“St. Barnabas,” she said, “or St. Nicholas….”
She was pushed away by Mrs. Rawlings, who came up with Lucy’s bouquet which she poked into the car onto Lucy’s lap.
“You forgot your flowers. You left your bouquet behind.”
“Isn’t it awful!” said the voices round the car.
“A head-on smash …”
“The Kingston By-Pass …”
“The Portsmouth Road …”
“Pore thing!”
“Looks ghastly, doesn’t she?”
“Isn’t it awful?”
“Excuse me … if you’d just tell him to drive to the other churches, just in case …”
“Oh get in, get in!” cried Lucy. “Get in, somebody else besides me. I don’t have to go home alone, do I? Get in, Aunt May. Get in, Miss Betteridge. Tell him to go home.”
They got in and the car slid forward.
“But you can’t have a reception now,” exclaimed Aunt May. “It’s impossible …”
“I’m perfectly sure he’s at St. Barnabas.”
“That’s no use. It’s three o’clock. Lucy can’t get married after three o’clock. It’s the law. Hymns and sermons, yes! You can have them after three. But they’ve got to be man and wife before. It’s the law.”
Lucy leant back and shut her eyes, dropping into a queer little doze, while their voices ran on like a couple of babbling brooks…. So when we got into our pew I looked round … where is he? I said … thought he must be lurking behind a pillar … Most unfortunate, but he’ll turn up, you see, my dear … I never thought for a minute … they can be married first thing tomorrow, you know … Lucy was actually arriving … I don’t see why Dr. Carmichael shouldn’t have the reception … It came over me all of a sudden … take a cheerful view of things … all those cameras! It’ll be in all the papers! … We can drink their healths, even if they can’t have the actual ceremony till … Here we are! Lucy! Lucy! Here we are!
The car had stopped at Hill View and the head waiter from the caterers was holding the house door open for the bride and bridegroom. Lucy pushed in past him and ran up to her room, where all the bookshelves were empty and the walls patchy with squares where pictures had hung. She stood for a moment, looking about her.
“Patrick is dead,” she said aloud.
It must be so. If he was alive he would have come, or sent some message. But the fact still meant nothing at all to half of her mind. She sat down on the bed to wait for something else to happen.
There were sounds below. Everyone else was coming back. People called to each other and doors banged. Uncle Bob was telephoning noisily. Mrs. Carmichael came up to Lucy and sat down on the bed beside her.
“There is nothing we can do till we get news,” she said. “Uncle Bob is telephoning to the police.”
“So I hear.”
Mrs. Carmichael took Lucy’s hand, exclaimed that it was very cold, and brought sal volatile. Then hesitating, her lips twitching a little, she forced herself to say:
“Would you … wouldn’t you … hadn’t you better … take off …”
Lucy rose. The veil was unpinned, the dress stripped off and returned to the wardrobe. Her new dressing-gown was packed in a suitcase marked L. R. She put on the old cotton kimono that she had worn the night before.
Melissa tapped at the door, put her head in, and glanced meaningly at Mrs. Carmichael, who hurried away.
“Come in,” said Lucy. “What’s happening downstairs?”
“Everybody seems to be rushing about.”
“What’s the time?”
“Ten to four.”
“Only that? I thought it must be about six.”
“Shall I stay? Or would you rather be alone?”
“Oh, stay. I’m quite all right. I mean, I’m not really upset yet. I suppose I haven’t taken it in. I know Patrick must be dead, but I don’t really believe it. I feel rather sleepy.”
Melissa sighed and turned away to look out of the window.
“You know it too?” asked Lucy quickly.
“Oh, Lucy … I’m just not thinking … till we hear more.”
“What else can have happened?”
“We’re bound to know what’s happened soon.”
“What are you looking at down there?”
“There’s an old lady in the marquee, all by herself, eating ices.”
“I expect that’s Miss Betteridge. She came back with us.”
“Who is she?”
“Some belonging of Mother’s. Melissa! When you came up just now, and Mother went out, was there news?”
“Mr. Rawlings wanted her.”
“To tell her some news?”
“I don’t know,” lied Melissa.
Lucy was quiet for a while and then she said:
“You’ve changed your dress. You got that cotton at Elliston’s last year.”
Melissa agreed. She had brought this old cotton dress with her in case her services might be required for moving furniture or washing up. Immediately on her return from church she had changed into it, foreseeing much practical work ahead of her, as soon as the family should have come to its senses. There was a room full of presents to be packed up and returned. There were a thousand things to be done. She had made up her mind to stay for a day or two and see Mrs. Carmichael through the worst of it. She could be of service there, though there was nothing to be done for Lucy. Her capacity for envisaging disaster had its useful side.
“What’s the time?” asked Lucy again.
“Four o’clock.”
“They’d come and tell me, wouldn’t they, as soon as any news came?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What will happen to all that food?”
“I expect the caterers will take it away.”
“Yes, but where will it go then, I wonder. Who’ll eat it? Will anybody eat it?”
Mrs. Carmichael returned, looking as though she came to execution. She dismissed Melissa with a nod and sat down beside Lucy.
“So it’s true,” said Lucy, studying her mother’s face. “He’s dead. He’s been killed.”
“Oh, no. No … not that … no….”
“He’s not? Is he hurt … is he …?”
“No, darling. He’s perfectly safe. Quite all right, as far as we know.”
A faint pink suffused Lucy’s pallor. It swept from her throat to her forehead. She came to life.
“Oh, Mother! If he’s all right … what does anything matter?”
“Dearest … I’m afraid he must have changed his mind. He didn’t come because …”
“Changed his … you mean about the wedding?”
“Uncle Bob rang up Mr. Clay’s house. He wanted to find out what time they started and he couldn’t get any answer from Patrick’s flat. To his great surprise, Mr. Clay answered. He was at his house, and he was perfectly astonished when he heard what had happened. He thought the wedding was cancelled. He said that Patrick rang him up before eight this morning to say that they wouldn’t be going … that the wedding was cancelled. Of course he thought we knew. He couldn’t believe we’d heard nothing.”
“But he’s sure Patrick is all right?”
“Why … there’s no reason now to suppose there’s been any accident. He never started.”
“But why? Why? He loves me. If he is all right, why didn’t he come?”
“We don’t know, dear. We must wait until we get the explanation.”
Lucy took a little while to comprehend it, but her immense relief had reduced all other facts to insignificance.
“I thought he was dead,” she kept repeating. “That’s why I nearly fainted. I thought he was dead. But he’s not.”
Mrs. Rawlings burst in, tapping at the door as she did so. She made significant grimaces at her sister-in-law. Lucy rose.
“If there is more news,” she said, “I’ll go down and hear it myself.”
“Oh no … no …” chattered Mrs. Rawlings. “Let your mother go. Be a brave gi
rl and stay here till …”
“No. I’m tired of people coming up and shooting off bad news at me like minute guns. If Uncle Bob has found out anything more, he can tell me himself. Nothing can upset me very much as long as Patrick is safe.”
“But it’s the most awful thing that ever happened!” cried Mrs. Rawlings as soon as Lucy had left them. “He’s jilted Lucy. He’s walked out. Mr. Clay has been round to his flat and talked to the porter.”
“Did Bob ring Mr. Clay again then?”
“No. He rang Bob to say the porter says Patrick went off in a taxi to Euston Station at nine o’clock this morning.”
“I can’t believe it! It’s impossible. He couldn’t treat Lucy like this. There must be some explanation….”
“You never did know very much about him, did you?”
“Some message must have miscarried.”
“Bob says you ought to have made more enquiries about him. Bob says …”
Lucy reappeared.
“Uncle Bob,” she said, “has told me about Mr. Clay and the porter and the taxi and Euston. I’ve got it into my head that the wedding’s off. Patrick must have gone to Ireland. So please everybody go away and eat ices with Miss Betteridge.”
“Miss Betteridge?” said Mrs. Carmichael, looking puzzled.
“She’s the reception,” said Lucy. “And she’s all alone in the marquee. Go and look after her. I want to go to sleep.”
When they had gone she locked the door and lay down. Any connected train of thought eluded her. In this overpowering relief it was confusing to be aware that everything was not all right. Patrick was not dead. He had not been burned to cinders under a blazing car. He was not lying in the Kingston mortuary. He was alive, somewhere or other, breathing and talking and walking about. But there was to be no wedding, no future. Life had stopped.
She fell into a stupor in which confused impressions jostled one another. Again and again Melissa’s face confronted her — the shocked, questioning eyes, the rouge on haggard cheeks. Melissa’s eyes! Disaster had begun with Melissa’s eyes. Familiar houses slid past, and Uncle Bob shouted at the choirboys: “Go back, you boys! Go back!” Through the open doors yellow dresses were mingled with white surplices. Melissa’s eyes! “Put your head between your knees, Lucy.” “Go back, you boys!” “Not at the White Hart.” “Isn’t it awful?” “St. Nicholas or St. Barnabas.” “A head-on smash.” “You forgot your bouquet.” Melissa’s eyes!
The afternoon mellowed to evening. Evening sank to dusk. People came sometimes to her door and tapped and called to her gently, but she did not answer. She did not hear them. She lay in an echoing tunnel, unable to wake up or fall asleep, harassed by a multitude of voices, jostled by impressions which would not congeal into thoughts. Whenever she drifted towards oblivion those eyes popped up, and a shudder went through her whole body.
At last this nightmare subsided. She emerged from the tunnel into solitude, silence and night. Sitting up, she switched on her bedside lamp. The dusky window turned to black. She wondered what time it was.
Her watch lay on the dressing-table where she had put it when she was timing her seven minutes. When she remembered this she remembered the note which she had written, years ago, and left on her mother’s pillow. It must be retrieved.
She darted across the landing, but she was too late. Mrs. Carmichael had found the note. She was holding it in her hand as she lay upon her bed, shaken with the harsh agonised sobs of defeat.
“Oh, Mother … oh, Mother….”
Lucy sat by her and put a timid hand on her arm.
“I came to get it … I put it there when I … I didn’t mean … I’d forgotten about it….”
“Lucy! Lucy! I can’t bear it.”
“I ought to have remembered….”
“Oh, Lucy … my precious…. Oh, I mustn’t cry like this. It’s no help to you. And I’d have died, oh, I’d have died gladly, rather than let this happen to you….”
“Oh, no, Mother, darling Mother, don’t be so miserable. I shall be all right. I haven’t quite taken it in yet. But I shall get over it. People seem to get over things, don’t they? I don’t know how, but they do. Ordinary people … I’m very ordinary, so I expect I shall do what they do. I don’t know how, but I shall … I mean it’s the likely thing, I suppose, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Carmichael continued to sob. She was at the end of her endurance. Lucy sat beside her and presently continued in the unemphatic voice of exhaustion:
“I’ve got you. I’ve got a reason for trying to get over it. You’ve worked so hard, and done everything to give us a happy life, it would be too unfair if it was all to be disappointment. Look, Mother … wouldn’t you like some tea? I’ll bring you up a cup of tea, shall I?”
Without waiting for an answer Lucy went down to the kitchen. A fearful crash met her ears as she opened the door. Stephen stood in the middle of the room, staring with stunned horror at a lot of broken china on the floor.
“I was getting you some tea,” he stammered. “You haven’t had anything to eat since lunch. I thought you might like it. But all the things fell off the tray. It’s all spilt.”
He looked at her hopelessly and humbly.
Several sentences rose to her lips; the Crown Derby cups! The last straw! Wretched child! But her anger collapsed like a kite which falls for lack of wind. She was too much exhausted to scold or even to feel very much irritated. She knelt down in silence and began to collect the broken pieces.
“I … I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I wanted to do something for you.”
“I know, Stephen. Never mind. Get a cloth and we’ll wipe up the spills.”
He helped her to clear up, glancing at her from time to time in an awestruck way. Her gentleness really alarmed him.
“Tea was a good idea,” she said. “I’d like some, and I’m sure Mother would. We’ll make some more and take it to her.”
“I’ll boil another kettle.”
He lighted the gas again and collected some other cups. It occurred to Lucy that he must have spent a tough day, and that tomorrow he must go back to school.
“What have you been doing all the afternoon?” she asked.
“Running errands for Melissa. I’ve been with her mostly. We’ve been pretty busy … er … clearing up things … food and things.”
“Didn’t the caterers take it away?”
“Most of it. But they left a lot.”
He pointed to a side-table loaded with bottles and plates of sandwiches. Lucy suddenly realised that she was hungry. She sat down and began to eat, watching Stephen as he laid another tray. Her own disaster was still too enormous to be understood. She could more easily perceive the implications for her mother and Stephen. But it was so much a habit with her to see him through a mist of irritation that he seemed, in this moment of detachment, quite strange and queer.
His wedding present had surprised and embarrassed her. Without consulting anybody he had drawn out his War Savings and bought a little string of pearls. She had not liked to take it from a person with whom she was always bickering. But now the explanation flashed upon her. He had been trying to fill their father’s place. All her friends had these little pearl strings, given to them by their fathers on their eighteenth birthdays. She had none because she had no father. Stephen was not particularly fond of her, but he wished to be thought of as a man and to act a man’s part. That was why he had offered to give her away in church, a suggestion which she had repelled with noisy scorn.
And now he was probably wondering if the man of the family ought not to go after Patrick, seize him by the collar, and haul him to the altar. He might do something quite frantic unless prevented.
“I think,” she said, “that the sooner all this business is forgotten, the better, don’t you? It would be very undignified for us to make a fuss of any kind. I’m sure Father would have thought so. If Mother consults you, I hope you’ll say that.”
Stephen started, not merely because she had g
uessed his intention, but at a note in her voice, a steady coolness, which he had never heard before. Nobody had.
“After all,” she continued, “it may be some time before we know … all the explanation. Aren’t you hungry? These smoked salmon rolls are very good.”
He took one, still eyeing her nervously.
Mrs. Carmichael peered into the kitchen. She had thought Lucy gone rather long and had come to see what was happening.
“Come and join us,” commanded Lucy. “We’re eating.”
“I’m afraid I broke …” began Stephen.
But Lucy interrupted him.
“If Stephen could open one of those bottles, I believe it would do us all more good than tea. Could you, Stephen?”
He assured them that he could, though he had never opened a champagne bottle before. Taking the pliers he set to work. He became very much flustered and Mrs. Carmichael made a movement to take the bottle from him, but Lucy checked her. For once Stephen must be allowed to do something which they could not.
“Try the smoked salmon,” she advised her mother.
“We had it for supper,” said Mrs. Carmichael. “We ate up a lot of the food at supper time. But still …”
Pop!
They hastily thrust tea-cups at Stephen, which he filled. A little champagne had lodged upon the ceiling but on the whole he had acquitted himself very manfully.
“Tomorrow,” remarked Lucy, when she had drunk two cups full, “is going to be unbearable. But now is not so bad.”
They all felt that. For a moment they were able to detach their minds from tomorrow. They were weary and famished and the champagne did them good. They became quite animated.
Mrs. Carmichael remembered the first night of the war, when she and her husband, having finished an improvised black-out, went out into the warm September night to see if any chink had been overlooked. They were in despair. They expected immediate air-raids to demolish London. They were facing separation. But, as they strolled in front of their house, they had met a neighbouring couple, out for the same reason, and the four, with linked arms, patrolled the street, filled with a sudden unaccountable exhilaration, laughing and talking nonsense. Now we are for it, they had thought, and found a mysterious tonic in their mutual predicament.
Lucy Carmichael Page 5