Our Spoons Came from Woolworths

by Barbara Comyns

  After all, I did not tell Charles that I’d a feeling the baby was coming that night, because he never seemed to believe babies were coming until they were practically there, and now he was home, I’d quite recovered, and ate a large supper and still felt quite well. However, during the night rather a pain came in my tummy, so I sat up in bed and wondered if I should wake Charles. Then I saw my mother’s ghost sitting in the rocking-chair, and it was rocking in quite a normal way, so I did wake Charles and said, ‘Look! there is my mother’s ghost! She must have come to tell me it’s time to go to the nursing-home. I do feel a bit queer.’ Then Charles saw her, too, but he didn’t like her much. He jumped out of bed and put the light on, and she wasn’t in the chair any more, but it still rocked. We got dressed because I was quite sure she wanted me to go to the nursing-home, but seeing a ghost had made Charles a bit grumpy. Afterwards he told me he was so scared he kept the light on all night every night until I returned.

  He went out and got a taxi and when I went to get inside it there was a kind of tramp sitting in front by the driver, and when we arrived at the nursing-home, the taxi-driver and the tramp came in, too, and sat on a bench in the hall. I was taken into a ground-floor room and examined by the matron, and she said although I hadn’t had much pain the baby was well on the way. So Charles went into the hall and waited with the tramp and taxi-driver, but when the doctor came he shooed them away.

  Although I had a more difficult confinement this time, it was so wonderful to lie in bed and not be chivvied about all the time and it wasn’t embarrassing at all. The baby took a long time coming and when it did come I was so tired I didn’t care what kind it was or if it was alive or dead; but after I’d been asleep I felt more interested, but didn’t like to ask to see it in case it was like Peregrine, or in case there was some mark on it to let people know it wasn’t my husband’s child. Then Charles came to see me and told me it was a very pretty girl. I was relieved to hear that and the nurse brought her out of her cot and gave her to me. I was so surprised to see such a beautiful baby. She had long black hair and round pink cheeks with dimples in. She wasn’t red at all, and I couldn’t help loving her.

  I stayed in the nursing-home for two weeks. Charles came to see me nearly every day. He seemed to quite like this baby and made some drawings of her asleep. I could not bring myself to tell him he was not the father until we returned home. I felt dreadfully hurt that Peregrine hadn’t been to see me. He knew about the baby. Charles said he had met him the day after the baby arrived.

  When I came home I found Charles had had a charwoman to clean the flat and everything was looking delightful. We had tea and I gave the baby its six o’clock feed. It was a hungry baby, not delicate like Sandro had been. When I put her to bed, Charles became restless and after fidgeting about for a time and saying Well’ rather often, he suddenly said, ‘I’ve just remembered I have to meet a man for dinner. When I made the arrangement I didn’t realise it was the day you were coming home. It’s too late to put him off now, so do you mind dreadfully if I go?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘do go,’ so he hurried off, like a child snatching some extra play. The next evening he came home straight from the gallery, but after that he often did not come till nine or ten, and sometimes it was one o’clock. He seemed to have made even more new friends since I’d been in the nursing-home. He brought some of them home, but they seemed very bored and restless kind of people, and sometimes Charles would say someone was coming for dinner, and I would prepare a beautiful meal and they wouldn’t turn up, and the next time they met Charles they would say that at the last moment they couldn’t face the long, complicated journey to Belsize Park, and Charles would say if only we had a flat at Bloomsbury or Soho we wouldn’t be so cut off. I loved our present flat; already all the bulbs I’d put in the garden were showing. There would be no gardens in Soho. I’d almost forgotten I was leaving Charles, so it was hardly my concern if he moved to Soho or anywhere else.

  Sandro was most interested in the new baby. He used to ask if she was a princess. He was rather jealous of Charles drawing her, but when he painted her he stood sadly by and eventually said, ‘I tell you what’s wrong with this house, no one paints me.’ Charles was very touched by this and made a very good painting of him. We called the baby Frances Charlotte, but quite soon she was called Fanny.

  Eva came to see her and said, ‘That baby is not at all like Charles. None of my babies looked like that.’ So I said, ‘I’m sorry you are disappointed in the baby. As a matter of fact, she resembles my family.’ Eva had never seen any of my family except me, so I felt quite safe saying that. When I’d been home ten days Peregrine called. I’d felt very wretched about him not coming to see his beautiful daughter, but the last few days I’d almost forgotten all about him. Now when he came I remembered how I had planned to be beastly to him when he did come, so I put on a horrible face and grim manner, but he was so contrite and humble I forgave him. He said he hadn’t come before because he thought it might upset me to see him. I thought this rather a feeble excuse, but he got away with it because he was so deeply impressed by Fanny’s beauty. He stayed to tea and I asked him why he hadn’t told us about his move. He looked rather embarrassed, then said he was staying with relations, and couldn’t think why he had not told us about it at the time. So I thought, ‘Poor man! he is so hard up he has to live with his relations!’

  The next day he came again, and he brought a brush and comb in a pretty little box for Fanny, and a red truck full of bricks for Sandro. After that he came nearly every afternoon. He was completely fascinated by Fanny. He often came in a car he had borrowed from his relations, and sometimes, as the weather became warmer, took us drives into the country, which I simply loved.

  When Fanny was six weeks old I cashed a cheque for five pounds, and that was the end of my banking account. I had no more money. The five pounds lasted for two more weeks’ house-keeping. Then I had to ask Charles for money. He only earned one pound a week and spent much more than that in the evenings with his new friends. I think he must have started to borrow money, because he sometimes gave me a pound, but I could only pay for a few days’ food with this, and the rest of the week there was nothing. I told Peregrine all my money had gone, but he said ‘What a pity!’ and nothing else. Perhaps he hadn’t got any himself. I began to feel frightened and depressed, and thought, ‘This is my punishment for being an adulteress.’ Then I remembered I was even poorer before I was one, so perhaps it was a punishment for something I had forgotten.

  28

  Charles was out more and more in the evening, and it was dull and lonely when the children had gone to bed and there wasn’t any supper to eat to pass the time. Peregrine usually stayed till about seven. He liked to watch me putting Fanny to bed and to see her being fed. One day I asked Charles if I could meet him in the evening and go out, too. He said, ‘Of course, darling,’ but I could see he didn’t want me, so I didn’t go. In any case I would have had to hurry home at ten to feed Fanny. I began to feel rather dull and unwanted and wondered if having two children had made me grow ugly and unattractive. I looked in the glass for a long time, but seemed to look the same as usual; perhaps I was so used to my face I could not see the difference. I asked Peregrine if I had changed for the worse, and he told me I was still beautiful and that he still loved me as well. I was awfully grateful to know someone did.

  Then he told me he had no real work and only had the very little money he earned lecturing. He thought it was only a matter of time till he got another post on a newspaper, and when he did he hoped I would go and live with him and bring the children. I said I would think it over, and when he had gone, I did. I lay in the bath — always my best thinking-place — and thought very carefully. I had been feeling very fond of Peregrine lately. It was partly to do with Fanny and partly because he had been kind when I was lonely. Charles did not seem to want me any more, so perhaps it would be a relief to him if I told him I was leaving him and taking the children, too. Maybe I could even
do it without telling him about Fanny. I had been a coward about this right from the first. I was still fond of Charles. Recently we had drifted very far apart. If I had not felt so guilty I would have tried to make him interested in me again; as it was, I couldn’t very well object to him leaving me alone in the evenings, or complain about all the money he was spending when we hadn’t even enough for food. I felt my treatment was just about what I deserved. So, thinking in the bath, I came to the conclusion it would be best for us to go to Peregrine.

  The next day a man came and cut the gas off. The Gas Company had been threatening to do this for a long time. Later on the light was cut off, then the telephone, but we could still get calls in. I missed the gas dreadfully. There was nothing to cook with and the Ascot wouldn’t make any more hot water, so I was unable to wash the children’s clothes. I tried washing the nappies in cold, but it wasn’t a success. Another awful thing, we couldn’t have baths.

  Now everything was so uncomfortable Charles hardly came home at all. He did buy a hundredweight of coal and I tried cooking on the open fire, but it was a messy business and the coal didn’t last long. In the afternoon I used to take the children on Primrose Hill and fill the pram with sticks, which were very useful to boil kettles on. When Peregrine came to see me he was very grieved to see the sad state we were in. He said he wished he could help but was almost penniless himself; but one evening he brought a cold chicken and some salad with him and we had a picnic. I saved quite a lot for Sandro to have the next day. I told Peregrine if he really wanted us I would gladly go to him, but we couldn’t wait too long or we might starve to death.

  Ann came to see me and she said she would like some tea. I tried to put her off, but she went on wanting it, so I had to light some sticks in the grate to boil the kettle. She thought I was batty, so I had to explain about the gas. She asked why I didn’t get an electric ring and I had to say the light had gone, too. She was awfully shocked and said I must be a great spendthrift to have got through all Aunt Nelly’s money within a year. She still had over a hundred left. I told her it had all gone on food and rent and the expense of Fanny’s birth — £150 wasn’t very much for a family of three, and lately four, to live on. She spent about twice that amount on herself a year. Then I started to cry. I was always doing it lately. She looked rather distressed and went without waiting for the tea. When she had gone I saw she had left a pound on the tea-tray. I felt ashamed to take it, but it would pay the milkman for several weeks, so I kept it. I didn’t tell Charles. After she had gone I still felt sad. I couldn’t help remembering how full of hope and happiness I had been when Ann first told me about Aunt Nelly’s money, and now things were much, much worse than before. That evening when Peregrine came I became his mistress again. There seemed no point in being good or bad; everything was so dreadful in any case.

  29

  After that things got rapidly worse and to make things even more dreary than ever I began to feel ill. It started by my hardly ever going to sleep at night, and in the daytime I would suddenly start to shiver until my teeth chattered, and sometimes I fainted. One good thing, I never felt hungry now. I couldn’t feed Fanny any more, but the milkman was kind and let me have milk although we owed him quite a lot. I told Peregrine how difficult it was to buy enough milk for Fanny, but although he seemed to love her, he never offered to pay the milk bill and I couldn’t bring myself to ask him. In the night when I couldn’t sleep I used to feel resentful about this, but I tried not to think of it, because he was the only person I had to rely on now, and if I lost faith in him there was nobody to turn to. I hardly saw Charles now. Often he didn’t come home for several days.

  One morning the people who had had Sandro to stay when I was in the nursing-home telephoned to say they had heard I wasn’t very well and wondered if I would like to send Sandro to them for a week or two. I was pleased about this, because I was so worried about his food. He had been living on eggs and tinned soup supplied by the kind milkman. I washed and ironed his clothes as well as I could under the circumstances, but they looked rather messy. I did hope they wouldn’t think I was a dirty mother.

  Charles took him there because it was difficult for me to get about with Fanny. To my surprise, he came back early that evening. I thought it was kind of him because he must have known I was missing Sandro. I managed to boil some eggs and even make coffee on the flame provided by the sticks, and felt more cheerful than I had lately. I was pleased about Charles coming home like that. He didn’t talk much. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Then he said, ‘We can’t go on like this. Could you go and stay with your brother?’

  I was rather surprised and told him my brother had ignored me since the visit I paid when Sandro was a baby and I’d so overstayed my welcome. I was quite sure he wouldn’t have me to stay again. In any case, we hadn’t got enough money to pay my fare anywhere and no one would want me with two children. He said he could find me my travelling expenses if I would find somewhere to go. I said, ‘There just isn’t anywhere I can go to, except your relations, and I won’t stay with them.’ He said, ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you should stay with them; there must be somewhere else.’

  He looked so worried and kept catching his breath as if he was going to speak, but nothing came. We both sat in separate huddles on the divan. It was nearly dark, and I felt frit of what he would say next. For some time we were quite silent. Then he said, ‘I’m going to be honest with you. I expect you have a pretty good idea of what I’m going to say, and have realised I don’t love you any more. I am very fond of you, but I loathe this domestic life. The children are quite beautiful, but they don’t mean a thing to me. I don’t feel like a father and have never wanted to be one. I may be inhuman and selfish, but I must be, life is so short, and the young part of our lives is going so quickly. I must be free to enjoy it and not be weighted down by all these responsibilities.’

  I said, ‘Did you often go to Peter Pan when you were a child?’

  ‘You are crazy! What on earth has that to do with it?’

  I didn’t answer, but what I meant was, Charles seemed to have a kind of Peter Pan complex, that he had no responsibilities, and I was a waddy sentimental Wendy, full of mother-complexes, and middle-class comforts, and woolly vests and things, but I wasn’t like that at all. I couldn’t explain, though, so I said, ‘All right, Charles. I see how you feel. I’m not the waddy, suffocating kind of woman you think me, and, of course, we will part. I’ll make my plans. Already there are some quite good ones in my head, so don’t worry.’

  Charles suddenly kissed the top of my head. ‘I don’t really think you are suffocating. You’re sweet, and I feel guilty about you and the children. Sometimes it’s almost made me hate you. I’ve been unfaithful to you lately, but I don’t love any woman. I never will again. I must be free.’

  He went to the window and stood with his back to me, looking at the daffodils. When he turned round, it almost seemed as if he had tears in his eyes, and we looked at each other and he was gone and I was alone in the flat with Fanny.

  I longed to go to bed although it was still quite early. I felt all shivery and my throat was sore, but I must be gone before Charles returned. I went to the telephone to get into touch with Peregrine, but before I lifted the receiver I remembered it was cut off. So I went to the bedroom. There was Fanny, looking so beautiful and peaceful asleep, it seemed a pity to disturb her. I collected a few clothes and toilet utensils and put them in a case, and took a large fluffy shawl which I carefully wrapped round Fanny, and I picked her up very gently so that she did not waken, and we left the flat for ever.

  Peregrine was now living in Chelsea, so I walked to Swiss Cottage station to get a bus, a 31. It was difficult carrying a baby and a case at the same time, but a bus came quite soon. Unfortunately, I had only twopence in my bag and couldn’t have a very long ride. We got out at a very dreary place called Chippenham. It was getting late, and some men were singing in a depressing, drunken way. There was an overwhelming smell of
fried fish. I could see through uncurtained windows rooms that were stiff with iron bedsteads and dirty bedding. Children were still playing on the doorsteps. Some had made sad-looking swings by tying string across the railings. I felt afraid in case my children ever had to live a life like that, and was glad when we reached Notting Hill Gate.

  I sat on the steps of the station with Fanny on my knees for a time. I felt so tired and my throat was sore; it made me keep swallowing. I went on and tried to hurry, because Peregrine’s relations would think it queer if I arrived in the middle of the night. I hoped he had told them about me. My arms became so tired. I tied Fanny round me in the shawl, but I didn’t tie it properly, and it came undone. I only succeeded in catching her just before she reached the pavement. I was so overcome by horror in case she had been killed, I leant against the wall shivering and holding her so close to me she awoke and began to cry. When I reached the Fulham Road I discovered I’d lost the case. I must have dropped it when the shawl came undone. I couldn’t bring myself to retrace my steps all that distance, so went on. I felt insecure without it, and no money in my bag, awfully like a tramp.

  At last we came to King’s Road and were nearly there. Peregrine lived in a road opposite the Town Hall, I remembered him saying. The streets were so empty now I felt it must be quite twelve o’clock. I hoped everyone in Peregrine’s house hadn’t gone to bed. I was sure of a welcome from him, but felt pretty scared about his relations. If they didn’t know about me it would make such a lot of explaining in the middle of the night. I thought the best thing in the world would be to get into a large bed with clean linen sheets and sleep for ever.