Smouldering Fire

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It must have been very bad for him,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith thoughtfully.

  “It ruined him,” Linda agreed. “He was always rather—well—rather vain. Women flattered him and he liked it. But when I married him—at first I mean—we were happy. Not for long, because I soon found out what he was like, but just at first. Then, of course, Richard was born—”

  “Richard was born,” nodded Mrs. Hetherington Smith. She had placed Richard satisfactorily, that was something.

  “I couldn’t go about with Jack for a bit, so he went alone to race at different places, and the women started pursuing him again. He liked it.”

  “He was hard to please.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are different varieties of people—he wasn’t the right kind of person for me; I wasn’t right for him. We only had one thing in common and he spoilt that. After that was gone we didn’t understand each other. We had no common ground. He thought me a prig. He wouldn’t have minded so much if I could have seen anything in the women he preferred to me. They were usually stupid—they flattered him and pandered to his weaknesses. After a bit he didn’t even bother to hide his affairs from me—after we had quarrelled once or twice. He didn’t mind being found out—he rather enjoyed it; he enjoyed shocking me. He found me dull—perhaps he would have found any one woman dull—he likes variety in women. Are you awfully bored with all this?”

  “Not bored at all,” replied Mrs. Hetherington Smith. “I’m beginning to understand now. How unhappy you must have been!”

  Linda did not answer at once; her face was tragic in its sorrow. “I wonder if I could make you understand,” she said at last. “It’s all so sordid, but the worst part was that I really did love Jack to start with and he soiled love. He represented love to me—and he was worthless. I shall never love any man again; that part of my life is over and done with for ever. I couldn’t bear a man to touch me. There is still Richard left to me—I shall live for Richard.”

  “Yes, it’s a good thing you’ve got Richard,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith with a little sigh.

  Linda noticed the sigh. “Have you—have you got children?” she asked a trifle diffidently.

  “Not now,” replied Mrs. Hetherington Smith.

  “Oh—I’m sorry,” Linda said. “I might have known you had had troubles of your own—you wouldn’t be so kind and understanding—”

  “Yes, I’ve had troubles in my time. But never mind that now—tell me more about Richard.”

  Linda was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Richard—that was the worst part. It was because of Richard that I had to—to take steps. Jack frightened Richard—he didn’t understand him. He thought Richard was a coward because he was frightened of loud angry voices. He took Richard out in his racing car and Richard was terrified—Jack was furious. He came home and said that Richard was a coward. He wanted to thrash Richard. He shouted and stormed and said that no son of his should grow up a coward, he would rather see the boy in his grave—it was all my fault for coddling the boy—”

  “How old is Richard?” enquired Mrs. Hetherington Smith sensibly.

  “Six,” replied his mother. “And he’s not a coward—he’s a sensitive child, nervous and sensitive. I wasn’t going to allow Jack to thrash him—it would have made him a thousand times more nervous. There was a frightful scene over that. I seized Jack’s arm and told him he could thrash me if he liked, but he wasn’t to lay a hand on Richard. I managed to stop him that time, but I realised that something would have to be done—we couldn’t go on like that. I decided to divorce Jack. It was quite easy to get the necessary evidence—he has women everywhere. I thought he wouldn’t bother to defend the action and it would just pass through the court in the ordinary way—my solicitor thought so, too. When Jack was over in Ireland I left the flat—taking Richard with me, of course—and we went to rooms. I wrote to Jack and told him what I proposed—my solicitor helped me to write the letter. I thought it would all be quite easy. Then Jack came back from Ireland—he hadn’t done well there and he was angry. He said my letter had upset him; he said he was going to defend the action.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Because of Richard,” Linda said. “That was why. He said to me, ‘You can go to hell, for all I care, I want my son, and I’m damn well going to have him.’ Only he didn’t say damn.”

  “I don’t suppose he would,” agreed Mrs. Hetherington Smith comfortably.

  Linda looked at her in surprise.

  “Go on, my dear,” urged her hostess. “He said he wanted to knock the boy into shape, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did—how on earth did you know?”

  “I just knew.”

  “You seem to know a good deal!”

  “Well, I’ve knocked about a bit,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith deprecatingly, “and I’ve seen a good many different kinds of people.” She thought: This Medworth man is like the drunken bruiser who lived on the third floor—I remember the night he half killed his wife—funny how much alike people are under their skins—quite different on top, but just the same underneath. Aloud, she continued, “Well, anyhow, my dear, you’ve got rid of him, I suppose—and that’s a mercy—and you’ve got Richard, which is the main thing.”

  Linda nodded. “I hope I’ve got rid of him,” she said. “But I’m still frightened—a little. He’s gone to America to race, so we’re safe—Richard and I—till he comes back. We’re safe until August.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Linda raised her hands a trifle helplessly. “I don’t know—exactly,” she said. “I can’t explain. I have a feeling that he hasn’t given up the struggle. I shan’t feel safe until the decree is made absolute—then of course I shall be really free.”

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith did not understand. But it doesn’t matter, she thought, I’ll find out what it all means—Arthur will know. Meanwhile, of course, it was obvious what was to be done. “You and Richard must come to Ardfalloch,” she said confidently.

  “To Ardfalloch!” exclaimed Linda in amazement.

  “Yes, we’ve taken a place called Ardfalloch for the summer—a place in the Highlands. You and Richard must come there. It is a splendid plan. It fits in beautifully.”

  “But, my dear Mrs.—”

  “Hetherington Smith,” suggested that lady with a smile.

  “Mrs. Hetherington Smith,” repeated Linda obediently. “You can’t mean it—”

  “Of course I mean it—why not? I shall love to have you—and Richard, of course—it will be lovely. I’m looking forward to it already. You’ll be quite safe at Ardfalloch—it’s miles from everywhere. You can shoot deer if you like—or grouse—and Richard can play in the garden. It will be a nice little change for him—Scotch air is so bracing, isn’t it?” added Mrs. Hetherington Smith benevolently.

  Linda gazed at her—the woman really meant it. She was extraordinarily kind, and Linda was extraordinarily grateful. Even if she did not accept the invitation, it was a nice comforting thing to have been asked. But what a queer mixture she is, Linda thought, I can’t place her at all, because every time I place her she says something quite out of keeping with the label I have given her. I thought she was a little common at first—and then I was sure she wasn’t, and I’ve gone on pasting her with labels and tearing them off all the time I’ve been talking to her. Who is she and what is she? She’s frightfully kind, anyhow, and isn’t that enough? Lots of people know nothing about Scotland—I don’t know much about it myself for that matter—yes, thought Linda, but that really isn’t the point. I don’t know much about Scotland, but I do know something about the conditions—I know the jargon, so to speak. And how do I know it? Simply by mixing with people of my own class. This woman would know it, too, if she were really what she seems, if she had mixed with my kind of people all her life. How snobbish this seems! Linda thought; and yet I must be careful for Richard’s sake if not for my own. I know nothing about this woman—nothing. And then she looked a
t the woman again and her doubts were almost extinguished. She’s kind, Linda thought, most awfully kind—and sensible. And it really would be a good solution. The whole thing comes to this—can I trust her? Or rather can I trust my own instinct, for of course I do trust her. . . .

  “Perhaps you would rather get to know me a little better before deciding,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith sensibly. “There’s no hurry at all.”

  Linda was touched. “It sounds ungrateful,” she said quickly, “and I’m not ungrateful. I think you are the kindest woman I’ve ever seen, and I do trust you—of course I do, or I wouldn’t have bored you with my troubles like this—and, of course, it would be a splendid solution. It’s just that I’ve been through so much, and, somehow, I’ve come to distrust everybody—it’s because I’m frightened, I suppose. And I’m not used to people who are kind and simple and friendly. I can’t help looking for a motive when people are kind—it’s horrid!”

  “That’s quite natural,” said Mrs. Hetherington Smith in her soothing way. “Just leave it for a day or two until we get to know each other better. There’s no hurry—no hurry at all—”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE FAIRY GODMOTHER

  Mrs. Hetherington Smith had not forgotten her decision to send the Hoggs a present of money for a holiday. She thought about it a good deal, and the more she thought about it the more it seemed a dull unsatisfactory thing to do. She could send them the money, but she would never know whether they really used it for the purpose. She would not be able to visualise the Hoggs at Brighton—or Southend—because she would not know whether they had gone there or not. Thinking so much about the Hoggs brought them vividly before her eyes. She had seen and heard nothing of them for three years. Every Christmas she sent them the biggest hamper she could buy, but she sent it anonymously, so she never knew if they enjoyed it—or at any rate she could not enjoy their enjoyment.

  Arthur had forbidden her to have anything to do with the Hoggs. When they drove away from the house in the Edgware Road, which had been their home for four years, they had left that life behind—they had cast it off like a worn garment. He had spoken to her about it in the taxi—“That’s finished,” he had said with a sigh of relief as he drew up the window with unnecessary vigour. “That’s finished and done with. Remember, Mary, you’re Mrs. Hetherington Smith now. Mrs. Smith is dead. Mrs. Hetherington Smith can have no part nor lot with the Hoggs or the Wilkes or any of that crew.”

  “I can write and tell her—” began the newly born Mrs. Hetherington Smith.

  “No,” he said firmly; “no letters—nothing. You’re a different person now. Wash out the Edgware Road and all that it stood for.”

  “But, Arthur—Mrs. Hogg will wonder—”

  “Let her wonder. Make a clean break. Don’t mention their names,” he cried vehemently, “I never want to hear of any of those people again.”

  Looking back, Mary Hetherington Smith thought it was really rather wonderful how easily they had managed to cast off their old life. It was Arthur’s doing, he had arranged the whole thing. They had driven in the taxi to a quiet comfortable hotel, and it was there that the metamorphosis had taken place. She had spent hours at a Beauty Parlour being waved and manicured, and more hours at a dressmaker’s being moulded into shape and fitted with fine raiment; and, at last, from the chrysalis of Mrs. Smith the butterfly of Mrs. Hetherington Smith had emerged.

  They had climbed up before, of course, but never so high, and never so suddenly. This time there was no intermediate stage in their development, no gradual transition from the Edgware Road to Surbiton, and from Surbiton to St. John’s Wood and Kensington into Mayfair—that was not Arthur’s idea at all—no, with one immense stride they had moved from the Edgware Road to Berkeley Square, pausing, for a moment only, at the quiet hotel to dry their wings in the sun. The thing would have been impossible if the Edgware Road had been their natural sphere, or if they had had no experience in their strangely chequered career of other spheres of existence. And it would have been impossible if Mary had been a foolish woman, or one less sensitive to the feelings of her fellow creatures, or less adaptable to their manners and customs. For Arthur the transition was not so swift. He had been meeting business men all the time, mixing with them, watching them, learning all he could learn—not only about the business of getting rich but about the business of being rich. Arthur had seen the truth of the saying that nothing succeeds like success. Once you were rich and everyone knew you were rich, there was no end to the money you could make—literally no end to it. But you had to be rich first. Arthur set out to be rich. He piled up money, selling and buying stocks and shares, watching successful men and following them, taking a risk here and a risk there—It was a great game. Arthur came home to the Edgware Road only to sleep.

  Men really had two lives, Mrs. Hetherington Smith reflected—sometimes more than two lives, of course, but always two: their home life and their business life. It didn’t matter whether a man were a stockbroker or a navvy, it was the same thing really. Women had no such dual existence. They lived their home life and no other, and they had to find their interests where they could.

  I would like to see the Hoggs, she thought again. Arthur said Mrs. Hetherington Smith must have nothing to do with the Hoggs, but he didn’t say that Mrs. Smith must not. Suppose I was to be Mrs. Smith again—just for one afternoon—what harm would there be in that? What harm could there be?

  It was a brilliant idea. Mrs. Hetherington Smith wondered why it had never occurred to her before. Arthur wouldn’t approve of it, of course—she knew that—but Arthur would never know. And it would be nice to see the children and have a nice chat with Mrs. Hogg. She thought: None of my clothes will do. I’ll have to get a cheap coat and hat—I’ll take a few little presents for the children—her eyes gleamed with pleasure at the thought.

  A few days later Mrs. Smith got out of a bus at the Marble Arch and walked slowly up the Edgware Road. She felt she had journeyed hundreds of miles—not only in distance but in time—it was a different country she was entering, inhabited by a totally different race of beings. Mrs. Smith was dressed in a brown cloth coat with a cheap fur collar—probably cat. She wore a black felt hat, and her shoes and stockings and gloves were all in keeping with her part. When you do a thing, do it thoroughly, Mrs. Hetherington Smith had thought when she was making her purchases. It was no good doing it at all unless you did it thoroughly. Her shoes—made specially for her at Hamble’s—would have given her away in a moment to a much less perspicacious observer than Mrs. Hogg.

  As she walked up the street, jostled by the crowds that surged backwards and forwards intent upon their own affairs, she felt like a ghost returning to its haunt. She felt invisible, a mere wraith, bodiless, a trifle forlorn. She passed the butcher’s shop where she had haggled for “neck-ends” and “shins,” and saw it filled with a crowd of Mrs. Smiths all haggling for “shins” and “neck-ends,” scraggy and chilled. She passed the grocer at the corner where she had bought half-pounds of tea and margarine and sugar. She had once owed him seventeen shillings—a vast amount it had seemed—and he had been very kind about it and had waited patiently for weeks until she had been able to pay it off. She was glad when she reached the corner, for the strings of the parcels she carried were cutting into her fingers through the cheap gloves, and the cheap shoes had rubbed a sore place on one heel. Goodness, I am getting soft! she thought as she climbed the stairs—I’ll have to take more exercise. I’ll have to see I don’t get soft inside as well as out. . . .

  Mrs. Hogg came to the door herself. “Mary Smith, I do declare!” she cried. “Well now, isn’t that nice? It’s donkey’s years since you’ve bin ’ere! Well, I never! Come in, my dear. The kettle’s just on the boil—I was going to make myself a nice cup o’ tea.”

  “How’s everyone?” enquired Mrs. Smith, sitting down in the well-remembered chair and looking round the small, clean, shabby room with interest and affection. It seemed to have grown smaller with
the passing years—and shabbier—but it was warm and comfortable still.

  “Everyone’s O.K.,” replied her hostess, busying herself with the tea-things. “Mary’s five now. Quite a big girl. Annie’s taken ’er out for a message. They’ll be back direckly. Mary’s the last—thank goodness—at least it looks like it, but I better tap wood. You never know, do you? No need to ask ’ow you are,” continued Mrs. Hogg, looking critically at her unexpected guest. “Ten years younger you look—and smart—why, I ’ardly knew you! When I opened the door an’ saw you standing there I thought you must be the districk visitor at first—”

  Mrs. Smith laughed heartily.

  “Ow’s Mr. Smith doin’?” enquired Mrs. Hogg when they had both enjoyed the joke to its fullest extent. “But I don’t need to ask that, neither. Look at you. ’E always ’ad brains. I knew ’e’d go far. Often an’ often I’ve said to Bert when we was talkin’ about you, I’ve said, ‘Mark my Words, Mr. Smith ’as brains. ’E won’t be content ’ere all the day,’ I’ve said. Bert’s a good ’usband, I will say that, but ’e ’asn’t no ambition—that what’s the matter with ’im. Quite content to live ’ere all ’is days and get ’is money regular.”

  “There’s advantages in that,” said Mrs. Smith, whose husband had an overdose of the virtue referred to.

  “Well, of course you do know where you are with regular money,” agreed Mrs. Hogg, missing the point completely. “You do know where you are. There’s that to be said. And when you know what you’ve got to make do on, you can plan accordingly.”

  “I mean you can have too much ambition,” explained Mrs. Smith.

  “Well, perhaps; but you can ’ave too little. When a man’s got so little ambition ’e won’t take a ’arf share of a ticket in the Derby Sweep it’s a bit discouraging. ‘What would we do if we got the money?’ ’e said (would you believe that?). ‘What would we do?’ I said. ‘I’d soon show you what we’d do. Think of the lovely ’oliday we could ’ave at Southend-on-Sea!’ We shan’t be able to afford it this year—couldn’t last year either, an’ I do miss it. It’s ’ard on the children, too.”