‘But Merry’s in love?’
‘She thinks she’s in love. I call it infatuation. Will you talk to her?’
‘What, tell her not to be in love? No.’
‘Warn her.’
‘Warn her against her own heart, you mean. No.’
‘Eleanor! She’s too young.’
‘Too young for what?’
‘We all thought she was going to get engaged to Clive Baines. You remember Clive? He’s been sweet on her for years and she likes him. He’s such a lovely young man. He’s been conscripted already and is off for his military training, and I’m sure he would like it to be settled before he goes.’
‘You mean, she’s old enough to marry Clive Baines, but too young to fall in love with this other man, because he’s odd.’
‘You make it sound stupid, the way you say it. We don’t want her to make foolish choices that she’ll regret for the rest of her life. This man, I don’t think he’s got the same values as us. But Clive would make her happy.’
‘Why should she make any choices at the moment? Women don’t have to choose between one man and another, as if in the end that’s all there is.’ She spoke too fervently, urging her own case, not Merry’s, and made herself slow down, speak more calmly. ‘There are other things in life, you know. Marriage isn’t everything. Times are changing.’
‘That’s all very well for you to say. You’ve got yourself a well-off, handsome doctor.’
‘Stop it! I haven’t got myself anything. Except myself,’ she added, softly.
‘I thought you’d understand.’
‘I think I do.’ Eleanor heard and hated the coldness of her voice. She tried to make amends. ‘I can talk to her about not rushing into things blindly. But I’m certainly not going to tell her to accept Clive Baines.’
‘Merry’s not like you. She’s highly strung. I don’t want her heart broken.’
It was the refrain Eleanor had been hearing ever since Sally and Robert had met: Merry’s not like you; you are strong and resilient, able to look after yourself, while Merry is delicate, breakable – which was, of course, part of her charm and most of her power.
‘You can’t prevent broken hearts.’
Merry was in the room she and Eleanor had shared for six years. The walls were still papered by a pattern of ridged pink and red roses that Eleanor had always disliked, the beds were covered by the same patterned counterpanes, Eleanor’s yellow and Merry’s a pastel blue. There was still the oval mirror on a stand on the little chest between the beds, and a wardrobe in the corner. There was the same tiny crack in the top pane of glass in the window that looked over the garden, where even now Robert was pulling weeds, and the old stain on the carpet. And yet the room was now unmistakably Merry’s. Her clothes lay brightly heaped on Eleanor’s bed, her lipsticks were under the mirror, alongside a fashion magazine. It was her smell that filled the air: lavender and something musky. She herself was standing at the open wardrobe, wearing a slip and holding a dress up against herself, white with blue sprigs on it. Her arms were round and white; her yellow hair was tied in childish plaits that were coming undone. She looked absurdly young and pretty, a creature of the spring.
‘Hello, Merry.’
‘Eleanor! Oh darling Eleanor, I didn’t hear you arrive.’
She flung herself into Eleanor’s arms and rested there awhile, the dress rustling between them. Eleanor felt the soft press of her breasts, the tickle of her hair.
‘Deciding what to wear for your picnic?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it silly? I’m so excited and nervous.’
‘You’re allowed to be excited on your eighteenth birthday, but why are you nervous?’
Merry gave a little laugh.
‘I’ve never had a party before. And also—’ She threw a quick sideways glance at Eleanor. ‘Michael’s coming.’
‘Michael.’ She would never again say his name so calmly.
‘Yes. The person I want you to meet.’ She grasped one of Eleanor’s hands. ‘He’s lovely.’
‘Is he?’
‘Just lovely. You’ll see.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you very fond of him?’
Merry regarded Eleanor with suspicion, a little crease forming between her eyes.
‘What’s Sally been saying?’
‘Just that she’s worried. And so is Robert. They don’t want you rushing into this before you’re sure.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘Why don’t you answer my question to you first – are you very fond of him?’
‘Yes! He’s so mysterious and brooding.’ She gave a little shiver and hugged herself. ‘Like someone out of a novel by Georgette Heyer.’
‘Oh,’ said Eleanor dubiously. ‘And is he very fond of you?’
‘He might not know it yet. But—’ She gave her winning smile; a dimple appeared on her cheeks. ‘You know me, Eleanor. If I want something, I’m going to get it.’ For a moment, her face hardened, her lips thinned. ‘Nothing’s going to stand in my way.’
‘But—’
‘And I am not going to marry dull old Clive Baines.’
‘I like Clive.’
‘You marry him then – but you’ve already got yourself a sweetheart, haven’t you? Your doctor.’
‘He’s not—’
‘You’ll be the favourite now, not me. Marrying someone like that; very grand. You should see Sally’s face when she talks about him.’
‘Merry—’ began Eleanor.
‘But don’t worry about me,’ continued Merry. ‘They’ll come round. You wait and see.’
Later that night, as they lay in their twin beds as if they were girls again, Merry said, in a whisper, ‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever – you know?’
Eleanor did know, but she certainly didn’t want to reply.
‘Well? Have you?’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Is it very painful?’
‘I’m sure it depends,’ Eleanor answered evasively. ‘Now go to sleep. You’ve got a big day ahead.’
‘I never would with Clive. Ugh. But someone like Michael – I bet he’s had loads of women. You can just tell.’
‘Listen,’ Eleanor said, her voice low and clear. ‘You don’t have to obey other people. You have to do what you want – about work, about love, about sex, about marriage. About everything. But that doesn’t mean simply giving in to immediate desires. It means you have to know what you really want – in a big, deep way. It’s about freedom; the freedom to be yourself.’
There was a trilling giggle in the darkness next to her.
‘Golly,’ said Merry. ‘I’d forgotten how serious you can be. I just want to be safe and happy and have fun.’
And she still remembered, too, what she put on for the picnic seventy-five years ago: a sage-green frock with short sleeves and tiny mother-of-pearl buttons, the brooch that Gil had given her pinned on to the collar, and a little straw hat that her mother had trimmed for her years ago. She had risen early and helped Sally prepare the food while Merry remained curled up in bed, half-dozing. Then she put on her dress, tied up her dark hair, and went with Robert to the station to collect Gil. She remembered the car journey back to the house, Robert chatting on and Gil’s amiable responses – and how she felt a swell of gratitude for his kindliness, his ability to be easy with everyone, making what was strange seem familiar and what was familiar seem approved of. Every so often, he would turn in the passenger seat to cast her a quick glance, and she put a finger against the back of his neck, under his untidy hair, and felt him stir under her touch. She knew the power she had over him and marvelled at it.
And the house, she saw it through Gil’s eyes and it seemed suddenly small and shabby as they approached it, with the stove chimney, the blue door and the neat front garden; the lean-to water closet where as a child she had sat listening to the rain bounce like bullets off the corrugated iron roof; t
he upright piano with its missing notes in the parlour where she had learnt to play.
Sally greeted Gil, slightly stiff in her nervousness, but he was warm and easy. Soon they were talking about Abyssinia, her volunteer work for the Red Cross (Merry was helping too, she said; everyone had to do their bit), the vegetables they grew in their back garden. Eleanor watched them. She was grateful to Gil but resisted the way he was taking her back into her family, when she had been so fixed in her determination to escape them. She had a clear sense of how he liked to make bridges between people, however separate they might seem. He did it in his work and in his personal relationships. He always and everywhere believed in connectedness, in tolerance, in seeing the other side, in discovering a common cause. He wanted everyone to get on and had about him an impersonal benevolence and sympathy that was deeply attractive. That solid, unwavering kindness was one of the reasons that Eleanor had fallen for him, and yet at the same time it made her pull back. It was too soothing.
The guests had not yet arrived and Merry was getting ready, Sally said, rolling her eyes fondly at them (these young women! she seemed to say). It was as if Merry were her real daughter, prettying herself upstairs, while Eleanor was the visitor. The two men went into the garden to look at Robert’s garden. Almost as soon as they were out of the door, Sally turned and put her hand on Eleanor’s arm.
‘What a nice young man,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘So good-looking.’
Eleanor didn’t reply.
‘And obviously dependable.’
‘You can tell that from two minutes?’
‘Oh. Don’t be so matter-of-fact. I can tell he’s in love with you. Don’t let him go!’
She remembered what Merry was wearing too, when at last she came down the stairs: her pale yellow dress that Sally had made for her and that went with her yellow hair and her wide blue eyes, and that she must have put on thinking of what food would suit it. Little sandwiches with cucumber or lemon curd, and jelly if it would stand the heat of the day; early strawberries. The dress had a full skirt that ballooned out when she twirled. Merry was a girl who twirled. Did she know how lovely she looked when she skipped, danced, put her head back to laugh and her rippling hair fell behind her like ribbons of light? Of course she did. Turning to her dear old father, to her stepmother who had always treated her like her daughter, to her darling elder sister up from London, to her friends gathered for the occasion; a light hand on their arm, her mouth parted in a smile of delight. Never mind storm-clouds gathering. Never mind dread, the footfall in the darkness. Today was Merry’s birthday and they were going down to the river, these young men and women, carrying the hamper and the tartan rugs that smelt of mothballs, to where the willows dipped their branches in the water, to have a picnic.
But there was something different about Merry that day. Eleanor noticed it at the time and remembered it later. She was ever so slightly jittery, jangled. Her sprightliness was thinned, with an artificial edge to it. Her eyes didn’t stay on the faces she was gazing up at but every so often darted to one side. She hung off Gil’s arm and told him in her beguiling voice how pleased she was to meet him at last, but her heart wasn’t quite in it. She was waiting.
She was waiting for the young man who was late to arrive. They clustered outside the house, under the blue sky. Clive Baines was there. And his brother Jeremy who had also joined up the week before and already had bristle-short hair and an air of solemnity about him. Eleanor chatted a while with the people she knew, although they remained polite with her – she was the older sister, after all, come up from London with her doctor-friend. Then her friend Emma arrived, whom Eleanor had known since they were seven. Emma was fair, her hair a reddish-blonde, full lips, wide-apart eyes and a light dusting of freckles over her nose. She had an amused and sceptical air about her; she refused to take things tragically. Eleanor introduced her to Gil and then after a few minutes withdrew into the shade of the house, standing back from the group and watching them in the heat that was making her drowsy. Gil was chatting with Emma and another young woman, and after a while Robert joined them; she noticed how Gil drew her stepfather into the little group, putting him at his ease.
She should never have feared that Gil would turn out to be untrustworthy; the danger lay elsewhere. In the figure walking towards them now down the white road, quickly because he was late but with an uneven gait; one of his legs dragged. He was smoking a cigarette, the blue smoke curling in a wisp over his shoulder. Then he let it fall to the road and extinguished it with the heel of his sound foot. Merry saw him too. She detached herself from the group and went up the road to meet him, drawing near him, taking his hands in hers. For a moment, she looked like a woman, not a girl.
Because she stood apart, Eleanor saw him long before he saw her. She had the chance to look at him straight, before love transfigured him. He was slender, not particularly tall, with hair that was the colour of a mole: a soft brown that was nearly grey, and falling in a wing over his forehead. His skin was pale, like an Irishman’s. His mouth, she saw as he drew closer, was wide. He wore a thin dark suit whose trousers were held up by a belt – or no, by a tie. Her first impression as he joined Merry’s party was one of buoyancy. His smile was generous, he turned from person to person, responsive, quick, seizing hands, nodding his head in agreement. But she also sensed a contradicting sombreness about him, and a detachment that was at odds with his surface engagement. She thought – or rationalized to herself, later – that he was in the group but not of it, as if he were acting a part, although not insincerely. She never thought him a charlatan, but he was simultaneously urging himself on and standing back.
She watched as Merry, her arm still tucked through his, introduced him to Gil. The two men shook hands. She felt a small shudder pass through her, as though it were her hand this young man was pressing. Gil looked solid, handsome, safe, warm and real. She wanted him to come to her and take her back to their old life that all of a sudden seemed far off. Her clean, bare bedsit, with Terry coughing and creaking beneath her and Gladys lurking in the hallway, the schoolroom with its rows of double desks, their sunken inkwells and scratched surfaces, girls in pigtails and the chant of times tables, men in crowds down by the docks with their sad eyes and calloused hands and boots without laces. Sunday afternoon at the pictures, the trams and the buses and the sluggish brown river. What was she doing here? A picnic with lemonade and jelly, and this young man who had come back from the singed tip of Europe to attend pretty Merry’s eighteenth birthday. She drew further back.
Of course Merry wasn’t going to accept acceptable Clive Baines, who stood in the group clustered around her, trying to smile though his face was lumpen and defeated. Eleanor felt the hot surge of blood beneath her skin. She looked at Gil, so contented and at his ease, and then away again. Back at him.
Merry cast her eyes around, found her sister and gave a little exclamation of gladness. She pulled at the young man’s hand and he stepped forward to meet Eleanor. The heat made her skin damp. She thought of the scorched landscape of Spain, cicadas and olive trees. Strong young women with swarthy skin laying aside their needlework and babies and standing at the barricades alongside their comrades. Layer after layer of respectability peeled back and all that was left was all that ever mattered: love and struggle, life and death. She had looked at the pictures with Gil but this young man had been there, travelling out on the Red Train from the Gare d’Austerlitz with others who would lay down their lives for a cause. She looked into his face and all of a sudden the smile that he hid behind disappeared, like a mask dropping from him, and for a brief moment his face altered, became stern and solitary. It could only have lasted a second but the look between them was too intimate, and she felt a door heaving open inside her, a cold wind blowing through her.
Later he used almost exactly those words. He said: ‘I felt that a door was opening.’ Or did he say: ‘I felt that an abyss was opening’? Or did she make that up as well, when
it was all over and she needed to make a story out of everything, to carry her through? His eyes like a corridor, endless, but tunnelling through her as well. When Gil looked at her, Eleanor knew that he saw what was good in her, or imagined it; his love made her better than she could ever be without him. But when he looked at her, she felt that he saw everything she wanted to keep hidden and secret. The illicit self: anger, egotism, the spidery heat of desire, little coils and tendrils inside her.
‘Ellie,’ said Merry, turning from one to the other. Eleanor could feel the heat of her nervous excitement; she was like someone wound too tight. ‘Meet Michael. Michael, this is my sister, stepsister, Eleanor. You two are obliged to get on! I insist.’ And she gave her laugh, a thin ribbon of sound spooling out around them all.
‘Hello Michael,’ said Eleanor, her calmness a skin of indifference over her swelling apprehension, and held out her gloveless hand. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ he said. ‘And so will I.’ He had a northern accent. Later he told her he came from a back-to-back in Leeds that had since been bulldozed to make way for the great tower blocks that dominated the city centre. His dad had been a drinker and violent on a bad day. His youngest brother had died of diphtheria. His mother was ambitious and fierce, urging all her children on to better things. He was a scholarship boy, a bookworm, an ardent autodidact. Of course Eleanor compared this to Gil’s clean, high-ceilinged background, silver cutlery and a car in the garage. ‘Poor Gil,’ she said to Peter, seventy years later, her face bright with tenderness and pity. ‘My poor darling Gil. He didn’t stand a chance.’
Now Michael took her cool hand in his warm, dry one (a musician’s hands, she thought to herself, though in fact he didn’t play any instrument and couldn’t hold a tune; hands like her own; long thin fingers, bitten nails) and nodded his head over her knuckles, in a remnant of a bow that was perhaps mocking. She held herself quite still but felt that her body was thrumming, quivering. He said that he had heard a lot about her. His voice had the slight rasp of someone who smoked too much. She said (was that her voice, so light and careless?) that he had the advantage over her; she’d only just been made aware of his existence. And then Merry was whispering something to him, tugging at his arm, wanting them all to get going, and he turned from her. Or she turned from him.
The Twilight Hour Page 12