‘I don’t know,’ said Joan uncertainly, ‘why I should tell you all this –’
‘But naturally because you wish to tell someone – you wish to speak of it – it is in your mind and you want to talk of it, that is natural enough.’
‘I’m usually very reserved.’
Sasha looked amused.
‘And so proud of it like all English people. Oh, you are a very curious race – but very curious. So shamefaced, so embarrassed by your virtues, so ready to admit, to boast of your deficiencies.’
‘I think you are exaggerating slightly,’ said Joan stiffly.
She felt suddenly very British, very far away from the exotic, pale-faced woman in the opposite corner of the carriage, the woman to whom, a minute or two previously, she had confided a most intimate personal experience.
Joan said in a conventional voice, ‘Are you going through on the Simplon Orient?’
‘No, I stay a night in Stamboul and then I go to Vienna.’ She added carelessly, ‘It is possible that I shall die there, but perhaps not.’
‘Do you mean –’ Joan hesitated, bewildered, ‘that you’ve had a premonition?’
‘Ah no,’ Sasha burst out laughing. ‘No, it is not like that! It is an operation I am going to have there. A very serious operation. Not very often is it that it succeeds. But they are good surgeons in Vienna. This one to whom I am going – he is very clever – a Jew. I have always said it would be stupid to annihilate all the Jews in Europe. They are clever doctors and surgeons, yes, and they are clever artistically too.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Joan. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Because I may be going to die? But what does it matter? One has to die some time. And I may not die. I have the idea, if I live, that I will enter a convent I know of – a very strict order. One never speaks – it is perpetual meditation and prayer.’
Joan’s imagination failed to conceive of a Sasha perpetually silent and meditating.
Sasha went on gravely, ‘There will be much prayer needed soon – when the war comes.’
‘War?’ Joan stared.
Sasha nodded her head.
‘But yes, certainly war is coming. Next year, or the year after.’
‘Really,’ said Joan. ‘I think you are mistaken.’
‘No, no. I have friends who are very well informed and they have told me so. It is all decided.’
‘But war where – against whom?’
‘War everywhere. Every nation will be drawn in. My friends think that Germany will win quite soon, but I – I do not agree. Unless they can win very very quickly indeed. You see, I know many English and Americans and I know what they are like.’
‘Surely,’ said Joan, ‘nobody really wants war.’
She spoke incredulously.
‘For what else does the Hitler Youth movement exist?’
Joan said earnestly, ‘But I have friends who have been in Germany a good deal, and they think that there is a lot to be said for the Nazi movement.’
‘Oh la la,’ cried Sasha. ‘See if they say that in three years’ time.’
Then she leaned forward as the train drew slowly to a standstill.
‘See, we have come to the Cilician Gates. It is beautiful, is it not? Let us get out.’
They got out of the train and stood looking down through the great gap in the mountain chain to the blue, hazy plains beneath …
It was close on sunset and the air was exquisitely cool and still.
Joan thought: How beautiful …
She wished Rodney was here to see it with her.
Chapter Twelve
Victoria …
Joan felt her heart beating with sudden excitement.
It was good to be home.
She felt, just for a moment, as though she had never been away. England, her own country. Nice English porters … A not so nice, but very English, foggy day!
Not romantic, not beautiful, just dear old Victoria station just the same as ever, looking just the same, smelling just the same!
Oh, thought Joan, I’m glad to be back.
Such a long, weary journey, across Turkey and Bulgaria and Yugoslavia and Italy and France. Customs officers, and passport examinations. All the different uniforms, all the different languages. She was tired – yes, definitely tired – of foreigners. Even that extraordinary Russian woman who had travelled with her from Alep to Stamboul had got rather tiresome in the end. She had been interesting – indeed quite exciting – to begin with, simply because she was so different. But by the time they had been running down beside the Sea of Marmora to Haidar Pacha, Joan had been definitely looking forward to their parting. For one thing it was embarrassing to remember how freely, she, Joan, had talked about her own private affairs to a complete stranger. And for another – well, it was difficult to put it into words – but something about her had made Joan feel definitely provincial. Not a very pleasant feeling. It had been no good to say to herself that she hoped she, Joan, was as good as anybody! She didn’t really think so. She felt uneasily conscious that Sasha, for all her friendliness, was an aristocrat whilst she herself was middle class, the unimportant wife of a country solicitor. Very stupid, of course, to feel like that …
But anyway all that was over now. She was home again, back on her native soil.
There was no one to meet her for she had sent no further wire to Rodney to tell him when she was arriving.
She had had a strong feeling that she wanted to meet Rodney in their own house. She wanted to be able to start straight away on her confession without pause or delay. It would be easier, so she thought.
You couldn’t very well ask a surprised husband for forgiveness on the platform at Victoria!
Certainly not on the arrival platform, with its hurrying mob of people, and the Customs sheds at the end.
No, she would spend the night quietly at the Grosvenor and go down to Crayminster tomorrow.
Should she, she wondered, try and see Averil first? She could ring Averil up from the hotel.
Yes, she decided. She might do that.
She had only hand luggage with her and as it had already been examined at Dover, she was able to go with her porter straight to the hotel.
She had a bath and dressed and then rang up Averil. Fortunately Averil was at home.
‘Mother? I’d no idea you were back.’
‘I arrived this afternoon.’
‘Is Father up in London?’
‘No. I didn’t tell him when I was arriving. He might have come up to meet me – and that would be a pity if he’s busy – tiring for him.’
She thought that she heard a faint note of surprise in Averil’s voice as she said:
‘Yes – I think you were right. He’s been very busy lately.’
‘Have you seen much of him?’
‘No. He was up in London for the day about three weeks ago and we had lunch together. What about this evening, Mother? Would you like to come out and have dinner somewhere?’
‘I’d rather you came here, darling, if you don’t mind. I’m a little tired with travelling.’
‘I expect you must be. All right, I’ll come round.’
‘Won’t Edward come with you?’
‘He’s got a business dinner tonight.’
Joan put down the receiver. Her heart was beating a little faster than usual. She thought, Averil – my Averil …
How cool and liquid Averil’s voice was … calm, detached, impersonal.
Half an hour later they telephoned up that Mrs Harrison-Wilmott was there and Joan went down.
Mother and daughter greeted each other with English reserve. Averil looked well, Joan thought. She was not quite so thin. Joan felt a faint thrill of pride as she went with her daughter into the dining-room. Averil was really very lovely, so delicate and distinguished looking.
They sat down at a table and Joan got a momentary shock as she met her daughter’s eyes.
They were so cool and uninterested …
Averil,
like Victoria Station, had not changed.
It’s I who have changed, thought Joan, but Averil doesn’t know that.
Averil asked about Barbara and about Baghdad. Joan recounted various incidents of her journey home. Somehow or other, their talk was rather difficult. It did not seem to flow. Averil’s inquiries after Barbara were almost perfunctory. It really seemed as though she had an inkling that more pertinent questions might be indiscreet. But Averil couldn’t know anything of the truth. It was just her usual delicate, incurious attitude.
The truth, Joan thought suddenly, how do I know it is the truth? Mightn’t it, just possibly, be all imagination on her part? After all, there was no concrete evidence …
She rejected the idea, but the mere passing of it through her head had given her a shock. Supposing she was one of those people who imagined things …
Averil was saying in her cool voice, ‘Edward has got it into his head that there’s bound to be war with Germany one day.’
Joan roused herself.
‘That’s what a woman on the train said. She seemed quite certain about it. She was rather an important person, and she really seemed to know what she was talking about. I can’t believe it. Hitler would never dare to go to war.’
Averil said thoughtfully, ‘Oh, I don’t know …’
‘Nobody wants war, darling.’
‘Well, people sometimes get what they don’t want.’
Joan said decidedly, ‘I think all this talk of it is very dangerous. It puts ideas into people’s heads.’
Averil smiled.
They continued to talk in rather a desultory fashion. After dinner, Joan yawned, and Averil said she wouldn’t stay and keep her up – she must be tired.
Joan said, Yes, she was rather tired.
On the following day Joan did a little shopping in the morning and caught the 2.30 train to Crayminster. That would get her there just after four o’clock. She would be waiting for Rodney when he came home at tea time from the office …
She looked out of the carriage window with appreciation. Nothing much in the way of scenery to see this time of year – bare trees, a faint, misty rain falling – but how natural, how homelike. Baghdad with its crowded bazaars, its brilliant blue domed and golden mosques, was far away – unreal – it might never have happened. That long, fantastic journey, the plains of Anatolia, the snows and mountain scenery of the Taurus, the high, bare plains – the long descent through mountain gorges to the Bosphorus, Stamboul with its minarets, the funny ox wagons of the Balkans – Italy with the blue Adriatic Sea glistening as they left Trieste – Switzerland and the Alps in the darkening light – a panorama of different sights and scenes – and all ending in this – this journey home through the quiet winter countryside …
I might never have been away, thought Joan. I might never have been away …
She felt confused, unable to co-ordinate her thoughts clearly. Seeing Averil last night had upset her – Averil’s cool eyes looking at her, calm, incurious. Averil, she thought, hadn’t seen any difference in her. Well, after all, why should Averil see a difference?
It wasn’t her physical appearance that had changed.
She said very softly to herself, ‘Rodney …’
The glow came back – the sorrow – the yearning for love and forgiveness …
She thought, It’s all true … I am beginning a new life …
She took a taxi up from the station. Agnes opened the door and displayed a flattering surprise and pleasure.
The Master, Agnes said, would be pleased.
Joan went up to her bedroom, took off her hat, and came down again. The room looked a little bare, but that was because it had no flowers in it.
I must cut some laurel tomorrow, she thought, and get some carnations from the shop at the corner.
She walked about the room feeling nervous and excited.
Should she tell Rodney what she had guessed about Barbara? Supposing that, after all –
Of course it wasn’t true! She had imagined the whole thing. Imagined it all because of what that stupid woman Blanche Haggard – no, Blanche Donovan – had said. Really, Blanche had looked too terrible – so old and coarse.
Joan put her hand to her head. She felt as though, within her brain, was a kaleidoscope. She had had a kaleidoscope as a child and loved it, had held her breath as all the coloured pieces whirled and revolved, before settling down into a pattern …
What had been the matter with her?
That horrible rest house place and that very odd experience she had had in the desert … She had imagined all sorts of unpleasant things – that her children didn’t like her – that Rodney had loved Leslie Sherston (of course he hadn’t – what an idea! Poor Leslie). And she had even been regretful because she had persuaded Rodney out of that extraordinary fancy of his to take up farming. Really, she had been very sensible and far-seeing …
Oh dear, why was she so confused? All those things she had been thinking and believing – such unpleasant things …
Were they actually true? Or weren’t they? She didn’t want them to be true.
She’d got to decide – she’d got to decide …
What had she got to decide?
The sun – thought Joan – the sun was very hot. The sun does give you hallucinations …
Running in the desert … falling on her hands and knees … praying …
Was that real?
Or was this?
Madness – absolute madness the things she had been believing. How comfortable, how pleasant to come home to England and feel you had never been away. That everything was just the same as you had always thought it was …
And of course everything was just the same.
A kaleidoscope whirling … whirling …
Settling presently into one pattern or the other.
Rodney, forgive me – I didn’t know …
Rodney, here I am. I’ve come home!
Which pattern? Which? She’d got to choose.
She heard the sound of the front door opening – a sound she knew so well – so very well …
Rodney was coming.
Which pattern? Which pattern? Quick!
The door opened. Rodney came in. He stopped, surprised.
Joan came quickly forward. She didn’t look at once at his face. Give him a moment, she thought, give him a moment…
Then she said gaily, ‘Here I am, Rodney … I’ve come home …’
Epilogue
Rodney Scudamore sat in the small, low-backed chair while his wife poured out tea, and clanked the teaspoons, and chattered brightly about how nice it was to be home again and how delightful it was to find everything exactly the same and that Rodney wouldn’t believe how wonderful it was to be back in England again, and back in Crayminster, and back in her own home!
On the windowpane a big bluebottle, deceived by the unusual warmth of the early November day, buzzed importantly up and down the glass.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, went the bluebottle.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle went Joan Scudamore’s voice.
Rodney sat smiling and nodding his head.
Noises, he thought, noises …
Meaning everything to some people, and nothing at all to others.
He had been mistaken, he decided, in thinking that there was something wrong with Joan when she first arrived. There was nothing wrong with Joan. She was just the same as usual. Everything was just the same as usual.
Presently Joan went upstairs to see to her unpacking, and Rodney went across the hall to his study where he had brought some work home from the office.
But first he unlocked the small top right-hand drawer of his desk and took out Barbara’s letter. It had come by Air Mail and had been sent off a few days before Joan’s departure from Baghdad.
It was a long closely written letter and he knew it now almost by heart. Nevertheless, he read it through again, dwelling a little on the last page.
– So now I have told you everythin
g, darling Dads. I daresay you guessed most of it already. You needn’t worry about me. I do realize just what a criminal, wicked little fool I have been. Remember, Mother knows nothing. It wasn’t too easy keeping it all from her, but Dr McQueen played up like a trump and William was wonderful. I really don’t know what I should have done without him – he was always there, ready to fend Mother off, if things got difficult. I felt pretty desperate when she wired she was coming out. I know you must have tried to stop her, darling, and that she just wouldn’t be stopped – and I suppose it was really rather sweet of her in a way – only of course she had to rearrange our whole lives for us and it was simply maddening, and I felt too weak to struggle much! I’m only just beginning to feel that Mopsy is my own again! She is sweet. I wish you could see her. Did you like us when we were babies, or only later? Darling Dads, I’m so glad I had you for a father. Don’t worry about me. I’m all right now.
Your loving Babs.
Rodney hesitated a moment, holding the letter. He would have liked to have kept it. It meant a great deal to him – that written declaration of his daughter’s faith and trust in him.
But in the exercise of his profession he had seen, only too often, the dangers of kept letters. If he were to die suddenly Joan would go through his papers and come across it, and it would cause her needless pain. No need for her to be hurt and dismayed. Let her remain happy and secure in the bright, confident world that she had made for herself.
He went across the room and dropped Barbara’s letter into the fire. Yes, he thought, she would be all right now. They would all be all right. It was for Barbara he had feared most – with her unbalanced deeply emotional temperament. Well, the crisis had come and she had escaped, not unscathed, but alive. And already she was realizing that Mopsy and Bill were truly her world. A good fellow, Bill Wray. Rodney hoped that he hadn’t suffered too much.
Yes, Barbara would be all right. And Tony was all right in his orange groves in Rhodesia – a long way away, but all right – and that young wife of his sounded the right kind of girl. Nothing had ever hurt Tony much – perhaps it never would. He had that sunny type of mind.
And Averil was all right too. As always, when he thought of Averil, it was pride he felt, not pity. Averil with her dry legal mind, and her passion for understatement. Averil, with her cool, sarcastic tongue. So rocklike, so staunch, so strangely unlike the name they had given her.
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