Martha, Eric, and George

by Margery Sharp

  They understood each other!—the one the local midwife, the other cousin to the clerk of the local Mairie. It was common knowledge in the village, and had at once come to Madame D.’s ears, that her sister-in-law during the preceding month had assisted at, but failed to register, a birth; like the entire village, she took a liberal view. Whatever Madame P. had to bequeath would stay in the family; the clock alone was a serious piece of property.—Like the ironing-board, like the linoleum, purchased locally; Martha’s allowance from Mr. Joyce, however diverted from its proper ends, had undoubtedly benefited local trade …

  Not from that small village north of Paris would any officious bureaucrat receive information, if to the detriment of Madame P. One lived and let live; life was hard enough for all!

  Chapter Six

  1

  In the rue d’Antibes week after week passed suspenseful and fruitless. A month passed; two months; baby George (his grandmother had always had a feeling for the old King) continued French. Mrs. Taylor during the first period of disappointment positively went so far as to purchase an exceptionally commodious hat-box and bore air-holes in it; even tried it out for size; but when it came to the actual point of customs-crashing, lost courage. Eric’s violent opposition to the project was in fact supported by her own deepest, law-abiding, instincts; also what was the use, of breaking the law, if in England the mother’s claim was still paramount—and that mother not to be found? Sadly Mrs. Taylor allowed the hat-box to be consigned to the top of a wardrobe; nor did her son’s relieved, well-meant observation, as he hoisted it up, that it was still almost as good as new, much console her …

  The infant George, named for the dear old King as he was, continued life not as a little Britisher but as a little Frog.

  —What irritated Mrs. Taylor above all was the nagging suspicion that somehow, by some means, the translation could have been effected quite easily. She was a great reader of spy-stories; there were whole well-run subterranean organizations, she gathered, absolutely dedicated to the provision of false papers. A password murmured in a bar—a brief whisper over the absinthe—a second rendez-vous, with a packet of currency, in another bar—and there was your passport. (Or birth- or marriage-certificate; whatever necessary.) Only how did one get in touch, with a subterranean organization? Through a shady lawyer? Mrs. Taylor didn’t know any shady lawyers, nor did any of her acquaintance—or at any rate wouldn’t admit it. The expert from the Bank, for instance, she fancied had a distinctly shifty look about him; but at the merest hint of … a way round, shut up like a clam.

  How Mrs. Taylor longed for an entrée into the underworld! She said nothing to Eric, she had learnt her lesson—and indeed recognized that to him in his position at the Bank any involvement with the underworld would be fatal; but at this period might have been seen more than once ordering coffee in most unsuitable bistros. Sometimes she even ordered an absinthe, to make herself look more like one of the mob, and occasionally raised it to her lips with what she hoped was a louche, inviting glance. But the only person who ever responded was an American lady of about her own age. “My, we do seem to have got ourselves in a strange spot!” observed the American lady. “D’you mind if I join you?” They had quite a pleasant chat, and Mrs. Taylor saw several pictures of a lovely home in Kansas; but it wasn’t what she had come for.

  Of course she kept these excursions from Eric—and as a consequence developed a slightly shifty look herself. There was no other result, however, save for a loss of faith in her favourite authors. “I don’t believe half of them know what they’re writing about!” complained Mrs. Taylor, to her crony Miss Macbeth at the English Library; and took her name off the list for the new Graham Greene.

  Thus in the end (as the weeks passed, as the months passed), the situation proved beyond her. She had to accept it. In any case, there were compensations.

  Hand in hand with the joys of possessing an infant to nurture went the pleasures of increased social prestige. A whole circle of nice English friends thought Mrs. Taylor quite wonderful, in her Christian, broad-minded acceptance of a little illegitimate grandson. (She wisely made no bones about the matter; it was Eric who flinched.) The English chemist, the English doctor, took a particular interest in the child—to shepherd whom unscathed through an epidemic of whooping-cough was so to speak a national triumph. Miss Macbeth at the English Library inaugurated a special juvenile shelf against the time little George learned to read, and meanwhile supplied Mrs. Taylor with each newest manual on infant-welfare. Even Madame Leclerc accepted perambulator succeeding carry-cot almost with enthusiasm. Was she not a grandmother herself? “See his little fist, how it strikes out!” cried Madame Leclerc. “Look at his intelligent little eyes!” responded Mrs. Taylor. “And what health! Naturally, he is in good hands!” complimented Madame Leclerc. “I really think he is,” agreed Mrs. Taylor modestly …

  With M. Jacob across the landing there developed something approaching an amitié amoureuse. To M. Jacob, nearing eighty, Mrs. Taylor’s mere sixty-two or -three was positively girlish—an impression heightened by her bright blue eyes and bright pink cheeks. M. Jacob had long toyed with the idea of making closer acquaintance, and now found it easy to expand from a formal morning salutation to enquiries after the little one’s health. He chucked baby George under the chin with a gesture which Mrs. Taylor would have been horrified to allow herself to think of as vicarious, but which nonetheless (doubtless for some more respectable reason, such as grandmotherly pride) gave her a pleasant inward glow. It moreover transpired that M. Jacob, even though retired, still carried weight in the wine-trade, in which there were always, he hinted, opportunities for the bi-lingual. Of course this was looking far too far ahead, but the subject promoted many agreeable chats in either the one apartment over a Dubonnet or in the other over a cup of tea. Even at sixty-two or -three the female ear is not unreceptive to masculine converse, nor the female bosom to a bunch of violets: Mrs. Taylor, in a light, joking way, admitted her neighbour a dear old boy—and began to take unusual pains with her appearance. No doubt she’d have done so in any case, being in her new popularity more and more often asked out to little bridge- or whist-parties.

  There were no such compensations for Eric. For once, it was the man who paid.

  2

  The rôle of gay deceiver is however regrettably a rather admired one. Gaily the trumpet calls, gaily he rides away, leaving to the victim of his panache both burden and stigma. In this case it was only too clear that the burden had been left with Eric—that in ears not male but female had the trumpet sounded. Eric on his daily round met no looks of admiration. No protective hen of a mother, at his view, flatteringly clucked a daughter to her side. What Eric met was the half-patronizing, half-affectionate slight amusement accorded to a cuckold.

  The English chemist, so genuinely sympathetic to Mrs. Taylor, when Eric picked up a fresh supply of disposable nappies barely concealed a grin. The eye of Madame Leclerc was definitely ironic. (“No little angel for monsieur to-day!” would cry Madame Leclerc, with more humour than Eric appreciated.) Even his compeers at the Bank, clubbing together to present a silver christening-mug, did so in a spirit of ribaldry. Eric tried to pretend he thought it a beer-tankard; but lacked the necessary aplomb.

  The legal expert’s chuckled tale percolated to senior ears also; Eric never got his next step. The City of London (Paris branch) Bank prided itself on being the Caesar’s wife of all Europe, its higher officials no less morally immaculate than financially accomplished: as in a valued parlour-maid Eric’s slip was overlooked, he was kept on; but somehow promotion—how many an unmarried mother must not Martha have avenged!—passed him by.

  He fared no better domestically. Hitherto, Mrs. Taylor’s every, waking thought had been dedicated to him, the flat in the rue d’Antibes had been organized for his sole convenience; now, like any other young father of a first-born, Eric found his place suddenly usurped. (Of course he was the young father of a first-born; he simply had a mother inste
ad of a wife.) Little George’s sleep, for instance, was sacred; so far as Eric could make out the child slept continuously. Lunch was served in a churchyard silence; after dinner—“Please, dear, not so loud!” exclaimed Mrs. Taylor, if Eric turned on the radio. “He’s sleeping!” At both meals there frequently appeared sieved spinach—a vegetable Eric particularly disliked—because little George hadn’t finished his up. (“Why can’t he finish it up to-morrow?” demanded Eric. “It has to be fresh,” explained Mrs. Taylor.) Eric equally learned to consume left-over orange juice, left-over milk, and puddings concocted from stale rusks.

  Also to baby-sit, while Mrs. Taylor was out playing bridge.

  A minor but perpetual source of irritation was that she had somehow acquired the right to ring him up at the Bank. No such serious crisis ever again supervened as when she’d needed to summon the Bank’s legal expert: what Mrs. Taylor chiefly rang up about was fish. She now marketed so early (before little George’s airing), quite often the fish hadn’t come in: Eric was alerted to pick it up on his way home. On other occasions there was a library-book to be picked up from the English Library, or a knitting-pattern from the English Wool Shop. The City of London (Paris branch) was tolerant; also amused. Both tolerance and amusement notably diminished Eric’s status therein.

  For once, it was the man who paid.

  3

  The months passed, the years passed. In the rue d’Antibes an infant grew to a toddler, a toddler to a little boy. He was still a subject of the Republic, but his grandmother did her best to protect him (even while treacherously accepting the violets of M. Jacob) from the dangers of becoming bi-lingual. If George picked up a sort of boot-legged French, it was just as he picked up a sort of boot-legged Catholicism: Mrs. Taylor introduced him to the Anglican service as soon as he was old enough to stay until the sermon, Madame Leclerc slipped him a medal of Our Lady. There was also a certain tension between Father Christmas and Père Noël: the former put your presents in a stocking, the latter left them on the hearth—where of course there was more room. “But it’s Father Christmas who comes to little English boys!” explained Mrs. Taylor. “Never forget, my darling, that you’re really English!”

  She did everything possible to make him so, to keep him so, uncontaminated by Gallic influences. From his tenderest years she attempted to interest him in cricket, so that he early knew where Australia was.—Geography in general was a subject Mrs. Taylor rather shied away from, there seemed to be less and less of the map coloured red; but in history George received a solid grounding from Alfred and the cakes up to the Battle of Waterloo. Mrs. Taylor also dwelt at length on such incontestably top British achievements as the Rolls-Royce engine, Savile Row suits, and the works of William Shakspere …

  The little boy grew to a little schoolboy. He attended a private school for other little English boys, where instead of the uniform black French blouse they wore blazers with a crest on the pocket. (Nor was his hair ever cropped to the equally uniform round French bullet-head; it fell in an appealing fringe à la Christopher Robin.) In due course he won several prizes for arithmetic, but to Mrs. Taylor’s extreme relief never a one for drawing. Faced with a pencil and a piece of paper young George drew just what most little English boys draw—a motor-car.

  Ever more secure in his possession, and watching her efforts thus bear fruit, a happy life led Mrs. Taylor in the rue d’Antibes; so happy that she came to dislike any variation. The annual holiday, for example, which had once inevitably postulated a trip across the Channel for a revivifying breath of British air, she now actually preferred to spend on French soil.—Wasn’t Haute Savoie both beautiful and cheap? (Eric having failed to get his step, economy was needful; or so Mrs. Taylor rationalized her subconscious desire to preserve the status quo.) To Haute Savoie the little family party annually resorted; annually Mrs. Taylor was happy to return to Paris. Paris, thanks to her grandson, was at last home to her. Mrs. Taylor was a happy woman.

  As for Eric, he was resigned. Resigned to not getting his step, resigned to economy, resigned to babysitting while Mrs. Taylor skated out to a third bridge-party within a week. As she was sometimes forced to remind him, hadn’t he brought it on himself? Eric admitted the argument; his situation was nonetheless unsatisfactory—particularly as he could never work up much paternal affection.

  It wasn’t surprising. Young George’s presence in the rue d’Antibes not only, as has been seen, destroyed all Eric’s domestic comfort, but was also a perpetual reminder of his disastrous, youthful folly. When Mrs. Taylor, George being about a year old, began to teach him the undemanding bi-syllable Dadda, Eric showed such a tendency to ill-humour that the project had to be abandoned. Mrs. Taylor was less stupid than she sometimes appeared; and when George was about three introduced his tongue instead to the more difficult appellation of Big Eric …

  Young George took the change in his stride. If there was anything he’d inherited from his mother it was her phlegm. Required thus unnaturally to address a male whom he knew perfectly well to be his father, obediently young George twisted his tongue. He was an obedient child altogether; also, perhaps luckily, an undemonstrative one. For if Mrs. Taylor rather suffered because of this trait, certainly Eric didn’t want to be rushed at and smothered with kisses the moment he got home from the Bank.

  In short, young George brought no joy to his father—particularly when, as was inevitable, and actually in the child’s seventh year, Eric loved again.

  4

  Her name was Edith Allen, and she helped in the English Library. (Only helped in; wasn’t employed at: a distinction thoroughly appreciated by both Eric and his mother.) Like Martha, she was plain; her profile resembled a tea-pot’s, all nose and no chin—but she had nice fair hair and nice blue eyes and a nice fresh complexion. Like Martha again she appeared to Eric shy and modest; with the difference that in Edith both shyness and modesty were completely genuine. Eric’s increasingly frequent visits to pick up the latest English best-seller had at first aroused such hopes as she scarcely dared to contemplate. When he at last asked her home to meet his mother, Edith brought two dozen long-stemmed pink carnations …

  What Martha’d brought, in similar circumstances, was a fading nosegay off a street stall. (Also a pair of clean knickers and a clean vest, because it was in the rue d’Antibes that she got her only proper bath; which was why she went there at all.)

  While Martha, before Mrs. Taylor’s retailed anecdotes of the Royal family, had simply sat munching, Edith Allen said nice loyal things like “How wonderful!” or “Aren’t we lucky!”

  Best of all, Miss Macbeth at the Library knew everything about her. She was actually Miss Macbeth’s niece, and came from a very good family in Devon.

  No match, in short, could have been more suitable, nor any wife better adapted to heal Eric’s wounds and restore his self-esteem. Eric would have proposed to Miss Allen within a matter of weeks—if it hadn’t been for young George.

  Of course Edith knew about young George. Who didn’t, in that enclosed British community? She was very nice to the child, frequently bringing him some inexpensive little gift such as a pencil-sharpener. Young George nonetheless remained a stumbling-block. For the sweeter and more innocent appeared Edith (dining weekly in the rue d’Antibes), the less worthy felt Eric (turning down the radio lest he disturbed a little illegit.) of her pure affections.

  They never discussed the matter. Each wore a fig-leaf over the mouth. It was one of the shared characteristics that made them such natural mates, but it didn’t help them out of their emotional impasse.

  To be frank, Eric’s was no uncontrollable passion. He was in fact far less impatient to marry Edith Allen than was Miss Allen to marry him. The love he felt for her was a mild, conventional, Anglo-Saxon love; that is, he approved her appearance and took pleasure in her company. And he had her company, a great deal of it; at the English Library he could see her whenever he liked, they frequently attended the Français or the Odéon together (Edith always paying fo
r herself, because in addition to everything else she was such a good sport, and knew how hard up he was) or a classical concert; also regularly each Sunday, after the Anglican service, made up a party with Mrs. Taylor and Miss Macbeth and young George to stroll in the Tuileries Gardens …

  It was unfortunate that the Tuileries were so obviously the place to stroll in, Eric couldn’t suggest an alternative. He still, after seven years, couldn’t pass the trompe l’oeil statue of Tragedy and Comedy without distressing recollections; Martha’s portly ghost still haunted there—almost as substantial as in the flesh—to reawaken his sense of guilt. Approaching the spot, he often cracked an unsuitable, un-Sundayish joke about the sermon. Edith always covered up for him, however, by some swift change of topic—and since she and he usually walked a few paces ahead, often his mother didn’t hear at all.

  A few paces ahead walked Edith and Eric, a few paces behind Mrs. Taylor and Miss Macbeth. They formed a procession duplicated and re-duplicated all through the Tuileries: in advance les jeunes fiancés, rearguard brought up by widowed maman and spinster tante; Edith’s hand slipped through Eric’s arm quite naturally. The only discordant note was young George lagging after, making up a happy foursome into an uncomfortable five. Even after the bench was safely passed, there was still young George …

  “I suppose we’ve got to take him?” asked Eric, one Sunday night.

  “What, for a walk after church? Of course we have!” exclaimed Mrs. Taylor. “Even if his little legs aren’t quite long enough, to keep up with you and Edith!”

  Once again, she was in no hurry for a daughter-in-law. She was very fond of Edith; but did nothing to promote an immediate issue. In Mrs. Taylor’s opinion, they were all doing very well as they were.