the house, Ethel appeared from the back premises, and spoke in a confidential whisper:
"There's a gentleman waiting for you-a Mr. Glyn-Edwards, quite a young gentleman. I put him in the drawing-room. Said he'd wait. He's all right-not vacuums I mean, or hard luck stories."
Laura smiled a little, but she trusted Ethel's judgment.
Glyn-Edwards? She could not recall the name. Perhaps it was one of the young flying officers who had been billeted here during the war.
She went across the hall and into the drawing-room.
The young man who rose quickly as she came in was a complete stranger to her.
That, indeed, in the years to come, was to remain her feeling about Henry. He was a stranger. Never for one moment did he become anything else.
The young man was smiling, an eager, rather charming smile which suddedly wavered. He seemed taken aback.
"Miss Franklin?" he said. "But you're not-" His smile suddenly widened again, confidently. "I expect she's your sister."
"You mean Shirley?"
"That's it," said Henry, with evident relief. "Shirley. I met her yesterday-at a tennis-party. My name's Henry Glyn-Edwards."
"Do sit down," said Laura. "Shirley ought to be back soon. She went to tea at the vicarage. Won't you have some sherry? Or would you rather have gin?"
Henry said he would prefer sherry.
They sat there talking. Henry's manner was just right, it had that touch of diffidence that is disarming. A charm of manner that was too assured might have aroused antagonism. As it was, he talked easily and gaily, without awkwardness, but deferring to Laura in a pleasant well-bred manner.
"Are you staying in Bellbury?" Laura asked.
"Oh no. I'm staying with my aunt over at Endsmoor."
Endsmoor was well over sixty miles away, the other side of Milchester. Laura felt a little surprised. Henry seemed to see that a certain amount of explanation was required.
"I went off with someone else's tennis-racket yesterday," he said. "Awfully stupid of me. So I thought I'd run over to return it and find my own. I managed to wangle some petrol."
He looked at her blandly.
"Did you find your racket all right?"
"Oh yes," said Henry. "Lucky, wasn't it? I'm afraid I'm awfully vague about things. Over in France, you know, I was always losing my kit."
He blinked disarmingly.
"So as I was over here," he said, "I thought I'd look up Shirley."
Was there, or was there not, some faint sign of embarrassment?
If there was, Laura liked him none the worse for it. Indeed, she preferred that to too much assurance.
This young man was likeable, eminently so. She felt the charm he exuded quite distinctly. What she could not account for was her own definite feeling of hostility.
Possessiveness again, Laura wondered? If Shirley had met Henry the day before, it seemed odd that she should not have mentioned him.
They continued to talk. It was now past seven. Henry was clearly not bound by conventional hours of calling. He was obviously remaining here until he saw Shirley. Laura wondered how much longer Shirley was going to be. She was usually home before this.
Murmuring an excuse to Henry, Laura left the room and went into the study where the telephone was. She rang up the vicarage.
The vicar's wife answered.
"Shirley? Oh yes, Laura, she's here. She's playing clock golf with Robin. I'll get her."
There was a pause, and then Shirley's voice, gay, alive.
"Laura?"
Laura said dryly:
"You've got a follower."
"A follower? Who?"
"His name's Glyn-Edwards. He blew in an hour and a half ago, and he's still here. I don't think he means to leave without seeing you. Both his conversation and mine are wearing rather thin!"
"Glyn-Edwards? I've never heard of him. Oh dear - I suppose I'd better come home and cope. Pity. I'm well on the way to beating Robin's record."
"He was at the tennis yesterday, I gather."
"Not Henry?"
Shirley's voice sounded breathless, slightly incredulous. The note in it surprised Laura.
"It could be Henry," she said dryly. "He's staying with an aunt over at-"
Shirley, breathless, interrupted:
"It is Henry. I'll come at once."
Laura put down the receiver with a slight sense of shock. She went back slowly into the drawing-room.
"Shirley will be back soon," she said, and added that she hoped Henry would stay to supper.
3
Laura leaned back in her chair at the head of the dinner-table and watched the other two. It was still only dusk, not dark, and the windows were uncurtained. The evening light was kind to the two young faces that bent towards each other so easily.
Watching them dispassionately, Laura tried to understand her own mounting feeling of uneasiness. Was it simply that she had taken a dislike to Henry? No, it could hardly be that. She acknowledged Henry's charm, his likeability, his good manners. Since, as yet, she knew nothing about him, she could hardly form a considered judgment. He was perhaps a little too casual, too off-hand, too detached? Yes, that explained it best-detached.
Surely the core of her feeling was rooted in Shirley. She was experiencing the sharp sense of shock which comes when you discover an unknown facet in someone about whom you axe assured you know everything. Laura and Shirley were not unduly demonstrative to each other, but stretching back over the years was the figure of Shirley, pouring out to Laura her hates, her loves, her desires, her frustrations.
But yesterday; when Laura had asked casually: "Anybody exciting? Or just Bellbury?" Shirley had replied non-chalantly: "Oh, mostly Bellbury."
Laura wondered why Shirley hadn't mentioned Henry. She remembered the sudden breathlessness just now in Shirley's voice as she had said, over the telephone "Henry?"
Her mind came back to the conversation going on so close to her.
Henry was just concluding a sentence…
"-if you liked. I'd pick you up in Carswell."
"Oh, I'd love it. I've never been much to race meetings…"
"Marldon's a tin-pot one, but a friend of mine's got a horse running. We might…"
Laura reflected calmly and dispassionately that this was a courtship. Henry's unexplained appearance, the wangled petrol, the inadequate excuse-he was sharply attracted by Shirley. She did not tell herself that this all might come to nothing. She believed, on the contrary, that she saw events casting their shadows before them.
Henry and Shirley would marry. She knew it, she was sure of it. And Henry was a stranger… She would never really know Henry any better than she knew him now.
Would Shirley ever know him?
Chapter Three
1
"I wonder," said Henry, "if you ought to come and meet my aunt."
He looked at Shirley doubtfully.
"I'm afraid," he said, "that it will be an awful bore for you."
They were leaning over the rail of the paddock, gazing unseeingly at the only horse, Number Nineteen, which was being led monotonously round and round.
This was the third race meeting Shirley had attended in Henry's company. Where other young men's ideas ran to the pictures, Henry's seemed to be concerned with sport. It was all on a par with the excitin
g difference between Henry and other young men.
"I'm sure I shouldn't be bored," said Shirley politely.
"I don't really see how you could help it," said Henry. "She does horoscopes and has queer ideas about the Pyramids."
"Do you know, Henry, I don't even know what your aunt's name is?"
"Don't you?" said Henry, surprised.
"Is it Glyn-Edwards?"
"No. It's Fairborough. Lady Muriel Fairborough. She's not bad really. Doesn't mind how you come and go. And always very decent at stumping up in a crisis."
"That's a very depressed-looking horse," said Shirley, looking at Number Nineteen. She was nerving herself to say something quite different.
"Wretched brute," agreed Henry. "One of Tommy Twisdon's worst. Come down over the first hurdle, I should think."
Two more horses were brought into the ring, and more people arrived to lean over the rails.
"What's this? Third race?" Henry consulted his card. "Are the numbers up yet? Is Number Eighteen running?"
Shirley glanced up at the board behind her.
"Yes."
"We might have a bit on that, if the price is all right."
"You know a lot about horses, don't you, Henry? Were you-were you brought up with horses?"
"My experience has mostly been with bookmakers."
Shirley nerved herself to ask what she had been wanting to ask.
"It's funny, isn't it, how little I really know about you? Have you got a father or mother, or are you an orphan, like me?"
"Oh! My father and mother were killed in the Blitz. They were in the Caf? de Paris."
"Oh! Henry-how awful!"
"Yes, wasn't it?" agreed Henry, without, however, displaying undue emotion. He seemed to feel this himself, for he added: "Of course it's over four years ago now. I was quite fond of them and all that, but one can't go on remembering things, can one?"
"I suppose not," said Shirley doubtfully.
The Burden Page 6
