Every year for the past four years they had rented The Guardhouse, furnished, for three weeks in July and August. Marjorie remembered with regret the happy holidays they had spent there; The Guardhouse (its name was reminiscent of the old days when the South Coast was garrisoned for fear of a Napoleonic invasion) was a little stone house half a mile from the shingle beach, still lonely enough although year by year the bungalows crept nearer and nearer to it. They had been able to afford its four-and-a-half guineas a week rent by all clubbing together, Ted and Mother and Dot – although Marjorie strongly suspected that Ted usually owed some of his share to his mother-in-law for most of the year following, and knew positively that Dot did.
Happy holidays, those had been, with Mother and Dot to talk to and share the domestic work, and Ted carefree and vigorous, even consenting to play with the children on the beach. Marjorie had come to love The Guardhouse, and it was with the utmost regret that she had written, soon after Dot’s death, to cancel their booking of it. But there was no thought of their being able to afford it now; Dot was dead, and Mother would not be able to leave her new lodger. Only later had Marjorie come to console herself with the thought that even if they had gone the holiday would not be nearly as nice as before, alone with Ted and without Mother and Dot.
And now came this letter from the owner of The Guardhouse. He could not agree, he said, to the cancellation of the booking so late in the season, and he must accordingly request the payment of the agreed rent – thirteen and a half guineas, less one pound deposit, balance thirteen pounds three and sixpence. Marjorie had read this letter at breakfast time in the intervals of preparation, but at that time of day she had not dared mention it to Ted. And at lunch time he had been both surly and hurried, too. She would have to bring up the subject this evening, all the same. The matter was urgent. Even if Mother bore her share of the loss (and Marjorie did not want that to happen) Ted would have to find six pounds ten – and Marjorie knew her husband’s way with money too well to think that he had six pounds ten to spare. It would be all their holiday savings, if he had it.
On the other hand, Marjorie remembered vaguely that Ted had said something about the auditors wanting to come and go over the books of the branch about that time. If that had been agreed upon now, Ted would have given up hope of a holiday this year and would have lavished away the holiday money already. They would not be able to go away, and yet they would have to meet this demand for rent. Marjorie could see no way out of the tangle at all as she walked with Derrick to her mother’s to discuss it.
Happily, Mother was not nearly as discomposed by the news as Marjorie had feared. She was not cast down in the way one might have expected at the prospect of having to find so vast a sum as thirteen pounds three and sixpence. Yet her behaviour was a little strange – Marjorie, watching her anxiously, noted the play of expression on her face.
‘I don’t think he’d write like that,’ said Marjorie, ‘if he wasn’t sure we’d have to pay. And what are we going to do?’
True, Mother had looked blank at first, as well she might, in the face of that demand. And then, suddenly, her expression changed, as if she had thought of something. There was a calculating look on her face, something almost cunning, and then the cunning had faded out, to be replaced by a far-away look, an appearance of lofty exaltation, with an obviously quickened pulse and a hint of new colour in the cheeks; and then the exaltation had died away and the cunning look had come back. Marjorie could not have found words to describe this play of expression at all; she was merely sensitive to it without being able to draw any deductions from it.
‘You needn’t worry about the money, at any rate,’ said Mother, calmly. ‘I can see about that, if Ted can’t.’
Mother was marvellous in that way; she always had money in the bank ready for emergencies.
‘But it’s a shame that we should have to pay and not have any holiday at all,’ said Marjorie.
‘I suppose Master Ted’s just as hard up as usual,’ remarked Mother, casually.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Marjorie, embarrassed. ‘I suppose so, He hasn’t said so. But you know what he’s like.’
‘I should just think I did,’ said Mother. She looked sharply at Marjorie with her innocent eyes, and Marjorie was more hotly embarrassed than ever. There were so many aspects of her relations with Ted which she had never discussed with her mother, although she had an uneasy feeling that Mother, for all her innocence, knew all about them.
‘They don’t pay him nearly enough,’ said Marjorie – the habits of ten years of married life still led her, despite herself, to defend her husband instinctively. ‘As manager of the branch he ought to have a big salary, instead of the little bit he gets. And he has to pay all sorts of things out of his own pocket because he’s manager, too.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mother, soothingly. ‘I know. Well, I’ll see what I can think of. I’ll come round this evening when I’ve given Mr Ely his supper and we can talk it over then. But you see what Ted has to say about it, first, before I come.’
Ted was cross and sullen about it, naturally. To begin with, he never could reconcile himself to the fact that if he came home at his earliest, round about the children’s bedtime, he had to boil his own kettle and make his own tea while Marjorie was engaged in seeing the children into bed – the alternative of waiting until Marjorie was free to do it for him was equally distasteful to him. Tonight, of course, he was home early, and, manlike, he made as much fuss about making a pot of tea as a woman would do about a day’s washing. He was sitting grouchily listening to the wireless programme when Marjorie at last was able to come and open the subject to him. He had taken off his shoes – during this hot weather he always experienced trouble with his tender feet – and was gloomily contemplating his socks.
‘Ted, dear,’ began Marjorie, despairingly. ‘It’s about our holiday this summer.’
‘Holiday? We aren’t having any holiday this year,’ said Ted, and then, looking up at his wife, ‘I told you a week ago I’d settled with head office to have the auditors come in this August, seeing there was no chance of our getting away. Did you write and cancel our booking for The Guardhouse, the way your mother and me told you to?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Marjorie ‘but –’
She had not yet noticed that she only called her husband ‘dear’ nowadays when there was a state of stress between them. Nor had Ted; but it is possible that, without actually hearing the word, he had come to be warned by it of an approaching argument. He read with growing irritation the letter from the owner of The Guardhouse.
‘This is all rubbish,’ he said explosively. ‘The man must be mad. Of course we haven’t got to pay.’
‘He seems quite sure of it,’ said Marjorie.
‘He can be as sure of it as he likes for all I care,’ said Ted. ‘He can whistle for the money. Thirteen three and six! I haven’t got thirteen bob to spare, let alone thirteen quid.’
‘But aren’t we going to have a holiday at all this year, dear?’ said Marjorie.
She had dared to hope, just before Ted came home, that perhaps they might have made the best of their compulsory tenancy of The Guardhouse by her going there with the children while Ted remained in London – under her mother’s care, possibly. That ideal had seemed far more desirable than attainable.
‘No, we’re not going to have a holiday this year,’ snapped Ted. ‘I’m not. And you’re not. What do you want a holiday for? Sheer waste of money. What are the parks for, I should like to know? What do you think I pay rates for? What –’
In a few minutes Ted had passed from a state of mere irritation to one of frantic rage. He was shouting now, and beating the air with his fists. His face was darkly flushed.
‘Ted!’ said Marjorie, horrified. That was the moment when she was first able to see the husband that she lived with (as opposed to the husband she thought about) as a murderer. The ungovernable passion in the
face, the working of the thick lips, the distortion of the forehead; all this gave her some insight into the hitherto inconceivable mentality of a man who would now allow a human life to come between him and his convenience. It was a horrible moment. Perhaps enough of the horror was apparent in Marjorie’s face for Ted to notice it even during his transports of irritation. He appeared to check himself, to bring himself deliberately under control. Marjorie, in a flash of insight, could realize at that moment that since Dot’s death the fear of detection had made him more readily irritable while at the same time he was acutely aware of the necessity for being always on his guard.
He looked at her suspiciously from the depths of his chair. She tried, wavering, to meet his glance from the edge of hers. He mastered his expression, his voice, everything, and spoke naturally.
‘You’ll have to write again,’ he said. ‘Tell him I won’t pay. Tell him –’
Tat-tat-tat sounded at the front door.
‘That’ll be Mother,’ said Marjorie; she, too, was trying to speak naturally and to keep the relief out of her voice. She went out of the room to let in her mother. Mother was so calm and cool, so natural and simple and self-possessed, like a draught of water after hours spent in overheated rooms.
‘Good evening, Ted,’ said Mrs Clair. She had taken off her gloves, and hung her little coat on the hallstand. The little hat, which might have looked almost saucy on anyone else, was exactly right and yet perfectly decorous on her grey hairs. She looked round the room, smiling.
‘Well, children,’ she said, ‘I don’t expect you’d ever guess what I’ve been talking about to Mr Ely this evening?’
They looked at her blankly. No thought of George Ely had crossed their minds.
‘Holidays,’ said Mrs Clair.
Even then they were hardly enlightened. Mrs Clair had to explain. She talked brightly. No one would ever guess at the ingenuity with which she had sounded George Ely regarding his proposed arrangements, nor at the feverish rapidity with which she had formed her plan – nor at the dexterous tact with which she was now putting it forward.
‘It’s Ted who’s the one who’s got nothing to be pleased about with this,’ she said. ‘He comes off worst, the way husbands always do.’
She beamed across at Ted in a way which might have softened the hardest heart.
‘Let’s have it,’ said Ted, stirring uneasily. Yet anyone could see that this little preliminary speech had made him far more receptive than he had been a moment before.
‘Mr Ely said that he thought you’d let him have his holiday for this time you’d arranged to have yours before you’d heard about the auditors,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘Do you think you could, Ted?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Ted, warily. ‘It wouldn’t matter much, anyway. He’s no more use round the office than a sick blasted headache.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Mrs Clair, resolutely ignoring the indelicate adjective. ‘You see, if he has his holiday then, he can come and board at The Guardhouse. He won’t be any trouble there – he never is. Then we can manage easily – there’ll be the money for his keep and I shall have a holiday and will pay my share, and then Marjorie and the children can have their holiday too.’
‘And what about me?’ said Ted.
‘I said you’d come off worst,’ said Mrs Clair, sympathetically. ‘You’ll have to stay at home and look after yourself.’
‘Oh, I will, will I,’ said Ted – but it was easy to see that he was not irrevocably decided against the scheme. There seemed a glimmer of hope that he might be persuaded.
‘You see, we’ve got to pay the rent of The Guardhouse, anyway,’ said Mother. ‘But Mr Ely’s money will pay some, and I’ll pay some, and what you haven’t got you can owe me for, Ted. Then Marjorie won’t need any more money that what she usually has for housekeeping.’
‘Oh, won’t she? What about fares? What about spades and pails, and ice creams on the beach, and all the rest of it?’
‘Ah,’ said Mother. She looked round at them again; she obviously had another surprise to spring. ‘Marjorie won’t want any extra money, will you, dear? You can manage on your housekeeping for the extras, can’t you?’
‘I suppose I could, Mother, but what about the fares? I couldn’t pay those.’
The prospect of a holiday without Ted, a holiday where she might have time to think, seemed inexpressibly, unattainably wonderful to her.
‘There won’t be any fares to pay,’ said Mrs Clair, beaming.
‘And how’s that?’
‘Mr Ely‘s going to buy a little car for his holidays, and he’ll take us all down.’
The secret was out now, and they could all look at each other, wordless for a moment. They did not belong to that stratum of society which owned motorcars as a matter of course – Marjorie could count on the fingers of one hand the privately owned motor cars in which she had travelled.
‘He’s going to sell it again afterwards, of course,’ explained Mrs Clair. ‘So it won’t cost him much. As a matter of fact, that’s what he was going to do anyway. He didn’t know where he was going to stay, though. He thought perhaps he’d stay at home and just go for runs each day. So of course he likes this idea much better.’
‘So I should think,’ said Ted. ‘These bachelors with their cars have a hell of a fine life.’
Ted’s mind rushed off into a sudden digression. If he had not plunged so recklessly into marriage, he could have had a motor car by now, too. He would be a carefree bachelor – and – and – . His mind baulked there. Something else would not have happened, but his mind refused to admit to itself what that something else was. A sudden sense of insecurity made itself apparent, and not for the first time in these last few days. He felt slightly sick, friendless and lonely, with the whole world against him. He looked round the room for friends; he saw his mother-in-law’s face, placid yet hopeful, and his wife tensely, breathlessly expectant. If he were to deny these women what they were so hopeful of having they would be bitterly hurt. For a moment he saw with his mind’s eye, as plainly as if it had happened, the change in their expressions if he were to say they were not to go. Madge would be disappointed – as likely as not she would cry about it. Mrs Clair would not merely be disappointed; she would be hurt and offended – striving hard not to show it, and yet feeling it all the more because of that. It would be the quickest way of making an enemy of her, and Ted flinched from that. Perhaps some premonition, some prophetic instinct, warned him that his mother-in-law was a person to be feared, or perhaps plain common sense told him that while his wife was so susceptible to her mother’s influence his comfort and happiness depended in large part on not offending his mother-in-law.
‘Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea, Ted?’ asked Mrs Clair brightly. ‘Don’t you think we could do it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Ted, and then, anxious to make a good job of it, and conceal his reluctance, he went on hastily, ‘I think it’s grand. You’re a champion, Mother. I’ll tell Ely tomorrow at the office that he can have my dates for his holiday.’
‘Oo-ooh!” said Marjorie, ecstatically.
She loved The Guardhouse, and the flat green meadows where it stood, and the shingle and the sea beyond, and the green Downs behind; she felt she even loved the horrible little bungalows which littered the landscape now. She would have Mother there to help her with the children – even with the smallest help from Mother for three weeks she would have a freedom incomparably greater than any freedom she knew during the other forty-nine weeks of the year. Ted would not be there, and she knew now that she was frantically, madly desirous of being free from Ted for a space.
And yet, like the old comparison between sixpence and the moon, immediate trifles seemed as large as the vital questions with which she had to deal. The prospect of sharing a holiday with someone who owned his own motor car was dazzling. There would be none of those earlier struggles of taking children and l
uggage in a bus up to Victoria, no tedious journey, no toilsome carriage of baggage from the station to The Guardhouse. Instead she would just step into the car outside her door and sail easily down to the seaside, through the green fields and past the celebrated road houses she had heard of. Mr Ely would be generous with his car, she felt sure. Some days he would take her and the children down to the beach in it, along the rough road, before setting out on his own expedition, and so save her the troublesome mile-long walk with the buckets and spades and towels. It was even possible – almost probable, although she hardly dared admit the probability – that once or twice he might even ask her to come with him. Mother would look after the children, and she would sail in the car to Hastings and Eastbourne, perhaps even to Brighton or Folkestone, where there would be fashionable crowds on the promenade, and a pier and a band, and smart hotels and unimaginable delights. Marjorie could think of no source of pleasure as perfect as a motor car.
For a space this train of thought made her quite oblivious of her urgent troubles. She could forget that the husband with whom she lived, whose bed she was going to share in an hour’s time, had seduced and killed her sister.
‘Oo-ooh,’ she said.
‘That’s ever so sweet of you, Ted,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘Ever so nice. I did so hope you would, but I was afraid it would be asking too much of you. Do you think you’ll be all right here by yourself all that time?’
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