by Ursula Bloom
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Mary.
It was Mrs. Gunn, sitting hunched over the ash-choked fire, who demanded to know about it; she wanted the duke’s name. ‘I know all their photographs,’ she said.
‘Oh, photographs!’ said Mrs. Stevens scathingly. ‘I hate photographs. Most of my friends were well known. I hate nobodies.’
‘I don’t believe she knew a duke,’ said Mrs. Gunn in an audible whisper to Mrs. Robbins.
But wise little Mrs. Robbins wasn’t going to be dragged into an argument. She only went on counting out her cards, and said: ‘Don’t you? Eight, nine, ten, and now I want a red Jack. How trying.’
‘As my friend the duke said,’ went on Mrs. Stevens loudly, in the hope that she might talk Mrs. Gunn down, but she did not have time to get further.
Jasmine called. Jasmine had never come to the hostel before. Mary felt that its greyness was not for anything so young and vital, and she had purposely met her outside, describing the hostel in glowing terms, at the immense sacrifice of truth. But to-day Jasmine had finished her shopping early, and she came in.
‘Lady Brace,’ announced the slatternly maid.
‘Darling.’
‘Oh, Mummy.’
The three other occupants of the drab room looked up.
Mrs. Stevens edged a little nearer, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, as she always did when excited.
‘I’ll run and get my hat, darling,’ said Mary. ‘You wait here. This is Mrs. Robbins and Mrs. Gunn, and this is Mrs. Stevens.’
‘I’m pleased to meet your ladyship,’ said Mrs. Stevens immediately, for she felt that she must impress the others as to her complete ease with a peeress.
‘Must I wait, Mummy?’ protested Jasmine, and her mutely pleading eyes met those of her mother. So Mary was forced to take her up to the ugly cubicle, which she had hoped to keep a secret. It was a room partitioned into three by dingy, sheet-like curtains. Each cubicle boasted a slender iron bed, a cheap combination washstand and dressing-table, badly in need of repainting; thready mats flung on to a patternless linoleum, and the fetid smell of airlessness and hopelessness combined. Fresh air never came here. It seemed that all the atmosphere in Gower Street was dark and dismal. One could not admit a full rush of pure air. Jasmine, gazing helplessly round, suddenly sank on to the bed.
‘You can’t stay here, Mummy, really you can’t. It’s awful, honestly, it’s awful.’
‘It’s all right, darling. I’ve nowhere else to go.’
‘I wish you could come to us.’
Mary hungered for that more than for anything; the protection of a home, the antidote to loneliness. She said enquiringly: ‘But Rupert wouldn’t like it?’
Jasmine nodded. ‘He is difficult, but then men are. He’s afraid of your illness, he says it is infectious. I know it isn’t, and I feel awful about it.’
‘You mustn’t let me upset Rupert whatever you do.’
Jasmine went on, ignoring it: ‘If you weren’t so splendidly brave it would be easier. As it is, it is dreadful. I want to help, and my hands are tied. I’ve been a beast to you all along; first Hubert and all my silliness, now this.’
‘You’ve always been lovely, dear,’ she said simply, and then suddenly: ‘You’re happy with Rupert?’
Jasmine’s eyes avoided her mother’s. ‘Of course, Mummy,’ she said.
IV
Mary found Peter that day.
It was January, and they were selling mimosa in the streets, mimosa fragrant and exquisite with its round balls of yellow fluffiness; tulips, too, pinkly mauve and redly orange, in bunches together, deliciously lovely. She left Jasmine at the stores and said that she would call again for her in an hour. During that hour she went to the Abbey.
The Abbey is inspiring. It is blue and purple in the eerie light. Here death is no longer hideous, for it is triumphant. She wanted the triumphant death because she was suddenly appallingly afraid of life. She wanted aid. She crept into a seat far away from the rest and hidden by the merciful shadows. She could cry here, if she wanted to, and no one would be angry or hurt by it; no one would see. The organ was pealing, and in the intervals she heard an old voice reading prayers and lessons; boys sang, they sang deliciously, and the echo triumphed as it repeated them. They trilled like beautiful birds; it was all peacefully lovely. One could ask no more. Here, with this sacred dust, dust that she soon would become …
Did they live again, these people mouldering in their tombs? Did they continue, or was this the end? Her end was so near, too, and she wept a little, for she was frightened. We are all children in the dark when it comes to death. We are all groping out, and finding … what? The shadows were deep and engulfing, and the amethyst mist hung pendent above the pillars and the windows, whilst the light from the candles was yellow on the High Altar. She knelt there in those shadows, keenly conscious of a greater, crueller shadow already upon her.
That was when he came!
He stepped close beside her; Peter, a little older, perhaps; a great deal wiser; the outline of his figure was distinct; his face and his eyes deep with shadows, yet smiling to her. She put out a hand to touch him, and yet could not feel him. She whispered to him, feeling him to be the creation of her own vivid imagination, staring up at him awe-struck.
‘Are you really here?’
And he whispered back: ‘Don’t be afraid. It can’t be long. It won’t be difficult.’
She gave a funny inarticulate sob. Kneeling there in prayer, she knew that he leant over her, knew that his mouth touched her hair in the odd old way, that, although she could not feel, her thought-waves had met his, and that now for ever the bond would be strengthened. There could not be any more parting.
‘We can meet like this in thought; if you will only give yourself to me I can come to you. Fear hinders; there should not be any fear. It will be such an easy road.’
‘I feel so little and helpless,’ she whispered.
‘Not with me.’
‘No, not with you.’
The organ pealing again, and he standing beside her; he was tangible and she could see him, and because of that splendid fact nothing else mattered. Even if it were only her imagination, it was helpful. She must not let a crude world take him from her. If realities hurt, let her keep the joy of her fanciful unreality.
‘I cannot feel you,’ she complained, and all the while the music around them rose and fell, and the kind shadows hid them.
‘You will soon. We cannot go all the way at once.’
‘If I get up you will go?’
‘Yes, but I will come back. I will never leave you. I have been with you every night in your dreams, but only with the morning have you forgotten.’
‘I don’t want to forget.’
‘You shan’t forget any more.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ she pleaded frantically. ‘Don’t leave me.’
And he answered: ‘I will never leave you.’
They had finished the service, and the choir were going down the aisle. She rose with the other people, terrified that he would go. But he did not go all at once. He walked down to the side door with her; she could feel him close beside her; he walked out into the little square.
Then he was not.
Strangely enough, she did not mind. He had told her of her dreams, he would be with her then. She had her beloved again. This world, slipping from her, precipitated her into that other, fairer one; she must have come nearer to the golden door; his hand, reaching out, was drawing her through. She was only conscious of immense joy. Nothing could touch her any more.
Having said goodbye to Jasmine, she went home to the hostel, feeling a different woman. Directly she entered the drab sitting-room she knew that Mrs. Stevens had been talking. Her prestige had preceded her. Only dear, fat Mrs. Robbins still searched for a black seven and a red ten; all the titles in Christendom did not deter her.
V
Back in the Home again with the pain tearing at one. It came in d
eep waves, it seared into one’s very soul; there was no pain like it. Dr. Jerome was still full of hope. He thought that the treatment was doing good, and he was very particular about her spirits. She must remain cheerful; she knew that he was doing his best.
Jasmine came to see her, climbing all the stairs to the fourth floor and perching herself on the uncomfortable but hygienic cane chair, and staring at her mother with round eyes.
‘I like this better than that dreadful hostel. I hope you won’t ever go back there, Mummy.’
‘Darling, I must go somewhere. I am not rich.’
‘I feel I ought to give you my money, only Rupert makes me account for every penny.’
‘You’re happy with him?’
‘Oh yes! I love the flat, and the servants and all our friends. I love Rupert too, but I am worried over you. I do love you, Mummy, but it is so difficult to show it.’
‘I know you love me, dear, and I don’t want you to try to show it.’
‘I think Father is behaving disgracefully. He ought to do something about it.’
‘He offered to have me back.’
‘Yes, but impossibly.’ Jasmine’s mouth took on a hard line. ‘Rupert says I am never to see Father, says he can’t stand him at any price.’
‘You must do whatever your husband tells you.’
‘Yes, I do. I can’t think how you ever fancied Father.’
‘Oh, darling!’
‘Well, I can’t! A dear thing like you, and that nasty, fat old egoist.’
‘He wasn’t always fat.’ Mary smiled wanly.
‘No, I suppose not.’ She became intensely still. ‘Rupert is coming with me to-morrow. You’d like to see him?’
‘Yes, please.’
All the same, Mary was glad when Jasmine left. If the pain came on so that she could not hide it! That would be horrible.
At the moment Jasmine was in entire ignorance of there being any pain; she must be kept in that ignorance if possible.
When she had gone Mary lay there, high up above London, with all the noises deadened below and only the flickering lights in the room. A small room, a room of apricots. Would Peter find her here? It was so small, and so dreadfully, hygienically simple; she wanted masses of flowers, but the Home did not encourage flowers. A bowl of fruit stood by her side as a touch of beauty spilled among this appalling orderliness.
High up on the cornice-rail was one spot of darkness; it was a wee hole in the woodwork, the home of some small beetle. She lay there hour upon hour, wondering how the beetle fared; wondering about its loves and life, its wars and peaces. The beetle would go on long after she had passed away, and nobody save herself would dream of it ever. That hurt. A man’s mind is so lonely, it is a desert which no footsteps ever tread. A man and his mentality are one, but a very lonely one. Lying here, with a faded silk shawl across her, she could think; she prayed that they would bury her in that shawl; she could not be afraid as long as it was with her.
A shawl … picture of what might have been; fragrant freesias, and sprays of heliotropes; those dazzling hummingbirds that flit in and out of the delirious hearts of China’s flowers; the butterflies in radiant hues … all the might-have-beens of her life, crushed into the fading loveliness of one shawl.
Then the pain came …
It was a sucking pain, a gnawing pain, all pains in one. She stiffened with it, but that way gave no relief; yet if she huddled with it, that was worse. Her brow was wet and clammy, her hands dewy and cold. In the clutch of that terrible agony tearing at her vitals she rang for the nurse.
The nurse came, her starched skirt touching the wall with a crackling sound like fire. She had been having a cup of tea, and was not too well pleased.
‘You rang, Mrs. Carew?’
‘Yes, I’m in such pain.’
‘I’m sorry, but it is not your medicine time. I cannot give you anything for another hour.’
‘I can hardly bear it,’ she panted.
‘Come, come,’ said the nurse, ‘it isn’t as bad as all that; you must bear it,’ and she went again.
The sound of her chattering skirt died away. But the pain did not go. Mary felt it clutching at her strength until it became weakness; it was eating into her with an insistence that was overwhelming. She knew that her mouth had gone grey, her eyes glassy; she clutched at the iron supports on which the mattress rested, in a tremendous effort to control herself. She mustn’t scream, she mustn’t make a noise, but the minutes were eternal. If it went on much longer she would die. No, she wouldn’t die. That was the worst part. People didn’t die with this; it went on and on. Again the pain attacked her.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, stifling her mouth with her thin hands, ‘oh, I can’t bear it, I can’t!’
He came out of the shadows! He knelt down by her bedside, taking her weak, clammy hand in his warm grasp.
He bent his dark head upon it and she could feel his lips upon her flesh. She felt also a relaxation of the pain, a sinking into some peaceful, quiet something which she could not understand.
‘It’s been awful,’ she whispered, and the sweat rolled down her emaciated face.
‘I know, I know. It shan’t be long. I promise you it shan’t be long.’
‘When can I pass through the golden door?’
‘Soon. It is coming nearer very quickly. Be patient a little longer, my sweet.’
She lay panting from exhaustion. The pain was deadened at last, but for how long? She said: ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to find me here.’
And he answered: ‘Of course I have been with you here for ages. I have always been with you.’ The warm mouth touched her again, and the vigorous hands gripped her.
‘You are so young,’ she whispered. ‘And I am so old. It worries me.’
He told her: ‘It is your illness, it is anxiety. You won’t be like this when you pass through the golden door.’
While he was there the pain did not come, or, rather, if it did come, it was bearable and subdued, and she could face it. She hated his going.
He went when Dr. Jerome came to see her. The doctor came in, with that splendid hopefulness radiating about him. He was like a blazing jewel in the little room, with its excessive and assailing cleanliness and the hygiene. He seemed to blaze life into her. While he blazed like that she would never get through the golden door, and now she wanted to go so much. It was cruel that anyone should try to stop her.
‘I am going to change the treatment,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get rid of that pain. You won’t be able to go back to the hostel for a while. Will that be all right?’
‘Yes.’
She did not want to go back to the hostel really. There was nothing entrancing about Mrs. Gunn and Mrs. Stevens, and Mrs. Robbins with her endless games of patience. Perhaps it would be easier to lie here. If Peter came it would be much, much easier.
‘You want to live?’ the doctor asked suddenly. ‘I can’t help you if you don’t want to get better.’
She smiled wanly. ‘There isn’t much in life,’ she explained.
‘You don’t know. You’re still young; there may be a lot before you.’
The passionate heart flamed up. ‘Before me,’ she exclaimed, ‘is the big adventure … everything …’
VI
Rupert came with Jasmine next day. He sat at the end of the bed and he did not seem best pleased with the place; he was, in fact, moody. Mary felt that he hated coming. They only stayed a brief half-hour, and then Jasmine went downstairs first, and Rupert stayed for a few minutes.
‘There’s something I ought to tell you,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Yes?’
‘Jasmine won’t tell you herself, but she’s going to have a baby.’
‘Jasmine is?’
‘Yes, in August.’ He smiled a little whimsically. ‘Won’t it be funny? I want a son and heir; of course it will be a boy.’
She said mechanically: ‘Of course,’ and then, ‘Why didn’t Jasmine tell me herself?’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes.’ Rupert pulled a wry face. ‘You see, my child, and all that.’
‘Your child? But … but don’t you two get on?’ She had raised herself on one elbow, and was staring at him in amazement.
‘Well ‒ er ‒ yes’; he stood there twirling his bowler hat in one hand. ‘All married people have their differences of opinion,’ he explained, and flushed.
‘But you have not been married three months?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘But for Jasmine not to tell me! I thought she looked a little off colour, but ‒’ She still stared at him.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Rupert. ‘You tell her you know when she comes to-morrow. Just sort of let it slip out; don’t tell her I told you.’
‘No.’
‘Of course it will be a boy,’ he said in obvious discomfort from the threshold, and she repeated again: ‘Of course.’
But when he had gone she lay there thinking. Why had not Jasmine told her? She could not be shy with her own mother. Mary failed utterly to understand. She lay there turning it over and over in her mind until the post came. There was a long letter from Johnny.
Johnny had taken the news of Mary’s illness as what he termed ‘a piece of hard cheese’ but was too occupied with his own pieces of hard cheese to commiserate. This letter was full of woe. Isabel had definitely left him; she had gone off with a low person whom she had met at the Wagoner and his Whistle, and she had told Johnny that she did not mean to return. Not that he wanted her back, he explained, nor would he have her back at any price. She had been a bad wife, and he was sick of her.
But, worse than Isabel, his job had gone west. It had been a very promising job, and he was suddenly stranded and on his uppers when unemployment was particularly rife. He had applied to Cyril, his eldest son, but he had lately taken unto himself a wife and could do little. Johnny had then gone to his second boy, Horace, but Horace had been prepared for the paternal howl, and had left his lodgings with no address. In fact, his landlady had breathed a prayer that she might catch him, for he owed three weeks’ rent and had left in lieu of same a box of valuable books ... at least, there had been valuable books in the box when Horace showed it the night before … but now, when she opened it two days later, it contained brickbats of no value whatsoever. Johnny’s two daughters had likewise failed him. Egbert had only just started in life, and, as an office boy to a firm of publishers, he could do nothing on his wages; and Isabel had taken little Clarence with her in her flight. Little Clarence had always shown a disarming dissimilarity to Johnny, and a striking likeness to a lodger whom they had once had; therefore Isabel had behaved with admirable fairness when she took little Clarence with her.
