Dinah's Husband: A heartfelt story of love and marriage in the 1930s

by Ursula Bloom

  During the day Max was particularly kind, and the kindness made her heart so acutely conscious of it that it hurt too. He could always be sympathetic and understanding of the emotion which he himself would not have felt.

  A thunderstorm was brewing within her much the same as it was brewing out of doors. The stillness of the trees was that stillness of fear, there was a pregnant quietness about the world usually so moved by the stirring of trees, and the tremble of grasses, and she felt that an ominous cloud rose against the wind, so as to obscure the sun.

  She believed now that she had let Piers go too easily, hurrying the parting, even glad to part with him. That was how he might feel about it when he got away. She ought to have said more, only her heart had been so full that there had been no words. He would be away for three whole years, gone so that she could not ring him up, she would never hear his voice in all that time, nor feel his hand, nor hear him laugh with that gay, schoolboyishly infectious laugh of his.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she thought, quite suddenly.

  An idea spun into her mind, and took shape. For a moment she discarded it because it seemed to be too fantastic, then she caught at it again, and knew that it refused to be dismissed so easily. Max always allowed her to do what she wanted, there was no need to explain; acting on impulse she went upstairs and packed her dressing-case, she would not need to take more for the couple of nights. The car was in the garage at the side of the house, always ready for a trip.

  Max must have heard her, because he came down the crazy path; she could see his shadow, and hear his footsteps, and turning looked at him. Instantly she realised that he knew. He was so understanding of her moods that she was an open page to him.

  She said, ‘Max, I’ve got to go down to Plymouth. I must see him again.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I’ll be back after the ship has sailed, but I can’t let him go like this. I must see him just once more.’

  ‘Yes. Can I fetch your things down for you?’

  ‘I shan’t want much.’

  She felt that it was wrong that he should be fetching her bag for her, thrusting her fur coat into the back of the car in case she needed it, and smiling encouragement at her as though she were going on quite an ordinary visit. Max forgave her any fault even before she committed it.

  ‘I’ll be back, Max dear, I will be back.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  She got into the driver’s seat aware that she must be crazy, but now things had got to such a pitch that she could not stop herself. The car swung out of the garage, backing clumsily down the approach, and rounding into the lane beyond. She had the feeling that it was a dream and not really happening, then she saw Max watching her, a silhouette against the background of the garage, and now she could not go back even if she wanted to.

  She drove far into the night, and went into a small hotel to rest, being called early, and starting immediately after breakfast, driving into the West Country. It was early evening when she came to Dartmoor, with its darknesses lying heavily upon it, with its purples and its somnolent greens, its bogs and morasses. Now she increased speed, because to-morrow morning the ship would sail and she must make Plymouth early to-night, if she were to get word to Piers. The moor seemed to be unending, with its eternal road winding on and on, with Princetown standing sinister to the right, a cluster of inauspicious houses, and the great prison where a man’s spirit is broken in the belief that it is being made whole.

  It was later than she had meant when she came to Devonport and swung the car round into the hotel garage. She walked into the lounge, with its pots of white marguerites, and the sunflowers standing in specimen vases. She had told her tale to the woman in the office when she booked a room. She wanted to get a message to H.M.S. Lion, and did not know how to do it. The woman had a little boy whom she could send, and who would love the excuse to get into the dockyard, she said, for in Plymouth every little boy is a Raleigh or a Drake. A telegraph form seemed to be the only writing paper that the hotel provided, and she found that even when she had a pencil in her hand she did not know what to say. Words were elusive, everything seemed to slip from her, because life had moved too quickly. This moment. The drive here. Max standing against the garage watching her go. So many thumb-nail sketches in a dizzy picture.

  She wrote,

  Darling, I’m here. I could not let you go like that. Please come to me quickly, because I’ve got to talk to you.

  Dinah.

  The amiable West Country woman in the office assured her that the little boy was a good boy, and that he would not be long about it, and would most certainly wait for a reply.

  Although time might seem to be short to the West Country woman, it seemed to be very long to Dinah, as she went up to her room and tidied herself. She wished that she did not appear so young and childish, because she wanted at this moment to be particularly grown-up. Childishness was all right for Max; for Piers, who admired sophistication, it was a different story. She wished she had not come in this little suit with the schoolgirlish white blouse. She had all the child’s foolish eagerness to wear important clothes, and could have cried with disappointment at her own lack of foresight.

  She went down to the lounge again, with the grand display of Prince’s plate scrupulously clean on the table against the wall, the pictures in their light frames ‒ mostly engravings of sporting scenes ‒ and the chair which had been stretched and strained and tormented by all kinds of figures. There were cheap cushions and fluffy mats, and, across the hall, the kindly woman in her tired frock working in the office, her shoulders bowed over the books.

  The boy came back. Dinah saw him come in, and sprang up immediately. It seemed to her that the woman was deliberately slow in delivering the note.

  My Sweet,

  The unexpected is always the grandest thing that can happen. I can’t get to you until half-past seven, I’m afraid, impossible to manage before.

  Piers.

  Forty minutes! Forty minutes more of waiting when she had hoped that he would come to her at once. She did not know how she would bear it.

  She went out into the little street, with its small cheap shops, and the sailors walking up and down the pavements, some with girls, others with their mates, and the whole place infused with the commercial ‘busyness’ of a dockyard town. She looked at the cheap jewellery displayed to catch the attention of some fastidious seaman for his girl; she looked at the bible shop for the more godly minded, and other shops with goods of every possible description. They were a poor selection.

  Time hung.

  It was like a thick cloak about her and she could not move for it. Up and down the street she went, longing all the time to go indoors and rest, yet realising that one side of her would not rest until she had seen him. She saw him rounding the corner quickly, walking in long strides, in the uniform that he had not wasted time in changing. He was coming towards her, not seeing her at first, but she saw him because she had all the quick perception of a woman in love, and her senses were magnified and quickened. Then he saw her, and his face lit up, as she knew it would always light up; he called to her quickly.

  Time flew.

  It was now a cloak cast aside and of no account. All she asked was for it to go more sedately. More time with him, more time, she kept pleading.

  They were together in the stereotyped little dining-room, though they were not in the mood for any of these things. A round-faced Devonshire maid attended to them with clumsy willingness. There were the same hideous engravings of horses and stags, the same bold display of Prince’s plate on the side, meat dishes and covers and urns, all shining with the glory of so many hours of life wasted in the futile pursuit of cleanliness.

  ‘What made you come, sweetheart?’

  ‘I had to. Suddenly I knew that I couldn’t let you go like that.’

  ‘Even if I travel across the whole world, I’ll be back, my pretty. We are only postponing our happiness.’

  ‘Th
at seems disloyal.’

  ‘It isn’t really. After all we cannot forget that he is in his autumn and we are in our spring; one day it shall be spring together.’

  ‘It may be a late one; I hate to think that we shall lose the joy we feel so keenly now. I wish rapture didn’t die. Being in love is the most wonderful thing in the whole world, and I believe it can only happen once.’

  He said, ‘Oh, my pretty, don’t spoil this moment which is ours, by talking of love tarnishing. It won’t.’

  She glanced across at the bulging meat covers, they had never been allowed to tarnish. Although verdigris had been for ever lurking round the corner, busy hands had kept them bright, and she took a foolish courage from it, feeling that if only she worked hard enough she could keep this emotion of theirs for all time. ‘Very well. I won’t talk of it. What shall we talk about?’

  ‘Nothing that isn’t beautiful. You, for instance.’

  ‘I’m ordinary.’

  ‘You’re adorable.’ He touched her hand affectionately. ‘Let’s go out afterwards in the car and on to Dartmoor, and pretend there is no sailing tomorrow.’

  ‘I didn’t like Dartmoor when I came over it at tea-time. There seemed to be something sinister about it.’

  ‘Then not Dartmoor. We’ll walk.’

  ‘There seems too much of Devonport to be able to walk in it.’

  ‘We’ll go Saltash way, there are fields there.’

  They drove out to Saltash, up into the hills, where the fields broke away from the houses, and there was quiet. There was the river below them and the harbour in the distance, with the lights coming out, twinkling one after another, and reflected like so many drowned stars in the water. It occurred to Dinah’s fanciful imagination that it was like looking at some stage already set for a transformation scene.

  ‘Which is the Lion, Piers?’

  ‘That one to the left. See the big conning tower? It is getting a bit dim in this light, but the one to the left of the factory chimney is the old battle wagon.’

  ‘And to-morrow night …?’

  ‘There is no to-morrow, my pretty, only to-night.’

  She clung to him and felt his warmth and nearness, and shivered remembering that in a few hours warmth and nearness would be gone for three years. Three years sounded so long. She could have borne a few months, but years were deadly.

  ‘What is Malta like?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, one of the usual outposts of empire. Good fun if you like poodle-faking, games at the Marsa, polo and all that.’

  ‘But the island itself, the Maltese?’

  ‘The Malts are all right. Just charming, but rather childish people, you know. “Very good, signor, all right, saire”.’

  ‘They sound amusing.’

  ‘Yes, they are. Grown-up children, and the most attractive children at that; but it ends there.’

  ‘You won’t be marrying one of them?’

  ‘Darling, have you ever heard of a naval officer marrying a Maltese?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Surely you can’t be jealous?’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said and laughed. ‘Anyway, as you yourself said, we are here to-night, in Devonshire, nothing else matters.’

  The dimness came over the sea and hid it, and she knew that the air was growing chilly. The first hand of autumn which hints at snow to follow lay upon the evenings already, and she shivered. Piers, feeling it, insisted that they should go back at once. Just as she turned the car she stopped and said, ‘I’d like to say good-bye here, not down there in that funny little hotel. I want to remember this for always, the sea, the lights in the harbour, and the field. Here we seem really to belong.’

  He took her into his arms and kissed her.

  3

  She saw the Lion start at eight next morning.

  She was standing at the hotel window, waiting to see the ship go, yet feeling afraid and not knowing why. It was a light grey shape, against those other dark grey shapes of the Home Fleet. She slipped quietly away, with the first rays of the sun lighting up her bright new paintwork, and the white ensign which flew from her quarter-deck. Dinah had thought that she would cry, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She stood there helplessly, just staring.

  After this there would only be letters, and he had laughed saying, ‘Sorry, dear, but I’m the world’s worst correspondent. Never can bring myself to waste time with a pen. Queer, isn’t it?’

  She had an idea that his letters might be erratic, and they were the only bond between them when two thousand miles parted them. And at the best, letters could not be very satisfactory, like flesh and blood, and the sound of a voice, which is always kindly to the ear, and the sight of him which had heartened her so much.

  I want him back even now, she thought, but still the pale grey ship slipped silently out to sea, and she knew that there would not be the chance to see her again for a whole three years.

  Regrets were futile. She started for Buckinghamshire the moment that she had had her breakfast. She did not want any other memories to come between her and Devonport, save the sweetness of last night, when he had been with her, and had held her to his heart, on the edge of the Saltash fields, with the sun sinking and the night riding up over the sea.

  The journey back was without event. Dartmoor was pleasanter, with no evening shadows tormenting it; she came up through green country lanes, with the hedges growing fiery and golden for autumn. She passed through the thick beech woods into Buckinghamshire at last, and walked into the cottage, leaving the car standing by the gate. Somebody else must put that away, because she was so utterly exhausted. She did not know when she had felt as deadly tired as this.

  Max came into the hall to meet her, and she knew that he must have been waiting although he said nothing. He was too old in the ways of love to make any reference to the journey or the parting.

  He said: ‘There is a meal ready for you. Would you like to have it downstairs, or shall I get Lisa to bring it up to you in bed?’

  She was so grateful for his sweetness that she burst into tears.

  TWO

  1

  That was two years ago and much had happened since then.

  Max and Dinah went back to London, because Max felt that it would be easier for Dinah to forget amongst a host of friends and entertainments. A new present might blot out the poignancy of the past.

  It wasn’t easy.

  It was far more difficult than she had ever supposed, and, whereas for a week or two she sat and moped, life awakened on those mornings when Piers’ letters came. She loved each one, yet always regretted the fact that now there would be a gap before the next. He had been quite right when he had told her that he was a bad correspondent.

  There was a tendency to live for those letters, and she jerked herself out of it. She tried to fall in with Max’s idea of party-going. They went to every play in London; they went to innumerable cocktail parties until her head reeled.

  ‘I do hate them so, Max.’

  ‘I always think they are the most atrocious form of entertainment. Nowhere to sit. False gaiety. I prefer the musical party of the ’nineties.’

  ‘You could at least sit down.’

  ‘I know. You could at least put a glass down if you were lucky enough to get one. The place wasn’t blue with smoke either, nor sickly with feeble conversation.’

  ‘Let’s cut out cocktail parties in future?’ she suggested.

  There were other parties. Restaurant dinners, lunches out. The Ivy, the Dorchester, the Savoy. She knew that once she started on the round of entertainment it was something that she could not stop. She was alarmed as to what would happen if she did try to stop it.

  The letters from Malta were few and far between, and obviously some of them had been written with an effort, because there was a great deal going on and Piers was enjoying himself. Three years seemed to be an even more immense time sprawled between now and their next meeting. In one letter Piers suggested that
perhaps she could come out to Malta for a visit. What about a cruise? There were such things, and it would be marvellous to see her again. It set her thrilling like a schoolgirl.

  ‘Could we take a cruise, Max?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I was wondering about Malta?’

  He eyed her without any enthusiasm and said: ‘I think that wouldn’t be a very good idea. You’d hate it, because it would hurt you too much. Meetings mean partings again, don’t they?’

  She still played with the idea.

  ‘I may talk Max into it,’ she wrote, ‘but at the moment we don’t see eye to eye. He is always a reasonable person, and I think, given time, it will be all right. It would be so heavenly to see you again.’

  The cruise was never accomplished because fate took a hand in matters.

  In her own desperate efforts to forget Piers, efforts in which she had been valiantly aided and abetted by Max, she had not realised that while she was young he was old. He could not stand the strain. There was that terrible morning when she got down to breakfast early, and was sitting there slitting open envelopes with the fanciful paper-knife Daisy had sent her one holiday in Hungary. She went on slitting them, not noticing that anything was amiss, nor even questioning the passing of time. Max did not appear. Suddenly she looked up and saw the empty space at the head of the table, and the clock on the mantelshelf behind showing the time. For a second she did not register what had happened, then realised that something was wrong.

  She ran upstairs quickly, now so frightened that her pulse was paining her throat as it beat, and her breathing seemed to be constricted. His bedroom was empty, just as he had left it, blankets flung back and his own clothes tidily folded on the chair as he always put them at night, which showed that he was not even dressed.

  She went frantically to the bathroom and to her surprise the handle yielded when she had expected to find it locked. Max must have managed to unlock the door just before he fell, for he lay close inside, his body half-wrapped in a bath towel, his eyes shut, and the blood fled from his face.

  She thought it was a stroke, but the doctor told her that it was a heart attack. Max’s asthma had taken it out of him, and lately he had been overdoing things badly. He must take life more easily, said the doctor. She nodded.