The Winds Of Heaven

by Monica Dickens

  Then she thought that it might look greedy if she stayed there too long, so she walked busily about as if she had a destination, admiring all the flowerbeds several times over.

  "Vile color, those chrysanthemums/' Mrs. Glover, the doctor's wife, square and unashamedly dowdy, stood beside her with legs apart. "No one but the Cobbs would grow monstrosities like that."

  "Hush, Mary," Louise said. "You mustn't talk like that about your hosts/'

  "Haven't seen either of 'em since I came," grumbled Mrs. Glover, who came from Yorkshire, and wished that her husband had not bought this sophisticated practice. "I've had a good tea, but Alice is too demented to give me so much as a hullo. She's after big fish today. There's a cabinet minister com-

  ing, so she's been telling everyone for weeks, but no one has had a smell of him yet. Well, Fm off, i£ I can ever get my car out from among the Bentleys. I have to get back and give George his tea/*

  "Isn't the doctor here?"

  "He's supposed to be on a case, but actually he refused to come. He says that women always start talking to him about their slipped discs/'

  "Come and have a drink, Mother." Arthur, sent by Miriam, rescued Louise from oblivion and took her up to the terrace. Louise was grateful. With a man at her side, she walked through the crowd with more confidence, and was greeted by several people who had not been sure who she was until they saw her with her son-in-law.

  When Arthur had brought her a drink, he was drawn into a male conversation. Louise saw Miriam going into the house, which was so artificially 'period' that even the ivy looked synthetic. Eva was sitting in a corner, pouting at a good-looking young man, who seemed attentive. Louise was glad about that, Eva should have good-looking young single men thrown at her until she woke up to the fact that it was possible to be attracted by a man who was not married. Optimistically, she viewed the back of Harvey Upjohn's neck, and wondered how it would look above a morning coat, standing beside Eva, as she had once wondered about David, before she learned the disturbing truth.

  Eva saw her, and beckoned, but Louise turned away, pretending not to see. She did not want to disturb what might be a promising encounter. She looked out to the garden, with its over-groomed sweep of lawns and flowerbeds and rhododendrons and self-conscious little pools. The women's dresses made a pleasant shifting of color on the rich, green grass, which two gardeners had slaved over all summer, and would break their hearts over tomorrow.

  As she watched, the voices from below seemed imperceptibly to be growing clearer. You could hear individual remarks,

  where before there had only been a blur of talk The sky had darkened and all the leaves were motionless.

  "I had wanted so desperately to go to Majorca," Louise heard a woman say into the still air, and then suddenly, it came— big, warm drops of rain that became a downpour in an instant and sent the decorous garden party scurrying hither and thither as if a stone were dropped into an ants' nest.

  With the rain came the wind. The waitresses fought with tablecloths that blew like spinnakers, clutching at their caps, and calling out distractedly, like peewits flying before a storm. Two of them ran crabwise through the rain, bearing the vast tea urn between them. The barmen, their oiled hair streaked over their foreheads, were rushing bottles and glasses into the kitchen like madmen, hating to get wet, cursing Sidney for not having set up his bar between four walls, which was good enough for most people.

  A few of the guests ran straight round the house and out through the front garden and were never seen again. Others crowded through the French windows into the Cobbs* paneled drawing room, were pushed into the hall by more guests pressing in from the garden, and were forced out of the front door on the other side like champagne corks, running for their cars over the glistening gravel.

  "Don't go, everybody! Don't go!" Sidney and Alice shouted. "It's only a shower!" But the rain poured solidly down on the abandoned trestle tables and the overturned chairs of the routed bandsmen.

  "Don t go! Don't go!" Alice shrilled. "Well all go into the bam. There's loads of room. Bring the drinks in there, somebody!" But the party could not be salvaged. The rats were deserting the ship. One by one they took their leave and dashed into the rain with coats and newspapers over their heads, and in one case Sidney's umbrella.

  Alice and Sidney were left with the wreckage of their party, holding on to a couple who had weakly promised to stay and play bridge.

  Eva found Miriam in the hall. "I'm going back to London with this Upjohn creature," she said. "He's got a car."

  "I thought you were going to stay for dinner and take a late train."

  "I was, but I hope you don't mind. This will save me that boring train journey. I think I'd be silly not to take the chance of driving back."

  Poor Harvey Upjohn, so gleeful at the thought of having Eva in his car for twenty miles, and confident that he could persuade her to have dinner with him, might have felt as ill-used as indeed he was, if he had known that she was convinced now that David would come round this evening, and was thinking only of getting back to the flat, to be there waiting for him.

  Arthur drove home carelessly, with Miriam nagging at him to go more slowly round the corners. They both felt as if they had been to a wedding, regretting that they had drunk in the middle of the afternoon.

  "Why anyone/' Arthur yawned, "is insane enough to have a garden party in this climate, beats me."

  "Alice and Sidney once went to Buckingham Palace," Miriam said. "They've never got over it."

  "I thought it was very nice," Louise put in from the back seat. When she did not enjoy a party, she always thought that there was something wrong with her, not the party.

  "Oh, it was, it was." Miriam took off her glasses and bent her slender neck to lean her red head against the seat. "Poor old Alice. I must ring her up tonight and tell her how much we enjoyed it."

  "Good God," Arthur said, as they turned in under the dark, sodden thatch of the gate and saw a car in the drive. "The last straw. Visitors. Who on earth is that?"

  "I don't recognize the car." Miriam peered short-sightedly through the streaming windshield.

  "I'm going in by the kitchen," Arthur said. "I can't take any more sociability. You and Mother cope with whoever it is, and get rid of them. I'm going up to change." He had only got his

  suit slightly wet, running to fetch the car for Miriam and Louise, but he was very careful about his clothes and always put them straight on to hangers when he came in out of the rain.

  Ellen met them at the door, looking important. "There's someone to see you," she said, looking at her grandmother.

  "Who is it?" Miriam asked.

  "I don't know. She hasn't come to see you. She wants to see Granny. She's in the drawing room. I made her some tea." Ellen looked hopefully for praise. "She's been here quite a long time. She's awfully nice. She's been playing Old Maid with me."

  Louise took off her hat and coat, and stood her umbrella to drip on the doormat. 'Whoever can it be?" she asked herself.

  "Why not go in and find out?" Miriam said, jerking her head towards the drawing-room door. "One of your London friends, probably. I'll go and give the kids their tea. You won't want me."

  "Oh, but Miriam " Louise did not know any women

  with cars who would come to see her. She did not feel like coping with a stranger alone. It might be someone wanting to sell her something.

  "And do take that umbrella off the mat, Mother," Miriam said, starting off toward the kitchen. "It looks so bourgeois. There's a perfectly good stand."

  Louise patted down her hair and went into the drawing room. The woman sitting on the sofa stood up and came toward her with a smile. She was tall and dark, with smooth, black hair parted like wings on either side of an olive-skinned, narrow face that might have been Italian. She was not beautiful, but she was arresting. Her shoes were perfect, and her clothes looked as if she had been standing up in them all day.

  "Mrs. Bickford?" she said. "How do you do. I am Mrs. Gra
ham—Frances Graham." She looked to see whether the name conveyed anything to Louise.

  "How do you do?" Louise said nervously. Tm sorry you had

  to wait/' She sat down, looking to see whether there was a case of samples anywhere in the room, although the stranger did not look as though she were forced to sell lace or Swedish pottery for a living.

  "It's quite all right/' Mrs. Graham said, sitting opposite her. "Your granddaughter has been entertaining me most beautifully, with tea and cards." She smiled beyond Louise, who turned and saw that Ellen had followed her into the room and was standing on one leg in the middle of the carpet.

  Mrs. Graham considered for a moment, and then said: "I don't want to interfere with your tea time, Ellen. I'm sure I've kept you too long already."

  "Oh, it's all right/' Ellen said. "Mummy hasn't got it ready yet/'

  "Run along, darling/' Louise said, taking Mrs. Graham's hint. "I'll see you in a little while/'

  When Ellen had gone, Mrs. Graham settled back in her chair and said gently: "You don't know who 1 am, do you?"

  "Well I—you must forgive me. Should I?"

  "I am David Graham's wife."

  For a moment, Louise was puzzled, and then she remembered David's surname. She felt as if the inside of her head and body had dropped right out of her, leaving her cold and empty and dead.

  "I'm afraid I've given you a shock," Mrs. Graham said. "I'm sorry."

  Louise realized how silly she must look, sitting there staring with her mouth open. She shut it and murmured something meaningless, struggling to comprehend the situation.

  Why was this woman here? What did she want with her? Had Eva run away with David? But Eva had been down here all day. Had she found out something—found a letter, perhaps, or seen them together? Was she going to threaten, to make a scene, to storm? She looked too serene for that. Was she going to warn Louise that she would name Eva as co-respondent? Dark scandal washed about in Louise's mind. She saw the

  courtroom, the prying lawyers, the filthy allegations, the dirt creeping over Eva's foolish, hopeful love. She did not think she would be able to bear it.

  "I've upset you." Mrs. Graham leaned forward. "Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have come, but I felt I had to. I think you are the only person who can help/*

  "I? What can I do?" Louise cried helplessly, not knowing yet what she was being asked to do. Had Mrs. Graham come to plead with her—was that it? Would she go down on her shapely knees, like a woman in a play, and beg Louise with tears to help her get her husband back? She did not look hysterical enough for that. Moreover, she did not look, Louise decided, beginning to think more sensibly, like a woman who would lose a husband unless she did not want him.

  "I don't know how much you know about—things/' Mrs. Graham said, "but David told me that he'd met you at your daughter's flat, and so I imagine that you guessed something of what was going on. Well have to talk frankly about this, Fm afraid," she said, as Louise drew back and kept silent. "I hope you won't mind. I shan't stay very long. I don't suppose you're enjoying this any more than I am."

  She offered Louise a cigarette. Louise took it, and smoked in short, quick puffs, hoping to draw in a lot of nicotine to steady her nerves.

  "David doesn't know I'm here, of course," Mrs. Graham went on, "although it was he who told me, in passing, that you were staying with your eldest daughter." She smiled, and Louise was struck by the illogical thought that she knew what it felt like not to have a home of your own.

  "It must be nice to have such a devoted family. I understand that Eva is very good to you, too."

  "Oh, yes, she is. Very good," Louise said abstractedly. Her mind was still struggling with the startling fact that David continued to see his wife, although they were supposed to be separated, and that he had told her about Eva. How much had he told her? It was all so confused. Eva had described David's

  wife as—what was it?—poisonous; and yet here she was, very polite and charming, sitting in Miriam's wing-backed chair with a face like a Florentine Madonna.

  "Tell me why youVe come/' Louise said abruptly. Whatever it was, she must know it. She could not endure these tangled thoughts any longer.

  "Thank you," Mrs. Graham said. "I will/' She recrossed her elegant legs. "Fve come to help your daughter/' She smiled. "That must make you more confused than ever. No doubt you expect me to come here as a wronged wife, fighting Eva with tooth and claw. But I don't have to fight, you see. I've won already. In fact, there's never been any conflict at all."

  Louise took a deep breath. "Can I say what I like?" she asked.

  "I wish you would. We must be honest. I shan't be offended at anything. You're the one who should be offended, if anyone has to be/'

  "I shan't, though," Louise said candidly. "I like you. That's what's so queer. You see, the way I understood it, you and your husband were separated because you didn't get along, and were going to get a divorce anyway, even before he met Eva. Am I talking out of turn? My family always says I do."

  "Families always jump on each other," Mrs. Graham said, "I like you, too. I never thought you would be as nice to me as this. To be quite frank, I was terrified that you'd show me to the door as soon as you knew who I was."

  "'You didn't look terrified," Louise said, and they both laughed.

  "It's the way my face is made. It doesn't show what goes on behind it."

  "In any case," Louise said, "why should I show you the door? You haven't done anything to hurt me, or Eva. It's Eva who has hurt you. I feel so dreadful about it. My girls were quite strictly brought up. I expect I was too soft with them, but my husband was—well, rather exacting. I never thought that one

  of them would get into anything like this. I've tried to reason with Eva, but I can never tell any of my children anything."

  'What mother can?" Frances Graham said. "But you're wrong. Eva hasn't hurt ine, although she thinks she has, poor little thing."

  "Do you know what Eva thinks?" Louise said. "She thinks your husband is going to marry her/'

  "I was afraid of that/' Mrs. Graham sighed. "That's why I came to you. I knew it would be no good going to your daughter, because she wouldn't listen to me. I wouldn't either, in the same position. She wouldn't believe anything I told her about David. She's in love with him, isn't she?"

  'Tin afraid so. She's changed. She's quite different. Oh— she's been what she called in love before, but it never lasted more than a few weeks. This time she—she seems to have lost something of herself. I don't quite know how to explain it. I've never seen her like this."

  "Poor kid." Mrs. Graham looked sad.

  "How can you feel sorry for her? I do, of course, but I'm her mother; but I feel ashamed, too."

  "It isn't really her fault. It's David's. David, all the way through. I know him so well, and it's all happened before. We've been through it all before." She spoke wearily, leaning her head back against the chair, and closing her dark-lidded eyes for a moment.

  "David has had other girls, you see. Always 'the most gorgeous girl in the world. The greatest thing since penicillin.' You know the way he talks. Oh, yes, he tells me about them. Sitting before me with 'his head in his hands, trying to look boyish, although he's too old for that; casting himself on my mercy, and telling me he doesn't know what to do, and that he can't help himself, and I must help him. Why, my son, at fourteen, has more stamina than David."

  "Has he told you everything about Eva?" Louise clasped her hands, for they were trembling.

  "Some things. I'm his sort of father confessor. He runs to me when he's in trouble, knowing that I won't bother to excite myself about it. I sometimes wonder why I don't, but I like to preserve the peace, even in such a decrepit marriage as ours/'

  "You're not separated then?"

  "Not really, although we don't see each other too often. I have a little house at Windsor. It backs on to the park, and I love it. David has his fiat in town, but he comes down for week ends occasionally, or when he feels the need of a lit
tle sanity. I think he feels that I'm good for him. And then, of course," she added thoughtfully, "I do have some money."

  "You sound as if you don't like him very much," Louise said. "Oh, forgive me. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that."

  "Don't worry. Nothing that anyone said to me about David could offend me, because I've said it all to myself a hundred times. I don't like him, if liking means respect and friendship and confidence. But I'm fond of him, you know, in a disillusioned way. I can't help it. He's rather sweet, even when he's silly. And then, of course, I remember what we had together once. Even David can't kill that. I like to think of it sometimes, though I doubt whether he ever does."

  "I think he's been awful to you," Louise said vehemently. "I can't think why you put up with it." She remembered one of her friends saying that to her once about Dudley, and she had answered: "What else is there to do?"

  What could you do with a husband, except put up with him? Oh—but Eva! Her mind flew to Eva. So pleased with herself in her dashing red dress. So quick and elusive and stubbornly blind to everything except her own desires.

  "Please tell me." She had to ask it, "Isn't it true—about the divorce?"

  Frances Graham shook her head. "I don't know what David's been saying, but it isn't true. No doubt he believes it when he's with Eva. He gets carried away, you know, and I understand that she's very fascinating. But that doesn't excuse his cruelty, because he doesn't mean it. We've had this talk

  about divorce before, but he's always dropped it, without my having to argue.

  "He really needs me, you see. And I need him, because of our son. I'd stick to David whatever he did, to keep Terry out of that kind of disaster. If it wasn't for Terry, I might fool him one day by turning him loose on to one of his lady loves, and then where would he be?"

  "The—the money, you mean?" Louise asked.

  "How do you think he can afford these cars and holidays and night clubs and all the expensive suits he loves to buy? He's a good enough actor, but there aren't enough of his kind of parts to keep him in the way he likes to live. All this sounds very sordid, I know, and it is sordid. It's hateful and humiliating. It sounds as if I were hiring David to be a father to my child, but it isn't like that at all. I let him have the money because I'm sorry for him. I can afford it. I don't need much for myself, and he likes to spend."