He cut in, “People are marrying at—well, almost no notice at all. Special license. A few days.”
I felt light-headed with the shock, the joy of it. Had thought myself already blessed enough, but now—we might already soon be married! A drowning person, but drowning in happiness, I saw not my past but my future flash before me. And loved it.
In any event there were few difficulties. Except the terrible matter of Alice. I let him write the letter himself, did not even want to see it. I don’t know what I thought he had written. Nor what I imagined would happen when she got it.
Father, because he had always thought Alice could do better, made few comments, and gave his permission readily. It was for me. It didn’t matter. (After all, what did or does he care about me? Knowing I am not his.)
Mother. She surprised me by seeing it as a Great Romance. Everyone seemed infected with fairy-tale notions, born of wartime haste. It was almost an elopement we were to have. A sanctioned, blessed elopement. Unbelievably, everything was ready in time. The eighteenth of August. We would have eight days together before he went back to Stafford to wait for embarkation.
I knew so little. I marvel now how little I knew, and was content to know. Mother said, two days before:
“We were very ignorant in our day, you know. But I, being on the stage —I picked up a lot of information. More than I needed, Teddy. Whereas you —do you think, darling, you know all you should, for next week?”
Since she had never told me anything, except an embarrassed outline just before my periods, I wasn’t sure where I was thought to have learned it. Amy and I never talked about things like that. As for Alice—unimaginable.
She told me hurriedly, surprising me by the trembling of her voice, what it was all about. “That is what happens,” she said. “What happens to you. But—how you will feel, I can’t say.” She paused and said, still without looking at me, “It is possible to be very, very happy.”
And those were the words that remained with me. Alone with Gib in the oak-beamed room of the hotel at Lincoln, the night of our wedding, I thought of them.
We were on our way south—he knew Lincoln because he’d been stationed there earlier in the war. Knew the inn, was recognized by the landlady, given the best room.
In his arms, nestled up close, I felt no dread at all, but rather that same burning glow in my skin that I’d felt months before. He was talking to me too, telling me yet again of all the great, great love he had for me. That’s oddly enough what I remember most clearly, perhaps want to remember most clearly—those words, whispered hotly into my neck, my shoulders, my breasts—and then, and then: oh, if all that came after, if he—if we—could only have continued, on and on—I know now that I wouldn’t have been afraid, how could I have been, with him? The entering, well, it was only as I’d been told, and easier, much easier—but then as his kisses redoubled, and now I kissed him, kissed him—no feathery kisses these, but frantic sucking, nibbling—I didn’t know what I wanted except to be closer, closer. I couldn’t be still. I didn’t know what to do with my body, could use only my lips, my hands, kissing and kissing. …
And then—he broke away, and with shocking suddenness turned on his side, away from me. For a few seconds he lay there, his face buried in the pillow. Then, half turning, he reached out, touched my arm.
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s the matter then?” I cried. “We were … It was all right, wasn’t it? Weren’t we happy, weren’t you happy with me?”
He half sat up, leaning toward me now, crooked on one elbow. He was stroking me gently, gently, through the fine batiste of the nightgown.
“I’d thought, darling, I should have said to you, I know—that it seems to me quite wrong I should give you a baby. We never talked about it, I know.”
Indeed we’d never discussed it. To me it had seemed so obvious as not to be worth discussing. I would have a baby after he’d gone away, which would be his, and part of the pride of being married to him, his wife, Mrs. Gilbert Nicolson. It had seemed so simple.
And now: “You do see,” he said. “You do see? You’re so young and I thought—if anything should happen to me, and you were left with a tiny child—”
“But that’s what I want—”
“I oughtn’t even to have gone so far. It’s difficult to talk of these things. One doesn’t—can’t, but if I hadn’t—left you then, there’d have been the risk of a child. Even as it is …”
I said obstinately, still shaken, “It’s for me to decide too—if I want a child, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
“You’re not much more than a child yourself.” He said it sadly.
“Old enough to be married, though? Aren’t I?”
It was an argument that was to continue through so much of our precious honeymoon week together. It made us very unhappy at night. The days weren’t so bad because we had our love, we had each other, we were married, were we not? And the jokes, the ease from knowing each other so long, helped.
We spent the next day and night in Cambridge. He wanted to show me everything to do with his life there. It was a sad, wartime Cambridge, out of term, the colleges part hospitals, part garrisons. I fancied too the ghost of Alice and wondered that he should want to come here. But he seemed resolutely to have put her out of his mind.
We traveled on down to Brighton. He had spent a happy childhood holiday there once. Now, when not walking along the stony beach, sending the water-polished pebbles spinning, we sat up on the gorse-covered downs. Wild thyme scented the air and an August sun burned down on us. High above, larks hung. And in the distance, the rumble of guns in France. Looking out to sea, I tried not to think of Hal—in ever-present danger. Tried not to think of Alice, reading her letter of rejection. We were so nearly happy.
One afternoon as we sat there I watched a hovering butterfly, nearly as blue as the hot sky. Lark song and gunfire. I said to Gib:
“How can you go back to—that? After this—”
“I don’t have a choice—”
I said urgently, “You did. You didn’t need to get yourself a board hearing so soon. I don’t even think you are fit, whatever they say.”
He said a little curtly, “I think, Teddy, you could allow them to know their own business.” It was his schoolmaster’s voice. I had forgotten almost that he had been a schoolmaster. In that other world, which we, I, had left.
But it was that night that—what happened, what did I do? I think I fought and clutched, clawed at him as he tried to leave my body. “Gib, Gib the Fib. You shan’t, you shan’t …” I felt such excitement, such certitude. “You shan’t leave me, don’t, my darling, you must not leave me.” And by and by, very close together, he shuddered inside me. Then turned his head away and wept.
“Why do you cry, you’re always crying? My darling, don’t cry.” I lay very still, I was busy comforting him. As I did so, I waited for the blush, the burning ache to die down. I said vigorously, “I want a baby. You know I want a baby.” I didn’t know which excitement was the greater, my need to feel, more and more, as I felt that night, or—to make a baby. And I knew that the shuddering, it was the shuddering would make our child.
Then by tacit consent—for we never talked about it again—it was the same the next night. And the next. And always that frightening, wonderful excitement that I was sure this time would break …
On the last afternoon we had tea at the Metropole. It was full of officers on leave. We stood and looked at the lovebirds in the aviaries there. Gib said, half laughing, half sardonic, taking my hand. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
The next morning early we took the train to London. And in the afternoon traveled on up to Yorkshire.
When we arrived, the letter was waiting for me.
Sunday in Paris. Bells. Saint said irritably, sleepily, “Muffle them, can’t you, Teddy—good people come to church and all that.”
“Oh God,” she said, “I meant to go back to the hotel.” “You can’t believe the hote
l thinks you—”
“I don’t …” Her hair felt heavy. She could hardly raise her head. She said, “I think I’ll go back to Yorkshire. Or Romania. Or somewhere.”
“Yorkshire,” he said, sitting up in bed, looking at her. “All right, Yorkshire. But in heaven’s name, why Romania?”
3
It had been one of Robert’s more energetic days. In the morning he had been taken out for a drive, had admired the leaves reddening, the bracken on the turn, mourned his shooting days. Now he sat in the big armchair, well wrapped up, his feet stretched out to the fire.
To Sylvia, sitting with him, he appeared to be dozing. She’d just picked up a book when he spoke:
“Too much fresh air, Missy. Must have nodded off. It’s good of you to sit with an old man.”
She was about to say—it was the truth—that she liked to sit with him, when: “The new medico, Selwood, he should have been today. What’s the time?”
“Nearly seven.”
“He won’t come now. Medicos, all the same really. Unless you’re an interesting case.” He reached for his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly. “Where’s your mother?”
“Dining out, I think.” She herself was meant to be going over to supper and whist at Mrs. Fraser’s, with Reggie. “Would you like me to eat up here with you? I’ve this vague invitation but could go on later. Captain Gilmartin’s sister—she’s anxious to meet me, apparently.”
“Nonsense, it’s Gilmartin wants to see you. Still after you, eh? Have to be careful who you marry, you know. Very careful these days. Especially an heiress.”
“He’s not that sort of person. And anyway, I’m not thinking of marrying for ages.” She said it half laughing, but feeling fright again at the thought of the Season. Coming out
He must have been thinking of it too. “All that’ll be taken care of—when you get about and meet people.” He patted the chair near him. “Come and sit down.”
He began to cough, getting his breath with difficulty. Watching him now, she felt great pity. The good times over. No more shooting, walking, travel abroad. All the things he cared for best. She looked at the frail, almost bald head with its few strands of iron gray hair. And Mother doesn’t love him, she thought. I think I’ve known that a long time. Mother has a lover. (Oh, daring, frightening thought.)
“You’ve grown very beautiful, Missy,” he said suddenly, “it won’t hurt to tell you.” He was gazing at her steadily. “Do something for your old father, would you? Just put the Waterfall on for a little while—wear it for me, so that I can look at you.”
Of course—if it gave him pleasure. The truth was it frightened her. It belonged to, and should only be worn by, Mother. (Three portraits with the Waterfall. Mother’s in pride of place.)
The arrangements, the elaborate precautions, began. Such an unlocking of boxes which contained keys, which contained keys. The secret wall safe. More keys. And then lastly, the magic numbers.
She said merrily, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll learn more than I should, and then tell my lover, and make off with it?” She liked to tease him.
He replied simply, “Since it will—soon enough—be yours, it’s not so important.”
She didn’t like it when he spoke of his death, which had nearly happened so many times in the last few years.
Here it was, the Waterfall itself, lying on its satin and ivory velvet couch. Dazzling before it touched flesh, waiting to dazzle.
“Well? Am I to see you?”
She was wearing a jersey suit in mauve, with a long-sleeved jacket. “I’ll throw this over the chair.”
She knelt at his feet so that he could fasten the heavy silver clasps. He said, “The main light, turn it off. I want to see the Waterfall glow.”
When she stood in front of the fire, beneath the plain looking glass, she saw suddenly, as if it were someone else, that it was she who glowed. A trick of firelight, of precious stones against white skin—then (well, it is only me, Sylvia) she looked at her father and smiled.
“Yes. Yes.” He smiled back. “One more favor though, Missy. Unfasten your hair.”
“Daddy—”
“For me. An old sick man. You wouldn’t want to remember that you …”
Of course not. If something should happen to him—and she had refused such a small, unimportant whim. Head bent forward, she pulled hastily at the edifice, the combs, the pins. She said, “It means you don’t see the Waterfall properly.”
“No. Lift some of it back. Yes, like that.” She stood patiently before the fire while, head on one side, he looked at her. He said after a long pause, “Yes. Its true home.”
A knock at the door. He gave an angry start.
But it was the housekeeper. The doctor was with her, she said, just arrived.
“In, bring him in,” Robert said impatiently, picking up his stick, letting it fall again with a bang.
“Oh, but …” began Sylvia, hand to her mouth.
Dr. Selwood walked in. Embarrassed, she remained where she stood, unable to move. He too seemed embarrassed (or was it surprised?).
“Just checking on family heirlooms, Selwood …” And as she grabbed her pins and combs, dropping them again as she picked up her jacket: “Run along, Missy. Switch up the light as you go.”
She could not look at him. Even less at Dr. Selwood as, humiliated, she hurried out. He held the door open for her. She could not answer his “Good evening.”
Bejeweled, smarting, she sat in her room, her head throbbing, waiting until she thought he would have gone. She fumbled, pulled at the clasps of the Waterfall, then threw it down on the bed. Slowly, with angry deliberation, she twisted, lifted, pinned her wealth of fair hair.
“Sorry, Angie, old thing.”
“You are sickening, Reggie. What ever will Miss Firth think? What do you think, Miss Firth, of my absolutely awful bro?”
Reggie interrupted, “She won’t marry me, that’s what she thinks.”
“You’re not taking proper care of Miss Firth. Her arm, you sickener. Yes, I know that doesn’t leave an arm for me, but life’s like that. Or war, I suppose I should say.”
If Sylvia hadn’t known, she might have taken Angie for Reggie’s twin, so alike were they. In fact, she thought irreverently, she had only to add a moustache. Angela, who had been in the WRAF during the war, was as tall and as heavy as her brother, but whereas Reggie had, on the surface anyway, an engaging humility, Angie bounced with self-satisfaction.
“Let’s pip off somewhere.” She clutched Sylvia’s free arm. “I see we’re going to be tremendous friends—don’t listen to any rot he says, honestly he’s the awfullest blighter. Come on. Let’s ooze.”
Angela was to stay for a month. Sylvia found herself increasingly drawn into threesome outings or evenings of whist which she was too polite to refuse. Sometimes Bertram would be asked and they would roll back the rug and dance. Twice she was asked over to the Fishers’. Mother didn’t seem to mind. Then, mercifully, both Reggie and Angela went for a fortnight to the West Country. When they came back, Angie’s visit would be almost over.
On the Wednesday of the first week, Mother asked her to go into Richmond with a list of errands. “The motor will come back for you about five.”
It was a blustery day, but smelling still of summer. The town seemed quite crowded but she surprised herself by the speed with which she worked through the list. Finished early, she browsed a little in the bookshop, saw a copy of Robert Bridges’ anthology The Spirit of Man, which she’d always meant to read, and bought it.
She was just about to leave when the shop door opened and Dr. Selwood walked in.
“Oh,” she said with a little gasp. Color flooded her face. She burned with shame (diamonds, hair down, rushing rudely from the room, feeling naked). Then, taking a grip of herself, “Good afternoon,” she said, at the exact moment that he did.
They both laughed. “What did you buy?” he asked, and when she showed him, “Oh,” he said, “I have that, the edition
before, with the green cover. It went to Mudros and beyond—as important as my medical kit.”
“I’ve never read it, and I thought—my sister used to have a copy.” She paused and swallowed. The shop owner was halfway up a ladder, his arm stretched dangerously. She said feebly, “I don’t expect you have much time for reading. I mean, a doctor …”
He agreed that yes, he was usually busy. But he was having that rarest of delights, a free afternoon.
“Wednesday should be. Seldom is. But today I called on a family who were to have occupied me for at least two hours, and found them fled. So you see, an idle fellow.”
Afterward she could not remember whose idea it was, the tea. But not far away there was a tea shop, up some narrow stairs, in a little street off the marketplace.
They sat waiting for toasted tea cakes. She prayed, may he not apologize for surprising me in the room that time.
“Oh, but this is good. To be quite without purpose for half an hour. I looked around as we came in, and not a patient in sight.”
She felt as if they sat alone on an island, an island in space and time. She could not explain to herself the joy she had felt when he walked through the doorway.
“Thought is furrowing your brow, Miss Firth. I’m the one to be furrowed. You’re too young.”
“Eighteen. Eighteen and a half. I hate it so terribly when people speak like that.”
“I’m sorry.” He said it so simply, giving it so little importance, that she was at once ashamed. She made a great fuss of pouring from the heavy brown teapot.
“When you have dipped into that anthology, and I am visiting one day, perhaps … your opinion. When a book’s been such a good friend, then one wants—”
“Oh, but of course.” She wanted at once to read it. And hadn’t he spoken of Mudros and the Dardanelles? Here was a topic of conversation. Gib. Teddy. Gallipoli.
“I think your brother-in-law was there a little earlier,” he said. “I went late summer ’15. And out there I had more to do with death by disease than with anything Johnny Turk did.”
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