In the Middle of the Fields

by Mary Lavin

  He waved her away again. ‘Leave them,’ he said again. Then he looked at her cunningly. ‘That’s part of what we are paying her for, isn’t it? How much is her salary anyway?’

  Oh, why had she brought up the subject. ‘That’s my worry, Father,’ she said firmly. Before he went into the hospital he had arranged for her to have a power of attorney. Once or twice he questioned her as to how she was managing, but only in a vague way, and gradually she had taken full responsibility. As his sole heir anyway, she felt it was virtually her own money she was spending. Unconsciously, all the same, at the back of her mind there had been times when she paused outside the sick-room, and imagined that when she opened the door she’d be confronted by him, fully restored to his old vigour, his eyes blazing, demanding an account of every penny. This, of course, she no longer imagined, but all the same she heartily wished she had not mentioned money. ‘Her wages are not much; really they’re not,’ she lied. ‘And she’s well worth every penny we pay her, isn’t she?’ she said, forcing out the words.

  It was sad to see how readily he lent himself to her deception. ‘We’re very lucky to get a girl like her,’ he said. ‘What’s keeping her, I wonder?’

  ‘She’ll be up in a minute I’m sure, Father,’ Vera said, but she couldn’t resist giving him a dig. ‘I don’t think we should grudge her any time she spends below. Only for Lily’s company she mightn’t stay. It’s very lonely here, you know, and neither you nor I have much to offer her.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said, but so lukewarmly she had an uneasy feeling her words had done more harm than good, because when he next spoke it was with a burst of his old energy. ‘What are you waiting for. Why don’t you get that chair?’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll try and get some sleep,’ he said. ‘I want to save my strength all I can.’

  Save it for what? For that nurse, she supposed. Dejectedly, she left him and went out on to the landing. As she did there was another peal of laughter down below, and tears came into her eyes. Lily too had taken to the creature. What did they talk about? Probably about fellows. Vera sighed. She hoped at least they would not gossip about her. And, as she stood on the cold landing it seemed to her that in her own home she had no place. She was not wanted, upstairs or down. But just then the kitchen door opened and she heard footsteps in the hall below. Hastily she dried her eyes as Rita came running to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Oh, there you are!’ the nurse said.

  Was it imagination, or did Rita look at her with a more lively interest? But then the nurse looked more interesting to her too, less lumpy and heavy. Her big brown eyes, like berries that had ripened, were warmer, softer. And as she came up the stairs two at a time she was smiling. Half way up she stopped. Her hands were behind her back. ‘Which hand will you have?’ she called out gaily.

  A letter?

  ‘Lily forgot to give it to you in all the fuss,’ said Rita. ‘A little bird told me you were expecting it.’ So they had been talking about her. But evidently not disparagingly.

  Filled with joy Vera took the letter. ‘Thank you,’ she said so earnestly Rita laughed.

  ‘You’d think I wrote it,’ Rita said. ‘Off with you now and read it.’ Vera was touched by her friendliness, and as well she felt absolved from the guilt of having said she might be going to Australia, for the letter made that seem less of a lie. But when she went into her room and sat down on her bed her heart went chill with apprehension. Suppose Alan was annoyed with her for having written. That his letter might not be a reply to hers at all simply did not occur to her, not until she was half-way down the first page.

  Dear Vera,

  I won’t try to tell you how I felt when the boat sailed. You must have known how I’d feel. But it isn’t to blame you that I write. Far from it, Vera. And I know that if you were here with me now I could imagine no greater happiness, because apart altogether from my own feelings of emptiness and desolation, the voyage itself promises to be very enjoyable. We left London—

  At this point she stopped, realising he had not got her letter, and her hands began to tremble. He too was not able to endure a total severance. Her eyes flew back to the closely written page.

  We left London in fog, but we weren’t long at sea till the mists lifted and gave many of us, myself included, the mixed pleasure of seeing the last of the islands we were leaving perhaps forever. It was a beautiful sight, that coastline.

  I have had my deck-chair put on the promenade deck which is covered, but the deck steward tells me that by tomorrow it may be finer, and probably much warmer, so if I wish I can have myself moved out on to the main deck which is open. At the moment it is pretty windy out there, and while I write this (in the ship’s library which is also up on the sun deck) I can see a few hardy souls who are taking a stroll, holding on for dear life to their caps and headscarves. I could do with a bit of a blow myself before dinner, but I want to get this written, and there is not much time now before the gong goes. Dinner is served at 6.30, first sitting that is, but actually I am on second sitting, having been advised by the dining steward who is a very obliging fellow – looking already to his tip no doubt – that although the food is the same, the service at the second sitting is a bit better. Less rush, I suppose. It will give me more time to enjoy the daylight when we get further south. I expect I’ll have to do a good many turns around the deck each day because the food so far seems very rich. They say that six times around the deck is equal to a mile. It’s hard to believe, but everyone tells me it is so. I must say the passengers are all very friendly. Life on board is clearly going to be very sociable. There is no need for anyone to be alone unless by choice. It is surprising, mind you, how many couples have formed already. Some of course came aboard together, but in general I’d say they paired off since we sailed. There is, I suppose, a special need for friendship in those who, like me, are emigrating, and cutting so many ties.

  I must tell you a funny mistake I made with regard to a couple at my table. I thought they were married because I’d seen them together in the embarkation-shed, but it seems they had just met and hooked up together. It was a bit embarrassing all round when my mistake was made known, but they took it in good part and we had a laugh over it. But oh, Vera, when I see them arm in arm, I think how lucky they are, and I can’t help thinking that that is the way you and I would have been if things had gone as they should have gone for us. But I suppose it was not to be! I must try and put you out of my mind.

  That reminds me, I must tell you another odd thing. Today on the promenade deck I saw a young woman seemingly like myself alone. And oh, Vera, she was so like you. It was uncanny really.

  For a moment I was mad enough to think it was you, that you’d thrown your scruples to the winds and followed me. As if you would! Truly though, Vera, the likeness in profile anyway was remarkable. When she turned around I could see, of course, she was much rounder in the face than you, although there was still something about her eyes and the shape of her forehead and even the way she wore her hair that almost broke my heart. You should have seen the look she gave me though, when she caught me staring at her. I can’t say I blamed her. She must have thought I was batty staring at her so hard. I suppose I should have done the civilised thing and explained my reason to her. I’ll have to do so if I meet her again at close quarters, which is likely enough I suppose, because this is not a very large ship, although the passenger list is long.

  Do you know that we travelled at 17 knots yesterday and 18 knots today. These facts I learned from the bulletin board outside the purser’s office. But how silly I am! These bulletins can mean little to you. Why do I tell you about them, you may ask? Ah, but tell me why am I writing this letter at all? I can hear you saying I have not the courage of my convictions. And you are right. Our decision to make a clean break was the only sane one. But do not blame me too much for trying to let myself down lightly. I promise I will try hard not to transgr
ess again. Let us regard this as another farewell. Goodbye and God bless you. Give my respects to your father. I hope he is well. I’d like to know what he thought of our parting, but now I suppose I’ll never know.

  Alan

  She put down the letter. Her joy in it had been clouded. Two farewells! As if one was not bad enough. Well, by now he would have got her letter. She’d probably have another communication from him soon, a cable perhaps? And for the rest of the voyage, he need not feel so bereft. How well she knew the poignancy of the moment when that strange woman reminded him of her. She herself a dozen times, when she went to Dublin, had fancied some hurrying stranger in the street to be him, only to find that, close-up, there would be no vestige of resemblance, and what seemed a concession of memory was only an ugly trick of the eye. But oh, if that woman on the ship had in fact been her! For a long time she sat on her bed thinking of him, but although there was a chance that now she might, after all, be joining him some day, her sadness was not lessened. A forfeit had already been paid – their voyage out together.

  But what was going on outside on the landing? For some time Vera had been vaguely aware of noises, pushings and shovings, and now Rita and Lily were running down the stairs giggling. She opened her door. The door of the sick-room was open too, and she could see her father lying on his side facing the wall. At her step he turned round. ‘Where were you?’ he asked crossly. ‘They had to do everything themselves.’

  Surprised she saw that the big wardrobe in which his clothes had been kept was gone, and in its place was a moth-eaten red plush armchair that used to be in Lily’s room. The pictures had been taken down too. And the ornaments were gone from the mantelshelf. ‘Well, what do you think of it?’ he asked, thawing a bit, because he was himself so pleased.

  ‘It’s nice and airy certainly, Father,’ she said cautiously. Did he not see that it was the appurtenances of life that had been taken away? The bareness of the room frightened her.

  ‘Rita is going to take up the carpet tomorrow,’ he said, and Lily’s going to scrub the floor. ‘It’ll be cool for the summer.’

  Involuntarily Vera glanced out of the window. All week an east wind had driven across the land and blackened the early blossoms. ‘Summer is still a long way off,’ she said, and in her voice there must have been a latent bitterness, because he looked at her sharply. Then he reached out and caught her hand. ‘Do you ever hear from him?’

  ‘Is it Alan?’ she said stupidly. Alan’s name had never been uttered by either of them since the day the sick man insinuated that she’d been let down. She hesitated. ‘I had a letter some time ago, Father.’

  ‘I knew you would,’ he said complacently. ‘He’ll want you to go out to him. That will be the next thing.’ To her astonishment she saw that the expression on his face was one of satisfaction. ‘Mark my words, that’s what will happen,’ he said. ‘You’ll be going out to him one of these days.’ He must mean when he’d be gone. How nicely he’d settled things in his own regard, she thought.

  She ought to be glad that he was not a prey to remorse, that his mind was at ease about her. But she could only shake her head. ‘Who knows,’ she said, and she turned away.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s no knowing what is in store for us.’ But the bareness of the room had begun to depress her and she made an excuse to leave him.

  If life had ebbed from the sick-room, the rest of the house teemed with life. Lily and Rita had only to be together in the kitchen for five minutes and the din was deafening. Rita was so different from what Vera had first taken her to be. She was so cheerful and so gay. Like a joybell she rang out happiness all day. As time went on she gave a hand with everything, peeling potatoes, scraping vegetables, drying up dishes. Prodigal of herself in all directions, she helped Vera too, mending torn linen, darning, and even doing a bit of dressmaking for Lily on the side. Her effect on Lily was extraordinary. The girl went about her work in a whirl, she too, giddily doing chores for everyone. One day she washed the doctor’s car when he was upstairs with the patient.

  It was with the patient though that Rita had her greatest success. Vera blushed to remember the suspicions she had had of her on the first day. It was true Rita flirted with him but this was soon understood by all to be a kind of charity. It helped the sick man to keep up appearances in the face of his steady deterioration. To Vera’s amazement, Rita brought out a foppishness in him of which she herself had never imagined him capable, though she wondered if he might not be lending himself voluntarily to the blandishments; playing a part in a kind of ritual. There was about the sick­room at times the blended gaiety and gloom of carnival.

  One day a strange thought crossed Vera’s mind. She had often tried, without success, to imagine what it would be like to be married to Alan. Now listening to the happy babble of voices in the house, and seeing day run into day, purposeful and busy, she began to think that if she were married and had a few children, this, perhaps, was what her life would be like. To lovers, love might seem an isolated place, shutting them in, and shutting out the world, but channelled into marriage, might it not quickly become a populous place from which, in time, another generation would have to seek escape? Vera smiled at her thoughts. Her life at that moment was a good substitute for marriage.

  One day there was a greater commotion than usual down in the kitchen. Curious, Vera ran down. She found Rita was standing up on a chair rummaging in the big press in the corner.

  ‘—twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight!’ Rita counted. Then, hearing Vera come in, she turned around excitedly. ‘Did you forget you had all this jam stored away?’

  The jam! Vera had indeed forgotten.

  ‘Why didn’t you remind me, Lily?’ she cried, but she knew that Lily was afraid she’d feel bad knowing the jam had been made for Alan.

  ‘Have I put my foot in it?’ Rita jumped down off the chair, but she had a pot of jam in her hand.

  ‘Of course not,’ Vera said quickly. ‘It would have gone bad. I’m glad you found it. My father might try a little too.’

  ‘Oh good!’ cried Rita, but she had no sooner poked her finger into the wax seal on the top of the jar than her face fell. ‘It’s gone bad,’ she said.

  Lily grabbed the pot. ‘I’m sure it’s only the top that’s gone,’ she said loyally. ‘All home-made jam is like that.’ Snatching up a spoon she dug into it. But the lump of pink sugar that she prised out shot into the air and clattered like a hunk of rock on the floor. Both girls giggled nervously.

  ‘Take off a bit more, Lily,’ Rita urged, to cover up their embarrassment, although by the colour alone they could all see there was something wrong. A hoary whiteness glittered through the jar. ‘It’s turned into sugar I’m afraid,’ the nurse said dolefully. ‘A pity we can’t put it in our tea,’ she added, trying to make a joke of it.

  Vera, however, was unable to laugh.

  Impulsively Rita put an arm across her shoulders. ‘Never mind. Think what a good job you tried it out on us, and not on Someone Else.’

  There was tact. Vera had to smile. ‘I suppose we may as well throw it out,’ she said.

  But there was a streak of thrift in Rita. ‘Is there no use for it, I wonder? Wait a minute, if it’s turned into sugar it might be inflammable. We could use it to kindle the fire. Sugar is as good as paraffin. Let’s keep it another while.’

  Lily was the one who had doubts. ‘I’d throw it out,’ she said flatly. ‘It will only draw wasps.’

  ‘Wasps?’ Both Rita and Vera together pooh-pooh-ed this. ‘With the weather we’ve had for the past few summers I’d hardly know a wasp from a dodo,’ said Rita.

  Even Lily had to admit this was true. ‘You’d miss them too, mind you,’ she said. ‘Summer isn’t summer without them. God help them. They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them! Do you know something,’ she confided, ‘I often have to laugh at them, i
n their little black and yellow football jerseys.’

  ‘The Cavan colours! Oh, Lily, you’re a scream,’ said Rita.

  How Vera’s heart warmed to them. They were such good sorts. In spite of the shadow of death the house was a happy one. She herself was so happy that she was hardly surprised when there was a knock at the door just then and she opened it to the postman. A second letter had come.

  Like the last, this letter too was long. It was not written on ship’s paper, however, but bore the letterhead of an hotel in Gibraltar. And this time Vera knew immediately that it was not a reply to hers. Without reading a line, some of the good went out of it for her.

  Dear Vera,

  As you can see I am writing this in the Grand Hotel, Gibraltar, on the verandah as a matter of fact. I should have written last night but we had a gala dinner – the purser’s party – and I confess I was late getting down to my cabin. This morning I am going on one of the shore-excursions arranged by the ship’s officers and as it happens I have had an unexpected wait. But I am running on. I must explain myself. I really should have begun by telling you my reason for writing a second time. I’m sure you did not expect a letter, although this morning when I saw the mail bags on the deck it crossed my mind that there might have been one from you, oh, just a word of goodwill, Vera, nothing more, but I would have appreciated it. As it happened, we did not get our mail. Can you imagine, the launch that took us ashore was the same one that brought the passenger-mail aboard. So as we were carried away, we had the frustration of seeing the mail bags being dragged into the purser’s office for sorting.

  What was the meaning of this rambling rigmarole? Oh, it was too much. Vera was going to skip a bit until, near the end of the last page, a few words leapt at her.

  —and so it may be that in spite of everything, it will be to you that I will owe my life’s happiness. And that, Vera, is why I write to you in such haste. I want to give you a hint of what I dare to presume may be in store for me. And I want you to know how much I hope that for you too, the same happiness may be in store, of which the happiness we had together may have been only a foreshadowing.