Two with heads together, chattering. Happy enough. They did not mind. Fibroids were nothing. One woman sat at a table, writing swiftly, on sheet after sheet of notepaper. “My own darling, this is to tell you that the thing we feared is true. I shall have to have the operation. I know what this will mean in both our lives…”
Well, at least that was something she was spared. One did not have to go home to write a letter. One did not have to telephone a lover. One did not have a husband waiting by the fire.
“What happened? What did the fellow say?”
Celia went on sitting in the restroom at Marshall’s, and the truth is, she told herself, that I am making a stupid fuss about all this, I am taking it all too seriously, I am behaving as if I were going to die, and it’s just because the doctor said there could never be a baby, and I was not going to have a baby, anyway. I was never going to have one. And there would have been a tragedy if I had. It would have died. Or been a trouble to me all its life. A weak character. Sponging on me. Borrowing money. Marrying the wrong woman. My daughter-in-law would have disliked me. She would never have stayed with me.
“We’d better go and stay with the old girl.”
“Oh no!… Not again. It’s such a bore.”
The cloakroom attendant came up to Celia.
“Excuse me, madam, but we are closing now. It’s just on five thirty.”
“Sorry. Thank you.”
Down in the lift with all the other people. All the other people swarming to the swing-doors.
“Taxi, madam?”
And why not? Surely the extravagance of a taxi, for this day, at least. But the embarrassing thing was that Celia had no change to give the commissionaire. The taxi was waiting, and she had ten shillings only for the taxi. Not as much as a sixpence for the commissionaire.
She got in, too shamefaced to explain. He slammed the door. He waved the taxi on. The ashtray by the window was full of the stubs of cigarettes. One stub was smoking still. The end was stained with lipstick. Who could she have been, that other occupant, who had given place to Celia? Someone happy, someone gay, someone going to a party? A woman going to a lover? A mother going to meet her son? The strange romance of taxis. Moments of madness, moments of farewell. But perhaps the woman was just another spinster like herself with fibroids. A nervier type of woman who drew ease from cigarettes.
She was glad the taxi went through Regent’s Park, instead of the more familiar route of Finchley Road. The desolate, shattered houses of St. John’s Wood were very hard to bear. There were no windows in the house where she had lived with Pappy, and the plaster had come away from all the walls. The gate hung crooked, the railings were torn away. She could not bear to pass it nowadays.
She had ventured once with Niall a few years back. The rooms were gaping and horrible. She hoped always that Pappy, if afterlife were true, if he peered down upon the world with Mama from some private paradise, would not be permitted by God to see the house.
He would surely blame Celia and not the war for its destruction.
“But, my darling, what has happened? What have you done?”
Up the hill to Hampstead. To the left, by Church Row, and right again. Just a bit further on, please. There, the house at the corner. Anyway, no matter if it was a maisonette, it was her own, her place of sanctuary. The window boxes would be gay with hyacinths in the spring. And the side-steps were her own. It was her own front door. Apple green and cheerful. And the name, “The Studio.”
She never quite got over the surprise of the key turning in the lock, and admitting her to her own dwelling. It seemed so easy. Such a simple thing. It was good to be back. It was good to see her own familiar things. The chairs, the desk, the pictures, even one or two of her own drawings, framed, upon the walls.
Celia knelt down and lit the fire, and as she waited for it to burn she read her letters. There were two of them.
The typewritten one she opened first. It was curious, after all this time, and on this day of all days, that she should have a letter from the firm of publishers. From the new director who had taken on after Mr. Harrison had retired:
“DEAR MISS DELANEY, —Do you remember meeting me, many years ago, on a certain memorable occasion, when you visited the office? As you possibly know, I am now managing director in place of James Harrison, and I am writing to know if there is any chance of your fulfilling your old contract with us, or, better still, signing a new one, now that the war is over. You know what a high opinion my predecessor had of your work, especially of your drawings, an opinion which I share in equal measure. He and I always felt that if you could only bring yourself to give that talent to us, and to the world in general, you could bring even greater luster to the Delaney name than it has at present. I do ask you to think most seriously about this. Please let me hear from you in the near future.
“Kindest regards,
“Yours sincerely…”
Like Mr. Harrison of many years ago, it was really very kind. And this time she would not fail them. This time she would not disappoint them. She would look out the stories and the drawings this very evening, tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon. And she would start to plan her life, from now on, with this end in view. Never mind the fibroids and the operation. They did not count. She opened her other letter. It was from Caroline at school:
“DEAREST AUNTIE CELIA, —Mummy has just been to see me and told me about her and Daddy. She said I wasn’t to tell anyone at school. I know two girls whose parents have been divorced. It doesn’t seem to make much difference. The only thing is, it’s not much fun at Farthings in the holidays, there’s nothing to do, and I don’t like riding as much as the others, so I wondered if I could come to live with you? That is, if you could have me. I should simply love to come. I must fly now, the bell for prep has gone.
“Lots of love,
“CAROLINE.”
Celia sat back before the fire, and read the letter through again. Twice, three times. Her heart beat faster, and a strange feeling came into her throat. Absurd, almost as though she was going to cry. Caroline wanted to come and live with her. Without being asked. Without being prompted by anyone, by Charles, by Maria. Caroline wanted to come and live with her, with Celia.
But of course she should come. She should always come. Next holidays. Every holiday. The little room, next to her own, upstairs. Turn the little room into a room for Caroline. Furnish it as Caroline wished. They would go for walks on the Heath together, she would buy Caroline a dog. Celia would keep the dog while Caroline was at school. There were many things that she and Caroline could do together. Museums, theatres—and Caroline could draw quite nicely, she might teach Caroline to draw. She had a pretty little voice too, which might develop as she grew older. She could take Caroline to singing lessons. Now she came to think of it, there had always been something about Caroline that reminded her of Pappy. A look in the eyes, and the way she carried her head. She was tall too for her age.
There was no doubt about it—Caroline was exactly like Pappy. Affectionate too, needing sympathy, attention, love. Celia would give her all that. Nothing mattered but that the child should be happy. Nothing in the world.
Celia piled more logs onto the fire, and threw the letter from the publisher into the blaze. She would answer it some time. She would do something about it some time. There was no hurry, though. No hurry now. There were so many other things to do. There were so many plans to make for Caroline. For Caroline.
24
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 oth
er 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 t
he 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.”