‘You’d better make up your mind, for I’m off tomorrow.’
Duff made up his mind.
3. Sometimes Silent, Sometimes Yelling
‘Long ago, in youth, he squandered‚’ whispered Sir Henry to himself. ‘Long ago, in youth, he squandered all his goods away, and wandered …’
He was obliged to refer to the piece of paper in his hand. Caroline had given it to him with instructions to learn the verses, there set out, by heart before nightfall. For, in a grand finale to the Feast, all Edward Lear characters were to recite their own poems. She had warned him that his was rather a sad piece, but he did not think so. The aged Uncle Arly did not seem to have made such a bad thing of his life.
Like the ancient Medes and Persians,
Always by his own exertions
He subsisted on those hills:
Whiles, by teaching children spelling,
Or at times by merely yelling—
Or at intervals by selling
Propter’s Nicodemus Pills.
He could have wished that his own life had been half as sensibly spent. But it had all gone to pieces twelve years ago, in a summer like this, at a little seaside village very like Pendizack.
They had had a young nurse who came to them when Caroline was born—a fair, fresh-faced girl whose name he could not remember. She had not stayed with them for long. But she had popped up in his memory at some time during the last day or two. For they had taken her and the baby with them for a summer holiday to a little seaside hotel. The weather had been hot and fine. Eirene was still slowly recovering from her confinement. All day they lay sun-bathing on the rocks, occasionally going down to the warm sea for a languid swim. It had been delightful. For he was still deeply in love with Eirene, after eighteen months of marriage with her, in spite of certain trials to his temper. Her sufferings during pregnancy and childbirth had been enough to justify, in his eyes, an egotism and a childish self-indulgence which would surely disappear, now that she was getting well again. He knew very little about women. He had no sisters, and had met few girls during his hard-working youth. He believed that Eirene was a rare and fragile creature, like some hot-house flower, and the brutalities of nature appalled him almost as much as they did her. After nine months of unrelieved misery she had very nearly died. The doctors had not admitted it, but Eirene’s mother had assured him that it was so. In his relief at her safety he was shocked that he could ever have felt impatient with her.
Day after day they lay on the rocks. And day after day the young nurse, in a starched uniform, sat by the perambulator on the beach. He could not remember how he first came to wonder why Nanny never went swimming. Perhaps he had seen other nurses, from the same hotel, running down to the sea for a dip. But he did begin to think it strange that a lively girl should be content to sit beside the sea all day without ever going into it, and at last he asked Eirene why it was. Eirene replied, a shade too hastily, that Nanny did not care for bathing.
He might have believed that to the end of his days if he had not subsequently overheard a fragment of conversation on the next balcony to theirs at the hotel. Mrs. Gifford, he learnt, was as hard as nails with that nice little Nanny of hers; she never gave the girl any time off to go swimming with the other maids. She could not even sit beside her own perambulator for half an hour and it was especially hard, because Nanny Gifford was a champion swimmer and had won a silver medal. Mrs. Gifford knew that perfectly well.
Plucking up his courage, he tackled Eirene. He reproached her for lying to him, and he reproached her for inhumanity to Nanny. It was their first real quarrel. And, in a way, it was their last quarrel, for it was the only occasion upon which he had insisted upon having his own way. During the rest of the holiday he had sat beside Caroline for an hour every day while Nanny went swimming. It was in August. Some time before Christmas he supposed that Eirene must have forgiven him, for he could remember a very pleasant Christmas Eve, when, in amity, they had filled Caroline’s first stocking. But there had been weeks and months when he had been obliged to live, eat and sleep with a drooping flower. She did not reproach him. She said very little. She simply failed to pick up her strength again, and her mother said all that was necessary.
After that he had been in no hurry to assert himself again. Nor had he ever asserted himself again so effectually, though sometimes he had lost his temper and shouted at her. She did as she pleased. He found it easier to let her do as she pleased when he ceased to love her, which he very soon did. He wrote off his private and domestic life as a failure and devoted all his faculties to his profession. He accepted the fact that his wife was a liar.
He remembered all this, as he strayed round the gardens of Pendizack, conning his poem. And he wondered if he could have taught Eirene to love him by standing up to her. He had grown cold and hard, instead of helping her to cure her faults. And now, when she was manifestly very ill, he purposed to leave her. She would never understand why …
Sometimes silent: sometimes yelling:
Till he came to Borley Melling,
Near his old ancestral dwelling:
(But his shoes were far too tight).
Sometimes silent, sometimes yelling, he thought, was a very good description of his life with Eirene.
At tea-time he took up her tray and found her in a mournful mood, sighing and lamenting because her wretched health had ruined his life. She often said this. He put the tray down on her knees and sat on the bed beside her.
‘Your health would be nothing, only a minor misfortune,’ he said, ‘if we cared for each other.’
‘You would love me if I wasn’t ill. No woman can hope to keep a man if she’s ill.’
‘But you don’t love me.’
‘Harry! You know perfectly well that I’m devoted to you.’
‘You don’t show it. If you could give me one example of your devotion to me, I’d … well … I’d feel very differently about all this.’
Eirene poured herself out a cup of tea. He had an impression that she hesitated, not because she did not know what to say, but for some other reason.
‘Well …’ she said at last, ‘I could have divorced you, if I’d wanted. And I didn’t.’
‘What?’
She had taken him completely by surprise.
‘Don’t bounce about like that. You’ll upset the tray. If I wasn’t devoted to you I’d have divorced you when I got back from America. I had all the evidence. But I didn’t. I didn’t even reproach you, though it nearly broke my heart….’
‘Do you mean Billie Blacker …?’
‘I know men have these animal instincts, and you were all alone. I forgave it. Many women wouldn’t have.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Plenty of people knew. Some of my friends knew. Do you suppose they didn’t tell me? Why … you practically lived with her, for some months, in a flat in Bayswater.’
‘Yes. Yes … I suppose people did know. It was all so … it was in the Blitz … life seemed upside down. One had no friends; one had one’s own life … and the war.’
‘Everybody thought I should divorce you. But I said no. I’m devoted to him. I understand him. I always think jealousy is vile. If I wait patiently, he’ll come back to me.’
‘But Eirene … the trouble with us started long before then. It started ages ago, just after Caroline was born. When we had that nurse, you remember? And you wouldn’t let her bathe and I …’
‘My goodness, Harry! Not then! Not that nurse! I never …’
‘Oh no, no, no! I don’t mean I had an affair with that nurse. But we quarrelled about her. Our first quarrel.’
‘I don’t remember. How you do treasure things up! I don’t. I try to forget our little quarrels. You gave me quite a shock about that nurse. For I was sure that warden woman was the first. I told everyone. I said, I know this is the first time he has ever looked at another woman. And that’s rather wonderful, if you think of my wretched health….’
‘To who
m did you say all this?’
‘To Lulu Wilmott, in Massachusetts. To all my friends there. They thought it was wonderful of me to go back to you and never say a word. They wanted me to divorce you, and stay there. I would have, if I hadn’t been utterly devoted to you. I like America. I’d like to live there always.’
‘I’m sure you would, unless things got uncomfortable there, when you’d move on.’
He checked himself, ashamed of his own bitterness. But Eirene felt no sting in the taunt. She sipped her tea and said calmly:
‘I don’t think things ever would get very uncomfortable there, even if there was another war. It’s so large. They’d always have plenty.’
The old ire, the need to yell at her, nearly choked him.
‘I really don’t think I ought to let you bring up the children,’ he exclaimed. ‘You aren’t fit to.’
That did startle her a little. She said sharply:
‘Don’t talk nonsense! I’m quite able to bring up the children. I’ve never let my bad health prevent that. I take more care of them than many mothers do who have never had a day’s illness in their lives. Look at those wretched little Coves … how neglected they are!’
‘You aren’t fit. I won’t have them brought up without any loyalties. I won’t have them turned into scum … it’s a scum that every nation throws up … that simply drifts from place to place in search of a full trough. They must be citizens of some country. There must be some community to which they’ll stick through good and evil. They’re not rats. I won’t have them turned into rats.’
Against his will he had raised his voice. It was the old yelling. Eirene lowered hers and spoke very gently.
‘I wish,’ she said, ‘that they would remember not to send me raspberry jam. They know I can’t eat it. You might have looked, Harry, before you brought the tray up. And you can’t prevent me from bringing the children up, can you?’
‘I can take them away.’
‘No, really. You can’t take children away from their mother unless she has done something wrong. I could have taken them away from you, if I had divorced you. But you can’t take them from me. And if you really mean to go away and leave me I won’t divorce you. I shall hope you’ll be sorry and come back to me one day. I shall always be waiting for you. But you won’t see the children till you do.’
There was a tap at the door. Hebe looked in. He waved her away, with:
‘Not just now, Hebe. Run along….’
‘No … wait …’ cried Eirene, holding out her jam dish. ‘Just take this down, darling, and ask for jelly instead.’
Hebe approached the bed and presented to Sir Henry a small object like a grasshopper, made of wool and wire‚ and a pill box with a label saying: PROPTER’S NICODEMUS PILLS.
‘I made them this afternoon,’ she said. ‘And Caro is making your railway ticket. Have you learnt your part?’
‘What part?’ asked Eirene.
‘For the Feast‚’ explained Hebe. ‘The Coves’ Feast. Didn’t you get your invitation card on your breakfast tray?’
‘That card? Oh, yes. I wondered what on earth it meant. How could anyone suppose I’d be well enough for that sort of thing?’
‘Everybody is invited,’ explained Hebe. ‘I expect they thought it would be rude not to send you a card, when we are all going.’
‘What do you mean? You are all going? When did I give you leave to go?’
Hebe looked dismayed and glanced at Sir Henry for support.
‘We never thought you’d mind our going,’ she explained.
‘I certainly mind. I thought I’d told you not to play with those little Coves. They’re not a family I care to have any dealings with. Their mother was intolerably rude to me on Tuesday.’
‘Mrs. Cove has nothing to do with it, Mother. She isn’t even coming to the picnic. She has to stay at home and pack because she’s going to London to-morrow….’
‘Those children got you into one scrape, when they accused you of drowning them. That is quite enough. I hate to say no to any of your little pleasures, darling, but I really do say it this time. I don’t like the idea of this Feast.’
‘But, Mother …’
Sir Henry interposed:
‘It’s my fault, Eirene. I gave them leave. I had no idea you’d object. And now it has all gone so far, I think you must let them go. It would be an awful catastrophe if we failed the Coves now.’
Eirene gave him a cool stare. He realized that she meant to pay him out for having threatened to take the children away. But she spoke playfully:
‘Darling! I know you think I spoil them and that you are the only person who is really fit to bring them up. But you’re quite wrong. It’s you who can deny them nothing. I’m a great deal stricter really.’
‘But, Mother, we must go! We must go!’ cried Hebe, who was becoming really anxious.
‘No must about it, my precious. I absolutely forbid it.’
‘But why? Why?’
‘I’ve told you. I don’t care for the Coves.’
‘You’re wrong about them, Eirene. They’re very nice little girls, and we are all rather sorry for them.’
‘It’s not only the Coves. It’s too late an hour for the twins. And none of our chicks have very good digestions. They’ll only make themselves sick, gobbling a lot of trash in the middle of the night….’
‘It isn’t trash. It’s lovely things: lobster salad and chicken and ices … we all subscribed to it….’
‘Most indigestible. The little Coves may need to be fed in the middle of the night by public subscription. But my children …’
‘I suppose,’ screamed Hebe, furiously, ‘you’d rather we ate tape worms.’
The altercation came to an abrupt end in a simultaneous gasp from Hebe and Lady Gifford. Sir Henry, turning to reprove Hebe for such an unpleasant idea, was appalled by the expression on her face—the blanched terror and exultation of a child who has gone too far and knows it. He looked at his wife.
Eirene did not ask what Hebe meant. She was the more terrified of the two. She had the jam dish in her hand and was holding it up as if to ward Hebe off. She licked her lips, tried to say something, and put the dish down. Leaning back against her pillows she closed her eyes.
‘You’d better go,’ he said sternly to Hebe.
But Hebe, though shaking, stood her ground.
‘Are we going to the Feast?’ she asked, giving him a hard stare.
‘Yes,’ he said, anxious to end the scene. ‘Yes. They can go, can’t they, Eirene?’
Eirene opened her eyes for a moment to give Hebe a look of pure hatred. She said faintly:
‘Go if you like. But get out.’
Hebe got out with a rush.
‘I don’t think I want any more tea,’ whispered Eirene. ‘These scenes are so bad for me. I mustn’t get upset. Will you take the tray down, darling‚ and I’ll just relax completely.’
He hardly heard her. He stood at the bottom of the bed, beating a tattoo on the bedrail in time with the words which echoed through his shocked mind:
On a little heap of barley
Died my aged Uncle Arty,
And they buried him one night….
‘Will you take the tray away, Harry?’
He pulled himself together.
‘What … what did she mean?’ he asked.
‘Hebe? How should I know? Some vulgarity she has picked up. That’s what comes of playing with horrid children. Do take the tray.’
He took the tray. At the top of the stairs he nearly fell over Hebe who was crouched there, waiting for him. She said at once:
‘You’d better send me back to the orphanage. I’m not your child and I’ve turned out badly. I’d better go away.’
‘We’re responsible for you,’ he said drearily.
‘You can’t want me after what I said.’
‘It wasn’t a nice thing to say. How …?’
But he stopped, feeling that he could not question her.
> ‘I heard Edmée, that was Mrs. Wilmott’s maid, talking to another maid….’
‘Oh … in Massachusetts?’
‘Yes. Edmée said that was how … how people kept thin. She said Mrs. Wilmott was mad at Mother about it and said she was crazy … she put on an awful lot, you know, in America. She was getting very fat. And then suddenly she got terribly thin. Edmée said …’
‘It was vulgar gossip‚’ he told her. ‘Nothing in it. There couldn’t be.’
Hebe nodded.
‘Did you … say anything to the others?’
‘Oh, no … I never told anyone. Only to-day … I was so furious….’
‘Forget about it.’
‘She won’t. You’ll have to send me away.’
He knew this was true.
‘Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘you’ll do better at school.’
‘Perhaps I shall,’ agreed Hebe, cheering up slightly. ‘Like Jane Eyre.’
He took the tray downstairs and went out on to the sands. So far as he could see this grotesque discovery made very little difference to his position. It merely made him feel more of a fool. It robbed his troubles of any claim to dignity.
4. The Quangle Wangle’s Hat
This earthly ball rolled on towards the Feast. That was how a good many people at Pendizack felt. For the seven children it rolled far too slowly and the day seemed endless. But their elders, harassed with many occupations, had no such grudge against time. Evangeline, who was still doing all the cooking, regretted that she had undertaken the manufacture of so many costumes. She did not finish Mrs. Paley’s hat until the very last minute and when she ran upstairs with it the children, already dressed, were gathering in the hall for the opening procession.
She found Mrs. Paley struggling into the old green mackintosh which Duff had lent her. It was very tight and the sleeves were rather short. But there was no doubt that it had a skinny look.
‘Here it is‚’ said Evangeline, putting the hat on the bed. ‘But how you will keep it on, I can’t think.’
The Feast Page 29