“Yes?” said Greta. “And to me?”
“And to you, what’s coming to you! Success, perhaps?” he added, half quizzically with an ironic question in his tone.
He went away next morning early.
“What a strange man he is,” Ellie said. “I’ve never understood him.”
“I never understand half of what he says,” I answered.
“He knows things,” said Ellie thoughtfully.
“You mean he knows the future?”
“No,” said Ellie, “I didn’t mean that. He knows people. I said it to you once before. He knows people better than they know themselves. Sometimes he hates them because of that, and sometimes he’s sorry for them. He’s not sorry for me, though,” she added meditatively.
“Why should he be?” I demanded.
“Oh, because—” said Ellie.
Sixteen
It was the next day in the afternoon that as I was walking rather rapidly in the darkest part of the wood where the shade of the pine trees was more menacing than anywhere else, I saw the figure of a tall woman standing in the drive. I took a quick impulsive step off the path. I’d taken it for granted that she was our gipsy but I stopped in sudden recoil when I saw who it actually was. It was my mother. She stood there tall and grim and grey-haired.
“Good Lord,” I said, “you startled me, Mum. What are you doing here? Come to see us? We’ve asked you often enough, haven’t we?”
We hadn’t actually. I’d extended one rather lukewarm invitation, that was all. I’d put it, too, in a way which made it pretty sure that my mother wouldn’t accept. I didn’t want her here. I’d never wanted her here.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve come to see you at last. To see all’s well with you. So this is the grand house you’ve built, and it is a grand house,” she said, looking over my shoulder.
I thought I detected in her voice the disapproving acidity that I’d expected to find.
“Too grand for the likes of me, eh?” I said.
“I didn’t say that, lad.”
“But you thought it.”
“It wasn’t what you were born to, and no good comes from getting out of your station in life.”
“Nobody’d ever get anywhere if they listened to you.”
“Aye, I know that’s what you say and think, but I don’t know what good ambition’s ever done to anybody. It’s the kind of thing that turns to dead-sea fruit in your mouth.”
“Ah, for God’s sake don’t croak,” I said. “Come on. Come along up to see our grand house for yourself and turn up your nose at it. And come and see my grand wife, too, and turn up your nose at her if you dare.”
“Your wife? I’ve seen her already.”
“What do you mean, you’ve seen her already?” I demanded.
“So she didn’t tell you, eh?”
“What?” I demanded.
“That she came to see me.”
“She came to see you?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes. There she was one day standing outside the door, ringing the bell and looking a little scared. She’s a pretty lass and a sweet one for all the fine clothes she had on. She said, ‘You’re Mike’s mother, aren’t you?’ and I said, ‘Yes, and who are you?’ and she said, ‘I’m his wife.’ She said, ‘I had to come to see you. It didn’t seem right that I shouldn’t know Mike’s mother…’ And I said, ‘I bet he didn’t want you to’ and she hesitated, and I said: ‘You don’t need to mind telling me that. I know my boy and I know what he’d want or not want.’ She said, ‘You think—perhaps he’s ashamed of you because he and you are poor and I’m rich, but it isn’t like that at all. That isn’t like him at all. It isn’t, really it isn’t.’ I said again, ‘You don’t need to tell me, lass. I know what faults my boy has. That’s not one of his faults. He’s not ashamed of his mother and he’s not ashamed of his beginnings.
“‘He’s not ashamed of me,’ I said to her. ‘He’s afraid of me if anything. I know too much about him, you see.’ And that seemed to amuse her. She said, ‘I expect mothers always feel like that—that they know all about their sons. And I expect sons always feel embarrassed just because of that!’
“I said in a way that might be true. When you’re young, you’re always putting on an act to the world. I mind myself, when I was a child in my auntie’s house. On the wall over my bed there was a great big eye in a gilt frame. It said ‘Thou God seest me.’ Gave me the creeps it did all up my spine before I went to sleep.”
“Ellie should have told me she’d been to see you,” I said. “I don’t see why she should keep it such a secret. She should have told me.”
I was angry. I was very angry. I’d had no idea that Ellie would keep secrets like that from me.
“She was a little scared of what she’d done, maybe, but she’d no call to be frightened of you, my boy.”
“Come on,” I said, “come on and see our house.”
I don’t know whether she liked our house or not. I think not. She looked round the rooms and raised her eyebrows and then she went into the terrace room. Ellie and Greta were sitting there. They’d just come in from outside and Greta had a scarlet wool cloak half over her shoulders. My mother looked at them both. She just stood there for a moment as though rooted to the spot. Ellie jumped up and came forward and across the room.
“Oh, it’s Mrs. Rogers,” she said, then turning to Greta, she said, “It’s Mike’s mother come to see our house and us. Isn’t that nice? This is my friend Greta Andersen.”
And she held out both her hands and took Mum’s and Mum looked hard at her and then looked over her shoulder at Greta very hard.
“I see,” she said to herself, “I see.”
“What do you see?” asked Ellie.
“I wondered,” said Mum. “I wondered what it would all be like here.” She looked round her. “Yes, it’s a fine house. Fine curtains and fine chairs and fine pictures.”
“You must have some tea,” said Ellie.
“You look as if you’ve finished tea.”
“Tea’s a thing that need never be finished,” said Ellie, then she said to Greta, “I won’t ring the bell. Greta, will you go out to the kitchen and make a fresh pot of tea?”
“Of course, darling,” said Greta and went out of the room looking over her shoulder once in a sharp, almost scared way at my mother.
My mother sat down.
“Where’s your luggage?” said Ellie. “Have you come to stay? I hope you have.”
“No, lass, I won’t stay. I’m going back by train in half an hour’s time. I just wanted to look in on you.” Then she added rather quickly, probably because she wished to get it out before Greta came back, “Now don’t worry yourself, love, I told him how you came to see me and paid me a visit.”
“I’m sorry, Mike, that I didn’t tell you,” said Ellie firmly, “only I thought perhaps I’d better not.”
“She came out of the kindness of her heart, she did,” said my mother. “She’s a good girl you’ve married, Mike, and a pretty one. Yes, a very pretty one.” Then she added half audibly, “I am sorry.”
“Sorry,” said Ellie, faintly puzzled.
“Sorry for thinking the things I did,” said my mother and added with a slight air of strain, “Well, as you say, mothers are like that. Always inclined to be suspicious of daughters-in-law. But when I saw you, I knew he’d been lucky. It seemed too good to be true to me, that it did.”
“What impertinence,” I said, but I smiled at her as I said it. “I always had excellent taste.”
“You’ve always had expensive taste, that’s what you mean,” said my mother and looked at the brocade curtains.
“I’m not really the worse for being an expensive taste,” said Ellie, smiling at her.
“You make him save a bit of money from time to time,” said Mum, “it’ll be good for his character.”
“I refuse to have my character improved,” I said. “The advantage of taking a wife is that the wife thinks
everything you do is perfect. Isn’t that so, Ellie?”
Ellie was looking happy again now. She laughed and said:
“You’re above yourself, Mike! The conceit of you.”
Greta came back then with the teapot. We’d been a little ill at ease and we were just getting over it. Somehow when Greta came back the strain came out again. My mother resisted all endeavours on Ellie’s part to make her stay over and Ellie didn’t insist after a short while. She and I walked down together with my mother along the winding drive through the trees and to the gateway.
“What do you call it?” my mother asked abruptly.
Ellie said, “Gipsy’s Acre.”
“Ah,” said my mother, “yes you’ve got gipsies around here, haven’t you?”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“I saw one as I came up. She looked at me queer, she did.”
“She’s all right really,” I said, “a little half-baked, that’s all.”
“Why do you say she’s half-baked? She’d a funny look to her when she looked at me. She’s got a grievance against you of some kind?”
“I don’t think it’s real,” said Ellie. “I think she’s imagined it all. That we’ve done her out of her land or something like that.”
“I expect she wants money,” said my mother. “Gipsies are like that. Make a big song and dance sometimes of how they’ve been done down one way or another. But they soon stop when they get some money in their itching palms.”
“You don’t like gipsies,” said Ellie.
“They’re a thieving lot. They don’t work steady and they don’t keep their hands off what doesn’t belong to them.”
“Oh well,” Ellie said, “we—we—don’t worry any more now.”
My mother said good-bye and then added, “Who’s the young lady that lives with you?”
Ellie explained how Greta had been with her for three years before she married and how but for Greta she would have had a miserable life.
“Greta’s done everything to help us. She’s a wonderful person,” said Ellie. “I wouldn’t know how—how to get on without her.”
“She’s living with you or on a visit?”
“Oh well,” said Ellie. She avoided the question. “She—she’s living with us at present because I sprained my ankle and had to have someone to look after me. But I’m all right again now.”
“Married people do best alone together when they’re starting,” my mother said.
We stood by the gate watching my mother march away.
“She’s got a very strong personality,” said Ellie thoughtfully.
I was angry with Ellie, really very angry because she’d gone and found out my mother and visited her without telling me. But when she turned and stood looking at me with one eyebrow raised a little and the funny half-timid, half-satisfied little-girl smile on her face, I couldn’t help relenting.
“What a deceitful little thing you are,” I said.
“Well,” said Ellie, “I’ve had to be sometimes, you see.”
“That’s like a Shakespeare play I once saw. They did it at a school I was at.” I quoted self-consciously, “‘She has deceiv’d her father and may thee.’”
“What did you play—Othello?”
“No,” I said, “I played the girl’s father. That’s why I remember that speech, I suppose. It’s practically the only thing I had to say.”
“‘She has deceiv’d her father and may thee,’” said Ellie thoughtfully. “I didn’t even deceive my father as far as I know. Perhaps I would have later.”
“I don’t suppose he would have taken very kindly to your marrying me,” I said, “any more than your stepmother did.”
“No,” said Ellie, “I don’t suppose he would. He was pretty conventional I think.” Then she gave that funny little-girl smile again. “So I suppose I’d have had to be like Desdemona and deceived my father and run away with you.”
“Why did you want to see my mother so much, Ellie?” I asked curiously.
“It’s not so much I wanted to see her,” said Ellie, “but I felt terribly bad not doing anything about it. You haven’t mentioned your mother very often but I did gather that she’s always done everything she could for you. Come to the rescue about things and worked very hard to get you extra schooling and things like that. And I thought it seemed so mean and purse-proud of me not to go near her.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been your fault,” I said, “it would have been mine.”
“Yes,” said Ellie. “I can understand that perhaps you didn’t want me to go and see her.”
“You think I’ve got an inferiority complex about my mother? That’s not true at all, Ellie, I assure you it isn’t. It wasn’t that.”
“No,” said Ellie thoughtfully, “I know that now. It was because you didn’t want her to do a lot of mother stuff.”
“Mother stuff?” I queried.
“Well,” said Ellie, “I can see that she’s the kind of person who would know quite well what other people ought to do. I mean, she’d want you to go in for certain kinds of jobs.”
“Quite right,” I said. “Steady jobs. Settling down.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered very much now,” said Ellie. “I dare say it was very good advice. But it wouldn’t have been the right advice ever for you, Mike. You’re not a settler down. You don’t want to be steady. You want to go and see things and do things—be on top of the world.”
“I want to stay here in this house with you,” I said.
“For a while, perhaps…And I think—I think you’ll always want to come back here. And so shall I. I think we shall come here every year and I think we shall be happier here than anywhere else. But you’ll want to go places too. You’ll want to travel and see things and buy things. Perhaps think up new plans for doing the garden here. Perhaps we’ll go and look at Italian gardens, Japanese gardens, landscape gardens of all kinds.”
“You make life seem very exciting, Ellie,” I said. “I’m sorry I was cross.”
“Oh, I don’t mind your being cross,” said Ellie. “I’m not afraid of you.” Then she added, with a frown: “Your mother didn’t like Greta.”
“A lot of people don’t like Greta,” I said.
“Including you.”
“Now look here, Ellie, you’re always saying that. It’s not true. I was just a bit jealous of her at first, that was all. We get on very well now.” And I added, “I think perhaps she makes people get rather on the defensive.”
“Mr. Lippincott doesn’t like her either, does he? He think’s she’s got too much influence over me,” said Ellie.
“Has she?”
“I wonder why you should ask that. Yes, I think perhaps she has. It’s only natural, she’s rather a dominant personality and I had to have someone I could trust in and rely on. Someone who’d stand up for me.”
“And see you got your own way?” I asked her, laughing.
We went into the house arm in arm. For some reason it seemed dark that afternoon. I suppose because the sun had just left the terrace and left a feeling of darkness behind it. Ellie said:
“What’s the matter, Mike?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just suddenly I felt as though someone were walking over my grave.”
“A goose is walking over your grave. That’s the real saying, isn’t it?” said Ellie.
Greta wasn’t about anywhere. The servants said she’d gone out for a walk.
Now that my mother knew all about my marriage and had seen Ellie, I did what I had really wanted to do for some time. I sent her a large cheque. I told her to move into a better house and to buy herself any additional furniture she wanted. Things like that. I had doubts of course as to whether she would accept it or not. It wasn’t money that I’d worked for and I couldn’t honestly pretend it was. As I expected, she sent the cheque back torn in two with a scrawled note. “I’ll have naught to do with any of this,” she wrote. “You’ll never be different. I know that now, h
eaven help you.” I flung it down in front of Ellie.
“You see what my mother’s like,” I said. “I married a rich girl, and I’m living on my rich wife’s money and the old battleaxe disapproves of it!”
“Don’t worry,” said Ellie. “Lots of people think that way. She’ll get over it. She loves you very much, Mike,” she added.
“Then why does she want to alter me all the time? Make me into her pattern. I’m myself. I’m not anybody else’s pattern. I’m not mother’s little boy to be moulded the way she likes. I’m myself. I’m an adult. I’m me!”
“You’re you,” said Ellie, “and I love you.”
And then, perhaps to distract me, she said something rather disquieting.
“What do you think,” she said, “of this new manservant of ours?”
I hadn’t thought about him. What was there to think? If anything I preferred him to our last one who had not troubled to conceal his low opinion of my social status.
“He’s all right,” I said. “Why?”
“I just wondered whether he might be a security man.”
“A security man? What do you mean?”
“A detective. I thought Uncle Andrew might have arranged it.”
“Why should he?”
“Well—possible kidnapping, I suppose. In the States, you know, we usually had guards—especially in the country.”
Another of the disadvantages of having money that I hadn’t known about!
“What a beastly idea!”
“Oh, I don’t know…I suppose I’m used to it. What does it matter? One doesn’t really notice.”
“Is the wife in it, too?”
“She’d have to be, I think, though she cooks very well. I should think that Uncle Andrew, or perhaps Stanford Lloyd, whichever one of them thought of it, must have paid our last ones to leave, and had these two all lined up ready to take their place. It would have been quite easy.”
“Without telling you?” I was still incredulous.
“They’d never dream of telling me. I might have kicked up a fuss. Anyway, I may be quite wrong about them.” She went on dreamily. “It’s only that one gets a kind of feeling when one’s been used to people of that kind always being around.”