‘Margaret? Nearly news-time!’
‘All right, I’m just coming,’ she answered, and went downstairs, remembering that out of the three marriages which she had had the opportunity of observing during the last year – her parents’, the Challises’ and the Nilands’ – two were not happy. The Wilsons were happy, it was true, but the Wilsons were too suburban to be anything else, and Zita had said scornfully that Hebe and Mr Niland were ‘All lovers again, my dear, but that will not last long,’ and Margaret feared that this was true. Oh, marriage was the most solemn, the most important, act that a woman could undertake in this world!
‘Going home early this evening?’ asked Dick, looking sulkier than ever.
‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ she stammered.
‘I just wondered if you might have some work to do again; I don’t want to keep you hanging about here if you’re busy, you know.’
‘I’m always busy, Dick, but I’d like to stay if you want me to,’ she answered, bewildered.
‘Oh – I don’t know, I’m going to turn in early myself; I’ve had a hell of a day. I’ll come with you to the station. Shan’t keep you a minute.’
Trembling and by now slightly indignant, she waited until he had been upstairs to say good night to Linda, and then they set out together as on the previous evening, in silence. Margaret’s instinct was to demand an explanation – ‘have it out’ – ask him what on earth was the matter and what she had done, and so on; but a wiser instinct, perhaps inherited from some sensitive ancestress, persuaded her to subdue this violent impulse and be silent, with as tranquil an expression as she knew how to assume. Her heart was beating hard and she felt instinctively that the situation was approaching a climax.
There was a quiet road to traverse where all the little houses were listening to the nine o’clock news, and luxuriant laburnums in blossom and thick, dark hedges made shady alcoves where lovers might linger unnoticed. They had almost reached the end of this road when Dick put his hand silently upon her arm, drew her aside into the shadows, and took her in his arms and kissed her with passion. She was too surprised at first to return his kisses, and her chief feeling was one of strangeness, but at last, as she began to kiss him warmly in return, he muttered something about ‘a dear girl,’ and released her. She was trembling and could not speak; she only stared in silence into the flushed face almost level with her own.
‘Come on,’ he said at last, and moved away, adding a remark which she did not clearly hear. She hurried along beside him, still so strongly remembering the touch of his mouth upon her own that she could not think clearly, but gradually she began to wonder if he were not going to say anything more, and while she was making up her mind to speak to him, she realized that there was now no time for him to say anything, for they were at the station. He came up to her with her ticket; he looked ill, and his thinning brown hair was ruffled as if he had been nervously rubbing his head.
‘Here you are,’ he said, holding up the ticket and smiling painfully. ‘Er – if you are coming over tomorrow will you ’phone me first. About six o’clock?’
‘Yes, of course, if you want me to, but why –?’
‘Just ’phone, there’s a dear girl, will you? and then I’ll explain –’
He gave her a quick kiss, warm and friendly, then seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and turned away.
Once more she went slowly down the steps and this time her thoughts were even more serious. He loved her; there was no doubt about that now; and to-morrow evening when she telephoned he would ask her to marry him. She did not like the idea of having such a momentous conversation over the telephone, but he was an odd man, angry and moody in spite of his warm heart, and she was prepared to give way to him because his life had been bitter and difficult; there was even sweetness in that thought.
Am I going to say ‘yes’ she thought, sitting in the train and gazing pensively out at the dusk. It will probably mean giving up all my new interests, for a time at any rate. No more going to my own Westwood, or seeing him (she was slightly disconcerted to find herself still thinking of Gerard Challis as him) or doing as I like in my spare time. Just looking after Dick and Linda and keeping that little house clean (a lot of stuff will have to go out of there; I really can’t live with it; it would stifle me, all that sugary prettiness). But I shall have love. Dick loves me and I am growing to love him. A memory of his tired face rose before her and she smiled tenderly, alone as she was in the carriage. Happiness began to grow in her heart as she walked lightly homewards. I won’t say a word about it to Mother until I’ve got my ring, she thought. I shan’t let him get me anything expensive; I should like something very simple, and antique.
The following evening at exactly six o’clock, with heart beating heavily and dry mouth, she took off the receiver in the hall at home and dialled the number of Westwood-at-Brockdale. Her mother had gone out of London for the day to see some friends and her father would not be in until late, so she knew that she was safe from interruption.
She waited, while the bell rang steadily in the silent, airy sunlit house five miles away. Her own home had the same look of summer peace, and she thought vaguely, this may be the last time I shall see the hall, and that chair, and the staircase, as an unengaged girl. She wondered if everything would look different to her, when once the strange, transforming words had been said.
Suddenly the bell stopped ringing.
‘Hullo!’ said a woman’s voice, carefully pretty and soft, ‘who is that, please?’
‘May I speak to Mr Fletcher, please,’ answered Margaret, disconcerted that Dick had not answered it himself. Who could this be?
‘I’m afraid he isn’t in. Who wants him, please?’
‘It’s Miss Steggles,’ answered Margaret, increasingly puzzled and beginning to feel dismayed. ‘What time will he be in?’
‘Oh, Miss Steggles! Margaret! (You must excuse me calling you that, I’ve got so used to hearing Dick talk about you as Margaret.) How sweet of you to ’phone. Was it about your coming over this evening? Because I’ve got some good news for you. I’m back!’
‘You – you’re –?’
‘M – m!’ the voice seemed to nod joyously. ‘It’s Mrs Coates – Elsie. I got back this afternoon in time for tea. Quite fit again and ever so grateful to you for having done all the dirty work while I was laid up.’
‘I’m so glad,’ answered Margaret, biting her lips while tears crowded into her eyes and fell on her hands as they grasped the receiver. ‘Are you really quite all right again now?’
‘All the better for the rest, between you and me, my dear. And Dick and I have got another piece of news for you, too. (He’s had to go out on a story unexpectedly but I know he wouldn’t mind my telling you.) Guess!’
‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Margaret managed to answer.
‘We’re going to be mar-ried!’ lilted Mrs Coates. ‘Isn’t it too thrilling? Next month. Very quietly, of course, but it will be no end of a rush getting my things together, even in these days of coupons.’
‘I am so glad, Mrs Coates –’
‘Elsie, please!’
‘Elsie, then. It will be lovely for Linda to have – to have –’ But she could not go on.
‘Have you got a cold?’ sweetly inquired Mrs Coates. ‘There are a lot of these tiresome summer colds about, aren’t there? I thought I was going to have one this morning but it seems to have gone off now. Well, I must go and start my hubby-to-be’s supper. Bye-bye, Margaret, I’ll tell him you ’phoned up, and thanks a million for being such a dear while I was away. You must come over and see us very soon. Bye-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ answered Margaret, and slowly replaced the receiver. Then she sank down on the stairs, heedless of where she was, and burst into a passion, an agony of crying, while humiliation and defeated hopes and rage had their way with her.
Nearly an hour passed while she writhed and sobbed there; then suddenly she started up at the sound of the key in the fron
t door and lifted her ravaged face to her mother, who stood looking at her in amazement.
‘What on earth’s the matter? Are you ill?’ Mrs Steggles exclaimed, hurrying forward.
Margaret shook her head and stood up unsteadily.
‘No, I’m all right. Sorry to be so silly. I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ and she blew her nose.
‘Have you lost your job?’
‘Oh no, Mother,’ laughing hysterically, ‘it’s all right, really; just leave me alone.’
‘Well, let’s shut the door, anyway, we don’t want the neighbours seeing everything,’ said Mrs Steggles giving her a rather anxious glance as she carried out the suggestion. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s the matter but you may as well have a cup of tea. I’m going to, and it’ll pull you round.’
‘I’d sooner have a double whisky,’ said Margaret – absurdly, she felt, even in the midst of her misery, and was not surprised when her mother said sharply, ‘Don’t talk such rubbish, Margaret. Where are you off to now?’ as she began to go upstairs.
‘Only to bathe my eyes.’
‘You can do that in the kitchen. Come on, now.’
While Margaret sat with her head in her hands, Mrs Steggles bustled about, with her summer coat and hat flung aside, and made the tea and poured it out, and then sat down opposite Margaret at the table and pushed a cup towards her.
‘Now you drink that up,’ she said, and began to drink her own. In a moment Margaret tremulously sipped at the cup and for a while there was silence. The sunlight poured into the kitchen, and through the window the little garden dreamed in the heat.
Margaret’s eyes were smarting and her head ached dully. She drank the tea with her eyes closed and tried not to think about anything, but presently her mother’s voice broke sharply upon the blank which she was striving to create for herself.
‘If you knew what a sight you look! Sitting there like a great baby with your lips stuck out! And you’ve been looking so nice lately. Spoiling all your looks, you silly girl.’
‘I haven’t got any looks,’ and the tears started again.
‘You used not to have, but lately you’ve got much better-looking. Some girls do. Do you want a biscuit?’
‘Please, Mother,’ said Margaret meekly.
Mrs Steggles gave her the biscuit and also an irritable kiss on the cheek, which made Margaret turn towards her with a sudden confiding movement.
‘Mother, I am sorry to go on like this. It isn’t anything serious and don’t worry. I feel better now. It was only that I thought Dick Fletcher wanted to marry me and now he’s going to marry Mrs Coates instead.’
‘I told you so!’ cried Mrs Steggles. ‘Haven’t I always said so?’
She had indeed; and Margaret’s contempt for her ‘suburban’ outlook had prevented her from realizing that in nine cases out of ten it was based on drab experience and a knowledge of ‘suburban’ human nature. She now sighed heavily, and began to relate what had happened. Her heart had not been touched deeply enough for her to want to keep the pain to herself and it even occurred to her, in a new humble mood brought about by her mother having been proved right about Mrs Coates, that she might have some useful and bracing advice to give.
Mrs Steggles heard the story almost in silence, now and then dipping a biscuit in her tea while she stared thoughtfully at the kitchen table. She was secretly triumphing at being taken, after all, into Margaret’s confidence, and she also felt an impatient pity, mingled with affection, for this daughter who was so highbrow and had such clever friends and yet could not get a husband for herself.
‘The trouble with you, Margaret, is that you take these things too seriously,’ she said decidedly, when the brief story was finished. ‘Men don’t always want to marry a girl when they kiss her, worse luck. They ought to, but they don’t. Why, two men kissed me before your dad proposed.’
‘Did they, Mother?’ Margaret was too dejected to remind her mother how seriously she had taken the attentions of Frank Kennett.
‘They did indeed, Margaret,’ said Mrs Steggles, dryly, beginning to pack up the teacups. ‘I was a very pretty girl, you know.’
‘You’re pretty now, Mother, only you don’t look happy.’
‘I haven’t much to make me, have I? Reg gone away and p’raps never coming back, and you going your own way, and your Dad –’ She did not finish the sentence but went across to the sink and started to rinse the cups.
‘Then why do you think he kissed me?’
‘You’re young. Besides, you’ve been very kind to them. I expect he felt grateful and a bit ashamed, too, because he hadn’t told you she was coming back to-day.’
‘Oh! Do you think he knew?’
‘Knew! Of course he knew, but he was afraid to tell you.’
‘Do you think he meant to marry her all along?’
‘I don’t suppose he knew his own mind, Margaret, and she made it up for him. Or – anything may have been going on. She may be a bad woman. I don’t know. Anyway, we’ve seen the last of him, I expect. She’s the sort that’ll never let him go; she’s got too much sense.’
Margaret shuddered. It was horrible to think of that warm, loving nature, of which she had had a glimpse, made captive by its own longing for affection and kept under ceaseless supervision. But perhaps it would be worth it to him, she thought. If she is very feminine and kind (so long as he doesn’t try to have any life apart from her) she’ll make him happy, poor Dick. I am selfish; I ought to want him to be happy in any way, so long as he is happy. It isn’t as if I were in love with him; it’s only that I can’t get over his having kissed me like that, and somehow it’s such a disappointment.
She got up from the table and began helping her mother, with a little comfort from her brusque kindness. Yet how terrible it was that her mother should tacitly approve Mrs Coates’s grip upon Dick! That was the life she would have made her own husband live, had she had the power, and when she saw another woman doing it she grudgingly admired that woman’s success.
‘That’s what men are like, you know,’ said Mrs Steggles suddenly. ‘Weak as water. You’ll have to get used to it.’
‘All men, do you mean?’
‘All of them where a pretty face is concerned. If they aren’t, there’s something funny about them – they’re religious, or worse. What are you going to do this evening?’
‘Oh – I hadn’t thought,’ sighed Margaret.
‘Why don’t you ring up Hilda? You haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘I don’t feel like Hilda this evening. I’ll do some work and go to bed early, I think.’
When she was at last alone, with books open on the table, and the evening light coming in mildly through the window, and the scent from some honeysuckle on her dressing-table filling the room, she experienced so strongly that relief which comes on escaping from human beings and their goings-on that she seriously wondered if she would end as a recluse. Flowers and solitude and Nature never fail one, she thought; they ask nothing and they are eternally comforting.
She passed the evening in preparing a lesson which must be given to-morrow, and in thinking of what she had lost: Dick’s love, the opportunity of cherishing Linda and gradually strengthening her mind and body; a home of her own, perhaps children of her own. But after all, I didn’t love him, she confessed to herself at last, and perhaps Mrs Coates does, so it’s right that she, not I, should have all those things.
28
The rest of that week, which had promised to be so dreary, was agreeably relieved by a telephone call from Earl Swinger proposing that she should accompany him to a concert at the Phoenix Theatre, in which unexpected place concerts were being held since the destruction of the Queen’s Hall by bombs.
She accepted the invitation with pleasure and was surprised to find how much she could look forward to it.
At the end of two days most of her disappointment had disappeared, and all that remained was bracing indignation and a contempt wh
ich now mingled with her affection for Dick. She did not resent being kissed, but she did resent his having been underhand with her; a shabby return for all that she had done for him and for Linda. For a day she wondered if she would get a letter from him, but it soon became clear that this was most unlikely, and she tried to get used to the idea that she would not be missed at Westwood-at-Brockdale and that the incident was over. Mr Steggles came in that same evening cheerfully announcing that he had been having one with old Dick, who was getting married to a damn pretty little woman, and Margaret and Mrs Steggles were able to damp him by saying that this was ancient news to them, but otherwise nothing more was said about the matter, and Margaret began to hope that by next month she might be able to attend the wedding, if invited, without a pang. It was Linda whom she missed most, and the quietness of the fairy house, broken by the sound of the wind-bells. She could not even comfort herself by thinking that Linda would miss her, for she knew that Linda would not; any more than, after a few days, she had missed Mrs Coates whom she had known for so much longer.
At least he did want to kiss me and that’s something, she thought, moving her fingers over her firm throat as she gravely looked at herself in her mirror. I can’t be so bad.
After a concert which she and Earl both described as glorious and which sent them home in an exalted yet dreamy mood, she was pleasantly surprised to find her hand being held by Earl and to hear him confess that he was vurry lonely and would be glad if he could date her up sometimes. She was touched and flattered by his assumption that she was a girl with many dates, and sought about for a date to give him as soon as possible. It was a pity, she said, that she was engaged on Saturday. Oh, nowhere exciting; she was only going to take Barnabas and Emma to Kew Gardens; there was so much more for Zita to do now that poor old Mrs Grant had gone and until Hebe found another nanny, and she, Margaret, loved the children, and liked helping with them. But, said Earl, couldn’t he come along too? It would be quite a business for her, keeping those two in marching order, and when Emma got tired, he, Earl, could maybe carry her. Oh, but wouldn’t Earl find that dull? Now, now, hadn’t he just been telling Margaret that he had little brothers and sisters at home? They were a big family, the Swingers, going down in stages from twenty-two to five. He was used to kids, and he liked them fine. Well, it certainly would be a great help if he would come, and she was sure the children would love it. And how about Margaret, would she love it too? Margaret thought that it would be very nice.
Westwood (Vintage Classics) Page 38