by Ursula Bloom
‘Of course I never liked it, but I shouldn’t want people to be talking about it. Saying you got all there was, and then couldn’t even put on a nice piece of black for her.’
‘But nobody does today.’
Her mother sighed. ‘Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned, but as far as I am concerned I feel that a bit of black is kindly.’ For a while they did not talk, and when it started again they had come to the country, into the Maidenhead area, with the countryside showing itself and the car gaining speed. ‘You’re looking quite ill, dear, peaky. I suppose you aren’t sickening for something? There is that blood tonic you had as a child, Parrish’s Food, I swear by it. I know you used to call it “pink whisky”. It made us both laugh a lot. You could get yourelf a bottle.’
‘I’m fine, Mummie, just a bit tired, but there has been a lot to do.’
‘Yes, but it must be righting itself now?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Then Mother started looking at the scenery, which was a blessed relief. They came ultimately into the town, and Mother was interested because she recollected that once when visiting here she had gone to a very good blouse shop and had bought herself a really nice voile one; she wondered if they had any more. The blouse shop had gone with the war, but Diana said nothing. It was dark when they got to the house, and Miss Howland must have heard them coming, for she was standing there in the open doorway waiting to greet them. A smallish woman with few characteristic points about her.
‘Oh, here we are, and isn’t it nice?’ said her mother, now thankful that the journey was done. She went up to her room for a wash, and returned to the small study where Diana had ordered the tea to be waiting for them. It was her mother’s favourite tea, hot toast, blackcurrant jam, and a robust cherry cake. She had seemed to be a very long time tidying up, but she had come down looking refreshed. ‘How nice this is, Di! Really nice, and lovely to see you in your own home.’
‘It’s very much my own home now,’ and they sat down side by side on the sofa.
‘But you look so ill. Drawn. I know I looked that way when you were coming. That was how I found out, I looked so different. Is anything the matter?’
‘No, I’m fine. How’s Dad?’ and she said it to evade what could so easily be a very awkward topic.
‘He’s very difficult. The auditors are in, and he always hates having them messing about in the office. I dread the time when they are due, and until they have finished he is bound to be on edge. But when I get back, all that will be over, thank goodness.’
‘Yes, of course.’
She was aware that her mother was looking at her. ‘Your eyes, Diana, they look so tired. Dear, there must be something the matter; do tell me?’
She had not meant to say anything then, for she had expected to be able to prepare her mother somewhat for the shock, but it did not work out this way. She got the faint idea that already Mrs Richardson was suspicious, and was pressing her. ‘I really am all right.’
‘Your face is drawn, and that tired look in the eyes. I think you have been doing far too much.’
‘Yes, I have,’ then she steeled herself for the truth. ‘Now Mummie, please don’t have a fit, for the truth sounds so much worse than it really is, but I … I’m going to have a baby.’
For a moment Mrs Richardson said nothing and did not make a sound, but she involuntarily lifted her hand and clapped it over her mouth, which was trembling, as though she wanted to shut out all protests and thrust them away from her. Then she managed to control her emotions and smiled a trifle wanly. When she could speak, she just asked, ‘John’s, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the holiday?’ and when Diana nodded, ‘Yes, I know. That sort of thing can be so dangerous, and so different. It puts you both in an awkward position, and especially you, after the way Dad would have you brought up.’ Then, in a voice which somehow seemed to have grown older, though there had been no passage of time to age it, ‘When are you getting married?’
‘We … we aren’t.’
There was a complete silence, one of those which they say can cut through one. Then her mother did the most extraordinary thing, for she reached out her hand and cut herself off a very large slice of cherry cake. ‘But surely … I mean for the baby’s sake … people do talk so …’
‘I don’t love John any more.’
Mrs Richardson said ‘Oh’, then she seemed to recede into her shell, with the infinite caution of the mature.
‘I don’t love him any more,’ Diana repeated.
‘Yes, but what does he say?’ and then, as Diana did not answer, and she realised that this could be the difficult question, ‘When is the baby coming?’
‘June, I think.’
‘What a lovely time of year to have a baby, it ought to be happy! You came with the hunter’s moon, I always felt that maybe it made a bit of a difference to you, but then I’m silly. It should not signify, but I thought it did.’
‘It has made me conscious of certain things. Aunt Chrissie said that it could do that,’ and Diana said it slowly.
‘Her birthday was in May. There was no moon trouble there, but of course that father of hers was the bother. A tinker, you know … I would have thought …’ then she jerked herself together. ‘Your father hated it being mentioned, but I know that he was a tinker.’
‘Yes.’
Her mother glanced uneasily at her. ‘I believe the moon can do a lot to us; some people, you know, they go funny with it, and the tides change, and all that sort of thing. I don’t see why it should not influence people as well as tides, I mean it stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it does.’
Perhaps there was a strange sound to her voice, a tone of uneasiness, almost of despair, and realisation now that she had brought herself to tell her mother. She had rounded a corner, but somehow she was sickly afraid of what lay ahead of her. There was a long pause, then Mrs Richardson stretched out a tired hand and laid it gently on her daughter’s knee.
‘It’s all right, dear. I do not want you to think that I am angry, because I am not. Don’t imagine that for a moment. I only want what is the best thing for you and the baby, and for John too. He must be most desperately worried.’
‘He wanted to get married quickly, and then say we did it a year ago …’
‘Why not, dear? It seems the wise way out. It seems the proper solution for the baby’s sake, and we have got to think about the baby.’
‘Why not? Because …’ and again she spoke the truth. ‘You see, I don’t love him any more.’ She had never thought that she could say it with such a resonant truth stirring the very words. She was sped forward into this by that strange feeling of something directing her, of being precipitated ahead without any motive action of her own.
‘Yes, dear, I know how you feel. Life does funny things to us, and then we do funny things ourselves, but there you are. You have got to do what you feel to be the best thing, for all three of you.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Somehow she began to explain. She was seeing the whole situation in a clearer light. It had happened after years of life in that drab home of hers. Going to school should have helped, in particular that type of school, but it had not done this. She had always felt like a caged bird, like an animal imprisoned, and she had abided by the rules of her prison, possibly because she had known no other world, and had had no other choice. Now for the first time she felt really free. Far more so than she had been in Devonshire with John, or later, when she knew the truth. She was finding her real mother for the first time, coming closer to her, and enchanted by her. This was the woman who had all these years lived in a sarcophagus of her father’s command.
Diana spoke of Devonshire, not of the man, for now looking at it all in a fresh way she had come to the conclusion that John had not been as important to her as the fresh background, a world in which she could do what she wished. None to ask questions. None to command, only her own heart ‒ for the first time in
her life ‒ controlling her.
Rather enchantingly she spoke in a half whisper of the details which had had the most appeal. The salty smell of the sea, and its tangle of weed on the breakwaters; the warm glow of firm sands against her naked feet, and then, for no reason at all, for she realised how foolish it was, of the wishing-well on the cliff. A ring of fir trees, a tangle of dead willow herb, of fern, and here and there the shimmer of amethyst heather left over from full summer. It was ridiculous to tell even her mother of that, and how she had thrown coins down into the clear water and had begged, ‘Give me happiness, for that is the only wish that truly matters. Give me happiness.’
It was unbelievable that her mother could share her feelings. There was a new quality about the woman, something which had not dared to show itself at Solihull, but here became plainly apparent. Mrs Richardson confessed that as a girl she herself had always been hungry for happiness; she had been the youngest of a family of daughters, she put it rather pathetically. ‘Perhaps I was the greatest disappointment of them all, for they had been so sure that I would be a boy.’ It was even worse that probably this was utterly true.
I am meeting my mother for the first time, as a new woman, thought Diana; a woman whom I have never even known, and she has infinite charm. She understands me. She was fascinated and she said, ‘Mother, they say that the first Diana was a huntress, and that is me! Maybe I searched for happiness, and just did not find it.’
‘You will one day, dearest, truly you will,’ and then, ‘I feel that it would be so much better if you now settled down quietly, married John, and had the baby.’
The coward’s way out, the girl thought, but aloud she said, ‘Already I know that I am not in love with John, and to marry him would be madness. This was an adventure, maybe we all have them.’
‘Indeed we do,’ and her mother’s voice had a hint of tragedy in it.
‘Marriage is the coward’s way out, and I do not want to be a coward about this.’
Her mother nodded. ‘I admire the courage, but you are going to find yourself fighting terrible difficulties. In small towns people talk, because all women love talking. It’s going to be hard to live down, for it’s a reproachful world.’
‘I shall hold my tongue.’
‘Yes, but people guess. People love talking about one another, and it is always difficult to escape criticism in this sort of case,’ and she paused. ‘When we first married I … I wanted friends, but I found them impossible to have. Your father was too critical, he wanted his house to himself, and was not accepting visitors. So I just gave up.’
Perhaps those few words gave the tragedy of her whole life, the woman without friends, who had not dared to have them, and, as she confessed, this had been one of her reasons for getting her only child to a good school. There she could make her own friends, and Mrs Richardson believed this to be one of the essential happinesses of life.
They looked into each other’s eyes. Then, very gently, her mother said, ‘For now, let’s do nothing, for perhaps we are all suffering from some slight shock. We can adjust ourselves to that shock later on. Get used to it. For now the sensible thing is to do nothing at all.’
That night Diana felt almost a new girl. She was thankful that she had told her mother, for through this somehow they had found each other. It was as though through all the early years of her life the older woman had been shut away in the living tomb which her husband had set around her. For the first time she had come out into the open and had dared to show her real self. They had met on an equal footing, they were more than mother and daughter, they were friends.
Maybe, Diana thought, one of the shadows which had ever been with her had been thrust aside, for here her mother was able to be honest, and she was a lovely person.
On the first morning there came a long letter from John, he had never stayed himself from writing to her, and was persistently in touch. In her heart she knew that he was trying to do his best. He maintained that it was utterly wrong of her to be pushing him out of her life like this, even if it was only for the baby’s sake. They ought to make proper plans for it. He had some right on his side; yet if she started to see him she knew that many of her good resolutions stood in danger of breaking down. Realising this, she tore up his letter.
‘Do what you feel to be best, dear,’ said her mother.
For this one week of her life, the very happy week with a mother who was so changed, she would forget everything else. She had the feeling that something would happen to show her the way. She had the inner sensation that an opportunity would present itself, and that everything would be all right.
She was the girl who was waiting. Not only for the baby, and the greatest event of all her life, but something else, and she knew it. It would not be too terrifying, it would be an adventure. Spontaneously she sought that adventure.
She knew that she was going to enjoy this week enormously, for she had found the world’s happiest companion in her mother. She herself was feeling better, which was a help, maybe the first sick stage was passing, a stage she had always been told made life wretched. There was a patch of good weather after a bad spell, and the laurustinus was out in the garden, that sweet little flower which comes so late in the year that already it has the spirit of springtime in it.
They spent three very happy days, then on the next one Mrs Richardson woke with urgent toothache. Miss Howland knew of an excellent dentist in Newbury, ’phoned up for an appointment, and Diana drove her mother into the town in the small car which she infinitely preferred to the big one with the chauffeur.
‘Be good and brave, then you shall have jam for tea!’ she promised her mother on the doorstep, quoting from her when she herself had been small and had had to visit the dentist. ‘You shall have a whole shilling to spend at the candy shop, too!’ and she laughed.
Whilst her mother went through it, she would finish her shopping. She turned the car into a side street and parked it there. The street had may trees in it, she told herself that she must come here again when spring came, for it would be too lovely, and she had been told that everyone admired it, for the trees had been planted in alternate pinks and whites.
She thought for a moment, feeling that the sun had become a shade too bright, nothing to complain of in December, surely, and there was the blue in the sky which reminded her of Devonshire, which had been so supremely beautiful; the year was dying.
Now the trees were dark with a tangle of twigs forming strangely patterned lace. It was a happy day, and she was so enchanted that she and her mother had come so much closer together, almost as though Mrs Richardson had for the first time broken free from her chains. It was unthinkable that one could live all one’s life with one’s mother, love her, and yet not know her.
I did right to tell her about the baby, she had to know, Diana thought, and she knew that soon she would have to tell the world, which might not be so easy, and the baby might have its own methods of disclosing the fact that it was coming.
She told herself that she must talk it over with Mummie, and then realised that all this ruminating would never get her shopping done. She got out of the car and locked it, taking the small list which Miss Howland wrote out so meticulously for her. She must hurry, for whatever happened she must meet Mother when the ordeal was over, for she might be in pain or distress of some sort, and need comfort.
Everything seemed to be against her. It was one of those days when every shop was full, with people pushing and shoving to be served. The world and its wife was out shopping, and she had overlooked the fact that she was not yet fully accustomed to the town and did not really know where the shops were. She bustled through it, but knew that her head ached. The sun was too bright, herself too hurried, and curiously enough the sense of apprehension urged itself forward in her heart. For no reason.
One of those things, perhaps, which happen to those who are born under the hunter’s moon.
She had thought that in the country she would be rid of queues and
pestering nudging people, and so be able to shop in peace. How wrong she had been! At all costs she must not panic, to which she was prone.
Finally she had to run to the chemist’s to get something for Miss Howland, who had a nerve pain in her arm, and there was only the one particular cream which really helped her. One would not have thought that the chemist would be so busy, but he appeared to be the worst of the lot, and she thought that she would never be served.
She was short of time.
She grabbed the little parcel before he had even sealed it; he was one of the old-fashioned kind, hovering over a gas jet with the strong smell of sealing wax about him, a smell she loathed. She rushed out into the street and round the corner to the car, to put the parcels inside, then go to the dentist for Mother.
Only the one thought drove her hard. She must hurry, and she never saw the sports car drawing out of a side street. It is true that it was on the wrong side of the road, for the young man driving it was also in a hurry, and he did not see Diana.
To her it seemed that the sun still shone brightly through the leafless trees, and there was a certain warmth in it, which was very pleasant. Then a sharp pain like a sword thrust went through her, instantly she was plunged down into complete and utter darkness. It enclosed her. She heard a scream, almost as though it came from somebody else, and not herself at all, then she seemed to sink back into what appeared to be endless but mercifully painless oblivion. Night had come.
Chapter Seven
SPRINGTIME
Diana came to uncomfortably.
She had no idea what had happened, only that an eternity of time must have passed, and that she had travelled a long long way, then had returned again. There was a shadowy twilight about the place, wherever she was, and she did not know where, nor did it concern her. Then she heard a reassuring voice at her side, someone who told her not to be afraid or worried, for she was being seen after. It was just a voice. Nobody seemed to be attached to it, and in the confusion of illness and of shock, she did not question it. Then it faded out, in a blind blur of cloud, which at least was kind to her.