Whatever happens, thought Maria, nobody must know that I feel anything, that I mind. Not even Celia, not even Niall. They must all think that the divorce is an amicable, straightforward thing, suited to us both, because the division of life between London and the country has become a nuisance and a bore. I find I cannot give the time I would like to Charles and the house and the children; better to part.
And although it breaks Charles’s heart to do so, he sees the force of it, he sees that it is better for us both. When he marries this other woman, he does so not because she is particularly attractive or because he has fallen in love with her, but because her ways are suited to the country, she is good with horses, dogs; and, anyway, it was from her that we bought that pony for the children. I remember thinking at the time that she had sly eyes. Auburn hair too, which means that later on she will run to fat, and the skin that goes with auburn hair smells! Charles can’t have discovered that yet. He will in time. The point is that everyone must think it is a pity. Divorce is always a pity, especially when there are children, and when two people have been married for some time.
But they were never really suited to one another. He was too quiet, too dull, his whole interest bound up in that estate. How could he ever hope to hold her? She was much too elusive. No one would ever hold her.
That must be the line to put across. And what is more, thought Maria, I shall soon believe it myself, I am beginning to believe it myself already because whatever I pretend in my mind, to myself, always comes true. That is where I am lucky. That is where God is always on my side. So that the lonely feeling that I have now, lying in the dark here, with the wireless turned on, and the eye-pads over my eyes, won’t last; it never does. It will go, like toothache; and just as I forget after an aching tooth what the pain was like, so shall I forget this pain, this shock of emptiness. It was nearly midnight, and when midnight came the program on the wireless was over for the day, there was nothing more to hear. Even the foreign stations became silent, became dead.
Then, thought Maria, then it won’t be so good. Then it won’t be so funny. Because round and round in my head will travel images of Charles through the years. Here was where I made my first mistake. There, the second. This moment was a foolish one. I could have given way with better grace. That moment was sheer folly, it need never have occurred.
If only I had thought a little deeper. If I had only taken two ounces more of trouble. No, not two ounces, one. This is what Pappy meant. This is the punishment. It does not come in afterlife, the day of reckoning. It comes at midnight, now, alone in the dark with the wireless silent. There is no need for me to sit through a play of my life, I know it all too well. God is the clever one. God knows all the answers. So He does to me the one thing I never dreamed could happen. He does to me the thing I have done to others. He makes me look a fool. Poor Maria, her husband has left her for another woman. Someone younger than herself. Poor Maria.
Think of all the women throughout the world, left by their husbands. A drear, forsaken crew. Solitary, plain and dull. I am now one of them. I belong to the crew. The cleverness of God… If I could be self-righteous, but I cannot. If I could say with the rest of the forsaken wretches, “I gave Charles everything in the world and this is his return,” but I cannot. Because I gave him nothing. It serves me right. I have not one leg to stand on. All the clichés describe my situation now. Paid back in my own coin. Do unto others as I would they should do unto me. Now I know what it means. Now I know what that woman felt like years ago. And I thought her such a bore. Such a po-faced, dreary bore. I never dared ring him on the telephone in case she answered, which she often did. I used to joke about it.
I’m sorry. God in Heaven, I am sorry. Forgive me, now, as I lie here in the dark. Would it be any good if I went tomorrow and sought her out? “I did not realize how unhappy I must have made you once. Now I know. Now I understand.” But I don’t know where she lives. And now I come to think of it, I have a frightful feeling she is dead. That I saw last year in The Times that she was dead. If she is dead, perhaps she can see me now. Perhaps she gloats in Heaven. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.
But I don’t forgive the red-haired woman near Coldhammer. I hate her. So the woman in Heaven won’t forgive me. It’s a vicious circle… Why is not Niall here to comfort me? I shall never forgive him, never. The one most desperate moment in my whole life when I need Niall, and he is not here. The thing is, I have to sleep. If I don’t go to sleep I shall look like hell in the morning. One comfort, there is no matinée. But Home Life are coming to photograph the flat; I’ve just remembered. Let them come. I can go out. Where can I go? I don’t want to see anyone, or talk to anyone. I have got to get over this by myself. It’s only toothache, and the pain will go. It has to go.
“Head a little to the left, Miss Delaney, please. That’s better. Quite still. Hold it. Right.”
The man pressed the bulb, exploded the flash and smiled.
“Now, how would it be if we had you in that chair? With the photograph of your husband and your children in the background, on the table? Would you try it? And shall we have your profile this time? Yes… Very nice, I like that. I like it very much.”
He turned aside, murmuring something to his assistant, who did something to the screen. The man himself dragged a sofa out of the way. Then he rearranged the flowers. Go on, thought Maria, wreck the whole place, I don’t mind. Break the furniture. Smash the crockery. What happens today will have to be wiped off the slate, anyway. God! I’m tired.
“Now, smile please, Miss Delaney. Wonderful. Keep it. Hold it.”
The thing is, these men will be here all day. What shall I do for lunch? I was going to boil an egg in the kitchen. I can’t do that if they are here. I must pretend I have an appointment. I shall pretend I am lunching at the Ritz. I would not mind lunching at the Ritz, anyway, but I can’t go there alone.
“Miss Delaney, could you now relax upon the sofa, and take up a play? You read plays often, I suppose, with an eye to production?”
“I do indeed.”
“That’s just what we want. What would you wear, now? A negligee?”
“I’d wear anything. Can’t I keep on this frock? It’s such a bore to change.”
“It would please the readers of Home Life if they could see you in a negligee. Something quite casual, of course.”
You idiotic man, what do you suppose I should wear? Black satin and sequins, with ospreys in my hair? I know what I’ll do. I’ll have no lunch, it won’t matter, it will be good for my figure. I shall have no lunch, and I shall drive down and see Caroline at school. She’s mine. She belongs to me. I shall tell Caroline what has happened. She is old enough to understand. I shall tell Caroline before Charles has a chance.
“Husband and children well, Miss Delaney?”
“Yes, wonderful.”
“Getting quite big now, I suppose?”
“Yes. They grow up quickly.”
“Fine place, Coldhammer. I should very much like to have some pictures of you there.”
“It hasn’t been handed back yet. We’re not living there, you know.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Now, lie full length, please, Miss Delaney. One hand drooping over the sofa edge. Yes, very characteristic.”
Characteristic of what, for God’s sweet sake? Anyone would think I spend my whole life lolling about on sofas. Get on with it. Get on.
“Play doing well, Miss Delaney?”
“Fair. It’s a bad time of year.”
It was not. It was the best. He would not know, the fool.
“It’s the dreamy parts the public like you in best you know, Miss Delaney. Not-quite-of-the-world, if you understand. Spiritual, I suppose you’d call it. That’s the impression you always give. Something far away and spiritual. Now, chin up just a little… Hold it… Thank you.”
This really is the end. I refuse to do anymore.
“I have a luncheon appointment at the Ritz at one o’clock.”
“Oh, dear. We would have loved to have one or two of you in the bedroom. Could you come back after lunch?”
“Quite impossible. I have a full afternoon ahead.”
“What a pity… Still, we must take one or two interiors without you. Have you any pets, Miss Delaney? I see no pets.”
“I have no pets.”
“Readers always like to see their favorites fondling a pet. So homely. Never mind. We can say your pets are in the country.”
My pets are all in the country, fondled by a woman with red hair, if you must know. If you want to know. A woman with red hair, who smells.
“Thank you so much, Miss Delaney. You have been extremely patient. Don’t worry about the apartment. We will tidy up.”
“Don’t forget to send me the proofs to pass.”
“Of course, Miss Delaney. Of course.”
With smiles, with gestures, they bowed Miss Delaney out of her own flat; from the window they watched her climb into a taxi, three minutes late for her luncheon at the Ritz. The taxi took Miss Delaney to her own garage, behind the block of flats. And with no luncheon inside her, Miss Delaney drove to the country to see Caroline at school. An hour to the school, south out of London.
Too much traffic, too many tram-lines, and I am not quite certain what to say when I get there, because I suddenly realize I don’t know Caroline well. Beyond saying “Darling” and giving her presents, I don’t know her at all. What was I doing when I was her age? I was pretending to be someone else. I was making faces in the looking glass. I was teasing Niall… Why must this thin woman look at me with so much surprise?
“Oh? It’s Mrs. Wyndham. We were not expecting you.”
“No. I happened to be passing. Can I see Caroline, please?”
“She’s playing net-ball at the moment… But still… Jean, dear, would you run along to Number Two ground and tell Caroline Wyndham that her mother has come to see her.”
“Yes, Miss Oliver.”
A child with round eyes bounced away.
“Parents usually come on Saturdays or Sundays, unless of course they give warning. These are the new photographs. Would you care to see them? Taken on Founders’ Day. Such a pity you could not come. Caroline was so disappointed. Yes, she told me. A matinée. These things do interfere so with private life, don’t they? You must be very torn, I always feel. Yes, the entire school, staff and all. Let me see, there is Caroline, sitting cross-legged in the front. We always make the younger ones sit down.”
Rows and rows of girls, all exactly alike, and Maria would never have found Caroline if Miss Oliver had not pointed her out. Is that my child?
“Yes, she seems very happy. She’s in Three A, you know. They are a cheery little crowd in Three A. Would you care to walk down to the playing field and meet Caroline?”
As a matter of fact, I would rather get into the car again and drive back to London. Because I did not sleep last night, and I have had no lunch. God only knows why I am here at all.
“Thank you, Miss Oliver, I will. Such a lovely day. So wonderful to get into the country, even for half an hour.”
I must do my stuff and smile. I must leave behind me my expected aura of charm. It is not a lovely day either. It is cold. And I am wearing the wrong shoes. They will get stuck in all that idiotic crazy paving. Here comes a panting, overheated little girl in a brief blue skirt. And it is Caroline.
“Hullo, Mummy.”
“Hullo, darling.”
“Is Daddy with you?”
“No. I’ve come alone.”
“Oh.”
And what do I do now? And where do I go? Somewhere along this walk.
“I’m afraid I’ve come on a bad day.”
“Well, actually, any weekday is bad. You see, we’re practicing at the moment for the inter-form trophy at the end of term. We play for the number of points. So our form, which is Three A, has an equal chance of winning the Cup as the Sixth form has. Because although of course they would beat us in actual play, they might be down in the finals, on the number of points.”
“Yes, I see.”
I don’t of course. It’s Greek. It’s meaningless.
“Are you good, darling? Do you play well?”
“Oh heavens, no. I’m ghastly. Do you want to watch?”
“Not frightfully. The thing is…”
“Perhaps you’d rather see the Art Display in Botticelli?”
“The what?”
“The Art Display. Botticelli is the name we give to the Sixth Form studio. It’s behind the chapel. Some people have done very good drawings.”
“What I’d really like to do, darling, is to go somewhere.”
“Oh yes, of course. I’ll take you upstairs.”
Lists on walls. And strange girls scurrying past. Scrubbed stairs, and worn linoleum. Why not put broad arrows on their backs and have done with it? And what a roaring, gushing plug, with the cistern leaking. Somebody ought to be told about it. The matron.
“Is this your bed? It looks very hard.”
“It’s all right.”
Seven beds in rows, all of them the same. With hard, blunt pillows.
“How’s Daddy?”
“Very well.” Now was the moment. I sit down on the bed, and I powder my nose and I am quite casual, I am not bitter at all.
“The fact is, darling—and that is what I came to tell you, you will probably hear from Daddy yourself—he wants a divorce.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know what I expected her to do. Perhaps I thought she might look frightened, or she might cry, or she might put her arms round me, which I would have liked, and it would be the start of something I have never had.
“Yes. We have not quarreled or anything like that. It’s just that he has to be in the country and I have to be in London, and it’s not really fair on either of us. Things would really work out better if we were independent.”
“It won’t make any difference, then?”
“No, no, not really. Except that I shan’t live at Farthings anymore.”
“You are never there much, anyway.”
“No.”
“Shall we come and stay with you in London?”
“Of course. Whenever you want.”
“There’s not much room at the flat, though, is there? I’d much rather go and live with Auntie Celia.”
“Would you?” But why the pain? Why the sudden emptiness?
“The girl who sleeps in that bed has parents who are divorced. And her mother married again. She has a stepfather.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I think you will probably have a stepmother. I believe Daddy may marry again.”
“Carrots, I suppose.”
“What?”
“We always call her Carrots. She taught us to ride, you know. Last summer. She and Daddy are great friends. Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind Carrots. She’s very jolly. Will you marry someone too?”
“No… No, I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“What about the man in your play. He’s rather nice.”
“He’s married… Besides I don’t want to.”
“When will Daddy marry Carrots?”
“I don’t know. It has not been discussed. We’re not divorced yet.”
“No, of course not. Can I tell them here?”
“No. Certainly not. It’s—it’s a private sort of thing.”
I ought to be intensely relieved that Caroline is taking it like this, but I am not. I’m shocked. I’m bewildered. I don’t understand… If Pappy and Mama had been divorced it would have meant the end of the world. And Mama was not my mother. Pappy and Mama…
“Are you going to stay for tea, Mummy?”
“No, I don’t think so. I have to be in the theater, anyway, by six.”
“I shall write to Auntie Celia and ask if I can go to her next holidays.”
“Yes, darling, of course.”
Down the scrubbed stairs, and through the hall full of lists, and out of the front door to the waiting car.
“Good-bye, darling. I’m sorry if I made you miss the game.”
“It’s all right, Mummy. I’ll dash now. There’s still another half hour left.” Caroline waved, and before Maria had turned the car she was running out of sight behind the great brick building.
This is one of those terrible moments when I want to cry. I don’t cry often, I’m not the crying kind. Celia was always crying as a child. But now it would be a relief. Now it is the only thing in the world that I want to do. For someone else to take over this wheel and drive the car, so that I could lie back against the seat and cry. I won’t let myself, though. Because it would show on my face and in my eyes. And I have to be in the theater by six o’clock. So instead of crying I shall sing. Very loudly and completely out of tune. This is why Niall wrote his songs. So that, when I faced my Waterloo, I could sing.
But perhaps it would be better if I went into a church and prayed. I might be converted. I might leave the stage altogether and go about the world doing good. Strength through Prayer. Strength through Joy. No, that was Hitler. Well, strength through something. There is a church at the corner. Perhaps it is a symbol, like looking in the Bible before a first night. Shall I park the car, and go into the church and pray? I will.
The church was dark and gloomy. It could not have been built very long. No atmosphere at all. Maria sat down in a pew and waited. Perhaps if she waited long enough something would happen. A dove come from the air. A feeling of peace descend upon her. And she would be able to walk out of the church consoled, refreshed, ready to face the future. Perhaps a priest would come, a dear, kind old priest with white hair and calm, gray eyes. It would help, surely, to talk to some kind old priest? They had so much experience of the world, of suffering, of lost, unhappy people. Maria waited, but there was not any dove. She could hear the sound of schoolboys in the distance playing football, laughing. Presently the door behind her opened. She looked over her shoulder, and yes, it must be the Vicar of the church. But he was not old. He was youthful, he wore glasses. He walked briskly up the aisle towards the vestry, looking neither to right nor to left. And his shoes squeaked…
It was no good. He would never convert anyone. Nor would the church. The whole thing was just a waste of time. Back to the car…
Well, I can always have my hair done. Lucien will give me a cup of tea and some biscuits. A cup of tea is really what I need. I can sit in that cubicle, pretending to look at an old Tatler, and Lucien will burble on, I don’t have to listen. I can close my eyes and think of nothing. Or try to think of nothing. Lucien is the answer. The burbling patter of Lucien is more refreshing than the patter of a priest. They are probably the same, at heart. Niall would say there is no difference.
“Good afternoon, madame. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m exhausted, Lucien. I have had a terrible day.”
Hairdressers were like doctors, they had the same smooth manner. And they asked no questions. They smiled. They understood.
Lucien waved Maria to her usual chair, in her usual cubicle, and there was even a new bottle of bath essence sitting before the mirror, wrapped in cellophane, the bottle itself a shining, glittering green. The name upon it, Venetian Balm, temptation in itself. Like the sweets when I was a child, thought Maria, sweets wrapped in gilded paper; they always made me better if I was angry, if I was tired.
“Lucien, if I told you I was on the verge of suicide, that I was contemplating throwing myself under a tram, that the whole world had turned sour upon me, and the people that I love don’t love me anymore—what would you suggest as panacea?”
Lucien looked at her with narrowed eyes, his head a little on one side.
“How about a facial, madame?” he said.
It was a minute to six when Maria pushed through the stage-door.
“Good evening, Bob.”
“Good evening, Miss Delaney.”
The stage-door-keeper half rose from the chair in his cubbyhole.
“A telephone call for you a few minutes ago, miss. Mr. Wyndham, from the country.”
“Did he leave any message?”
“He asked if you would ring him as soon as you got in.”
“Switch the extension plug through to my room, Bob, please.”
“Yes, Miss Delaney.”
Maria ran down the stairs to her dressing room. Charles had telephoned. That meant everything was all right, that he had been thinking things over, and he realized now that the whole business of divorce was out of the question. Charles was ringing up to apologize. Perhaps he had suffered today as much as she had. In which case there must be no reproaches, no post-mortems. Start afresh. Begin again.
She went into her room and threw her coat onto the divan.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” she told her dresser. She seized the telephone on the corner table and asked for trunks. They were slow to answer. After a moment or two the operator said, “The lines are engaged to trunks. We’ll call you later.” Maria put on her dressing gown, and tied her hair up with a handkerchief. She began to cream her face.
I wonder if Charles will want to come up to London tomorrow, for the reconciliation. It was a bad day, a matinée, but if he comes early to the flat we could lunch; and possibly he would find something to do during the day, and he could then stay the night. It would be quite a good idea if he stayed the night. I won’t go down to Farthings, though, for the weekend if that red-haired woman is in the neighborhood. He will have to get rid of her. I really can’t swallow her. It would be too much.
Her face wiped clean of all powder and foundation, smooth and fresh like a little girl before a bath, Maria knelt once more beside the telephone.
“Can’t you get trunks? It’s very urgent.”
At last the answering response, “Trunk number, please,” and then the rather high-pitched ring of the Farthings’ call.
But it was not Charles who answered, it was Polly.
“I want Mr. Wyndham.”
“He left about five minutes ago. He couldn’t wait any longer. Oh dear, such a day, Mummy.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“A message from the Dower House soon after lunch. Would Daddy go over right away. Lord Wyndham had had a heart attack. I was to have taken the children to tea in the afternoon, but of course that was out of the question. Daddy came back here at five, and he has sent for the specialist from London, who is on his way now, that’s why Daddy had to go back again, and couldn’t wait for your call, but he told me, of course not in front of the children, that he didn’t think there was much hope, and that Lord Wyndham would probably die during the night. Isn’t it awful? Poor granny.”
“Did Mr. Wyndham leave any sort of message for me?”
“No. Just that I was to tell you what had happened, and to warn you that he feared it was the end.”
“Yes. It sounds like the end.”
“Do you want to speak to the children?”
“No, Polly. Not now. Good-bye.”
It was the end all right. When a poor old man was over eighty, he did not survive a major heart attack. The clock, that had been running down for the last ten years, would stop at last.
Charles would be Lord Wyndham in the morning. And the red-haired woman, whom Caroline called Carrots, would be Lady Wyndham in a few months’ time. And God, thought Maria, must be having a pretty good field day over my affairs today. He must be fairly splitting His sides over the joke. “Let’s think of something else to shake Maria. Come on, St. Peter, and the rest of you boys, what can we do next? What about a rotten egg from the back of the pit tonight? Slap between the eyes. That will learn her.”
All right, all right, said Maria. Two can play at that game, my friends. And what was it that Pappy said to me all those years ago, before my very first big part in London? Nothing is worthwhile if you don’t fight back. Other things too he used to say, which I did not listen to at the time, but if I think about them now they will come back.
“Never truckle under, my darling. Never pull a poor mouth. The duds truckle under. The duds pull poor mouths. Stick your chin out. And when everything else fails there’s always your work. Not work with a capital W, my darling. Not art with a big A. Leave art to the highbrows; believe me, it’s their only consolation, and if they put the letter F before it, they’d be dead on the nail every time. No, do the work you feel in your bones you have to do, because it’s the only damn thing you can do, the only thing you understand. Sometimes you will be happy. Sometimes you will know despair. But don’t ever whine. Delaneys don’t whine. Just go ahead and do your tricks…”
All right, Pappy. You were always closer to Celia than you were to me, because I was generally thinking about something else; but now, at this moment, I feel as if you were beside me in the room. I can see your funny blue eyes, like mine, looking down at me from the photograph on the wall; and your nose is a bit cockeyed too, as mine is, and your hair stands up from your head in the same way, but what Niall always calls my mobile mouth must have come from that mother in Vienna whom I never saw, who beguiled you, Pappy, when you ought to have known better. All I hope is that she does not start to let me down. Not at this particular moment in my existence. She has been on my side up till now.
“Come in.”
“There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss Delaney,” said the dresser. “A French gentleman. A Mr. Laforge.”
“A Mr. what? Tell him to go away. You know I never see anyone before a performance.”
“He’s very persistent. He has a play for you to read. He says you used to know his father.”
“That’s a very old one. Tell him I’ve heard that one before.”
“He flew over from Paris this afternoon. He says his play is coming on in Paris very shortly, and he has done the translation himself, and he wants to do a London production over here at the same time.”
“I bet he does. Why pick on me?”
“Because you used to know his father.”
Well, for heaven’s sake. On with the make-up.
“What does he look like?”
“Rather nice. Fair. Looks as if he had been sun-bathing somewhere.”
“Draw the curtains and I’ll shout through them. Tell him he can only stay two minutes.”
The thing is, that if I am going to spend the rest of my life reading plays by unknown Frenchmen it’s a pretty poor outlook.
“How-do-you-do. Who’s your father?”
Sounds like Harry Tate. Perhaps that’s my ultimate answer. Vaudeville.
“How do you do, Miss Delaney. My father sends you his very best respects. His name is Michel Laforge, and he knew you years and years ago in Brittany.”
Michel… Brittany… What an extraordinary coincidence. Because wasn’t I thinking about Brittany on Sunday afternoon at Farthings?
“Why, of course. I remember your father very well. How is your father?”
“The same as ever, Miss Delaney. He hasn’t aged at all.”
He must be a rollicking fifty-five if he’s a day. I wonder if he still lies about on rocks, looking for starfish and seducing little girls?
“What is this play you want me to read?”
“A play of the dix-neuvième siècle, Miss Delaney. Lovely music, lovely décor, and only you could play the part of the Duchess.”
“A Duchess? I have to be a Duchess, do I?”
“Yes, Miss Delaney. A very lovely, very wicked Duchess.”
Well, I suppose I can always be a Duchess. I have never been a Duchess yet. And a wicked Duchess would be more amusing than a good one.
“What does your Duchess do?”
“She has five men at her feet.”
“Why only five?”
“I could always add a sixth, if you desire it.”
Where’s my other dressing gown, the blue one? Somebody else now knocking at the door. People treat my room like a public bar.
“Who is it?”
The stage-door man’s voice. “A telegram. Miss Delaney.”
“All right. Put it on the table.”
Lucien has mucked up my hair. Why that curl over the right ear? Always so much better when I do the thing myself. Draw back the curtains.
“How do you do again, Mr. Laforge.”
Not bad-looking after all. Better than Michel, as I remember him. But rather young. Hardly out of the egg.
“So you want me to be a Duchess?”
“Wouldn’t you like to be a Duchess?”
Yes, I would. I would not mind at all. I’ll be the Queen of Sheba or the bad girl in a brothel, if the play is any good and it amuses me.
“Are you doing anything for supper, Mr. Laforge?”
“No.”
“Come back, then, after the performance. You shall take me out to supper, and we will talk about your play. Now run along.”
He went. He vanished. And the back of his head was really rather nice. The stage manager’s voice came through the loudspeaker.
“Quarter of an hour, please.”
The dresser pointed towards the telegram on the table.
“You haven’t read your telegram, Miss Delaney.”
“I never read telegrams before a performance. Don’t you know that by this time? My Pappy never did. Nor do I. It brings bad luck.”
Maria stood before the mirror, she fastened the belt round her dress.
“Do you remember the song of the Miller of Dee?” she said.
“What was it?” asked the dresser.
Maria laughed and patted a curl into place.
“I care for nobody, no, not I—
And nobody cares for me.”
The dresser smiled. “You’re in very good form tonight, aren’t you?” she said.
“I always am,” answered Maria. “Every night.”
The muffled murmur of the audience, chattering as they took their seats, crackled through the loudspeaker on the walls.