Ten Pollitt Place

by C. H. B. Kitchin

  She gasped and said, ‘What—married—you and I?’

  ‘Yes. Surely the idea doesn’t come as a shock to you. It’s the obvious thing. I know I should be happy with you, even when——’ He paused for a moment, searching for words, then continued—‘even when this wonderful fire that seems to be burning me up, dies down a little. You see, I’m looking a very long way ahead. And I think I could make you happy.’

  ‘But, Mr Fawley, I’m not good enough. I’m a servant.’

  He squeezed her hand almost angrily, and said, ‘Oh, Magda, you sound so dreadfully old-fashioned. Mister Fawley, indeed! I’m lucky enough to earn a moderate income, which should be pretty safe, as incomes go, with the prospect of a pension. As for my family, it’s probably nothing like as good as yours. My father taught at a village council-school and my mother’s people were small tobacconists. But even suppose I were the Duke of Whatnot, what difference would it make?’

  Magda said reflectively, ‘I think my grandmother—on my mother’s side—came from quite a good Swedish family. My grandfather was old Mr Tredennick’s coachman and then his chauffeur. You know what my mother is. I don’t know very much about my father, who was a German. He was a kind of clerk or agent for some firm. But apart from all that—which, as you say, perhaps isn’t important—think what would happen if we really did marry, to so many other people. First of all, Mrs Fawley.’

  He said shortly, ‘She’s my affair. I told you, that day in Twickenham, that we’re no longer lovers and haven’t been for several years. My feeling for her is exactly the kind of feeling one might have for a rather tiresome elder sister, for whom in a way one is responsible, but who hasn’t any right to direct one’s life—still less spoil it. She’ll have to have a good slice of my income. I don’t grudge her that, and I don’t think you will, either.’

  ‘No, no indeed. But Mrs Fawley isn’t the only person. There’s my mother, and Hugo and Miss Tredennick to think of.’

  He looked at her in surprise and said, ‘Your mother is certainly a bit of a problem. I can understand she might be very shocked. But mind, don’t think that when the divorce action comes on, you’ll be named as the co-respondent. I’ll go through the usual farce with some odd woman. These things can be managed, even though the law is a bit stickier than it used to be. When I ask Dorothy for a divorce, I shan’t mention you, and she won’t ever suspect you—till she finds out we’re legally married. As for the other two you mentioned—Hugo and Miss Tredennick, I fail to see that they have the slightest claim to be considered.’

  She replied, ‘I’m afraid they have—at least, my mother will think so.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Well, apart from loyalty—and she’s quite a loyal person—she’d be most unwilling to offend Miss Tredennick in any way. She’s doing very well at Number Ten—far better than she could do anywhere else—and saves every penny she can for Hugo.’

  ‘Do you mean to say Miss Tredennick could turn you all out? What a ghastly thing the capitalist system is! But darling, we won’t waste time on politics. As a matter of fact, I had a kind of idea that the house was your mother’s, not Miss Tredennick’s at all, except for some understanding about the top floor.’

  Magda said, ‘I don’t really understand the legal position. Mother’s rather close in some ways. But she needs my help to look after Miss Tredennick, and it wouldn’t be easy for her to find someone else to take my place—apart from the expense.’

  He didn’t answer, but put his arm round her and pressed her very closely to his side. They had walked round the square half a dozen times, and he suddenly looked up at the houses, all tightly sealed up for the night, except for the glow showing through the glass above the front doors. ‘What a world,’ he said, ‘what a silly, muddled world! Here are you and I wanting to talk about things as important to us as our lives, and we have to walk, like squirrels in a cage, round and round this smug square. I hate this part of London. Magda, promise me that when we’re married you won’t make me live anywhere near The Pollitts. I’d rather live in a slum in Bethnal Green. My word, I’m more than half an hour late! Don’t think I’m in any way frightened of Dorothy, but she might get into one of her states and ring up the police. Magda, tell me this with all your great honesty. Will you stick to me, whatever happens?’

  She sighed, bent her head and said, ‘Yes, I can’t help my­self.’

  ‘And, secondly, will you leave things to my judgment?’

  ‘Yes, I will. But have you made up your mind what you’re going to do?’

  He said, ‘Very nearly,’ took her in his arms and kissed her many times. She half closed her eyes and murmured, ‘A few nights ago Hugo said that somebody in Number Ten is going to die before the end of the year. Mother thinks he’s clair­voyant. Well, if he is, I only hope he meant me—if I can die, like this, in your arms.’

  He gave her a little shake in mock indignation and said, ‘That would be most inconvenient of you! I can think of one or two people at Number Ten we could spare far more easily. You dear, dear, silly girl, you mustn’t have these fancies. Now I’ve got to go and face the music. Don’t come any further with me. It wouldn’t be wise. Good night, my darling.’

  ‘Good night, my darling Robert.’

  He tore himself away from her almost brusquely, waved and ran down the road.

  [3]

  As he neared The Pollitts, Robert slowed down his pace, mopped his brow and said to himself, ‘Phew! I’m damnably out of training.’ Then he tried to put his thoughts in order so that he could anticipate the coming scene.

  What would Dorothy say to him when he came in? ‘So you’re back at last? What on earth have you been doing? Don’t you think it’s a little inconsiderate of you not to give me warning you were going to be late? There’s the pie to make. I thought of getting it ready myself, but I know you don’t think very much of my pastry.’

  If she took that line, she should have it straight from the shoulder. ‘So you want to know what I’ve been doing? Very well. I’ve been having a lovely time with the young woman I’m going to marry, after you’ve divorced me. Oh yes, I understand all about alimony. You shall have your stud-fees, or whatever they’re called. Our relationship henceforward is purely commercial.’ He lashed himself into a factitious frenzy, which subsided almost as soon as it arose.

  But what if she merely gave him a cold, ‘classy’ look, and said with arched eyebrows, ‘You’re very late to-night!’ Well, then he would answer a good deal more quietly, but say much the same thing. ‘Look here, Dorothy, there’s no sense in putting off an unpleasantness which has got to come. I’ve something very serious to tell you.’ Etc., etc.

  When he reached the front door of Number Ten, he was annoyed to find himself feeling those qualms which even the toughest of men are apt to feel when they reach the front door of their dentist. With what bravado he could, he went into the hall and saw some letters lying on the table. Mrs Muller—for it was probably she who had taken them out of the box—had arranged them in two piles. One was for Justin Bray,—circulars, auction catalogues, literary magazines. The other pile consisted of three envelopes. The top one was Garrows’ monthly bill, addressed to Mrs Fawley, the second, also addressed to her, was a bright blue envelope with a crest on the back, and the third was an airmail letter addressed to him. He put the two for his wife in his coat pocket and eagerly tore open his own. As he knew, it was from his col­league in America. His hands were almost trembling as he skimmed it through, searching for one key sentence.

  ‘. . . So unless there’s another complete change of plans, I shall be here till the end of January. I shall be awfully glad if you’ll go on keeping an eye on the flat and of course using it, if it’s any use to you—though I don’t suppose it will be now that it’s winter again. Last night, the temperature here . . .’

  Robert didn’t bother to read the rest, but gave a big sigh of relief. An emergency-door had suddenly been revealed, and though he had no intention of getting ou
t that way, it was comforting to know it was there.

  He took the stairs in twos, then stood outside the flat door which was also that of the sitting-room. If he believed in prayer, he would have prayed—though it would hardly have been a prayer such as any orthodox believer could have uttered. Then he opened the door.

  His wife was sitting in a chair by the fire, hunched up, looking shrunken,—more like a doll than a woman—her elbows on her legs and her head in her hands. She said nothing, and remained quite motionless, while he shut the door gently. He walked towards her and said, ‘Why, Dorothy, what’s the matter? I know I’m frightfully late. As a matter of fact, I took a bit of a walk and didn’t realise——’

  He stopped. Did she understand what he was saying? Was she listening? Was she ill? Was she dead? No, that slight heave of the shoulders showed that she wasn’t dead. He came close up to her. ‘Dorothy, please—do say something. Don’t just sit like that. Would you like me to ring up the doctor?’

  Slowly she drew her hands away from her face and turned it towards him, making no effort to hide the tears streaming down from her swollen eyes. Not knowing what to say, he waited for her to speak. Her first articulate words were, ‘I’m so sorry. . . . Quite absurd. . . .You see, I thought you’d had an accident. You’ve never been late—so late as this, before. And the steak-pie, too.’ As she said the last words, she gave an hysterical giggle.

  He put his hand on her shoulder protectively, and said, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon feel much better, darling.’

  To his extroverted mind, there was neither irony nor incongruity in his use of the word darling, even though only a quarter of an hour before he had been pouring it passionately into Magda’s delicious ear. ‘What can I do?’ he went on, fumbling nervously with his right hand among the silver in his trousers-pocket. ‘Shall I bring you a glass of sherry—or gin, if we’ve got any left? I’ll go and see.’ Delighted to have an excuse for doing something, he darted to the cupboard where they kept their small supply of drinks. ‘No, damn it, there isn’t any, and the sherry’s almost finished too. I’ll tell you what, I’ll slip round the corner to the off-licence and get half a bottle of gin and some sweet Martini. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes—I should.’

  He hurried out, before she could change her mind or begin to reproach him.

  He had to wait ten minutes in a queue before he was served, and became almost afraid that Dorothy would construe his long absence into another accident or, worse, into another attempt at desertion. He bought a whole bottle of gin, another of sweet Martini and another of medium sherry. What a lot of money they cost! He himself rarely drank anything but beer. It was all very well to talk of taking a couple of rooms as a love-nest for Magda and himself, but he’d have to consider his finances rather carefully. It seemed hardly fair to let Dorothy make a bigger contribution towards Ten Pollitt Place (which she was continually suggesting) so that he could spend the money thus saved on a project which would be so little to her taste! He had given up all idea of having things out with Dorothy that evening. Besides, thanks to that most comforting letter from America, the need was less urgent. He must somehow smooth over the immediate crisis and get things running normally again. Some day, with any luck, he’d find a solution.

  When he got home, he was very much surprised to see Dorothy sitting calmly in her chair looking her usual self. She had bathed her eyes and tidied herself up, and even had the same expression on her face which he had noticed when they gave one of their infrequent small parties and she was preparing to welcome her guests. (If only she’d looked like that when he first came in!)

  He said, ‘I’m terribly sorry I’ve been so long. The whole of Kensington seemed to be buying drink.’

  She acknowledged the witticism with the faintest of smiles and said, ‘Oh, you really shouldn’t have bothered. Now, Robert, before we resume our—er—our ordinary life, I just want to tell you how extremely sorry I am that I behaved like that. It was quite idiotic. There was no excuse for it, except, I suppose, my nerves,—and one’s nerves always seem a very poor excuse to other people. For goodness sake don’t blame your­self in any way. Now I want to forget the whole thing from this very moment.’ She paused, then glancing at the bottles which he was still holding, she added, ‘Still, now that I’ve put you to all that trouble, a gin would be nice.’

  ‘I’ve got gin and sherry, ducks.’

  ‘That was extravagant, but I won’t complain, if you’ll let me pay. No, I insist on that. I and my friends drink our drink. You hardly touch it. Yes, half and half, please. Thank you. Now you have one. You must need it.’

  Her hand as a rule was apt to tremble a little, but this time she held the glass quite steadily while she waited for him to fill his own. He did so, raised it and said, ‘Cheers’, which she repeated, though she didn’t care for that form of convivial greeting and thought it common. Then she said, ‘Now, what about dinner? I don’t at all mind waiting while you make the pastry for the pie, but if you’re hungry . . .’

  The détente was complete.

  It wasn’t till dinner was over that Robert remembered that he had two letters for his wife in his overcoat pocket. He apologised for his forgetfulness and produced them. She read Garrows’ bill with a frown and tossed it into her bureau, murmuring, ‘I’m quite sure this is the second time they’ve charged me for those stockings. I shall have to see them to-morrow.’ Then with much more interest she turned to the second letter.

  When Robert came into the sitting-room, after washing up, she said with great animation, ‘I’ve had such an exciting letter from Susan. She’s managed to find a small flat in Brighton and she’s moving in at the week-end. And she’s bought what she calls a bric-à-brac and decorating business, which caters for the rich old ladies of Hove. She’s longing for me to see it and the flat and says I could help her enormously. In fact, she’s asked me if I could go to her on the tenth and stay with her for a fortnight.’ Dorothy paused and gave her husband a look that was almost pleading. His heart leapt, but he did his best to show no trace of emotion.

  She continued, ‘I shall have to tell her it’s not much more than three weeks since I came back from Louise.’

  Robert said as judicially as he could, ‘I really don’t see why you shouldn’t go, if you’d like to. You might get rid of that little cough of yours in the sea air. You know I can manage here quite well for myself and I can always find something to do. So it’s up to you, ducks.’

  She thought for a moment and said, ‘Well, she’s such an old friend and I’ve hardly seen her for the last two years. Besides, I really do think I could be useful to her. I could tell her what kind of things Garrows are stocking, and what’s in the other shops. I don’t suppose she’s seen anything for ages, living in the country. She always used to think a lot of my taste.’

  Robert thought to himself, ‘A fat lot of use she’ll find you, if there’s any real work to be done!’ Aloud he said, ‘Well, think it over and let me know what you decide. It’s about time the vacuum was overhauled. I’ll go and see to it while you write to Susan.’

  Oddly enough, Dorothy felt in no way unstrung or debilit­ated by the scene before dinner. On the contrary, it seemed to have done her good. And though every moment she was more ashamed of her breakdown and her dependence on Robert which it implied, his reaction to it could not have been more reassuring. When it came to the point it was she who wore the trousers—she winced as the ugly phrase came into her mind—and would always wear them. That being so, she had no need of his constant presence any more than,—as she had to admit—he had need of hers. Theirs surely was the only lasting form of married love,—a love based on very deep feeling, but full of give and take and allowances for all the many incompatibilities that exist between every man and every woman.

  It was in this mood of feathers well smoothed down that she tapped on his door and said she was going to bed. She didn’t take any sleeping-pills that night.

  VII
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  THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER

  Dorothy was surprised the next morning to find herself still happy. Far too many nights she had gone to bed feeling quite serene, only to wake with the same ghastly realisation of impending doom that a convict sentenced to death must have when he wakes up from sleep in his prison cell.

  It was Saturday, the Fifth of November, and incidentally Miss Tredennick’s birthday. Strange to say, it was Magda who reminded Dorothy of this,—Magda, who did no work for the Fawleys and thus had no reason to enter their flat unless sent there on some unusual errand. She tapped on the door about ten o’clock and said, when Dorothy in her dressing-gown opened it, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Madam, but Miss Tre­dennick asked me to give you this. She says there’s no answer.’ Her voice was curt and embarrassed and she knew it, and hoping to remove any bad impression she might have made, she added, with a nervous attempt at a smile, ‘You may remember, it’s her birthday to-day.’ Dorothy took the letter with some surprise, but said graciously enough, ‘Oh, thank you, Magda. And thank you for reminding me. I’m afraid I had forgotten.’

  ‘Good morning, Madam.’ And before Dorothy could say, ‘Good morning, Magda,’ the girl was half-way downstairs. Dorothy thought, ‘She seems odd this morning,—so pale and tense. Surely it can’t be shyness. I dare say it’s some young man.’

  Then she read the letter. It was short, but though not written in the third person, it had a touch of old-world formality which Dorothy found almost as charming as if it had begun, ‘Lady Theresa Tredennick presents her compli­ments to the Duchess of Fawley and requests her Grace, etc.’ (These were little emotional subtleties of which poor Robert would never have a glimmering.) Frills apart, the purport of the letter was simply to ask Dorothy if it would be convenient to her to call on Miss Tredennick at eleven. The tone of the letter was so exceedingly friendly that Dorothy, who was always on tenterhooks lest some noise from her flat—a door allowed to slam, her radio, Robert’s occasional fits of hammering or even the chirping of the budgerigars—might provoke a complaint from above, felt no misgivings while she prepared for the visit.