Louise shook her head without speaking, and walked quickly out into the street. For a moment she stood on the pavement in the shadow of the cliff of flats, uncertain where she was, forgetting where she had to go; then she walked away, seeing her feet move of their own accord, in, out, in, out, in front of her, like independent animals.
At the corner, she turned to look upwards, hoping that Eva might be waving and calling to her to come back; but she could not tell which was Eva's window. They all looked the same; some open, some closed, but nobody looking out of any of them.
She would have to go to the station and wait there among the other cheerless women in the tea room until it was time -for her train. She crossed the road and walked up the High Street, past the bus stop and on past the next one, walking, walking, with her misery clinging to her like a shadow. The wind was blowing in her face. There was always a wind blowing, it seemed, at the critical moments of her life. There had been a high wind on the night the pigs were born, and two days after Dudley died, when Arthur came round to the house with his black hat and his brief case, and overturned the stone of her ignorance to reveal the rotting ruin underneath.
She could see them now, going out to lunch, which Arthur insisted she must have, walking up the street to find a taxi. The telephone had been cut off that morning, because the bill was unpaid. They had walked into a callous wind, Louise striving against it mechanically, just as she was doing now, walking without hope into a blank future.
At that time, less than two years ago, Louise's numbing fears had heen all for herself, because she did not know what was going to become of her. Now, as she walked past the posters for concerts and boxing matches outside the Albert Hall, her fear was for Eva. She did not know what was going to become of Eva, and whatever happened now would be her fault.
She had said all the wrong things. She had made a mess of it, just as Dudley would have expected. Anyone else would have known what to say to make Eva listen and believe. She had merely said the things that infuriated Eva into a blinder obstinacy. She had failed her daughter, and failed Frances Graham, who had thought that a mother, of all people, would be the one to put things right,
'Failure!' teased the wind, lifting her hat and tweaking out a strand of hair. 'Failure!' it mocked, rushing chill about her skirts. Louise felt an overwhelming desire to sit down and lay her head on somebody's shoulder. If she ran back to Eva now, and threw herself into her arms, couldn't they weep together, and make everything all right? But if Eva did not melt, Louise would only be making an hysterical scene; and Eva had probably gone out by now, running to David to tell him what had happened.
If only there were someone she could talk to. Even Dudley would have been better than nothing, although he would have said that she had made a fool of herself. There was no one in whom she could confide, unless . . .
She had come to another bus stop. A bus for Oxford Street was waiting there. Would it be betraying Eva? He was outside the family, and he was so discreet. Wise, too. He might be able o help her, and she was sure that he would not be shocked.
Louise climbed quickly onto the bus, just as the conductor Jiang the bell. "Come along, lady," he said sourly, grasping her •?rm. "Don't leave everything till the last minute."
"Please don't push me," Louise said with dignity. She was usually charming to bus conductors, but to be grumbled at now was more than she could stand.
In the bus, she took out her mirror to tidy her hair and see what her face looked like. It looked terrible, lined and sallow and old. He would understand, when he knew what she had been through, but would Miriam notice any difference in her?
"You look a bit under the weather, Mother," she would say. 'What's the matter? Your boy friend jilted you?" and Louise would have to pretend to laugh and join in the joke. It was going to be difficult to get through these last few days with Miriam, to behave as if she had no worries, and was just a placid widow, with three nice daughters who never gave her any trouble.
She had not considered that Gordon Disher might not be free to talk to her. It was discouraginging when she saw him among the beds, attentively engaged with a discontented woman in a red coat and a Robin Hood hat. Louise saw him bow slightly, which he had to do from the shoulders, since he could not do it from the waist, excusing himself to come over and speak to her.
"HulZo," he said, with the gentle delight he always displayed at seeing her. "This is a nice surprise. Come to take me out to tea? Ill be free in a few moments."
"I don't think 111 have time for tea," Louise said nervously. "I have to catch a train. I just wanted to talk to you for a moment if it wouldn't matter."
"You don't look yourself," he said. "Is something wrong?"
Louise nodded, and saw his eyes grow concerned. "Ill just have to finish with this customer," he said, "if you can wait a minute or two. I'll get you a chair."
Louise sat down and watched him dealing deferentially with the woman in the Robin Hood hat. She went from bed to bed, examining the price tags, punching the mattresses with a face of incurable dissatisfaction, while Mr. Disher stood by her, answering her sharp questions patiently, and occasionally throwing an apologetic glance toward Louise.
Would the woman never make up her mind? Now she wanted to look at sofa beds and see how they worked. Mr.
Disher bent with difficulty to pull levers and push buttons. When the sofa became a bed, the woman lay stiffly down on it in her red coat, refusing to take his word that it was full length.
Louise looked at her watch. She would not have long now to talk to him, and get away in time to catch her train. Now the woman wanted to see the bed turned back into a sofa. It stuck, and she shrugged her shoulders and walked away, pointing to a cluster of divans in a far corner.
"What can I do?" Gordon Disher's face said. Louise looked at her watch again. Five minutes more and she would have to go. Perhaps it would be just as well. Perhaps she never should have come. Why drag him into this? It was no concern of his. There was no reason why he should be interested.
The words that had thronged into her mind as she came here on the bus had left her. She did not know how she would begin to tell him, and she would never be able to gabble through the story in the short time that was left. They would not even be able to sit down. He was not allowed to sit down on duty. The department manager was visible through the window of his little office-shack. They would have to stand among the beds, trying to look as if they were talking about the merchandise.
Gordon Disher had his back to her, bending to read a price label. Louise got up and walked quickly through the archway to the lifts. The lift was crowded, and she had to push her way in, but she had never felt so alone in her life.
She thought that Gordon Disher would write to her to ask what had been the matter, and to apologize for not being free. She went down early for several days, to take the letter before Miriam could see it and ask questions; but he did not write.
There was to be a pony show, the last one of the holidays, and Simon, who had progressed favorably, was to be allowed to enter for the jumping event. His pony did not jump very well. It was an unsuitable, nervous animal, with a thin neck
and bulging eyes, which Arthur, taking no advice, had bought without trial from a leather-faced dealer.
When the dealer's son rode it, it had jumped well and won some prizes, and Arthur thought that it would carry his son to glory. However, when Simon began to ride it, in his heavy-handed and unsympathetic way, it did not fly over the jumps like a bird, but either swerved sideways at the last minute, or stuck in its toes and threw Simon under, into or over the fence.
This had happened the first time that Simon rode it in a show. "I knew that pony would be too much for that boy," nodded the other parents among themselves. Arthur had forbidden Simon to jump any more, and had gone back to the dealer to complain.
"Nothing wrong with the pony," the dealer said. "Only wants riding. My Sidney's jumped four foot on him time and time again. Don't blame me,
sir, if your boy can't ride."
This had piqued Arthur into keeping the pony, determined that Simon should not be outdone by the rat-faced Sidney, who rode with his knees to his chin and a multitude of shrill exhortations.
Simon had been somewhat relieved to be forbidden to jump, but he was ashamed, too, and felt compelled to pester his father to allow him to perform at this last show.
Miriam said no, but Arthur finally said yes, and so Miriam shrugged her shoulders and said: "All right. The ponies are your department, but don't blame me if the child breaks his neck." Miriam quite often gave in to Arthur, to avoid the wear and tear of an argument; but she seldom yielded without a parting shot.
Jumps were put up in the meadow behind the stables, and thither Simon repaired with lumps of sugar and the attendant gardener to practice for the forthcoming show. Arthur himself would stride out with his switch to coach his son when the gardener was not there. Although William never said a word, Arthur did not care for the way he clicked his teeth and shook
his head each time he replaced the jumps after the pony had skidded into them.
On the evening before the show, when William had gone home, Arthur announced as soon as he returned from London that he would see Simon once more over the jumps and give him some final tips.
"Not now, Daddy/' Judy protested. "Misty's all cleaned up for tomorrow. William won't like it if he gets his legs dirty."
"Then William can earn his keep for once and clean him again tomorrow/' Arthur said. "Unless, of course, you expect me to clean him."
"Oh, Daddy!" Judy and Simon laughed at the joke. Arthur never did any manual work, either in the stables, the garden, or the house. He was popularly supposed to be too busy to concern himself with such things.
Simon did not want to go out and jump again. He had been riding all afternoon, and the pony had been cross. It would be even more cross at being taken out at this time.
"The light's not very good, Daddy," he said hopefully, "and you know he's got that funny eye. Do you think he'll see the jumps all right?"
"I'm not asking him to look at them. I'm asking him to jump them. Why do we always have to have an argument about everything?" Arthur was a little tired, and would have liked to sit down before dinner, but he had made up his mind in the train that it was his duty to give Simon a final polish, and was determined to go through with it, although the light was indeed failing into dusk.
"Go and get Misty ready," he ordered, "and I'll meet you in the field in five minutes. Miriam, you come too, dear. I want you to see how Simon's got on. Mother, why don't you come and see the show?" The effort of going out would be more worth while if he had an audience.
Louise hesitated. "I'll have to change my shoes." She did not particularly want to go. It made her nervous to see the children
jump, and she had been more nervous of everything these last few days. The disastrous scene with Eva had left her feeling as if she had been on a long journey, or had been very ill. She dropped more things than usual, and lacked even the confidence to poach eggs for Miriam, because her hands shook and she split the yolks. She found it hard to concentrate, and did not always hear when she was spoken to. Miriam said that she ought to go to an ear specialist before she went to the Isle of Wight.
"Ill get your shoes, Granny/' Ellen said. "Let's go and watch. Ill come if you will/'
"Well, keep your mouth shut if you do," Arthur said. "You can put up the jumps, but for God's sake, keep out of the way."
"Of course, Daddy," Ellen said meekly, and made a face at him behind his back,
"Ellen," said her mother, who missed nothing. "I've a good mind to put you to bed."
"What for?" Arthur asked. "What has she done now?"
"Oh, nothing," Miriam said wearily. "Come on, let's go out if we're going, and get it over."
Miriam and Louise stayed by the gate of the meadow, at a safe distance from the activity. It was a typical late September evening, damp and subdued. The grass was already wet, and grey with the slight mist that was rising to meet the falling dusk. The hedges were dark with blackberries, and some of the trees were showing patches of russet and gold. Under the oak in the corner, Judy's little pony grazed unconcernedly.
Simon's pony rushed about with its nose in the air, dropping its head suddenly as it approached a jump, to peer at the small obstacle, then switch away outside it, plunging on to the next jump to repeat the same unnerving performance.
"Don't let him keep running out!" Arthur shouted, striding about like a ringmaster in the middle of the field in a pair of truncated Wellington boots to keep his ankles dry. "What the devil are you doing, Simon? Keep his head straight."
"I can't, Daddy." With difficulty, Simon pulled the pony to
a stop. "I don't think he wants to jump tonight. He can't see" he panted, looking at his father helplessly.
"It's not what he wants. It's what you want. You'll never ride him if you don't remember that. Little devil!" Arthur jerked the pony's rein unkindly. "Now get on and behave yourself/' He sent it off with a smart slap on the neck. His voice and the flat sound on the pony's wet neck carried clearly to where Louise and Miriam were leaning against the gate.
"Oh, dear," Miriam sighed. "1 do wish he wouldn't be so violent. No good will come of it."
"It's safe, isn't it?" Louise asked anxiously.
"Oh Lord, yes, but Arthur's so drastic. I always feel that things would go much better if he didn't make such a noise." She hooked her arms behind the top bar of the gate and leaned backwards, chewing on a spur of grass.
"Try it again!" Arthur was shouting. "Take him round as if you meant it Not so fast! Pull him up—pull him up. My God, you'll— Good boy! Fine!" Simon was over the first fence like a rocket, and was pounding on to the next, his small face pale in the twilight. Arthur was running across the field with his arms outstretched to stop the pony swerving out from the fence.
Startled, the pony shied at him, stopped dead, then suddenly leaped straight up into the air and landed on the other side of the fence with its legs as stiff as iron bars. Simon rolled gently to the ground, and the pony walked away, putting down its head to eat grass.
Ellen, who had been dodging about the field like a nervous leprechaun, ran up in gasping distress to bend over Simon. There was a lot more shouting then: "Get hold of that pony before he treads on his reins! Get out of the way, Ellen. Simon, get up! Don't be a baby—you're not hurt. Catch hold of that pony and get back on him!"
Simon got up, rubbing his back, and went resignedly to catch the pony. He hesitated, glancing round at his father.
"Mount, I said! Get on him and make him do it properly!" Arthur squelched fiercely over the grass in his ankle boots and took hold of his son to hoist him into the saddle.
"Oh, Daddy, please—please!" Ellen ran up behind him, and grasped his coat. "Don't make him. He's nervous. Can't you see he's nervous?" Although there were times when she hated Simon, there were times like this when she felt passionately protective.
Arthur pushed her roughly aside, and sent Simon off with a swish of his stick under the pony's tail that made it jump forward before Simon was settled in the saddle.
"Daddy!" Ellen screamed. "He hasn't got his foot in the stirrup! Oh, stop him, stop him!" Throwing up her hands, she ran wildly across the pony's path as it galloped for the jump. The pony swerved, and Simon was on the ground again, this time in tears, while the pony, sickened of the whole thing, cantered off with flying reins and stirrups to join its companion.
Louise, who had held her breath for a moment that seemed like eternity, felt her heart beat again with a sob, and started forward. "Simon's hurt!"
Miriam pulled her back. "No he's not. He's just frightened. I can tell by the way he's crying. Don't go to him. You'll only make Arthur worse."
Except for shouting at Simon to get up and stop being a baby, Arthur was ignoring him to give the whole of his wrath to Ellen. The child could not speak. She hung her head and slunk away through the gathering d
arkness, making for a hole in the hedge where she could crawl through and run back to the house to hide.
Louise's heart ached for the thin little girl, dragging her feet through the grass, with one shoulder drooping and her hand up to her mouth. She turned to Miriam. "I'm going to her," she said defiantly, for she expected Miriam to tell her not to. "It's too bad of Arthur. She was only trying to help. Why is Arthur always so hard on her?"
Miriam looked at her without expression. "Because she's not
his child," she said. "Oh, God! Simon is hurt. He's " She
ran away from Louise across the field, to where Simon had staggered to his feet, his sobbing changed to short screams as he looked at the arm which dangled awkwardly beside him.
6.
J^OUISE began to feel better as soon as she got into the train at Waterloo. She had not particularly enjoyed her last winter in the Isle of Wight, although her daughters had all told her how nice it must be at Sybil's hotel, to stifle whatever guilt they felt at being glad to get rid of her so conveniently.
This time, however, Louise was glad to get away. She was tired out. Her family had defeated her. There were too many troubles, too much to worry about. Like a sick person who staggers about with a fever until he finally collapses gratefully into bed, Louise had given up. She could not stand any more.
First Eva, who had not written or telephoned, nor come to the station to say good-bye. Then Miriam's unbearable revelation, which Louise must keep locked in her heart, battering vainly to get out and be explained, for Miriam, she knew, would never refer to it again.
Simon's broken arm, and the rushing back and forth to the hospital, and all the useless argument about whose fault it was, and everywhere in Louise's thoughts, Ellen—trying to keep out of the way, crying because she was not allowed to go and see Simon, bearing, it seemed to Louise each time she looked at her, a load of secret calamity on her bony shoulders.
Why had Miriam told Arthur? Was it even true? Who could it possibly . . , that gay young man with the slanting eyes, who used to be Arthur's friend—what was his name—Donald —Colin someone? Suppose that Miriam, in such an odd moment of indiscretion as had seized her standing by the gate in
The Winds Of Heaven Page 16