His opposition was useless. She said she could afford to pay all the rent herself and would gladly do so. She had always had a longing to live in The Pollitts,—and when he said he had never heard of them, she looked sick with disgust and would hardly speak to him for the rest of the evening. But she spoke a lot the next day,—to such effect that he gave up his free Saturday morning and went with her to inspect the property. He had to admit, that as such places went, it was not at all bad. At least, it was better than a flat in a big block, which he knew to be the alternative in his wife’s mind. He liked Mrs Muller, though when she said that it would be as well for them to make up their minds at once, as two other people were interested, he whispered to Dorothy, ‘That’s an old wheeze. They always say that.’ He didn’t know then that Mrs Muller never told lies.
However, Dorothy whispered back at once, ‘I simply can’t bear the thought of not getting it. I shall settle things now, if you don’t.’ And he gave way, rather than have a scene. A short interview with Miss Tredennick followed, though it wasn’t clear to either of them why they had to submit to it. ‘Was it really Miss Tredennick’s house?’ No, but Mrs Muller didn’t care to take any tenants of whom Miss Tredennick didn’t approve. Robert cursed a social system which put such power in the hands of useless old women, but gave way, and the meeting was an unexpected success. Miss Tredennick, who happened to be at her best, said with a smile, ‘You’ve guessed that I’m a tedious, tyrannical old woman, but as long as Mrs Muller is good enough to give me a kind of Russian veto, I intend to exercise it when I think fit. But in your case, I’m sure I shan’t need to.’ No dogs? No young children? Splendid! Well, Mrs Muller would take up the usual references, and if they satisfied her, as no doubt they would, the Fawleys were welcome to move in when they wished.
They did so a month later, and there, for nearly four years they had lived their humdrum, steady-going life,—while Magda developed from an awkward, shy, over-grown girl into a pretty, if rather tame, young woman. At least, she had seemed tame to Robert, who, seeking perhaps a contrast to his wife, had acquired an abstract taste for flamboyant beauty,—till, one day, as he was passing through the hall, so strange a look flashed from Magda’s eyes to his, that he saw her suddenly in a different guise, and half alarmed, half tickled by such a freak of fancy, found himself first desiring, then almost adoring her.
This cerebral passion might soon have died, if chance had not given it a physical basis. One night when Robert had come home from work, his hand and Magda’s met on the stair-rail. Neither of them knew how or with what excuse it had happened. Their hands might have been two magnets drawn together by an irresistible force. She was the first to recover from the shock, withdraw her hand and say quietly, ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘I’m not,’ he answered, almost brutally, ‘this had got to happen.’ And he took her hand again and gripped it, regardless of the landing above, where his wife might emerge, or of the door in the hall, through which Justin Bray might pass at any moment in quest of the evening paper. Then, as if ashamed of his boldness, he said, ‘I love you, Magda. Do you think you care at all for me in that way?’ She nodded her head, drew her hand gently away and went down the basement stairs.
And now, on this wet Monday,—this start of the workaday week,—the dream had become a reality with consequences that would somehow have to be faced. He didn’t fear them, primed as he was with a virility doubled by the sweet adventure of the previous day. Ways and means could be found,—should be found. He was too elated to worry very much how he would find them,—although that very night he would once more be boxed up with his unwanted wife, and there was no knowing into what indiscretions her natterings, naggings and moanings might not goad him. Sufficient unto the morning was its joy.
[2]
Dorothy Fawley was treating herself to lunch at Garrows. It wasn’t cheap, but she loved having it there, and found an excuse to do so nearly every week. That morning’s excuse was the end of her little holiday in Cambridgeshire. She was half glad and half sorry to be back. The country as such didn’t interest her at all, but her sister, Louise, who was married to a fairly well-to-do gentleman-farmer, had a comfortable, well-staffed house and plenty of friends. It is true they mostly talked about agriculture and horse-racing and local politics, but they were all ‘nice and substantial’ people with a real background and had a soothing effect on the nerves. Despite the odious aftermath of the war, their little world seemed so securely established that you felt a hydrogen-bomb would just bounce off it and explode far away in a more suitable setting. Louise had always been a lucky one. She had good looks and good health and a cheerful, energetic and practical nature. She had made a perfect marriage and had three children who presented no problems. They never appeared to be ill, their manners were good, if rather free and easy, and they had all their parents’ common sense. A happy family! And yet, while Dorothy envied them, she felt towards them that touch of superiority which those who have suffered (or think they have, which is much the same thing), always tend to feel towards those who haven’t suffered.
The people at the tables round Dorothy had the same air of enterprise and well-being as her sister’s friends, but they were much nearer Dorothy’s own way of life, or her ideal of it. These lively women, these kind, indulgent men, all with money to spend and intent on spending it, exuded a collective consciousness in which Dorothy’s small ego could shelter and bask and expand, till it tasted an abundance of house-proud joys that filled her with a vicarious contentment. She loved the snippets of their conversation she overheard. Even a phrase like, ‘My children never need a laxative’ (which Aldous Huxley satirically recorded in an early novel of his), would evoke a delighted response in Dorothy’s mind. After all, though it may sound rather grotesque, especially if said loudly while others are silent, how gratifying its import should be, not only to the mother and her child, but to anyone privileged to hear of their good fortune.
‘We’re putting central heating in the hall, as well as the dining-room. . . . Tommy has grown so big, I shall have to buy him another overcoat. . . . Another time, dear, ask for Zephyr Bob; it makes perfect bathroom curtains and the patterns are so much prettier than the ordinary ginghams. . . . Small coloured fairy-lights all down the drive. . . .’ It reassured her to think that so many people, in these deadening days of perpetual levelling-down, still had halls and dining-rooms and drives, and that she and her class—or the class she would like to belong to—hadn’t yet been altogether liquidated.
Dorothy’s life was overshadowed by three great fears,—of death, of painful illness and of the poverty into which a thorough-going Labour Government would surely plunge her. And Robert gave her little sympathy. Death and illness? Well, we’ve just got to face them, so what was the use of worrying beforehand? As for a Labour Government, his job would be safe whatever government came into power and should keep the two of them in very fair comfort. That was all he asked for, and all she should ask for, too. Such was the gist of his replies to her, though they may not have been so callously worded. In earlier days he had seemed really concerned when she was distressed, but she cried ‘Wolf!’ so often, that when she mentioned her symptoms or drew his attention to some threat from the Left, he was apt to shrug his shoulders and change the subject.
That evening she would be seeing him again. He would give her a kiss and ask her how she’d got on and how Louise was and, more perfunctorily, how Charles was. (He never got on with Charles, whom he called an old Die-hard.) Then she’d tell him that she’d brought back a duck for dinner, and he’d cook it while she sat in the drawing-room, reading or listening to the radio, turned very low, so as not to disturb Miss Tredennick overhead. Then they’d have dinner,—some powdered soup, the duck (which might make her bilious, though Robert loved it), and perhaps a simple mushroom savoury—Louise’s children had picked some that morning—and then she’d say, ‘Now, I’m going to do the washing-up to-night; you’ve done all the cooking.’ But he’d laugh and say, ‘No,
you know I like it,’ and she’d sit alone again, with a book or the radio or perhaps writing a letter. Then he’d come in and chat with her for a few minutes, then make some excuse to slink off to his work-room with a broken watch that he’d picked up somewhere for sixpence and stay there till she called through the door that she was going to bed. And he’d come out rubbing his oily hands on a rag and say, ‘Very well, dear, I shan’t be long,’ and give her a kiss, and she’d go through to the bedroom and—yes, she would have to take one of her sleeping tablets, she felt so restless.
The earlier part of the evening went very much as Dorothy had pictured it, but when she made her offer to wash up, Robert amazed her by saying, ‘Well, if you really wouldn’t mind—I’ve got a nasty headache this evening, and I feel like going for a long walk.’ There was something unusually shy and pleading in his voice. Dorothy thought that its strangeness must be due to the nature of his admission. He was one of those men who hate to confess to any kind of illness. For a moment she wondered if there was any need for her to be alarmed. Then he added, ‘Oh, it’s nothing. They had the new heating on in the office to-day for the first time. The place was unbearably stuffy. They’ll have to regulate it better or we shall all be crocks.’ It was almost pathetic how he seemed to be waiting for her consent, like a school child asking a master for permission to go to the village and buy some sweets.
She didn’t know what time it was when he came in, as her sleeping tablets were having their fullest effect.
[3]
Mrs Muller and Magda were having a cup of cocoa in the kitchen, before going to bed. The day’s work was over at last, and Mrs Muller felt tired. Magda looked pale, and, if not exactly tired, strained and preoccupied. She had been like that for some days, mechanical in her work and once or twice a little absent-minded, which was most unusual. When she was darning Mr Bray’s socks, she would look up and listen if she heard a noise in the upper part of the house, though it might only be Mr Fawley coming downstairs. Was she finding the routine of Ten Pollitt Place too much of a strain? Did she need a change? But with Miss Tredennick immobile on the top floor, that was out of the question. Mrs Muller didn’t mind it for herself. She had made her bed and she must lie on it,—a phrase that came very often into her thoughts. But it was hardly fair that Magda should have to share the same bed, through no fault of her own, and without those secret hopes that her mother cherished. Miss Tredennick had never taken to Magda, however much she might depend on her. The old lady was just, according to her lights, and no doubt had mentioned Magda in her will,—but it wouldn’t be much, a hundred or two at the most. For that matter, Mrs Muller had no great expectations for herself. The freehold of the house was hers already, though leased back to Miss Tredennick for her life. The reversion of course should be quite valuable, though the prices of such houses were coming down, as they needed so much repair and were not suitable for conversion into those agglomerations of tiny gilded cages which nowadays fetched the money. But Miss Tredennick probably wouldn’t know that, and might think the house a generous reward for the service of most of a life-time.
Yet it was by no means enough for Mrs Muller. She was prepared to work hard day and night till she died, provided that when that day came she could feel assured about Hugo’s future. He must be rich,—so rich that his bodily disabilities wouldn’t count in his life. He must not be despised or pitied; he must be sought after, flattered, entreated, admired. Only thus could amends be made to him. As she thought of his poor little body lying asleep in his slit of a bedroom, and pictured the pale gold patch made by his hair just emerging above the sheet, a smile of affection formed on her pale lips. Well, for the time being, there was no need to worry. Miss Tredennick, who had been kind to him even as a baby, now seemed to be really fond of him. Almost every day she sent for him to come to her room to have a chat with her, or so that she might give him a little present. There was every hope——
At that moment Magda, who had been sitting motionless in her chair, stood up and, by doing so, roused her mother from her wandering thoughts. Yes, of course, it was Magda, not Hugo, who was the problem. Mrs Muller turned to her daughter anxiously,—the smile of affection fading rapidly—and said, ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘What do you mean, Mother?’
Magda’s voice held nothing but a slightly indignant surprise, but there was a wariness in her expression.
‘I mean,’ her mother answered patiently, ‘are you feeling quite well? I don’t say you look ill,—but there’s something about you that isn’t quite right. I’ve noticed it for some days.’
‘I’m feeling perfectly well. I can’t think what makes you imagine I’m not.’
‘Well, it’s your manner. When you were getting the cocoa just now, you looked so bored with what you were doing—which you never used to look like—and as if you were interested in something else. And then when a door opened upstairs—the Fawleys’ I think it was, because I could hear somebody coming down from the first floor—you gave quite a start. I thought you’d drop the jug. What is it, Magda? You know I want to help you.’
Magda looked at her mother with a kind of detachment, as if she were trying to solve an abstract problem. (Sooner or later the truth would have to be told. But not yet,—not just yet.) Meanwhile, attack was the best form of defence. She lowered her gaze and said rather sullenly, ‘Well, if it’s anything, it’s about Hugo.’
Her mother started. ‘Hugo? What about him?’
‘I know you don’t like to hear him criticised or found fault with, and I don’t want to make you uneasy, but——’
‘But what? Don’t keep me on tenterhooks.’
‘Well, I’ve got an idea he goes upstairs. I don’t mean when Miss Tredennick sends for him, but at other times, when he’d rather we didn’t know.’
‘But, poor boy, I should hear him, with his dragging leg.’
‘I’m not sure you would. He can walk very much more quietly than you think, when he wants to.’
‘You’re making him out to be deceitful, Magda. That’s a quality that isn’t in any of us,—not in me, at least—and it wasn’t in your father, nor in——’
‘Nor in whom?’
‘Nothing. I mean, it isn’t in Hugo, either. And if he does go upstairs, is any harm done?’
‘I don’t know about that. What I do know is that you told him he must never go upstairs without permission, and he promised he never would.’
‘Oh, that was a very long time ago,—when we first came here. Besides, I don’t think he does.’
Magda went on reflectively, ‘I don’t say I blame him. I know his life can’t be like other boys’, but I don’t agree that he’ll never be able to take up any career. I’m sure he could get some sort of clerical work. At least, why not let him try? He isn’t stupid, and there are plenty of commercial colleges. Send him to one of them for a term and see how he gets on. This Mr Middleton may be a nice old man—he must be, as he was recommended by Mr Bray—and he may be very clever, but he can’t manage Hugo, or doesn’t bother. Besides, what’s the use of Hugo learning Latin and poetry? The trouble is, he hasn’t enough to do. I know he reads a good deal and he does his drawings. I don’t like them myself; they give me a nasty feeling—those people without arms and legs and faces or with too many of them. And I’m nearly sure——’
She hesitated. She had been going to say she was nearly sure Hugo did other drawings which he didn’t show but kept locked up in his play-box,—vile, morbid things no doubt. But this would needlessly upset her mother and antagonise her still further. After all, though her concern over Hugo’s welfare wasn’t altogether hypocritical, she had shifted the conversation to him so as to escape her mother’s awkward questions.
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Well, only that the kind of life he’s leading isn’t doing him any good. Why don’t you set about getting him some work, or at least let him learn how to make a living? Not just for the sake of the money,—fo
r Hugo’s own sake?’
Mrs Muller’s indignation boiled over.
‘One thing I do know, and that’s that you’re jealous of Hugo. You always have been. I suppose it was natural when you were a girl, as I had to give so much more time to him than to you. But you should have grown out of all that by now. As a matter of fact, I have suggested he should take up something,—go to a college or have some postal course—though I’m told they’re not very much good—but he doesn’t want to at present, and till he does, I’m not going to press him. He says he’s perfectly happy living here as he is, and that’s all I worry about. No, I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’m too tired, for one thing. I’m going to bed. You won’t forget to take in an extra pint of milk for the Fawleys, now Mrs Fawley’s back again? Good night!’
With hardly a glance at her daughter she went out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. After she had undressed, she knelt down by her bed and prayed:
‘O most merciful Father, I pray Thee forgive me my sins. Visit not, I implore Thee, the sins of the fathers on the children. Grant me long life and good health so that I may tend my dear son and give him happiness and comfort. O take him not from me, I beg Thee, I beg Thee, I beg Thee. Let me die before him, but not till I see him really settled in life and able to enjoy it in his own way. And bless my daughter too, and may she learn to think more kindly of her brother. Amen.’
V
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF OCTOBER
It seemed, these days, as if Miss Tredennick had almost given up using her sitting-room, into which the dwindling sun could no longer twist a single ray, and had made permanent winter quarters of her bedroom. Here it was always bright, if there was brightness anywhere in the sky. She had a big arm-chair put near the window, with a table at its side on which she wrote, and ate such meals as she didn’t eat in bed.
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