The armistice came as a great surprise to Celia. She had got so used to the war that she had felt it would never end …
It was just a part of life …
And now the war was over!
While the war had been on it hadn’t been any use making plans. You had to let the future take care of itself and live for the day – just hoping and praying that Dermot wouldn’t be sent out to France again.
But now – it was different.
Dermot was full of plans. He wasn’t going to stay in the army. There wasn’t any future in the army. As soon as possible he would get demobilized and would go into the City. He knew of an opening in a very good firm.
‘But, Dermot isn’t it safer to stay in the army? I mean, there’s the pension and all that.’
‘I should stagnate if I stayed in the army. And what good is a miserable pension? I mean to make money – a good deal of money. You don’t mind taking a risk, do you, Celia?’
No, Celia didn’t mind. That disposition to take risks was what she admired most about Dermot. He was not afraid of life.
Dermot would never run away from life. He would face it and force it to do his will.
Ruthless, her mother had called him once. Well, that was true in a way. He was ruthless to life – no sentimental considerations would ever influence him. But he was not ruthless to her. Look how tender he had been before Judy was born …
Dermot took his risk.
He left the army and went into the City, starting on a small salary, but with a prospect of good money in the future.
Celia had wondered whether he would find office life irksome, but he did not seem to do so. He seemed entirely happy and satisfied in his new life.
Dermot liked doing new things.
He liked new people too.
Celia was sometimes shocked that he never wanted to go and see the two old aunts in Ireland who had brought him up.
He sent them presents and wrote to them regularly once a month, but he never wanted to see them.
‘Weren’t you fond of them?’
‘Of course I was – especially of Aunt Lucy. She was just like a mother to me.’
‘Well, then, don’t you want to see them? We could have them to stay, if you liked.’
‘Oh, that would be rather a nuisance.’
‘A nuisance? If you’re fond of them?’
‘Well, I know they’re all right. Quite happy and all that. I don’t exactly want to see them. After all, when you grow up, you grow out of your relations. That’s only nature. Aunt Lucy and Aunt Kate don’t really mean anything to me now. I’ve outgrown them.’
Dermot was extraordinary, Celia thought.
But perhaps he thought her equally extraordinary for being so attached to places and people she had known all her life.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t think her extraordinary. He didn’t think about it at all. Dermot never thought about what people were like. Talking about thoughts and feelings seemed to him a waste of time.
He liked realities – not ideas.
Sometimes Celia would ask him questions like, ‘What would you do if I ran away with someone?’ or ‘What would you do if I died?’
Dermot never knew what he would do. How could he know till it happened?
‘But can’t you just sort of imagine?’
No, Dermot couldn’t. Imagining things that weren’t so seemed to him a great waste of time.
Which, of course, was quite true.
Nevertheless, Celia couldn’t stop doing it. She was made that way.
One day Dermot hurt Celia.
They had been to a party. Celia was still rather scared of parties in case a fit of tongue-tied shyness should come over her. Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t.
But this party (or so she thought) had gone remarkably well. She had been a little tongue-tied at first, and then she had ventured on a remark that had made the man she was talking to laugh.
Emboldened, Celia had found her tongue, and after that she fairly chattered. Everybody had laughed and talked a great deal, Celia as much as anybody. She had said things that sounded to her quite witty and which even seemed to have appeared witty to other people. She came home in a happy glow.
‘I’m not so stupid. I’m not so stupid after all,’ she said to herself happily.
She called through the dressing-room door to Dermot.
‘I think that was a nice party. I enjoyed it. How lucky that I caught that ladder in my stocking in time.’
‘It wasn’t too bad.’
‘Oh, Dermot didn’t you like it?’
‘Well, I’ve got a bit of indigestion.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’ll get you some bicarbonate.’
‘Oh, it’s all right now. What was the matter with you this evening?’
‘With me?’
‘Yes, you were quite different.’
‘I suppose I was excited. Different in what way?’
‘Well, you’re usually so sensible. Tonight you were talking and laughing and quite unlike yourself.’
‘Didn’t you like it? I thought I was getting on so well.’
A queer, cold feeling began to form in Celia’s inside.
‘Well, I thought it sounded rather silly – that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ said Celia slowly. ‘I suppose I was being silly … But people seemed to like it – they laughed.’
‘Oh, people!’
‘And, Dermot – I enjoyed it myself … It’s awful, but I believe I like being silly sometimes.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then.’
‘But I won’t be again. Not if you don’t like it.’
‘Well, I do rather hate it when you sound silly. I don’t like silly women.’
It hurt – oh, yes, it hurt …
A fool – she was a fool. Of course she was a fool, she’d always known it. But she’d hoped, somehow – that Dermot wouldn’t mind. That he’d be – what did she mean exactly? – tender to her over it. If you loved a person, their faults and failings endeared them more to you – not less. You said, ‘Now, isn’t that like so and so?’ But you said it, not with exasperation but with tenderness.
But then men didn’t deal much in tenderness …
A queer little pang of fright swept over Celia.
No, men weren’t tender …
They weren’t like mothers …
A sudden misgiving assailed her. She didn’t really know anything about men. She didn’t really know anything about Dermot …
‘The men!’ Grannie’s phrase came back to her. Grannie had seemed perfectly confident of knowing exactly what men liked and didn’t like.
But Grannie, of course, wasn’t silly … She had often laughed at Grannie, but Grannie wasn’t silly.
And she, Celia, was … She’d always known it really, deep down. But she had thought, with Dermot, it wouldn’t matter. Well, it did matter.
In the darkness the tears ran down her cheeks unchecked …
She’d have her cry over – there, in the night, under the shelter of the darkness. And in the morning, she’d be different. She would never be silly in public again.
She’d been spoilt, that’s what it was. Everyone had always been so kind to her – encouraged her …
But she didn’t want Dermot to look as just for one moment he had looked …
It reminded her of something – something long ago.
No, she couldn’t remember.
But she’d be very careful not to be silly any more.