Valentine gazed at her brother with a feeling that almost amounted to despair.
She knew that his mind, rigid and tenacious, was practically incapable of taking in a new point of view and that to try and force one upon him would be wasted effort. In his own way he was fond of her and of her children, and for that reason she could not wholly resent his interference. She could find nothing better to say than: “I’m sorry, dear, if you’ve felt worried. But truly you needn’t.”
It was not until they had exchanged good-nights and she was at the door of her own room that it occurred to Valentine how far removed from the truth her assurances really were, since there was, from the General’s point of view, every reason for him to feel worried.
If only we could be left alone, Rory and I, she thought. If only we need consider nobody but ourselves. Is that ever possible, for any two people, or are there always responsibilities to take into account and other people to interfere? She felt suddenly very tired and her sense of grief overpowered her sense of happiness. Primrose — the memory of Laurence — the thought of Rory’s daughter, Arlette — even the General’s assumption that there could be nothing between them beyond indiscretion on her side and presumption on Lonergan’s, filled her with fear for both the present and the future.
As she went to her own door, a distant sound made her pause.
Another door, some way off, had closed sharply. There had been no attempt at silence.
It could only be the door of Primrose’s room.
So Primrose had been waiting to hear when her mother would come upstairs, and was making no secret of it.
The revelation appalled Valentine, with all its implications.
Her hand was shaking as she turned the handle of her own door and went into her room.
Madeleine, thank God, was not there.
Valentine pulled off her clothes, shivering as much from agitation as from cold, and in a very few minutes lay in bed in the dark.
She did not sleep before morning, and then only lightly so that she heard the careful creaking of Captain Sedgewick’s boots as he came down soon after six, and the distant, muffled barking of old Sally as he unfastened the chain and bolt of the front door and let himself out.
There was no other movement for some time after that, and Valentine knew that the servants, as usual, were allowing themselves to oversleep.
She lay very still, again experiencing the strange mingling of pain and happiness that had assaulted her on the evening before.
Rory loved her, and wanted her to marry him, and she would see him to-day.
Primrose was unhappy, and angry, and had said that she was going back to London. What had she done to Primrose?
Her brother’s interference came back to her mind, also. It was true that she was a woman of forty-four, accountable to no one but herself, yet how little that glib assertion really meant! How impossible it was, in actual fact, to disregard the people with whom one lived, who took for granted their right to question and to comment.
Perhaps if I were a braver woman — thought Valentine. It induced in her a sudden new sense of security to remember that she had given Rory Lonergan every right to protect and supplement her lack of courage, and that he was entirely capable of doing so.
Sudden crashing noises from downstairs, diminished by distance but so familiar that Valentine could identify them without difficulty, denoted that Esther and Ivy now believed themselves to be making up for lost time by rushing through such portions of their work as could not be omitted altogether.
She was not surprised when Madeleine came in and drew up her blinds, saying blandly that those miserable little girls were late again and deserved to be severely beaten.
“You don’t say that about Jess, when she’s late,” observed Valentine, smiling.
“Mademoiselle Jess is not being paid good wages to come downstairs at a proper hour,” said Madeleine.
Her brown, shrewd eyes travelled over Valentine’s face as she gently put down the tea-tray by the bedside.
“Madame is very tired this morning.”
“A little, Madeleine.”
“To-day we have the Red Cross sewing here and this evening there is the First-Aid class in the village. Perhaps monsieur le Colonel will run madame down in his car.”
“He’s much too busy for that. Yesterday was Sunday, but to-day he’ll be out all the time and probably come back late.”
Madeleine shook her head.
“He has no doubt many responsibilities and one sees that he takes them seriously — naturally, in war-time — but one knows men. He is happy to have met madame again.”
So Madeleine knew, also. She was, Valentine saw, signifying her approval.
Even as their eyes met, Madeleine nodded with an air of calm reassurance, and Valentine felt herself helpless before that penetrating kindliness.
She put out her hand to the portable wireless beside the bed.
“It’s time for the Eight O’Clock News.”
They listened to it together in silence.
It amused, vexed, and yet rather touched Valentine that her brother, who often had his breakfast upstairs and when he did come down was usually late, should now exhibit a determined punctuality, designed, she well knew, to obviate the possibility of a tête-à-tête between herself and Lonergan.
The meal was over quickly, and passed almost in silence. But when Valentine left the room, Lonergan followed her and they stood together for a moment at the door of his office.
“Did you sleep, sweet?”
“Not very much.”
“Neither did I. Listen, my darling, I shall be busy all day and probably not back here before ten o’clock to-night. Can you meet me in the town for lunch somewhere? I can take an hour or so off in the middle of the day.”
Valentine, unreasonably startled by the suggestion, hesitated.
He gave her his attractive smile.
“It’s not really such a very daring suggestion, my sweet love. Is it?”
“It’s only that I’ve not done anything like that for years — except with the children.”
“You’ve promised to be my wife, and I don’t know that I mayn’t be sent away from here at a minute’s notice, any day. We’ve a good deal to settle, love. I want you to tell me how soon we can get married.”
Valentine said “Whenever you like, Rory,” and knew instantly that she had given him, from the very depths of her heart, the only answer possible to either of them.
“Ah, God bless you. My own darling!”
He caught her hand in his.
“I adore you, Val.”
Clattering footsteps, that combined speed with lightness, announced the descent of Jess, and the tapping of the General’s sticks approached, muted by the coconut matting.
“That hotel — what’s it called — in the High Street. One o’clock?” said Lonergan.
“I’ll be there. The Victoria Hotel.”
They exchanged a smiling, intimate look that made her heart race.
Then Lonergan went into his office and Valentine turned automatically to her writing-desk.
The telephone bell rang, with its usual strident effect of urgency, and she went to answer it.
“London wants you. Hold the line, please.”
“Thank you.”
It would be for Primrose, probably. Jess could go up and fetch her, since no one who telephoned to Primrose ever seemed content to leave a message. Valentine was perfectly certain that she herself had no wish to go and confront her elder daughter. The encounter would have to come, but not at once, her shrinking soul cried to her. She wanted — temporizing, as cowards do — to put off that pain and humiliation for as long as might be.
“Is that Coombe? Lady Rockingham speaking.”
“Venetia? This is Valentine.”
“Hallo, my dear,” said the clipped, distinct voice of Valentine’s sister-in-law. “How are you, darling? Are your evacuees driving you quite bats? How are the girls and Reggie?
Darling, I suppose you couldn’t possibly give me a bed for two nights? To-night and to-morrow. I’m speaking at a meeting in Bristol this afternoon, and Charlie won’t hear of my sleeping there. Too foolish, as I told him — you know what a complete fatalist one is — but of course it would be too lovely to see you and one needn’t get back till Wednesday.”
“Do come, of course. We should love to have you,” said Valentine, aware that she was lying and that Venetia probably knew it, since beneath her habitual transparent affectation of silliness she was a woman of shrewd perceptions. “I suppose you’re coming by car? We can easily find a bed for Taylor at the lodge.”
“I shan’t have Taylor or the car. Hughie Spurway — you know who I mean — has offered to drive one down — he’s got to go to Plymouth, he says. How he found out I was going to Bristol, I can’t tell you. Anyway, he’d adore to spend a night at Coombe, and so should I, if you can bear the thought. Do say, if the whole thing is too inconvenient for words.”
“Hughie Spurway?” Valentine repeated, knowing from Venetia’s tone, and from her own sense of familiarity with the name, that she was expected to identify its owner.
“Dorothy Spurway’s eldest son. He’s crackers about Primrose, darling, as you probably know already, and I’m sure the whole idea is a put-up job, don’t you know what I mean. Still, of course, one would far rather be driven by him than by Taylor — but I simply couldn’t bear to add to your difficulties, knowing what staff and rationing and one thing and another mean, nowadays, so if you can’t bear the idea, just say so, don’t you know what I mean. I couldn’t understand more.”
“Oh no, Venetia. Do bring him, of course. It won’t be very comfortable, I’m afraid — I’ve got no proper cook — but we can manage perfectly, if you don’t mind.”
“Angel! I’ll bring some bits and pieces with me, so don’t worry about food. Had we better dine en route, as we can’t arrive by daylight anyway?”
“Whatever you like. No — do come in time for dinner. You’ll find two officers billeted here.”
“Would I know them?”
“I don’t think so. One is Colonel Lonergan, whom I knew years ago in Rome, and the other is a Captain Sedgewick.”
“Darling, all one can say is that officers are far better than expectant mothers, or children, or school teachers. You know that Rockingham is filled, from attic to cellar, with odds and ends from Whitehall?”
“Yes, I know. What are you and Charlie doing?”
“Still putting up at the Dorchester, till the bombs start falling again and then we shall probably suggest your taking us in as P.G.s, don’t you know what I mean.”
Valentine asked for news of her nephews, one of whom was in the Guards and the other in the Air Force.
“All is well, for the moment. We heard from Michael yesterday and Nicky last week. Of course, one lives on the edge of a volcano, day and night. My dear, one’s always pitied you, as you know, for having no sons, and now one simply envies you. How are the girls? Is Primrose at home?”
“Yes. I’m not sure how many days she’ll be here. Jess is waiting to be called up.”
“I hear they’ve a waiting list and aren’t calling up anybody for six months at least.”
Venetia, thought her sister-in-law, was always hearing things of that sort, and retailing them to those who were likely to find them disconcerting. She would be certain to say something of the same kind to Jess.
“Well, I’ll expect you and Hughie Spurway — is he in the Army? — some time before dinner,” she said, with a feeling of helplessness.
“Darling, I thought you understood. He’s something important with the B.B.C. Well, it’s too angelic of you to let us come. Bless you, and ‘bysie-bye. A ce soir.”
Valentine replaced the receiver.
Jess was in the hall, dressed in her riding clothes and eating a slice of dry bread.
“Was that aunt Venetia?”
“Yes. Haven’t you had breakfast?”
“This is my breakfast. Is she really coming here to-night, and who’s Hughie Spurway? I could hear every word you said.”
Valentine explained.
“Fancy aunt Venetia! Hughie Thing is one of Primrose’s boy friends. He rang up every night, last time she was down here. What a terrific crowd we shall be. Almost a house-party. Were house-parties fun, mummie, in the old days? They always sound wizard in books.”
“Yes. No — I don’t know. I didn’t go to very many.”
“Will they be here for dinner?”
“They’ve got a meeting at Bristol this afternoon.”
“What a pity Charles and the Colonel won’t be back till late. Though I suppose you’d say, as usual, that it’d make too much work for the maids, with so many. Did Primrose really mean it, about going back to London at once?”
“I don’t know, Jess.”
“Well, she’s not down yet, so she’s missed the good train. Mummie, can I have the car to go and fetch the rations and could I take the evacuees? They do adore going out in the car.”
“Yes, darling.”
“That’ll be marvellous,” said Jess. “They start school again to-morrow. I’ll take the dogs. They love squashing up in the car with the evacuees.”
She went off, whistling cheerfully.
Valentine went to the kitchen.
She found the domestic problems there, that struck her as being so tedious and so unnecessarily complicated, more endurable than they usually seemed.
They don’t really matter, she thought. Nothing matters now, except ourselves.
She told Esther to get two bedrooms ready and went upstairs to help her with her work.
Trailing along the passage towards the bathroom was Primrose. She wore an incredibly thin silk dressing-gown and nothing underneath it, her feet were bare and her yellow hair carefully set with little flat pins and confined in a net.
Valentine’s impulse to exclaim “Darling, you’ll catch cold!” was checked instantly. Instead, she said good-morning.
“Why?” said Primrose — not aggressively, but as one offering some dreary pleasantry. Valentine, to whom every tone and overtone in her child’s voice was familiar, recognized the intention and smiled, in what she felt was a crudely obvious attempt at conciliation.
“Why indeed. It’s a nasty, raw morning. I suppose you don’t want any tea or coffee or anything?”
Primrose shook her head.
“What was that telephone call?” she asked suspiciously. “Was it for me?”
“No. It was Venetia. She’s arriving this evening, for two nights, after doing a meeting at Bristol. She’s coming with someone called Hughie Spurway who knows you.”
“Is she coming by car? Because if so she can drive me back to London. I suppose she’s going back there.”
“Yes, she is but Mr. Spurway is going on to Plymouth, and I think it’s his car. Who is he, Primrose?”
“Who is he?” echoed Primrose scornfully. “I suppose that means, who are his people? Well, I don’t know or care. I daresay they’re in Debrett okay.”
“But that isn’t what I asked you. I know that he’s a son of Dorothy Spurway’s, because Venetia said so. I meant what does he do and what is he like, and what kind of age is he?”
“Twenty-six-ish,” said Primrose, “and as nearly bats as they come. One of these neurotics. Terrified of getting mixed up in the war, and terrified of being thought a shirker because he isn’t in uniform.”
“Is he a friend of yours?” ventured Valentine.
“He thinks he is,” said Primrose, without emphasis. She pulled her skimpy silk garment round her.
“I suppose the bloody bath-water will be cold, as usual.”
She walked on.
She had been disagreeable, but not angry.
I’m glad, thought Valentine, without irony.
From the back-stairs at the end of the long passage in which she stood came the sound of high, childish voices as the Coombe evacuees, with cries of joyful excit
ement, hastened downstairs to their expedition with Jess.
For an instant Valentine was back in the past, some eighteen years ago, and heard the flying feet and the gay, excited voice of the child Primrose running to meet her on her return from some brief absence of an hour or two.
She saw, for that flash of time, the small, eager figure with yellow hair flying towards her, and all but held out her hand to steady the little form that must surely be about to fling itself against her, clasping her waist. The brief illusion fled. Primrose had long been grown-up, she hated and distrusted her mother now.
And I shall never know, thought Valentine as so often before, how it began — where it all went wrong. She went into the big, closed-up room that was called the Red Room, and began to take the dust-sheet off the bed.
Esther, singing shrilly, made her appearance, decorously hushing herself as she reached the open door.
Just before twelve o’clock Jess reappeared with the evacuees — hilarious and sticky with lemonade and cake — and dismissed them cheerfully to the society of Madeleine.
Val, sitting at her desk in the hall, nerved herself to carry out a resolution to which she had come in the course of the morning.
“Jess, will you look after uncle Reggie at lunch? I’m going to be out.”
“Where are you going?” Jess asked, friendly and inquisitive.
“To the Victoria Hotel. Colonel Lonergan asked me to have lunch there with him.”
“How perfectly wizard. I wish he’d ask me. Who else is going to be there?”
“He didn’t say that anybody was.”
“Not Primrose?”
“No.”
Jess looked at her mother long and thoughtfully. Her young face was inexpressive of all but its smooth unsubtle innocence, yet Valentine knew that her mind was working, probably very clearly and dispassionately, on a new idea.
Jess was neither imaginative nor unduly sensitive, but she was not at all lacking in perception, and she had confidence in her own judgments.
“Mummie, quite personally speaking, I think it’s a perfectly sound idea, you going to the Victoria Hotel for lunch with the Colonel. But you do realize that Primrose will think it’s a bit lousy?”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 526