Caroline England

by Noel Streatfeild

  “I’m sorry. He’s fond of you.”

  “He’s got a funny way of showing it.” Elizabeth slouched along in silence a moment, then she burst out: “Of course, I always knew he took Paula about, but I never thought there was anything in it. It was quite by accident I found out. The fool left a letter of hers on his blotter. She called a spade what it is.”

  “I’m sorry. Can’t you wait a bit?”

  “What for? It would be hell living in the house with a man you can’t trust. Wondering where he’s going each time he goes out. I wrote at once and told him how I knew and that I was starting the divorce going.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, a lot of hot air about really loving me all the time. You know the sort of muck. Then he tried to blame me. It’s hell when people won’t stick to their promises. He knew I was a writer when he married me. I’ve never expected him to give up his work for me. The house has always been run all right, but he can’t expect me to dash in circles round him when I’m in the middle of a book. I daresay I am sometimes tired and cross,—who wouldn’t be when a chapter won’t come right?—but then he’s often tired and cross before a lecture, and I don’t make it an excuse to go off and sleep with some other man.”

  Violet made a soothing sound, which expressed neither condemnation no agreement. There was nothing to say. So easy to see how it had happened. Elizabeth with a hectic look in her eyes, and a ‘don’t-speak-or-I’ll-bite-you’ air. Aldous coming in tired, in the mood to talk trivialities. But the flat never looked like trivialities. The furniture was so modern and to the point. It was obvious the walls were washable. There was no peace in the few pictures, each one calculated to make you think. Violet doubted if Paula was more than a pastime to Aldous, whatever Aldous may have meant to Paula. But Paula looked as if she found the world amusing. She was graceful and welcoming. It was pitiably easy to see what had happened.

  “Well, don’t do anything in a hurry.”

  “It’s Aldous who’s burning the boats.” Elizabeth’s voice showed just how deep the cut had gone. “He’s written to Mother. He thinks they’ll talk me out of it which just shows how little he has ever understood me.

  I was going to write and tell Mother in a day or two anyway, but now she’s going to hear it to-day. She may as well know my mind’s made up before she reads a whole lot of slop from Aldous. I’m divorcing Aldous and, after to-day, I don’t intend to discuss it with anybody.”

  Caroline and Elizabeth stood in the doorway and watched the family drive away. Helen’s enormous Rolls Royce filling the lane, and Violet’s small car, with herself and James in it, following behind like the lady’s maid (with the jewel-case) bustling after her mistress.

  Mrs. Hampshire, returning from shopping with a loaded string bag, came rather wearily up the road. She paused to wave to Caroline’s family.

  “It’s no wonder they’re Red, is it?” said Elizabeth.

  “Red, dear!” Caroline looked puzzled. “Who?”

  “The Hampshires and those sort of people. Look at their insanitary little cottage, and she trailing in buses while Helen lords it in a Rolls.”

  “I don’t think the cottage is insanitary. Mrs. Hampshire keeps it beautifully. Of course, there is that well in the scullery which can’t be very healthy, and I sometimes think gives Mr. Hampshire his rheumatism. Mrs. Hampshire doesn’t like motor cars. She says they make her feel sick.”

  “That’s what she says to you, but underneath I bet she’s Red, and no wonder.”

  “Really, dear!” Caroline was very surprised. “I know them very well and they never seem to feel a bit like that.”

  “That’s in front of you. But if they let themselves go you’d be surprised. They read inflammatory stuff, you know.”

  “Oh no, dear. Mrs. Hampshire never reads at all, she says it tires her eyes; and Mr. Hampshire only reads a local weekly. I don’t think they care much about politics in the country. If Mrs. Hampshire talks to me about news, it’s generally of a death in the next village or to tell me Mr. Hampshire has seen in the paper that the Women’s Institute at Upper Dicker or Brown Bread Street have won a prize for something or other.” She went back to the drawing-room. “Let’s sit by the fire, it’s cold.”

  Caroline tried not to look as if she were glad to sit, but how ridiculously tired she felt. Really it was ludicrous of her. Just a little family party, nothing tiring in that. She looked anxiously at Elizabeth who was nervously lighting a cigarette. What did she want? It was not like her to be the last to go. She cut her visits shorter than any of them.

  Elizabeth propped herself up against the mantel-piece. She fixed her eyes on the fire’s flames. How idiotic to be afraid to tell her mother something. She had never really been afraid of her when she was a child, so to be afraid now was fantastic. But over matters of right and wrong her mother was so peculiar. She glowered at the fire.

  “Mother, I’m divorcing Aldous.”

  For a moment it seemed to Caroline the room swam. When everything was still again her heart beat so loud she thought Elizabeth must hear it. “Divorcing him. But you can’t be. I saw there was a birthday letter from him by the afternoon post.”

  Elizabeth found the idiocy of this reasoning stimulating. “He was fool enough to leave a letter from the woman about.”

  “Don’t you love him any more?” Elizabeth looked at her mother in despair.

  “You can’t love a man who isn’t faithful to you. Can you?”

  Caroline drew herself together.

  “You’ve never loved him. If you had ever cared for him really, nothing he could do, nothing, would matter.” Elizabeth looked back at the fire. Poor mother was going ga-ga. Lord, she would like to tell her about Father. If she had ever known that, with her strong views on right and wrong, he would soon have been out of the door. “Apart from the question of caring, it’s an appalling atmosphere for a home. You must be able to trust each other.”

  “Home!” Caroline’s voice trembled with scorn. She gripped her left side to quiet her heart. “You’ve never known the meaning of the word home. What home have you ever given Aldous? The best room in the house full of your books and papers, and a secretary sitting at a typewriting machine. I’ve seen you greet him with your hair on end and ink on your fingers. A man, when he comes in, has a right to expect everything to be just so, and his wife waiting to welcome him.”

  Elizabeth tried to laugh.

  “My dear mother, you’re absolutely prehistoric. After all, my career is every bit as important as his. When I finish work I don’t expect to find him waiting to welcome me.”

  Caroline wished that her heart would not disturb her so. There was so much she would like to say.

  “But what about Jane? You’ve no right to break up her home.”

  “Jane!” Elizabeth was genuinely surprised. “Aldous and I have made a point of never interfering with her. As a matter of fact I have a theory that children are better away from their parents. I think they’d be happier really, brought up by the State.”

  “Don’t do this.” Caroline leant forward. Had Elizabeth been looking at her mother, she would have been startled to see how tired and white she had become. “Divorce is wrong, Betsy. ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ You swore to take your husband for better or worse.”

  Elizabeth was finished. The small room was closing in on her. She dreaded claustrophobia. Her mother’s arguments sounded like a drama of the nineties.

  “It’s no use arguing. I thought I’d tell you. Aldous has written and you’d rather hear about it from me. Don’t bother to come to the door. It’s cold out.”

  Caroline got up and watched Elizabeth start her car. How unhelpful she had been. Poor Betsy, if only she had been able to think of something to say. There she sat in that fast car, looking so collected and efficient.

  How could she, when
she was deliberately smashing her life?

  The car moved off. Elizabeth waved. Caroline went back to her chair. She felt all of sixty now. Divorce! How dreadful! Men were foolish and weak, but what were women for if not to understand and forgive? Besides, those sort of women did not mean much. You had your own sort of love. No one who saw the look on John’s face when he died could doubt that.

  Chapter XXII

  “THERE,” said Miss Brown , “you’re sure you’ve got everything you want. I do wish I was coming with you.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Caroline placed her bag on the seat of the railway carriage. “With Bill there for his holidays I can’t possibly ask Helen to put up a household.”

  “If you go out at night don’t forget to keep your fur coat buttoned right up to the neck.”

  “My dear Brownie, I’ve not reached second childhood. I may be going to be sixty-three in March, but that is not an age at which one needs looking after like a baby. Of course I shall button my coat.”

  Miss Brown flushed.

  “I know I fuss, you must forgive me. But after all you are only just over bronchitis. I should hate you to be ill away from home.”

  Caroline smiled at her affectionately.

  “I’m not going to be ill again; if I am I will send for you to come and look after me. Now move away from the door. The train is just going to start. There might be a nasty accident.”

  Caroline looked with pleasure at the flying countryside. How pretty it was with its sprinkling of snow. What a lot of red berries. She did not think she had seen so many red berries since one winter in her childhood when she drove with her mother in the afternoons. The hedges that year had been red with hips and haws. She could see still the purple patches of berries on the privet. The violent scarlet against the sky of the holly. A wonderful year that had been; perhaps this year was as good, but holly trees were better in Kent than in Sussex. She hoped nice people were staying at the Manor, the sort who liked looking at berries, it must be so beautiful just now. She glanced across at the other window. In moving, her eye fell on her bag on the seat beside her. Her face saddened. This little visit to Helen should be delightful, a pity she was not going for pleasure. She picked up her bag and took out James’s letter. She had read it so often since it had arrived yesterday that the folding marks might have been put in with an iron.

  “Dear Mum,—

  “I am going to be married. She is called Martha Gun. She says I am to tell you the truth about her. She is not your sort. She works in the Mikado tea-rooms in the High Street here. I think you will like her when you know her. Now that the garage is not doing too badly we shall have heaps to marry on. Marty is not used to servants or anything like that, in fact she laughed when I said we ought to have some, so we shall really have more money than we need. We are being married this Saturday. Don’t think we were trying to keep it a secret from you, she wanted me to write at once and I meant to but you were ill so I couldn’t. I don’t want you to come to the wedding because Marty has asked her friends and they are not your sort. Think of us at half-past one on Saturday.

  “Love,

  “Jim.”

  Caroline dropped her hand and the letter into her lap. Poor foolish Jim. She had always been against this garage but he was so proud to be earning at last. Dear man, he was just the sort to marry some common girl who wanted his money. Probably she was going to have a baby. He was so chivalrous, he would never realise that sort of girl was quite capable of pretending a child was his when it was not. It was all very sad of course; the girls in the village at home had been very wrong about that kind of thing; girls of that class were; they had not the same outlook as girls differently brought up. It was very wrong of Jim of course, but men were weak and he must certainly not ruin his life for a mistake like that. So fortunate that she had these few hundreds that she could draw out easily. Five hundred pounds would be a fortune to a girl of that sort. She must arrange that Jim lived somewhere nicer. She had never approved of that suburb, nobody of his class at all. He was bound to be lonely and make friends with the wrong sort of people. It was certainly time he was married, so unfortunate that he was never at his best with strangers. He was not really an awkward boy, but with other people present he seemed bound to knock things over, dear man. If only he was in a different profession. Of course the girls did not mean to be unkind, but constantly teasing him about the various careers he had taken up did not help him. She moved to a more upright position. Tiresome how easily she became short of breath lately. It made everything an effort. Of course there was nothing tiring staying with Helen, but she did rather dread her interview with Martha Gun. Probably she had golden hair sticking out from one of those nasty little caps, or perhaps one of those great common bows. Bows made her think of Bonita, those dear little ribbons on the side of her head, so pretty for a child. Bonita, Ford, Helen, Bill, Betsy, Jane, she would soon be seeing them all. Her thoughts dwelt on each of them, then wandered and jumbled. She awoke. How very peculiar she had fallen asleep. She never remembered doing such a thing in a train. How fortunate the carriage was empty. Of course she had a bad night last night, worrying about Jim had made her breathing so tiresome. She looked out of the window. Why she must have slept for quite a time, this was the outskirts of London. She smoothed her hair, pushed a hair pin, which had slipped, into place, straightened her hat, and put on her gloves.

  Edwards was at the station to meet her. As he took Caroline’s suitcase from the carriage he explained how sorry her Ladyship was not to be able to be there, but the masseuse was with her. Caroline was disappointed. It would have been nice if Helen had met her, and perhaps Bill, or the children. Very tiresome that Helen was having massage, that would mean she was in the doctor’s hands. She had weak ankles as a child, most unfortunate if they were giving trouble again.

  Edwards helped Caroline into the car and put the rug over her knees.

  “How have you been keeping, Madam? We was all sorry to hear you’d been ill over Christmas.” Caroline gave him a smile.

  “I’m very well, thank you. Just a chill. It’s this changeable weather.”

  Edwards looked at her shrivelled face. He mentally shook his head as he got into the driver’s seat. Very thin Mrs. England was getting, not much more than skin and bone. Been a fine figure of a woman too, judging by the photos about the house. Caroline tapped on the window.

  “Oh, Edwards, will you stop at a toy shop? I have not got presents for Master Ford and Miss Bonita. They’ll expect something when Grannie comes to stay.”

  In the toy department of a big store, Caroline looked round confused. The place was still decorated for Christmas. What very grand toys children had nowadays. There was an almost life-sized bear, with a permanently nodding head, sitting beside her. On her left was a toy railway junction with a dozen or more trains racing in and out. An aeroplane, that an assistant was demonstrating to a party of small boys, whizzed overhead.

  “What can I show you, Madam?”

  Caroline visualised the Fern nurseries. Rocking horses, Meccanos, electric trains, the dolls’ house with running water laid on.

  “I’d like something quite simple. The sort of thing I had when I was a child.” She looked round blankly. Suddenly her face lit up. “You haven’t got any transfers, I suppose?”

  The assistant laughed. “Yes, Madam, this way.”

  The transfers were better than those Caroline remembered buying for her own children. There were sheets of flowers, which must look quite beautiful when they were done.

  “I’ll take two sheets of those and books to stick them in.”

  Helen lay flat on her back on her bed. She wore a dressing-gown.

  “Dear child.” Caroline stooped and kissed her. “I am sorry to hear you have to have massage. What’s the matter?”

  Helen laughed.

  “How like you, darling. Don’t you ever read the papers? Fat.
I’m having it kneaded off.”

  “But you’re not fat.”

  Helen made a face.

  “Thirty-six this year. This is the moment to work, if I’m going to keep my figure.”

  Caroline drew up a chair and sat down.

  “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. I’ve never done anything about my figure, and it’s always been much the same.”

  Helen looked at her affectionately.

  “But when you were about tails were in, and if you had rolls of fat round the ribs you held it back with bones.” She patted her mother’s hand. “What’s brought you to town in such a hurry?”

  Caroline opened her bag and handed Helen James’s letter. Helen read it, then raised enquiring eyes.

  “Are you going to the wedding?” Caroline turned pink with vexation.

  “There will not be a wedding. Poor Jim is weak. He’s got into the hands of rather a nasty little person, I’m afraid.”

  Helen was amused.

  “I daresay. But I don’t see what you can do about it.”

  “I shall see her this afternoon and arrange things.”

  Helen stared at her mother. Used as she was to her angle of mind towards her children she was shocked.

  “But darling Jim’s thirty-two. He’s old enough to know his own mind. You can’t just pound in and interfere without asking him.”

  Caroline’s tone was shattering in its conviction of right. “Of course I shall. I’m his mother. It’s my duty to interfere in what upsets the happiness of my children.”

  “But how do you know she is upsetting his happiness?”

  “Ford and Bonita are only children now”—there was envy in Caroline’s voice—“and you can arrange their lives as you like. When they grow up it will be more difficult. But as long as you live it is your duty to advise and guide. What else is a mother for?”

  Helen longed to say ‘not to interfere.’ But her mother looked old and tired. She considered that they had been wretchedly brought up. Too much interference in their private lives, too little trouble taken to develop their individualities. Ford and Bonita could not say that. They were never interfered with, but every opportunity was put in front of them to bring out their gifts and cut new facets on their personalities. They were considered original and clever children. That must be fun for a child. Oh, those drab days in the schoolroom at Swan. She had it in her when a child to be entertaining. “Oh no, darling, you won’t want to meet all the people. Miss Brown will take you for a walk, and then Mummy will be free to play a game with you before you go to bed. We don’t want a lot of strangers, do we?” How bitterly she had resented her sheltered childhood. How she often wished she had something original about her. She held her own in George’s world, but only she knew what an effort it was to keep up with them all. Over-guarded schoolroom days did not produce the smartness and toughness needed to batter through a world where all that mattered was being just that bit more amusing or accomplished than the next woman. Besides what was the good of probing or prying into your children’s lives? All they asked of you was good health, and a chance to shine. For all her probing and prying what did her mother know of her children? Nothing. Betsy laughing at her divorce. She remembered the day when she had said, “Why laugh? I know you are hating it like hell. Why put on an act for me?” Elizabeth’s bitter “How do you know if I find it funny or not? Do you want to run to Mother and say, ‘Write to Aldous; Betsy would make it up if she had half a chance?” Helen had a shrewd suspicion that she would too if it were not that her mother would sentimentalise about it. “I’m so glad, darling. I knew you would find you’d made a mistake.” Now Jim! God knew if he wanted to marry this ghastly Martha or not, but what a nerve to interfere. However it was none of her business, thank goodness. She would send her mother in the car to the Mikado and let things rip. She changed the subject.