While Theodore had his sleep in the pram, the others bathed.
Julia, years ago, had liked swimming, and Herbert was ‘very good at it’. It brought home to her the fact that she was no longer very young, when she found herself secretly rather dreading the daily treat of the bathe. Perhaps it was the difference between being able to swim with Herbert, and having to remain close to the edge of the water, encouraging Martin, who was inclined to be nervous, and calling out ‘Yes, I see, darling,’ to Constance, who was under the impression that she was swimming if she stuck her fat arms straight out in front of her, and kicked the water with her feet.
Herbert, as usual, was goodness itself.
He tried, although not successfully, to teach the two elder children to swim, and he squeezed out their wet bathing-dresses while Julia hurriedly dried and dressed them in the bathing-machine, and then he generally struck out to sea again, so as to give her time to dress herself before he sought the bathing machine. Still feeling damp and mottled, Julia would hasten out into the rather fitful sunshine, and distribute buns to the children, and try to warm her slightly discoloured hands by rubbing them in the sand. At least she kept her hair dry, for it was no longer the sort of hair that one rather enjoyed wetting, for the sake of letting it dry in the open air afterwards …
Her thoughts went back to other holiday-times, which, strangely enough, seemed not at all remote, when she hadn’t been ‘Mother,’ but only Julia, and Mamma had been ‘Mother’ – the omniscient, all-powerful and ever-present universal provider.
Was it possible that Mamma, who had been dead ten years, had then felt exactly as Julia felt now?
She could certainly remember a reluctance, at the time incomprehensible, on the part of Mamma to join in delightful hill-climbing expeditions, or early-morning swims, at Weymouth.
Every year they had gone to Weymouth, Papa and Mamma and Julia.
One hadn’t realised, in those days, that one was lucky to be taken to a nice hotel, where nobody bothered about ‘extras’, and there was a real meal at the end of the day as a matter of course – not just a slice of cold ham, and bread and cheese, and cocoa made over a spirit lamp.
(‘Oh, what a pig I am, to think about the food like that!’ thought Julia. ‘Though really it’s on Herbert’s account – except the cocoa, which is such a comfort when one’s cold or tired …’)
Had Papa and Mamma really been well off? Julia, who had inherited their small savings, knew that they hadn’t, although, of course, the value of money had altered altogether since the War. It had just been that, in the past, she hadn’t had the responsibility of any of it – hadn’t known or cared how the holiday was paid for, how the plans were made, how the meals were ordered, or anything else.
She had gone on being blissfully irresponsible until she was quite grown-up. She could remember the last Weymouth holiday before Papa’s death, when she had just left school, and she had wanted to go every night to the concert on the pier, with the school friend who was staying with her. Papa had taken them, and Mamma, to their incredulous astonishment, evening after evening, had declared that she preferred to go to bed.
‘But she was much older then, than I am now,’ reflected Julia.
‘Mother, look at me!’ screamed Constance.
‘I see, darling. Wonderful!’
‘But did I turn head-over-heels?’
‘Well – very nearly. Next time it’ll be quite.’
‘Mother, may I have the last bun?’
‘No, Martin dear. It’s really too near dinner-time.’
‘Then will you help me to build a castle exactly like the one we made yesterday?’
Julia got up, feeling stiff.
‘Did I nearly turn head-over-heels?’
‘Very nearly.’
Herbert emerged from the bathing-machine.
‘Daddy, I turned head-over-heels.’
‘Nearly,’ Julia inserted automatically.
‘I nearly turned head-over-heels.’
‘Did you, dear? Well, Julia, did you enjoy the water? You look cold, my dear. If you didn’t stay in the shallow water so much, but went right out of your depth at once, you wouldn’t feel cold.’
‘The walk up the hill will warm me.’
The steep ascent to York Terrace was not much liked by Martin and Constance with their short legs, and Julia always told them a story while they climbed.
Herbert pushed the pram.
After dinner, the two elder children were sent to rest for an hour on their beds, and Julia amused the baby downstairs, and Herbert read the paper.
Then they all went on the sands again, or once or twice for an excursion by charabanc, but the children were too young to enjoy these, and rendered the whole family unpopular with their fellow-passengers, except, indeed, with those who had with them children of the same age.
But Julia, unreasonably, didn’t like being told that ‘the little ones were all alike,’ and never let this opening lead to anything further.
Tea – the day fell naturally into the categorical division of time that separated one meal from another – was generally taken at their lodgings. The café in the High Street, where there was a small string band, was amusing, but it cost money, and little Theodore was really too young for that sort of place, and Constance, who was easily made bilious, was sure to eat something that would disagree with her later.
Very soon after tea Theodore was put to bed, and the other two children played in the sitting-room, since it would be too much for them to walk down to the sea and back once more.
Julia came downstairs, read about ‘Little Black Sambo’ or ‘The Story of Peter Rabbit’, and then took Constance and Martin upstairs. When she came down again it was usually nearly seven o’clock, and there was only time to do the mending that always seemed to be required on one garment or another.
At half-past seven, supper – that cold and skimpy meal that was disposed of in rather less than twenty minutes.
‘How the time flies, doesn’t it? I can’t believe we’ve been here so long already. What about a little walk this evening?’
‘Yes – only I don’t much like leaving the children – if Baby did happen to wake—’
‘Surely, with two women in the house—’
‘Dear, I can’t possibly ask Mrs Parker to go to him, and it wouldn’t be any good if she did, either—’
‘I suppose not. Well. You’re not tired, are you, Julia?’
‘Did I yawn? It must be the air. It’s much stronger than the air at home.’
‘It’ll do us all good. The children look quite different.’
‘Yes, don’t they?’ she said eagerly, and then immediately yawned again.
‘Julia!’ exclaimed the Reverent Herbert. The truth was, as they both knew too well, that Julia was intolerably sleepy. She was often sleepy at home, too, since she had never been without a baby in her room after the first year of her marriage, and was always awakened early in the mornings – but at home she sat at her desk in the evenings, or sometimes played the piano, and kept herself awake that way.
At home, also, Herbert was busy, and took it for granted that she should go to bed before he did, but on a holiday – a second honeymoon – things should have been different.
He was kind, as ever – but he evidently didn’t understand it.
Julia tried going to bed very early indeed, and getting some sleep before Herbert came up, on the understanding that he should wake her, when she would then be fresh and lively and ready for conversation.
But she wasn’t fresh or lively, and indeed it proved to be almost impossible to wake her without the employment of real physical violence.
‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Herbert, rather reproachfully, ‘if one of the children so much as turns over in the night, you’re awake directly.’
Julia wondered, but did not like to ask, if that was perhaps the reason she was so sleepy now. She said feebly that she thought there was an Instinct which woke mothers on beha
lf of their children. ‘When we get home,’ she said hopefully, ‘and I know that Martin and Constance are in their own nursery with Ethel next door, I shan’t wake so early in the mornings, and then I shan’t be so tired at night. Besides, it’s this wonderful sea-air. It’s – doing – wonders.’
Julia’s eyes grew fixed and watery, the muscles of her jaw became strangely set, and she tightly compressed her lips, in the suppression of an enormous yawn.
‘Go to bed, my dear,’ said her husband forbearingly. And she looked so miserable that he added, entirely to try and comfort her for her inadequacy. ‘It’s the sea-air.’
Right up to the very last day of their fortnight at ‘Eventide’ the sea-air continued to demonstrate its effects upon Julia.
The final evening was marred by the usual discrepancy between the visitors’ attitude towards their bill, and that of the landlady.
‘Of course, I knew she’d stick it on at the end, as they always do,’ said Julia, ‘but really! When it comes to cruet, sixpence – and neither of us touches mustard or pepper, and I’m sure the poor children haven’t eaten six-pennyworth of salt, the whole time they’ve been here.’
‘Absurd! But still, if that’s the only extra—’
‘The only extra!’ cried Julia. ‘Why, the whole thing is extras. And she’s put down that hideous glass vase that Baby smashed in our room as valued at three-and-eightpence.’
‘Shall I have her in?’ said the Reverend Herbert wearily. ‘It’s no use letting that sort of person think that one doesn’t know one’s being robbed.’
‘No, of course it isn’t.’
They both of them dreaded the interview with Mrs Parker, and knew that they had no possible chance of getting the better of her, but they felt, confusedly and miserably, that in some mysterious way they owed it to their caste to show Mrs Parker that her extortions were resented by them.
Julia, in a deprecating, apologetic voice, called Mrs Parker.
An interview on lines exceedingly familiar to Mrs Parker ensued.
At the end of thirty-seven minutes, the sum at the foot of Mrs Parker’s bill, reduced by half-a-crown, had been paid by the Reverend Herbert, and the bill duly receipted by the landlady.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mrs Parker, her voice suddenly pitched in a more natural key. ‘I’m sure I hope you’ve all enjoyed your stay?’
‘Very much indeed, thank you. It’s done us all so much good.’
‘A thorough rest,’ said Herbert, not without a glance at Julia.
‘Perhaps we shall come again another year.’
‘I hope so, sir, I’m sure. Good night, sir, good night, ’m.’
‘Good night, Mrs Parker,’ they replied together with amiable smiles.
The door shut behind Mrs Parker.
‘I suppose they’re all alike,’ said Julia tolerantly. ‘After all, they’ve their living to get.’
‘It must be a dog’s life. And extortionate though she’s been, she’s let us down pretty lightly over the damage the children did. I saw that ink-stain on the counterpane myself.’
‘And naughty little Constance’s hole in the wall, over the bed—’
‘It isn’t everywhere where they’ll take children at all.’
‘No, that’s true. One might do a great deal worse than come here another year. I mean, supposing we’re able to afford another holiday one year.’
‘Now that we’ve got this legacy, Julia dearest, and that our debts are all paid, I want to afford a holiday every year,’ said the Reverend Herbert, adding, with unwonted effusiveness, for he was a reserved man, ‘You and I, and little Martin and Constance and the baby – and perhaps other little ones, if we should be blessed with them. To get right away from home cares and worries and responsibilities, and have a thorough rest and change. I value it on your account even more than on my own.’
Julia laid her thin hand upon his plump one, and her eyes – her tired eyes – filled with the easy tears of utter contentment. She thought, as she had often thought before, that she was a very fortunate woman. Her heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her kind husband, her splendid children, and the wonderful holiday that they had all had together.
Dorothy Edwards
A Country House
From the day when I first met my wife she has been my first consideration always. It is only fair that I should treat her so, because she is young. When I met her she was a mere child, with black ringlets down her back and big blue eyes. She put her hair up to get married. Not that I danced attendance on her. That is nonsense. But from the very first moment I saw her I allowed all those barriers and screens that one puts up against people’s curiosity to melt away. Nobody can do more than that. It takes many years to close up all the doors to your soul. And then a woman comes along, and at the first sight of her you push them all open, and you become a child again. Nobody can do more than that.
And then at the first sight of a stranger she begins talking about ‘community of interests’ and all that sort of thing. I must tell you we live in the country, a long way from a town, so we have no electric light. It is a disadvantage, but you must pay something for living in the country. It is a big house, too, and carrying lamps and candles from one end of it to another is hard. Not that it worries me. I have lived here since I was born. I can find my way about in the dark. But it is natural that a woman would not like it.
I had thought about it for a long time. I do not know anything about electrical engineering, but there is a stream running right down the garden; not a very small stream either. Now why not use the water for a little power-station of our own and make our own electricity?
I went up to town and called at the electricians. They would send someone down to look at it. But they could not send anyone until September. Their man was going for his holidays the next day. He would be away until September. Now I suddenly felt that there was a great hurry. I wanted it done before September. They had no one else they could send, and it would take some time if I decided to have it done. I asked them to send for the electrician. I would pay him anything he liked if he would put off his holiday. They sent for him, and he came in and listened to my proposal.
At this point I ought to describe his appearance. He was tall, about forty years old. He had blue eyes, and grey hair brushed straight up. His hair might have been simply fair, not grey. I cannot remember that now. He had almost a military appearance, only he was shy, reserved, and rather prim. His voice was at least an octave deeper than is natural in a speaking voice. He smiled as though he was amused at everyone else’s amusement, only this was not contemptuous. Do not think for a moment that I regard this as a melodrama. I do not. I saw at once that he was a nice fellow, something out of the ordinary, not a villain at all.
He smiled when I asked him to put off his vacation. Nothing could be done until he had had a look at the place, and he was perfectly willing to come down that evening to see it. If it were possible to start work at once, something could perhaps be arranged. I was pleased with this, and I invited him to stay the night with us.
At five o’clock he was standing on the office steps with a very small bag, which he carried as if it were too light for him. He climbed into the car, and sat in silence during the whole long drive. When we reached the avenue of trees just before we turn in at my gate (although it was still twilight, under the trees it was quite dark, because they are so thick), he said, ‘I should imagine this was very dark at night?’
‘Yes, as black as pitch,’ I said.
‘It would be a good thing to have a light here. It looks dangerous.’
‘No, I don’t want one here,’ I said. ‘Nobody uses this road at night but I, and I know it in the dark. Light in the house will be enough.’
I wonder if he thought that unreasonable or not. He was silent again. We turned in at the gate. My wife came across the lawn to meet us. I do not know how to describe her. That day she had a large white panama hat and a dress with flowers on it. I said before th
at she had black hair and blue eyes. She is tall, too, and she still looks very young. The electrician – his name was Richardson – stood with his feet close together and bowed from the waist. I told her that I had brought him here to see if it was possible to put in electric light.
‘In the house?’ she said. ‘That would be lovely. Is it possible at all?’
‘I hope so,’ said Richardson in his deep voice. I could see that she was surprised at it.
‘We don’t know yet,’ I said; ‘we must take him to see the stream.’
She came with us. The stream runs down by the side of the house, curving a little with the slope of the garden, until it joins the larger stream which flows between the garden wall and the fields. We followed it down, not going round by the paths, but jumping over flower-beds and lawns. Richardson looked all the time at the water, except once when he helped my wife across a border.
‘There is enough water,’ he said, ‘and I suppose it is fuller than this sometimes?’
‘Yes, when it rains,’ said my wife. ‘Sometimes it is impossible to cross the stepping-stones without getting one’s shoes wet.’
Now I will tell you where the stepping-stones are. Where the stream curves most a wide gravelled path crosses it, and some high stones have been put in the water. When we came down as far as that Richardson said, ‘This is the place where we could have it. We could put a small engine-house here, and the water could afterwards be carried through pipes to join the stream down below, forming a sort of triangle with the hypotenuse underground.’
I asked him if he was certain that it could be done.
‘I think so,’ he said seriously.
My wife smiled at him. ‘I hope the building will not be ugly; it would spoil the garden.’
Richardson smiled in the amused way and answered, ‘It will, but it will not be high. We must have it at least half underground, with steps to go down to it. Would it be possible to plant some thick trees round it? Yews, so long as they do not interfere with the wires.’
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I believe we could have that.’
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 85