A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  “No, Madame. He said he was going to Switzerland, that is all.”

  “Oh!” Julie started to turn away. It seemed that the decision had been made for her! “Well, he’ll have to do without it, I suppose.” Suddenly she made up her mind. “I shall be leaving this morning, I’m afraid. I’ve just heard from my husband—it seems that he won’t be able to get back after all.”

  “But of course, Madame. Such a disappointment for you!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  Julie went quickly back to her room and packed with resolution. No use thinking of Ben any more! No use being sorry for herself! She’d had her chance and missed it—now there was nothing to do but get on to the road and keep moving. She spread out the maps and studied the route. Even she could hardly make a mistake about so direct a way. Straight up the main Toulouse-Paris road for three hundred miles or more, and then north to Dieppe. More or less the way she and Laurence had come.

  By eleven she was away. She drove fast, eating up the kilometres on the straight empty roads and wishing only that the car had wings. By nightfall she was at Chateauroux, too worn out to think of anything but sleep. She was up again soon after dawn and racing northwards, reaching Dieppe to find the R. A.C. port office still open. The R.A.C. man was anxious to help her but dubious whether she’d be able to get transport for the car before the reserved date, which was still a week ahead. The only chance, he said, was that some other car might fail to turn up for its appointed crossing. It did happen occasionally.

  She thanked him and found a hotel for the night. If she couldn’t get a passage for the car, she decided, she would leave it behind and Laurence could do what he liked about collecting it. But when she drove down to the harbour next morning, her luck was in. There was room. A few hours later she was disembarking at Newhaven.

  She thought of telephoning the cottage from there but what she had to say to Laurence seemed best kept for their meeting, so she sent a telegram instead announcing she was on her way. Then she drove up to London and spent the night at the flat.

  Next morning she caught the first express to the North, leaving the car behind her. By now she felt as though she had been travelling for weeks. Her body ached from the strain of continuous driving and her sustaining anger was giving way to a dull fatigue. She felt immeasurably depressed.

  She was prepared for Laurence to be at the station to meet her, but there was no sign of him. She found a taxi and was soon trundling up the hill to the cottage. Not long now! It was good to be home, whatever the circumstances—good to see the familiar green hills again and feel the caress of the moist air. Good not to be still in Pouillac!

  The station wagon was in the barn, but she saw at once that the cottage was deserted. A bundle of papers and letters was stacked in the porch beside a couple of bottles of milk. The front door was locked and she had to open it with her key. Inside, the first thing that met her eye was a slip of paper on the mat—a notification from the local post office that they had failed to deliver a telegram and that it was now awaiting collection. That must be the one she had sent from Newhaven.

  She took a quick look over the house. This time there had been no attempt to tidy it. Some of the crockery stacked in the sink looked as though it had been there for days. There were several empty food tins lying around, and there was a good deal of mud on the tiled kitchen floor. Upstairs, Laurence’s bed had been slept in but had been left unmade. It was quite obvious that he hadn’t been expecting her back yet. It was equally obvious that he hadn’t been here for at least twenty-four hours. Perhaps longer, she thought, remembering her unanswered calls from Pouillac.

  Still, there was one person who’d be sure to know about his movements—Adam Johnson. She got out the station wagon and drove quickly down to his villa. He was at home, and came stumping to the door himself. He seemed quite taken aback at the sight of her.

  “Mrs. Quilter! Why, this is a surprise. I thought you were in France.”

  “I’ve just got back, Adam.”

  “Well, come in, won’t you?” He led the way into a neat parlour. Then he swung round anxiously on his crutch. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “I don’t think so. I wondered if you knew where I could find Laurence, that’s all.”

  He stared at her. “Laurence? Why, no!”

  “Oh, dear, I quite thought you would. He’s not at the cottage and he’s left no message. It’s very stupid, but our arrangements seem to have got tangled up.

  Johnson looked as though he were tangled up, too. “Didn’t you come back together?”

  It was Julie who showed surprise now. “No, he wasn’t able to join me—surely you knew that?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” With concern he saw how pale and strained she was. “Look, shall I ask Annie to get you a cup of tea, Mrs. Quilter?—I think you could do with something.”

  “Please don’t trouble,” she said quickly, “I’m quite all right—just a bit tired after the journey.” She gazed at him helplessly. “I can’t understand it—he wrote to me and said he was detained. When did you last see him?”

  “Oh, it must be a week ago now.”

  “A week!”

  “About that. We went up to Coalhaven together, just for a couple of days. He made a splendid impression there—it was very wise of you to let him come. Then he brought me back here and I gathered he was flying straight off to join you. He said nothing to me about any other business. It’s very queer …” He frowned. “Rather worrying.”

  Julie suddenly wished she hadn’t come. If there had been subterfuge with Adam, too, then Laurence’s activities were obviously a very private matter and the less said about them the better. A private matter! God, how naïve she’d been!

  She forced herself to smile. “I’m certain there’s nothing to worry about—he’s bound to turn up before long. Perhaps he’s gone to London—I’ll ring the flat.” She got up to leave, and then remembered that she hadn’t asked about the accident at the pit.

  “A terrible thing,” he said. “Terrible! They only got fifteen men out alive, you know. It’s been a great blow to the district. A great blow to the Party, too—we’ve lost some of our best workers. Perhaps you’ll be going up there yourself, Mrs. Quilter?”

  “Perhaps so,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

  He stumped to the door with her. “Well, I hope you’ll soon find Laurence. What with one thing and another, Mrs. Quilter, I’m afraid your holiday must have been rather disappointing.”

  “It was, rather,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  Back in the station wagon, she lit a cigarette and tried to adjust her mind to the new situation. Everything had suddenly become only too plain. History was repeating itself, and she’d been a credulous, trusting fool not to realise it before. Her thoughts went back to two other occasions when Laurence had stayed away from her and made excuses. He’d been tied up with business, he’d said, but each time it had turned out that he’d been with another woman, having a little holiday. She’d been terribly hurt and miserable, especially the second time when she’d found out it was the same woman again and had begun to think the affair might be serious. But he’d said it meant nothing to him, and she’d had to forgive him. At least, she thought bitterly, on those occasions he hadn’t left her ont on a limb while he’d had his fun. She’d been blind in France, incredibly blind, but it simply hadn’t occurred to her that he could do anything quite as selfish as that.

  Well, there it was! She drove slowly back up the hill, wondering what she should do. She’d have to stay at the cottage to-night, of course, but she certainly wasn’t going to hang about there indefinitely, waiting for Laurence to put in an appearance. Perhaps she’d go down to Norwich and stay with her sister for a few days. She turned the station wagon in beside the barn. Perhaps …

  Suddenly her heart gave a leap. The front door was standing open—he must be back! She felt a queer surge of excitement—they would have it out, now, once and for all. Mustering h
er reserves, she walked through into the sitting-room.

  He was standing by the telephone with the little post office slip in his hand, as though he had just rang up about the telegram. He looked a bit unkempt and his face was very-pale, in startling contrast to the tan he had had when she’d last seen him.

  “Hello, Julie!” he said.

  Chapter Eight

  She stood with her back to the door, looking at him with smouldering, hostile eyes. He took a step towards her, then stopped.

  “There really wasn’t any need for you to come rushing back like this,” he said uncertainly. “Didn’t you get my wire?”

  “Yes, and I tore it up,” said Julie, her voice vibrant with suppressed fury. “What on earth do you think you’ve been playing at?”

  “I don’t understand you, darling. It took me longer than I expected to clear things up, that’s all.”

  “You know that’s not true. I’ve just been talking to Adam Johnson. He hasn’t seen you for nearly a week.”

  “Well, of course he hasn’t. I’ve had other things to do. Letters to the Press and condolences to people and all that sort of thing …”

  Julie gave an exclamation of disgust. “Why do you bother to lie? I know you haven’t been here—not for days. Nor at the flat. I tried to get you on the telephone from Pouillac. You might just as well tell me the truth. You’ve been away with someone, haven’t you?”

  Quilter stared at her. Then he dropped heavily into a chair. “I suppose you might as well know. Yes, I have.”

  “With Brenda Marlowe?”

  For a moment, as he hesitated, she wondered if it had been someone else this time. Then he gave a shrug. “Yes,” he said. “Look, Julie, you must try to understand. I was so tired after all the travelling and the horrible business at the colliery … I …”

  “It’s absolutely incredible.”

  “Oh, I know I promised you that I wouldn’t see her again …”

  “Stop! “Julie put her hands over her ears. “That isn’t what matters. If you want to go to bed with Brenda Marlowe or any other woman I can’t prevent you and I don’t even care—not now. But heavens above!—you have plenty of opportunity—why did you have to do it this way? What do you think I felt like, left in France on my own and getting those horrible telegrams and knowing all the time that I practically didn’t exist for you?”

  “That isn’t true, Julie, and I didn’t mean them to sound like that. I’m terribly sorry—I ought to have thought …”

  “You ought to have thought!” Julie gazed at him incredulously. “Laurence, I just don’t know what’s happened to you. It was bad enough while you were with me there, because obviously you were thinking about something else—or somebody—the whole time. But to sit here calmly admitting that you’ve been enjoying yourself with another woman and fobbing me off with those beastly telegrams that you mast have known would hurt me like hell!—oh, I just can’t forgive you. I don’t think I ever shall.”

  “I didn’t look at it like that,” said Quilter slowly. “I can see now how you felt, of course, and. I’m truly sorry, but it seemed to me then that I’d left you very happily settled in a nice place and there was that rather decent American chap … Traill …”

  “For me to flirt with, I suppose. To keep me occupied while you amused yourself! I think I hate you, Laurence.”

  “I didn’t mean that at all Julie—you’re quite wrong.” Now that the confession was over, Quilter seemed to be getting his confidence back. “I didn’t plan anything. I was delayed for a day or two and I thought that it didn’t matter all that much because you had some company and then when I saw Brenda again …”

  “Exactly! When you saw Brenda again you didn’t give me another thought.”

  He looked at her appealingly. “Julie, don’t be so angry. I’ve been a cad and a swine, I know that, but honestly Brenda doesn’t mean a thing to me. It was just that I felt worn out and utterly depressed and.… Anyway, I shall never see her again. It’s all over now, I swear it.”

  “Not for me; it isn’t,” said Julie. “Not by any means. I’m going to divorce you.”

  “Julie, don’t be a fool. You can’t mean it.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “For God’s sake, Julie …!” He moved towards her, his hands outstretched.

  “Don’t come near me,” she said tensely.

  Quilter dropped his hands and stood irresolutely for a moment, as though at a loss how to deal with the situation. “Of course,” he said at last, “you’ve a perfect right to take this line if you want to, I know that. I’ve asked for it. But why you should want to behave like some cheap melodramatic film actress instead of like an intelligent woman beats me.”

  “I suppose you think it would be intelligent of me to condone every nasty little intrigue you like to indulge in. That’s a wonderful arrangement, isn’t it? And what happens to my self-respect in the process? You don’t know, do you—and you don’t care. Well, I can tell you this—I’ve had enough. If I go on living with you any longer I shall start despising myself. I only wish I’d had the sense to leave you long ago.”

  “Julie,” Quilter said with a deprecating little laugh in his voice, “you really are being melodramatic, aren’t you? You know what I am—you’ve always known. I’m an arrogant, selfish devil—I admit it. Sometimes I’ve hated myself for it, but I can’t help it. It’s—it’s because my mind’s so taken up with myself and the things I’ve got to do. There simply isn’t the time to potter around with ordinary human relationships. I tell you my brain’s like a dynamo, it drives me on. Sometimes I just seethe inside—there’s no other word for it. I’m carried away, I hardly notice people. I don’t care about people—not for long stretches. I thought you understood all that. I’m an egotist, yes, but so are all men that ever do anything worth while, they’ve got to be. Julie, it’s asking a lot of you, I know, when I beg you to stick by me—but there’s another thing, too. Whatever I may be, I do love you—after my fashion. I’ve certainly never loved anyone else, not for a moment. You know that, don’t you?” He smiled at her, a candid boyish smile, full of charm.

  As she looked at him she wondered for a moment whether it was going to be the old story all over again. In the past, their quarrels had usually fallen into a pattern. She would lose her temper with him, provoked beyond endurance by his absorption in himself, his complete taking of her for granted, his calm assumption that she would put up with anything. In turn he would become exasperated and furious. Then, after wild words on both sides, he would begin to explain and justify himself, as though he really did care what she thought, and end by being contrite and appealing. Having roused; him, having “thoroughly upset him,” as he put it, she too would be sorry. She would see him—as she was seeing him now—disarmed before her and she would feel all the indignation and anger melt away and the love she had for him come bubbling up inside her.

  This time, though, it wasn’t happening. Almost with disbelief she realised that she felt as hard as a stone towards him. Fleetingly she wondered if this was what Ben had done to her—if he had really broken, or caused to be broken, the tie, so slender yet so strong, that had bound her to Laurence.

  “You love yourself,” she said in a flat voice. “There’s only one person in the world who matters to you, and that’s Laurence Quilter. You think you’re different clay from other men and that that gives you the right to be temperamental and egotistical. You think you can push me around and ignore me and deceive me and do anything you like and that I’ll always melt happily into your arms in the end because you’re such a unique person. Well, it worked for a long time but it won’t work any more. I’m finished.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll feel differently about it tomorrow. You can’t break up seven years of marriage just like that.”

  “I can and I will.” With astonishment Julie heard her own voice rejecting the very argument she had used to Ben.

  “Julie,” he said pleadingly, “you know how I rely on
you. I may give the impression sometimes that I can get along on my own, but I can’t. You’re the only person in the world I can come to for peace and rest and comfort, and God knows I need that. We’ve meant so much to each other, Julie—it’s only when you talk of going away that I realise how much. Please!—won’t you give the old monster another chance?”

  For a moment, Julie wavered. He looked so defenceless that it was hard not to feel compassion and concern. Somehow he hadn’t the appearance of a man who’d been enjoying himself—he looked like a man who did indeed need support. His eyes were ringed with purple, his cheeks were thinner—he looked ill.

  “It’s no good, Laurence,” she said, turning away. “You’ve stretched the spring so far that it won’t go back any more. Something’s happened to me. It may be that I’ve been hurt too much by you, or—it may be something else. I don’t know. All I know is that if we don’t break now we shall have this sort of thing over and over again. You’ll never be any different and I can’t stand it any more. It’s not just that you put yourself and your own interests first all the time; it’s the utterly ruthless way you do it. You say you need me, and perhaps just at the moment you do, but mostly you don’t. You only need me as a diversion or a background. Perhaps some women wouldn’t mind that, but I do. I can’t live any longer as your shadow, and I’m not going to.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Julie. You know I value your opinion. You know we always discuss things.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort. You make up your own mind and you do what you like. You tell me—that’s all. You plan your life and I dutifully fall in with your wishes. You take decisions and I accept them. You even gave my home away without consulting me!”

  “But you love the cottage,” he said indignantly.

  “That’s not the point and you ought to know it. The point is that you think you can behave like God Almighty where I’m concerned and I’ve had enough of it. It’s true—you know it’s true. You decided that there was only one thing in the world that mattered and that was politics, so my life has been politics. You decided it would be a good thing to move out of the Hall, so we moved. You decided you didn’t like meeting people unless it was going to be useful, so we never go anywhere. You decided that children would be a nuisance, so we haven’t had any. And that’s what happens over almost everything that makes life tolerable and pleasant to ordinary people.”