Amberwell

by Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily), 1892-1973

  Then Martin would appear in the doorway. "Well, what sort of muck have you got for supper tonight?" he would enquire.

  Perhaps if Anne had been able to stand up to Martin things might have been better, but she was too nervous and frightened to hold her own. Hitherto the companion of her life had been a gentle and beloved sister who shared all her thoughts and understood them. She had had no experience of men. Once or twice she decided to make an effort to talk to Martin, to tell him about things she had seen when she was out shopping, but it was not a success.

  "Is that supposed to be amusing?" Martin would ask. "Am I supposed to laugh?"

  4

  The school where Martin taught was very draughty and he was scarcely ever without a cold. Anne worried about this and one day she bought a bottle of cough-mixture at the chemist's and put it on the table.

  "What's this rubbish?" asked Martin.

  "For your cold. You've had that cough for weeks and— "

  "What d'you mean by wasting money on rubbish?"

  "But it isn't rubbish. It's good. It says so on the bottle—"

  "It says on the bottle!" jeered Martin. "Well of course it says on the bottle . . . The people who make the filthy brew want to sell it. That's how they make their money— by taking in fools with a lot of flap-doodle."

  "I thought—it might—do you good," said Anne shakily.

  "So you spent half a crown on the stuff! If you had spent the money on a decent piece of steak and taken the trouble to cook it properly it would have been more sensible. Heavens, why did I have to marry a fool!"

  Anne said nothing. She had been told so often that she was a fool that she had come to believe it . . . and it was true that she said and did foolish things especially when she was scared. Certainly by Martin's standards she was uneducated and by any standard she was ignorant of the world and its affairs. Her naïvete which had seemed to Martin so sweet and innocent now exasperated him and he made no secret of the fact. Sometimes he sneered at her openly and at other times he showed his disapproval without words—and Anne had become so sensitive to his moods that her heart fluttered at the curl of his hp or the scornful glance of his eye. So many things annoyed him and so many subjects were taboo that she was obliged to think carefully before she opened her mouth . . . usually she decided to remain silent. But this was not right either.

  "Chatty, aren't you?" asked Martin.

  "I was just—thinking— "

  "Thinking about Amberwell, I suppose?"

  Quite often it was true. Anne thought about Amberwell constantly, she dreamt about Amberwell and awoke thinking she was there (in her own little bed with Nell beside her) she would turn and stretch out her hand for comfort and assurance . . . and then she would remember. It was not Nell who lay beside her in the other bed. It was not a loving friend. There was no comfort to be found in her companion.

  The home-sickness which Anne suffered was almost unbearable. As she went about her daily work trying to clean the little flat—so stuffy and airless in the hot summer months—she saw visions of Amberwell with its wide spaces, its trees and flowers and emerald green lawns. She could smell the cl^an cool air and hear the sea splashing upon the sandy beach. The visions tore her heart so that part of the time she scarcely knew what she was doing. It was only now when Amberwell was lost to her forever that she realised to the full its sweet enchantment and understood what Aunt Beatrice must have felt when she was exiled. Aunt Beatrice had thought marriage would break the spell and perhaps a happy marriage might have broken it—but not this marriage. Amberwell held Anne spellbound.

  The little flat was horrible but it was almost more horrible to venture forth into the streets that surrounded it. Anne had never lived in a town before and the noise and the crowds of jostling people alarmed her. It seemed to her that the very air of London was tainted and unfit to breathe. She knew nobody of course and she dared not spend money upon bus fares (it was Martin's money and she was obliged to account to him for every penny) so she saw nothing of London except the dreary streets where she shopped. It never occurred to Martin to take her to see the sights of London and she was far too frightened of him to suggest it. Martin spent his Sundays lying in bed and reading the papers. Sundays were even more unbearable to Anne than the other days of the week.

  The shadow of approaching war loomed darker and darker during that summer of 1939. In the shops and in the streets people were talking about Hitler. What would he do next? What would happen to London if there was another war?

  One evening in July Martin returned from school in unusually good spirits.

  "I'm giving up my job," he said. "I'm going to enlist."

  Anne gazed at him in surprise.

  "Why not?" asked Martin. "I'm sick to death of teaching snotty little boys. It's much better to enlist now than to wait until I'm called up. Have you any objection?"

  Anne still said nothing. She was aware that Martin's question was merely rhetorical, he did not care whether or not she objected.

  "You'll have to get a job," Martin continued. "You'd better look about for something. Even a nit-wit can get some sort of a job nowadays."

  "I suppose I could . . ." said Anne thoughtfully. The idea was completely new but it was not unpleasant. Her life was so miserable that any change would be for the better. Perhaps she could get into one of the women's services if she tried.

  "Well, you aren't saying very much," declared Martin. "Most wives would be upset at the idea of their husband joining the Army. You'll be glad to see the last of me I suppose."

  "I shall be glad to leave this flat!" exclaimed Anne impulsively.

  Anne so seldom answered back that Martin was taken by surprise. "It's not a bad little flat—" he began.

  "It's dreadful!" cried Anne wildly. "It's the most horrible place I've ever seen! It's dark and dingy and depressing! It's driving me mad! If you were mewed up in it all day long—if you had to try and keep it clean—you would hate it as much as I do."

  "All right, don't lose your hair," muttered Martin. "Everyone knows you're used to a palace and to being waited on, hand and foot. If that's the sort of life you want you shouldn't have married a schoolmaster. A duke would be more in your line."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  1

  Martin Selby was not accepted for the Army. When he went up for his Medical Examination the doctor told him he had tuberculosis in the lung. The doctor was efficient and kind; he assured Martin that the disease was in its early stages and could be cured by proper treatment in a sanatorium; he told Martin to see his own doctor without delay. Instead of taking this sensible advice Martin decided that it was all nonsense, he could cure himself; hospitals were no good at all; what he needed was an open-air life. Nothing that Anne could say had any effect upon him except to make him angry and to confirm his intention.

  It was not difficult to get a job; so many young men were being called up for the Services that farmers were only too glad to get anybody to work for them however inexperienced he might be. Martin had the offer of several jobs and eventually settled to go to Mr. Steele who ran a big market-garden about forty miles from London and grew fruit and vegetables. There was a tiny cottage on the estate, a mean little place consisting of two rooms and a lean-to shed which could be used for washing. There was no gas and no electricity and no facilities for heating water. The little cottage had been empty for years and was in very bad repair but Mr. Steele patched it up for the Selbys and they moved in. Martin grumbled about it continuously but Anne was so thankful to leave the flat that she would have consented to live in any sort of hovel. At least the little cottage was bright and airy and could be kept clean. There were no smuts to drift in at the windows and spread their oily film over everything . . . and although the place was very small one did not feel shut in, for one had only to open the door and step out into the garden.

  They had brought the furniture from the flat—the old pieces of ragged carpet and the ramshackle chairs and cupboards—and Anne managed to
pick up a wooden settle at a sale for a few shillings. She put it in the window of the sitting-room so that she could sit there in her scanty leisure moments and look out at the trees and the sky and see the birds hopping about the garden. Martin did not approve of the settle, of course, he said it had probably come out of a public house and made fun of its battered appearance, but for once Anne stood up to him.

  "I like it," she said. "It's very old. I expect it has an interesting history. If it could talk—"

  "If it could talk it would tell you about a lot of drunken yokels," jeered Martin . . . but he said no more and the settle remained where Anne had put it.

  There was no more talk of Anne finding a job. Martin was ill and needed her. She blamed herself for not noticing before that Martin was ill. Why had she not realised that he was losing weight and looking more haggard every day? Now that her eyes were opened she saw that he looked ghastly. She decided that she must try to be more patient with Martin's moods and more cheerful—and this was easier because she felt more cheerful herself. Life was not such a struggle and was not so dreary.

  Although Martin was getting less pay for his work in Harestone Gardens they were really much better off than they had been in London for they could have vegetables whenever they liked and Mr. Steele gave them free milk from his own cows. The people who lived in the other cottages on the estate were friendly and pleasant—it was delightful to have people to talk to. None of his fellow-workers liked Martin, they found him stuck-up and intolerant, but it was agreed that "young Mrs. Selby didn't give 'erself no airs" and she was accepted as one of the community.

  Several of Anne's neighbours made a habit of dropping in to see her and staying for a cup of tea and a chat. They discovered that she was willing to "mind the baby" while they went to the village to do their shopping. Old Mrs. Wight, who lived next door and kept house for her son, was a help to Anne in many ways and gave her hints about cooking. Mrs. Wight was apt to borrow things and forget to return them, for she was very old and her mind was not very clear, but all the same she was a land neighbour and a useful friend.

  In September, when war was declared, Anne and Martin were so dug in, so settled in their new life, that they were not very much affected by the news. Anne thought of Roger and wondered where he was. She thought of Amberwell and wondered who was looking after the gardens . . . but the spell of Amberwell was fading and although she often dreamt about the place she seldom thought of it in the daytime. Only occasionally was she gripped suddenly by a longing to see her home . . . to see Nell. It was unbearable while it lasted and could only be banished by seizing a spade and digging in the little cottage garden or by a visit to old Mrs. Wight.

  All this time Anne had heard nothing from her family, nor had she expected to hear. She had been half crazy with misery in London but now she was sane and she began to wonder whether it would be any use writing home. Perhaps she should write to her mother and say she was sorry for the foolish way she had behaved. In a few months Anne had grown up, she was no longer a silly ignorant girl, she was a serious-minded woman. The change had taken place so quickly that she was able to measure her growth. She saw her foolishness so clearly that she could not understand why she had not seen it before. She could not understand why she had allowed herself to be pushed into Martin's arms by Aunt Beatrice. There was no sense in it. She must have been mad!

  One day she sat down with pen and paper and began a letter to her mother—but she did not get far. She realised that the whole thing was hopeless. She could say she was sorry and ask for forgiveness but what was the use of that? Even if they forgave her and asked her to go home she could not go. Martin was ill and needed her, she could not go without Martin, and the idea of taking Martin to Amberwell was out of the question . . . Martin at Amberwell!

  Anne rose and put away her writing materials and went in to see Mrs. Wight.

  "Come in, dearie," said Mrs. Wight. "I wis jist goin' to make a cuppa. Did I ever tell you about when I was kitching-maid at the big 'ouse?"

  Anne had heard about it half-a-dozen times but she sat down and listened to it again.

  The Selbys had been at Harestone for nearly a year when Anne's baby was born. Anne would have liked to call the baby Elinor, but Martin would not hear of this, so she was christened Emmeline after Martin's mother.

  The baby made a great deal of difference to Anne. Martin's habit of finding fault with everything she did ceased to depress her. Martin might think her useless and foolish, but little Emmie depended upon her for everything and repaid all her care. Little Emmie was a model baby; she was out all day lying in her pram, sleeping peacefully or watching the trees and the birds.

  By this time Martin was very much better; his cough had practically gone and in spite of the long hours of physical work he had put on weight. His spirits were better too and scarcely a day passed without his pointing out to Anne that he had been right and the doctor completely wrong.

  "Doctors don't know anything," declared Martin. "Their one idea is to cart you off to a hospital. If I had taken that doctor's advice I should be dead by now."

  His moods were still uncertain. Sometimes he was very difficult; he resented the baby as an added expense. It irritated him to come in and find her clothes airing in front of the fire, it enraged him if she cried—fortunately she did not often cry. At other times he would be quite amiable in his own peculiar way and would ask Anne what she had been doing. This was the old, old question but Anne had found that it must not be answered in the traditional way; when Martin asked what she had been doing he expected a detailed answer. She had to think quickly and choose out those details of her day's activities which would be least likely to annoy him. For instance it was out of the question to mention that she had been in to see Mrs. Wight ("That dreadful, common old woman!" Martin would exclaim. "What on earth did you go in there for!") but it was fairly safe to tell him she had been working in the gardens or washing the clothes.

  "Is that all you did?" he would say. "Well, you seem to have had an easy day. I've been working like a black—but I managed to score off old Steele."

  The pleasure which Martin took in "scoring off" his employer worried Anne considerably for if Martin really spoke to Mr. Steele as he reported it was a wonder that Mr. Steele did not sack him then and there . . . but Mr. Steele did not sack him and Anne concluded that the clever repartee could not have been uttered aloud; possibly it had only been thought of afterwards when the conversation was over.

  2

  One afternoon in May when Emmie was two years old Martin returned from his work early complaining of feeling shivery. The rubber boots which he always wore were leaking and his feet were soaking wet. Anne helped him to bed, filled hot-water-bottles and made him a hot drink—and for once he seemed grateful for her ministrations.

  His gratitude worried Anne. It was so unlike Martin. She had a feeling that he must be ill. She worried about Martin all night and by the next morning it was obvious that her fears were justified and that he was very ill indeed: he was burning and shivering by turns and coughing continuously.

  "It's just a little cold, that's all," said Martin hoarsely. "It's nothing. I'll be better tomorrow. Don't let them take me to the hospital."

  "We had better get the doctor," said Anne in anxious tones.

  "AU right, perhaps you'd better, but I won't go to the hospital."

  Dr. Frome had attended Anne when her baby was born so she knew him well, and liked him. He came in the afternoon and examined his patient carefully. Then he looked round the miserable little cottage.

  "We'll get you into hospital," he said.

  "No, you won't," said Martin in his husky whisper. "I won't go to the hospital. I shall be all right in a day or two—"

  "He doesn't like hospitals," explained Anne.

  "Mrs. Selby, he must go to hospital," said Dr. Frome earnestly. "You can't possibly nurse him here."

  Anne did not know what to do; she was only too well aware of the inconveniences of
the little house and of her own shortcomings as a nurse, but she was also aware of Martin's dread of hospitals.

  "I don't want to go to the hospital," croaked Martin. "I can't stand hospitals. All I ask is to be allowed to lie here on my own bed until I'm better. I suppose it would be too much bother to make me a hot drink now and then and fill a hot-water-bottle. That's all the nursing I want."

  "It isn't a question of bother," said Dr. Frome. "I'm quite sure Mrs. Selby is willing to do everything she can, but this house is unsuitable for illness and you'll get better much more quickly in hospital. I'll send the ambulance for you."

  "I shall die if you send me to the hospital," declared Martin.

  They argued with him kindly but it was useless and after a few minutes Dr. Frome took his leave.

  Anne followed the doctor into the garden. "What are we to do?" she asked in despair.

  "He must be moved to hospital," replied Dr. Frome. "He's very ill and he needs skilled nursing and proper treatment. It would be madness to keep him here."

  "But, Dr. Frome—"

  "Don't worry too much, Mrs. Selby. Quite a lot of my patients say they'll die if I send them to hospital and when they get there they settle down comfortably and decide to get better." He smiled at her kindly and went away.

  Martin was moved into hospital that evening (by which time he was too ill to care) but he did not get better; he died of pneumonia three days later.

  3

  Anne had found it impossible to love Martin but she had not known her real feelings about him until now. She could grieve for Martin, of course—poor Martin had had a wretched life—but she could not grieve on her own account however hard she tried. It distressed her to discover that instead of feeling miserable without his companionship she felt as if a cloud had vanished from the sky. She ought to feel miserable, she ought to be lonely and unhappy, but she was not. Her neighbours were very kind. Mrs. Wight came in with a pathetic little gift of butter and a few spoonfuls of tea from her own meagre rations and besought Anne to "bear up."