Mrs. Lorrimer poured herself a second cup of tea, and began to read.
* * *
The front door opened rudely. There was a low murmur of confused voices. Moira was calling to her. She laid aside the book with regret. Moira must have brought some of her friends in for tea: late, too. Goodness, it was late. Was there never any peace in this house, with all this perpetual running in and out, all these unexpected guests? Really, she must speak seriously to Moira about this kind of thing.
She rose as Moira entered the room with her hat in her hand and her hair ruffled. “I’m just about to write a letter,” she said, trying to convey a broad hint in her words without appearing rude to any listening guest. And then she stood quite still as Moira was standing. Moira’s face was tense and white. The murmur in the hall had given way to shuffling feet.
“What’s wrong, Moira? Betty... Has something happened to Betty?”
Moira shook her head. “It’s Daddy,” she said, in a stifled voice, and burst into tears.
36
SHE SETS SAIL GALLANTLY IN ANOTHER DIRECTION
Mary Lorrimer was alone in the silent drawing-room. It was the third day of Charles Lorrimer’s illness. Everything was under control again—the alarm, the tears, the terrifying emotions which threatening death arouses. The capable nurses had established their territory in the Lorrimers’ bedroom, and Mrs. Lorrimer had found herself exiled. She disliked illness, anyway, regarded it as a worrying nuisance, a disturber of routine. She wasn’t, therefore, a particularly good nurse. Yet she resented the nurses’ authority. “But Charles needs me,” she had said pathetically to Dr. Morrison. “Well, you are here if he calls for you,” the doctor had answered soothingly. Which was true. So she put her energies into superintending the whispered footsteps and lowered voices even down to the basement kitchen.
The doctor had just left after his late evening visit. He had held out more hope than before, and at the same time his cheerful words had thrown her into a panic. “Definite improvement today. There’s a good chance now that the first shock will not be followed by a second one.” And Mrs. Lorrimer, who for three days had not even been thinking about the possibility of a second shock, stared in amazement at Dr. Morrison. She had thought the worst danger was over when they had brought Charles home from the club. Now she realised for the first time the full meaning of the nurses’ over-officious watchfulness, of the doctor’s guarded phrases, of the serious words which Charles’s business partners had spoken. They had all known the danger, but she had never thought it possible that Charles would die. Charles couldn’t die; so much of his life was still before him. She had glanced sharply at Dr. Morrison’s thoughtful face. “Won’t Charles ever be fully recovered?” she heard herself ask. Dr. Morrison had hesitated. “Never fully, never quite the same again,” he had answered gravely. “He will have to take care, perhaps give up much of his work, rest for a long time, look after himself.” And as he left her he added, “I warned him about that blood-pressure of his last summer, you know. I told him to cut down work and exercise, and I prescribed a diet for him. Didn’t he follow it?”
Yes, Charles had followed it—to a certain extent. But it was difficult for a man with so many public engagements to be able to keep that strict diet. And Charles had never told her why he was supposed to keep a diet: he had let the family think that it was simply indigestion which troubled him, a case of stomach ulcers. He had not told them the truth, perhaps wanting to spare them worry, perhaps refusing to believe himself that he could be made a helpless invalid overnight. Charles had been so proud of his physical strength. Overnight? In a few minutes. For that was how it had happened. He had pleaded a sudden attack of cramp towards the middle of the match, had walked firmly by himself towards the Club Room; and there the shock had struck him down. Thank Heaven, Mary Lorrimer thought, remembering Charles’s horror of scenes, that he had been inside the Club House and not on the tennis-courts at the time. And if he had not taken the warning signal, if he had gone on playing? She suddenly realised that he would have been dead. Charles dead, and Mary Lorrimer a widow with three daughters to provide for. She grew white-lipped at that thought.
Mary Lorrimer faced the drawing-room, seeing its value for the first time since she had come to live in this house. She had looked at it then, and wondered delightedly that it was hers. Now she looked at it, this pleasant room symbolising a pleasant way of living, and she knew it was lost to her. In a few minutes, she repeated. It only had taken a few minutes to end everything built up through years. And then the new feeling of humility, of fear, of insecurity, struck her its full blow. She sat down on the nearest couch and buried her face in a cushion as if to shut away the lost room.
* * *
Moira was saying in a hushed voice, “Mummy! Daddy’s awake now. The nurse says you may see him.” Moira, embarrassed, troubled at the sight of her mother’s unhappy face, was saying over and over again, “Don’t worry; it’s all right, Mummy.” But she knew it wasn’t all right.
I wish I were Penelope, Moira thought suddenly: Penelope with a career she really likes, not just forced into teaching because mother kept complaining about money nowadays. Penelope with David Bosworth. Penelope is free, and I am tied to the family. It is unfair, unfair. Penelope is always the lucky one.
“He said one word,” Moira went on. “He said, ‘Penny.’ Mummy, you should have let me write to her.”
The two women looked at each other. Then Mrs. Lorrimer rose and made her way to the staircase.
At the bedroom door she halted. What, she wondered miserably, had made Charles think of Penelope? Was it possible that lying there, so motionless on that bed, he had been conscious some of the time, conscious of his nearness to death, conscious of the problem of Penelope which must not be left unsolved if he were to die? Charles will blame me, Mary Lorrimer thought: yet it wasn’t I who was against Penelope; I was only doing what Charles wanted to be done. He was always so busy with his career. Everything I have done has been all for Charles. He must know that. And on that resolution, having persuaded herself that she was telling the truth, she opened the bedroom door.
The nurse smiled encouragingly. Charles looked so weak, so white, so helpless, so unlike Charles that Mary Lorrimer again felt the terrifying fear. She took the limp hand in her own. Charles, I love you, get well, get well, she thought. She slipped to her knees beside the bed, and tried to smile.
“Don’t worry, Charles,” she said, when she could control her voice. “Don’t worry.”
The white lips were forming themselves slowly. “July,” she seemed to hear. July. He was remembering her father’s letter.
“I know, dear,” she said. “I’ve written the letter to Penelope, saying we agree with Father. Shall I post it?”
He tried to say something, and then she saw that his eyes were happy. They, alone in his face, could still communicate with her. The look of trouble and worry had gone in them. They were happy.
She kissed him, even if the nurse was watching them, and murmured close to his ear, “Get well, Charles, and everything will be all right. That is all that matters.”
Then the nurse was signing to her, and she had to rise to her feet and move to the door. He had closed his eyes, and there was a subtle change, almost an expression of relief, on the blank face.
* * *
Mary Lorrimer sealed the letter to Penelope.
After four weeks of deliberation it had taken her four minutes to write. And now it was ready to post, and the white lie told upstairs in the bedroom had become truth. Well, she thought, that was that...
She tore up her father’s letter. That was that, she repeated; another problem decided. Now she would only have to worry about the future of two daughters: one, at least, was off her hands.
Not that I’ll ever be able to like David Bosworth, she admitted frankly to herself. But if Penelope was determined to be in love with him—well, what could parents do? Penelope’s future was Penelope’s responsibility.
/> I hope they will be happy, she added doubtfully.
37
FINALS
Final examinations were over; the results had been posted that morning; and Chaundler asked David to lunch with him and Fairbairn in order to celebrate David’s excellent First. After that David would catch the afternoon train to London. Most men had gone down from Oxford already: and the few who had stayed there until the results were out shared the quiet town with visiting sightseers. As Chaundler sat with his two guests in his dark, cool room the desultory voices of the tourists visiting the chapel came drifting in through the opened casement windows. The chestnut-trees spread their broad leaves in the warm, breathless air. Even the bees were lazy in the strong July heat; a fat black one bumbled his way slowly into the room through the open window, and then lazily, almost heavily, moved out towards the sun-splashed chestnut-trees again. It was pleasant, David thought, to sit in a quiet room, to feel as lazy and unhurried as the world outside. He drank Chaundler’s admirable Amontillado, listened to Fairbairn discussing the differences in climbing in the Austrian Tyrol and the Swiss Alps, and thought of the journey to London this late afternoon.
At last Chaundler rose and moved towards the table at the oriel window. His guests followed him. His scout watched anxiously to see that everything was just right—the silver cups and bowl that Mr. Chaundler liked for special occasions, the hock properly iced, the ground ginger well mixed with sugar for the melon. Everything was just right. The four men relaxed, each in his own way. And then Fairbairn produced his latest idea: David, before he settled in London to work on a survey of seasonal unemployment, was to make a tour. He was to go to America, to the United States, to see how the problem of unemployment was being tackled there.
Then, having let the idea explode in the quiet room, Fairbairn began to explain it in more detail. The United States, probably because of the advanced specialisation of its industry and agriculture, had always had a serious problem in seasonal unemployment. But it was only when the depression reached a climax that general and seasonal unemployment combined to produce a first-magnitude crisis. With their usual violent energy the Americans had faced the crisis and formed plans to meet it. It would be interesting to see how far the plans would work; and next year would be the testing time.
What interested Fairbairn most were two things: how far had seasonal unemployment tipped the balance towards disaster; how could seasonal unemployment be regulated? There were other things, too, which would be interesting to watch: these projected camps for young men, for instance, where they were taken off the street and trained for jobs; the Public Works Administration, which intended to avoid the evils of the dole; the balance of State planning, which must be carefully held if a country of the size and potential strength of the United States was not to degenerate into a totalitarian machine. But it was the problem of seasonal unemployment which interested Fairbairn most. For he had a theory that there would always be cycles of unemployment in the world, but that if seasonal unemployment were more recognised, and better controlled, then these cycles would not degenerate into the grave danger and threat of a really fulminating depression.
He talked on and on, with all the enthusiasm of elaborately dressing one’s own brain-child. And it was a good idea; he knew that Fairbairn—his alert brown eyes shining with enthusiasm, his thatch of white, heavy hair falling untidily over his brow as it always did when he was excited over something, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped before him, his elbows on the arms of his chair—gave the details in his crisp, complete way. Originally this tour of America had been arranged for himself, but a crisis had arisen here in London with one of his publications—his favourite one, the Economic Trend—and he had better stay at home for the next month or so to control matters. If David were going to work on seasonal unemployment he was certainly the man to send as Fairbairn’s eyes.
David sat quite silent. He was too dazed even to listen coherently.
Fairbairn halted his exposition to glance sharply at David’s face.
“It is a wonderful opportunity for any young man,” he said. “You will have a chance to travel through all the States. You will be helped by official sources. Your expenses will be paid by me in addition to your salary, of course. And they will be paid on the American scale while you are there. That is only fair. Everything costs twice as much in America, and British salaries cannot cope with that. I found that out when I travelled there two years ago.” He smiled at the memory, and paused, waiting for David’s response.
David forced a smile too. It was more than fair. It was a chance in a thousand, the kind of dream that would have excited him as much as Fairbairn, if only there hadn’t been Penny. If only we could get married, he thought. If only...
“How long do you expect this tour to last?” he asked quietly.
“Probably about a year,” Fairbairn said cheerfully. He looked as if he expected David to share his enthusiasm. “America is a big place, you know. We often forget that. Even if you spent one week in each state—and most of them cover more ground than the British Isles—that would take you eleven months. The United States is not a country, remember: it is a continent. You will send me a monthly report of facts and figures. And I shall also expect a weekly article for the Economic Trend. I want that written, of course, in a more interesting way than the matter-of-fact reports, and you don’t have to confine yourself entirely in your articles to seasonal unemployment. Anything that touches the social problems will be the sort of thing I’ll need for that page. You’ll find it a varied and interesting job.”
A year, David was thinking. And after that? Probably there would be always some other excuse in life to separate him from Penny. Some other excuse to separate them for another six months, another three months, another year. His instinct told him to fight against this: it was the beginning of a series of dragging separations stretching into a permanent one. For if he were a good reporter Fairbairn would use him as that: he had been talking only last week of the need to observe methods in European countries, of the need to forget Britain was an island. Fairbairn was thorough. Fairbairn was the man so interested in a job to be done that he would drive his assistants with the tight, unrelenting purpose of a general. No favours could be asked of Fairbairn.
“Well?” he was now saying.
David glanced at Chaundler’s quiet, watchful face. Chaundler knew. He was worried too.
“I must think about this, sir,” David said haltingly.
Fairbairn stared uncomprehendingly at the young man. “It is a chance in a thousand,” he said, with a hint of rebuke in his voice.
David flushed. “Yes,” he agreed unhappily.
Chaundler said, “First of all, you need a holiday, David.” He looked pointedly at Fairbairn, who nodded. David gave Walter Chaundler a look of thanks. He was trying to buy David some time, some time to think over the whole business.
“Yes, you need a couple of weeks or so,” Fairbairn agreed. “But you would have to sail by the middle of August.”
David stared at the fallen cigarette ash on the carpet at his feet.
“Let me know by Saturday,” Fairbairn said, with marked finality. “If it is the responsibility of such a job that is worrying you, you can put your mind at rest. I should never have suggested it if I had not thought you would shape up very well in it.” He began speaking of other things, but there was just the touch of disappointed tolerance in his whole manner. He had been so sure that David was the kind of man to seize opportunity and to do well. Perhaps, of course, he did need a holiday: he had been working hard, and he looked tired. And when you are tired, Fairbairn thought, then you hesitate before new ideas.
Chaundler gave David a quick look of encouragement. He said quietly, “Why don’t you go to bed and nurse that cold of yours? It looks to me as if flu were developing.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” David said. “I suppose I’m more tired than I imagined.” He roused himself to carry on with the rest of the conve
rsation.
* * *
David found a letter for Penny lying on the table of the dark hall in Fitzroy Square. He lifted it. It was from Edinburgh he noticed, as he climbed the stairs slowly. All his movements had become heavy. Yes, I am tired, he thought. But what else could I expect, anyway? Another week of that strain and I would have cracked up. We all would have.
He remembered the rows of white, serious faces bent over the examination papers day after day. Outside the Examination School there was sunlight and green trees. Inside there was the race against time, the scraping of pens, the worried coughs, the shuffling feet, the rows of desks. The judgment day. The weighing in the balance, the found wanting. The sheep and the goats. No matter how brilliant you had been in editing a magazine, in producing a play, in contributing verse to anthologies; no matter how original you had seemed with your decided tastes in clothes and food and conversation; no matter how well you had played music or rugby or at politics in the Union, this was the day of rendered accounts. It was the same test for all and the same lesson: first-rate brains without the capacity to work would get you no farther than those who worked but had second-rate brains. It was the day of painful self-revelation, of regret for some, of hope for others, of exhibitionism, of frustration, of submitting your inner pride to the outside verdict.
David paused to rest his heavy suitcase on the first landing.
Well, that is all over anyway, he thought: the written papers, and then the oral, and, at last, the posted list of successes and failures. All over, thank God. Another chunk of life put in a box, wrapped up and labelled “Past. Not to be reopened. No second attempts.” But a rare chunk in its way, for other periods in life did not end so neatly, so completely, with an examiner’s clear mark to tie up all the loose ends. No wonder I feel lightheaded, he thought. And this damned cold which keeps hanging on— how did I get it anyway? Too little sleep for weeks, a sudden drop in temperature in the early morning while I was working at an open window? His head at this moment seemed made of lead, and it was an effort to lift each damned foot and place it on the next step. His shoes seemed to be soled with cast iron. Oh, hell, he thought, I’m just tired and worried. That’s all. If I can get some rest I’ll be all right in a couple of days. There had not been much rest in these last days at Oxford. After the orals there had been the packing up, the last removal, the payment of bills, the farewells to be made, the summer plans for Margaret to be arranged. Hell’s bells, he thought, doesn’t life ever become simple? One thing over, and another begins.
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