The Pursued

by C. S. Forester

  In order to keep the children quiet and out of the way she had to make the concession she always hesitated over – to give them permission to play in the lane that ran between the end of the garden and the railway, from which they could see the trains running by in the shallow cutting. Fortunately the children were no trouble; they were happy and occupied in the inspection of their old haunts and in ascertaining what changes had occurred during their absence. And Anne was really helpful in laying tea when the time came and in getting nearly everything ready for the meal.

  At six-thirty Marjorie was almost satisfied. She had the bedroom fit to sleep in again, beds fit to lie in. She called the children in to put them to bed, and in the hall she encountered Ted in the act of reaching down his hat from its peg.

  ‘Oh, you’re not going out, Ted, are you?’ she ventured to ask.

  ‘Of course. It’s Saturday night. I’m late now.’

  Saturday evenings he always spent in a bar with a band of his friends.

  ‘But I’ve got to go out,’ said Marjorie, blankly. ‘There’s all the weekend shopping to do. There’s nothing in the house to eat. Not a thing.’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ said Ted. ‘I’m not staying in on a Saturday night, not for anyone. You ought to have done your shopping this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, Ted.’

  ‘Pottering round the house all day, leaving everything to the last minute like this. Just like a woman. I can’t stand here arguing all the evening.’

  With that he was gone, leaving Marjorie contemplating with dismay the prospect of toiling round the crowded Saturday night shops with two cross children, long after their bedtime. She was reprieved by a gentle knocking at the door.

  ‘Mother!’ she said, with unfeigned delight as she opened it.

  ‘I thought I’d just slip round and see if you were all right,’ said Mother.

  She made her way through into the sitting room, and halted abruptly at the sense of disorder there.

  ‘I haven’t had time to do this room,’ said Marjorie hastily.

  ‘I don’t expect you have. What about your shopping?’

  ‘I haven’t done that either.’

  Marjorie’s lips were trembling.

  ‘Well, pop on your hat and run and get it done. I’ll see the children into bed.’

  That was a great help. When Marjorie returned, just as it was growing dark, laden down with the innumerable parcels necessary to re-equip the house with all its necessary stores, she found that Mother had done better still. Not only had she put the children to bed, but she had set about the sitting room. The place was cleaned and dusted, the carpet had been taken out and beaten; the pleasant smell of furniture polish lingered upon the air.

  ‘I thought I’d just do it,’ said Mother apologetically. ‘I hadn’t anything else to do after the children were in bed.’

  Marjorie tried to stammer her thanks, but it was not easy. She was too tired.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother. ‘I’m going to run off home again now. Mr Ely said he didn’t know whether he’d be in for supper or not.’

  Those last words discomposed Marjorie. She wondered what George was doing. With a little pang of jealousy she found herself running through in her mind the list of possible places where George might be having supper. It unsettled her. She was abrupt in her goodnight to her mother – and was conscious of it, and regretted it at the same time – and when she came back into the sitting room and sank down into a chair it was not to experience the delicious rest she had been anticipating, but to sit, stiff and jangled, and on the verge of tears. Then something penetrated part way into her consciousness, like a sound heard while dozing. She sat tensely for a space, until she heard it again. Someone was whistling, there was no doubt about it, in the lane at the end of the garden. It was a three-note call which she had heard George whistle on the beach when trying to attract Anne’s attention. Her fatigue and unhappiness were forgotten now. She put out the sitting-room light, opened the French window, and stole down the garden to the wooden gate. It was George, sure enough. She fumbled open the gate and fell into his arms.

  Later she had a moment of prudence.

  ‘Come into the garden,’ she whispered. ‘Someone might come along.’

  They kissed again in the garden, in the darkness by the elderberry tree.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought of you coming this evening.’

  He was more masterful tonight, more practised as a lover. He felt in the darkness for her chin, lifted her face to his, and kissed her again.

  ‘Where’s Grainger?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ted? Oh, he’s out. He always goes out on Saturday nights.’

  George’s arms were very strong and very firm about her.

  ‘Has he been all right to you?’

  ‘Oh, George, he’s been horrid. Beastly.’

  She felt George’s arms go rigid and there was sharp anxiety in his next question.

  ‘What has he been doing?’

  ‘Oh, he’s made the house all dirty and he didn’t do anything to help me and he complained. If Mother hadn’t come round I don’t know how I’d have got my shopping done.’

  Marjorie felt George’s arms relax again. The troubles which loomed so large in her mind did not appear so important in his, sympathetic though he was.

  ‘Nothing else?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Oh – no, nothing like that. Of course not. I wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  All sorts of doubts and fears had grown up to plague Ely during the afternoon of solitude and reaction.

  ‘Yes, quite sure, darling.’

  Her lips sought his in the darkness – she did not want this questioning to go on.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ he said, later.

  ‘Oh!’

  She had not thought of that; perhaps it would never have occurred to her if he had not suggested it. At the seaside was one thing. Here in the house where she lived with Ted was quite another. Momentarily it seemed wrong. It seemed dangerous. Yet it would be safe – Ted never came home on Saturday nights until after closing time, and that was at least an hour and a half off.

  ‘Don’t ask me, darling,’ she said, weakly. ‘Don’t. Don’t.’

  Ely did not ask her again, not in words, nor was he subtle enough to plan or foresee the fact that there would be no need to ask. He was drunk with desire again, with her yielding sweetness, and she pressed to him, offering herself to him – Ted had taught her that way of kissing, years ago, and it was all natural to her now. These breasts of hers at which she had suckled Derrick and Anne were strangely sensitive tonight under George’s touch. Her knees were weak as she caught fire from his passion. She drooped in his arms. George was half carrying her as they crept down the garden path. The French window was open for their reception when they felt their way into the greater darkness of the sitting room. Yet in the silence there some stray eddy of Marjorie’s attention caught the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and she told herself that Mother must have wound it again when she turned out the room. The ticking faded abruptly out of Marjorie’s consciousness again, along with the smell of furniture polish, along with the fear of an early return by Ted, as George’s hands found her again in the darkness.

  The striking of the clock roused her again, long after.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered. ‘You must go now. Ted’ll be back soon.’

  George was a sweet lover, not like Ted, who had no use or attention for her after he had had his fill. George still had a kiss for her, and loving words.

  ‘I love you so much, dear. Tell me you love me.’

  ‘Oh, I love you, darling. But you must go now. Really you must.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘And I don’t want you to go. But it’s getting late. Kiss me goodnight, darling.’

  She led him, unwilling, t
o the French window, and almost pushed him out, frightened, now that it was all over, lest at any moment she should hear Ted’s key in the front door. George could sense her fear, and resentment against Grainger surged up within him. He stopped just outside the French window, and turned back to her.

  ‘Darling,’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘Promise me –’

  ‘Oh go, please go, dear,’ she whispered back. ‘Somebody might hear.’

  Fear spurred her caution. She whispered additional instructions to him.

  ‘Shut the gate after you, quietly. And see that no one sees you come out of the garden. Goodnight, darling.’

  Ely tiptoed back up the garden path. His head was swimming. Twice he stumbled and had much trouble in avoiding making a noise. Out in the lane he felt a little cool breeze blow past his ears, but it did nothing to cool the dull rage he felt against Grainger, who was coming home soon, and would spend all night in bed at Marjorie’s side.

  14

  Marjorie was so weary when the reaction came after George left that she hardly knew what she was doing. She compelled herself to switch on the sitting-room light, and gradually accustomed her eyes to its brilliance. She tidied her hair with the aid of the glass hanging on the wall – Dot had given them that as a wedding present – and twitched the furniture into tidiness. She passed weakly through into the kitchen and set out the bread and butter and cheese in case Ted should want supper on his return – sometimes he did. Then she sat down in Ted’s armchair to await his return. Her eyelids drooped, and she fell fast asleep.

  The slam of the street door in the hall woke her suddenly. Mazed and stupid, she did not at first realize where she was or what she was doing, because not in a dozen years had she fallen asleep in a chair. She saw Ted standing looking down at her and she struggled to get to her feet in a panic. In her stupid condition she felt as if something had happened to reveal her unfaithfulness. She felt frightened and unready.

  ‘The Sleeping Beauty!’ said Ted, genially, and then, marking how her colour came and went, he added with positive concern ‘Here, what’s up, old girl?’

  ‘Your supper’s in the kitchen,’ said Marjorie, ready at last with something to say.

  ‘Don’t want any, thanks. Lang and I had biscuits and cheese at the Crown. Tell you what I do want, though.’

  He slipped one arm behind her before she was ready to evade him, and held her before him while he went on speaking.

  ‘D’you know you haven’t kissed me yet? You’ve been away for three weeks and still you haven’t got a kiss for your poor old husband.’

  Marjorie could smell the beer on his breath. Her rallying senses noted his expression. She could see that tonight he was in one of his unusual moods, but one with which she had already had acquaintance. He was going to be sentimental, maudlin.

  ‘Well, you weren’t very nice to me when I got home,’ answered Marjorie, lightly, holding back from him. ‘You were horrid.’

  ‘I was fed up,’ protested Ted. ‘I’ve had the hell of a time, what with the auditors and housework and shopping and everything else. I hoped you’d be home when I got back from the office, with dinner ready and everything. When you weren’t of course I got fed up with waiting for you. And when you turned up it got my goat to see that young pup Ely with his car and all calling you “Marjorie”. That’s how it was. Give us a kiss, old girl.’

  He tried to draw her to him, but she twirled herself out of his hold, playing desperately for time.

  ‘I don’t think you deserve one,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I do, ducky. Honest I do. I’ve been as good as gold all the time you were away.’

  The armchair behind her barred her retreat, and he was able to take hold of her again. As his arms enfolded her she thought momentarily of George’s arms round her, and she shuddered a little in her husband’s grasp. Another thought of appalling clarity came to her. These were the arms that had dragged Dot’s senseless body over to the gas oven, and the hairy hand that was patting her cheek had turned on the gas taps and killed her. That cleared her brain like a cold bath.

  ‘Ducky!’ said Ted. ‘My precious baby! I’ve been lonely without you.’

  He kissed her before she had time to prevent it, but on her averted cheek, not on the lips, which were sacred to George Ely. With Ted in this mood she could handle him more easily than in any other, fortunately. The hairy hands began to pat her, here and there. She braced herself to look up at him, appealingly.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ she said pitifully. ‘There’s been such a lot to do today.’

  She did not have to act to obtain the effect she desired, she was mortally tired. The drawn look in her face would have melted a heart of stone.

  ‘Tired, darling?’ repeated Ted.

  ‘Ever so tired.’

  She made herself reach up and stroke his face; in the early days of her married life she had similarly made herself unwillingly hold the raw meat when she had to cut it up for stewing. She stroked his face, appealing with every fibre of her to this indulgent, sentimental side of him.

  ‘You go straight to bed, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll be better tomorrow.’

  Ted released her, to her inexpressible relief.

  ‘Right you are, dear,’ he said, forbearing and magnanimous. ‘Are you coming now?’

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute. I’ve got one or two things to do first.’

  Ted was just like Derrick in that he went to sleep as soon as he was in bed – provided he was expecting nothing of her. Marjorie wasted a little time downstairs, laying the breakfast, and found when she crept upstairs that her expectation was correct. Ted was fast asleep; she was able to undress and creep in beside him without rousing him. As she settled herself stealthily on her pillow it occurred to her that the events of the morning – tidying up The Guardhouse, driving up to London– seemed already to be weeks old. She wondered at it, before she, too, fell asleep, utterly worn out.

  Sunday morning brought rain, the first heavy downpour for three and a half weeks. It was welcome to London after the stifling days which preceded it. The pleasant smell of the dust in the streets being washed away came in through the bedroom windows as Marjorie dressed. She could hear Derrick and Anne chattering in Anne’s bedroom when she went downstairs to light the gas under the kettle. To Marjorie, for some unknown reason of temperament, or because of some odd coincidence of circumstances – perhaps merely because of her nine hours of deep dreamless sleep – the morning seemed to be full of the promise of happiness, the grey skies and the steady pouring of the rain somehow contributing to it. She had no cares for the future as she went about her morning’s work. Things were going to come right, she was sure; she did not even have to tell herself so – the knowledge was an intrinsic part of her.

  She carried a nice trayful of breakfast up to Ted, and he lay late, as his pleasure was on Sunday mornings. The rain was heavy enough, indeed, to keep him at home all the rest of the morning, occupying himself with the newspaper and the Luxembourg wireless programme. On Sunday mornings he frequently went down to the Crown to meet his cronies of Saturday night, but to Ted this was not a desperately important engagement like Saturday evenings. He really did not mind missing it; especially as for some reason or other it was his custom, if he went to the Crown on Sunday morning, to drink gin-and-bitters – three or four gins-and-bitters – instead of his usual beer. And gin-and-bitters was bad for him, and he knew it even while he drank it. He was touchy and irritable after dinner if he had drunk gin-and-bitters before it. So that when the rain kept him at home he felt all the virtue of one who had valiantly resisted temptation.

  Money was short after the last three weeks of bachelorhood, and it was good to think that he was three or four shillings richer as a result of intelligent self-denial. That little blonde girl whom he had met in Riddell’s company last week had looked all right. The next time he saw her he would try and get a word in with her when Riddell was bus
y and make a date with her for the pictures. Girls with a high-pitched laugh like that were generally pretty good if you could get them alone.

  Ted had an expression by which he described the ideal existence. He called it ‘the life of a lord’. This particular Sunday seemed to be approximating closely to it. The first essential was a complete absence of anything to do, no work to do, no odd jobs. There must also be absent the urge to do anything, which at rare intervals sometimes afflicted him and spoilt an otherwise promising day. Nothing to do, and all day to do it in, up to the evening. Breakfast in bed, and a long lie in, just as he had had this morning. Idleness so complete that he was not to be lured into breaking it by going out for a drink. A good dinner – that was another essential ingredient in the life of a lord. Then further idleness, lasting just so long that it was on the very point of beginning to pall. Not so that it really did pall, but so that one had the additional pleasure of knowing that it might and forestalling it, the desire for a drink coming at the exact identical moment when further doing nothing might become tedious.

  Beer was good then. It blended perfectly with the other factors which play their part in the life of a lord, as though some master of music were building up some superb chord, adding note to note, each one giving further richness and harmony, not strange or unknown, but each in its way anticipated and expected and satisfying. Riddell was not there with his blonde, but Ted had not expected to see them – early closing day was when Riddell was about. That did not matter. The blonde would keep for a bit, sure enough. Madge was at home waiting for him.