Motherland

by William Nicholson

  ‘And your God looks on like a fat nanny, too lazy to get up off the park bench.’

  ‘They’ve got their own gods. They don’t need ours.’

  ‘And here you are, still convinced of the essential goodness of the human race. I take my hat off to you, Larry. The triumph of hope over experience.’

  ‘That’s Dr Johnson on marriage.’

  ‘The great doctor,’ says Ed.

  He’s smiling at Larry, but his eyes are sad.

  ‘I’ve had my own little brush with experience,’ says Larry. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s one of the reasons I’ve ended up married. I was in a car with a friend of mine, a Muslim, when it was attacked by a Hindu mob. They wanted to murder my friend, just because he was a Muslim. They shot him and wounded him, but when they tried to finish him off I leaned over him and got in the way.’

  ‘You saved his life.’

  ‘I suppose so. I wasn’t hurt at all. And afterwards – I don’t know how to put it – I felt like I was floating on air. I got myself back, and went looking for Geraldine, and – well, here we are.’

  ‘The intoxication of self-sacrifice,’ says Ed. ‘Strong medicine.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Ed. That day on the beach in Dieppe left me thinking I wasn’t worth all that much. Those few minutes in the car, holding Syed in my arms …’

  He doesn’t say any more. Ed is gazing at him now with nothing but affection in his eyes.

  ‘You’re a fine man, Larry,’ he says. ‘You always have been. I admire you. Did you know that? I wish I could be you.’

  ‘You’re the one with the VC.’

  ‘Oh, that dammed VC! Can’t you see you’re worth a hundred of me?’

  ‘What are you talking about? You were just telling me how your business is about to take off. You’ve got a beautiful new baby girl. Kitty loves you.’

  ‘Has Kitty told you about my secret vice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She will. No need to look so alarmed, it’s only good old booze. Not very original, I admit. Naturally I struggle against it. Naturally I lose.’

  Larry gazes at his friend in sorrow.

  ‘Why, Ed?’

  ‘The horror,’ says Ed. ‘As told in the newspapers. Which I don’t read.’

  *

  On their tour of the house, George and Kitty and Geraldine have reached the bedroom floor.

  ‘You said you were billeted here in the war,’ Geraldine says to Kitty. ‘Did you have one of the grand rooms, like me and Larry on our wedding night?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Kitty with a laugh. ‘Louisa and I were up in the attics.’ She indicates a narrow servants’ staircase. ‘Up there.’

  ‘You were in the nursery, weren’t you, Kitty?’ says George.

  ‘Yes,’ says Kitty. She remembers how she came back one evening to find Ed lying on her bed. ‘We were in the nursery.’

  ‘I haven’t been up there for years,’ says George. ‘I’ve no idea what state it’s in. Do you want to take a look, for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Why not?’ says Kitty.

  George leads them up the narrow stairs. They go along the passage, with its steep sloping ceiling and its peeling walls. Kitty remembers it all.

  The nursery door is closed. George opens it and goes in.

  ‘I used to sleep here when I was a little boy,’ he says. Then he falls silent, staring at the room.

  It’s bright and clean. The beds are made with fresh linen. On one bed sits a smiling doll, on the other a teddy bear. Four tiny cotton hand-embroidered nightdresses hang from a rail. Four pairs of knitted bootees are lined up below them. A baby’s basket, lined with rosebud-printed fabric, sits on the old rocking chair. A book lies open, face down, on the floor beside it. It’s The Common Book of Baby and Child Care.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ says George. ‘I had no idea.’

  He moves round the room as if in a dream.

  ‘Odd place to put the nursery,’ he says. ‘Up among the servants’ bedrooms. But I was very fond of it. You see here, it has a tower window in one corner. I used to go in there and draw the curtains. I think I believed when I was in there no one could find me.’

  ‘Such a pretty room,’ says Geraldine.

  ‘Yes,’ says George. ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘It’s not so very extraordinary, George,’ says Kitty. ‘You are going to have a baby, after all.’

  ‘The odd thing is,’ says George, ‘you don’t quite realise it at first. I suppose he’ll have this room, just as I did.’

  ‘Isn’t it more of a servant’s room?’ says Geraldine.

  ‘No,’ George insists. ‘This is the nursery. I’m glad Louisa understands that.’

  As they descend the main staircase they hear the sound of the gramophone coming from the drawing room. They go through the anteroom into the great room. Its red damask walls are brightly lit by the spring sunlight streaming in through the three tall south-facing windows. There on the red carpet between the sofas Ed is dancing with Pamela to the singing of the Ink Spots.

  He looks round and smiles as they come to a stop in the doorway.

  ‘Pammy found it,’ he says. ‘She insisted on a dance.’

  Kitty watches them as they dance, Pamela gravely concentrating, looking up from time to time at her handsome father. Ed seems carefree, happy in a way that is all too rare these days.

  ‘That is such a charming sight,’ says Geraldine. ‘Where have you hidden my husband?’

  ‘I’m here,’ says Larry, speaking from behind them.

  ‘We should dance,’ says Geraldine. Her dancing is generally admired.

  ‘No,’ says Larry. ‘This is Pammy’s dance.’

  Kitty throws him a quick grateful look.

  ‘Last time we played this song,’ Kitty tells Geraldine, ‘there was a foot of snow outside and we could hardly get out of the house.’

  ‘Oh, that terrible winter,’ says Geraldine, watching the dancers. ‘Ed is a graceful mover, I must say.’

  ‘Unlike me, she means,’ says Larry.

  ‘Not at all! You’re a very good dance partner, darling. But Ed looks so relaxed, while at the same time being so very much in charge. He’s the pure English type of hero, isn’t he?’ This is for Kitty. ‘Going into battle as if he’s taking a stroll in the park.’

  Kitty doesn’t answer. She’s watching Ed and feeling how much she loves him, and how much it hurts.

  PART FOUR

  A GOOD MAN

  1950

  33

  Early May in London, and the last of the day’s sunshine lingers over the city. Larry leaves the office early and walks home, as he often does, through the park. Past the Serpentine and the Round Pond where he sailed his boat as a child, just as other children are doing today; and so to the streets of Kensington.

  There is a conversation waiting to be had, about which he is not thinking.

  As he enters the house, Geraldine appears from the garden to greet him with a kiss, in the usual way, but he has learned to read the small signs. When under stress she retreats into efficiency, doing whatever is to be done with extra care and precision. This spring afternoon she has been weeding the rose beds in their town garden. She wears an apron, and carries a shallow basket to collect the weeds, and a small two-pronged fork.

  ‘Do you mind if I carry on? I’m almost finished.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ says Larry.

  He follows her out down the back steps, and settles himself on the garden bench. Geraldine kneels down on a rubber mat and digs away with her little fork, neither hurrying nor lingering over the task. She says nothing: waiting for him to begin.

  ‘So how was the doctor?’ says Larry.

  ‘He was extremely thorough,’ she replies. ‘A very professional man.’

  Larry waits for her to say more, but she seems intent on her weeding.

  ‘Was he able to help?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Geraldine. ‘He was able to reassure me on some points.
There’s no physical problem, he tells me. No’ – her voice trembles for a moment – ‘no physical defect.’

  ‘Good,’ says Larry. ‘Good.’

  ‘He told me that my situation is not unique. Far from it.’

  She tugs out the weeds from the loosened soil and lays them carefully in her basket.

  ‘And did he suggest that something can be done?’

  ‘Time, he said. Time.’

  ‘I see.’

  Geraldine stops weeding. She rises to her feet and stands with her back to him, her head bowed. This is how she asks for affection. For a brief moment Larry rebels. He feels a pulse of anger go through him, that she should claim the role of the victim. Then he sees the way her basket shakes on her arm, and his anger melts into pity.

  He gets up and goes to her, folding her in his arms. At once she turns round and presses herself to him.

  ‘Oh, Larry. It was so horrible.’

  She puts her basket on the ground and drops the gardening fork into the bed of weeds and begins to cry in soft gulps.

  He holds her close, kissing her cheek, soothing her.

  ‘All over now,’ he says.

  ‘I know he’s a doctor, I know he does it all the time, but it was so horrible. I had to undress. I had to … I don’t want to say it, I don’t want to remember it.’

  ‘But he told you there’s nothing wrong, that’s the important thing. It’s good that we know that.’

  She clings to him, sobbing.

  ‘Nothing physical,’ she says. ‘Not physical.’

  ‘Did he have some other suggestion?’

  ‘He said if I wanted I could see … see a psychiatrist. He said it might help. He couldn’t promise. He said some people benefit from talking … talking about it. Not everyone. Not most, even, he thought. He said sometimes these things just have to be accepted.’

  ‘I see,’ says Larry.

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t bear to talk about it with some strange man. I just couldn’t. It would kill me.’

  ‘Then you shan’t,’ says Larry.

  ‘Oh, darling, darling.’ She kisses him gratefully. ‘I’ll make it up to you in other ways. You’ll see. I’ll do everything for you. I’ll be such a good wife to you.’

  ‘You’re that already, my love,’ says Larry.

  But his heart is heavy.

  She wants to talk. She wants him to understand.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it so much since I got home. At first I was desperate, I kept telling myself how terrible it was, I couldn’t see any way to carry on. So I did the only thing I could. I prayed about it. And while I was praying, I don’t know why, I remembered what that Indian friend of yours told us, when we went to the abandoned city. Do you remember? He said it was the words of Jesus, carved on an arch. “The world is a bridge, pass over it, but build no houses on it.” I don’t really think they’re the words of Jesus at all, but I think they’re beautiful, and true. This is only a bridge, darling. What really matters is the world to come, on the other side. And when I thought that, I became calmer. I said to myself, this is the burden we’re asked to carry in this life. This is our cross. But we still love each other. We’re still married. We can still make each other happy. I’m right, aren’t I, darling? So long as we’ve got each other, we’re rich in love. Then I saw that there’s a kind of vanity, or maybe it’s greed, in expecting to have everything. Think how many cripples there are in the world, how many starving people. This is our cross, darling. Not so heavy a cross, once you get used to it. I know you want children. I know I do too. But if Almighty God is asking us to offer up to him that dearest hope of our hearts, then let’s do it gladly! Let’s not go about with sad faces, as if we’ve lost the one thing that makes life worth living. You at least understand, darling, and I so thank God you do, that this life isn’t everything. This world is only a bridge. Eternity, my love. We must fix our eyes on eternity!’

  Her beautiful eyes shine with a kind of ecstasy as she speaks, and she draws him into a kiss more passionate than any she has given him before.

  After this Larry asks her no more. He is aware that she is more conscientious than usual, anticipating his wishes and deferring to his preferences, even when he hasn’t expressed them. Having noticed the wordless tussle that takes place over The Times each breakfast between Larry and his father, she orders a second copy to be delivered: a simple solution that had not occurred to either of them. She discovers the date of Cookie’s birthday and makes her a small present in Larry’s name, and forewarns Larry so that he’s prepared for Cookie’s touching gratitude. She memorises the names of the humblest people in the Fyffes head office – the doorman, the cleaners, the junior secretaries – and makes a point of using them, knowing this will please Larry. She can tell almost before he knows it himself when his war wound starts to hurt him, and makes sure there are painkillers available. She’s sensitive to his moods, and takes care to leave him alone when he wants to write letters, or read a book. She never criticises him, or interrupts him, or makes those sharp little jokes with which married couples sometimes pinch each other. And always, without exception, she looks lovely.

  Larry’s father thinks the world of her. His colleagues at head office are all half in love with her. Larry is universally said to be a lucky man. But Larry himself struggles with darker feelings.

  He can’t blame Geraldine, and yet he does. He knows that the physical side of love is not the most important, but he can’t stop regretting it. He tells himself that this is his lower nature, his animal nature, and that he should rise above it. He reminds himself of all the priests of the Church, and the monks at Downside, who have taken vows of chastity the better to serve God. His mind admires them and wishes to emulate them, but his body aches with unsatisfied desire.

  He can’t blame Geraldine, and yet he does. Every time he’s told how lucky he is to have such a perfect wife he flinches, stung by guilt that he doesn’t appreciate her more. But what can he do? Somewhere buried deep within him, beyond the reach of faith or reason, lies the stubborn belief that she could love him better, with her body as well as her soul, but does not choose to. The matter appears to be closed as far as she’s concerned.

  ‘Let’s not talk about it, darling. It makes me so miserable. We just have to be brave.’

  The worst of it for Larry is that for all her concern for him, he doesn’t believe she knows the price he has to pay. The few times they’ve talked about his ‘sacrifice’ it’s always been in terms of the children they’ll never have. Perhaps she doesn’t mention the pleasures of sex because she’s shy of the words she’d have to use. But what if she’s never known or even guessed at such pleasures? How could she consider it a significant loss? Of course she will have heard that men keep mistresses and frequent houses of ill repute, but men have other pursuits that aren’t shared by women. They play cricket and smoke cigars. A man may not wish to give up smoking, but if his wife’s health requires that he do so, he’ll surely surrender the modestly pleasurable habit with a good grace.

  If this is so, if Geraldine is unaware of the strain she subjects him to, then that makes her all the more innocent and deserving of his love. But at the same time, in that deep secret place within him, it adds to the growing store of his anger. This anger frightens him, and shames him. The sweeter she is to him, the more he punishes himself for his ingratitude and his selfishness. The more he chastises himself, the more he longs to chastise her. And so, swept by fantasies of violence, he begins to fear himself.

  He remembers Ed in the dark chapel at Edenfield shouting at him, ‘Sex is a monster, Larry!’ He remembers Nell, naked in his arms, saying, ‘If you fuck me will God punish you, Lawrence?’ He remembers the electric thrill of hearing her say the word fuck. He had no fear then of God’s punishment, he knows sex is part of God’s creation. But perhaps he’s being punished now.

  The longing is too strong. It must be controlled. All men know this instinctively, that if released to do as they
wish they would run amok, they would fuck and fuck and fuck. There’s little love in this, only appetite. It’s the dark side of love, perhaps it’s not love at all, perhaps it’s the absence of love. Which means that Geraldine is right, sex isn’t what really matters. The good life can be lived without it.

  So why does this capitulation feel like weakness? Because it does. Larry has felt the tug all his life of opposing forces: he wishes to be good, and he wishes to be a man. He wishes, in short, to be a good man. But when he’s good he senses that he’s weak, and a true man is strong. He has known himself to be weak countless times, most of all on the beach at Dieppe. He has been a good man just the once, in the midst of the Indian partition riots, when he held his wounded friend in his arms. In his exultation and relief he went, blood still wet on his clothing, to offer his newly purified love to a woman who wanted his goodness, but not his manhood.

  When he thinks this way it half drives him mad. He wants to stamp and shout out, I’m a man! How does a man behave under these circumstances? He demands his rights. He satisfies his desires.

  You think she’d like it if I raped her?

  Ed’s voice echoing out of the past.

  No, she wouldn’t like it. Nor would I. And anyway I could never do it. I’m too good, and too weak.

  *

  He begins to spend longer hours in the office. He studies the history of the business, and tries to understand the key factors that contribute to the good years and the bad years. Like all newcomers to a long-established business, he believes he can see better ways of ordering matters. He dreams of the day he’ll be in charge of the company, and able to lead it into a new era of security and prosperity.

  He talks over his ideas with his father.

  ‘What’s the biggest problem we have in the banana business? Uncertainty of supply. We have years when we just don’t have the fruit to fill the ships, but we still have to maintain the fleet. These are the fixed costs that kill us. We must maintain the supply. So it all comes down to the producers on the ground. If they keep ahead of disease, if they replant rapidly after hurricane damage, if they manage the picking and packing as efficiently as possible, if they care as much as we do about the quality of the fruit – well, that’s going to deliver a more reliable stream, isn’t it? So it makes sound economic sense to get them to regard the company as their company. How do we do that? How do we make them understand we’re all working together for the same goal? We extend to Jamaica and the Canaries and the Cameroons the benefits and the bonuses we give our people here at home.’