The Pursued

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Really, my dear, I don’t understand what you are talking about. What has poor little Dot got to do with it? And what are all the “other things”?’

  Marjorie was conscious of a profound shock at that; she had misunderstood Mother, then, that day when Derrick said what he did. Mother had not guessed about Ted and Dot, after all. It was not specially surprising, now that she came to think about it. Little innocent Mother, sheltered from the world, of course would not be able to guess at the wickedness around her. Marjorie felt that she could not enlighten her – that indeed it would be a hopeless task to attempt to do so. She was the only one who had penetrated the secret. In that case it would be equally hopeless to seek Mother’s aid in leaving Ted – Mother would be the last person on earth to encourage a wife to separate from her husband. Marjorie’s head was swimming. She was exhausted by the emotional strain.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ she said, in growing despair. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t understand,’ said Mother, primly. ‘I try not to be very old-fashioned in my ideas, but I do think that a woman’s place is by her husband’s side unless there is some very good reason against it. My dear, I hope you haven’t been letting your thoughts run away with you about Mr Ely? He’s such a very nice young man. You haven’t done anything wicked, or foolish?’

  ‘Oh no, Mother,’ said Marjorie, in utter panic now. To admit anything of the sort, she saw now, would be to forfeit all hope of Mother’s help. She ought to have guessed that earlier – and yet, hoping against her better judgement, she had cherished the thought that Mother might have been sympathetic towards herself and George. ‘As if I’d do anything like that!’

  ‘I never thought you would, dear,’ said Mother. ‘But when you spoke so wildly I was half afraid in case – . But we needn’t talk about that. I hope I won’t hear any more of this nonsense about not going back to Ted. I expect it’s just because you don’t want this holiday to end. As soon as you get home and settle down again into running your home you’ll be much happier. Just try it, dear, and you’ll see.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘All men are a little trying sometimes,’ said Mother, as if this observation came from the profoundest depths of her wisdom. ‘Even your dear father was, once or twice.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Marjorie.

  Another of these few, fleeting hours left to her and gone now. She looked incredulously at the clock, and her mother followed her gaze.

  ‘Time’s getting on,’ said Mother. ‘I think we’d better start the packing before the children come back.’

  Circumstances seemed to be edging Marjorie forward, as a criminal is edged towards the scaffold from the condemned cell by the warders round him. Packing, making tea, washing up, bathing the children – another huge section of the day whirled by, to Marjorie’s dismay.

  ‘Are you two going out for a last run this evening?’ asked Mother. ‘I should if I were you.’

  They drove out to the woods where they had first kissed, but when they reached the place they did not linger in the car, nor sit on the stump whence they had watched the sunset. Without any discussion they plunged together farther into the woods, out of sight of the lane, and there Marjorie turned and flung herself, half weeping, into Ely’s arms, and he clasped her hungrily.

  Ely, as might be guessed from the hopeful way in which he had spoken of the divorce, was not the sort of young man to grasp at the favours of a married woman thankful for this solution of the eternal problem of how to avoid both celibacy and marriage. He was besotted with love for her. It had never occurred to him that he might hope to conduct a convenient intrigue with Marjorie in the future. He had thought of nothing, save his mad passion for her. He had been with her all day long with nothing more granted him than a hand clasp. The memory of last night was driving him frantic; he was sick and faint with desire, and the woods seemed to spin round him as he held her to him, hotly. All the plans Marjorie had made while sitting at his side in the car, to the effect that now they really would discuss the future with sanity, went by the board. They kissed and whispered until twilight had nearly given place to night before Marjorie was able to bring herself to ask the question again which she already asked once that day –

  ‘Darling, what are we going to do?’

  The question pricked the bubble of Ely’s ecstasy, already stretched to breaking point by what had just happened.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, gloomily. The intertwining branches overhead were black against a pale sky.

  ‘Tell me you love me, darling,’ said Marjorie, urgently – the gloom in his voice had roused a new fear within her.

  ‘Oh, I love you, I love you, sweetheart,’ said Ely.

  ‘I was afraid you didn’t. I thought you might be – you might be disgusted with me,’ wailed Marjorie.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Ely, aghast. ‘How could I be, darling?’

  ‘Oh –’

  Then came a fresh fear.

  ‘Promise me, darling,’ said Marjorie, ‘if ever you find you don’t love me any more you will tell me, won’t you, dear? Don’t pretend, will you?’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ said Ely. ‘I’ll always love you.’

  It was two or three minutes more before the question arose again –

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t see what we can do at present,’ said Ely.

  ‘Mother seems to take it quite for granted I’m going back home tomorrow. And – and – there’s nowhere else I can go, at all.’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Ely, simply.

  ‘Do you want me to go back to Ted?’ asked Marjorie.

  It was the first time, to Ely in his simplicity, that this aspect of the question had presented itself with any clarity. It had not occurred to him before to think about tomorrow night, but now he was horror stricken. Years of close contact in the office with Grainger had given him plenty of insight into the latter’s nature. There could be no doubt at all about what would happen tomorrow, when Grainger welcomed his wife home after three weeks’ absence. He felt jealousy envelope him like a flame.

  ‘He’ll want me to sleep with him,’ said Marjorie, struggling desperately now to say everything that had to be said.

  Ely clasped her until it hurt, as if by mere physical strength he could keep her out of Grainger’s embraces.

  ‘You can’t,’ he stammered. ‘You mustn’t!’

  Marjorie could see the anguish on his face in the faint light. Even in the intensity of that moment she felt a little thrill of pleasure. Ted had never been like that. Ted had been dominating, possessive, masterful. Years ago she had loved him – although she would not admit the fact to herself now – but even while she had loved him she had been conscious that she had meant less to him than he had meant to her. She might have been able to annoy him, but never to hurt him, not like this poor boy with the tortured look on his face who was shuddering in her arms.

  It hurt her, too, unbearably, to see him like that. She felt she would do anything, promise anything, to comfort him. Her love and her tenderness redoubled; it was in her nature to return love for love.

  ‘Darling,’ she said ‘don’t worry like that, please, darling.’

  But Ely’s overstimulated imagination was still set on picturing Marjorie in Grainger’s arms. There was no relaxation in the bleak misery of his expression.

  ‘Darling!’ wailed Marjorie again. ‘Don’t, please don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I’ll see that it’s all right, dear.’

  To end the tension she would promise anything. And in Ely’s arms, and in that comforting dark, with the trees whispering solemnly overhead, it was easy to make promises, reckless of whether she would be able to fulfil them.

  ‘I won’t sleep with him. I won’t let him,’ she said.

  To her at that moment it seemed easy enough, too. She would be able to head Ted of
f for a space. It would be easily within her power to do so for a few days at least. After that she might be able to induce Ted to listen to reason. At any rate she would have a few days in hand, and in the urgency of this crisis the gain of a few days meant much to her. ‘Tomorrow’ was imminent. ‘Next week’ was not. She was gratified by the way George’s expression cleared.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Do you think that will be all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course it will,’ she said, determinedly.

  ‘I don’t want him to make you unhappy, darling.’

  ‘He won’t do that. Not as long as you love me.’

  If Ely reflected at all, it was to the effect that Marjorie and her husband had been married for the best part of ten years, and had in consequence reached a stage in their mutual relationship mostly incomprehensible to him, who had but lost his virginity twenty-four hours ago. He was prepared to believe anything Marjorie told him in that connection. He caught her to him again, and kissed her again and she poured out silly, exalted vows to him.

  She would never allow Ted to lay a finger on her. As far as she was concerned Ted must be celibate from now on, although she wouldn’t care what he did outside the house – the more affairs he had the better she would be pleased. She was going to keep herself pure for George. She was all his, and only his. It all seemed to her not merely possible but easy in that wild moment.

  And on Marjorie was thrust the initiative, the direction of the affair – if it could be said to have any direction. She had been meaning to tell George about her suspicions regarding Ted and Dot, but she shrank from doing so now. It would do no good, for they had agreed that there was nothing they could do, and to tell George would not alter that. And it might do harm; George would be terribly worried at the thought of her living with a murderer. She could not bear to have him worried; rather than that she would continue to bear the burden of her knowledge unshared. More than that – George might not believe her, might think her mad, might conceivably cease to love her, and not for worlds would she risk that. There were the four or five days which she had in hand. She could at least put off telling him until then, and as she could, she did.

  They went back through the dark lanes to The Guardhouse calmer and happier than they had been all day. Mrs Clair, looking sharply at them as they entered, blinking in the light, was puzzled by the look on their faces. She could not guess what decision they had reached, if any. But she could afford to wait, and see what would be the outcome of the matter.

  13

  In every respect except the continued good weather Saturday was a terrible day. In the earliest morning Marjorie and Mrs Clair had to be up and about, completing the packing and then putting the house into ideal order. Another family would be moving in that afternoon, and the result of their efforts would be under the close inspection of another housewife, who would be able to criticize unhampered by their presence. Even though they could never hear what the newcomers would think, they could not bear the thought of being considered slovenly. Everything had to be cleaned and dusted and polished; and there were arrangements to be made about the trifling bit of laundry work to be done; and the milkman had to be waylaid and paid; and the inventory gone through with the caretaker, and agreement reached regarding breakages; and the keys had to be handed over; and the luggage – which seemed incomprehensibly to have doubled in bulk since their arrival – had to be packed into the car.

  By the time Marjorie took her seat beside George she was already tired; nor was the journey to London any rest to her, because Derrick, with complete lack of consideration, chose this day of all days to develop car sickness. He nearly succeeded in making Marjorie sick as well. Ted was standing at the gate in the hot midday sunshine when at last the car drew up outside No. 77 Harrison Way. Marjorie climbed stiffly out of the car and put Derrick (who had sat on her knee for the last half of the journey) on his legs on the pavement. She tried to greet Ted in a way which would satisfy him and not rouse George’s jealousy.

  The sun was hot overhead, the road was dusty, the little front garden with its few unambitious plants looked neglected and forlorn. The house looked somehow derelict and shabby, and the paint was peeling from the gate upon which Ted was leaning.

  ‘Hullo, old son,’ said Ted to Derrick.

  It seemed to Marjorie as if she was hearing his voice for the first time; it sounded strange and unmusical. Derrick hung back shyly – it was three weeks since he had seen his father, and no one had taken any pains to keep him familiar with his memory. The others struggled out of the car, and approached the gate, laden with parcels. Marjorie saw the upper front curtain twitch at No. 69, and knew that Mrs Posket was watching their arrival.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grainger,’ said Ely. He did his best to speak naturally, but he was conscious of awkwardness.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Ted.

  That told Marjorie that Ted was expecting to be given dinner today, and that he was hungry, and that he considered their arrival over-late.

  ‘Is there anything in the house to eat, Ted?’ she asked hurriedly.

  ‘A bit of bread three days old,’ said Ted. ‘Nothing much else.’

  ‘I’ll have to run down to the shops and buy something, then,’ said Marjorie.

  ‘I think you will,’ said Ted.

  ‘I’ll run you down in the car, Marjorie,’ interposed Ely, returning from having piled the luggage on the doorstep. ‘Mrs Clair won’t mind.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I do,’ said Ted. ‘Mrs Grainger is quite capable of going by herself. I’d rather she wasn’t seen by the shop keepers driving round in a car with a young man.’

  The stress on the words ‘Mrs Grainger’ showed that Ted had noticed and resented Ely’s use of the Christian name.

  ‘Oh, I’ll walk, I don’t mind,’ said Marjorie. ‘It won’t take a minute. You’d better get on home with Mother, Mr Ely.’

  She was trying to appear cheerful despite the gloom that was descending on her, unconcerned despite the evident tension, trying to convey to George that he must not take offence at what Ted said, to tell him by her tone that she still loved him although prudence dictated that she should call him ‘Mr Ely’, and yet to make Ted think George meant no more to her now that at the beginning of the holiday. George still hesitated, but Marjorie held out her hand and ended the situation.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Ely,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much for all you’ve done for us. I can’t think how we should have got along without you. I hope you’ve enjoyed your holiday, too.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said George, and, getting into the car, he slammed the door a little too hard.

  ‘Goodbye, Mother. See you soon,’ said Marjorie, trying to appear gay.

  The car rolled off, gears clashing as usual. Marjorie had no time to look after it with regret.

  ‘You children had better come down with me to the shops,’ she went on. ‘It’ll do you both good after sitting in the car.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ whined Derrick.

  ‘You’ll come at once,’ snapped Marjorie. She took Derrick’s hand and Anne’s, and hurried them off. Both of them were hungry and cross, and Marjorie’s hasty shopping in Simon Street was a tiresome ordeal. When they reached home again the luggage was still piled on the doorstep – apparently Ted had gone inside without carrying it in. Marjorie hurriedly opened the door with her key, and set the children to work dragging the packages into the hall while she hastened into the kitchen to prepare dinner. From the sitting room came the music of the loudspeaker – Ted was listening to Radio Normandie as his habit was on Saturdays.

  The kitchen was a scene of horror; the little scullery was even worse. There was dirt and muddle everywhere, dirty crockery, dirty saucepans. Marjorie glanced at the dresser, which she had left so orderly three weeks before. Now it was stripped bare – every single piece of crockery in the house was dirty and littering up the sink or the kitchen table. There were cigar
ette ends on the floor; the sink stank, and a quick investigation revealed that its drainpipe was stopped up.

  Marjorie nearly wept. Then with a determined effort she pulled herself together and faced the task before her. She remembered her bold promise to George. She was not going to allow this return to her old life to upset her at all.

  The little kettle was dirty – apparently something had actually been cooked in it – but the big one was clean. She filled it and lit the gas under it – the oven was encrusted with black stickiness, but that could wait – and then she fled round the kitchen, clearing away the mess. On the table was a cloth; it had once been white but now bore black rings where saucepans and frying pans had been stood on it, and a yellow lake of spilt egg. She whisked it away, found a clean one, washed up sufficient crockery for dinner, laid the table. It was only twenty minutes before the kitchen was respectable enough on the surface and dinner was laid and ready.

  ‘Eggies!’ said Derrick with satisfaction. At the present time he preferred a boiled egg to any other sort of food, consuming it by the process of dipping into it ‘fingers’ of bread and butter.

  ‘Boiled eggs?’ said Ted in utter discontent. ‘And God damn it, Madge, I’ll swear this brawn came from Marshall’s. Haven’t you got the sense to guess I’ve been living on Marshall’s brawn and eggs for the last three weeks?’

  ‘I didn’t have time for anything else,’ said Marjorie. ‘It’s half past two now.’

  ‘A fine dinner to give a man on a Saturday, I must say,’ said Ted.

  Marjorie maintained a dangerous calm. She glanced at Ted, who was battering disgustedly at his egg with the convex surface of his teaspoon, and experienced a wave of pure satisfaction when she thought of George’s kisses last night. That was a pleasant revenge; nothing Ted could do or say could distress her when she had those thoughts to comfort her.

  The moment dinner was finished and Ted had retired with his last and strongest cup of tea into the sitting room to continue to listen to the wireless, Marjorie’s activities began again. She had to start by scrubbing out the kitchen – she could not bear to leave that a moment longer – and then to complete the washing up, and to scour the saucepans (at least two were spoilt beyond remedy) before she could start on the rest of the house. She worked like a slave in the tiring heat. Hall, dining room, bedroom, all were in a state of filth and neglect. She did not look into the sitting room where Ted was; she could guess that to be in a worse condition than anywhere else, and she had neither time to spare for it nor the desire to risk trouble by upheaving Ted from his armchair.