The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “He separated himself,” said Colin, “long ago. I don’t see what went wrong, but he chose the other thing. That’s why he’d never have been a great man—only a person of genius. There was always something hectic about him, wasn’t there? … hunted. To me he was like a being rapt away in an endless feverish dream. …”

  He said that in his slow mournful voice; and all at once her resistance began to slacken. Was that the clue? … She saw Simon threading so light and swift through crowds, as if direct towards some narrow mastering purpose; as if impatiently saying to himself, “Is it time? It must be time now” … stopping dead on the pavement’s edge, flitting back then to the room’s threshold, peering out of the window, standing alone in the throng, chain-lighting­ another cigarette; sitting on the chair’s edge, his eyes brilliant, vacant (with that look that made people say, did he drug?—but he didn’t), checked again, thwarted in his flight.

  “He was more completely remote than any one I’ve ever known,” said Colin. “Nobody was to know him. If you tried to get near him he hated you … as I found out. He was very dangerous—surely you could see that … He was only interested in being loved …” He added, “Anna knew it …”

  Was that why he knelt on the floor beside ignoble Cora, supporting­ her, binding her cut forehead, holding water to her lips … compassion­ itself…? Was that why he released that warning, delicate current of happy stimulus?—lent people money that would never be paid back?—clowned, as he sometimes did, in that inimitable way?—and all the rest? … Surely one couldn’t explain him away with text-book statements. Things were more mixed than that—motives and results—inextricable. Colin himself said so. One could lay out all the ingredients one could think of, yet still the vital element was missing, and Simon as himself eluded one.

  “Wasn’t he happy, then?” she said.

  “Happy?” he cried as if astounded; as if no one in their senses could have asked that. “Simon?”

  He thinks it’s better for Simon to have died.

  He turned away from the window, said affectionately: “Good-night, Olivia,” kissed her cheek and went to his own room.

  Adrian was in bed, asleep already, but Anna was still moving about below in the kitchen. Olivia called over the banisters: “What are you up to?” and she came running upstairs again.

  “I was just laying breakfast,” she said. “Then we can all sleep on. Everything’s done now.”

  “You would steal a march. Why didn’t you call me? You’re a thoroughly hostile character.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sleepy.”

  She went on into her bedroom, which was Simon’s, Olivia following her.

  A ramshackle old trunk stood open in the corner, piled with his clothes. They stood and looked at them.

  “I don’t know who could wear them,” she said. “He was so long and slight … What shall I send back to his mother?”

  “Has he got a mother?”

  “Yes. She came out. We spent quite a lot of time together.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “A little grey body with glasses and wrinkles.” Anna smiled. “Nice. She’d never been abroad before.”

  “Does she want his things?”

  “She said she’d be glad of any little odds and ends.” She smiled again. “She said he had his grandfather’s gold watch but I can’t find it. I’m awfully afraid he must have popped it—or just lost it. There are some rings and coins and things in this box … studs: Woolworth. She doesn’t care much for his pictures, and she’s not one for book-reading. Perhaps some of the photographs I took last year … Only I don’t think she’ll like them.” She picked up a Moroccan belt sewn with blue, white and red beads, dropped it again. “You must have something,” she said, sighing vaguely. “What would you like?”

  “Not now, Anna—please. Later, perhaps …” Thick tears began to drip down. It was this sort of thing that took advantage of one—legacies, relics and mementoes of the departed.

  “I know he’d like you to have something,” said Anna.

  She was so self-possessed standing there looking around at his things. The person who’s been by the deathbed always is, they say.

  “Simon was very fond of you,” she said, looking at Olivia with blue fatigue-sunken eyes. “He said one day when he was ill he wished you’d walk in. You were refreshing.” “Oh! … I loved him …”

  Anna knelt down by the trunk and folded a mulberry-coloured shirt, not looking at her, giving her time to recover. After a minute Olivia managed to say:

  “Did you know he was going to die?”

  Anna considered.

  “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps half-way through he had it on his mind … But not at the end. He tried very hard for quite a long time to live—and then he just didn’t try any more. He got too weak.”

  “Did he talk much? Say anything?”

  “Not very much.” Anna sat back on her heels. “At first he liked being read to, but later on he couldn’t concentrate—it worried him. We used to play word games, very simple ones—and invent names and conversations and life histories for his nurses—really ludicrous games. He made up rhymes too, and said over poetry to himself … He joked a lot. The nurses were mad about him … He didn’t ever seem distressed in his mind—although he had so much discomfort—except once when he said he’d never been able quite to understand how the telephone worked—and I couldn’t remember either.” She smiled.

  No last words then …

  “I’ve burnt all his letters—letters to him, I mean,” said Anna, still sitting on her heels. “I know he’d have wanted me to. There wasn’t much. He never accumulated.”

  “What are you going to do, Anna? Have you made any plans?”

  “I shall stay on here. I suppose you know he left it to me?”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “He actually made a sort of will last spring before he went abroad. I can’t think why. Just on a half-sheet of paper—but Colin happened to come in while he was doing it so he told him, and showed him which drawer he was putting it in, so everything’s all right and there’ll be no trouble.”

  “That’s lucky … I’m so glad he left you the house.”

  “I often wonder,” said Anna meditatively, “whether he had a hunch he was going to die.”

  “Did it seem as if he had?”

  “I don’t know. He never said anything. I’ve never seen him in such tearing spirits as he was this summer: enjoying everything quite extravagantly. Of course he always did, but …”

  She pulled the lid of the trunk down slowly, and got up. Have you any plans?” she said.

  “Well, no. I’m a bit nebulous still, I’m afraid.” Say it cheerfully, don’t bother Anna with your totally blank future. “I’ve had an invitation to Paris. But I’m not sure if I’ll go.”

  “I hope you’ll come here tremendously often. I hope everybody will.”

  “Thank you, Anna, how lovely … I must think about a job, I suppose. Turn a penny somehow.”

  “Oh, about that,” said Anna. “I meant to write but I didn’t: Simon left me some money—wasn’t it angelic of him? Four hundred a year. It’s more than I want and you’re to have half. I’m arranging it. I know he’d be pleased. The letter said I was to do exactly what I wanted with it, but keep half anyway—so that means he knew I’d rather share it.” She began to unbutton her stiff silk dress.

  No words came.

  “Get along to bed,” said Anna, looking up, smiling. “You look like nothing on earth.”

  She held out her arms and gave Olivia a quick hug, saying: “It’s nice to have you here.”

  She let her arms drop again; stood a moment staring in front of her.

  “After he died,” she said. “I made him a wreath of bay. He looked so triumphant.”

  V

  As she rang the bell o
f number two, she thought she saw the family car, with Benson at the wheel, disappear round the corner at the far end of the square. Imagination, of course. Lady Spencer would never have cut it so fine. “Calling at two-forty,” she’d said, “to take Nicola for a drive and a little shopping. Be there yourself at three,” she’d said, “not before: that will be safe. Be gone by four at the latest. I depend on you …” “Thank you so much, Lady Spencer, it is kind of you …” “Good-bye, Olivia.” She hung up briskly, having kept her promise: you shall see Rollo once. (Alone. But under my auspices. I need say no more, I’m sure: you are on your honour.)

  The front door was opened.

  “Oh, I called to inquire for Mr. Spencer.”

  “Mr. Spencer is going on very nicely, thank you, madam. He’s up—in an arm-chair, that is. We hope to get him downstairs and out for a drive next week.” Owner of telephone voice number one: young, pleasant, reassuring, disillusioned-looking.

  “I am so glad. It’s been a terribly long time, hasn’t it?”

  “It has, madam. A very nasty time indeed for all. But Mr. Spencer he’s a wonderful patient. So cheerful. That’s what’s helped him most.”

  “I’m sure it has. Would you give him this note, please? If I might wait for an answer …”

  He ushered her into Rollo’s study. She stood on the hearthrug—where I saw Rollo standing that night—looking at nothing till the door opened noiselessly and he returned.

  “Mr. Spencer says would you please come straight up, madam.”

  Up they went on the chestnut-brown carpet, past the shut drawing-room door, round, up another flight, next landing, up two little steps and second door on the right.

  Rollo said, “Come in,” and he held aside the door for her and shut it again noiselessly after her.

  The afternoon was dark, inclined to fog. At first it was difficult to distinguish much more than the outline of Rollo sitting in an arm-chair by the fire with his back to the light, one leg propped up on low stools and pillows.

  “Darling!” he said softly.

  “Hallo, Rollo.” She saw her note open on his lap. He was wearing a stylish navy-blue dressing-gown. Then she saw a crumpled white fur head pop up shrewishly from a basket by the chair: Lucy.

  “Darling, it was a glorious thought to come.” He put his hand out, and when she gave him hers, held on to it. “And the most incredible luck—I’m quite alone. How did you know?”

  “A little bird told me.” She sat down in the arm-chair opposite him. “As a matter of fact, she added, “I didn’t see why anybody should look at me old-fashioned if I did come to inquire after such a discreet interval. After all, I’m an old family friend, aren’t I?”

  “You are, but thank God the family are out. They’ve gone shopping or something.”

  Gone to look at cots or baby clothes perhaps, or to be fitted for her special tea-gowns, with tactful saleswomen to offer chairs in the right departments, and relatives to say take care, holding her arm down awkward steps or on slippery pavements. All the pleasantly important flags and garlands would be hung for her over the rooted, the appalling, the ultimately-unshroudable rock.

  She sat and smoked and asked the proper questions. He felt as fit as a fiddle, he said—pretty bored, that’s all. Only the leg hadn’t quite mended according to plan. However, next week he was to start massage. He had a nurse still, a boring woman, quite pleasant, he didn’t really need her, but they insisted … Now she could look at him less waveringly, she saw scars on his nose and forehead. He was thinner too; not pale, but the ruddy look was gone. His present complexion suited him.

  Silence fell.

  “I didn’t bring you anything,” she said apologetically, looking round at the stacks of fresh library books and weeklies, the bowls of flowers, the plate of fruit—everything for the sick-room. His bed with its quilted dark-patterned cretonne head was turned back and piled with pillows all ready for him to get back. Nurse would support him, and Lady Spencer would call out injunctions, and Nicola would plump up the pillow if she hadn’t gone to lie down—and he’d hop back and rag the nurse and heave himself on to the mattress and say thank you darling to his wife …

  Go on thinking of things to say now. Carry it off with a high hand. It was bad luck to be the one facing the light. She bent down to pat Lucy, who winced away.

  “She’s still there, I see.”

  “Still there. And I’m completely at her mercy. Who said the monstrous regiment of women?” His eyebrow went up ruefully. “You’ve no idea how awfully well looked after I am.”

  “There’s nothing like family life,” she said.

  “It’s a funny thing,” he said, gazing at her with embarrassing warmth, “when they—when I knew I was going to be alone this afternoon I as near as anything—I wanted terribly to ring you up and ask you … I didn’t like to …”

  “It must have been telepathy,” she said smiling, aloof.

  “I’ve wanted to so often. Only I didn’t know if you were still angry with me.” He lowered his voice, coaxing, plaintive.

  A feeling of unreality began to float her away. Really, the things he said! … She made no answer, and he went on with a sudden emotional break in his voice:

  “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

  “I had to come once.” She swallowed nervously. “I had to ask you—I had to know if it was my fault you—had the accident—”

  “Your fault?” He was astonished. “How could it be your fault?” She hadn’t seized the wheel or been the driver of the lorry or anything … Or did she mean …? “If you mean was I trying to bump myself off, I wasn’t,” he said with that rough, almost brutal contradictory note. “If I ever wanted to do anything of that sort, I’d chose a less messy way and not drag poor innocent lorry-drivers into it.” He was quite indignant. “Good God, what an idea!”

  “I only meant—perhaps you weren’t being so careful—you’d been upset—and that was my fault …”

  Oh, give it up, what’s the use, we don’t understand one another … The unreality was encroaching everywhere, blurring every outline. She was conscious now of no thing but him sitting there, bulking so large, almost touching her: Rollo, his face, his hands, his voice again …

  “What’s the time?” she said.

  “Half-past three.”

  “Will any one else come?”

  “No. Don’t worry. I told William not to show any one else up.”

  He always thought of everything.

  “I must go in a minute.”

  “Not yet. They won’t be back till four, they said so. Sit back and relax. Tell me what you’ve been doing, darling.”

  He will go on saying darling—as if everything was the same.

  “Nothing very interesting. I’ve been in the country lately—with Anna. Simon’s dead, you know. He got typhoid and died in September.”

  “Good God, he didn’t really, did he? Poor chap—I’m most awfully sorry.”

  He looked away, with a funny sort of petulant sigh: meaning, I know it’s awful and you’ve had a beastly time, but I have too, I’m not quite fit, I oughtn’t to be made to dwell on miserable things.

  After a pause he said softly:

  “You’ve got it still then.”

  “What?”

  “Our ring.”

  “Oh, yes.” She looked down at it as if in surprise. “It’s got to be such a part of me, I couldn’t not wear it.”

  “I’m glad.” He looked at her with meaning, trying to make her meet his eyes.

  “I’ve got the wrist-watch too,” she said. “But it doesn’t seem to keep very good time. I think it must need regulating.”

  “Oh, send it back to me,” he said, “and I’ll get it overhauled.”

  “Oh no, don’t bother. I’ll see to it.”

  Lucy scratched at the cushion, turned ro
und three times and settled down to sulky sleep with her nose tucked into her flank.

  “Darling, you do look sweet,” he said softly.

  She got up.

  “I must go now. I’m nervous about people coming.”

  “Will you come again if I ring up?” His voice hardened, obstinately pleading.

  “No, Rollo, I can’t.”

  He held out his hand, stretching it so that the fine familiar lines of wrist, palm, fingers, showed startlingly.

  “Come here.”

  She put her hand in his and took a step closer.

  “Kiss me,” he said.

  She bent down and he kissed her on the lips, a long kiss. He held her face down and whispered in her ear:

  “I’m you’re lover, aren’t I?”

  She raised herself, flushed, the blood gone to her head, feeling dismayed, acutely self-conscious. This isn’t what she meant—what I had leave for … Breaking my trust …

  He said with determination:

  “We’re going to see each other again, aren’t we?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “One day!”

  She shook her head.

  “Say perhaps!”

  “Perhaps.” No harm in saying that. He’ll forget again. It’s only that he’s feeling hemmed in, bored, over-domesticated …

  “I think we’ll see each other again,” he said, staring at her fixedly.

  “Rollo, you are an awful man …”

  “Let’s not be final and desperate, darling.” Coaxing, stroking her palm. “It’s so silly, isn’t it? We’ve had such lovely times, haven’t we? Life’s so short. When two people get on so well together, it’s so stupid to say never again. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes … perhaps …”

  So stupid, to make a fuss. A little rift, an unfortunate misunderstanding—over now. One must see things in proportion.

  “I should so terribly miss our lunches,” he was saying with soft persistence.

  So should I. They were so pleasant.

  “Our drives …”

  Oh, yes, the drives, they were so pleasant. Why not a lunch, a drive, if he wanted to, very discreetly, now and then? … It was all so pleasant …