The great ordeal of the 1918 Christmas was finally about to begin.
We’re not the only ones in a mess apparently—what a relief it is to hear that other people too have their troubles! Poor Celia, who’s more spinsterly than ever now that she’s in her mid-thirties, has fallen madly in love with a German P.O.W. whom she met while she was doing V.A.D. work at the Cottage Hospital. The P.O.W. was removed from his camp in order to have an appendix operation and Celia nursed him back to health. She says he’s a chemist from Heidelberg and she shows me a photograph of a cherubic youth who must be at least ten years her junior.
“My dear—a younger man—how do you do it!” I say to cheer her up, because of course Bobby and Margaret are livid and Bobby swears that even now the war’s over he won’t have “that damned Hun” in the house. Well, I’m not mad on the idea of her marrying a German either, but the boy looks rather a pet, and anyway if I were nearly thirty-five and had never been to bed with a man I’m sure I’d be capable of marrying anyone, even a damned Hun.
Ironically it’s Edmund, the one who’s suffered most from the Germans, who says, “The Huns are no different from us. They bleed and die just as we do.”
Edmund’s looking a little better but not much. Apparently he had a bad bout of shell shock, complete with rigor, while he was recuperating from the leg wound, and he’s still odd at times, odd enough to spend several days without talking, but he seems reasonably normal at the moment although he still limps as the result of his wound. He looks at least ten years older than twenty-four.
However I’ve no time to meditate on Edmund’s suffering because Celia’s demanding all my attention. She asks what on earth should she do because Dieter is bound to be repatriated soon and this is her One Chance and if she ignores it she’ll have nothing to do but press wild flowers for the rest of her life, and she can’t bear it, she simply can’t, and she’s tried to explain to dearest Mama and dearest Papa, but they refuse to listen.
There’s only one answer to give, and as one woman to another I give it.
“Celia: your dearest Mama and Papa married when they were in their teens. Obviously they haven’t the remotest idea what it’s like to be a spinster approaching thirty-five. I agree with you; this is your one chance; grab it and to hell with them.”
This sort of advice is hardly likely to endear me to my mother-in-law, the one person whose help I so desperately need, but I’m safe for the moment because Celia can’t elope with her cherubic Hun while he’s still in his prison camp.
I must plan my interview with Margaret. If I were still religious, now would be the moment to pray.
“Yes, come in, Ginevra,” said Margaret. “I thought it might be suitable if we had our little talk before dinner. Do sit down.”
As usual we were in her room, and as usual she was sitting at her dressing table, and as usual the jewel boxes were open before her, but as I slowly crossed the room she piled the stray jewelry back into the boxes and shut the lids with ruthless movements of her fingers. I felt exactly as if I were watching a boxer hang up his gloves and prepare to fight with his bare hands.
“You mentioned a little trouble in your letter,” said my mother-in-law politely. “I’m so glad you’ve seen fit to confide in me. Do please go on.” And she set her straight mouth in its hardest, most implacable line.
I stammered away, repeating myself, contradicting myself, making the worst possible mess of my prepared speech. When I finally ground to a halt in misery all she said was “You don’t seriously think I’m going to side with you against my son, do you?”
I was annihilated in a single contemptuous sentence. Amidst all my chaotic emotions I was shattered by the revelation of how much I was disliked. I wanted to cry but I was too appalled, and I was still groping futilely for words when she said, “You broke your promise to me. You said you wouldn’t keep Robert from Oxmoon but you did. And you’ve made him very miserable, haven’t you? Well, that’s no surprise, not to me, I never thought you’d make him anything else, but thank God all that London nonsense is going to stop now, and if you’ve a grain of sense in that frivolous selfish head of yours you’ll pull yourself together as fast as you damned well can and be a good wife to him for Robin’s sake.”
The word “damned,” coming from Margaret, was more shocking than any common obscenity. I found I could barely speak. “I—I just thought the mountaineering … not what you would want—”
“I want Robert to be happy. If climbing mountains and setting up a home in Gower will make him happy, then I want him to climb mountains and set up a home in Gower—and what’s more that’s what you should want too if you’ve got any conception at all of what a decent marriage should mean. Of course it would be hard to imagine a woman less suited to a country life than you are, but now that Robert’s made his decision you have an absolute moral duty to make the best of it. Life can’t always be one long dance to ‘The Blue Danube,’ Ginevra. There comes a time when the music stops and life—real life—has to begin.”
There was a long, long silence. I felt there was so much I could say to her but I knew that whatever I said she would never understand. She saw the world in black-and-white. Like Robert she was emotionally color-blind, and for the first time in my life I caught a glimpse of her marriage from Bobby’s point of view.
When she next spoke I realized she was retreating again behind her mask of refinement. Her mouth softened; she assumed a milder expression, and as I watched she became once more the Margaret who was so familiar to me, the placid, provincial little woman who emanated that subtle sinister air of authority, the self-made Victorian lady who pursed her lips in disapproval if a word like “damned” was uttered in her presence.
“Dearest Ginevra,” I heard her say as she idly opened her favorite jewel box again, “don’t think I’m entirely unsympathetic. Marriage can be very difficult, can’t it? But then it’s only the fools who think it should be a bed of roses.” She stretched out her plump little hand to examine the rings on her wedding finger. “However,” she said presently, “I believe even a difficult marriage has its rewards, and I’m sure that when you remember your sons you’ll agree with me—in fact there’s no reason, as far as I can see, why even the most arduous marriages shouldn’t in the end prove happy and successful. Happy and successful marriages,” said Margaret, looking me straight in the eyes, “can be sustained simply by the right attitude of mind. One needs willpower, courage and an invincible determination to keep up appearances.”
I said nothing. Having drawn the line against marital failure Margaret seemed to think my problems had been resolved—or at least reduced to manageable proportions. But as far as I was concerned she had offered me no solutions; she had simply restated my dilemma, and this dilemma had become even more intractable since she had refused to help me.
I could see why she had refused. I realized she had hated Robert being swallowed up by London just as I had hated Declan being swallowed up by Ireland. I realized that although she had been proud of his achievements, she had also resented them because they had served to cut Robert off from his family. Margaret wasn’t about to shed a tear because Robert was abandoning his chances in the world of politics. All she cared about was having him back in the world of Oxmoon where he would see more of his family and make Bobby happy.
So much for Margaret. So much for my hope of an ally.
Somehow finding the words to excuse myself I crept away and began to cry.
Robert’s double vision has disappeared overnight but I’ve sent him off to see Dr. Warburton anyway. I like Gavin Warburton. He’s in his mid-thirties, just as we are, and I met him during our visit to Oxmoon two years ago when I was pregnant and the Boxing Day goose had disagreed with me. When he paid his call I could see he didn’t think, Here’s a silly woman who’s made a hog of herself and deserves to be sick. He was cheerful and sympathetic and prescribed me some delicious medicine which made me feel better.
Yes, he’s a good man, someone who re
minds me that not all male doctors are horrid. I wonder what he’ll say to Robert.
I know I ought to consider the future again, but I can’t face it at present. Margaret upset me too much and if I start remembering that interview I’ll only cry, and that would be disastrous as someone might notice my eyes were suspiciously red.
Must keep up appearances.
Mustn’t let anyone know.
Warburton says the double vision could be the result of the old injury but he doesn’t believe it is. He thinks it’s more likely to be a form of eyestrain, and he recommends that Robert has his eyes tested as soon as he returns to London. What a relief! At least, amidst all the current horrors, I don’t have to worry about Robert’s health.
Bobby’s thrilled that Robert wants to settle on the Oxmoon estate, and the two of them have gone off this morning to inspect Martinscombe Farm which is situated below Penhale Down a mile away. I expect he minds, just as Margaret obviously does, that I’m being brought back into their lives but they’re both so glad to have Robert home again that I’ve assumed the status of a tiresome inconvenience. They’ll adapt to my presence in the end. Margaret will say, “Tolerating dearest Ginevra is simply an attitude of mind,” and that’ll be that. After all, anyone who can deal with the kind of problems posed by Aunt Gwyneth and Owain Bryn-Davies would find me child’s play in comparison:
How brutal they were to Aunt Gwyneth, keeping her locked up year after year and only letting her visit her home at Christmas! Poor Aunt Gwyneth, now that I’m older I don’t think she was mad at all, just vilely unhappy—as I shall be, shipwrecked at Martinscombe, sipping gin from dawn till dusk and trying not to seduce every shepherd in sight.
Enough. No more suicidal pessimism. I must face the problem squarely and try to work out what I can do.
As far as I can see—after prolonged and painful thought—there’s one most unpalatable truth here which I have to acknowledge. If I want to save my marriage (and in order to keep Robin I’ve no choice but to try), then I must throw all my energy into creating an attractive home which will periodically lure Robert away from his mountains and console him when he’s too old to climb seriously anymore. The prospect of embracing with enthusiasm a permanent country life on my in-laws’ doorstep is repellent indeed, but at present it seems I’ve no choice but to admit this is the only course I can take. The one question that remains is Am I capable of taking it?
It’s tempting just to answer “no,” but I must try to be constructive. I think the answer could be “yes”—but only in the context of a marriage that is very, very different from this current nightmare. If I knew I could visit London regularly, if I had an interest like my journalism which I could develop without fear of Robert’s disapproval, if I could keep in touch with my loyal friends like Julie, if I could even discreetly take a lover now and then to make up for the fact that Robert no longer genuinely wants me in bed—then I could say, Yes, very well, I love the Gower Peninsula, it’s a wonderful place for Robin to be while he’s growing up and I’m content with my lot. It wouldn’t be the ideal life, it would certainly require some sacrifices on my part, but as Margaret said, life can’t always be one long dance to “The Blue Danube.” However the major difficulty about launching myself on an unconventional marriage is that Robert’s never, never going to consent to the suggestion that I become an unconventional wife.
However he’s bound to feel guilty if he goes away climbing for months at a time. He might make concessions later, and besides there’s always the possibility that he’ll wind up bored stiff, decide he’s made a mistake and move back to London.
No, I mustn’t despair. I must live in hope, dredge up all my strength—and somehow summon the nerve to go on.
Christmas is only a day away now, and Johnny and Blanche, that perfect couple, have joined us with their perfect child little Marian, who’s now three and very pretty and wonderfully well behaved. Blanche is expecting another baby soon and is radiant. Johnny’s bright-eyed with happiness. There was a point in 1917 when we all thought he would have to go to France; the authorities had a “combing-out” at the Foreign Office to sweep the less useful members of that gilded fraternity into the army, but perfect Johnny was deemed essential so he was ordered to stay where he was. He was also promoted. However, as I know from my experience with Robert, those who served on the Home Front have wound up half-dead with guilt, so I’ve no doubt there are some complex thoughts churning away behind Johnny’s immaculate facade.
But we don’t talk of the war now and we certainly don’t talk of politics and the “coupon” election. It’s a relentlessly merry Christmas and Robert’s as merry as anyone, laughing and joking and acting as if he hasn’t a problem left to solve. Without bothering to consult me first he’s declared that we’ll stay at Oxmoon while the Martinscombe farmhouse is prepared for us. The house is structurally sound and by no means a hovel, but it will need to be substantially extended and refurbished before it can be classed as a gentleman’s residence. Bobby says he knows an architect in Swansea, a charming fellow, who would be delighted to help us, and I say, What fun, I can’t wait to consult him.
I drink more champagne than usual and Robert makes Margaret livid by breaking another glass from her best set. That’s the second champagne glass he’s dropped recently and the shattered fragments seem horribly symbolic of our marriage.
However at least his double vision hasn’t recurred.
What a Christmas.
We’ve seen the architect and I’ve displayed boundless enthusiasm for his schemes. Much good that did. Robert says he intends to spend the rest of January in Scotland, and would I mind putting the Ebury Street house on the market while he’s away. We only have a short leasehold interest in the property, but Robert’s decided on reflection that it would be more prudent and less wearying to dispose of it and invest the proceeds than to let the house to tenants who might prove unreliable.
He almost forgot to make love to me before he rushed off to make love to his mountains, but luckily his training as a gentleman reasserted itself and he resigned himself to playing the marital game for ten minutes. After all, if one had a wife one had to copulate with her now and then. That was the Done Thing, a ritual which had to be performed to keep up appearances.
What a farce.
Robert’s returned to London from Scotland after only three days. I was most surprised but apparently he’s worried about the hand that dropped the glasses; his fingers seem to be liable to occasional muscular spasms, and since this makes him a danger on the mountains, both to himself and to his companions, he’s going off this morning to consult our family doctor.
Tiresome for him.
Good news for a change. Celia’s eloped to Heidelberg with her pet of a damned Hun, and meanwhile here in London Blanche has had her baby, another boy, but in contrast to the poor baby who died, “this infant is strong and noisy and is clearly going to thrive.
A worrying thing happened when we went to drink champagne at Johnny’s house to celebrate Harry’s arrival. Robert dropped his glass yet again as he suffered another muscular spasm in his hand. We’d both thought he had recovered. On the doctor’s advice he had been wearing his arm in a sling, and after a few days Robert had been convinced the rest had cured the trouble,
He’s so upset that I can’t help feeling sorry for him.
“Let’s go and dine at the Ritz.”
“Robert! What a heavenly idea—but can we afford it?”
“No, but let’s go anyway.”
I could not make up my mind whether he was issuing the invitation to divert himself from his worry about his physical fitness or to alleviate his guilt that he had been neglecting me, but whatever his motives I was delighted. I decided to treat the offer as a gesture of friendship, and indeed once we reached the Ritz we slipped easily into our role of old friends, chatting away about amusing trivialities until I sensed we were more relaxed in each other’s company than we had been for months.
“Darli
ng Robert!” I said afterwards as we held hands in the cab that drove us home. “I know you think I’m loathing everything you do at present, and up to a point I am, but I’m truly glad if you’re so much happier.”
“And I’m truly sorry if I’m making you so miserable,” he said, and I knew, in one of those moments of comradeship which had become so rare between us, that he was just as sincere as I was.
Our concern for each other still survived, and as I saw our old friendship, bruised, battered but apparently unbeaten, still shining amidst the ruins of our marriage, I heard myself say strongly, “Friends must stick together. I shall be all right.”
“Friendship’s forever?” said Robert, smiling at me.
“Apparently!”
We laughed, kissed and were happy, but after we had arrived home he said with a yawn, “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly sleepy—too much claret, I suppose,” and I knew I had been rejected again. It was as if a curtain had descended abruptly on our friendship and I was alone once more in our unhappy marriage.
He sensed my feelings and immediately the marital tension began to grind between us.
“Well, never mind the claret,” he said. “Perhaps I can wake up after all.”
As soon as he said that, I wanted to snap back: “Oh, please don’t bother—I really couldn’t care less.” It was so obvious that he was only doing his duty as a husband, and I felt both humiliated and repulsed. However I knew it would be fatal to refuse him. If I did that he might not offer again, and besides I spent so much time resenting his lack of desire for me that I could hardly fly into a sulk on one of the rare occasions when he felt obliged to make amends.
We undressed in our room. Drearily I trailed to the bathroom, drearily I performed my dreary rites with the vinegar and sponge and drearily I returned to bed. He performed some more dreary rites to ensure that his body did what he wanted it to do, and since there was no serious impediment, like my pregnancy, which prevented his body from obeying instructions, copulation drearily ensued for precisely sixteen seconds. I was counting for lack of anything better to do while I waited for it to be over.
The Wheel of Fortune Page 34