Ultimate Prizes

by Susan Howatch

  “Good idea. Spontaneity can wait till later. Shall we say Wednesdays and Saturdays?”

  “Stephen, I can’t tell you how much I admire you for being so wonderfully practical about all this—”

  “Then don’t bother. Focus your mind instead on our next problem, which is reproduction. Let’s forget all the romantic drivel we spouted on the subject before the wedding and discuss the matter realistically. Can you face a pregnancy yet or shall we wait till you’re less miserable?”

  “Oh, but I must have a baby as soon as possible! Then everyone will think the marriage is a success!”

  “Never mind ‘everyone’ for the moment. Let’s just concentrate on you. Do you really want to bear the child of a man you don’t—as yet—love?”

  “But darling, we can’t hang around waiting for me to become besotted with you—that could take years! No, I must have a baby, preferably on or before our first wedding anniversary.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got over your fear of childbirth? I know the doctors say there’s no reason why you should follow in Laura’s footsteps, but were you being completely honest when you said you no longer had any qualms about embarking on a pregnancy?”

  “Well, I’m sure most women experience the odd qualm or two before setting out on a journey which might just end in death, but—”

  “The qualms aren’t overpowering. Very well, that’s settled—we’ll have a baby as soon as possible. Now my next most pressing problem is that I’m starving. Do you have any further questions or can we adjourn to the dining-room?”

  “I’ve only one more question, Stephen darling, and that’s this: You’ve spelt out with the most beautiful candour what I truly think of you, but what do you truly think of me?”

  “I’m mad about you.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Well, I must be, mustn’t I? Why else would I have wound up in this extraordinary marriage?”

  “Darling!” exclaimed Dido, flinging her arms impulsively around my neck. “If only you knew how guilty I feel about this ghastly crisis!”

  “Crisis?” I said. “What crisis? The crisis is over—ring down the curtain! I’ve no doubt at all that we’ll eventually succeed in living happily ever after!”

  Was ever optimism more misplaced?

  The real crisis, the most terrifying crisis I had ever faced in my life, was now moving stealthily towards me behind the curtain.

  8

  “Repression is no good.”

  CHARLES E. RAVEN

  A WANDERER’S WAY

  1

  I HARDLY THINK IT NECESSARY TO RECOUNT IN DETAIL THE remainder of my journey to the bottom of the black pit which came to symbolise my second marriage. For a while we limped along with the aid of good intentions, resolute play-acting and sexual intercourse twice a week, but soon Dido was prostrated by pregnancy and suffered a wide variety of ills, real and imaginary, which effectively secured her a separate bedroom. In between numerous cold baths I worked feverishly in my archdeaconry and somehow managed to convince myself that once the pregnancy was over, all would eventually be well.

  I felt exasperated by Dido’s collapse but I tried hard to beat back my anger and drum up some sympathy. I knew she had lost her nerve and grown convinced, despite the doctors’ assurances, that she was destined to follow Laura to an early grave. After a while I myself began to wonder if something would go wrong, but instinct told me that this speculation could lead to dangerous thoughts so I resolutely turned my mind elsewhere.

  In order to cope with this grinding marital difficulty I found myself reverting to the romantic charade of my courtship, that long-running drama which at the time had seemed to vibrate with sincerity but which I now found rang so unpleasantly false. There was comfort in acting. One could escape from one’s tormented self and become someone else, someone stylised, someone who moved within marked limits which could be ruthlessly controlled at all times. Day after day when I returned home from work I would sit by her chaise-longue in the drawing-room and exude a doting patience while she wept and called me an angel and swore I was much too good for her. We enacted this scene tirelessly, as if not just our sanity but our lives depended upon it, and soon we became polished performers.

  “Do you still love me, Stephen?”

  “Darling, don’t you realise by now that my love is utterly indestructible?”

  “Oh Stephen, you’re so noble, so splendid, so loyal, so—”

  “No, no, you’re so brave, so courageous, so—” How we managed to dredge up such a collection of empty adjectives never failed to amaze me.

  As the drama slid inevitably into melodrama I found myself experiencing that curious phenomenon of déjà vu, moments when I was convinced that our melodrama had all been played before—as no doubt it had, on stage, by various nineteenth-century actors. Since Dido had now become a Victorian heroine, wilting neurotically on a chaise-longue, and since I had been translated into a Victorian hero, radiating a sexless high-mindedness, it was hardly surprising that my trusty memory should occasionally be nudged by the sheer volume of all the Victorian clichés which were declaimed.

  Once I asked Dido if she too was experiencing the déjà vu phenomenon, but she shook her head. “I adore those peculiar hiccoughs of memory!” she added. “I’m sure we’ve all lived before in another life. Why doesn’t the Church believe in reincarnation?”

  I tried to explain but she lost interest so I gave up. All that now interested her was her ill-health. She had lost interest in theology, lost interest in Church affairs, lost interest in her sadly unsuccessful attempts to create a smart social life for herself in her new surroundings. After our reunion she had made great efforts to be a dazzling ecclesiastical wife, calling on everyone in the Close and organising a succession of extravagant dinner-parties, but the inhabitants of the Close, conservative and cautious in their ways, distrusted this London flamboyance almost as much as my bank manager distrusted my ability to pay for it.

  Money was a problem. Dido had expensive tastes. Fortunately her villainous father had given her an allowance which covered her general maintenance (clothes, hair, cosmetics, little sorties into antique shops) but unfortunately the money was settled, just as he had threatened, in a manner which ensured I could never touch a penny of it, and the expense of keeping Dido did not end with her general maintenance. I had to move house; Dido argued that anyone who was anyone in Starbridge lived in the Close. However I need hardly add that the real reason why Dido could not live in the vicarage—and the real reason why I agreed to move—was because neither of us could face living with Grace’s ghost. Every room of the vicarage seemed to be impregnated with memories of her, and although her name was never mentioned I knew that both Dido and I had to escape from the stage on which the drama of my first marriage had been played.

  I made arrangements to lease from the Dean and Chapter the house which had belonged to General Calthrop-Ponsonby (recently deceased) on Canonry Drive. Dido managed to squeeze money out of her father for the refurbishment, but a larger house meant greater expense, and soon I found myself burdened with financial demands I was ill-equipped to meet. Old Tallent had bought the twenty-year lease for us as a wedding present but I could hardly look to him to pay the ground-rent or the rates. In the end I wangled a housing allowance from the diocesan funds, but the Board of Finance was cool and I was informed frankly that the concession had only been made because the Bishop had interceded on my behalf. I felt I was sailing much too close to the wind. How I was going to pay for a new child remained uncertain, but I was praying for a girl who would be cheap to educate.

  Meanwhile my other children, who knew nothing of my financial gymnastics, were entranced by their new home which faced the west front of the Cathedral. Built in mellow brick, wreathed in ivy and set in a large garden, the house exuded “character,” that ambience so beloved by estate agents. The older boys were also quick to see that the house represented a step up the social ladder.

  “Can we have peo
ple to stay?” inquired Norman. “It’ll be easier now we don’t live in a mere vicarage.”

  I said severely: “That’s a snobbish remark, Norman,” but Christian only retorted: “If you take the trouble to send us to one of the top public schools, Father, you can hardly be surprised if we show revolting tendencies to prefer Jacobean mansions to Victorian vicarages. But isn’t that all part of Getting On and Travelling Far?”

  Christian’s inclination to make snide remarks showed no sign of decreasing, but I was so relieved by his decision to respond with charm to Dido’s attempt to be friendly that I was prepared to turn a blind eye—and a deaf ear—to the less attractive aspects of his adolescent behaviour. However once Dido had been reduced to the role of the ailing Victorian heroine, she had neither the time nor the energy to play the delightful stepmother. The older boys were affronted by the abrupt cessation of her good humour; Sandy was hurt when she complained he made too much noise. Only Primrose, gratified to receive evidence that Dido really was as beastly as stepmothers are always supposed to be, remained tranquil.

  I took care to explain to my children that Dido was ill and frightened, but privately I was angry with her for playing with their affections in such an irresponsible manner, and I had a hard time keeping my anger hidden as we conducted our increasingly unreal conversations.

  But I was reaching the end of that phase in which I was able to keep my marital problems at bay by acting. In the May of 1946, a week before our first wedding anniversary, Dido went into labour, and twelve hours later at Starbridge Hospital I was informed that the child would have to be sacrificed if Dido’s life was to be saved.

  2

  I sanctioned my child’s murder and waited. Unfortunately I was unable to wait in solitude. Having rushed to Starbridge as soon as Dido telephoned to announce the onset of labour, my sister-in-law was now weeping intermittently at my side. A smart-as-paint society woman, larger than Dido but equally svelte, she had been steadily grating on my nerves for some time.

  I wanted a drink but knew a clergyman could hardly go in search of whisky when his child was being murdered and his wife’s life was at risk. At intervals I tried to pray but my mind was in such chaos that I could only etch empty banalities on my consciousness. It seemed a long time before I was at last informed that Dido had survived and that her prognosis was good.

  “Thank God!” sobbed Merry with a typically vulgar lack of control.

  My informant, who was the chief gynaecologist and obstetrician at Starbridge Hospital, then tried to explain what had gone wrong but I found I could barely understand him. I heard various words but they evoked no emotional response. I only knew I had to listen and occasionally nod my head as he paused for breath amidst his seemingly disconnected phrases.

  “… impossible to predict beforehand … very rare but such things do happen … severe haemorrhage … had to act quickly … did try to save the baby, but lack of oxygen … umbilical cord twisted … could only have survived in a brain-damaged state … difficult labour … wife’s terror, anaesthesia required so early … forceps … blood transfusion … very sorry indeed.” He finally stopped speaking.

  At once Merry shouted: “I think this hospital should be bloody well sued for negligence!” and rushed out of the room.

  The doctor, exhibiting a magnificent sang-froid, as if hysterical females were a mere trifling occupational inconvenience, raised an eyebrow and uttered a disapproving “T-t-t!” before adding firmly: “I assure you, Mr. Aysgarth, that everything possible was done.”

  I nodded again, unable to grapple with the concept of medical negligence, and the doctor pursued with his professional smoothness: “Your wife’s still heavily anaesthetised, but I’m sure you’d like to see her, wouldn’t you?”

  I had no idea. However since the question seemed to require an affirmative answer, I tried yet another nod and was promptly guided upstairs to a room where Dido was lying motionless. I was reminded at first of the wax dolls which my sister Emily had played with long ago, but then I found myself remembering my other sisters, Beatrice and Enid, who had failed to survive infancy. They too had resembled wax dolls as they lay close to death in their cradles. My mother had produced five children, one a year, in an orgy of parturition which had ceased only after a series of miscarriages.

  Taking a deep breath I averted my eyes from Dido’s corpselike appearance, said: “Ah yes. Very nice,” and swiftly retreated to the corridor. Then I realised I had uttered an idiocy. “Sorry,” I added to the doctor as he rejoined me. “Not quite myself. All rather a shock.” I was privately telling myself that now was hardly the moment to start thinking of my mother, whose death not so long ago in 1941 had so profoundly distressed me.

  The doctor was still murmuring soothing platitudes when the ward-sister appeared and asked me with a genuine sympathy if I wanted to see the baby.

  “The baby?” I wondered if I had finally gone mad. “But I understood it was dead.”

  “Yes, but sometimes parents wish to—”

  “No, thank you.” I had to lean back against the nearest wall in order to ensure I remained standing. How could I possibly face the child whose murder I had sanctioned? But perhaps it was my Christian duty. Another wave of horror assailed me. I was the Archdeacon of Starbridge. I had to do the right thing. Only demented laymen blundered around without caring whom they shocked.

  “Tomorrow,” I said with a great effort. “I’ll see it tomorrow.”

  The sister nodded as if she quite understood my decision, and said that when I returned to the hospital the almoner would be available to discuss the arrangements. I almost said: “What arrangements?” but realised just in time that they would relate to the corpse. I reflected with relief that babies born dead could be disposed of without fuss. The very thought of organising a funeral was intolerable.

  Eventually I emerged from the hospital and retreated to my car where I found Merry snuffling in the passenger seat. I managed to say in my most neutral voice: “Feeling better?” but unfortunately my neutrality inflamed her.

  “Better? No, I bloody well don’t, I feel simply too devastated for words! Why didn’t you give that doctor hell? Why did he put darling Dido through such agony? Why didn’t he damn well do a Caesarian?”

  “Because your favourite Harley Street lounge-lizard agreed with that poor bastard you’ve just savaged that a Caesarian wouldn’t be necessary! Now will you kindly stop flouncing around like Bette Davis on an off-day and behave like something that resembles an English lady?”

  “Stephen!” Merry subsided into a shocked silence. It was only when we reached the house that she said: “You’ve got a very hard streak in your nature, haven’t you? I always thought you had. It’s that mouth of yours. It shouts Brutal! every time you set it in that thin straight line.”

  I did not trust myself to reply. Entering the study, I slammed the door, plucked the whisky bottle from its home behind the Oxford Dictionary and poured myself a triple measure. I was just raising the glass to my lips when Merry knocked on the door.

  Instantly I whipped the glass out of sight behind my desk. “Yes?” I shouted.

  “Stephen”—as she came in I saw she was carrying an envelope—“I’m sorry, I should have been making allowances for you. After all, I’m sure the last few hours were torture for you as well as for me, so for God’s sake let’s have a truce now and stop screaming at each other … Do you have any whisky?”

  “No, I don’t usually drink spirits. What’s that envelope you’re holding?”

  “It’s a letter Dido wrote two weeks ago and sent to me for safekeeping. She wanted me to give it to you if she died.”

  “Well, she hasn’t died. Tear it up.”

  “You tear it up,” said Merry, cross that her winsome apology had failed to flush out a whisky bottle. “It’s your letter, not mine. Anyway she could still die. Laura died of that embolism four days after she gave birth.”

  “Dido’s not Laura. Dido’s going to live,” I said to
myself levelly after the door had banged shut. Picking up the letter which Merry had flung down, I eyed it without enthusiasm. I was hardly in a mood to enjoy reading Dido’s characteristic epistolary drivel, but nevertheless I was aware that beneath my antipathy a powerful curiosity was stirring. In fact I was probably incapable of destroying any woman’s letter unread. I always thought of letters from women as little prizes, gratifying and delicious, a just reward for my faultless behaviour, and as soon as this piece of self-knowledge floated into my mind I found myself recalling all the white envelopes which had cascaded into my life for so many years, the letters from St. Leonards-on-Sea.

  I was thinking of my mother again. Pouring myself a second whisky I slit open Dido’s pale blue envelope and unfolded the letter within.

  “Darling Stephen,” I read.

  If I die (and I think I will) I want you to know that since our ghastly honeymoon you haven’t wasted your time by being so wonderfully good and kind and loving to me. I used to think there was nothing else for me to do but die tragically in childbirth as it would solve all my terrible problems, but as I told you once I’m not the suicidal type, and anyway now you’ve made me want to live—although of course God’s will is almost certainly that I should die as a punishment for being so awful for so long. But I want to live because love really does conquer all, and dearest, dearest Stephen, I felt I had to write you this letter because I couldn’t possibly die leaving you in ignorance of the Great and Glorious Truth—which is not only that you love me (a true miracle) but that I have come to love you. No, I’m not fibbing, not exaggerating, not pretending—I mean every word I say and I’m saying yes, you’ve done it, you’ve succeeded, you’re victorious—YOU’VE WON YOUR ULTIMATE PRIZE! Death really does concentrate the mind, just as Dr. Johnson said, and now I can see so clearly that you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. No man has ever cared for me as you have—you’ve made me feel I really am worth something after all, and I’m convinced now that with the help of your love I could overcome my troubles, but if I never get the chance to put matters right, just remember that you did indeed win me completely, exactly as you always wanted. Darling Stephen, this letter comes to you with eternal love from your utterly devoted