The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  What I must know I hadn’t asked yet. I asked it then. I shouldn’t have, but I had to … Whether he and Nicola—ever nowadays … my arm over my face, very quick and calm … He waited a moment, I didn’t look at him, it seemed for ever before he said: “No.”

  That was all I wanted to know, my mind was at rest. At least more so … I asked him to forgive me, I had no right, but I had to know.

  He nodded his head, and lit a cigarette. I said: “Let’s go,” and jumped up and packed very energetically, wanting to get away. It was after five when we started, lugubrious swollen clouds rolling up from the west.

  “Couple of sharks,” he said, amused, annoyed, as he got in the car. But he wouldn’t tell me what they’d rooked him; he never will let me see any bill. I didn’t feel right: on edge, a crashing headache coming on. He wasn’t in good form either—a bit morose and distant. We turned towards London again, not having any plans. About dinner-time we found ourselves in Oxford and stopped at the Mitre for a meal.

  “Shall we stay?” he said afterwards. “Or push on to London?”

  “Just as you like, darling.”

  “Well, I’ve got to be back so frightfully early to-morrow it ’ud really be better perhaps if we pushed on. Getting up at crack of dawn is so grim—one gets back feeling like hell. What do you think, though, darling?”

  “Let’s push on,” I said. I don’t remember caring particularly. What with all those tears and the rain and all, the weekend was submerged, finished. We couldn’t have revived it. He was tired too. We only wanted to be alone and sleep. We drove on to London.

  It’s funny, after that week-end there seems a gap for a long time. We didn’t see each other much, I’m sure of that. The problem of where to go got more and more acute. The snatched snips and fragments had become hateful to me—though he didn’t feel it in the same way, and once or twice went away sulking when I said no, impossible. It was getting on for spring, he gave me freesias, mimosa, tulips. It must have been in early March that Jocelyn sent me his keys as he’d promised, with a note saying he was just off to Austria, and wouldn’t I try to come out for a bit later. I rang him up and said would he mind if I lived there say for a month, and tried to do some writing after studio hours. He was delighted—telling me where he kept his sheets and towels, and about the geyser; and did I want his charwoman to do breakfast for me? I said no, I’d look after myself, but she was to come in for an hour every morning while I was out. It’s a lot of washing up that gets me down. I explained to Etty, saying I just needed a workroom of my own for a few weeks, I knew a publisher who was interested, she was thrilled of course; she’s marvellously uninquisitive and unobservant, I must say. Mother was suspicious at first, but pleased on second thoughts. She always thinks it’s such a pity I dropped Writing after being in print so much at Oxford. She thought at last I might be going to settle down and Do Something. Poor Mum; she doesn’t trust Etty, or Anna—or me either for that matter. So my tangled web was nicely woven. I didn’t say a word to Rollo. We lunched together the day I moved in. I said I’d something to show him, and directed him where to go in the car after lunch, opened the door with my own latch-key, walked him upstairs, very mystified, and ushered him in. A grand surprise. The sun was streaming in at the window, and he was so beautifully pleased and excited. I thought I’d be very happy there. I like that part of London too, off the Fulham road. After he’d gone, masses of flowers arrived, and in the evening a great hamper from Fortnum’s, full of those delicacies—fruits in brandy, foie gras, pickled figs and things—that are a bit of a worry really; one never can decide at what meal to eat them, and it seems such a shame to open the jars. A bottle of Calvados too. The sad thing was he couldn’t have dinner with me, he’d got to dine out, he’d come round afterwards, if he possibly could … Sometimes I remember what he said that time I got a glimpse of his engagement book: “They can all be scrapped.” It wasn’t often they were … He can’t help it … I couldn’t be bothered to cook dinner for myself. I had a banana and a cup of coffee and went out and saw a bad film at the Forum. I came back and sat by the gas fire and waited. About midnight the bell rang, he was there. He stayed with me an hour or two, it was heavenly to feel secure against disturbance. He left and I heard his step go down the uncarpeted stair … I felt lonely then and oppressed. The room seemed quite the wrong shape—too high—square—what? … I don’t like bed-sitting rooms, specially at night. I can’t sleep properly. The building seemed utterly empty except for me. A German couple lived on the ground floor, but in between me and them on the first floor, were empty rooms. A painter had one, but he lived in the country and only came up and used it if he had a portrait commission. He didn’t have one while I was there … And Jocelyn’s windows, large, bald, vacant with his long dismal unlined butcher-blue curtains, trailing down like a giant’s boiler-suit … He hasn’t any taste in decoration; not that he’s indifferent, he likes his room; he just hasn’t any eye. Writing young men often haven’t. Not like painters: whatever the mess and squalor their rooms are generally alive. But serious young authors like Jocelyn are apt to live in impersonal apartments with a good deal of brown and blue casement cloth, and oak sideboards, and wicker chairs their mothers have let them have from home. Not uncomfortable, or downright ugly; undeveloped more, student-like. Not puritanical exactly, but, anyway, a hint of a moral attitude … Jocelyn being against possessions at the moment, he’d given away a good many of his books, and the only things in the way of pictures were two photographs, one of Gaudier-Brzeska, one of D. H. Lawrence, cut out of books and framed in black passe-partout; and one lithograph, quite good—a nude. The walls were distempered in fawn, the bed had a Paisley shawl over it by day … Even trimmed up with Rollo’s flowers, that room never cracked a whole-hearted smile.

  The thing is really, I don’t like living alone. The wind gets up; or else I start wondering what the people were like who lived in the room before me; dead now, and soon I’ll be dead and what’s it all about? … I sit in a chair and do nothing, or lean against the mantelpiece … I got to know Gaudier and Lawrence well, and the ugly bit of Victorian-Gothic church the window showed. I was alone in that room more than I thought I’d be. It was disappointing. Nicola stayed in London the whole of the time; I hadn’t thought of her doing that. I used to think why didn’t Rollo urge, persuade her to go away for a few days. He could have if he’d tried. I wanted him to spend a week-end there with me, or at least one whole night, and he wanted to too.

  “But I can’t suggest her going,” he said rueful, his eyebrows up. “It seems so mean, doesn’t it, darling? Don’t you think it does?” It was one of the kind of little things he just can’t do … He told me she was much better, had more energy, wanted to go out so much more, and enjoyed things. I said I was so glad.

  He was in such good spirits all that time, so sweet to me, I couldn’t bear to let him see I wasn’t in form myself. I’d promised I’d never complain or make a scene again; I never have. The Other Woman mustn’t make too many demands: Rule the first … Sometimes I thought—I still think—he was loving in a different way during that time … What was it now? … More spoiling, more attentive … As if he was apologising, wanting to make up to me … I suppose because he wasn’t seeing me as often as I’d hoped …

  He’d manage to come for dinner once a week. I cooked it in the tiny cupboard of a kitchen, and he laid the table, awfully pleased with himself. I shall never like cooking, I’m not talented enough, but it was nice cooking for him, he appreciated it so. I bought a stylish little new cookery book and dished up all sorts of mixtures. Sometimes when he couldn’t have dinner with me, he’d ring the bell late, about one o’clock. I never stayed out anywhere after midnight in case he did. It was rather wearing, the waiting; often after one had struck, I’d listen for the half-hour, then two, then the half-hour again; still keyed up for the door-bell, the telephone, hearing in my brain his car come down the street and stop, sitting frozen in my c
hair—a listening machine … I asked him how he explained when he came late. “I go to look up old George,” he said. I knew George was an habitué of the house—Nicola’s friend—it didn’t seem safe; but he said George had had standing orders for the last ten years to provide an unhesitating alibi on all occasions with an element of doubt in them. George could be trusted. He was a very useful chap, never been known to ask a question.

  His father and mother came to stay with them for a week during that time. Sir John was having some new sort of treatment from a specialist. That week I scarcely saw him, and when he did come he seemed to bring Lady Spencer with him—which was appalling. I thought: Her son. How dare I … How wrong … I thought how she’d disapprove, and I worried, thinking whoever Rollo can deceive he won’t get past her … Whenever the bell rang that week I had a mad fear it was Lady Spencer come to say all was discovered, I must give him up at once. I saw exactly what her hat would look like, I heard her voice ordering me off with majestic uncompromising finality—like the Queen at Ascot sacking improperly dressed ladies from the Royal Enclosure. My heart used to beat, going down to answer the bell. Dotty … It just shows how guilty I really feel.

  I did try to write now and then, I got about half a sketch done, but I kept losing my way in it; and the listening and waiting interfered. A person in my state can’t work … Oh! Sometimes I wish … no … yes, sometimes I wish I could be free again, able to belong to myself … The burden is too heavy, there’s hardly a moment to fit in the happiness of loving … And I would like to do something definite with my life …

  What it came to was that the evenings I knew for certain he wouldn’t come were a kind of relief. Etty trotted round once or twice, and Anna, of course, and once Kate came up and spent the night. She took me to a theatre and I made her up a bed on the other divan and she enjoyed herself, though she criticised the geyser a good deal and got up horribly early and alert the next morning … Having a love affair makes one very remote and useless to one’s friends. I didn’t care much at that time what happened to any of them.

  I slept better the nights I knew he wouldn’t come. Another trouble was the thought of his having to leave in the early hours and go out in the dark and cold right across London to his own home. It worried me more and more. We hadn’t thought of that side of it; only of the peace and relief of his being able to stay late. Now that he did, I saw it was bad for him, it meant short broken nights, nervous strain … I began to dread it for him. I thought he did too. I’d start quite soon saying, “You’d better go …” I’d follow him in my thoughts all the way, picturing his journey, timing it till I could imagine him home. It wasn’t till I saw him undressed and in his own bed in that dressing-room that I could relax, and try to sleep. He caught a bad cold going back in a snowstorm one night, he gave it to me and it went on my chest. I couldn’t shake it off … Oh, God! There’s no solution for a situation like ours. Whatever we try out, the clock defeats us, complacently advancing acknowledged claims, sure of our subservience, our docility … Why should she be so protected, pitied? Why shouldn’t she have one pang, one wet lace handkerchief? … Why shouldn’t she lose him, why not? What’s she done to deserve to keep him? Let her stand on her own; why not? It’s what she needs. Make her grow up. Make her get out of bed and pull herself together. Shirker! Upper-class parasite! Hysterical little vampire! … Stop!

  Once after lunch, taking me back to Jocelyn’s in the car, he stopped at a flower shop in the Fulham Road, he’d seen some pink lilies in the window he wanted to get me. He says it with flowers all right … White lilac too. He picked it out, branch by branch, and the girl packed it up, and the lilies too, in cherry-coloured paper. My arms were full. He wandered round as he always does, and then stood looking at some sprays of stephanotis, precious-looking, in a glass on the shelf. “I’ll have these too,” he said, curt. She lifted them out to wrap up and he said, “I want them sent, please. Give me a card.” He scribbled down Mrs. R. Spencer and the address, no message. “See they go at once, will you?”

  Outside he said, a little apologetic, “It’s her favourite flower.”

  “It is heavenly,” I said, cool and bright. My arms were crammed with lilies and lilac, I shouldn’t have minded. I wanted to throw them all away. I thought of her thanking him for the charming thought when he got back—wearing them in her dress that night … little guessing who’d given them a dirty look before they reached her. It’s the only time he’s ever been obviously tactless. It must have been he hadn’t quite got his grip after rather a heavy lunch.

  One night the bell rang late; about midnight, down I flew thinking Rollo had come unexpectedly. I opened quickly and there on the doorstep was an unknown young man. As he saw me his expectant smile faded abruptly. “Is Jocelyn in?” he said uncertainly. He was hatless, with rough brown hair, he wore a shabby overcoat with the collar turned up. He had large brown shining eyes with clear-cut lids under a broad jutting forehead; and that worn look of dignity, stress, youth which sets the maternal instinct working, wanting to look into the question of his food and underwear.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said when I’d explained.

  “It doesn’t matter a bit.” His voice was gentle. “I just looked in.”

  I wanted to do something about him, ask him in—but I didn’t. He looked as if he’d walked a long way. He smiled in a friendly and charming way, and said good-night and went away. I don’t know why the incident made such an impression, but it did. It still haunts me. I wonder who he was, what he’s doing … He was so different from the person I’d opened the door to let in. He should have been there, he should have come in—not Rollo … I don’t know … It was wrong that he had to go away again.

  I suppose I was there about six weeks altogether. I know it was April when the two things happened. One was, I got ’flu badly, the other, his trip to America. Two months; on the firm’s business: alone, that was something. I think he told me the day I started to be ill. Anyway, when I try to think the two things are mixed up: a waste of waters, a liner, the New York sky-line churn in my mind with shivering and aches and throbbing and trying to get up and falling back in bed again. When Mrs. Crisp came as usual about ten to tidy, she found me. Her appearance was wrong for illness, but she went out and got me some more aspirin, I’d run out; then she did a bit of dusting and clattering and went away again. After she’d gone I managed to ring up Rollo at the office and tell him not to come; he had to sail in ten days. The day wore away, parched, dazed. I dozed and woke and poured down aspirin and dozed again. Late in the afternoon the bell rang. I staggered down and it was pink lilies and grapes and peaches with a note from Rollo. After that no one came or rang up. The night was terrible. Next morning was Saturday, Anna was away, Rollo away, I couldn’t face the week-end alone in the flat. I didn’t know, but I thought I must be pretty ill. When Mrs. Crisp arrived I told her to ring up Etty, and she came, and the doctor came, and I was bundled in blankets and taken back to Etty’s in the doctor’s own car. He was nice and goodlooking, a personal friend of Etty’s of course. I’d managed to scrawl a line to Rollo while Etty was ringing up Mrs. Banks to order my bed and hot-water bottle. I gave it to Mrs. Crisp to post. So that was the end of living in Jocelyn’s room. I suppose Mrs. Crisp took away the lilies and peaches. When Etty kindly went back next day for the rest of my belongings they were gone.

  Etty looked after me, and the doctor went on coming and I went on having a cough and temperature. I’d been in a low state for a long time, I suppose. The struggle to keep secretly in touch with Rollo was too much. I gave up, and let on in an airy amused way to Etty after the second load of hot-house blooms … I suppose he thought flowers were uncompromising … Of course she was enchanted, and after that brought me up bouquets even when they weren’t from him—Simon sent some, and Anna—in a roguish triumphant way—and when he rang up once to inquire had a little conversation with him which she enjoyed very much.

  “He’s fe
arfully solicitous, darling. Too perfect.”

  I said, “It’s only because I happened to be going to lunch with him—his wife’s away—the day I got ill, and had to put him off. He’s very prompt with little attentions—lavish. The kind of gentleman-friend who gives one prestige in nursing homes. I suppose he’s well broken into it—his wife’s ill a lot … I don’t wish to belittle,” I said. “It makes a nice change for me, and I do appreciate it, but after all, sending flowers is an easy way to get people off one’s mind.”

  “There’s an easier way,” she said. “Sending none.”

  “Not always,” I said … “You know, even if I hadn’t known him nearly all my life,” I said, “I don’t think I’d ever have found him terribly attractive.”