My Son, My Son

by Howard Spring

  There was plenty of that sort of thing. They looked well: Oliver’s upright six-foot-one clothed in rusty uniform, Maeve quite absurdly small-looking beside him, but exquisite in face and clothes.

  They were everywhere together. “You see,” Maeve said to me with frank pride, “I’m someone. Who’s ever heard of Livia Vaynol, except a few people in the theatre? It flatters him to be seen about with Maeve O’Riorden.”

  I suppose that was how she did it. Oliver had been given a temporary job at home. It seemed to leave him plenty of leisure for suppers, dances, dinners, charity matinées and all the flim-flam of the time.

  One day I ran into Dermot, and he said: “What the hell’s all this about Maeve and Oliver? What’s going on? Don’t these emancipated children tell parents anything nowadays?”

  He had a cheap and scabby paper crushed in his hand. He opened it out and jabbed a long finger at a picture of Maeve, wearing very little—one of Choose Your Partner’s publicity pictures. Underneath was the line: “Rumour has it that pretty Maeve O’Riorden has chosen her partner,” and a few paragraphs lower down it was innocently stated that “Captain Oliver Essex, V.C., hero-son of famous novelist Essex, is much seen nowadays in company with Maeve O’Riorden.”

  “Well, what’s it all about?” Dermot repeated. “Damn it, Bill, I don’t have to pretend to you. I don’t like Oliver—V.C. or no V.C. And what about that Vaynol woman?”

  “Say what you like about her. That won’t hurt me now.”

  He looked sideways at me sharply. “Good! I’m glad to hear that. Sheila’ll be glad too. Has Oliver chucked her?”

  “I’m not in Oliver’s confidence,” I said bitterly. “But it appears that they don’t any longer go about together.”

  “And he and Maeve do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well—do you like it?”

  “Romantically, it should be perfect. Children of lifelong friends join hearts and hands. But I hate it. I hate it like hell.”

  We were walking on the Embankment. We stopped and looked at one another, with the gulls cat-calling overhead and the grey river sliding by. Dermot leaned his elbows on the granite parapet. “Neither do I like it,” he said slowly. “No good will come of it. As sure as that river is flowing to the sea.”

  He looked despondently at the water for a moment, then said: “Bill, will you speak to her?”

  “I?”

  “Yes. It’s a damned hard thing to say, but honest to God I think she looks up to you more than to her own father. You see, she’s—she’s never forgiven me for Rory.” He took hold of the sleeve of my overcoat and appealed to me: “Will you do this for me now? We don’t want anything to go wrong there, do we—either of us?”

  I promised him that I would speak to Maeve.

  *

  But I put it off. Again and again I put it off. Maeve and I had been shifted by the war into different worlds. We rarely met now at lunch, as we had been used to do: there were so many other claims on her time. There was nowhere else where I might meet her. I did my job each day at the Propaganda Ministry—Information I think they called it—and at night I was glad enough to withdraw into my own thoughts. Thank God, the war caused me no physical discomfort, and if I live to see another, I shall do my best to ensure that that causes me no discomfort either. I shall always escape to the best of my ability from the enterprises of lunatics. I had enough to eat and drink, there was a fire to sit by and a lamp to light, and I made the best of these things as a refuge from the boredom, depression and exalted lunacy of the time. At night I hardly ever left my room. I discovered in myself an aptitude for the life of the recluse; I looked forward with keen expectation all day to the curtained, lamp-lit evening. I was writing a book which I did not think would ever be published, and which, indeed, never has been published; a simple record of the life about me. Read now, it has the quality of a fantastic nightmare recalled in the disillusioning light of day.

  Withdrawing thus more and more into the quality and condition of an observer of events in which he refused to participate, I found for the first time that even Maeve had drifted a little outside the orbit of my concern. That arid little contact with Livia Vaynol on the night of the air-raid had left me feeling extraordinarily contented, like some Christian from whose shoulders there has dropped an emotional burden which he sees with a gasp of pleasure and surprise he had for long been carrying without reason. Now I was free. Now I could hug my seclusion not as one who escapes from what he fears to find but as one who knows all that is to be found and from it turns gladly aside. In this state of mind, I allowed the weeks to drift by, and forgot my promise to Dermot. Or, if I remembered it, I said to myself that Maeve was not the girl to make a fool of herself. She had no reason to love Livia Vaynol. If she found Oliver so easily detachable, I couldn’t blame her for detaching him. She would know how far to go.

  31

  On a morning of early January, 1917, I was awakened by a banging on my bedroom door. I sat up in bed with a start, sniffed the frosty air, and got back into the blankets, deciding that the noise was an imagination of dream. The banging came again, more urgently. “Who’s there?” I shouted.

  “Me—Annie.”

  I stepped out of bed into the piercing cold. The bedside lamp showed me that it was five o’clock. I slipped on a dressing-gown and opened the door. There was Annie Suthurst, clutching a shapeless garment of red flannel across her chest and looking more upset than I had ever seen her.

  “Eh, Mr. Essex! Ah’m that scared. Miss Maeve hasn’t coom home. Ah can’t get a wink o’ sleep.”

  Her fear communicated itself to my own heart, but I said reasonably: “She’s often late, Annie. I expect she’s dancing.”

  “Dancing! Don’t be daft, man! Who’d be dancing at five in t’morning?”

  It didn’t seem unusual, in that strange hectic world from which I was withdrawing more and more. But I let that pass. “You’d better make yourself a cup of tea,” I suggested.

  “Tea! Ah’ve done nowt but drink tea all t’neet.”

  “Well, perhaps you’ll make me a cup,” I suggested.

  “No need to mak’ it. Pot’s on t’hob.”

  So I went up to Annie’s room, more and more affected by the concern in her face. “Now you’d better go to bed,” I said when I had drunk the tea. “You can do no good by sitting up. If there’s anything to be done, we shan’t be able to do it for a few hours anyway.”

  “Ah’ll not go to bed,” she said obstinately. “Ah’ll sit here till Ah know what’s happened to Maeve. No good, Ah reckon.”

  So we sat there together, in that room containing the memorials of Annie’s long-dead husband, and we passed the time by playing draughts. Our pretended absorption in the game did not prevent us from keeping our ears skinned for every murmur of sound from the dark, bitterly cold street.

  Maeve came in at seven o’clock. She looked dead tired, yet excited, almost exalted. She threw her hat and coat upon Annie’s bed, then sat on the bed herself. “For the love of Mike, Annie, give us a cup of tea,” she said. Then with a pale smile: “I find you two in very compromising circumstances.”

  Neither Annie nor I spoke. Annie fussed about, making a fresh pot of tea. I looked at Maeve, trying to decipher the mood of excitement that was on her. The silence made her uneasy. She got up and walked about the room for a while, then burst out: “Oh, why do they send troop trains away at such a godless hour of the morning!”

  “Troop trains?”

  “Yes. Trains with troops in them. You know, men who are going out to be killed, wounded, shot to bits. You ought to go and see them some day, Mr. William Essex. You ought to see all sorts of things, you damned old mole, shutting yourself up night after night, hiding from real things. Oh, I know it’s all horrible, contemptible, a complete breakdown of all the lovely things that keep the world cushy for you. But all the same, you ought to see it. It’s happening, you know, however much you shut your eyes.”

  The colour that I di
sliked had come back to her cheeks. Her eyes were burning. I remembered the time when she had stood before Dermot, shouting: “You’ve killed Rory! You’ve killed Rory!” So she stood before me now, her hands clenched at her sides. Then the strength seemed to go out of her. She sank into a chair and murmured: “I’ve just been seeing Oliver off.”

  “Get her to bed,” I said; and Annie nodded like a wise old hen over Maeve’s bowed head.

  That was a Sunday morning. I went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep. At nine o’clock Annie, who had had no sleep at all, brought me my breakfast in bed. “You’ll need it, Mr. Essex, after a neet like that,” she said, as though I, not she, had kept vigil. “Miss Maeve’s sleeping, an’ Ah’m going to let ’er sleep an’ all.” She nodded grimly, and drew the curtains, letting in the light of the pale frosty morning.

  “Tell me as soon as she’s awake,” I said.

  I knew a man who would lend me a car, and as soon as I had had breakfast I went and borrowed it. I had not driven for years, but I would chance that. There was not much traffic on the roads in those days when petrol was hard to come by. I drove the car back to Berkeley Square and waited for Maeve to wake.

  It was two o’clock when Annie came to say that Maeve was sitting up in bed, having breakfast. She looked intolerably small and fragile, propped up by pillows, nibbling a piece of toast.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen Maeve O’Riorden in bed since she was so small that there was no thrill in it.”

  “Was I a lovely baby, Bill?” She stretched out her hand to lay it on mine. I put it firmly back on her lap.

  “You keep that hand to help some food to your mouth. You look half-starved.”

  “Oh, Man! Svelte... vivacious... you’ll never make a gossip-writer.” She obstinately put her hand on mine again. “Mr. William Essex, it occurs to me that I was rude to you last night.”

  “Last night, indeed! You’ve lost your sense of time, my girl. And if you were rude, you’re going to atone for it. Have you any engagements today?”

  “As it happens, no.”

  “Marvellous!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And if you had, you would have had to cancel them.”

  She raised her eyebrows in a question.

  “Because your Uncle Bill has got you booked for the rest of the day. When you’ve finished breakfast, dress up warm and report to me.”

  She came down sheathed in a coat of blue-grey fur, with dark blue violets pinned at her breast. The collar went up as a cosy-looking background to the dark hair on which a fur Cossack hat was pulled down.

  “Good! You’ll need all that. It’s an open car.”

  “Then put a muffler round your neck,” she ordered.

  I did so, and, plentifully swathed, we went down to the car. It was three o’clock. The sun had already lost its strength and was declining, an orange disc, towards the horizon of roofs. The frost, which it had not wholly vanquished all day, was getting the upper hand.

  There was no wind. The cold air tingled in our faces as we drove westwards. It was a small two-seater car, and Maeve snuggled comfortably into my side, under the rugs.

  Neither of us said a word for a long time. I think she knew what was in my mind: to have done for a while with words, with gadding, with rushing, with all the fevered circumstances in which she had been living. We were together, and we comforted one another by being together, with the wind on our faces, and the hedges slipping by with the tall leafless elms rising out of them and etching their lacy patterns on the pale winter air.

  After a long time Maeve said: “Miss Maeve O’Riorden presents her compliments to Mr. William Essex and begs to know whether his prolonged silence denotes continued resentment.”

  “Resentment!” I snorted. “I know you too well, my dear, to be resentful. I know what these months are meaning to you—what you’re doing and suffering. But don’t let’s even talk about it. Just for these few hours.”

  She smiled gratefully and gave a long relaxing stretch of the body. The sun went down; the frost sharpened its edge; the western sky became a rich smother, damson in colour, velvet in texture. An owl, with short stubby-looking wings, drifted silently, ahead of the car, from an elm on one side of the road to an elm on the other.

  “‘The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,’” said Maeve. “Bill, these are fine feathers, but I’m a bit shiversome. What do we do about that?”

  “You should eat more food,” I said pedantically. “However, I’ll deal with that.”

  We were under the shoulders of the Berkshire downs which ahead and to our right loomed up darkly against the sky’s last light. I stopped at the next village we came to. There was an old coaching inn on the high street, and I remembered that once, driving back from Cornwall, Martin had stopped the car there and we had eaten a famous dinner. I didn’t know how the war had affected the place, but I had had it in mind as our objective, and it did not fail us. The landlord seemed surprised to have any custom at all, outside the bar. He spoke disparagingly of his resources, but said he would do his best. He led us to a small room where a fire was burning and a lamp hung by a hook from an immense black beam as thick as my thigh. The red curtains drawn across the windows gave us a fine sense of intimacy. Presently two old-fashioned silver covers were set on the table. Under one were thick hearty rashers of ham grilled to a golden brown, flanked by potatoes thinly sliced and fried. The other yielded half a dozen fried eggs, and this was a meal with which we were well content. We drank beer. I had never seen Maeve drink beer before. She boasted that it was one of her chief accomplishments, raised the large silver tankard to her red lips, and smiled happily at me over the top. It was a joy to see her eat, heartily and well, here in this quiet room, where we were scores of miles from anyone who could say: “Shall we dance?” or “Where are we going on to now?” or “Do let’s fix something for lunch tomorrow.”

  The landlord looked in and asked: “All right, sir?”

  “Excellent. They’re not starving you down here.”

  “We manage,” he said. “There’s a nice bit of cheese...”

  “A nice bit of cheese is the cue I’m longing for,” said Maeve.

  It was good Stilton, and when we had done we had that feeling that now is the time to draw in a chair to the fire and talk. So we did that. I lit my pipe and gave Maeve a cigarette, and as she lay back with her feet to the blaze, blowing a small smoke-ring through a large one, I said: “So Oliver’s gone back?”

  She nodded. “I knew it was coming, but I didn’t want to bother you with it, Bill. You don’t mind, do you? It would have been—no good, you know.”

  “Yes. I see that. Would you like to tell me anything about Oliver? You’ve been seeing a lot of him.”

  “Every day. You know how it started, don’t you? That night you were at the theatre? I wanted to take him away from Livia. Because you wanted Livia.”

  So that was it! Of course that was it, you fool! Couldn’t you see it without having it put into words? And I hadn’t wanted Livia after all. I couldn’t find a word to say. I was suddenly aware of myself as a black selfish incubus, obscuring the clarity of three young lives: Oliver, Maeve, Livia; and myself now wanting, now not wanting, an ageing inconstant interferer, sending all awry. I licked my dry lips before I could speak again.

  “You succeeded. You certainly had all Oliver’s attention.”

  “I succeeded!” she said bitterly. “Only too well. I had no idea he’d be in England all this time. I thought it would be a short leave, and back he’d go and little damage done. Then he got his home job, and what could I do? I had to go on with it. You can’t cut a man off because his leave’s been lengthened. Not even in these days when everybody seems more or less mad.”

  “Didn’t you want to go on with it? Wasn’t it—agreeable?”

  She got up and began to pace the room in agitation. The flush came back to her cheeks. She threw her cigarette impatiently into the fire. All the old restless symptoms tha
t I had hoped to banish for this one day broke out again. I rose and put my arms about her shoulders and tried to calm her. “Maeve... I’m sorry... I didn’t want to talk about upsetting things. Let’s leave this now. Let’s make this one day of peace.”

  She put me aside. “Sit down,” she said. “It’s no good trying to shut things up. Let’s have this out, Bill.”

  She pushed me down into my chair, then said: “I know I made a mistake. That’s what made me angry with you this morning. Because I’m angry with myself, see? You don’t love Livia. You don’t want Livia.”

  I shook my head miserably.

  “You’ve been a long time finding it out,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you knew.”

  She almost snorted in her impatience. “You didn’t! Does it take much finding out? Does a man who loves a woman and is pursuing her spend all his leisure time stewing in a flat? For God’s sake, Bill, give me credit for a little common sense. And there I was landed with Oliver for weeks and weeks. He wouldn’t go back to Livia. Heavens, no! There you are: grand theatre, isn’t it? Heroine’s generous gesture recoils on her own head. How do we go on from there? You’re a playwright. Tell me.”

  What was there to tell? Abased, I had nothing to say. Presently Maeve sat down and lighted a cigarette, more composed. “Don’t think I’ve been suffering,” she said, “except from a flat feeling that I had made a fool of myself. You’ve done a great deal for me in your time, Bill, and here was the golden opportunity to do something for you. It wasn’t nice to see it wasted. But Oliver’s not bad.”

  I looked up at that more hopeful note. She smiled at me like someone encouraging a despondent child. “Light your pipe,” she said. “No, he’s not bad,” she went on, “You know I never really liked him, but at least I’ve liked him better this last few weeks than ever before. He’s more real now. There’s something rather terrifying in his realness. At times I felt frightened with him. He would be silent and brooding for hours together, melancholy-mad. But at least he’s not the little boy in black silk pyjamas. You remember that odious little boy?”