It being a point she couldn’t have failed to observe—
“Red,” said Martha.
“Then it’s before 1933. Has it got four-wheel brakes?”
“I tell you I don’t know anything about it. I can’t even drive it—and you couldn’t either,” said Martha quickly. “You’re not old enough.”
“No, but I could strip it down,” said George.
4
He was her son all right.
As she was his mother. In a peculiar way Eric’s romanticism was justified; they had only to meet—even though it was less a meeting than a collision. There was certainly on neither side any sudden flowering of affection; Martha still found the child extremely unattractive—his head too large, his neck too thin, his resemblance to his father practically an affront; George for his part seemed to regard Martha primarily as the possessor of a Rolls and an entrepreneur of free food—and of course his passport to Coventry. He made no move to … nestle up beside her. (No more had Martha nestled up to a kind aunt.) The gaze he fixed on her was less fond than watchful; watching for a crack in her defences. They had nonetheless—recognized each other.
“Once we’re in England,” offered George cautiously, “you might find someone else to adopt me.”
“If you think I’m going to tangle with French notaries,” said Martha grimly, “just to have you adopted again—”
“You could always keep me if you wanted to,” pointed out young George. “In fact, I’d rather.”
As a first approach to sentiment it wasn’t expansive; but it was genuine. Martha could have sworn it was genuine. Moreover, and to her extreme dismay, the child’s face had suddenly crumpled. Young George was after all only ten; and had waited two hours, and had since been fighting the hardest battle of his life; he was very tired. Suddenly, big round babyish tears began to course down his cheeks …
“I’m sorry,” choked young George, but still with a certain dignity. “Have you got a handkerchief?”
Martha gave him one of le maître’s. She also rose to her feet. Before the sight of that blubbered countenance, above all before the sight of that infantile attempt at self-control, she felt a tug on her heartstrings at last—and knew better than to let a hand so like her own take firmer hold.
“Keep it,” said Martha, harshly. “You’ve wasted enough of my time already. Keep it, and go home.”
She didn’t look back, as she stumped upstairs. She knew better. Hadn’t she refused the gift of beauty, to keep herself unencumbered? Also le maître was due at any moment, to take her to a buffet-supper where she was waited for by tout Paris, and she hadn’t yet washed her face.
5
Actually as she gained her room the telephone rang; hearing le maître’s voice, Martha hoped that he might have been held up a bit too. “It’s all right,” said Martha at once, “I haven’t even washed yet …”
“Do not mind about washing, pack,” ordered le maître. “They have just telephoned me from London, I have managed to get you a place on the night ’plane. Mr. Joyce has had a second stroke.”
Chapter Nineteen
1
She was only just in time. Permissive as the nursing-home was, only Mr. Joyce’s doctor could have gained Martha admission to Mr. Joyce’s death-bed.—Entering, she crossed Miranda in tears supported by the night sister. “Only for a moment!” murmured the night sister; the doctor shrugged. He had never been such a bad doctor as Mr. Joyce proclaimed him; he knew that Martha must be allowed to stay as long as Mr. Joyce liked, or lived.
It was very quiet in the room. On the other side of the door a nurse undoubtedly watched; in the rooms to right and left other patients either slept, or if lying wakeful did so passively, not ringing their bells. Mr. Joyce and Martha were alone together in an ambiance of peculiar silence in which every word carried weight.
For some minutes Martha didn’t think her patron would be able to speak at all, his hand on the coverlet so slightly contracted under the pressure of her own. But the old man had been saving his last strength.
“So you are made?” articulated Mr. Joyce.
“Yes,” said Martha. “I’m made all right; in Paris.”
“Good,” whispered Mr. Joyce. “Then why are you crying?”
“Because you’re going to die,” said Martha.
“That is right, always use the plain term,” whispered Mr. Joyce. “Never let it be said that the old man passed on! I am not passing on, I am as you say dying. So draw me,” ordered Mr. Joyce. “Such a sketch might be very useful, if you ever come to paint an Agony.”
Martha had a chalk in her pocket, but for once no paper on her. There was however some kind of a chart affixed to a board above the bed; she unhooked and turned it; the blank side, backed by wood, did well enough … Martha had never before wept as she drew, but she still drew masterly. Nor had she ever before let a sitter see an unfinished portrait; but in this case there were obvious reasons.
“Very nice,” whispered Mr. Joyce. “Unless you have given me too much the air of a Don Quixote!—What else did you find in Paris, besides the ability to draw from the heart?”
Martha paused. She wasn’t sure whether the news would please him or not. All she wanted was to please him, because she loved him. She had been late in realizing it; it was still a love without a tongue; but from it undoubtedly derived the instinct to tell the truth.
“Well, actually I’ve a son there,” said Martha. “He’s ten …”
2
For a long moment the old man lay silent, motionless, only his eyes alive. Behind them Martha sensed his brain working things out; comprehending at last her inexplicable decision, ten years earlier, to abandon Paris and le maître’s studio.
“I’d have had to get married,” explained Martha. “That’s why he’s a little illegit.”
Mr. Joyce nodded understandingly.
“At that point in your career, right …”
“But his grandmother’s looked after him,” said Martha. “She’s looked after him splendidly.”
“Where is he?” whispered Mr. Joyce.
To Martha’s surprise, his look appeared to search the very room. He couldn’t properly turn his head, only his eyes.
“In Paris.”
“Not here?”
“I had to leave very suddenly,” said Martha.
—She spoke not unaware of what the words implied. She spoke them because she saw the implication necessary to Mr. Joyce’s peace: that she was going back for George. But as words unspoken are our slaves, so are words spoken our masters: verbum dat esse reis, the statement creates the fact.—In any case there’d always be some female student, reflected Martha, to look after the child, and Tommy could see he didn’t wreck the Rolls …
“That is so, you came quickly to the old man,” agreed Mr. Joyce. “Very well, then, draw him for me!”
Martha took up her chalk and on the corner of the paper drew again. It actually surprised her, how accurately she recalled young George’s undistinguished features. The two heads so filled the sheet, here and there the lines overlapped … Then she held it for Mr. Joyce to see.
“A fine boy, your son!” whispered Mr. Joyce. “A big brain!”
He slightly reared himself against the pillow in a gesture of salutation.—Martha put her arms round him and held him.
“A son!” repeated Mr. Joyce, quite loudly. “You are also blessed with a son!”
Then the breath rattled in his throat, and Martha could only wait, holding him in her arms, until the night nurse came back.
About the Author
Margery Sharp (1905–1991) is renowned for her sparkling wit and insight into human nature, which are liberally displayed in her critically acclaimed social comedies of class and manners. Born in Yorkshire, England, she wrote pieces for Punch magazine after attending college and art school. In 1930, she published her first novel, Rhododendron Pie, and in 1938, she married Maj. Geoffrey Castle. Sharp wrote twenty-six novels, three of which, Britannia
Mews, Cluny Brown, and The Nutmeg Tree, were made into feature films, and fourteen children’s books, including The Rescuers, which was adapted into two Disney animated films.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1964 by Margery Sharp
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3428-9
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10038
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Martha, Eric, and George Page 11