The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  He was held up at the first crossing and she came level with him and stood beside him. He was looking at the traffic.

  “Hallo, Ivor.”

  He turned his head and saw her.

  “Hallo!”

  “I saw you come out of there.”

  “Oh, were you in there?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t seem surprised: but he never did. “Not really quite good enough, was it? I suppose our palate’s jaded.”

  “M’m.”

  He looked pale and puffy, his eyes without lustre … the way they always went when his digestion was out of order. His white shirt, grey flannels and navy blue jacket had a seedy look … Down on his luck …

  They walked along side by side towards Piccadilly.

  “What are you doing in London, Ivor? I thought you were abroad.”

  “I have been. I was in Brittany all summer. I’m just back.”

  “With what’s-her-name?”

  “With Marda,” he amended with dignity. “She’s got a house near Quimper. I’ve been writing a book.”

  “Finished it?”

  “Not quite. I got stuck, and Marda thought I’d better put it aside for a bit and have a change. She thought I’d been overworking.”

  Got sick of him probably and kicked him out …

  “Besides,” he said, drawing up his shoulders and frowning in an important, theatrical-ferocious way she remembered, “I’ve got a new job in the offing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, nothing’s fixed yet. I’d rather not say too much about it.” However, after a few moments of walking shoulder to shoulder in silence, he said: “As a matter of fact, Halkin’s half promised me something in films.”

  “Who’s Halkin?”

  “You must have heard of Halkin. He’s one of our biggest directors.”

  “What are you going to do—act?”

  “No—on the production side. Halkin’s got ideas. It ought to be interesting working for him. I know if I once got a break in films I could do something … I’ve always wanted to get in on them.”

  They waited together on the edge of the Circus, then crossed towards the Criterion; then across again into Piccadilly.

  Extraordinary, depressing, how the old relationship reestablished itself at once pat and neat, without a moment’s embarrassment or uncertainty: oneself aloof, caustic, and cool, pricking every balloon as fast as he blew it up: a sadistic, conscientious governess; he resentful, aggressive, feebly jaunty, making a stand against yet wishing to collapse, to receive protection.

  “Had supper?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  “All I want.”

  “Where are you making for now?”

  “Home. If you want to come along and forage in the kitchen you can. I can’t offer you much—but I think there’s a tin of tomato soup and some bread and cheese—perhaps a bit of ham.”

  “Thanks. I will if you don’t mind.”

  His voice brightened. He’s hungry … He stepped out more jauntily with his short, cissyish, sideways-veering gait, one shoulder up, one down.

  “Well, I can’t walk any more,” she said presently. “Get a taxi, will you?”

  He hailed one opposite Burlington House. Pain … The lights, the traffic swam and snapped in her head as she waited. Pain …

  In the taxi she huddled in a corner. After a bit she burst out laughing. “This is a rum start,” she said.

  “I suppose it is,” he said absently. He was leaning forward to watch the clock.

  “It’s all right, I’ve got half a crown.”

  “Though I don’t know …” he said. “It doesn’t seem outstandingly odd to me. Rather pleasant …?”

  She didn’t answer; and presently he noticed that she seemed to have been taken ill.

  VIII

  She turned over and saw him standing by her bed.

  “How are you now?” he said.

  She said through clenched teeth:

  “Pain …”

  “Was it you making that noise just now?”

  “What noise?”

  “Calling out or something …”

  “It might have been. There’s no cat.”

  “Where’s the pain?”

  “In my stomach.”

  “Got any brandy?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong, do you suppose?” He looked perplexed, bothered.

  “Nothing. I’m very ill.” The vice temporarily slackened and she said, “Have you had enough to eat?”

  “Yes, thanks. I enjoyed it. Hadn’t had any dinner.”

  “You might fill my hot-water bottle.”

  “I will. Where is it?”

  “Hanging up on a hook behind the kitchen doo … Kettle on the stove …”

  He trotted off, noiseless, glad to be of use. He was always a good nurse … tactful, deft. He poured out my medicine five times a day when I had ’flu, and changed me twice the night my temperature came down with a whizz. I was always seeing him shaking the thermometer …

  She heard Ivor moving about below in the kitchen. After a while he came running up.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  She didn’t move, and after a startled pause he slipped the bottle between the sheets, stood looking down at her, at a loss, then took up her wrist and felt for the pulse. At the bottom of the pit she had a twinge of amusement, thinking: wrong place, anyway … He said loudly:

  “Olivia!”

  She heard herself say clearly:

  “I’m having a miscarriage.”

  “Shall I get a doctor?”

  “Yes Quick.”

  He went hurtling down the stairs. She cried out on a tag-end of breath:

  “Don’t be long!”

  He wouldn’t have heard.

  From some unknown level deeper than sleep she floated up, and saw Ivor looking down at her.

  “Hallo!” she said. “How long have you been away?”

  His face altered in relief.

  “I don’t know. I had to tear up and down streets knocking up people with brass plates. Then I couldn’t make him hear.”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor.”

  “Has he gone?”

  “No, he’s gone down to his car for something.”

  “What’s he been doing?”

  “He’s been holding something under your nose.”

  “Oh” That’s all, is it? “Well, I’m better.” Pain only a faint dying echo. “What time is it?”

  The doctor came in rapidly, carrying a small case. He had a black beard trimmed to a point, and steel-rimmed pince-nez. A beard—good gracious! … She smiled winningly. He put an arm under her head, gave her something in a medicine glass, laid her back. Sal volatile again. This time I’ll keep it down and that’s just the difference.

  “I’m all right now.”

  He took her pulse.

  “Well, young lady,” he said, “you gave your husband a fright.”

  “Sorry.”

  She caught Ivor’s eye; they exchanged rather sheepish smiles.

  “She’ll be all right now,” he said to Ivor.

  “I bathed too long yesterday. I must have caught a chill.”

  “You must be more careful at these times,” he said severely, refusing to be melted. “Athleticism is all very well, but you young women should have more sense. If you’re not more careful you’ll ruin your health.”

  “I know,” she said meekly. “I will be.”

  When she looked at him she wanted to laugh. He’d got out of bed in a hurry, and one long pointed prawn’s-whisker eyebrow was pushed rakishly over, one eye. He had a stiff collar on, but no tie or waistcoat, and this informality combined with his beard, glasses, black suit an
d paunch, gave him an invented appearance, like the distressed bourgeois character in a Rene Clair film. He looked far from young: a locum probably, unearthed from his retirement. What a shame to get him out of bed.

  “I’m terribly sorry to have dragged you out,” she said. “I feel an awful fraud.”

  She couldn’t stop smiling. Serenely, weakly, she floated at her ease in the pellucid element of resurrection.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said, less grudging. “All in the day’s work. Any pain now?”

  “Just a niggle only.”

  “These will help.” He took a pill-box from his case, and sent Ivor for a glass of water. Directly Ivor was gone, he said evenly, rearranging and closing his case with slow rather fumbling movements:

  “You haven’t been taking anything, have you?”

  “Oh, no”

  Too quick, too emphatic, understanding too well … But he was old, tired, he wanted to get back to bed. All he said was:

  “That’s right. Never monkey about with yourself. Your heart seems a bit flabby. Been overdoing it?”

  “I have been doing a good deal lately. I’ve had to be very busy. …”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Not very long—”

  “You’ll want children later—”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, don’t be foolish. Don’t overstrain yourself. You can’t play about too much with Nature without paying for it.” Been hearing a lot lately about Nature’s character: nothing to her credit … more spiteful than God …

  Ivor had come back with the water. She swallowed the pill. The doctor said:

  “Give her another of these in four hours’ time if the pain goes on. She’d better stay where she is for a few days. Keep quiet and eat plenty of nourishing food. You’re thin. Been going in for this slimming craze?”

  “No. It’s just natural …” It’s no good, he doesn’t like me …

  “Well, don’t. If you want me to look in again, give me a ring.”

  “Thank you so much. I don’t expect it will be necessary.”

  Ivor started to follow him out; she pointed violently towards her handbag on the dressing-table.

  “Pay him,” she whispered.

  Swiftly he took out the notecase and ran downstairs after the doctor.

  “Well, that’s that.” Ivor came back and sat himself down in the little oak arm-chair. He stroked his hair back into position. He was always very particular about the set of his thick soft wavy dark hair.

  “I’m sorry, Ivor. I’ve been a hellish nuisance.”

  He said cheerfully:

  “That’s all right. Rather a good thing on the whole I ran into you, wasn’t it?”

  “It certainly was …” She added casually. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you had a pain.”

  “You didn’t say anything else …?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I seem to remember yelling out something in a mad way …”

  “Yes, you did. I didn’t know what to make of that, so I left it alone.”

  He spoke apparently with perfect simplicity, incuriosity. Typical­.

  “I suppose you said I was your wife.”

  “Well, yes. It seemed less trouble than stating the exact position. Besides, it’s true, I presume, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  They laughed.

  “His beard,” she said. “I thought I must be dreaming.”

  “I know. Superb.”

  “I should have thought a beard like that would interfere with his practice.”

  “Not in his heyday—I dare say it was an asset.”

  “It’s very odd: he’s exactly—in every respect—how I always imagined Dr. Fell.”

  They laughed again.

  “Comfy?” he said.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “I think I’ll sit up here for a bit in case you want anything, and read the paper. If I’m not in your way.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “I bought it hours ago and I was going to take it home to read in bed.” He pulled the Evening Standard out of his pocket.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Well, Marda’s lent me her flat for a week or so—just till I can find something of my own. She’s still abroad.”

  Scenting danger, he rapidly unfolded his paper, and concealed himself behind it.

  “Move the light if you like …” It’s not for me to pry into his parasitic little arrangements.

  He turned his chair round, pulled the lamp—Anna’s lamp that always amused Rollo—closer to him, tilting up its shade.

  “Anna do this?” he said.

  “M’m.”

  “Rather witty …” He jerked his head in the direction of the Park chairs picture. “Not unpleasant to see that again. It doesn’t wear too badly.” He screwed up his eyes professionally.

  “I like it still. I always shall. Partly for the wrong reasons, I suspect—literary ones. And then it helps me to preserve the line of continuity …” She closed her eyes, sighed with fatigue. “Which is sometimes hard to hang on to when one looks back …”

  She fell into a light doze, thinking of Rollo: nebulous thoughts and images, not sad. Ivor sat quietly, reading, rustling the paper now and then.

  “Mind a pipe?” he said presently.

  She woke up and said no.

  He lit it. The first whiff she caught smelt odd—not quite right yet, but not nauseating. The sickness is over. I shan’t be sick any more. I can go about anywhere, talk to people, look at them with nothing to hide, eat, drink, smoke. Oh … how wonderful! It’s over … Really the things one goes through But it’s over. I always just manage somehow …

  Lucky Livia … I can be human and have thoughts again. My face will come back, I’ll get a new frock with the money left over, to look pretty for Rollo …

  She turned her head towards Ivor. There he sat again, puffing at his pipe: clenching it between his side teeth, occasionally stretching his mouth and drawing in a hissing breath, exactly as he always used to … She studied his profile. Oh, Ivor, you’ve changed, how sad! … The lines of nose and lips had coarsened, the sweetness was gone. There was a fold of flabby flesh beneath the soft, full curve of his chin … Did he drink? What’s going to happen to him?

  She dozed again. When she reopened her eyes, Ivor’s head was sunk on his chest. She stirred and he roused himself, started up.

  “How d’you feel?” he said half-mechanically, confused with drowsiness.

  “Grand. That pill seems to have done the trick. I wonder what it was. I should have thought he’d set himself against any form of female alleviation … What time is it?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “I’m hungry.” Ravenous: not the morbid lugubrious craving, but real fresh elementary hunger. “I could eat the Evening Standard.”

  He jumped to his feet, alert, excited.

  “I could do with a bite myself. Shall I make some chocolate? I saw the tin.”

  “Hot chocolate! Oh, yes, and there’s some milk.” She had bought a pint on the way back from the purple room that afternoon, vaguely conjecturing she might be glad of a hot drink in the night. “But that won’t be enough.” She sat up straight in bed. “I want something solid. I tell you what—a mixed grill Oh!” She yearned at the thought of it.

  “Is there nothing in this blinking house? Some bread, I suppose … Would any shops be open?” Fool not to have replenished the wretched store cupboard, got in eggs, bacon, cream, every sort of thing.

  “I know what I did see: a tin of beans.”

  “Baked beans!—are you sure?”

  “Yes—alongside the soup.”

  “And I never knew! Oh, God bless Mrs. Banks! She alway
s has one in reserve for when Etty goes to bed early with a tray. It’s Etty’s favourite delicacy. Baked beans would be perfect.” She laughed with excitement. “Do hurry, there’s a good chap.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Off he trotted, delighted; a midnight spread! … He’s awfully willing and domesticated. He’d be happy if he could live like this always: with someone or other for company—someone just in practical control but shelved as an exacting aggressive individual—someone being agreeable, not picking on him. He’d be a treasure to a lady invalid with cultured tastes. He’d push her chair round and round the garden, and take an interest in the bulbs, and they’d have hot scones for tea.

  He came back with a loaded tray.

  “I made myself a cup, too, while I was about it,” he said.

  “Good. Have a few beans as well—just a few.”

  “Well, I don’t mind if I do.”

  “Go on.”

  Perhaps he also had days of lean fare to make up for. But he was always greedy. She recalled his questing eye over other people’s tables; his furtive glance round always, as the next course came in.

  He had arranged the beans nicely on squares of toast: a tempting dish. The chocolate was rich, steaming hot. Oh, good, good! … Moment of sharpest pleasure of my life.

  “Sorry there’s no beer,” she said.

  “I prefer chocolate,” he said simply.

  “What was the name of the man who did the detective in the film to-night? I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Harry Wallace? You must have.”

  “He’s jolly attractive. The girl was good too—hideous figure, but good. I call it the phenomenon of the age—the brilliance of the acting in these wise-cracking American tough pictures.”

  They chatted about films.

  She finished her drink, lay down again. She began to whistle, repetitively, rather flat, lackadaisically: We won’t go home till morning … Not getting further than the second line …

  “We’d better go to sleep now,” she said after a bit. “Where do you propose to extend your limbs?”

  “Anywhere you like,” he said amenably. “I can sleep anywhere.”