When I went down the next morning to get the paper for him to read in bed, he hadn’t touched the biscuits. I know that doesn’t sound so important. You could say he hadn’t seen them, or he had had a good dinner and wasn’t hungry, or he was leaving them there to take to work. I told myself all that, but it didn’t help. I left them there and he didn’t take them to work, so I threw them away. He’d never snubbed me before. I couldn’t say anything to him about it, and that was the first secret we ever had.
Well, the rest of the story is the usual Wicked Stepmother saga, and full of self-pity on my side, so I won’t dwell on it. She was very domineering and completely selfish and he loved her. That was all, but it was enough to change our whole life. You wouldn’t think that a man could possibly change so much, but he could and did, and the whole of my world changed with him. It all went, everything, even the humming, because she didn’t like his tunes. She liked modern music, and she said Greensleeves reminded her of singing classes at school. She didn’t like walking, because she had varicose veins, and she always wanted to do indoor things at week-ends. We didn’t have things like Œufs mornay any more, because she was a food crank and wanted salads and nut cutlets and wholemeal bread. She would hardly let me into the kitchen after she saw me once testing the heat of milk for junket with my finger—well, you have to, don’t you, Mrs, North?—because she said I hadn’t been scientifically trained in the preparation of food.
I know I said just now that I was grown-up for my age, but actually I don’t think I can have been. I didn’t understand the first thing about love or sex. I couldn’t understand, I just simply couldn’t begin to see why he wanted her. He had always been enough for me, and he still was, but suddenly I wasn’t enough for him; that was what shook me. I kept asking myself how I’d failed him, and I used to think of petty little things—that I wasn’t a good enough cook, or that I never starched his shirt collars right, and try and put it down to that. Until I remembered that she would never wash anything; she used to send even handkerchiefs to the laundry because of spoiling her hands, and that her ideas of cooking were most certainly not his, although she was rapidly converting him. They used to take in a dreadful little paper called The Dietician, and it was agony to me to see him poring over this little pamphlet affair with its cheap type, instead of the daily crossword puzzle which we’d always done together.
When I tried to get him back to me by leaving things for him in the hall, she’d take them away before he could see them, and say: ‘I won’t have your rubbish lying about.’ He thought that I was sulking because I never gave him presents. He was getting so changed that he thought that I was changing, and she was always having digs at me to him: saying I was a moody adolescent, and how queer it was that I hadn’t made any close friends at school. I hadn’t needed any before.
I couldn’t even talk to him. Of course he’d asked me whether I was happy about it and told me how nice it would be for me to have a mother, and I thought, if you really think that, it’s no good trying to make you understand. I resolved never to get so attached to anything or anybody again, because I could never be so hurt. I’d die if I was hurt like that again. I never want to get so fond of one person, or even a set of people, or a place, or a way of living, that I should mind losing them so terribly. I know people sometimes think I’m disinterested and detached, but I’m sure it’s the best way to live if you want any peace of mind. It’s not safe to have all your eggs in one basket; a platitude, I know, but it’s surprisingly true, like all platitudes.
I had to get away. I couldn’t bear the house so changed. She moved all the furniture and had the wallpaper stripped off and the walls distempered and the carpets taken up and slippery mats put down and the boards stained with varnish that smelled of fish. She spent twice as much money as I used to when I ran the house, and I wondered how my father was managing, but I couldn’t ask him. They used to give a lot of parties and ask people they didn’t really care for, just because they were people. My stepmother was crazy about Bridge, and she taught him to play Contract, though he’d always sworn he’d never learn any thing but Auction, and they were for ever having parties with refreshments standing about on dumb waiters and cider and lemonade and tea brought in at nine o’clock.
A friend of mine had left school to be a nurse, and when I was sixteen I left, too, and went to a children’s hospital. You can start there before you’re old enough to start your general training. When I was old enough I went to a larger hospital which was a training school. At first, I used to go home on my day off each week, but each time there was less and less of me in the house, until in the end it didn’t seem like my house at all. I used to think of it as her house. It didn’t even seem like my father’s. It didn’t smell of him and his things any longer. It smelled of her.
One week when I went home my dog wasn’t there, and she told me that he was getting so old and decrepit it had been kinder to have him put away. My father backed her up, though he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He knew as well as I did that Dumbell had loved his life. It didn’t matter him not being able to go upstairs; he didn’t have to go upstairs. It was the week after that that I made some excuse not to go home—said I wanted to study or something—and that was the beginning. After that, I often slept at the hospital on my day off, which was horrid, because you didn’t get any breakfast, and as we shared rooms the other girl used to wake you up at six when she got up. It was better than going home, though, and feeling as if I’d butted in on something, and as often as not finding my bed not made up and dust-sheets over the furniture in my room.
I got friendly with Elspeth, the girl I go and stay with in London, you know, and sometimes I used to go home with her. She pestered and pestered me to take her to my home, until at last I had to.
It was awful. I was so embarrassed. I’d rung up my stepmother and asked her most humbly, hating myself for being so servile, whether we could possibly have tea. She knew we’d only have a short time there, because we had to be back on duty, but she hadn’t got a thing ready for us, and when I asked her if we could have tea, she said: ‘I suppose so, if you get it yourself. I don’t see why I should make a skivvy of myself for you and your friends.’ And can’t you hear Honey saying something like that in a few years’ time when Evelyn wants to take a friend home? I can.
My father tried to approach me once or twice to find out why I hardly ever went home, but how could I tell him that when I did I felt like a visitor, and an unwelcome one at that, and felt that when I left I’d got to thank my stepmother for having me? Once,
he started to give me a high-faluting, pious sort of talk about jealousy and young people thinking they knew better than anyone else how to lead their own lives. He thought it was me who had changed, when all the time it was him.
After I’d finished my training I went on taking jobs in hospitals, as my one idea was not to have to live at home. After two years as a staff nurse and a junior Sister, I found I couldn’t bear the life in a female institution any longer. I could feel myself getting like the other Sisters—everybody does in the end, you know—and it frightened me to hear the way I’d sometimes catch myself talking to some soft new little probationer who still thought nursing was a noble and charitable profession. I took up private nursing, because there was more money in that, and I had to be independent. My father needed all he earned to satisfy my stepmother, but in any case I wouldn’t have taken any money from home, and I never shall. I must always be independent. Now when I gave him presents on his birthday and at Christmas, it was my money, but somehow it made less of a present than in the days when it had been his.
I hardly ever go home now. I don’t know whether that hurts my father, but he’s got used to it. He’s quite happy with her, I think. She’s got rather ugly since the war, because she was terrified of the raids, and because she couldn’t get all her cranky foods and wouldn’t eat the ordinary rations, so she’s got very thin and her skin’s all dry. It flakes off her face under the powder, and her t
eeth are getting discoloured. Pretty soon, I suppose, she’ll have them all out and have a false set and then she’ll be beautiful again. Not that I ever thought she was; her nose is too near her chin, but my father did, and so did her friends. They would keep telling her so, which was such a mistake.
Well, you know the rest. Dr. Trevor got my name from another doctor I used to do a lot of work for, and I thought it sounded like a nice job, so along I came. It has been a nice job, too; I don’t know whether you realise how happy I’ve been. I know you’ve thought me unfriendly and secretive because I wouldn’t talk about myself or my home, but I never wanted to tell anybody. I never would have told you now, but it’s just that I can’t bear to see Evelyn faced with that sort of life, and you being such a happy family, I was afraid you didn’t understand what it’s going to mean to her to be pushed out.
Have I made you see, Mrs. North? Can you do something? You must do something, find some excuse to keep her here. Never mind if it is going to offend your brother. It’s too late to stop him marrying that woman, but it’s not too late to stop Evie suffering for it. You must do something—anything, to stop them taking her to New York.”
.…
When his mother had gone upstairs, still undecided whether to take her Slumbello and sleep on it, or lie and let things sort themselves out in her head, Oliver said to Elizabeth: “Turn on the light. I want to look at you.”
“I don’t look very nice. I haven’t got anything on my face.”
“I can stand that. But I must,” he said, as she switched on the centre light, “see what a girl looks like before I tell her I love her. It’s such ages since I said it, and I’ve never meant it before.” Elizabeth stood by the door, one hand still on the switch, frowning, not knowing whether he were serious or not.
“Don’t look so sceptical,” he said. “I do love you so much. I have for a long time, as a matter of fact, but there hasn’t been a propitious moment to say it till now. It’s all right, I can love you. It’s you who aren’t ever going to get attached to anybody, remember, not me.”
“You’re just talking like that because I pitched you a hard-luck story.”
“Don’t be absurd, and couldn’t you come a bit nearer? It’s a bit of a strain to carry on this sort of conversation at a distance.”
She did not move. She looked rather frightened. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “You see, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything; I’m not asking you for anything; I’m simply making a statement, and all I ask is that you should come a bit nearer so that I can see how you’re taking it.”
“Oliver, I’ve got to tell you something. I meant to tell you before, but when I got back from my holiday this business with Evie was on, and I thought I’d better wait with my bit of news. I’m going to be married.”
Oliver tried to pretend it was not a shock and a terrible disappointment that made him feel physically sick. “If you mean you’re engaged to Arnold Clitheroe,” he blustered, “that’s no news. It was written all over you when you came back from London. I was wondering when you were gong to tell me. Well, you’ve got the security you were looking for, haven’t you? A nice, coldly calculated security, which means that you don’t have to work any more, and you don’t have to go home, and Arnold has plenty of money and is a bit of a stick, so there won’t be any emotional upsets. Poor old Arnold Clitheroe, of course, doesn’t count. He loves you, poor fool, with a humble devotion that will make no demands on you.”
“Oliver, stop it.” She came over to him now. “How can you be so horrid? You twist all my words and make me out to be something despicable. You sound as if you hate me, and yet a minute ago you said you were in love with me.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said airily. “I’d be in love with any reasonable-looking girl under the circumstances. Patient and nurse, you know; it’s one of the oldest situations. Don’t let that worry you.”
“Oh!” she cried, and her face got red. “I hate you! Oh, I hate you!”
“Good, good!” he jeered miserably. “I like to see you let yourself go for a change. Go on, cry, I don’t care. Let your back hair down. I wish you would, too. Why do you wear it like that? It looks like some damned awful yellow draught extinguisher.” He shot out a hand and pulled at the ribbon round which her thick hair was rolled. She put up her hands and stepped back, but the ribbon was off and her corn-coloured hair was falling round her cheeks and neck as far as her shoulders, hiding her furious, weeping face.
“God,” he said softly, “the times I’ve wanted to do that when you were leaning over me with that damned stuff half an inch from my face, and smelling of hay and apples.” She did not hear. She was halfway to the door, stumbling because she had lost one slipper and was blinded with hair and tears.
Chapter 12
After all their talk, Evelyn solved the problem on her own by waking next morning with a temperature of a hundred and one and the blotchy beginnings of a rash all over her chest. Obviously she could not go with measles to Liverpool, much less to New York. Berths were scarce, and Honey, who had had enough of England and rationing, would not forfeit hers, so she and Bob decided to sail alone.
It was as simple as that. Mrs. North, who had lain awake all night trying to decide what to do, felt quite cheated to find that it had been settled without her. She had arrived at a beautiful plan about five o’clock in the morning, taken two Slumbellos and slept stertorously through people coming in with tea and breakfast and news of measles until she woke at midday with a splitting head and the knowledge that she had forgotten something it was imperative to remember.
Still half doped, she groped her way downstairs to find out what it was. Elizabeth, hearing her go into Oliver’s room, came in with a cup of coffee. “Well,” she said, “there must be about a grain of morphia in those pills. You’ve been sleeping like the dead for twelve hours.”
“I didn’t take them till dawn.” Mrs. North shook her head to try to clear it. Her hair was still pinned up and cold cream glistened in the corners of her nostrils and the folds of her chins. Without her glasses she looked small-eyed and undressed. “I was thinking things out. I’ve decided what to do about Evie, but I—did I tell you what it was? I can’t quite remember. I can’t seem to think straight at all.”
“You don’t have to.” Elizabeth smiled. “It’s decided itself.” Mrs. North was amazed to hear of all the things that had happened while she slept. That anyone but she should have discovered the spots on Evelyn’s chest, she, who was such a specialist in rashes; that they should have sent for Dr. Trevor on their own; that Bob and Honey had already left for Liverpool—it was disappointing to have missed so much.
“You might have woken me when Hugo came,” she said.
“I did look in,” said Elizabeth, “but you didn’t wake, and he wouldn’t hear of disturbing you. I think it’s only a light attack; he thinks so, too.”
“But Bob!” Mrs. North was gradually beginning to take things in. “I haven’t said goodbye to him. How could he go off like that without saying goodbye? Why didn’t he come in to me?”
“He did,” said Oliver and Elizabeth together, and, hostilely polite, each offered the other the chance to speak.
“They must be some pills,” Oliver said, “if you can sleep through that. He said you did stir and mumble at him, but Honey was screeching at him from the car that they would miss their train, so he had to go. He’s going to ring up tonight and settle about Evie. But by the time she’s over this he’ll be safely in New York and so busy interfering with the people who’s been running his business much better without him that he won’t have time to remember about having her. He won’t come over again for ages—Honey will see to that—and Evie obviously can’t go alone, so it’ll all blow over and she can go on living with us, at least until he’s got rid of that woman.”
“What do you mean, darling, got rid of her?”
“You don’t expect the marriage to last, do you?”
&nb
sp; “I hope not,” she said, and put a hand to her mouth guiltily. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that. I think I’ll go up and put some clothes on. Imagine not being dressed at this hour! I haven’t slept like that since Heather was born. What about lunch, Elizabeth? Oh, have you? You are a good girl. You look as though you could do with a Slumbello yourself, dear; you look all washed out. Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I’m quite all right,” said Elizabeth, turning away.
“Miss Gray,” said Oliver loudly, “is the happiest girl in the world. She’s going to be married.”
Mrs. North looked at him quickly and then ran to overtake Elizabeth. “But isn’t that too exciting!” She looked back at Oliver once more and he saw that she was still uncertain whether her fears had not at least been realised, so before she could say anything embarrassing he said: “She’s going to marry Arnold Clitheroe, her friend in London, you know.”
As she knew nothing about him, Mrs. North enthused as if it were all desperately romantic. She kissed Elizabeth warmly and said a lot of spontaneous, affectionate things. “But this means you’ll be leaving us; that’s not so good.”
“Yes, quite soon. Arnold wants to get married soon so that we can have our honeymoon before the winter. I’ll stay and see Evie through measles, of course, but Oliver’s all right now; he doesn’t need a nurse.” She nodded coolly towards him.
“Oh, sure.” His mother looked at him thoughtfully, wondering how he felt about all this, and he foresaw nights and nights of fending her off when she came downstairs to discuss it.
The Happy Prisoner Page 36