Cold Pastoral

by Margaret Duley

  “Felice,” she asked, without turning round, “am I a widow?”

  Over an open suit-case Felice looked startled. She had discovered that the best medium to the girl’s confidence was the straightest answer.

  “Technically, I suppose so, Mary, but, personally, I don’t think you can be a widow without being a wife. Your passport is made out for Mary Fitz Henry, and your identification signature for the bank. You were not thinking of calling yourself Vincent, I hope, dear. David took a great deal of trouble to keep that secret. It was better so.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Felice. I was just wondering what I really was. I’d rather know at this end, and start new. Then I’m not a widow! I wish I had been Tim’s wife, Felice. Now I can see him so much better, and I know he was gentle when he might have been rough.”

  “Believe me, dear,” said Felice gently, “it would have made your loss a great deal more.”

  “Yes, I expect so,” she said thoughtfully.

  “You’ve been lucky, Mary,” said Felice reassuringly. “You’ve had young love, full of idealism. Don’t worry about Phil. Dave will be splendid. He’s lazy, but he gets terrific spurts of energy, and just now he’s decided to take Phil in hand. That will include the gradual disposal of Hannah. Phil will fall in line, and if I know my husband they’ll be very busy. When I’m not there Dave surrounds himself with people, including glamorous girls. Perhaps Phil will fall hard for one, you know, reaction.”

  “Oh,” said Mary Immaculate, appalled.

  “Why ‘oh’, Mary ?” asked Felice idly.

  The girl looked quite desolate, drooping in her beautiful lines.

  “Then, Felice,” she said in utter tragedy, “I won’t belong anywhere.”

  In that cry Felice saw how stability had taken its roots. It was Lady Fitz Henry’s daughter speaking. Unprepared to add another drop of bewilderment to the girl’s cup, Felice walked over, putting an arm round her waist.

  “Mary, it’s eyes front just at present, and you must take what comes. Remember, you’re free. Go around and see what you really value. Just remember, my dear, the condition I made when I left David. Give me your confidence.”

  ‘’Yes, you left David for me,” said the girl. For a moment her eyes were very yellow and a little cold. Felice remembered that David had said she smiled often with her lips and not her eyes. Now she smiled with warmth flooding her eyes and mouth.

  “Felice, I do want to talk to you. You and David—it would be difficult to imagine what it would have been like without you. You’ve been like Mater since that night. I will be good! Is that all right, Felice?”

  The girl looked really anxious, as open as the sea towards which they were sailing. Felice squeezed her shoulder.

  “Quite enough. Now we’ll unpack and go up on deck.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “INTERCHANGE OF LETTERS A CHIEF LINK.”

  Felice to David:

  David darling,

  The fourth day out and the first clear day. I am not sailing as well as usual, due, I think, to our recent upsets. Mary is comfortable and promises to be a neat traveller. Her emotional state is unobtrusive, but she spends hours watching the sea with Indian stillness. I let her alone and am ready to talk when she comes back. There is the usual inert game of bridge, deck-games and too much time. So far she has participated in nothing, but seems to have attracted the unearned devotion of five tweedy young men. They are in mixed stages of scholarship from English universities, and appear to be taking a round trip to see the raw red side of the world. Very patronising about what they call America. Mary seems to confuse them, as their ideas of Newfoundland comprise pictures of Eskimo women. In St.John’s they were surprised that they were not met with komatics and husky-dogs. Disappointing, no doubt, but we managed to produce an iceberg as we left the coast, and they were appeased.

  They are personable enough, but no particular value to conversation. They are also extremely piqued by the way Mary treats them, but continue to be there for her to stumble over. Should she drop anything there is mass prostration like a football scrum. Having failed to attract, they weep on my shoulder at intervals, and I compensate by playing popular melodies. Soppy music and dry Martinis reduce them to sentimentality, and they confide in me that she is beautiful, but definitely without sex-appeal. That they might lack it themselves, naturally, is a question that would never arise. I think women are her greatest need at the present moment.

  Mater was marvellous, but too rarefied, and she has missed the rough-and-tumble of boys and girls. It’s a strange mind, a mixture of profundity and utter childishness. If it’s any comfort to Phil, I’d say she had definite roots in the Place, and feels keenly the loss of its background. This terrible shock has had a steadying effect, and I should say she is living below her stature for fear she may do something wrong. What she might have been, if she had continued her dual role, is hard to visualise. She may have failed to realise her own size and ridden roughshod over things, through sheer intrigue of living.

  I shall cable from Liverpool and London as you suggest. I know the relatives will be stunned to see me at this time of year, but I am not daunted by the prospect of a summer in town. It has the savour of novelty, and I feel the edge of all that Newfoundland wind. Many times lately I wanted to push down the hills to get a wider view. I expect we are all depleted with our high emotional estate. How I keep thinking of that boy, Dave dear. That mother of his! She was difficult to talk to, with an old-world passivity; but from the shape of their faces I should say Tim and his mother have some foreign blood. However, it’s too late to sort them out now. From what Mary tells me she and Tim compared notes on everything. It would be interesting to know how much Tim knew of us.

  Give Phil my love and tell him how comfortable we are. Having a suite has been a help, as we can be comfortably alone. He is very generous, and it is a pleasant prospect to be able to take her round in a munificent way.

  For yourself, my dear, I can only say I am one winged without you.

  Always,

  FELICE

  David from Mary Immaculate :

  Dear, dear David,

  Felice says you might like a letter from me, and to hear how I feel on the sea. Isn’t it strange that though I was born on it, I’ve never really been on it? It fascinates me, and I seem to be in the centre of that poem by Swinburne. He must have loved the sea, when he called it a green-girdled mother. When we go up and down it’s so like ‘rise with thy rising, with thee subside’. I sometimes think Tim is in it, as he wanted to go down that last day like Les Noyades. It’s unreal, all of it, and I wonder if I have to wake up and find Mater at the top of the table, and me on my way to school. Perhaps when we get to Liverpool I’ll feel more substantial. I seem to eat a lot, but it doesn’t give me much mooring.

  Felice is so comfortable to be with, and I don’t have to think about how she will feel when I ask her anything. I feel awful for having taken her away from you, because I know, dear David, you must be a lot to leave. It is foolish to try and tell you how I felt the day I left. Philip looked so miserable that I was more than ever convinced of my faults. Yet, dear David, if I cried for the rest of my life I couldn’t undo it, could I? and I can’t help being interested in the sea, and the fact that I will soon be in England. I find lots of people have had awful things happen to them, and yet they look ordinary outside.

  Our bedroom steward went to sea when he was twenty-two, after his wife had died having a baby, and the man who waits on us at table has a stomach ulcer, and he has to look at food he can’t eat. I like hearing their stories, as they sound more interesting than a lot of boys in tweed jackets who look like quintuplets. They’re foolish! They think nothing goes on in Newfoundland but salmon and caribou. They’ve asked me to do things in London, but I have refused. They talk about tradespeople, so I feel, dear David, if they knew I was a fisherman’s daughter they couldn’t bear it. It’s better not to take any chances, than have them discover my low birth later. At first
, anyway, I’d rather see a lot of things alone.

  David dear, does Philip want me to write to him? Please thank him for everything, and the lovely way we’re travelling.

  Lovingly,

  MARY

  Felice to David :

  David darling,

  Even I am excited at being in town again. Mary is in a thrall and does nothing but look. We are in a hotel at Marble Arch, overlooking the Park, which looks so tailored after the sharp-pointed beauty of Newfoundland. We have been here a day and I am writing before I go to bed. We have communicating-rooms, which suits us both, as I find she has a terrific sense of privacy. We docked at a very grim hour, and I was conscious of the depressing atmosphere. I wanted it to be at its best for her, but it was filthy with that dreadful screech of the gulls. It always seems to be their Christmas dinner at the Hornby Docks. Mary was appalled at the dirty water. However, we did not linger, but got through the customs with the help of the five young men. They appeared again at Lime Street, which always makes the fresh impression of being the world’s most dismal station. I wonder whether a Grand Central would suit the English temperament, or would they feel they were embarking from the Halls of Belshazzar. I can’t help thinking, in contrast to America we prefer discomfort.

  I thought we might remain here for a while, as the view is so open, but I gave her the choice of doing what she liked. We were settled soon after lunch and she went out instantly by herself. When she returned, I found she had walked, walked, mark you, to Hyde Park Corner, through Piccadilly, Haymarket, Trafalgar Square, Northumberland Avenue and the Embankment. I’m thankful to say at that point she took a taxi and came home, with, Dave dear, a tentative request that we stay a week in several hotels so that she can learn London from several points. Our next place is Piccadilly, and then Northumberland Avenue. That’s as far as she got in one afternoon, but if we continue the weekly exodus, you will doubtless be hearing from me at Amen Corner. It may be interesting, though I intended hiring a piano for myself. However, it is a small sacrifice as I expect I shall be busy.

  Mary gathered in a bus map, a Ward Lock Guide Book which she is studying most diligently. I find she has a vicarious knowledge of London, and it is interesting to be told that Marble Arch was once intended to be the portal of Buckingham Palace, but was too narrow to admit the State Coach. We live and learn! We had dinner and sat and watched the people. She wore her graduation dress, which made me decide instantly to equip her suitably for the evening. It is ridiculous not to put her in long dresses. With her height and figure she could be dressed off the rack, but I am tempted to take her to my woman, and give her a free hand. It might compensate for having dressed me for years, without distinction. If Mary shows a disposition for a few good things, I shall do that. In the meantime she has decided to spend tomorrow in the National Gallery, and for the evening we are going to hear a concert which includes a Brahms and Haydn Symphony. With London wide-open, I thought the choice rather pathetic, but I suppose it is her own idea of loyalty.

  This afternoon, while she was out, I rang up a few people. I also long-distanced the family, who wanted me to come down to the country, but I won’t do that at present. I am like Mary, in thrall to Town. Kitty is at Regent’s Park, and has had Ann’s girl up from Devon since April. After her surprise was over, she launched into a tirade against youth in general, and declared herself at her wits’ end with Maxine, and was thinking of sending her home. Said she was as wild as a goat, and has a young man with a car that she knows is not paid for, and they go motoring all day Sunday, so far and so wide that she is sure they go round the county twice. Kitty was amusing when I told her I was also in loco to youth, and implored me to bring Mary along at once, as she was sure a good, steady girl would tone Maxine down. I made no promises, as a little detecting might be wise first. I will feel safer thinking of her in the galleries and crypts, rather than night clubs. She is further planning a daily French lesson at a Berlitz school. Withal, my dear, I find her a vivid companion and full of such interest that I feel young again.

  Very anxious to hear from you. Mails seem to take so long. Thank you, darling, for the cables and the flowers. Love to Phil and all to yourself.

  FELICE

  Interval of three weeks.

  Mary Immaculate to David :

  David,

  I am nearly crazy with London. There doesn’t seem enough of me to go round. It is the most marvellous place in the whole world, because it seems to have everything. Right out of the heart of it you can go into the parks, and it is another world. The birds by the Round Pond and in St. James’ Park make me think of the groves at home, only England is so smooth. How funny it would be if it rained granite boulders, and they made gouges in the grass. English gardens are so mannerly. We are now staying in Northumberland Avenue, and will move soon to another hotel in Kensington, near the Albert Memorial, which seems a lot of memorial for one man. I like moving around and going back to the same places from different points. Then the little churches are something by themselves. I started at those way down in the City, beginning with St. Bartholomew’s and St. Sepulchre’s. When I go into one and sit long enough I get exactly the same kind of feeling I had in the forests. It’s funny to feel suddenly like that when I’ve just eaten a gorgeous pastry with sleek brown icing and cream that makes a rich squirt.

  Then there’s a place in Jermyn Street with little flames under silver dishes, and expensive-looking people. There are so many strange-looking people in London, and I can’t imagine why some of them look as they do. Women dress like men, and men look like girls, but Felice explains everything I ask. One morning I got up at five and went to Westminster to see the sky-line, and a very nice policeman thought I was out too early and wanted to look after me. When I told him why I came out, he said he’d never noticed the sky-line before, but now that I pointed it out it looked very pretty. Sometimes I feel quite bad form when I am ready to burst with excitement, but I try and look too wilted for words.

  Last week Felice took me to a beautiful house in Regent’s Park, where I met her niece, Maxine. After a while I liked her awfully, but I didn’t think I would at first, because she finds everything lousy, or too devastating, and what isn’t like that is completely shattering. I can’t find anything lousy, nor am I shattered. After she had asked if I didn’t find it too backwatering to come from Newfoundland, she said she must do something about it, as I looked all right on the outside. I’ve been going places with her ever since. She took me to a cocktail party in Queensborough Terrace. An awfully nice man saw I wasn’t drinking and he taught me how to refuse cocktails gracefully. There are several ways—I can be studying voice—or I can be in training and need my wind. It was great fun, and he was soothing and fatherly, and asked me to lunch. Another man asked me to dine at the Berkeley, but when he told me I had the most beautiful legs in London I refused at once. I know Mater would think it most peculiar if I dined with a man who spoke of my legs. But he said it in such a beautiful voice that I concluded an Englishman’s insults sounded like compliments.

  Then something delightful happened. I saw a man staring at me, until Maxine brought him up and said he couldn’t drink a mouthful unless I’d close my eyes. I might have been shattered myself, except that he was very good-looking in that rather basted way the Navy has. When he asked me to close my eyes I did, because he seemed so much in earnest, and he said at once, ‘You were a tall white child on a beach one Sunday afternoon, who got drowned and did not have the manners to open her eyes and thank her rescuer.’ And, dear David, it was the Lieutenant-Commander who saved me, only he wasn’t a Commander then, and you know him yourself. I was so excited, and when he asked me to go dancing I accepted at once. I’ve seen him several times as he’s on leave and does not have to join his ship for quite a while. He is delightful to me, and says he must take me places if only to compensate for hitting me six years ago.

  I’ve worn my new dresses every evening, and Felice says I must have another. My clothes are excit
ing! I have a town suit, two lovely prints with hats to match and a dinner and evening dress. I feel rather naked, but the woman said I must not be dressed lamb-fashion, only, dear David, she said jeune fille. It appears I am a sophisticated type, and I could mannequin tall slender models at any time, which is comforting to know, in case I have to work for my living. Maxine likes my clothes, and it takes a lot to satisfy her. Privately, I like going out alone with the Lieutenant-Commander better than with Maxine and her crowd. I think they must be what the Americans call hotcha, but everything is fun, and I am glad to have the opportunity of going out in the evenings. Felice is an angel, and lets me do what I like as long as I tell her. Often she comes with me to see pictures, porcelains and bronzes. I like selected exhibitions best. They are choice and few, and do not confuse me.

  There is tons more to say, but not enough time to write it. Thank you for your lovely letters, and the hint to write to Philip on my own. Perhaps you had better not let him read this, as you know, dear David, he might be mad about the man who spoke of my legs.

  Your own,

  MARY

  Mary Immaculate to Philip :

  Dear Philip,

  I have started many letters to you, but when they got on paper they looked strange and stilted, so I tore them up. Felice says to be myself and not try and write for effect. I expect she means you know my worst, so it’s all right to say anything. That should be a help, but it isn’t. I can’t help thinking that I should not be indulged with this lovely time, and that it would be more suitable if I were praying on cold stones. I have tried to be penitential, and deny myself things, and one day I went into the Brompton Oratory and knelt down in one of the darkest side-chapels, but I found my mind very distracted with the mosaics and decided it was foolish to pretend, so I went out and had tea and three French pastries. The best I can do is give some pennies to the beggars. I prefer the ones with dogs, though Felice says a lot of them are bogus. I am not very proud of myself for not breaking my heart or making a brine-pit of my tears. It is not that I could ever forget and lose Mater and Tim. Mater is marvellous about telling me what is good and bad, and Tim goes with me. I hope I don’t misbehave much, but London is exciting, marvellous and bursting with things to do. I would like to go on and on, and see the world. I have met a lot of Mater’s family, and they seem like her, only older and yellower.