The Eye of Love

by Margery Sharp

  “Is all well, Harry boy?”

  Undoubtedly Mr Gibson would have been decorated, had war as waged by Service Corps offered more opportunity. It was reserved to civilian life to show his mettle. His personal future stretched before him like a desert—or rather like war itself: a perpetuity of discomfort diversified by moments of terror. When he thought of Dolores, of how Dolores might be faring, he often had to loosen his collar. He suffered constantly from hallucinations—thinking he saw her in the street, or in a restaurant, or on a passing bus. But out of his deep tenderness for his mother, and out of a dogged resolve to play the game like a true Britisher, he drew strength to clear his brow and smile.

  “Do I know when I’m on velvet, or don’t I?—Toodle-oo,” said Harry Gibson.

  At least, after this conversation, Miranda didn’t visit the shop quite so often, and when she did she stayed below. Whatever old Mrs Gibson said, to Auntie Bee, or to Miranda herself, or, possibly, to Mr Joyce, her words took effect. It was again a minor victory; but at least Harry Gibson did Miranda no physical injury.

  2

  Dolores too suffered from hallucinations.

  She was still unluckier than Mr Gibson in that she had less to occupy her mind. It was the obverse of her luck in getting Mr Phillips: in the job-hunting queues, what with anxiety and aching feet, she had often forgotten her King Hal for whole hours at a time; those days over, and as Mr Phillips settled, no mere domestic routine could pull her thoughts from their North, and they dwelt on the happy past without intermission. Admittedly Miss Diver made no attempt to discipline them, on the contrary. Her ritual dusting of the sitting-room has been described; in time her nonsensical ejaculations before pieces of bric-a-brac, so unsympathised with by Martha, became a ritual preface to each solitary evening—Big Harry (the stuffed ermines), King Hal (the bronze lady), King Hal (the china pierrot), Big Hally (the pierrette). It was foolish, even reprehensible, so to play on her own feelings—as it was foolish to lie, later, staring at a photograph by the bed and willing it to utter; but so foolishly, reprehensibly, did Miss Diver behave. And when she went out into the streets, she saw Mr Gibson at every turn.

  Gargoyle-faced Mr Johnson, selling matches on the curb of Queen’s Road, to Dolores momentarily assumed the likeness of Harry Gibson. A man in front of her at the butcher’s, before he turned his head, looked like Harry Gibson. A passenger descending from a bus looked like Harry Gibson. Each likeness naturally dissolved into reality before Dolores had time to pluck a sleeve, or cry a name, or run after—supposing she could have brought herself so to pluck, to cry, or run. The disillusion was nonetheless bitter.

  All separated lovers know this particular anguish. Such hallucinations are a common phenomenon, when lovers are separated.

  Lovers of the more obviously romantic sort have the world’s sympathy to sustain them. Runaways to Gretna Green still find witnesses; film-stars not quite thrice-divorced are sustained by the sympathy of their fans, as they battle on to a fourth exchange of life-long vows. Mr Gibson and Miss Diver enjoyed no such moral support. Only they themselves could preserve their romantic vision: and that each held in mind an image to all but one another unrecognisable, must be accounted a remarkable proof of their true love.

  Even to herself, Dolores was finding it difficult to retain the character of a Spanish rose. As she soon discovered, even the most perfect lodger has one inevitable disadvantage: that of postulating a landlady. However quiet his step, however unobtrusive his demeanour, a man going in and out twice a day is bound to be observed; and as the card in the window, so long as it remained an empty show, had not, the coming of Mr Phillips universally declared her new status.

  Miss Taylor the chiropodist stopped her familiarly in the street.

  “So you’ve got a lodger at last!” cried Miss Taylor, in congratulatory tones. (This was actually a little disingenuous of Miss Taylor, who it may be remembered could have sent along a bed-sit, as soon as Dolores put her card up; but she had merely been returning snub for snub, as she was now—another sign of Dolores’ declension—willing to let bygones be bygones.) “I hope he suits?” asked Miss Taylor, quite anxiously.

  Dolores, her head high, replied that she seemed to have been very fortunate.

  “Then treat him like a basket of eggs, my dear,” exclaimed Miss Taylor, “for they’re scarce as hens’ teeth! The liberties some expect to take—though I’m sure you’d never allow—passes belief. How are the tootsies?”

  Dolores, moving on, replied that they gave her no trouble at all.

  “Well, don’t let them go too long,” advised Miss Taylor shrewdly, “now that you can treat yourself again …”

  Which was bitterer to Miss Diver, a chiropodist’s familiarity, or the discovery that her own financial straits had been common knowledge? By comparison with either, the ache of a fallen arch was nothing.

  In the shops, where even during the leanest period, when her purchases dwindled to a minimum, the tradesmen’s manner exhibited an awareness, so to speak, of her social superiority, the same sansculotte wind blew. As a lady of independent means (however small, derived from whatever source), Miss Diver was a cut above. Now all knew how she got her living—

  “Chops again? Funny how all lodgers cry out for chops,” observed the butcher sociably.

  Dolores, who always used to acknowledge his remarks about the weather, remained silent.

  “Though they don’t all, if I may say so, get ’em as regular as your chap,” added the butcher—helpful and good-natured. “What about a nice pound o’ mince?”

  “I’ll take chops, thank you.”

  “Feeds separate,” noted the butcher intelligently. “Very nice too. My sister-in-law once tried it.”

  Bracketed with a butcher’s sister-in-law, Dolores was nonetheless forced to wait while he cut her order. Of course she didn’t ask the expected questions; but butchers, unlike lady-chiropodists, are so little used to being snubbed that they do not know it when they are.

  “It didn’t answer. In fact, it ate up all the profits,” continued this self-appointed mentor, “her buying chops just the same as you. To which the answer, as I told her, is rissoles. Take a nice pound o’ mince—”

  “Thank you. Good morning,” said Dolores.

  Every such encounter a little abraded, each day, her power to retain the character of a Spanish rose. She knew it. She would have stayed entirely within-doors, and sent Martha to shop, had it not been for the perennial, perennially-betrayed, hallucinating hope that drew her out. What would she have said, if she’d truly encountered her King Hal at the butcher’s? She didn’t know. No more than when she’d envisaged Martha at Kensington had she any really treacherous thought. She simply wanted to see him again—longed with all her heart. In any case, she never did. It was always an hallucination.

  3

  Martha saw him.

  As Miss Diver, before she lost heart, reminded her, she liked playing in Kensington Gardens. The phrase wasn’t strictly accurate, but rather one of Miss Diver’s customary prettifications: it was convenient to let Martha go walks by herself, and a curious backwash of the Edwardian Barrie-and-Nanny myth—Peter Pan, all those nice children—led Miss Diver to dispatch her trustfully to the Gardens. Martha never actually played there. She had no one to play with—and never loitered on the outskirts of a game, of tag or French cricket or cowboys, in the hope of being co-opted. Nor did she particularly appreciate the Gardens themselves—preferring for interest Alcock Road, where to Martha’s mind there was more to look at. Large-scale natural beauty never said much, to Martha. In fact, her walks took her to the Gardens far less often than they were supposed to; and when Miss Diver supposed her ring-o’-rosing round Peter Pan, she was far more likely to be earthed with Mr Punshon.

  On this particular morning, however, some three weeks after Mr Phillips’ arrival, Martha might have been acting on instructions.

  It was fine mid-August weather, pleasanter in the Gardens than between houses; Martha non
etheless sauntered straight across, casually emerged into Kensington High Street, casually—but as though she were obeying instructions, or being Guided; Dolores would undoubtedly have plumped for Guidance—bore right, and presently found herself at the corner of the High Street and Almaviva Place, where she halted to contemplate a tree.

  This in itself was abnormal. (The beauties of nature saying so little to her.) But the tree in question stood alone, a great chestnut spared for its antiquity by Borough Council after Borough Council. It wasn’t cluttered up with a lot of other trees: Martha could see it. She thought she could draw it all inside two triangles. Lacking paper and pencil, she was forced to memorise. This was such hard work that when Mr Gibson, emerging from the shop, crossed her line of vision, Martha instinctively shut her eyes.

  Because Mr Gibson’s shape was vaguely familiar, and therefore eye-catching. Her eye caught, and distracted, by a familiar ovoid silhouette, what else could Martha do but screw down her lids? When she opened them again, Mr Gibson was gone.

  He for his part didn’t see Martha. His vision was as narrow as hers. The shape perpetually sought by Mr Gibson’s eye was long and narrow—or tall and slender; a dumpy silhouette under the chestnut his eye as automatically abolished, as the eye of Martha abolished him.

  This was the only chance Chance offered, to bring Miss Diver and Mr Gibson once more into contact. Their stars had at last pulled it off, all the necessary factors were assembled in conjunction. But the vigorous star that ruled the child Martha wasn’t interested.

  4

  Martha’s star at this period had actually its own battle to fight. Mr Phillips entering on his fourth week in Alcock Road, allowing for the first few days off Martha had said “Good morning” to him seventeen times.

  “Anything on your mind?” asked Mr Punshon.

  Martha shook her head. She was drawing the big china beer-mug he kept his tobacco in. It had a flat metal lid which when cocked up added interest: cylinder and disc.

  “Well, anyone been treating you rough?” persisted Mr Punshon.

  Martha shook her head again.

  “Myself, I’d as soon try getting rough with a young Pachyderm,” said Mr Punshon reflectively. “All right, I can take a hint.”

  He pushed across a paper of fish-and-chips, as he always did if Martha dropped in while he was eating fish-and-chips, and Martha took the largest chip. It was delicious—so soused in vinegar that even licking the fingers afterwards made one cough. “Thank you very much,” said Martha. Then Mr Punshon got on with his work, and she got on with hers.

  …“You bin robbin’ a till and got the dicks after you?” enquired Mr Johnson.

  “No,” said Martha.

  “You might as well ’ave. You ain’t bin back to that Chapel an’ got a sense o’ sin, I hope?”

  “No,” said Martha, walking round on the pavement to look at Mr Johnson’s face from the other side. It was part of his charm for her that he had two quite different profiles; yet somewhere in the middle they obviously joined …

  “Any time you want, come and take my likeness,” offered Mr Johnson generously.

  “Thank you very much,” said Martha.

  Not even to these two friends could she unburden herself. To say she didn’t like the new lodger would have been an over-simplification: and the true root of her malaise lay so deeply entwined with her inmost feelings, she couldn’t bring it to light. Put briefly, while Martha didn’t mind carrying up Mr Phillips’ tray, to have to look at him and say Good morning represented the imposition of an alien will.

  When Mr Gibson desired Martha to cease threading beads, Martha co-operated gladly—because she didn’t want to thread beads. Mr Gibson preferring her out of sight, that suited Martha too. To a most unusual degree she had escaped the common fate of childhood, which is subjection. Now, however triflingly, she was subject to Mr Phillips.

  It was unexpected. When Mr Punshon called Martha a young Pachyderm, the phrase was as apt as picturesque. Her thick-skinned stolidity impressed even acquaintances. (The kind Librarian called it unmistakable force of character.) Mr Phillips was by comparison a nonentity. Even his virtues were negative—he didn’t rob the gas meter, et cetera. He had of course economics on his side, the economy of the little house in Alcock Road was now based on his weekly payments; but no one, seeing Mr Phillips tread so doucely in and out, would have guessed him the victor in any brush with a really strong, pachydermous character.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1

  The day of the missed chance, when Martha failed to see Mr Gibson, and Mr Gibson failed to see Martha, in Almaviva Place, happened also to be the date of the big official party to celebrate, and publicise, Mr Gibson’s engagement to Miranda Joyce. There had been several smaller affairs before—little dinners for Harry to get to know people—but this was the gala. It was an evening entertainment of the highest class.

  All the guests were very nice people indeed, many of them quite big names in the fur-trade. No poor relations of any sort had been invited. All the men were in evening-dress, and their ladies décolletées. Miranda sparkled in pale blue (her fiancé’s favourite colour), pink carnations at the shoulder. There was a buffet-supper, with champagne.

  Among all this splendour and festivity Harry Gibson moved, as his mother pointed out, like a man in a dream. His eye was a little glazed, his smile fixed like that of a man who has died smiling in the snow; he did not seem always to take in what was being said to him. When one of the biggest names of all, a man connected with the Hudson Bay Company, told him he remembered Mr Gibson senior, Harry said something quite obscure about Grand Duchesses; as to a lady who complimented Miranda’s dress he said something about sea-horses; in each case however with such glazed politeness—matching his glazed eye—as to cause surprise rather than offence. It was still wise of old Mrs Gibson to keep close on his heels. “Like a man in a dream!” she repeated gaily. “My boy Harry is like a man in a dream! Do you know what he said to me, Mrs Conrad, Madame Grandjean, as he was dressing? When I brought him his white waistcoat, he said, ‘In Japan and India they too wear white!’ My boy Harry, and why not, is completely in a dream!”

  Fortunately neither Mrs Conrad nor Madame Grandjean had any more knowledge of the East than Mrs Gibson. A Mr Demetrios who had, and who knew white there to be the colour of mourning, fortunately didn’t overhear. With his mother at his heels Harry Gibson circulated acceptably—a man in a dream.

  Every now and again he found himself standing arm-in-arm with Miranda. They were generally in a circle of her unaffianced girl-friends. “You make my big Harry shy!” cried Miranda—adroit as his mother. “See how he loses his tongue! But Marion and Rachel and Denise I went to school with, Harry—there is no need to be frightened of them!”

  They all gazed at him, Denise and Marion and Rachel, envyingly. Only a plump brunette with a bigger engagement-ring than Miranda’s enquired, a trifle maliciously, why shouldn’t he be frightened of them? Her Bobby was. Her Bobby had made her promise on a wet finger never to let a school-friend into their house … Mr Gibson shot this unknown sympathiser a grateful look; but it was his only indiscretion of the evening.

  Admittedly he kept Miranda, after supper, rather long at the piano. (“So what?” demanded Harry Gibson of his mother, when she suggested a pause. “Are we to have musical evenings or aren’t we?”) Old Mrs Gibson and Auntie Bee, swinging into their well-rehearsed routine, handled this too acceptably. (It was music first brought the children together, et cetera.) In short, the evening, like the evening two months earlier, might have passed off far worse. In the circles frequented by Miranda Joyce, it was generally agreed that she’d got hold of a bit of a stick-in-the-mud; she was also, generally, envied.

  Old Mrs Gibson wore at this party a brand-new French grey velvet; draped skirt, passementerie about the bodice. It came from the dressmaker entrusted with Miranda’s trousseau. So did Auntie Bee’s charmeuse.

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWELVE


  1

  The first time Mr Phillips saw the sitting-room was on a Thursday night five weeks after his arrival in Alcock Road.

  Dolores had never invited him in before. Why should she have? She had every reason not to: apart from her policy of keeping him at arm’s length, the sitting-room was sacred ground, which even Martha was now discouraged from frequenting. Dolores spent every evening there alone, sipping tea, looking through old Tatlers, and thinking long rambling thoughts about Mr Gibson. Whatever object her eyes rested on set her off; every object was precious for that reason; and that Mr Gibson’s eye had once so rested too, lent to each an added patina of almost unendurable beauty.

  No wonder Mr Phillips had never seen the sitting-room. It was no ground to be profaned by a lodger’s foot.

  Dolores didn’t precisely invite him, that Thursday. The whole episode was an accident. Mr Phillips notifying himself out to supper (also for the first time), to so excellent a tenant how could his landlady refuse the key? She could not; and upon his return at the moderate hour of ten Mr Phillips notified himself in again by tapping at the sitting-room door.

  Dolores, on the settee, had kicked her shoes off. Before she could recover them, Mr Phillips tapped again. Sooner than pad to encounter him in her stockings—“Come in!” called Dolores; and so Mr Phillips entered.

  2

  He had not only never seen the sitting-room before, he had never seen anything like it.

  A penurious youth in Manchester, a wide experience of third-rate London lodgings hadn’t prepared him for the bowl of glass fruit lit up from inside. The social evening he’d just spent, with a married friend in a two-room flat, hadn’t prepared him for the black cushions on the settee, or for the china pierrot with matches; still less for the bronze-and-ivory statuette. Wherever he looked, his eye rested on evidences of a luxury as astonishing as unexpected. If he’d found himself in the Throne Room of Buckingham Palace, Mr Phillips couldn’t have been more startled.