Presently, however, Edward began to experience a certain nagging dissatisfaction. He was jealous of Lucius’ and Carol’s two sons: hearty healthy rowdy boys with black hair and rosy cheeks and strong little legs, always running and tumbling and rolling and shouting. They laughed a great deal, their large brown eyes sparkling with glee. Their grandmother adored them, Edward observed with a jaundiced eye; old Mr. Hardaker seemed to enjoy the noise they made and liked nothing better than to stroll round the gardens of Ramsgill House clutching their hot dirty little hands. The children liked these present-bearing elders, and, thought Edward crossly, knew how to play up to them. Now Elizabeth showed no signs of conceiving. Edward resented this; he grew tired of answering cheerfully “Not yet” to the question of visitors to Ramsgill when Lucius said proudly: “Two boys.” Lucius positively carried photographs of the kids about with him and was always telling anecdotes about them to old Hardaker; it was really nauseating. John Luke and Thomas Oates were their names. Edward worked up a grievance that Carol should have used their father’s name for her second child without even consulting her brother, but this was a mere useful pretence; his real vexation was lest Elizabeth’s barrenness should seem to proceed from a lack of sexual potency on his part.
His enquiries became so frequent that at length Elizabeth grew troubled, and began to feel that once again she was failing as a woman. She nerved herself for a visit to her doctor.
She returned aglow; it seemed there had been a genuine physical hindrance, which a slight operation would put right. She told this to her husband with eager fervour. Edward pretended to share her enthusiasm, but in fact he felt for her at that moment the disgust of a robust and selfish organism for something ailing and imperfect.
However, she conceived. Her pregnancy was exceedingly uncomfortable, and Edward was often hard put to it to control his impatience with her ailments, which Elizabeth strove vainly to keep from his contemptuous eyes. Her labour was protracted and difficult, but Edward forgave all this when she produced a son. There was a moment, when he first saw the rather quiet little blanketed bundle, the little monkey face which was yet so like his own, when Edward felt a gush of happiness and a decision to put all his affairs straight and keep them so. For just a moment it seemed worth while to live an honest straightforward life, work for Ramsgill in an ordinary way and leave it as an honourable heritage for his son. He was surprised and annoyed later when the doctor told him that the birth had used his wife hardly and that it would be wise therefore if she had no more children, at least for the time. But after all, it did not greatly matter, since he had a son.
* * *
Unfortunately Henry Edmund, as the son of Edward and Elizabeth Oates was christened, proved to be a delicate child. Pale and fair in complexion, long and thin in body, weak in muscle, diffident and afraid in mind, he was not a boy Edward could feel proud of. The first year or so of his life was spent wrestling with stomach troubles which made him fretful; his petulant wailing cry, and the sight of the doctor’s car standing yet again at the door, too often greeted Edward on his return home. Elizabeth devoted herself to her baby whole-heartedly, and by her unfailing care, intelligently applied, coaxed the child along into life and something like health.
Mrs. Hardaker was in some ways helpful to Elizabeth with baby Edmund, but she wounded her daughter by her continual references to Lucius’s more robust children, whose early prowess was her unfailing theme.
“Fancy, Tom had three teeth at this age,” she would exclaim. “And here’s Edmund without one.”
“Mother, please don’t make comparisons,” pleaded Elizabeth at length. “It’s so depressing. Poor little Edmund does his best.”
“You can’t expect him to do as well as Tom, dear,” said Mrs. Hardaker in what was meant to be a comforting tone. “Look how small he was at birth.”
In spite of these depreciating comments she loved Edmund and nursed him tenderly enough.
Edward however did not love him. He was ashamed to have produced such a wreckling, and jealous of the time and love which Elizabeth poured out on an infant instead of on himself. He began to dislike Elizabeth; to find her high-mindedness naïve, her devotion to duty a bore. She was really very plain, he told himself irritably.
The sight of his own cheap car standing beside Elizabeth’s handsome and solid model in the old barn which they used as a garage, now began to annoy him. Very little pressure was needed to effect an exchange. He had only to say: “I shall be late tonight—I have to go to a meeting in Manchester this afternoon.”
“It’s only an hour’s drive, Edward,” said Elizabeth, surprised.
“Longer in my small vehicle,” said Edward with a grimace.
“But take mine, Edward,” replied Elizabeth, delighted to do him this service. He protested that he did not wish to deprive her. “It’s not deprivation,” said Elizabeth earnestly. “Yours is easier to park. I don’t drive long distances. Edward, you must take mine.”
He took it, and rewarded her by arriving home in good time and apparently high spirits. Soon the exchange of cars became so habitual that at Ram’s Hey it was taken for granted. Elizabeth once or twice suggested that he should exchange his own car for a new one, but he snapped at this so impatiently that she desisted.
The truth was, of course, that the instalments on the first car were not yet completely paid off. To pay them off would involve him more deeply than ever with banks and money lenders; and he was already in so deep that more involvement simply could not be risked. For now on top of his pre-marital debts he had to cope with all the continual outgoings to which the middle class is subject: heavy income tax, including schedule A demands for the house; rates; gas and electricity and telephone charges; motor licences; occasionally a jobbing gardener; repairs to the Ram’s Hey fabric; life insurance (on which Mr. Hardaker insisted), contributions to one of the private health insurance schemes (Mr. Hardaker again), specialists’ fees for Edmund; charitable subscriptions. No, he could not possibly afford a new car; luckily there was Elizabeth’s.
But after a time, as he might have expected, thought Edward bitterly, Mr. Hardaker noticed the exchange.
“Driving Elizabeth’s car again, I see, Edward,” he remarked drily. “Yours out of order?”
Edward in a fury returned to his own car. What had he got for all his efforts, he raged? A dull wife, a peevish ailing child, an inadequate income, a load of debt, an out-of-date car. His resentment against Elizabeth grew.
* * *
At last one evening when Edward came home from the mill particularly tired and vexed—Mr. Hardaker had made a fuss about the month’s petrol consumption—and found Elizabeth nursing the sickly child amid a collection of pill-boxes and medicine bottles (indicative of some new and expensive treatment prescribed by the specialist), with the fire low, dinner unprepared, her dress untidy, her pale hair drooping unbecomingly about her face, Edward felt he simply could not bear the married state any longer. The child’s howling had made their previous night hideous.
“I’ve been thinking, Elizabeth,” he said in his light crisp tones, dropping into a chair beside her: “Now that all is over between us, as it were, would it perhaps not be sensible of us to part rooms?”
Elizabeth’s face blanched slowly, so that her heavy skin took on the appearance of white scales; her pale eyes widened enormously, her mouth gaped as she looked up at him. (She has good teeth, thought Edward irrelevantly.)
“All over?” said Elizabeth in a low thick tone, as if she could hardly articulate.
“In a physical sense, I mean,” explained Edward hastily. “After what the doctor said about you, you know. No more children.”
The words, “It need not be quite all over,” rose to Elizabeth’s lips, but she was infinitely too proud to utter them.
“Of course, if you prefer it otherwise, Elizabeth,” began Edward, who was rather alarmed by the intensity of her reaction—had he presumed on her docility too far?
“No, Edward,” said E
lizabeth slowly, gazingathim. “No. It shall be as you wish. I’ll arrange the spare room for you after dinner.”
“Tomorrow will do,” said Edward, colouring slightly.
“I prefer to do it tonight,” said Elizabeth as before.
* * *
Edward found the new arrangement a great relief.
Elizabeth on the other hand found that it was in the afternoons when one was overwhelmed by one’s grief. In the mornings one rose with courage restored by sleep, there were many services to perform for the child and about the house, one’s daily help was present and one kept up a cheerful façade. In the evenings the effort of maintaining an air of cheerfulness for Edward and any guests provided a sufficient occupation. But in the dead time of the afternoon, when the woman had gone and the child slept and Edward was at the mill, one sat alone and idle by the fire. Then was the time when the sense of being unwanted, rejected, despised, of one’s whole life being a failure, of having experienced the most cruel deception possible to a woman, filled one’s heart with desolation. Her husband did not care for her and never had cared for her. All those agreeable speeches, those tender acts of courtship, were lies. It’s been the same tune all the time, thought Elizabeth bitterly; I am undesirable, no man has desired or could desire me; I was a fool ever to think otherwise.
Yes, in the dead of the afternoon, when the heavy sobs tore one’s throat, one had to get some help in order to stay alive. One took it where one could find it, gratefully.
* * *
Mr. Hardaker awoke. It was dark—about four in the morning, he guessed. He found himself in the grip of an extraordinary sensation. The whole of his torso seemed swollen, curving above him like a barrel. Stiff. Rigid. Almost solid. He could scarcely breathe. The air had only the tiniest passageway to his lungs. He tried to gasp, but could not. He could not breathe at all. He could not move. This is the end, he thought. Well, what of it? Why not? I’m not at home in this modern world. Just as glad to leave it. Yes, this is the end. Take it quietly. No fuss. Lie still. Something will break soon and it will be the end. I played too hard with that young scamp John, this afternoon. Overdid myself. The laughing saucy face of his great-grandson, the fresh rosy cheeks and sparkling brown eyes, rose up before his mind’s eye, and he smiled. Suddenly he experienced a piercing anguish. It was not safe. No! The boy’s future was not safe. There was something wrong. He did not trust—something. What, was obscure—there was something. He must not die. He must not leave Ramsgill. Not yet. The bell. Ring the bell. The bell!
He made a tremendous effort to heave himself up. Something broke. Something in that stiff barrelled body of his broke and turned. A sharp flashing pain, stabbing, severe, but a release. If this is what they mean when they say “he died in his sleep,” reflected Hardaker sardonically, it’s not as cosy as it sounds.
Time passed. This sheet is very rough, he thought, feeling it in surprise.
More time passed. It was not a sheet, he discovered. It was the carpet. He was lying on the floor of his room, face downwards, soaked in sweat, stinking of excrement, scrabbling at the rug with feeble fingers.
This won’t do, he decided. Must get up. Must reach that bell. Can’t leave young John. Can’t leave Ramsgill, though I don’t know why.
He seized the bedclothes and hauled. Pain somewhere. Mustn’t try himself too hard. Go gently. That’s the way. Don’t give up, though. Now the chair. Now on his knees. He crouched, gasping. Be all right in a moment.
At long last his breathing eased, the great thumping heartbeats diminished in violence. Calm and grim, he got to his feet, rang the bell and arranged himself neatly in his bed, tucking in his bedclothes.
* * *
“Hullo! Telly gone wrong?” said Lucius, coming in at midday from the mill. He kissed his wife, who sat knitting sweaters for the boys, with her head down.
“No.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Where do you suppose?”
“How should I know, Carol?” said Lucius rather less affably than usual, throwing himself down in his chair.
“Where do you suppose it is?” shouted Carol, springing to her feet. “It’s gone back where it belongs!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“You haven’t paid for it! It’s not ours. I got the man to come from the shop—he’s charged us for three months’ rental—I paid it out of my housekeeping. He was quite nice about it.”
“Have you gone mad, Carol?” cried Lucius, horrified. “What on earth are you talking about?” Seeing then that her face was crimson, her mouth set in a tight line, her eyes filling with tears, he remembered her condition—she was pregnant with their third child—and changed his tone: “What’s the matter, dear?” he said in a loving tone. “Aren’t you feeling well? Has something gone wrong? Have you had the doctor? Don’t be frightened. I’ll call him.”
He advanced and took her in his arms, intending to give her a soothing kiss on his way to the telephone. Carol slapped his face hard. He staggered back and sat down on the settee.
“Now calm down, Carol,” he said in the cold tone he only used when he was really angry. “Sit down and tell me what this is all about.”
“How dare you ask me that question!” raged Carol. “You’ve deceived me! You’ve done wrong by the children!”
“Don’t be silly. You know perfectly well I’ve done nothing of the kind.”
“What are all these, then!” shouted Carol, snatching a handful of papers from the table beside her and tossing them up into the air.
“Unpaid bills! Rates! Electricity! Gas! Telephone! Television!”
“There’s only the last quarter,” said Lucius crossly. “And the new telly. So calm down, Carol. You’ll do yourself harm. And upset the children,” he added. “Where are they?”
“I took them over to Elizabeth’s for the day to be out of the way,” said Carol in a quieter tone.
“What on earth did you do that for? Now Edward will know all about this silly row,” said Lucius. “What were you doing going into my bureau, anyway?”
“I was turning it out ready for spring cleaning.”
“That doesn’t excuse you looking at my private papers.”
“I’m your wife.”
“Even so.”
“Oh, I suppose it wasn’t the action of a lady!” shouted Carol mounting again into rage. “Let me tell you, Lucius Hardaker, I was brought up by my grandfather to be honest about money, and such a thing as a bill was never seen in our house. Anything we had, we paid for when we bought it.”
“What about hire-purchase?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t; it’s just the same.”
“When the rates and that came, we paid it that very day. And you call yourself a rich man!”
“No, I never did that, Carol. If you married me for a rich man, you made a mistake.”
“The rates are very large, Lucius,” said Carol in a slightly softened tone.
“You’re telling me. Everything’s large, and constantly getting larger.”
“But look at these, Lucius. Shoes! Why did you let me buy those shoes with the diamanté heels, if you couldn’t pay for them?”
“I like to see you look nice,” said Lucius in a choked tone.
“There’s two pairs for you, too. Not to mention the children. Of course they’re always growing out of their things. Their feet grow. I can’t help them growing, Lucius,” wailed Carol. She sank down on the settee beside him; he put his arm round her and she wept on his shoulder. Suddenly she withdrew. “And from those wine-merchants,” she said accusingly. “Where’s that one, now.”
She bent down and began to scrabble amongst the bills which covered the floor. Remembering her condition, Lucius could not allow her to do this, and had to go down on his knees and seek out this particular bill, about which he felt a little guilty.
“Look at it!” wailed Carol. “Whisky and sherry and beer and all sorts of things, Lucius!”
/> “It’s no more than everybody has,” said Lucius staunchly.
“That’s what you think. You are a fool, Lucius, you really are. I can’t think why I put up with you.”
“Look, dear,” said Lucius earnestly. “You’re making an awful fuss about nothing. I get a bit behind with things, I know, but I straighten up by the end of the quarter.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How much do you think you owe, then?”
“Oh, fifty or sixty pounds,” said Lucius, conscious of a rather too optimistic estimate.
“Do you, indeed. Well, I’m not your mother, Lucius; I can add. I’ve added all these up and they come to close on five hundred pounds.”
“Surely not!”
“Add them yourself and see.”
Lucius scooped up a handful of the wretched documents and even on a rough calculation very soon perceived that his wife’s notion of the total was more nearly correct than his own.
“I’d no idea it was so much,” said Lucius uneasily. “Well, we must make a special effort and pay them off by the end of the quarter.”
“You’ll pay them off tomorrow.”
“I can’t, Carol.”
“You must go straight to your grandfather tomorrow morning and tell him what a donkey you’ve been, and ask him for the money.”
“I can’t do that,” said Lucius, not without a certain sombre satisfaction. “Because he’s ill.”
“What’s the matter with him?” demanded Carol sceptically.
“He had a severe heart attack in the night. Mother telephoned.”
“Oh, poor old thing. I’m ever so sorry. Have you been to see him, then?”
“No. He’s to be kept quiet today, no visitors. I’m going tomorrow. Look, Carol. About the television set. You didn’t really send it back to the shop, did you?”
Tales of the West Riding Page 16