The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  Nearly there now … Is this all? Can’t we get back to each other? Isn’t it to be true after all?

  “Straight on?” said Rollo, his voice sounding brusque after the long silence. He slowed down at the cross-roads.

  “Yes, and then the next drive on the left, where all that shrubbery is. You won’t drive in, will you?”

  He drew up close to the fencing, under the laurel hedge; switched off the headlights.

  “There …” She waited a moment. “Good-night, Rollo. Thank you so much for bringing me … It was a lovely evening …”

  He sat still and said nothing. He took out his case and lit a cigarette with deliberate movements. Then he said:

  “When shall I see you again?”

  “When do you want to?”

  Answering him, with fingers already on the door-handle, she felt unwillingly flippant, rather shrill. He put his hand out and snatched hers back into her lap, saying with a hint of roughness:

  “As soon as possible.”

  Overtaken, caught, punished …

  “All right,” she said at last, sighing it out.

  She turned slightly to look at him—the dark bulk beside her, head in profile, staring straight ahead, the short, high-bridged nose, small thick moustache, full rounded chin; the hand shadowy on his knee, holding a cigarette. The smoke wreathed up. Slowly he stubbed it out into the ash-tray. He said:

  “Do you want to see me again?”

  “Yes.” I suppose so …

  “That’s all right then.” He took her twisting hand in his warm dry firm-clasping one. “You remember what I said—that I wanted something I wasn’t sure I was going to get?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  His voice was so quiet, so calm-sounding, one had to listen, answer in the same way … Think, think … But there aren’t any thoughts.

  “Well, shall I?”

  “Yes … At least … If you’re sure …”

  “I’m sure. But you must be too.”

  I must be, too I must be sure What’s the answer?

  … He said, more hesitatingly:

  “Do you think you might be able—to like me a bit?”

  “Oh, yes …”

  He whispered, “Oh … darling …” and pulled her towards him and began to kiss her.

  Self-conscious … reluctant … appalled: Rollo Spencer, married man, Nicola’s husband, stranger practically, Rollo Spencer … What’ll they say—Lady Spencer, Sir John … Mother, Dad, Kate … All watching­ … Wrong, disgusting—naughty girl, leading him on, a married man … An enemy … Ivor wasn’t … Why do I think of, stop thinking of Ivor …?

  He went on kissing her, whispering to her, floating her away. Names, faces, times and places slipped off the reel into darkness. Only his voice, face, hands, unknown—recognised—remained.

  Head on his shoulder, as if it was all quite natural, quite suitable … Dumb.

  “You’re so young,” he said. “I never knew anything so young.” His voice was full of pleasure. “You’re like a young, young girl …”

  What did he expect? … A woman on my own, I said, not so young in years … A woman of experience? … What did he suppose? Anxiety brushed her, the faintest breath, there and gone again … He’s not young … So certain, so un-diffident … Expert.

  “I must go in now.” Still my own voice.

  “I’ll see you to the door.”

  They got out of the car. He took her arm, keeping her close, and walked with her along the drive, his step on the gravel crunching out loud and firm. At the bend in the shrubbery, where the house came into view, he halted, looking towards the square solid shape of brick outlined with its stout neat chimneys in the moon.

  “Is that your home?”

  “That’s my home.”

  He stood and looked at it. The bushes gave a momentary shallow stir and twitch, and an owl hooted.

  “I’ll say good-night to you here.”

  He pulled her gently out of range of her home’s blank square rows of eyes, put his hands along her cheeks and tilted her face up.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. I can’t think.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “No.” She sighed.

  “What then?” He had a kind, safe voice.

  “I suppose I just can’t believe it.”

  He smiled.

  “You will soon, you know. You’ll believe it in no time— I’ll see that you do—and then you’ll be used to it … and then perhaps you’ll be tired of it. …”

  “Don’t say that … Why do you say that?” She felt quickened, awake suddenly.

  “It does happen, you know … You might get bored with me in no time …”

  “So might you with me …”

  They kissed each other, in sad voluptuous disbelief, denial, acknowledgment.

  “When did you think of this?” she said, smiling for the first time.

  “As soon as I saw you.” He smiled too.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “In the train. Just as I’d finished ordering the sausages

  No, before that, to be honest.”

  “When?”

  “The first time we met. At that famous dance.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Yes. On the terrace. I nearly kissed you then.”

  “Oh! You didn’t! What nonsense!”

  “Well, I certainly toyed with the idea … I did think you were rather sweet.”

  “I’d as soon have thought of being visited by the Holy Ghost.”

  “Now who’s talking nonsense?”

  “Well, it may—just—have occurred to me it would be nice … But entirely on the Gary Cooper level …” Laughter, confidence came easy now. “Specially as I was so peculiar that evening—so in a flux … Seeing myself in dozens of distorting mirrors …”

  “You looked all right to me. You seemed like something cool and kind.” His voice was serious, almost unhappy. “Like the wind on the terrace. Restful …”

  “Darling …” Incredible, miraculous words.

  “What’s more, after that I even thought about you—definitely thought about you. Not often. Say twice a year. For no reason at all. Getting into the tube—or shaving—or talking rot to my neighbour at dinner … You’d pop into my head and I’d think: ‘I’d like to see her again …’”

  “I thought about you too. I always knew I should meet you again. It was like feeling excited suddenly in the middle of a sunny day—or a wet one—for no reason you can think of … It’s queer—this doesn’t seem sudden a bit to me—does it to you?”

  He laughed.

  “Not in the least.”

  “We don’t quite know where we’re going now—do we?”

  She waited … Say: She doesn’t count, she wouldn’t care, that’s over, I’m free for you … But all he did was to shake his head quickly, faintly.

  She said hurriedly:

  “It doesn’t matter.” She had a pang of love for him. It was the shake of the head, helpless-looking.

  “You see—”

  What? He stopped, lifted her hand up and kissed it instead.

  Leave it alone.

  “Are you happy?” she said.

  He turned her hand over and kissed the palm; nodded.

  “Of course I am.”

  “I always meant to be happy,” she said. “I always thought some day I would be. I believed in it …”

  He took out his pocket-book and by the light of the match she held, wrote down her London address and telephone number.

  “I’ll write to you,” he said. “And if you want to get hold of me—” He scribbled on a blank page, tore it out and gave it to her. “That’s my office … Ring up there if you want
me, will you?”

  She took the paper. He means: there, not my home. Don’t speak to me at my home.

  “Lots of other engagements, I see.” She smiled, seeing various jottings as he flicked the pages.

  “They’re nothing. They can all be scrapped. Nearly all.” He shut the book. “My memory’s rotten, I have to write everything down.”

  Nicola tells him what dinners and things to put down. She gave him his little book. A full social life, of course, lots of engagements—not like me. She dropped the match.

  They kissed again. She listened to his step going tramping back again down the drive, so loud, collected, unconscience-stricken; waited for his car to start away; ran back into the house.

  There was the awaited envelope, sitting on the hall table. Put chain on door and remember landing light. The variations had been slight, all these years. The jar of biscuits, the plate of apples and bananas. Only no thermos now, except when James was home. He liked Ovaltine, but the girls wouldn’t touch it. A nice cup of cocoa then? Hot milk? … So good for you … No, thank you, Mum. Not even Horlick’s, which Olivia used to be really greedy for, which had so undoubtedly helped her to pass her Oxford exams, with flying colours. Of course, neither of them did much brain work now. A pity, particularly in Olivia’s case. A married woman with children has plenty to occupy her without improving her mind; but a pity all the same that neither of them appeared to take any interest in politics or the deeper kind of thought: still preferring Pip, Squeak and Wilfred, or that ridiculous Beachcomber, or any gossip column, to The Times leader or the foreign news. Pity. They were both girls with plenty of brains, if they cared to use them. Mrs. Curtis herself and Aunt May, too, had always believed in keeping abreast of the times in the broadest sense.

  His hat, his cap and muffler on their pegs: no longer dumb creatures in pain, but homely symbols, their virtue restored, dozing peacefully, guarding the hall.

  Nibbling a biscuit … Around me the furniture frozen into night silence, friendly, estranged … Kate, Mother, Dad, the maids asleep upstairs, the nurse, too, dozing in her chair probably—all of them unconscious of me, unconscious of the male step in the garden, the alien form by the shrubbery, deaf to branch listening, gravel speaking; to the two forms murmuring, clasping; to me hurrying away alone; flying from him, back to my home, back to myself, away from the two shapes in shadow; leaving them there: to be there now for ever, clasped, as I dreamed in the beginning they would one night be. This is with whom it was to be, and this is the night. Now I am back at the beginning, now begins what I dreamed was to be.

  My own bedroom waiting, awake for me … Peep in on Kate. Then a hot bath: float in water, warm water, softly dissolve; without one thought sink into sleep.

  But something rustled on the landing: nurse going by on heelless slippered feet with a stir of starched skirts … Without seeing she saw the broad haunches, brisk and trim, swinging down the passage, the broad short feet going hard down, flap flap on the heels in those blue bedroom slippers, trimmed beads and black fur.

  She switched off the hall light, went softly upstairs, along the passage. At his door stood the white figure, waiting.

  “Hallo! Had a nice time?”

  “Lovely, thank you.”

  “That’s right. It’s nice to have a little change—good for you.” The blue stone eye scanned Olivia up and down … Probably heard the car stop when it did, start again how long afterwards? … goodness knows. A good hour … perhaps two? And my face must be different …

  “How is he?” Anxious suddenly.

  “Oh, all right. He’s just had a little drink of hot milk with a drop of brandy … He’s been asking for you.”

  “Has he? Oh! Since when? Shall I go in?”

  “Yes, I should. Just pop in for a tick. He’ll settle off better.”

  The lamp, muffled with mother’s dark green silk scarf, shone on the table by the fire. The bed in shadow. He lay on his back, propped on three pillows, eyes closed, exhausted. She went and stood beside him.

  “Hallo, Dad—”

  His eyelids lifted with an effort.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?”

  “I’ve been out to dinner—just back.”

  “Thought you’d gone away …”

  “No, no. Just to Meldon—to the Spencers. They sent you heaps of messages. They’re so glad you’re better.”

  “Hm. Jack Spencer … Sick man … Hm …”

  His unfamiliar grizzled sprouting jaws worked a little … Presently he said, with his eyes shut:

  “Let me see now … How many children has Kate?”

  “Four. Nice ones. I don’t think you’ve seen the baby yet, have you?”

  “No, I have not … At least, I think not … That husband of hers … he’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Rob’s all right. He suits Kate. They understand each other, and get on.”

  He breathed out a deep sigh between his slack thin lips. Presently he said:

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Dad. Of course I am.” Still on his mind. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m fine.”

  After a pause, he said with extreme diffidence:

  “I forget for the moment what the exact position is …”

  He’s been leading up to this.

  “Between me and Ivor, you mean, Dad? Well, you know I don’t live with Ivor any longer. It’s all over. We separated—some time ago.”

  “No chance,” he said apologetically, “of coming together again?”

  “No. It was a bad mistake. We’re best apart.”

  “Pity.”

  “Yes.”

  “To the best of my recollection he was a decent young chap …” His voice was very weak.

  “Yes, he was.” Dad had taken to him, the few times they’d met. “Only we oughtn’t to have married, that’s all.”

  “I dare say you know best.” Another sigh. “It seems unsatisfactory though. I wish …”

  “Don’t worry, darling. It’ll work out. I’m awfully sorry to have been such a nuisance to you.”

  He waited; made a statement:

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “I mean to be,” she said quickly, moved. “Get better, and I’ll be perfectly happy.”

  “Oh! …” He sighed irritably. “What’s that got …” Soothing him, putting him off; when he was so tired too, when it was such an effort to say anything …

  She bent down and said carefully:

  “Listen. I will be happy. I promise you.”

  His eyelids moved slightly, as if in approval. He said, in a blurred way—rather like the other, like Rollo’s father:

  “No need to go regretting … suffering for things. Morbid. Remorse’s nasty habit. Bad pol’cy. All make mistakes. You’ve got ’r life b’fore you.”

  “Yes, I know I have.” Oh, yes! …

  He tried again; but his mind, a burden painfully sustained on a bare knife-edge, began to topple. He couldn’t quite finish. Feebly pompous, he pronounced:

  “You can r’ly ’pon my co-operation Should’ve informed you sooner … But I pr’cras’nate …”

  “Thank you, Dad. I’ll remember. Good-night. Go to sleep now.”

  She kissed his forehead … What a different kind of kiss … went out, closing the door noiselessly. He did not stir.

  In the dressing-room adjoining, the white poised wing-spread of cap in the arm-chair by the fire. A tray with sandwiches, a thermos beside her. A book, the papers.

  “Got all you want?” Olivia stood in front of the gorgeous fire and warmed the backs of her legs …” She doesn’t stint herself of coal; I must speak to her,” said Mother. “Surely half the quantity these mild nights …?”

  “Yes, thanks, I’m all right.”

  “I can’t think how you manage to keep awake.�
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  “Oh, well, you get used to it, you know. I do get a bit yawny-like towards morning. But I have a wee doze now and then. He doesn’t need very much seeing to now.”

  “How is he, do you think?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. He’s doing quite nicely.”

  “He’s awfully patient.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s quite good. I always say I’d rather nurse men when it comes to anything bad.”

  “He’s so terribly weak.”

  “Oh, well, he would be that, of course. I dare say he’ll pull up gradually. He’ll have to go slow, of course, and take it easy. He won’t ever be what he was before, I don’t suppose.”

  “He looks much iller now than he did. But I suppose that’s natural at this stage …”

  “M’m. …” That was enough about the patient. Anxiety in relations was natural, but a little went a long way. He was all right, she’d said so. “What a noise those owls do make here at night.”

  “Yes, we’ve always had a lot of owls—ever since I can remember. Don’t you like them?”

  “Can’t say I do. Creepy sort of noise. I suppose you’d have nightingales here too, would you?”

  “We once had a nightingale … Every May, in the shrubbery by the drive.” … Just at that place …” But he doesn’t come any more now. I don’t know why. I suppose it’s getting too suburban.”

  “M’m. Suburban you call this, do you?” She uttered a brief sharp laugh. “Of course, the country’s all right for a bit—but I shouldn’t care for it for long. My goodness, I should get blue! Specially in winter. I couldn’t stick it. Give me London in winter. I love London.”

  “Do you? It’s exciting, of course, but I don’t love it. I’d far rather live in the country. Most of all in winter.”

  Oh, stop, awful voices, glib words rubbing, rattling against each other without hope, without illumination … Is it true, can it be true, what was said, felt, half an hour ago? Are the shapes still there, perfect as we left them, in the November night, in the garden just beyond these windows? Is the night still beautiful as it seemed—penetrated with moon, with warm leaf smell, cold smell of mist, secretly dying and living? Is it all nothing? Can it be defaced, deformed, made squalid by a voice? Could it be seen in some other way—in her way, not mine? …