The woman who interviewed her, noting her lack of experience, noted also her expertise with embroidery. She was offered the post. ‘I must give two weeks’ notice,’ she explained. She would begin on her return from Oxford. Miss Pritchard would supply a reference.
She put off telling Ida until the last moment. ‘Oh dear,’ Ida said, ‘if you’d only asked me first. We didn’t realize you were unhappy. I’ll have to tell Dad. The training, you see –’
‘There may be some embroidering involved, or advice about it,’ Maria said offhandedly. (What did it matter, since Uncle Eric no longer loved her?) ‘That training was paid for, too.’
‘Oh dear, I didn’t mean,’ Ida said, distressed.
‘Guess who’s late!’ cried Sybil, hurrying down the platform ahead of her uncle and aunt. A porter followed with their trunks. ‘Aren’t you too dreadfully excited?’
Maria had arranged to meet her and the Detheringtons at Paddington. The tickets were all bought, Sybil had said, which was as well because with only five minutes to go, there had been no sign of the party. They took their seats in first class. The remainder of the train appeared very crowded. Maria liked the Detheringtons at once. She, white-haired, energetic, with a low, warm voice. He, stooped, with a creased friendly face and a loud laugh.
The day had begun bleak and rainy. While Sybil read a magazine, Maria gazed at the countryside: I have been too long in London (Oh, Thackton, oh, Moorgarth). The damp could not hide the early summer beauty of green and white hedgerows, flower-strewn meadows, willow-lined streams.
Pip met them. She and Sybil were to stay not in a hotel but in Walton Crescent, his lodgings of the year before. They left their trunks and then went to tea at the Shamrock Rooms, after which Pip showed them round the Oxford Union. Sybil’s voice, loud and excited: ‘Is that your friend Bim? No, then where is he? Is that dreadfully handsome man the famous Hodders, I thought you said his legs were bandy?’ In the debating hall, she rushed to seat herself in the President’s chair. ‘Oh, she’s too much,’ Pip said good-naturedly. Her uncle said he thought leading reins and a harness were indicated.
They dined with Pip at the Clarendon. The hotel was full of guests ready for the balls that evening. A friend of Pip’s, also reading Engineering but at Wadham, invited them then and there to his college ball that night. ‘Oh, oh,’ Sybil exclaimed, her eyes lighting up, but her aunt and uncle would not hear of it. Two nights dancing till dawn – most of tomorrow would have to be wasted lying abed. Sybil drooped for a few moments with childish sulkiness. Maria wondered: What must it be like to want such a little something, so much? She did not dare even to look at what she wanted.
When they returned to Walton Crescent it was to undress by candlelight. In bed, Sybil outlined excited plans. ‘I mean to have fun from now on, for ever after, all my life! We should be dancing now … I’m not too tired, I’d have loved it.’
Next morning, a walk up Boar’s Hill and then lunch at the George. In the afternoon, punting down the river – she and Sybil and Pip, and Pip’s friend Bim Chatterton. The girls lay back on cushions. Sybil’s fingers ran through the water: ‘This must be what heaven’s like. No, heaven will be tonight, I think.’ The leaning willows shadowed the river, sunlight danced. Soon they would be dancing too. Maria felt the pressure of others’ excitement, happiness. Proud, secretive, she laughed and joked with them all, vigorous, hearty Pip, his agile, clownish friend Bim.
Water rats lifting their heads from the reeds. ‘Ratty,’ said Bim each time.
‘They can’t all be Ratty,’ Pip said.
Sybil said, ‘Didn’t you love Wind in the Willows?’
A family of two small children and a baby picnicked in the meadows as they passed. Maria averted her eyes. When the pain came (and I thought it was gone, that like the Lion I had a heart of stone now), it felt not sharp, but dull, heavy, a crushing weight.
Coming back, they fooled, rocking dangerously the flat-bottomed boat. Bim twanged an imaginary banjo to A Bachelor Gay while Sybil jabbed at him with an oar. Pip, manœuvring the pole as best he could, sang vigorously.
Sybil’s bright yellow frock for the ball was very fashionable, the sleeves all in one with the bodice and the silk under-petticoat shorter than the dress. The floating side panels were of gathered chiffon. The colour suited her vivacity. She had promised to tie Pip’s tie for him. ‘Nancy does it at home.’ When they arrived, Bim’s was, deliberately Maria thought, at an odd angle. ‘I think I need Miss Carstairs’s help …’
Others in the party at St John’s were a White Russian, Dimitri Poliakoff. Miss Evans, a pert pretty girl with cold eyes, reminding Maria of Jenny in a rage. Hodders, he of the bandy legs, and his sister, a young war widow.
Downstairs, the marquee, striped in green and white, took up most of the Quad, while inside, mirrors placed at intervals made it appear even larger. Blue and white flowers, the college colours, were the only decoration.
‘Lloyd George’s daughter’s here tonight,’ Pip told them. ‘Megan L. G. You must watch out.’ Hodders said Clemenceau was to get an honorary degree at the Convocation tomorrow: ‘I mean to catch a glimpse of the old Tiger.’
During the dance itself, the Detheringtons were with them only occasionally – the easiest of chaperones. Dimitri was very taken with Hodders’s sister. Sybil, glowing, was being gazed at adoringly by Bim. He’d fallen, Pip confided in Maria, during Sybil’s visit in May. ‘He’s already talking of being part of the family. Really we demobbed chaps, oughtn’t we to be taking our pleasures more lightly? Sybil’s only a child.’
The orchestra played the music from Barrie’s Mary Rose. The mirrors in the marquee swayed as they danced, reflecting the yellows, the pinks, the emeralds of the evening frocks. Pip claimed Maria back again and again after she had danced with others. They walked twice among the huge dusky trees in the gardens, where two elaborately costumed men played the post horn as a signal to return for the dancing.
Towards morning, after a session of shimmying, she and Pip went through the archway and out on to the terrace. A great sweep of lawn with clumps of dark trees, chinese lanterns hanging from them. The oriel windows could just be made out in the grey stone of the building, and very faintly, the delicate colour of the wistaria.
He said, ‘I thought the band was coming it a bit fast. I wonder how much scotch they’ve put away?’ They stopped at the far end of the gardens. Roses, pinks and stocks scented the night air. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Why not?’ She smiled. ‘Of course, thank you.’
‘You’re quiet, though. Dark. Mysterious. I remembered you as more lively.’ Taking her hand in his ungloved one: ‘I wonder, do you like me a little?’
‘Yes,’ she said politely. It had been a good evening. For any girl not crying deep inside for her child, this must be a night to remember. She said, ‘I love dancing. Foxtrot, shimmy, tango … I feel better when I’m dancing.’
‘Grizzly bear? Is that one you like? Sounds a bit as if … You haven’t some secret illness, have you? Not hiding a dicky heart, or the unmentionable, consumption?’ His voice throbbed. He had tight hold of her hand now. She didn’t mind being touched like that. It was kindly, reassuring. ‘I’m not talking about dancing actually, but about you and me. Me and you. I think you know what I mean? We could be a lot closer … When I come down, I’ve to spend a few weeks in this firm in Fenchurch Street – I’d like to see more of you then.’
‘Well, yes, I guess … why not?’
His hand tightened again, uncomfortable now. ‘What I want … I’d be very discreet. Oh, hang it, help me a little. You know what I mean. You will, won’t you, Maria? I want you, a lot.’
But what was this? She felt violently sick. As if Peter stood beside her. The words were different, the voice kinder, but … Fear, disgust. The night-scented stock nauseated her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no… What have I done to suggest I’m that sort of a person?’
‘Sort of a person. Maria sweet, really what funny language!
Don’t think I can’t sense something when you dance. You’re nothing like all these jolly, chaste girls here tonight. You’re different. Not English for a start –’
‘My family,’ she said, ‘my real family, the family I was born into … If my brothers heard you speak, I tell you straight – a knife. I come from a country where the family protects –’ She had been going to say ‘virginity’. Inside her the wounds began to open. My child. My child.
‘French, Gay Paree, naughty,’ he was saying. ‘When I was in the trenches, the French girls weren’t above –’
‘I’m not a French girl. I’m Sicilian.’
‘I see I’ve gone too far.’ He released her hand. Music, toetapping tune, Whispering, floated out to them. ‘Let’s go in.’
For the remainder of the night, except for a slight awkwardness on his part, it might never have happened.
Up the river to breakfast, in the pale early sunlight. Pink silk dress limp now, satin shoes grass-stained. Feverish with excitement, Sybil sparkled still.
A few hours’ rest, then the train back to London. Before they left, Pip said to her, ‘When I’m in Town I’d like to take you to a show. Your gaolers allow that sort of thing?’
Three weeks later he took her to the Co-optimists in a party with his aunt and uncle. His behaviour was impeccable.
Silk-embroidered garment shields, dusting caps in floral muslin, elastic and rubber-gripped blouse-holders, Gem linen buttons. She had been an assistant at Swan and Edgar’s for nearly six months. Soon it would be Christmas again: the second of Guy’s life. She wondered, forlornly, if she would be allowed to send him a gift.
Whenever a letter came from Yorkshire, she would hint to Ida, ‘Is there any news of Eleanor?’ And Ida, who knew too well what she was asking, would answer, ‘No. Nothing about Eleanor.’
For Christmas she had bought Ida a Cona coffee machine. An end to the boiled coffee grounds. She and Ida would be going up to Middlesbrough. But not of course to Moorgarth. Although they had insisted her exile from Thackton wasn’t a punishment, she knew that it was. Peter had not been punished. This year she would be expected to face him. She tried not to think of that.
She heard that she was to help in Baby Linen for the Christmas rush. It did not turn out as bad as she feared: she did not see many children. The shoppers were mostly mothers, nannies or relations: (‘Tell me, would this fit a large two-year-old?’)
Four days before Christmas a letter came from Pip. She had heard nothing since their visit to the theatre. He wrote:
I still feel dreadfully sorry about what I said that evening at Commem. I must have been mad, misunderstanding signals. But since then although we’ve only met the once I’ve thought a lot about you. And us. And what I thought was – my prospects are good, very good. I’m nearly twenty-six and more than ready to settle down. It’s just – I hadn’t realized it. And the girl I’d like best to settle down with is you. If you’ll have me, that is, after I’ve been so clumsy.
Could you think anyway about all this? I’ve put it all very badly, but I hope the answer will be yes. I’ve come not only to love you but to respect you too. I’m certain we could be very happy together. I like girls who are different. And you are, you know! You are in Middlesbrough over Xmas I hear. I shan’t make a nuisance of myself, only do give a chap an answer soon …
She could think of little else all day. It was another trap. Another door about to clang, shutting her inside. She could eat nothing. That night she scarcely slept. I have to make a decision, she thought. The next morning she had a headache which was like an iron band around her forehead, steel knives at the back. Just before leaving for work, she had a row with Lettice.
Lettice said, ‘Your room’s in a mess. Mrs Riley says she can’t do anything with it. The sooner you go –’
It was doubtful Mrs Riley had said anything of the kind. The room was not so bad, a little untidy only. But she had felt for a long time Lettice’s resentment of her, and her prior link with Ida.
‘I’ll go, yes, I’ll go. Soon enough.’
I shall marry Pip, she thought, and hold my head up and bother no one. Uncle Eric will be proud of me. Only, what do I tell Pip and the Carstairs family? The truth? She felt the iron band tighten as she hurried down the stairs for work.
In morning break she met one of the girls from the Lingerie department. They grumbled quietly together about tired feet and rude customers. Maria was thinking all the time: I have to decide, I have to decide. Now. Soon. She said, ‘I’ve such a headache, it’s worse than my feet.’
‘It’s all the people,’ the girl said. ‘Have you seen it in Toys and Games?’
Maria had. That evening the shop would be open till late. She wondered how, as the band tightened and tightened, she was to get through the remaining hours.
In the early afternoon a well-dressed woman came into Baby Linen, carrying a large child in her arms. A boy, Maria supposed, since he was dressed all in blue, with soft blue leather reins. The woman placed him on the carpet then sat down on the chair near the counter.
‘Washing suits, with contrasting collars and cuffs. What have you got?’
‘What age, madam?’
‘It’s for him. Fifteen months.’ She flashed a smile on Maria. ‘Isn’t he advanced? He’s been walking since ten months.’
She turned suddenly: ‘Phyllis, how splendid!’ A woman wrapped in furs stood beside her. ‘No, but look, I haven’t seen you for simply ages. The motor brought Timmy and I up to Grandma in Chester Street. Nanny’s not here.’
A fifteen-month-old baby, dark, agile, beautiful. The woman’s hand, looped loosely round the reins, let them go. In a second the child was up. His mother, talking, had her back now to Maria.
‘Look, Phyl, we must have tea … Grandma’s Johnson can take Timmy back. Then you and I can meet at Gunter’s –’
Maria had come round the counter. The child was toddling over to where a porcelain doll, dressed in organdie, sat on a cushion. He ran, then tripped, and fell.
Maria was there even before he opened his mouth to cry. She heard the mother say, ‘Oh, Timmy!’ But already she had him in her arms. The smell of his breath, his skin. His arms went round her neck. The taste of his tears as his mouth touched hers. She was fondling him, rocking him.
Dimly she heard his mother: ‘All right, I’ll take him.’ She paid no attention. ‘I’ll take him now, thank you.’ The tone was sharp.
She looked at this woman, this stranger. The iron band tightened.
‘I said thank you. Look … That will do.’
‘He’s mine,’ Maria said suddenly. Seeing all at once how it would be when he left her arms. Such a wave of pain and desolation swept over her that she thought she could not live.
I cannot, I cannot. She saw the mother come towards her, her face puzzled. Why puzzled? The child clung to her still. Woodenly, mechanically, she handed him over.
‘Thank you. I forgive your little joke … Timmy come to Mummy. Naughty, running off.’
A wave of pain hit her. Worse this time. The blood rushed to her face. And then tears began to fall. She stood there, crimson, not caring. Caring too much. ‘My child,’ she cried, through the tears, ‘give me my child!’ Her voice rose. A wail, primitive, piercing through the Baby Linen department.
There must be a way out of this pain. She beat the dark air in front of her, and wailed.
Sacru miu Gesù, Sacru miu Gesù. The walls of the department, of the shop, closed in on her.
11
All I want is to marry Gwen. When we are married, he would say over and over to himself – never, if we are married. Yet how far on was he? Already it was the spring of 1922, two years since he had found her again. How many times had he visited Bradford, how many times had he proposed? It had become almost a joke. ‘I know what’s coming,’ she’d say. Or: ‘A whole afternoon, and you haven’t asked me yet.’
Deep in his heart he believed that he could wear her down if he only asked often enough. She
gave reasons, he had to admit that. Always the same ones. She was older than him – why not find someone his own age? She had been married, for a fortnight, and it had been wonderful. Now she’d learned to live without. Then there was her mother.
‘I’d take care of her,’ he said. ‘She’d live with us.’
‘She and I, we manage,’ Gwen said, ‘but it’d be a different matter, you supporting Mother and me and possibly a child … And you said yourself, your father’s got different ideas for you.’
That was the truth. It was only Dick who wanted the marriage. No one else was for it, not even Gwen. Certainly not his family. Although he had never said anything, his secret was out. All those visits to Bradford. At first there’d just been teasings. ‘Dick’s sweet on a Bradford lass. Who is she now, Dick?’
He told Aunt Dulcie about her.
‘You’d like me to marry her, wouldn’t you?’
‘I just want you to be happy, Dick. To do what’s best for you. And sometimes, that’s not following your heart.’
He thought: ‘It’s more than heart. It’s all of me. I’m nothing without Gwen. He fully believed that his life could not begin until she married him (why else all the flying, the dicing with death, being partly lame, if not for meeting Gwen in No. 4 General at Amiens?)
Dad said, one evening in March, ‘Can I have a quiet word with you, son?’ He took Dick into the empty dining-room, and poured him a whisky.
‘You haven’t thought yet of settling down, eh?’
‘Well, eventually, yes … There’s no hurry. You didn’t marry young.’
‘This woman of yours in Bradford. How seriously are you into this?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He felt angry, insulted.
‘You do, well enough. Mrs Latimer, Gwen Latimer.’
‘She’s not my woman. Don’t speak of her like that.’
‘I made it my business to find out … Marriage is a serious matter. Too serious to be left to youngsters …’
‘I’m twenty-three. It’s none of it your affair –’
The Golden Lion Page 17