The Middle Age of Mrs Eliot

by Angus Wilson

  ‘Oh, yes. It was quite lovely,’ Meg answered.

  ‘There is some sadness in this middle May all the same. The first time that young Spring finds himself a little tired and cannot think why it is so.’

  ‘Yes,’ Meg said immediately. ‘Yes. That is true, Else.’ She seemed to search for some addition to her acquiescence. ‘The leaves are perhaps losing a little of their variety.’ She received Else’s smile of agreement with pleasure. David started up the stairs. ‘I’m fairly sure not Tess,’ Meg said. Her voice seemed to David to follow him, trying to hold him. ‘I know that to begin with Angel Clare would put me off. Or don’t you feel that about Tess, David?’

  *

  David, driving back from the rhododendron show at Vincent Square with Tim Rattray, thought, Gordon would have made much more of this success of Tim’s. It was true that Gordon had agreed heartily before his illness that this business of starting an Andredaswood series of varieties was all against their scheme of things. ‘Nevertheless,’ he had said, ‘Tim Rattray wouldn’t have come here if he hadn’t been able to raise new rhododendrons, so we’ve only ourselves to blame if we’re saddled with his successes. Besides, David, we shall get a little prestige without you soiling your hands one speck by contributing to it. I’m always pleased when your rigid ethics reveal their casuistries. It is unfortunate, of course, that Tim’s additions to English horticulture should be of such extreme hideousness, but then that only ensures a greater market for them. Our moral duty at least is clear: we mustn’t allow our aesthetics to get in the way of his enjoyment of his triumphs.’

  Certainly today’s first prize winner seemed more than ever difficult to praise. He wondered how even Gordon would have managed it. Bloom (gigantic) white flecked green, eye scarlet shading into a delicate shell pink. He had almost thought of putting his foot down at Tim’s chosen name – Andredaswood Loveliness, until he had reflected that no other name could do it justicel. Anyway, it was Tim’s variety and Tim’s the right to name it.

  He said, ‘I do wish you’d have let me persuade you to have that slap-up dinner at the Savoy.’

  ‘Persuade! I almost went down on my hands and knees. The juices of that fillet steak are still in my mouth to remind me that I shall never taste it. If that’s what you call persuading, your entertainment claim isn’t going to worry the tax inspector much.’

  David remembered all too clearly the reason why his persuasion had not been stronger. He said, ‘Well as soon as you told me Eileen was expecting …’

  ‘Oh, Eileen’s expected before,’ Tim shouted to drown David’s continuing, ‘and she hasn’t died of it.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke. Then he said, ‘No wonder they say sentimental old bachelors. I believe you think that the matrimonial state consists in anniversaries and special little dinners and what not. Eileen wouldn’t care whether we toasted the Andredaswood Loveliness tonight or next Saturday week as long as she had the drink. I’ve never known anyone so ardent for the married bliss of others. You ought to try your own medicine. I’ve never known why you …’ He stopped. David saw with alarm that a bright pink blush had crept over Tim’s cheeks and neck. People should never ask themselves questions, he thought. But they both began to speak at once.

  ‘I should like to join you and Eileen in drinking a toast …’

  ‘Well, at any rate, you’ll join us.’

  They could laugh the moment away. Such luck doesn’t happen often, David thought; there’s a good chance, too, that he hasn’t seen my consciousness of his embarrassment.

  ‘I can get two bottles of champagne,’ he said, ‘if we stop at the house before going to your place.’

  ‘Excellent. And you can fetch Mrs Eliot along. And the Bode if she likes.’

  ‘I’d rather confine the occasion to you and Eileen, if you don’t mind, Tim.’

  ‘Oh, I think we ought to have Mrs Eliot. I’m sure the more she’s in on any social occasion the better. Besides she’s so easy on the eyes. I’d thought I’d give her a bloom or two and make some asinine speech about Andredaswood Loveliness.’

  ‘We can have another more official party one evening this week. We can ask the staff and you can make your speech then.’

  ‘Christ! I don’t think I’d like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I can’t keep this look of modest pride on my chivvy forever.’

  ‘All right. But I want the chance to talk to Eileen alone this evening. I mean to the two of you.’

  ‘Good Lord! Is this where I get the push?’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘I want to ask Eileen one or two things about my sister.’

  ‘Oh! They drove on in silence for twenty minutes, then Tim said, ‘I don’t want to barge in where I’m not wanted or anything, but I must say I think it’s a frightfully bad idea to start talking about her behind her back. I’m not an expert on nervous breakdowns, but I know what moods and depressions mean. I know if any heavy depression moved down from Iceland and settled over me, nothing would make me go up the wall more than to think that people were getting together about me in corners. Anyway she’s made such a terrific recovery.’

  ‘Yes,’ said David. ‘Yes. She has. All the same I should like to talk to Eileen.’

  ‘Eileen was in a children’s ward. I hope you realize that.’ ‘Oh, it’s not because she’s been a nurse. It’s because she’s a very sensible person.’

  ‘Ah, there of course I’m with you all along the line.’

  There, when they arrived, was Eileen Rattray, half the right little wife to come home to, with all cares of house or children banished for her weary hero, and half, since John and Anne were still shouting upstairs, the kindly, efficient, no nonsense modern mother. Seeing her, David thought, what sort of sentimentalism makes me determined to denote her the one very sensible person on the place. Normally, perhaps, it was because he wanted above all to get on with Tim’s wife, for a hundred mixed reasons – preventive, defensive, apologetic, identifying. This evening, however, he knew quite well why it was: she was the one person who was likely to give him the advice he wanted to hear. What fakers we all are, he thought.

  They toasted Andredaswood Loveliness. Tim said, ‘We ought to get some proper champagne glasses, darling. Even if it is only for the odd occasion.’ He looked, as David had never seen him before, pompous as he said it, although it was clear that he intended to look composedly worldly. To David’s regret, Eileen took her husband’s manner quite seriously. ‘Yes, darling,’ she said, ‘but I think you’d better choose them. I should have no idea what to get.’ So much for the ‘good sense’ you’re so determined to see in her, David told himself: he scouted the idea of ‘loyalty’.

  ‘I’m not stopping at this, you know. I’m determined to put Andredaswood on the pothunter’s map, despite all David’s isolation policy. With any luck I ought to push through Andredaswood Splendour and Andredaswood Daintiness next year.’

  David, as he smiled his congratulations, pictured them. Green white (gigantic), eye chocolate shading to oxblood; and white flecked rosepink (gigantic), eye lilac shading to pale mauve. Even daintiness for Tim would have to be gigantic. He realized that Tim’s ghastly taste only added to his attraction. He felt too that in not objecting to Andredaswood Daintiness he was performing a very satisfactory act of self-abnegation. Anyway it was all a just punishment for having agreed to maintain the pretentious name of ‘Andredaswood’ when they moved in.

  He said, ‘Eileen, I wanted to ask you how you thought Meg was getting on?’

  Tim said, ‘Mr Chairman may I once more register a formal protest before this unsuitable matter begins.’

  David said, ‘Tim thinks it’s wrong for me to discuss Meg when she’s not there. But after all I have to do it with the doctor and it’s much more useful to talk to you.’

  ‘I didn’t say wrong. I said it might upset her if she got to hear of it.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Eileen said, ‘that’s silly, darling. She won’t get to hear of it. But what’s
the matter, David, anyway? She’s made good progress for a depressive.’

  ‘Yes,’ David said doubtfully.

  ‘I think it’s amazing how she’s pulled herself out of it considering what she’s been through.’ It was clear that Tim, for all his scruples, intended to contribute.

  ‘Oh, depressives can help up themselves quite a lot,’ Eileen said. David longed to remind her that she had after all been a children’s nurse.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ David said, ‘she’s a person of great courage and strength of will. That’s perhaps what worries me. She’s content here, even happy. But it’s such an acquiescent sort of contentment. There’s nothing here for her. She used to have such spirit and now she’s …’ he mumbled, then said, ‘I wish she wasn’t so anxious to please.’

  ‘Good manners,’ Tim said. ‘Besides, isn’t that exactly what you were asking for? You said to me the day you went up to town to fetch her that she’d stuck her neck out too much. You said she ought to detach herself more from things, take things more peacefully; or something like that. I think she’s marvellous.’

  Tim’s reference to his illogicality somehow annoyed David very much. He said irritably, ‘That’s not really to the point, Tim. In any case you’ve misunderstood me. I don’t grumble at her being more detached. Certainly not. It would be a great step forward. But she’s not really. She’s calmer, and that’s excellent as far as it goes. But it’s a negative sort of calm, or rather I feel that it’s a desperate sort of calm. It’s too near to apathy. Quite honestly, Eileen, I’m worried lest she should simply lapse into a feeble, contented dependence. I feel that I ought to urge her at least to think about getting a job. Detachment without some simple function to fulfil is an impossibility in this world.’ He noted his emphasis with horror, but the others had not noticed it. Nevertheless he corrected himself. ‘Today. The only thing is that I can’t really be the one to suggest it.’

  Eileen clearly welcomed this more practical aspect of his views. ‘Yes, I see, David,’ she said, ‘but hers isn’t a hysteric case, you know. She’s a genuine depressive. Doctor Loder says so.’

  Tim drank his glass of champagne off in one gulp and gave himself another. ‘How do you know what Loder says?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘I think Climbers told me,’ she answered casually.

  ‘And how the hell …?’

  But David intervened, ‘I’m afraid, Tim, there’s an inevitability of leakage with all these women.’ He smiled in turn at both of them. ‘Nevertheless, Eileen, I’m not entirely content with Terence Loder’s diagnosis. She’s never had depressive fits before.’

  Eileen laughed a little scornfully. ‘I don’t think I should start on a home diagnosis, David, it’s liable to be as dangerous as home nursing. The truth is you’re frightened that she’ll stay put here, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m very happy to have her here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want her to be dependent on me that’s all.’

  Tim looked disgusted; but Eileen said, ‘No, that’s very reasonable.’ She considered for a moment. ‘I think, David,’ she said, ‘that we ought to rely on Doctor Loder’s opinion. But if my opinion seems of use to you, I must say that I feel certain she’s not ready to stand on her own feet yet. I’ll tell you what I shall do. I’ll keep an eye on the situation myself, and at the same time I’ll look out for any jobs that might suit her. I think we should try to find something far enough away to give her the opportunity to live on her own but not too far in case she feels lost. The thing has to be done by stages, you know.’

  David thanked her. He was furious with himself; he had sought agreement and assistance in carrying out his wishes, he had gained only interference.

  *

  David had been dreading the first week in June. Then must be held the first large cocktail party without Gordon. The two annual winter parties, smaller, indoor, but covering together the same list of guest as the June ‘do’ had been cancelled that year at the last moment. Gordon had fought for them but the week before the first had seen his last haemorrhage and collapse. David was determined to avoid all occasions that edged around the blank space in mourning black. He believed too that Gordon’s charm alone had made their entertainments successful; he was certain that Gordon’s presence, his affectionate, malicious post-mortems alone had made them tolerable. He said, ‘The June party’s always menaced by threats of bad weather. Not content with this, people must discuss weather prophecies for days beforehand and chatter weather platitudes at the party itself. English summer weather! What a theme! The June party becomes like reading a book of Times light leaders or a set of old Punches. In any case there are so many garden parties at this time of the year that people will be delighted to find that there is one less. It will be an advertisement for the place in itself.’

  His proposal was very ill-received. Else said, ‘David, I do not think it would be right for Gordon’s friends to think that they are not wanted here any more. And all our old friends! They have been so good in respecting our wishes to be private, but the time has come when we must recognize their kindness. People speak always of Gordon’s June party. And yours. They expect it. To cancel it would be such a selfish indulgence.’

  It was as though he were Queen Victoria being told to put off her mourning. He answered coldly, ‘My dear Else, we’re not the royal family, you know.’

  But reproachfully her large sad eyes followed him. She said, ‘David, I know that you feel lost without him. I do so too. When a big oak dies, all the small trees suddenly know that they are only small trees. They feel afraid of the light from which they have always been protected. But in the end they adapt themselves to the new conditions. But because we are men and women, and not trees, we remember the big oak and we honour it. I am sorry for the sermon, but it’s true, isn’t it? The June party, especially this one, is in Gordon’s honour, I think.’

  He wanted to say, ‘Fiddle-de-dee’, had he not known that Gordon, in less ridiculous words, would have shared Else’s feelings. ‘Not for myself,’ he would have said, ‘but because we disregard piety at our peril.’

  Climbers also was much distressed. She saw herself as pledged to certain customers – her favourite ones – on the question of the June party. Her whole success in the nursery seemed to her at stake if she did not ‘keep her word’ now. ‘I think Colonel Fowler will be frightfully upset, David,’ she said. ‘He told me last week that they looked on it as the best party of the summer.’ ‘Poor Mrs Archer! She’s arranged for a hired car. And she’s not very well off.’ ‘I think it’s the children who will be disappointed. The Glovers and the Tuckeys.’

  Tim simply said, ‘Oh, I think it would be rather impossible to cancel it now, David. That’s the trouble with that sort of publicity. It’s not needed, but once you’ve started it, it is an unusual thing; people would think the business was rocky if you left it off. Unless, of course, we were a much bigger sort of business than we are. I imagine that’s why other nurseries wouldn’t think of it.’

  David longed to point out many things in answer to this; the June party was not a publicity stunt (but then, of course, since they invited their best local customers, that would not be entirely true); the ‘business’ that he and Gordon had built up was infinitely larger than they had ever hoped for (but this, of course, did not make it one of the big nurseries, even of south-east England); the other nurserymen did not have the personality of Gordon, or indeed of himself (but this, of course, was hardly an answer). He contented himself with saying, ‘It isn’t entirely, or indeed primarily, a business affair, Tim. A great percentage of the people we invite are personal friends. And those who are customers are nearly all people we’ve been entertained by.’

  ‘Well you can always leave out purely personal friends if you don’t want the expense.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the expense.’ David saw no way to explain to Tim what exactly were his reasons. He said, ‘I can’t think of the occasion without Gordon there.’ He thought that Tim concealed both impati
ence and a smile of amusement at this.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Tim said, ‘the reasons are personal. Then don’t ask any intimate friends that might upset you. Make it clear it’s an entirely business party this year. Eileen will be a bit upset. You remember Gordon told her to ask any of her playmates to the three annual parties. But I’ll tell her tonight to say nothing to them. I should have the nursery name printed on the invites, that’ll make it quite clear.’

  David thought of Else’s expression if he did this. He said, ‘No. Don’t say anything. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’ He thought, every one of them is concerned with his or her own interest; but then, of course, so was he.

  He looked forward to his quiet drink with Meg in the private garden at six that evening. Since a week ago, when they had given up their expeditions, he had set aside this hour and a half before dinner to be with her. There were seasons in the year when he could not have done so; he doubted if his work truly allowed him to do so now. Nevertheless he felt it a duty and he knew increasingly that the duty was a pleasure. Later, after dinner, she was always so careful not to disturb his work on ‘Africa’, so anxious to fit in with Else, that he was glad when she had removed her distracting self-effacingness to bed. But here in the garden she seemed so genuinely relaxed that her few exclamations of pleasure came spontaneously, and most of their conversation was of the past or of books. And their explorations of the past, David thought, were now without danger of sudden squalls or treacherous reefs beneath the smooth running waters.

  They had made so many explanations to one another – of their attitudes to their parents, to each other as they had been in youth, to the caravanserai life with their mother; he had explained his pacifism, she her social ambitions – the years of estrangement really seemed to have been expiated in mutual confession. The quarrels of childhood, the battles of youth had been fought over again with a historian’s detached judgement. If the victories now seemed less glorious, the defeats less ignominious, and both less decisive, cause and effect had been diagnosed in proper academic fashion and their whole relationship could now be accepted as historic stream without too much committal to its inevitability. A nice middle-road historian’s position, he thought to himself with comforting irony. They had said more than once that analysis was not cure, that self-knowledge had no magic power to alter, that review of the past was not revocation; but the statements, he saw now, were probably no more than verbal safeguards, for the truth was that they did at last feel free to live together for that short evening time in a past that was dredged of conflict. A loving exchange of family snapshots Meg had called it. But they had both agreed that the evenings were no less cosy because they often mocked at the cosiness.