The Bachelor

  “Not to-day. I’ve just had my first cheque from the European Reconstruction Council and I have enough money to take you out and I’d like to. I did warn you, though,” smiling down at her, “that it would be very inexpensively, didn’t I? The next time we go out together, if I’m very hard up, we’ll go halves.”

  The next time we go out together, thought Alicia, as they sat down at a table by a large spotted mirror wreathed with tinsel leaves and grapes. She arranged her wet raincoat over the back of her chair while Richard (having consulted her, but not much) ordered the lunch. What is it he does that makes quite ordinary remarks sound charming? He doesn’t try to be charming like poor H. used to. It’s because he never shoots a line or puts on an act, I think. Anyway, I’m happy.

  She continued to be happy throughout the afternoon, sitting beside Richard in the escapist dusk of the pictures while he held her hand. Sometimes he turned to smile at her, or she at him, when they were both amused, and both were pleased to find that they were amused at the same things. He neither stroked her hand nor pressed it but held her long fingers gently and safely in his own. I’m perfectly happy, she thought dreamily, with her shapely turbaned head lifted a little towards the screen and her eyes watching the convincing sufferings of the hero and heroine. Crys would laugh, and say Simple Pleasures. So what?

  Richard gradually began to feel calmer, too. The morning’s encounter with Vartouhi had disturbed him deeply, more because it had proved to him that he was not yet healed than because of her unkindness, for he was used to that. But he took care that Alicia should not suspect that he was suffering, for he strongly disliked talking about his troubles to anyone and was inclined to despise people who could not keep their woes to themselves but unloaded them on their friends.

  As they came out into the rainy dusk he said, with his hand under her elbow to steer her through the hurrying crowds:

  “The only unconvincing note in that, as hokum, was the part where he got drunk and cried.”

  “Yes, I thought that too. In my experience,” said Alicia dryly, “women sit and drink and cry over men oftener than men sit and drink and cry over women.”

  He laughed.

  “It’s a question of temperament, not of sex. Do you mind the same little place for tea?”

  By this time she would definitely have preferred a bar, but she thought that if he had wanted a drink he would have said so and as she did not want to disturb their harmony by suggesting plans of her own, she said that she did not mind at all.

  When they were sitting again under the mirror with the tinsel grapes and drinking tea and smoking, he said:

  “You have a calming effect on me, Alicia.”

  “Men don’t like being calmed as a rule,” she said impersonally.

  “It isn’t anything you do or say, it’s what you are—or appear to be.”

  “Oh, I am fairly calm, I think. I never have flapped much about anything.”

  “I like it, anyway.”

  “Thanks.”

  But nevertheless a little shadow came over her contentment. She did not want to be a walking bottle of soothing syrup for Richard Marten. She had known more than one girl who had been calm and friendly and always there when men wanted comfort, and then the men suddenly married exciting women with red hair and fiendish tempers and the calm friendly ones never saw them again. And he’s just the sort that would marry that little number over a week-end, she thought, and found the idea depressing.

  At the entrance to the tube station he said good-bye to her, for she was spending the night in London.

  “Thanks awfully, Richard, I’ve had a lovely time,” she said. Her eyes were very blue beneath the black turban as she looked up at him.

  “So have I. It displeases you,” said Richard, looking down into her eyes, “if I say that you have a calming effect on me, so I will not say it again. But have you ever spent a long day on the river in still weather, drifting along between the trees with only the lovely musical sound of the water going past the boat?”

  She nodded, still looking up at him.

  “Well, that’s how I feel. Thank you, dear. Good night.”

  He stooped his head and lightly kissed her cheek, then turned away and went down the steps into the Underground.

  Alicia hailed a taxi and told it to go to Knightsbridge, which—after some oaths, and some promises from Alicia—it did.

  I really can’t sort out my feelings at all, she thought, as the taxi went on through the deepening black-out. Perhaps I’d better not try.

  About nine o’clock that evening Richard was sitting in his room making notes on the value of the export trade from Holland to Sumatra in the years from 1935 to 1939, when his landlady opened the door and announced that there was a lady to see him. This is gettin’ monotonous, as Billy Bennet would say, thought Richard, standing up and peering over her shoulder out into the dim hall, but when his mother, looking pale and tired and amused, followed the woman into the room, he knew at once that something had happened and that she was upset.

  “Rick, darling,” said Betty, pulling off her hat and dropping it on the table and going up to give him a kiss, “I’m so glad you’re in.”

  “This is my mother, Mrs. Arnold,” said Richard.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Marten,” said Mrs. Arnold, dimly returning Betty’s friendly smile, and went out of the room murmuring “Good evening, Mrs. Marten.”

  “What a dreary little room, sweetie,” said Betty softly, looking about her.

  “It is not festive, but it is adequate. I’m afraid,” looking at her searchingly, “that all the same you’re glad to be here, Betty.”

  “Well, I am, dear, ‘as a matter of a fack,’ as you used to say when you were small. That little stove gives out quite a good heat but what a smell! It can’t be good for you.”

  “Does it smell? I hadn’t noticed it. This is the only comfortable chair,” pulling it up to the stove for her, “and here’s a cigarette. I know what’s the matter; someone’s been proposing to you.”

  “Yes—the Night Club King—and it is all so uncomfortable——”

  “You didn’t walk here, surely?” he interrupted.

  “Oh no, Ken brought me, he had to go to a Home Guard meeting and he dropped me here on the way; he’s going to pick me up on his way back in about an hour. It’s so nice to be with you, Ricky. I really couldn’t bear the atmosphere of that house another minute, with the Night Club King being dreadfully cheerful and gallant and obviously feeling utterly miserable, and Connie looking at me as if I’d stolen her sugar ration and Frances being all knowing and sympathetic and trying to get me into corners for a nice long cosy chat, and Ken being bluff and embarrassed——”

  “But it has nothing to do with any of them. I don’t see——”

  “Of course it hasn’t; he’s free, white and seventy-eight; but you know what people are. And Connie really is very queer with her dislike of the idea of any of them getting married: it makes her angrier than anything. She’s a sort of Old Miss Barrett about it. She needs psychoing.”

  “Or telling not to be selfish.”

  “Oh, it’s more than just selfishness. It’s a sort of bossy elder sister attitude; Ken mustn’t make a fool of himself, he wouldn’t make a good husband, he’s too like Father, and so weak, and all the rest of it. She always has been like it. I remember when we were all young——”

  “Was she responsible for breaking off your engagement to Kenneth?”

  “No, I fell in love with your father, darling, and just forgot all about poor Ken; we were married two days after we met—I’ve told you so often. Besides, that affair with Ken wasn’t a pukka engagement, you know, it was only an understanding, and a boy-and-girl sort of affair.”

  “On the rare occasions when I have given any thought to the matter I have wondered if he never married in later life because of that shock to his sexual vanity in youth.”

  “What a way to put it, dear! I don’t think it upset him all that. He wrote me a v
ery sweet letter saying he hoped I’d be happy. He’s a pet, really. Rather an old stick, of course, but a great dear.”

  Without any warning, tears came up into her eyes. She blinked them away, for she was sitting outside the light of the table lamp, and continued in the same amused tone while a sudden unbearably vivid picture of her husband’s face slowly faded into the darkness of memory, “It isn’t really my fault, you know.”

  “‘Why, oh, why will gentlemen desert their chosen intendeds for my sake?’” quoted Richard, grinning at her.

  “It’s all very well, you little brute! but it isn’t my fault! The Night Club King pursued me into the Ministry and proposed in my office—thank god Fowler happened to be out at a conference or he would have thought it most unsuitable, he doesn’t encourage followers—and it took me nearly half an hour to let him down gently, poor old sweet.”

  “Poor Betty.”

  “You may well say so.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Now, Richard: None of your Mass Observation please!”

  “I’m interested.”

  “It isn’t done. You ought to know that.”

  “On the contrary it’s done all the time—not by persons whom you and I would consider of any value, of course, but it’s undoubtedly done. You’d better come clean and then you’ll feel better.”

  “Oh—well, he said a lot of very nice things which he obviously meant, poor old man, and then he said he felt it was time he settled down——”

  “Good heavens.”

  “I know. But he quite saw the fun of it, he was laughing. I liked that, you know. And he told me quite frankly what a good time he could give me for the next few years. He’s on his feet again with regard to money, he says.”

  “Poor old boy.”

  “Rick, I’m so glad you think so too. He is nice, you know. He said he longed to take care of me.”

  “That’s understandable. I often feel you oughtn’t to be knocking about as you do, even though you are in your prime of beauty and health.”

  “I enjoy it, darling. I could always go to Salters if I wanted to settle down, but it’s more fun to live the way I do.”

  “That’s a little weight off my mind. I sometimes get a conscience about you.”

  “You needn’t, Rick.”

  “Not in any way?”

  “Not in any way, dear. Later on I should like some grandchildren but there’s heaps of time for that.”

  He studied her for a moment. She was reclining in the deep chair, with the shadows beyond the circle of lamplight softening her face and hair to a tender beauty that they sometimes lacked in broad daylight because she was always so gay and so on her guard against heaviness and sorrow. Yes, she’s even happy, he thought. That one deadly blow in her youth immunized her for ever afterwards and she has instinctively avoided any entanglements that might let her in for suffering again. There are people who would call that selfish. How I hate suffering! tears, and agony, and all the long-drawn-out, dismal appurtenances of misery! My dearest mother, you are doing what Alicia would call a grand job of work simply by being pretty and gay.

  “Will I do, dear?” inquired his parent meekly, as the pause in the conversation grew prolonged.

  He laughed.

  “Very well indeed, Betty. So you let him down gently?”

  “As gently as I could. You see, Rick, the trouble is that he keeps on saying he’s old, but he doesn’t feel old.”

  He nodded.

  “He feels as if I’d rejected some gay lad in his prime. I had to tell him at last that I just couldn’t ever marry anyone again,” she ended in her airiest tone.

  “Did he see that?”

  “I think so—at last. It was rather wearing, though—explaining it.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “People are a nuisance,” said Betty, lighting another cigarette, “the way they will fall in love.”

  “Indubitably, Miss Squeers.”

  “But they are, Rick. Look how this has upset things at Sunglades.”

  “Well, it’s an upsetting agent, in its raw stages. It only begins to be constructive after marriage. Shall you go away?”

  “I really don’t know. I don’t want to. I’m very comfortable there and I’m fond of Frances and Ken and I like Connie too, though goodness knows why. I hope that he’ll be the one to go away.”

  “I expect he will. I had to,” said Richard, suddenly lowering his defences under the influences of the dusk and his mother’s soft voice.

  “Is it working, dear?”

  “Not now. It was until this morning, and then I had a visitor.”

  He did not know everything about his mother, in spite of being sure that he did, and he would have been very surprised to know how much dismay Betty was concealing when she asked in a casually interested tone:

  “Oh? What was the reason for that?”

  “To see if the moth was still on the pin, I presume.” Richard’s youth and his bitterness sounded in his voice for a moment; then he was ashamed of his own melodrama and went on self-consciously, “I mean, to see if I was still in the same state of mind, I presume. I can’t think of any other reason.”

  His mother said nothing. With a dreamy, absent expression on her face she was wondering if she could manage to get Vartouhi sacked from Sunglades. She did not seriously consider this last idea, for she avoided intriguing as she avoided emotional entanglements, but her mind did just touch on the possibility.

  “Oh. Well, allowances must be made,” she said at last, implying that Vartouhi’s youth and foreignness and hapless situation in a strange land must all plead for her. “But I don’t think it shows a kind heart,” she ended mildly, unable to keep the remark back.

  “No, it doesn’t. But I knew that, and unfortunately it makes absolutely no difference,” he said, getting up. “Would you like some coffee? I’ve got the things here to make it with.”

  “Love it.” She was watching him sorrowfully from her seat in the shadows.

  While he was walking about the room assembling the cups and milk and saucepan, his tall form throwing a shadow on the ceiling, he went on talking.

  “It won’t be allowed to make any difference to my life-pattern, you know, so don’t let it worry you, dear. I shall ignore it.” He looked across at his mother and they both smiled, for that was what he used to say when he was a child and one of his frequent minor ailments threatened to prevent his taking part in some promised excursion. “This kind of thing happens to people sometimes, just as malaria does. One gets over it.” He lit the flame under the glass carafe and turned the wick down.

  “I don’t like your being worried, Rick.” Her casual and airy voice was almost pure sound, so light was the weight of meaning she made it carry.

  “I’m not worried all the time. Only sometimes.”

  He was thinking how restful were these two women with whom he had spent the day and evening; and how, after listening to their cool voices and the nuances and reticences of their conversation, any more dramatic method of dealing with emotions became unbearable by contrast. And yet, he thought, it’s just that force and merciless honesty that attracts me in the other one.

  “It will depend on how they all go on whether I go away or not,” said Betty, stirring her coffee. “If they continue to go round looking as if I’d murdered somebody I shall get out pretty quick.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I shall have to try to find somewhere in the town,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “I wish you could come here but there isn’t another bedroom.”

  “I wish I could, Rick dear, but don’t give it another thought; I’ll manage somehow.”

  There was the sound of a car stopping outside and a moment later the front door bell rang.

  “That’s Fielding; I’ll go. Mrs. Arnold’s in bed, I expect,” said Richard, getting up and going out into the hall. Betty heard voices and Kenneth’s laugh and the next minute he followed Richard into the ro
om, looking even burlier than usual in his Home Guard greatcoat, whose shoulders were dark with raindrops. He had his forage cap in his hand and the dim light shone on the bald crown of his head.

  “Coffee?” inquired Richard. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. I have no talent for cookery.”

  “No thanks. I’ve just had a couple with Arkwright and the lads at the local.” He sat down on the table, which creaked ominously, and he got up again and sat down by Betty.

  “Don’t hurry,” he said to her. “It’s a beastly night, pouring again.” Now that he was away from Sunglades and his sister, his manner to her was as affectionate and unembarrassed as usual. By Jove, if Dad did pop the question I don’t blame him, he thought, looking down admiringly at her as she held the cup in her slender pale fingers with their glittering rings. Her eyelashes cast a little feathery shadow against the side of her nose. All very awkward, of course, thought Kenneth, and the old boy’s taking it very hard. I expect he’ll go away now.

  “The ‘Black Bull’ was full of Yanks,” he said suddenly.

  “Oh?” said Betty. “Was that nice—or wasn’t it?”

  “We got on all right. I like them,” said Kenneth.

  “I don’t,” said Richard. “An expansive and emotional race.”

  “We’d look rather funny without them, anyway,” said Kenneth, who had had more than a couple.

  “That only increases my dislike,” said Richard. “Can you tell me where Abbot’s Lane is, in St. Alberics?”

  “Yes; it’s an alley opening off Abbot’s Hill just before you get to the High Street,” said Kenneth, half glad to have the subject changed and half spoiling for a fight.

  “Thank you,” said Richard, and went on smoothly to talk of other things. In a little while Betty finished her coffee and kissed her son good night and ran out into the rainy black-out to Kenneth’s car. Richard shut the front door on them, hoping that his mother would not have too dreary a drive home.

  CHAPTER 24

  BUT IT WAS rather dreary, for Betty was worried about Richard and Vartouhi now, in addition to her worry about Mr. Fielding’s proposal and its unfortunate results; and although she would have liked to talk to Kenneth about the trouble Vartouhi was causing Richard, she felt unable to do so because she suspected (in spite of her incredulous words to Miss Fielding) that her old friend was himself attracted to the trouble-maker. And as the car approached Sunglades Kenneth’s own manner became silent and restrained, as does that of the prisoner who returns to the prison house after one day out on parole, and Betty felt quite cross with him.