The bath-water was luke-warm. Ellie, who had a cold, gave up the thought of a bath and washed in her room. The incident had so menaced her that, even at the distance of her youth, she felt the threat of lonely, maniac old age. She went out depressed. It was as though anticipation had worn out her excitement and left her too tired to feel at all.
6
When, at Baker Street station, Quintin found Ellie by the bookstall, she was wiping her nose. She looked as though she had wiped off most of her powder; her nostrils were pink and shiny, her cheeks waxen. Why, if she had a cold, did she not ring and put off this wretched excursion? She looked plain, thin and shabby. Her manner, too, had changed. She had lost the confidence of her old happiness and seemed apprehensive. She greeted him with a nervous accusation: ‘You’re late. I’ve been waiting ages.’
He looked at his watch: ‘You must have been early, my dear. I’m only a couple of minutes late.’
They walked up to the park gates without speaking. It was the dead heart of the winter. The flower beds were empty, the trees naked. The wind’s edge was hard and gritty. What a day, he thought, to be dragged out for a walk! – then he noticed that over the water there was a wild circling of wings.
‘What’s the excitement? Oh, the lake is frozen—’ his interest was roused – ‘I had not realised it was cold enough.’
They stood among the group feeding the birds. Above them the air flashed with the wheeling gulls. ‘This is fun! Isn’t it fun?’ He turned, laughing, to Ellie. She smiled, but it was not much of a smile. He could not think what was wrong with the girl.
Ellie felt herself inadequate to this occasion. She knew her inadequacy was separating her from Quintin but she could not overcome it. Her attraction had failed. She felt ugly. She could think of nothing to say. Even the sight of the birds did not rouse her. She was doing her best to reflect Quintin’s enthusiasm but knew she carried no conviction.
Quintin now seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Here,’ he said to a very small boy, ‘that bit’s too big, you know. Let me break it up.’ He broke up the bread and fitted the pieces back into hands that could scarcely bend for their woolly thickness of gloves. ‘Now then, throw it,’ and the small boy parted his hands and let the pieces fall on to a pair of violet-throated pigeons pecking at his feet. The pigeons scattered indignantly. Quintin threw back his head and laughed.
‘How nice he is!’ thought Ellie. ‘How wonderful to have a father like that!’
Quintin, meeting her longing eyes, caught her hand. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘You look cold.’ As he felt her fingers stiff and frozen inside her cotton gloves, he said: ‘My dear child, really!’
For the first time he noticed the cottony look of her coat, the thinness of her high-heeled shoes that were dark round the welts as though wet. ‘You girls are so silly. You think more about looking smart than keeping warm. That’s almost a summer coat. Come on, now, step out briskly or we’ll be having you laid up.’
As they stepped briskly along the ice edge, Ellie’s spirit rose because Quintin had said ‘we’ll have you laid up,’ and she began to imagine herself ill and Quintin visiting her and assuring her her job would be kept for her.
Quintin broke into her thoughts, saying: ‘If you were a wise girl you would spend more on food and clothing. You could save by getting a cheaper room.’
‘It’s the cheapest room in the house.’
‘I dare say, but you could go to a different district. Why not look around World’s End? There you could get a bigger room for less money, and . . .’ he was about to add ‘and have more freedom’, but he left the thought unspoken.
She had no reply. She knew the room took too much of her income, but the atmosphere of the house and road had reassured her when she arrived. She had looked in cheaper districts and had been frightened by them. She imagined they must be those haunts of strange sins so often mentioned by the Baptist preachers. She felt safe in Oakley Street.
Her silence increased Quintin’s irritation with her. Neither had anything to say. As they passed round the lake, the park, that before had seemed sombre beneath the grey weight of sky, now revealed itself in delicate vistas the colour of a moonstone. Ellie noticed on her left-hand buildings that were cupolaed, pillared, balconied and decked with statues that seemed about to take flight from the cornices. She caught her breath at them: ‘But are they houses? Do people really live in them?’
Quintin gave them a critical glance. ‘Yes, houses. They are much admired, but don’t you think they are a little sensational?’
‘No.’ Ellie came suddenly alive. ‘No, I like them.’
‘Ah!’ Quintin bowed in ironical deference to her opinion and Ellie, bursting into laughter, felt their relationship somewhat restored. She took his arm. He squeezed her hand and now they walked closely against the cold.
Beyond the island, where the lake stretched wide and light, there was a great gathering of birds. The ice was the colour of a fish’s eye. In its thickness were held plane leaves and twigs, with here and there a bullet-star of cracks or a white cockle-shaped air-pocket. On the surface walked gulls and mallards and ducks with flame-golden breasts. Among these smaller fowl, awkwardly, like overgrown adolescents at a children’s party, were swans that kept peering down, beak-tip to ice, as though puzzling over the disappearance of the water.
Someone had pulled a bough out across the lake. It stood in the midst of all this activity, light-coloured like a root thrown up from a submerged forest, enormous, tangled and unreal in the ice-grey air.
Under the shelter of the island was a patch of water kept fluid by the activity of the birds that crowded it like children in a paddling pool. From there the ducks managed to take off, cutting a way among the other birds, rising and whirring round, then landing dexterously, braking their passage with upturned feet.
On all this Quintin commented delightedly as though he had not been so entertained for years. But beyond the lake the atmosphere darkened and grew heavy, dissolving the shapes of things in a fog that seemed a concentration of cold. Quintin retired into himself. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders contracted, as though he were shuddering into his heavy overcoat, chin down, collar up, guarding his chest against the cold. Ellie, feeling him withdrawn from her, let her hand slip from his arm: he did not notice its going.
When they crossed the bridge and emerged from trees into the open spaces beyond, the wind came howling at them. Ellie shivered, painfully cramped with cold – but more painful to her was the sense of Quintin’s withdrawal. He frowned and kept his brows raised at the same time, looking angry, as though, were she to mention the cold, he might blame her because he suffered it.
In the open there was still a bleak, pewtery daylight. People, dark, merged yet shifting, stood round a playing-field. Here and there the red of football jerseys stood out oddly from the foggy light. There were shouts as a goal was scored. Ellie would have liked to stop, but Quintin pressed on, skirting the crowd widely and frowning down at the grass churned into mud.
‘Too many people,’ he said. ‘Too many everywhere. The only hope for this island would be to export half the population.’
‘Export them?’ Ellie, hearing this theory for the first time, was astonished by it, ‘Where to?’
‘Plenty of room in Australia, for instance.’
She considered this for a long time, unable to accept the idea that some people, thrust out of their native land like birds from an overcrowded nest, should be sent to fend for themselves in strange lands. ‘But who would be the ones to go?’ she asked at last, and added daringly: ‘Probably me. Perhaps you.’ She smiled to show she meant no harm, but he did not smile.
He had intended pointing out to her the fantasy shapes of the Mappin Terraces, but now they had almost disappeared. He was in no mood to elucidate them. He let them pass without a word.
Half-stunned by the wind, they reached the other side of the park. Coming into Camden Town, finding the shops open, the world busy an
d brilliant, he said again: ‘What fun!’ and, looking at Ellie with compassionate amusement, added: ‘You know, I never gave you a Christmas present! I’ll get something here.’
Ellie, surprised, protested: ‘Oh, no, why should you?’
‘But there must be something you would like – just as a keepsake.’
She surveyed her needs, too bewildered by them to catch the word ‘keepsake’. ‘I do need some face-powder,’ she said.
‘Face-powder? You shall have face-powder.’ He caught her arm and guided her into a little chemist’s shop: ‘Face-powder,’ he commanded the girl behind the counter. The girl tilted her chin, prepared to take offence, then recognising something in Quintin’s expression and manner, the corners of her lips sank down in a provocative smile. Her shoulders twitched; she spread her ringed left hand effectively on her bosom. ‘What colah?’ she asked.
‘Peach. Light peach.’ Ellie could scarcely speak, stabbed as she was by the realisation that Quintin was smiling at this girl just as he smiled at her. She swallowed in her throat and grew hot. When Quintin handed the open boxes to her, she took them with agitated hands. The cheapest box was three shillings and sixpence; the dearest, fifteen shillings.
‘Heavens above, fifteen shillings!’ Quintin made a face, the girl giggled. ‘Fifteen shillings for face-powder! What’s the difference?’
‘The expensive one has a lovely perfume,’ said the girl.
‘Is that all? Here, we’ll take this.’ Without consulting Ellie, he picked out a box that cost six shillings. As the girl wrapped it, she gave Ellie a side-long glance of appraisal, then returned her eyes to Quintin with a look that seemed to say, given time and opportunity, she could make better use of him.
As they made their way to the main road, Ellie faced the fact that she had been jealous. She had not only been jealous, she had had reason to be. This knowledge widened her concept of Quintin. He did not exist only on the occasions of their meetings, but at other times he moved about in a world unknown to her, a world full of dangerous other women. She was caught suddenly in a fear that one of these women might desire and seize him from her, a fear so acutely real that she forgot he was there, walking beside her. She imagined him already lost. She felt relief when he reminded her of his presence by saying:
‘I’ve heard there’s a street market here: barrows and naphtha flares – the sort of things painters like. I must show you.’ But when they turned into the main road no market was in sight. Quintin lost interest in it. He guided her into a tea-shop. Pushing between the packed, untidy tables, he smiled back at her, delighted by this novel contact with life. ‘Isn’t this amusing?’ he said, glancing round at faces that were unamused: ‘Isn’t it?’ he insisted on Ellie’s agreeing.
Ellie, breathing in the stale, steamy smell of tea and clothes, the familiar under-smell of watery vegetables, said: ‘Yes,’ but Quintin was not satisfied. ‘Perhaps you would rather go somewhere else?’
‘Oh no. This is quite all right.’
They had to share a table with two other people. Quintin studied the menu: ‘Very reasonable,’ he said. ‘Now, you must make a good tea. How about toast and jam and fruit-cake?’
‘Oh, I won’t want so much if we’re having supper later.’
He looked a little startled. ‘Didn’t I tell you, my dear . . . ? I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I shall have to leave at six. How stupid of me not to warn you. You’ll have an empty evening.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose I would’ve been doing anything, anyway.’ She smiled brightly in the face of her empty evening.
Quintin put the thought of it from him in an instant. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen you since Christmas. And how was your mother?’
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘Wanting you to return home?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know . . . you may be forced to do so in the end, my dear.’ Quintin spoke lightly and reasonably.
Ellie stared at him: ‘To go back to Eastsea?’
‘Yes. This is no life for a girl, up here alone. You’d be better at home, and safer.’
Ellie was aghast. Her lips trembled: her face took on a damp pallor. She looked betrayed, yet unable to believe betrayal possible. Quintin turned uneasily away: ‘What future have you here?’ he asked.
‘You think I’m going to get the sack?’
Annoyed by her intense apprehension, he said impatiently: ‘No, no, of course not.’
It came to her that he was indeed advising her to return, for no reason, simply to return as though she were an escaped prisoner whose spirit had failed. Feeling insulted, she flushed and said: ‘I shall never go back. I’d rather die.’
Her vehemence disturbed him: ‘My dear child,’ he protested, ‘after all – one’s home is one’s home.’
She looked down at her plate and said nothing. She had attracted the attention of the other people at the table, but only Quintin was aware of that. He felt aggrieved, as though by obstinately staying in London she were placing him under an obligation to assist her. He knew himself unreasonable. When the silence became uncomfortable, he tried to make manageable conversation by asking gently: ‘What is it you find so trying about your mother?’
Ellie swallowed some tea and made an effort to recover herself. She mumbled: ‘I don’t know. All sorts of things.’ Contemplating the situation at this distance, she could think of nothing she could put into words. She tried to catch at something he would understand: ‘She . . . she’d never let you choose anything for yourself – or, rather, you never got a chance. She’d buy things she didn’t want and then make you have them. “Look what a lovely . . .” – oh, some beastly dress or coat or something – “I’ve got for you,” she would say, and when you said: “Oh, mum, why did you?” she’d say: “Is that all the thanks I get for spending my hard-earned cash on you?” I’ve never had a proper party-dress. For years I had to wear a navy marocain she got at a sale for herself. It was too small for her and she made me have it. All the other girls had proper dresses and I had that dreadful marocain. They called me “Orphan Annie” and no one would dance with me.’
Quintin threw back his head and shook with laughter. What a long, mournful recital! With tears of laughter in his eyes, he patted her hand and said: ‘Oh, come! Don’t look so tragic. I’m sure you’d find a partner whatever you wore.’
Ellie knew better. Quintin began to look bored. He felt her humourless and complaining. This was the night of Alma’s dinner-party. He became restless, looking for the waitress. He would have to go, and still he had not told Ellie that this meeting must be the last.
Outside in the street, he said: ‘I’ll have to take a taxi. I’ll drop you off somewhere, if you like. Can’t take you all the way, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh no,’ she said in panic at the thought of an evening in her room, ‘I don’t want to go back now. I’d like to walk part of the way.’
‘Supposing I drop you at Leicester Square Tube station?’
Looking for a cab, Quintin became irritable. He had lost interest in this seedy, cab-less district. They were almost at Cobden’s statue before one came along. He said to the man: ‘I’m in a hurry.’
When they reached Charing Cross Road, Quintin said to Ellie: ‘I’m afraid, my dear, I won’t be able to see you again,’ then as Ellie turned her stunned face towards him he added: ‘I mean, not for some time.’
‘But, why?’
‘Some family trouble. It would take too long to explain. Besides, I haven’t been well – not really well. I’m thinking of going abroad. I’m sorry.’ He took her hand: she let it lie in his, lifeless, as though some terrible sentence had been passed on her. He gave it a squeeze, rallying her, and let it drop. ‘I’ll ring you some time.’
‘When?’
‘Oh . . .’ Looking away from her, he told himself he must not deceive her. ‘It’s hard to say. Probably not for . . . well, for several months.’
‘Several months?�
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The taxi drew up to the kerb, but she sat still, looking at him, her eyes desolate. He glanced at his watch and said apologetically: ‘I’m afraid I must hurry. I have to dress before going out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She descended from the taxi. ‘Which way do I go?’
‘Why, down there, then straight on.’ He gave a laugh at her ignorance, and she laughed too. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Good-bye, my dear. One day we’ll meet again.’
‘Good-bye.’
He leant back into his corner. The taxi went on. When it was out of sight, she crossed the road and passed into the crowd that moved resplendent with light beneath the canopies of theatres and cinemas. She had never walked here at night before. She went unnoticed among a surge of people who seemed all to be companioned, mirthful and pressing towards pleasure.
Well, she had her job. She had only to exist until Monday and it would save her. She began to hurry, as though by hurrying she could speed time. Above the noise of the crowd, the noise of traffic came in a sharp-edged rattle. Beyond the cinemas, she passed windows lit with silver light, each wide and compelling as a cinema screen, drawing an audience that stood and gazed silently on giant boxes of chocolates, on green, pink and yellow fondants, on toys that moved, a boar’s head covered with gelatine, grapes large as plums, an orchid in a transparent box . . .
She stopped with the rest and gazed and thought of Quintin at his party. He had not said he was going to a party, but she supposed he must be. A cocktail party. She had never herself been to one, but she had heard of cocktail parties. She knew all about them. She was well-read in fiction borrowed from public libraries. At cocktail parties witty persons, gorgeously dressed, talked to one another in the manner of Aldous Huxley’s characters. The party she visualised for Quintin was full of women, yet none was as real, or as dangerous, as that girl had been in the Camden Town chemist’s shop. They were at a disadvantage in her mind because her mother and her mother’s friends so often condemned them, saying: ‘It’s all those cocktails they drink that’s the ruin of them.’
Doves of Venus Page 7