20

I am getting awfully tired of this old housecoat, thought Maria. But then I say that every weekend, and I never do anything about it. It was such a simple matter, too, to walk into a shop and get another. The trouble was, that she had got into the habit of not bothering about what she kept at Farthings. Anything would do for Farthings. The same thing applied to the bedroom curtains. Those curtains had been hanging in her bedroom ever since they had come to Farthings. Practically the whole of her married life. Of course, during the war it had been impossible to get curtains. But that was not the point. The point was that she was continually buying things for the flat in London, new covers for the chairs, new rugs, bits of china, a lovely mirror only the other day to go over the mantelpiece in the sitting room, and never did she bring anything to Farthings. Niall would say it was psychological. Niall would say the reason she took an interest in the flat was because it was hers alone. She rented it, she paid for it, the whole upkeep of the flat came from the money she earned by her own work; but Farthings belonged to Charles. She was a guest at Farthings. At the flat she was at home. Yet Farthings had been her home, too, at the beginning. They had planned the rooms together, she and Charles. The younger children had been born here, in this bedroom. Once she had planted tulips in the garden. There had been tennis parties on Sunday afternoons. Iced coffee, and great jugs of lemonade. Shortbread, and scones. She wore a white linen frock that buttoned down the side, and the last four buttons were always left undone, so that her legs could sunburn above the knee.

Then, little by little, the interest that had been seemed to slip away. It was easy to blame everything upon the war. Charles away. Herself away. Farthings a home to both of them in patches. But the war was over, Charles had slipped back into the old routine. And not Maria… The trouble was—and she poured some OMY essence into the bath and ran the water, a bath before dinner was essential, even if it was Sunday supper, they must all wait for her, what did it matter—the trouble was that as one grew older—no, as time passed, as time went on, one’s own personal life became more important. Which was another way of saying one became more selfish.

Things were irritating now that were not irritating once. Like rattling doors. Like hard pillows. Like tepid food. Like people who were bores. Bores… There were far too many people who were bores. Not Charles, of course. She loved Charles, she loved him very much—but… His appearance, for one thing, was not what it had been once. That extra weight. Why did he not do something about that weight? It was not exactly a tummy, but all over. What was more, and this was something she scarcely admitted even to herself, he was slightly deaf. Only one ear. The left one. The war, probably, something to do with guns, but still… Men had no business to let themselves get set. Why could they not do exercises before breakfast? Give up potatoes? Stop drinking beer? If she let herself get set, where would she be? Out on her ear… Out, my dear. We don’t want you. There are plenty of youngsters coming on who can step into your shoes. She stepped into the bath, and it was hot and good, and someone—Polly, she supposed—had put a cake of Morny soap into the bracket.

No, the real bore was her father-in-law, old Lord Wyndham, who simply would not die. He had no business to go on living, at eighty-one. Poor old man, he got no enjoyment out of it. It would be so much simpler for him, and for everybody else, if he just faded away. He was so deaf now that he could not even hear the clocks ticking, and as he spent most of his time in a wheeled chair it could not matter whether it was half-past two or half-past twelve. Coldhammer had been taken over by the Agricultural people during the war, and had not yet been handed back, and the poor old couple had been living in that dingy dower house, with a few retainers, ever since. The death duties would be appalling, naturally, when he did go. And what with taxation, and servant difficulties, and everything else, she and Charles would never be able to live at Coldhammer, which in many ways was a great relief, because the place was like a morgue. The point was, that Charles had given up so much time, and trouble, and thought, to dealing with the estate, and with the people, and with the whole district, that he really deserved to be called Lord Wyndham… Marie lathered herself all over with Morny soap, and then leaned back in the bath, and relaxed, and closed her eyes.

The smell of scented soap had made her sick once, before somebody was born. She forgot which child. It was not Caroline. Cigarettes with Caroline. Charles would smoke in the bedroom, and then stub it out under her nose with profound remorse. It was a wretched habit, smoking in a bedroom. She had broken him of that in the first year, thank heaven.

But that was something else that happened as one grew older—as time went on. It was such a relief to have a bedroom to oneself. At the flat she could walk about naked if she chose, her face covered in grease, her hair in a turban, whistling, humming, talking to herself, the wireless turned on; she could go to bed at three in the morning if she wanted to, and read or not, just as she pleased, and switch off the light when she felt inclined.

At Farthings they still kept to the routine of twin beds. And Charles liked to settle early, he did not care for the wireless, or for the light. She would lie in the darkness, not tired, but wide awake; and she was always aware of the humped back of Charles, asleep. It made an irritation. He might have been any man lying there, a stranger. Actually, a stranger would have made it more exciting. What was the point of having a man in your bedroom if all he could do was to turn his back and sleep? Not that she wanted him to do anything else, but in a way it was an insult. The turned back reminded her of the various other backs that had not been turned. Which was a depressing thought; because it meant she was beginning to live in the past.

Backs That Were Never Turned. The Reminiscences of Maria Delaney… No, it was not depressing. It was funny. She must remember to tell Niall after supper, when Charles was out of the room. And Celia, too. Not that Celia mattered, but she was inclined to be governessy. The conversation would lead to an argument which no one but themselves would understand. Maria and Niall.

“I’ll tell you who probably did show his back…”

“Who?”

“So-and-So.”

“You are entirely wrong. He never did. I used to wish he would…”

In the war one was always lying huddled against someone’s back. That communal thing of dressing gowns in passages. In the first raids one went out from the flat onto a central landing, and everyone took it in turns to make cocoa or tea. Midnight feasts in the dorm. Then with the last raids, the buzz-bombs and the rockets, one just stayed quietly in one’s flat and did not make tea at all. One wanted a drink instead. Until the person who had been fire-watching came down the fire escape, and in at the back door. The person was usually Niall. Why could he never get a hat that fitted properly? That awful strap. If a bomb had ever struck the building they would have gone to glory. She had once coaxed a little fire in the sitting room and invited Niall to put it out for practice. He had set to work, not a smile on his face, very earnest. The stirrup pump would not function, it made the most fearful rude noises at the bottom of the bucket. And because at that time everyone was nervy and rather highly strung she had not seen the humor of it at all, but had lost her temper. “Do you realize that the population of London are depending on you? That it is this gross sort of inefficiency that may make us lose the war?”

“It’s the pump,” said Niall. “They’ve given me a dud pump.”

“Nonsense. A bad workman blames his tools.”

And they had sat for an hour in silence, while he tried to dismantle the pump. Not a joke. Not a smile. They had hated each other.

The absurd lost intimacy of wartime days and nights… How wrong was it, Maria wondered, and whose fault, that the years which had brought so much distress, and loss, and hardship to so many people, had brought to her, and to Niall also, nothing but undiminishing success? Perhaps that was one of the things that Charles begrudged them both. Perhaps that was why he had called them parasites. For Maria the war had meant a succession of plays that had run for eighteen months. For Niall it had meant a series of songs that everybody sang. People at home, people in factories; pilots in bombers, going backwards and forwards to Berlin. They whistled and sang them for a fortnight and then forgot them; and then he wrote another one, and they whistled that instead. It was not blood and tears, it was not even sweat. It was the minimum of creative effort, but it worked.

Would it have been better, Maria wondered, as the water trickled over her, if she had played in failure after failure; if she had left the stage and driven a tractor in the fields? To have been successful while other people died; to have been a popular actress coining money and applause while other women stood at benches; did Charles, in his secret heart, sometimes despise her?

More hot water, turn on the tap, let it gush, let it flow. If one lay still in a bath for more than five minutes the water became strangely chill. And more OMY essence, so that the scent of it filled the steamy air. Where was she? Yes, the war…

There used to be an independence to the day. Never knowing, in the morning, how it would end at eventide. Who would appear. What forgotten friend would come knocking at the door. Plans would be erratic, unfulfilled. Leaving notes, “Back in half an hour,” pinned to the front door. Going forth, a basket on the arm, and wearing slacks, to shop in Shepherd Market. Why in slacks? Because, in a sense, it was still pretence. It was Red Indians, it was Cavaliers, it was freedom… The freedom of no ties, no set arrangements. The freedom of having no one upon the conscience who might be waiting, back at home. The children parked safely in the country. Except for those periodic visits to the dentist; when, escorted to and fro by Polly, they descended upon the flat for a breathless morning, and were away again, to safety, by three-fifteen. They always came when Maria was dressing, or when she was lying in the bath, as now. It meant leaping from the bath, dripping wet. Snatching a towel, and opening the door.

“Darlings! How are you?”

Little peaky faces, staring at her; and little beady eyes, staring at Mummy’s flat, where nobody but Mummy ever stayed. Maria did not mind their beady eyes, but she was bored by Polly.

“Mother looks very comfortable, doesn’t she, children? We would like to be up here, keeping Mummy company.”

Perhaps they would. But Mummy did not want them.

“Darlings, you would be bored with London. Those horrid sirens going. Much nicer in the country.”

The children would potter round the flat, peering into cupboards, while Maria dragged on her clothes, and Polly chatted.

“They need new shoes, and Caroline’s coat will never do another summer; it’s amazing how they grow. I was thinking if we had time to go into Daniel Neal’s, or perhaps Debenham’s, a nice catalogue came from Debenham’s the other day addressed to you, I opened it, I knew you wouldn’t mind; and if we do the dentist afterwards… Is that the telephone? Would you like me to answer the telephone for you?”

“No, thank you, I can answer it myself.”

Even with this hint, Polly would not leave the room. She stood waiting, wondering who it was that rang up Mummy… Too often it was Niall. Niall back from an expedition to New York. Public Relations. So he said. Though what Niall had to do with Public Relations no one ever found out. He never found out himself.

When Polly was in the room, Maria spoke down the telephone in private code. “Is that Mr. Chichester? This is Miss Delaney here.”

Niall, as Mr. Chichester, knew the code signal. He laughed the other end of the telephone, and lowered the voice that had been loud.

“Who’s with you? Charles or Polly?”

“My children are up from the country, Mr. Chichester, and my day is very full.”

“I suppose that means the dentist. Will they stop the night?”

“Definitely no, Mr. Chichester. Not even if there is a fog. Perhaps you can call for me at the theater, and we can discuss that article of yours in Women and Beauty about cooking in the home.”

“I should adore to, Miss Delaney. Food is such a problem. I find I miss Indian curry more than anything… Darling, can I stay the night?”

“Where else would you go, Mr. Chichester? And do you remember a dish called Bombay duck? I can’t wait for Bombay duck.”

“I’ve forgotten Bombay duck. Does it mean I have to sleep on the floor? The last time I slept on the floor I got lumbago.”

“No, that’s the way they cook curry in Madras… I must go now, Mr. Chichester. Good-bye.”

Back again to childhood, to hiding sweets in cupboards, to doing things that Truda said one must never do. Must there always be someone in the room?

“Is Mummy going to take up cooking lessons?” said Polly brightly.

“Perhaps—perhaps.”

And still not dressed, still only in a girdle and a brassière, with her hair beneath a turban, and grease on the face, and the morning’s letters yet to open.

“DEAR MISS DELANEY, —I have written a three-act play on free love in a Nudist colony, and for reasons I cannot understand, it has been turned down by every manager in London. I feel strongly that you, and you, alone, would give just the right quality to the character of Lola…”

“DEAR MISS DELANEY,—I saw you some years ago, in a play whose title I have forgotten, but I have always remembered the smile you gave me when you autographed my album. Since then ill-luck has dogged me, I am broken in health, and have just come out of hospital to find my wife has run away with all my savings. If you can see your way to letting me have a temporary loan of three hundred pounds…”

“DEAR MISS DELANEY, —As Chairman of the Crookshaven Committee for Fallen Women, I am wondering whether you would be good enough to launch an appeal…”

Into the wastepaper basket went the lot.

“So I thought I could put a good hem on the bottom,” said Polly, “and the dress could do her another winter, but it’s the socks that are the trouble. They are through their socks so quickly, and the difficulty I’ve had in the village to get the shoes soled and heeled. Mr. Gatley is so unobliging, we have to wait our turn now, just like anybody else.”

Then a sudden yell. One of the children had fallen down and cut its chin on the edge of the bath. Pandemonium; sticking-plaster must be found. Where was the sticking-plaster? “Mummy needs a new first-aid box. Mummy does not take care of herself properly.” Mummy did take care of herself. Mummy was perfectly all right as long as she was left alone.

The dentist, shopping, lunch, shopping again; and the blessed relief of seeing everybody off at the station on the three-fifteen. A pang, for one brief moment, because of the little faces at the window and the waving hands; a queer inexplicable clutch at the heart. Why was Maria not with them? Why did she not look after them? Why did she not behave like other mothers? They were not hers. They did not belong to her. They were Charles’s children. Something went wrong from the very start, and it was all her own fault, because she had not thought about them enough, she had not loved them enough; there was always someone else. A play, a person, always something else…

A funny, lost feeling of despair, turning away from the platform, and pushing through the barrier with those soldiers carrying their kit. What was it all for? Where were they all going, what was Charles doing in the Middle East, why was she here? All those people pushing through the barriers. All those bewildered, searching faces.

In the theater there was safety. A deep embedded sense of home, of safety. The dressing room that needed doing up, with the plaster coming off the walls, the dusty ventilator. The crack in the basin. The worn bit of carpet that the rug could not cover. The table, and the pots of cream. Someone knocking on the door. “Come in.” Charles was forgotten, the children were forgotten, the war and all those strange loose threads of life that parted and dissolved; these could be forgotten too. The only safety lay in subterfuge. In doing what she had done from the beginning of time. In pretending to be someone else… But not only that. In being a gang, a little group together, a ship’s crew.

During the performance the rattle of an express train overhead coughed and gasped to its destination. Then the sudden silence. THEY had begun again.

Why did not Niall come and fetch her home afterwards? It was the least he could do, to call for her at the theater. Try the telephone. No answer from the telephone. Well then, where was Niall? Supposing, when that last thing burst, it had got to Niall?

“Does anybody know where they had it tonight?”

“Croydon, I think.”

Nobody knew. No one was certain. Then another knock at the door. “Come in.” And it was Niall. The surge of relief that turned to irritation.

“Where have you been? Why didn’t you come before?”

“I was doing something else.”

No use, ever, to question Niall. He was a law unto himself.

“I thought you might be in front,” she said, crossly, cleaning her face.

“I’ve seen the play four times, and that’s about three times too many,” answered Niall.

“I was rather good tonight. Quite different from the time you saw me last.”

“You’re always different. I’ve never seen you do the same thing twice. Here, take this parcel.”

“What is it?”

“A present I bought you in New York, Fifth Avenue. Horribly expensive. It’s called a negligee.”

“Oh, Niall…”

And she was a child again, tearing at the wrappings, flinging tissue paper on the floor; but quickly collecting it again, because tissue paper was difficult to find. Then pulling from the box a flimsy floating idiocy, transparent and impractical.

“It must have cost the earth.”

“It did.”

“Public Relations?”

“No, Personal. Don’t ask me any more. Put it on.”

It was such fun to have a present. Why was she such a child about a present?

“How does it look?”

“It looks good.”

“It feels good. I shall call it Desire Under the Elms.”

There were never any taxis to be found. They had to grope their way back to the flat through fog, listening to the onrush of the panting, puffing train, above them in the sky. And it was exasperating, and queer, irritating and strange, that the person she loved most in the world, even now, was the person she had smacked and bullied as a child. Why reach this point in life, and go on clinging to the same little sullen boy? The same familiar eyes, and mouth, and hands? In moments of elation, in moments of despondency, always return to Niall. Always make Niall the whipping-boy, the scapegoat to a mood.

“The thing is…”

“The thing is what?”

“The thing is, instead of bringing me Desire Under the Elms you should have brought me loads of food in tins. But of course it never entered your head to do that. Gorged as you were, with steak.”

“What sort of food?”

“Well, hams, and tongues, and chickens’ breasts in aspic.”

“I did. I left a great parcel of stuff with the hall porter. You’ll see directly. But not chickens’ breasts. Frankfurters.”

“Oh! Oh, well…”

Pottering in the flat, between the bedroom and the kitchen, one moment she talked to Niall, and the next to the humming kettle.

“Now, don’t you dare boil over, I’ve got my eye on you… Niall, what are you doing in my linen chest, leave it alone.”

“I’ve got to find another blanket. What’s this thing, plaided, underneath an ironing board, all Scots wa’ hae where Wallace bled?”

“You can’t have it… yes, you can; but don’t spill brandy on the bottom.”

“I haven’t any brandy. I wish I had. The flat is icy. My teeth are chattering.”

“Very good for you. Pickled with steam heat… Now I’ve lost the tin-opener. Niall, what have you got on? You look like a nigger minstrel.”

“They are my American pajamas. Desire Under the Dog-wood. Don’t you admire them?”

“No. That awful liver-colored stripe… Take them off. Wear Scots wa’ hae instead.”

“I thought I might wear Scots wa’ hae as well.”

Another rattling train clattered overhead. Where to? Where from? Better fill the hot-water bottle quickly.

“Are you hungry, Niall?”

“No.”

“Will you be hungry later?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. If I am I’ll bust open one of the tins of Frankfurters with a shoehorn. By the way, what was Bombay duck?”

“Sharing a compartment in a sleeper. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh, of course. But how does it apply to us, tonight?”

“It doesn’t. It was just to put off Polly.”

The lovely warmth of a scalding cup of tea, and then a bottle in its cover against the toes. The lovely silence when there were no express trains, no rattling doors and windows; only the ticking of the bedside clock, the hands luminous in the darkness, standing at ten to one.

“Niall?”

“What?”

“Did you see that bit in the evening paper about the wife of some old Colonel Noseworthy dying and asking to have ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ played at her funeral?”

“No.”

“Such a good idea. I keep wondering who it was she had got under her skin.”

“Old Noseworthy, I suppose. Maria, what are we meant to be doing?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s heaven.”

“Well, stop talking then…”

In the hall at Farthings someone sounded the gong. Maria opened her eyes, and sat up shivering. She reached for the bath-plug, and the tepid water ran away gurgling, roaring, outside the bathroom window. She was going to be very late for Sunday supper.