by Ursula Bloom
‘Oh, how I wish we could dance!’ he said at last.
‘Oh, but we can, sir. Here behind the shrubbery there is a bit of lawn where no one can see.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll show you, sir.’
There was a small plateau of closely clipped grass completely concealed from the world, with a sundial in the centre, a regular lovers’ garden. She showed it to him proudly. They danced for a couple of dances, she moving clumsily by comparison with Kay Benson, but she had about her that rare quality that Kay would never possess, the exquisite joy of merely physical attraction. I must not go on like this, Aubrey kept telling himself, I must go back.
Already it was too late and in his heart he knew it.
Much later when he got into the Rover to drive home, he was aware of a certain sense of self-reproach, and of shame.
Four
Alice fretted. She loved Mr. Aubrey, and she kept telling herself that because she loved him so much and admired all his gentlemanly ways, the clumsy attentions of George Herrick began to irk her. George had always been supposed to be her ‘young man’. When she had first come to Thornhill, she had been flattered that George should be paying her attention, because it made Milly think more of her as she had a lover. Girlish confessions in the bedroom that smelt so rancidly of white-rose hair oil had made it clear from Milly that any girl who hoped to gain social status must have a young man. To be young-manless was anti-social. Milly herself was torn between the desirability of the postman, who was like Maurice Costello and therefore very handsome, and the gardener at the Hall, who had very good pay (and perks) but a T.B. lung.
Spurred on, Alice had therefore encouraged George Herrick, thinking this to be the right thing to do, so that every Sunday he waited for her at the end of the garden by the strawberry bed, and escorted her for a dull walk during which neither of them said very much but fostered the belief that it was highly enjoyable.
Mrs. Parkin disapproved of followers. Despite her misleading title, nobody had ever walked out Mrs. Parkin, and she had had no attention paid her save for a brief period in the late teens, when a one-eyed fish-monger had shown leanings towards her; but Mrs. Parkin had stopped any ‘nonsense’. She didn’t hold with marriage for the lower classes, warning the girls that one of these days they’d be getting themselves into trouble, and then they’d be sorry enough.
Milly was fast, but unattractive. Alice had a physical charm of which she was entirely unaware, and this, thought Mrs. Parkin, was a menace to her.
In the nights so full of summer sweetness, Alice could not chatter in the same way as Milly in the intimacy of their room, sitting on the beds and chewing cheap sweets. Milly was full of clever remarks that she would make given the opportunity, and the smart retorts she would snap back at her mistress, but Alice said little.
She was now distraught with anxiety as to whether any harm could come of what had taken place that night at Fincham Fête. She was afraid. Then everything had seemed lovely and serene, but now the loveliness had changed to fear, so that when she went out on Sundays with George Herrick she was quieter than before. He noticed it.
‘What’s the matter with you, Allie?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘But there must be summut?’
‘Nothing.’
The whole time she was comparing the harshness of his hands, horny from contact with the plough, as against the soft trembling hands of Aubrey. She knew that she was jarred by the strong sweaty smell of George’s clothes, contrasting so unfavourably with the brackish, tweedy flavour of her young master’s.
‘I just feel rotten,’ she said, hoping that this would serve as sufficient excuse.
‘You’re not ill?’ George was solicitous, for he was a kind young man, much in love with the girl, but in the way that a nurse cares for a tired child.
‘No, I’m not ill,’ she said.
The real trouble was that now she was almost sure that Aubrey was avoiding her. They had never actually met alone since that night. Then she had told herself that he would be sure to seek her out, and talk to her, and make love to her; but none of those dreams had materialized. They never met in the house save when she was fulfilling her duties, and Milly or his mother or father was there. Mrs. Parkin also kept a watchful eye. They seldom saw one another in the garden, he was obviously not attempting to cross the breach between them, and that in itself hurt her unbearably.
He’s tired of me, she thought.
The sweet chestnuts flowered by the gate, like feathery Christmas candles tufted with yellow, and scenting the world with a sick sweetness. The scabious came and died, and the early chrysanthemums blossomed by the stone Apollo, apricot pink. And all the time Alice felt bewildered by the conditions around her, and Aubrey’s skilful avoidance of her, and the haunting memory of something that had been so beautiful but which had died.
She fretted for the friendliness that had once existed between them, and because she fretted, she slept badly. One night when she was too hot, or too cold, or too restless, she lay awake it seemed all the time, only dropping off towards morning, then waking with a start full of that dreaded feeling of illness. She lay heavily still, her mouth filling with water, and swallowing it only to find it re-filled. What had she eaten last night? she asked in bewilderment. But she knew that it had been the same old bread and cheese which was Mrs. Parkin’s idea of fitness for the servants. She dragged herself up suddenly to get over to the basin, straining before she could reach it.
‘Oh, my Gawd!’ said the disgusted Milly, so rudely awakened.
Alice tottered back to bed, clutching her calico nightdress closer. ‘I feel awful,’ she said, her teeth chattering, ‘it’s billiousness! The cheese must have been bad.’
She lay very still and after a while felt better, so went downstairs, creeping about her work. Mrs. Parkin noticed nothing, and the whole thing passed off. During the morning the early adventure took the shape of a nightmare, something that Alice could not believe had really happened, and was awed by it and ashamed of it. She tried to make up to Milly, and because it was pay day bought her some sweets from the post office. Milly accepted them, but was openly offhand and disapproving. Three mornings later it happened again.
That was terrible. It meant that now she was terrified of waking, lest the horror should overtake her. Day after day she woke beset by the sickness. For most of the morning hours she felt limply restless, and once she thought that she caught the accusing eye of Mrs. Parkin upon her.
What is the matter? she thought helplessly. Surely it couldn’t be?
George had a rise of pay at the farm, and he said that he could marry at Michaelmas. He kept his mother in a little cottage that lay at the far end of the village isolated in a field; it had a dipping thatched roof and a dilapidated chimney, but the old-fashioned garden brimmed with flowers. His mother was tiny and thin, her teeth had gone for years and she ate on gums that had become toughened by usage; she peered through strings of grey hair and was like a sparrowhawk, Alice thought. She was afraid of the old woman’s strange appearance, but in reality it was only that, for Mrs. Herrick was entirely harmless.
‘Michaelmas,’ urged George.
‘But I’m only seventeen. I couldn’t.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I couldn’t. That’s why.’
It was queer how she thought that time would help her; she believed that ultimately she would be able to hide the truth, that she would escape it. Although she had been reared close to the earth, she was strangely blind to its urges. She had enjoyed the delights of youth and now her one terrified hope was that she would be able to cover everything up, and nobody would ever know.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Milly. ‘I think there’s something wrong, you always being sick like this. And it isn’t very nice for me.’
‘I’m always like it when the summer ends,’ lied Alice. It was the only excuse that she could think of.
‘I don’
t believe it.’
‘It’s true.’
‘My mum was like it when she had her last baby. I suppose it couldn’t be that?’
‘Of course it couldn’t,’ and she answered hotly, the colour flushing to her face, and only hoping that her voice sounded convincing.
‘My word, I wouldn’t give much for your life if it is that, and old Parkin finds out.’
‘It isn’t that, anyway.’
If she lied hard enough something would happen to help her; something must happen, she told herself, and clung to the pathetic faith in Providence. Then one of her little brothers at Fincham caught his hand in the chaffcutter, and her mother sent a message begging that Alice might return for the night.
‘Of course you’ll have to go,’ said Mrs. Parkin, ‘and a nuisance it is, I must say. Really, I don’t know who your mother thinks she is, sending for you like this.’
‘I’ll come back late.’
‘No, that you won’t! We can’t have you running all over the place after dark, and picking up with God alone knows who or what,’ said Mrs. Parkin. ‘You’ll stay with your mother like a decent girl.’
Walking to Fincham, Alice wondered what she would do if the horror came in the early morning as it very probably would. She dared not let her mother know. She walked over the fields, and when she arrived at the cottage the fetid smell recalled old times to her. The untidy living-room was cluttered with the residue of washing-day and the accumulation of uncleared meals, whilst three young brothers played on the untidy sofa that also served as a pantry. The contrast between this and Mrs. Parkin’s tidy kitchen, with the day lilies in blossom on the sill, was a shock.
Alice listened to the story of little Artie’s hand; he was now in hospital, there was much to be done, and no time to do it in; tears of self-pity came from her mother. Alice helped to get the children to bed. When her father returned from work, she found herself singularly out of humour with the aura of the cottage. Thornhill was so different.
Her people noticed nothing, because her father had come back full of the sharp thunderstorm that had struck a tree at Bailey’s farm, killing two beasts sheltering under it at the time. By nine all of them had gone to bed with the prospect of being up again at five.
Alice undressed by the light of a single candle, now terrified for the morning. She thought of Aubrey, of his kindliness and gentleness to her, the way he looked, and spoke. She lay down in the sour bed, between the hummocks of small bodies packed closer than a graveyard, and almost immediately she fell into one of those heavy, sweaty sleeps that nowadays always came to her.
She awoke to be sick. This time it was worse than ever, and the frightened children screamed for their mother, who came up to them. She stood watching her daughter. Nothing could deceive her. She was a woman of simple ethics; she thought of this as shame, she did not know what her husband would say when he knew, and ‒ worse still ‒ what the village would think.
‘It was that George Herrick,’ she said.
‘No, no, it wasn’t.’
She waited till Alice was fully recovered. Now she knew that she had a duty to fulfil, pursuing it with the obstinacy of only the very stupid. She walked back to Thornhill with her daughter. A black despair possessed Alice, making her completely indifferent to everything that happened, and she could not argue. They went up the garden with its abundant dark flowers of autumn, and suddenly the whole place seemed to have become strange. They went into the kitchen where Milly and Mrs. Parkin were having ‘elevenses’, black, sweet tea and the cake that because it threatened to go stale must be eaten. Mrs. Parkin knew instantly what had happened, she stared at them, and she said, ‘Tst. Tst. Tst,’ under her breath. When she could actually speak out aloud, she commented, ‘So that’s it, is it? Well, it don’t surprise me. Not one bit, it don’t.’
Milly, full of righteous indignation, looked reprovingly over her cup of tea. ‘Oh, my Gawd!’ said Milly, who was a common talker, ‘what did I tell you?’ and then went in to the morning-room to tell Mrs. Lester that Alice’s mother was here and wanted to see her.
Eventually Mrs. Lester saw Mrs. Carter after keeping her waiting a while just to show her her place. Mrs. Carter was confused by the grandeur of the place, and wanted to say as little as possible. She explained that Alice was in trouble, and would not tell her who the man was, protesting that there was no man, which of course was ‘just plain silly’.
‘We’ll see her,’ said Mrs. Lester, and rang the bell with that unembarrassed composure that little Mrs. Carter found most difficult of all.
‘Now you won’t ’arf cop it,’ said Milly, as she ushered Alice across the hall into the morning-room.
Alice was at considerable disadvantage being in her out-door clothes, and she stood looking at her unruffled mistress, with very little idea of what to do next.
‘Now Alice, please attend to me and tell me the truth,’ said Mrs. Lester, becoming very important and most of all to herself. ‘There must have been some man you met, who was it?’
‘There was nobody, ma’am.’
‘That isn’t true. You have, of course, been walking out with George Herrick. His family have always been respectable until now, but this is quite disgraceful. The best thing you can do is to marry him at once.’
‘It has nothing to do with George, ma’am.’ Looking suddenly at the girl, Mrs. Lester remembered the afternoon that she had seen Aubrey coming up the garden with overdone indifference, and his suit smelling of mint. She did not know why she associated that particular moment with this awkward interview, but the doubt having speared into her heart, refused to be silenced. Then, as if to give it words, Aubrey himself, apparently unaware that people were here, came into the morning-room. He saw immediately what was happening, and stood staring at Alice, his colour coming to his face.
Both women knew the reason; he did not need to say anything. It was Mrs. Lester who, recovering herself almost on the instant, took the whole matter in hand.
‘Aubrey, please go away.’
He knew that this was the moment. He ought to march across the room and take Alice into his arms, he ought to defy both his and her mother by her side. But unfortunately the emotion which had produced such chaotic results had passed; it had been replaced with a sense of guilt that was highly unpleasant. Even before he had left Fincham that night he had been ashamed that the wretched affair had ever happened. For half a moment he knew that his future hung in the balance, then the old facade replaced the other man. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
He went outside again.
He went out on to the stretch of gravel before the house, and he knew that he was keyed up. This was devastating, he had never thought of it happening. He ought to have stayed behind and defended Alice, he knew, but somehow he could not do it, and was horrified at his own weakness. He went out on to the lawn with the bluish-green of the yews. And, as he stood there, he would not have been surprised if he had heard a cock crow at the bottom of the garden.
Five
Alice married George at once.
The action was taken out of her hands, older and wiser people managed it for her. As she left Thornhill, Milly would not speak to her, but drew herself away thanking the Almighty that she had been born pure. It was Mrs. Parkin who after looking a moment, suddenly pushed a piece of the best plum cake into a paper bag, and handed it to the girl.
‘It’s the sort you like,’ she said hurriedly, almost ashamed of the underlying softness in her heart.
For the last time Alice went down the path, clasping the cake in her hand, whilst her mother ranted at her. The strange sweet scent of the garden was nostalgic, particularly the mint bed. That held memories for her and she knew that she wanted to cry. Nobody would understand. At the gate she looked back.
‘Now, come on, come,’ said her mother, anxious to get home before anyone saw and guessed their mission.
It was Maud Lester who interviewed George Herrick, she insisted that it was her duty. He was only anxious to
help, and as soon as the banns could be read, they were married at Fincham, and the girl went to live with the old witch of a woman at the dilapidated little cottage that was isolated from the village itself. She did not care. In her there was a new sternness that she had never suspected before.
Maud Lester had seen the look on her son’s face when he had come into the morning-room the day of that most trying interview, and she had known at once ‒ if, in fact, she had not known before ‒ that Aubrey was responsible. She challenged him that evening in the drawing-room after she had done with Mrs. Carter and George Herrick and had settled everything.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Aubrey,’ she said, ‘surely it is almost time that you got married?’
‘Married? Good Lord, Mother, I’m not the marrying kind.’
‘Aren’t you? You saw what happened today? I warned you this would happen, but you ignored it. Young people always think that they are being clever, but they suffer for old sins. You think I don’t know about this. I do. I know perfectly well about it all, and I think I have been extremely good in arranging matters for you.’
Aubrey tried to summon up his courage, and he failed. He sat there moistening his dry lips with the tip of his tongue; he did not know what to say.
‘You realize, Aubrey, that there has never been a scandal on my doorstep before?’
‘I know, and it’s the devil. The thing is, what ought I to do?’
‘I’ve done it all for you. Alice is marrying George Herrick at once. It’s the only way.’
‘I’m not at all sure if that is the right solution. In fact I’m almost sure that it isn’t.’
‘Now, Aubrey, don’t start being difficult. You cannot marry her, and yet she cannot be left without a husband and the whole neighbourhood talking, and putting two and two together and making five. This was the only thing that we could do.’