The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  In the afternoon we came to the Dorset coast: through Corfe and out along the road that goes to Swanage. He knew where we could get down to the beach; we left the car and walked down, down, a long way, a rough, steep, scrambling winding path. In all that sunlit green immense descent we were the only people. The sun was getting low. I remember only the great space, the swelling green, the evening shadows folded in the hollows, the iron-dark cliffs, towering, tumbling in phantasmagoric outlines, the sea spread out below, and us going down, down, down … It was half-tide and perfectly still, the narrow, grey waves collapsing with a light noise of summer. We walked along the beach, and he played ducks and drakes, and I picked up some shells and bits of agate, saying, “Look!” “Lovely, darling,” he’d say in his indulgent voice, not much interested. We sat on a rock; and it got dusk, and cold. The big round pale stones of the beach were so cold. Our feet sank in, slipped about on them with a grating, harsh rattle and crunch—it gave one a dismaying futile feeling to toil through them. We walked up the cliff again, slowly, arms round each other, stopping to kiss. Oh, how wonderful! … Going up along together in the dusk, peaceful and safe, stopping to kiss. It’s a terrific climb, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s that: but this was effortless: like being drawn up by ropes invisible … my breath came and went so easily, without strain. The gulls were crying. Near the top we stood and listened to them. “Hundreds,” he said. … It was nearly dark. I can hear them now. It was too much suddenly, too much space, and too sad. We were threatened … we wanted to be indoors. Back in the warm car again, leaning against him, the rug tucked round, I felt better. We were hungry, we’d had only a snack at a roadhouse for lunch, wanting to get on. “I feel like a rattling good dinner and every comfort,” he said. So did I. We got to Swanage, but it looked all gloomy and deserted, so we went on, past the lights of Poole Harbour, into Bournemouth. We asked an R.A.C. man the best place to dine, and he directed us through sandy roads among pines, past astonishing brick and stucco residences with towers, turrets, gables, battlements, balconies—every marine-Swiss-baronial fancy—to the new first-class modern hotel on the front. It was carpeted in pink, and there was an orchestra in the vast dining-room, and pink and gold chairs and rose-shaded lamps. The atmosphere was refined luxury, and the women dining looked expensive, flamboyant and respectable. The dinner was good, we enjoyed it very much. People looked at us, but there was nobody we knew, although Rollo had a qualm about the back of one man’s head. After dinner, having coffee in the rectangular and zigzag chromium-fitted modern beige lounge, “Well, shall we hang up our hats?” he said. So he strolled away to the office where they were most eager and affable, I could see from my arm-chair, and he came back and said he’d booked a double room with a bath, was that all right? “I’d better go and put the car away and be done with it,” he said. “You go up.” And while I was standing waiting for the lift and the suitcases, the frock-coated, brass-buttoned gentleman at the desk suggested most suavely I should sign the register now to save troubling us again. “Oh, yes,” I said cordially. I took up the pen. For the life of me I couldn’t think of a name on the spur of the moment. Every surname except Spencer went out of my head. It must begin with S because he had a huge R.B.S. on his suitcase. It wouldn’t do to hesitate. I scribbled Mr. and Mrs. Spender, London, in a rush. The “d” came to me after I’d embarked on “Spen.” “Thank you, madam,” he said, and took a key and personally conducted me in the lift to the second floor. It was a grand room—gilt and cane twin beds with fat pink eiderdowns and a balcony overlooking the sea, and a bathroom next door with a smart built-in bath.

  When he came up we laughed about the register. … We stood on the balcony for a bit in the mild, dark, starry night, and looked at the bay and the lights, and heard the sea whispering. We felt calm and tender like the night … I had a bath and went to bed. We were both a tiny bit embarrassed. I thought chiefly about my new nightdress, whether it would look nice enough … It was queer seeing him in blue silk pyjamas, cutting a broken finger-nail with my scissors. But when we put the light out, all night we were quiet and gentle, as if we’d slept together for a long time. Not the kind of night I’d imagined, but lovely; and waking up in the morning was smiling and drowsy and close. We had breakfast in bed, and then I wanted to be up and gone. I didn’t like the way I thought the waiter smirked when he brought the trays in. Rollo went down first in case of being spotted—we’d got that on our minds again—and paid the bill, a whacking one, I bet, and after a bit, when I thought the car would be round, I walked down by the staircase looking straight ahead, willing my form to be obliterated … Doing that has become such a habit I don’t think I’ll ever get out of it. Very bad for my poise …

  “Did you run into any one?” I said when we were in the car.

  “Faith an’ I did,” he said. “A big stiff called Podge Hay-ward I was at Sandhurst with. He appeared in the lounge with a very hot bit indeed—a redhead. Something told me he didn’t want to be publicly acclaimed any more than I did, so we passed each other discreetly by …”

  “Podge,” I said. “Etty had a great friend called that. She brought him to your dance. I’m sure it’s the same …” He would be here, I thought.

  “Lucky you weren’t with me, darling,” said Rollo lightly, dismissing Podge as we drove away. But I couldn’t. I remember his awful patronising laugh and bulging opaque eye …hearing him say to Etty, “That little cousin of yours is quite sweet, but she needs teaching …” Needs teaching … Why should he crop up again to blight me? I felt almost nausea to think he’d been there last night with a very hot bit indeed. I couldn’t bear Rollo saying that. It turned love, passion to derision and lust and squalor. I thought: I’ll remember him saying that more than I remember our night, so after about an hour of moroseness which he didn’t notice, I told him the trouble, and he was astonished, but he made it all right, and we came cheerfully to Weymouth.

  It clouded over at lunch and a soft misting rain began to fall. We turned inland after lunch, through a wild, open country of moor and gorse and heather, with patches of tawny grass and marshland, and groups of pine and birch. The noiseless thin rain went on blotting out the distance. I told him, O Western wind when wilt thou blow? That the small rain down may rain, and he adored it and said it after me till he knew it. The darling, he’s so sentimental. I don’t remember much about the day. We drove in a dream, he steered with one hand and held mine on his knee with the other. Once or twice we stopped and smoked a cigarette. In the evening we came to a town with a cathedral, and bells ringing. It must have been Salisbury. We had dinner at an hotel, and decided to stay there. We drank burgundy at dinner, and afterwards brandy; we drank a good deal to make up for the horrid food. I felt hot and dazed going upstairs. It was one of those country-town hotels with rambling, uneven passages and shallow staircases winding on to broad landings, with palms in stands, and a coloured print of King Edward, and sets of old prints and warming pans hung up along the passages and stairs, and’ objects of china and Indian brass and carved wood by the score on every available surface, and stuffed birds and fish in cases and pampas in giant vases, and dark-brown and olive paint, and a smell of hotel everywhere—dust and beer and cheese, and old carpets and polish … I don’t know what … The bedroom was big and square and colourless and stuffy, with thick draped lace curtains and an enormous architectural suite of light-brown furniture, and a white honeycomb coverlet on the staring hard high double bed. We had a fire lit and put out the screaming light above the dressing-table and then it was better. The fire piled up high with coal made a curious glow over us in bed and over everything … And the wine, and the queer frightening room, so unconnected with any kind of room we’d ever known, and the rain outside, sealing us in together … Oh, Rollo! Who were we? …There wasn’t ever another time like that … Crazy … Footsteps went up and down outside on the pavement all night it seemed; late cars passed and clocks in the town chimed every quarter and the fire was stil
l yearning out red over the ceiling when I fell asleep at last.

  We went back to London early next morning. He put me down at Hyde Park corner and went on to the city, and I took a taxi back to Etty’s, dropped my suitcase and went on to the studio.

  After that week-end things were different. I couldn’t go back to those furtive snatched half-frustrated meetings. I couldn’t think what to do, but we didn’t worry just then—still nourished by the week-end. We met for lunch nearly every day and dined together twice too that week and went to cinemas. It was a peaceful week. I see us talking, smiling in warm, calm intimate affection, almost without desire. It seemed so easy! … Is that what’s called halcyon days? … They didn’t last. He went away next Saturday, a week-end he couldn’t get out of, he said, so I went home. Mother was glad to see me, relieved because I had some colour and looked well. I told her stories about Etty and Mrs. Banks to amuse her, and asked her advice about clothes and pushed Dad round the garden in the bath chair and read to him for hours, he didn’t take in much, he dropped off asleep all the time. That was the first time I realised he wouldn’t get any better in mind or body …

  I didn’t go back to London till Tuesday, the day of Simon’s party. We were looking forward to it, there hadn’t been a real party for ages. I’d arranged with Rollo to drive with him first and go to Cochran’s new revue. For once it would be me going on to a date I couldn’t miss, I was elated and excited. I even thought I might take him on with me. I wore the white frock, my lucky frock. I told Etty I was dining with Marigold and her husband—that Marigold had asked me. She was thrilled for me, and twittered about while I dressed and made me take her silver coat lined with green velvet. We dined at Boulestin’s and felt very festive. Rollo looked so fine and handsome, and it was romantic wearing the white dress again, I could see from his eyes he was feeling in love with me. He said he’d enjoyed his week-end in Wiltshire, he’d been in the right mood to enjoy himself. “Thanks to you, darling,” he said. “You’re so sweet to me and make me so happy.”

  “Were there any lovely girls to flirt with?” I said.

  “Well, yes,” he said, eyebrows up, coaxing and plaintive. “There was one rather nice one, darling. She’s a sort of distant French cousin of mine—a great-niece of the old girl who was at Meldon, d’you remember? … Very young and awfully enthusiastic and spontaneous and unspoilt—and the prettiest figure I’ve seen in months—bar yours, darling,” he added. I made a disbelieving grimace. “Honestly, truly, darling,” he coaxed. “She was nice, but nothing like as nice as you. I was comparing you with her all the time to your advantage. I do much prefer you, darling.” He took my hand under the tablecloth. I wasn’t a bit jealous then. I asked some more questions and agreed it was nice to meet a pretty French cousin unexpectedly. Attractive cousins were extremely advantageous—in fact, the only possible kind of relative for pleasure. I’m sure I didn’t feel one jealous twinge at the time.

  I enjoyed the revue madly, the brilliance and frivolity, and sitting in the third row of stalls with Rollo and walking about with him between the acts. There was no one he knew, except one or two by sight. In the second half, just before the end, there was a girl dancing with a partner—a swooping, whirling, flying waltz … I shall never forget … She was terribly exciting … her long blue chiffon skirts swirled out, clinging, swirling—her long, slender legs showing and vanishing, her long, white, serpentine hips and back twisting, bending backwards, her face drugged-looking, mysteriously smiling with long, pointed lips and eyes under a standing-­out cloud of white-fair, short, crinkled hair. Her name on the programme was Thalassa. That means the sea. She was enough to make any one hold their breath; I did, and I could feel Rollo spellbound. He didn’t say a word afterwards, but clapped and clapped. I looked at him, smiling enthusiastically, and clapped too. But a terrible feeling came down to me … like sour thick carpet dust in my chest and windpipe … The worst feeling of my life.

  We went out with the crowd and found the car, and got in.

  “My God, what a figure!” he said, moving out into the traffic.

  “Yes,” I said. I knew when he saw her he’d wanted her. After a bit I said in a bright thin voice, “You seem to have got figures rather on your mind to-night.”

  “I always have,” he said; it seemed like a quick hit back, straight across the chest, a ghastly pang, but he thought we were laughing, he was quite unaware … It’s not the only time there’s been a lag before he realised a change in atmosphere; in some ways he’s not sensitive … The blue shape played on by lights went on provocatively turning and smiling before my eyes. “Where now?” he said. I gave him the address in Fitzroy Square. I felt terrible, but I said nothing. We drew up and got out, still not having decided whether he should come or not. He wanted to rather. “Shall I?” he said. I felt too rigid, stifled to squeeze out more than a word or two, I couldn’t say yes or no. I just went on in with a nod or a shrug—I don’t know which—and he followed. We went in silence along the passage and met the blare and glare full blast in Simon’s doorway … Sailor trousers, shorts, berets, stoker’s caps, scarves, grey flannels, peasant blouses, little velvet jackets, stark tailor-mades; Myra in pink satin and pale blue gloves, Mrs. Cunningham stately and noble in an ancestral frock of maroon velvet and old lace, ineffably posed against the wall, Gil Severn in tails and a monocle, Billy Meaker in a complete suit of white tights, his hair and eyebrows shaved off entirely, covered in wet white, and a white glazed cotton vine leaf, the smell of whisky and flesh and powder, and all, and all … the mixture as before, moving, struggling about in a mass blocking the doors—the party in full swing and no error.

  “Coming?” I said, feeling less awful already, faced by the crowd.

  “Good God!” he said, staring over my head; I thought for a minute it was horror at the party. “There’s Marigold.” I looked and it was; in a backless plain black frock and a wreath of metal flowers in her hair, dancing with David Cooke and looking pretty bemused. There’s always a few of their kind at Simon’s parties; one corner of his world slides over into Mayfair-Bohemia. It was a shock, I must say. Rollo was suddenly furious. “Who’s that cad holding her up?”

  I told him. “You know, the gossip-column person.”

  “He looks it,” he said. “Dare say he’ll give her a write-up … Give you all one, I expect …” His jealousy evaporated mine, I felt nearly all right again. “I’m off,” he said, hard, sullen. For a moment I thought I’d go too. But Anna dancing with Ed had just seen me and was waving­, and I waved back, saying:

  “Oh, there’s Ed!”

  At that he turned on his heel, and said, “Well, good-night,” and went off down the passage. I debated a moment and then I had to run after him, he was going down the steps when I caught him up and took his arm.

  “What are you going to do?” I said.

  “Go home to bed, I suppose.” He looked moody, wretched, childish.

  “I won’t stay long, I promise,” I said. “Do let’s meet afterwards, do!”

  “Will you come along to my house then?” he said defiantly.

  “All right,” I said quickly.

  “I’ll wait up,” he said, and I kissed him and went back in and swam straight into a nest of cronies all together round the drinks.

  “You do look a lady,” they said.

  I said, “I’ve been dining with a wealthy benefactor.”

  I drank some gin and felt better; Ed put his arm round me to dance. We got on fine. He said:

  “You’re the quiet sort, aren’t you, same as me … I liked your style the first moment I clapped eyes on you.”

  “And I liked yours,” I said.

  “They’re a funny lot,” he said. “Funny idea of having a good time … There’ll be some nasty heads to-morrow.” He cracked a quiet smile looking round. “Anna’s very nice,” he said. “I like her very much. Simon’s very nice, too.”

  H
e picked me up and made a few remarks and lost me again at intervals for about an hour, then he went home. I looked for Marigold, but she’d disappeared. Simon was seeing to the gramophone and the drinks and everything, Anna helping him now and then; he was drunk, that means amused, deft, rapid, lightly caressing. He kissed me, saying, “I wish I saw you more.” It didn’t mean anything, but I was very pleased. Colin was dramatic-drunk, with a loud, wild, forced heartiness; his hair all over his forehead in heavy locks, his eyes glassy. He seemed to be flung from one person to the next, all supporting, embracing him. When he got to me he said the oak trees are cut away by the salt tide, the seaweed grows right under the cabbages and cornfields. “That’s a symbol,” he said, throwing the word at me as if I’d never heard it.

  “I know.”

  “You don’t. You’re a woman. You know nothing about it.”

  “I know all about it,” I said stupidly; he looked at me in a hostile way and laughed contemptuously.

  “If you did,” he said, “if you did … you’d understand the whole relationship of sex to life … I could explain, I could explain, but I won’t. You’re a woman. You’d be bored …”

  I said, “Colin, I’m in love …” But he tumbled on, shouting:

  “Come on! Come on! Come on!”