Friends and Lovers

  “Don’t coming running to us—” she began, and once more did not finish the sentence. But she will, Mrs. Lorrimer thought hopefully. She will come back to us.

  “When Grandfather comes to visit Oxford he will see David. He knows that—” Penny stopped explaining, as she remembered that it might not be exactly tactful to say that she had written more about David to her grandfather than she had done to her parents. Penny looked quickly at her mother, but Mrs. Lorrimer had not heard that last phrase. She was lost in her own calculations.

  She has never been accustomed to poverty, Mrs. Lorrimer was thinking. She will come back to us. If only, meanwhile, she does nothing rash; nothing to create scandal and ruin her life. And ours. She had talked wildly. But all young people talked wildly. A little of the harder discipline of life, the responsibility and worry of earning her own livelihood, might be what she did need to give her some practical sense, to make her more manageable.

  “Promise me you will do nothing rash, Penelope,” Mrs. Lorrimer said unhappily.

  “Nothing rash,” Penny agreed.

  Mrs. Lorrimer looked at her daughter’s determined face, and felt a sudden fear. “You will finish this term,” she told her, “and come to us for the Easter holidays, naturally. Meanwhile it would be better if you did not see this David Bosworth.”

  “But I must see David, Mother. His father has just—”

  “His father is of no interest to me,” Mrs. Lorrimer said impatiently. Still watching her daughter’s face, noticing the open rebellion in her eyes, she added angrily, “you have shocked me and hurt me, Penelope. It seems as if you are shameless.”

  “And what have I to be ashamed about? It seems to me that you would be worried whatever I did. If I went about with a lot of men you would worry. If I go about with one man you are worried. If I didn’t go about with any men at all you would still worry. What am I to do? One thing I won’t do, and that is to live a life crippled by what people think. The issue is not whether I am happy or unhappy in my own choice of life, but what will people think or what will people say. For that is what you are afraid of, Mother. But it seems to me that there are always people in this world who will say unpleasant things about you, no matter what you do.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer stared in amazement. No one, she was thinking, has ever said or could ever say anything unpleasant about me! Her annoyance increased with Penelope for even having suggested such a disturbing idea. She made no answer, made no move to acknowledge the goodbye, and began packing her small overnight case. She waited until the door had closed and Penelope’s footsteps had died away. Then she sat down on the edge of a chair, a silver-backed hairbrush still in her hand. “I did everything possible,” she told it, but she found no consolation in the words. She glanced at the neat diamond watch on her wrist: the train on which her seat was reserved would leave in forty minutes. She ought to hurry to catch it, for tonight there was the Mathieson dinner-party, followed by the Benefit Concert for Ruins Restored. Yet, if she caught the later train, she would be able to appear with the Ladies’ Committee on the platform at the concert even if she might have to miss the dinner-party. Yes, she could take the later train.

  The decision made, her movements became business-like and crisp. Quickly she finished packing, pinned her hat securely on to her hair; fur gloves, umbrella, nothing left behind except a shilling on the dressing tray and half a crown on the dressing-table.

  In the taxi she gave the Bosworths’ address in Cory’s Walk. It was an odd address, easily remembered. And the way she had met it had helped to etch it into her memory. She had found an envelope addressed to David Bosworth, stamped for posting, but torn open and empty as if Penelope had wanted to add a postscript and had used another envelope. She had found it just after Penelope had left Edinburgh when the Christmas holidays were over. She had been doubly annoyed: to think her daughter was still writing to him, to think that she treated stamped envelopes so lightly. She had held the envelope in her hand in Penelope’s bedroom, wondering if she would send it to Penelope in London with a reprimand about carelessness and extravagance, and the address had become fixed in her mind. Providential, perhaps; as if she had not been meant to fail.

  It was a long drive across the heart of London to Cory’s Walk, but it gave her time to prepare her brief visit with all the skill of an invading general. When they reached Cory’s Walk at last, she was taken aback. “Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked the driver.

  “If you want Cory’s Walk,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders, and settled back to wait. She’d never find another cab around here.

  The same thought struck Mrs. Lorrimer. “Wait here,” she said abruptly. How miserable these brick houses were, streets and streets of little, dirty-looking boxes. Yet, judging from the children and people she had seen, these weren’t slums. The children had been clean, the men and women on the streets were respectfully dressed. In Edinburgh, she thought, even the slums look better, even the slums are built of good solid stone. The people who live in Edinburgh slums do not know how lucky they really are. As she waited on the little path which led to the front door she noted that the curtains were drawn over the windows of the house, as in the neighbouring ones. But at that moment the door opened, and a tall, large-boned young woman surprised Mrs. Lorrimer by staring haughtily at her and saying, “Yes?” in an authoritative voice. Mrs. Lorrimer found herself explaining that she was Mrs. Lorrimer. Could she speak to Mr. Bosworth?

  “I think you had better come in, don’t you?” the young woman said coldly; turned on her heel abruptly, leaving Mrs. Lorrimer to close the door and follow. They went into a room at the back of the house. Untidy and not particularly well dusted. Yet not sordid. Indeed, it was surprising to find a room like this behind the unappetising brick walls of Cory’s Walk. Mrs. Lorrimer tried to ignore the books and pictures and other signs of civilisation and concentrated on the worn furniture instead. Then she looked at the young woman, and was momentarily shocked to find she was being just as closely appraised. And with resentment, it seemed.

  “You are Penelope Lorrimer’s mother?”

  Mrs. Lorrimer said she was, with a lift of her eyebrows which had routed many a junior committee member.

  “I thought so,” the young woman went on, quite unrouted. “Peculiar name. And then, of course I knew you were Scotch by your accent. Wait here and I’ll find Margaret for you.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer stared indignantly at the door which had closed so determinedly. What an extremely obnoxious creature, she thought, and ignorant too. Knew Mrs. Lorrimer by her accent, indeed. Didn’t she also know that “Scotch” was used only in reference to whisky? Probably she would pronounce “loch” as “lock,” and say “Auld Lang Syne” as if it had a zed in it. A most disagreeable creature in appearance as well as in manner, Mrs. Lorrimer decided, quite forgetting that if her own instructions to her daughters were a standard, then this young woman’s plain hair, lack of lipstick, sensible tweed suit, and laced shoes should have seemed excellent.

  The door opened. A thin, white-faced girl in a black dress said, “I am Margaret Bosworth. Did you wish to see me?” Behind her the tweed-suited woman loomed like a gigantic bull-terrier waiting to pounce.

  “I have a taxi waiting outside,” Mrs. Lorrimer said pointedly, “and so I shan’t keep you very long.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Actually,” she continued, her voice rising half an octave, “I came here to see your father. But if he is indisposed, perhaps I can talk to you. It is about my daughter Penelope and your brother.” She paused gracefully there, but the two young women opposite her remained obstinately silent. She had the feeling that the dark girl’s eyes were mocking her—take a good look at me and at this house. Yes, this is David Bosworth’s home, and I am his sister. And what do you think of us?

  Mrs. Lorrimer said hurriedly, “They had been seeing each other very constantly, I believe. Her father and I object, because she is much too young and because we feel that she is taking it all too seriousl
y.”

  “You object,” the tall girl in the tweed suit said, and then laughed. “What do you think David’s sister feels about it all?”

  That idea was so new to Mrs. Lorrimer that she could not even answer.

  “I don’t think you need worry about your daughter,” Margaret Bosworth said. “She seemed to me to be quite capable of taking excellent care of herself. I agree that the whole thing is ridiculous, but for another reason altogether. She will simply ruin my brother’s career. In fact, she has begun to do that already. If he must marry, then he could have chosen, much more wisely, someone who comes from a family with ‘useful connexions.’ I believe that’s the accepted phrase and custom. And I may add that he has met several girls like that at Oxford. But, instead, he is absolutely determined on marrying your daughter. She has ruined his ambition: all he wants is a job so that he can support her. It is a complete waste of a young man of his calibre. That is how we all see it. But it is no use talking to him. I know. I’ve tried. I suppose that was one of the purposes of your visit—that I should tell David what you and your husband feel?”

  Mrs. Lorrimer had risen to her feet. A pink circle burned on each cheek. “And your father agrees with what you have said?” she asked icily.

  Margaret Bosworth did not reply. An odd, hollow-eyed creature, restless and unsatisfied, Mrs. Lorrimer decided.

  The other girl spoke. “Mr. Bosworth died yesterday.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer stared at Margaret Bosworth’s black dress. “I’m so sorry,” she said, in embarrassment. “I did not know.” But they had not told her. Penelope had not told her, no one had told her anything. She had been put into an intolerable situation.

  “I don’t think,” the other young woman was saying, “that you need worry about your daughter getting married too soon. Not now. It will be years before David Bosworth can think of marriage.”

  Margaret Bosworth still said nothing, but her silence underlined that last sentence.

  Mrs. Lorrimer had nothing to gather up except her composure. There was nothing left of the motions of goodbye save to walk towards the door, to bow slightly, to say good-day.

  The tweed-suited young woman followed Mrs. Lorrimer and stopped her at the gate. “Your daughter is not only spoiling David Bosworth’s future,” she said, in her brusque voice, “but she is also spoiling Margaret’s. I thought you ought to realise that as well.” Then she turned on her heel in that abrupt way of hers, and stalked into the house.

  Mrs. Lorrimer’s hand was shaking as she searched for her pocket handkerchief in her bag. It took some moments before she could speak without anger and give the driver directions to the station. Her indignation grew as the taxi jolted through city traffic. What right had these two women, anyway, to decide David Bosworth’s life for him? Or to pass judgment on Penelope? Of course, that was Penelope’s reward for having tied herself up with such people. But it really was too much that she should have put her mother into such an embarrassing situation. One thing only had been achieved by that most unpleasant visit: at least Mrs. Lorrimer had found out that Bosworth was serious about Penelope, and that was a healthier state of affairs than if he had been merely amusing himself. Still, it was little consolation. In some ways it relieved Mrs. Lorrimer’s mind, in others it increased her worry. No use talking to him... I know. I’ve tried. Remembering the bitterness in Margaret Bosworth’s voice, Mrs. Lorrimer felt a twinge almost of sympathy for David, and then her mounting anger drove it away. All she had left was the very deep, very sincere, and very sustaining feeling of self-pity.

  27

  DAVID ALONE

  On the day his father died David caught the late afternoon train to London, telephoned Penny, and then spent a painful evening with Margaret and Florence Rawson.

  It had been something of a shock to find that Florence Rawson not only had taken over his room, but was also settling herself in the sitting-room for the rest of the evening, as if Margaret needed her support. David abandoned the idea of privacy, and with no more delay began questioning his sister about his father’s death. Margaret resented that, as if she found in these natural questions some form of hidden criticism. Her control over her emotions ended, and they broke into violent tears. David found himself suddenly left alone in the room with Florence Rawson, listening with dismay at Margaret’s footsteps running up the flight of stairs to her bedroom.

  Florence Rawson did not stir from the armchair. She waited, perhaps hoping that he would have to ask her for the information. She had been there this afternoon, and he had not.

  “Leave Margaret in peace,” she said, “I calmed her down this evening. Now you have ruined it.”

  “And how delighted you are.” He left the room as abruptly as Margaret had done, but he closed the door quietly instead of slamming it, feeling his arm become tense with his repressed anger. He stood in the dark hall for a few minutes, and then moved towards the staircase. The house lay in silence: Margaret’s storm of weeping had ended as quickly as it had begun. He paused at his father’s door, and his hand half lifted as if to knock. Habit was hard to break. He entered quietly as he had done a thousand times before.

  He sat down beside his father’s bed. This too he had done a thousand times before... He stayed there for over an hour.

  Margaret heard him as he was leaving. Perhaps she had been waiting for this moment. She came running downstairs, and caught his arm with some show of affection. Why hadn’t she done that when he had arrived, instead of treating him as if he had been an interfering stranger?

  “Must you go back to Oxford tonight?” she asked half worriedly, half pathetically.

  “If Miss Rawson allows me to have my room I’ll stay here as I planned.”

  “She has been such a good friend, David.”

  “A better friend would have left the family alone tonight.”

  “But she has been so wonderful. She made all the arrangements about the funeral this afternoon.”

  David looked very hard at his sister. “I came to town to do that,” he said briefly.

  “And it was Florence who ’phoned you this afternoon about Father.”

  “I know,” he said, and this time he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “And she spoke with the Vicar too, didn’t she, when he came to call about the church service?”

  “She was such a help, really, especially when there was no man in the household to take charge.”

  David said nothing.

  “Look, David, I’ll make up a bed for you on the sitting-room couch. After all we have a lot to talk about.”

  “We can talk about business matters at the week-end. After Friday.” Friday was the day that Rawson had arranged for his father’s funeral. “I’ll make plans to stay in town until Sunday.”

  There was coldness in his voice, and Margaret sensed his revulsion. She drew apart from him, letting her strong white fingers drop from his arm.

  “Don’t take it so hard, David. After all we both knew that some day soon he would die. It is a miracle that he did live so long. And he died so peacefully. David, don’t!”

  David said harshly, “We might have been living on another planet for all the use we were to him when he did die.”

  “But I’ve told you already that he seemed better this morning. He was all right when I left to go to the Bach Society luncheon. When Florence and I came back here we found him—”

  “When he became ill last Sunday evening, why did you not let me know?”

  “I’ve told you already that I thought it was nothing serious. You know how he had these ups and downs. He would not let me even call a doctor on Monday. He seemed to be improving. And then, today...”

  “Yes, I know,” David said heavily. But all the telling in the world would not drive away this sense of guilt. Didn’t Margaret have it too? He stared at her. In her face there was more unhappiness than grief. And in that moment the last spark of affection which he had for her flickered and went out.

  “I’ll see you on Frid
ay,” he said abruptly, and left her.

  * * *

  The lamplight shone meanly over Cory’s Walk, plunging the end houses in a dark pool of shadow. His footsteps echoed loudly on the lonely pavement, and quickened. But even in the busier street he still saw his father’s quiet face, so white and somehow so much younger with all its surface strangely smoothed out by death. He remembered the still room, the piles of magazines no longer to be read, the books and newspapers forever abandoned.

  His sense of failure grew. What he must do for Margaret, he suddenly realised, would be done not out of affection—that had died too tonight—but from this sense of having failed his father at a time when his father needed him. He must not fail with Margaret now. That would be another failure towards his father.

  He began to see what must be done. Margaret’s secret grudge against life was that she never had a chance. She felt she had been cheated, first by her father’s illness, which had impoverished them, secondly by her mother’s death. Now she was convinced that she would have been a brilliant success as a concert pianist if only she had been given the opportunity. And the only way to stop a lifetime complaint of “might have been” or “would have been” was to give her the chance to prove to herself her real value. The Rawson woman would not be a problem then: she was only a part of Margaret’s present pattern of insecurity. Take away Margaret’s grudge against life, the feeling that she was the victim of a world dominated by men, and Rawson’s power to influence would be ended.

  It was a theory at least, David decided, as he entered the Underground and joined the small queue for tickets, and it was a theory that might work. Some theory had to be put into practice. Otherwise Margaret’s life would be permanently twisted. People who kept telling themselves that they never had a chance seemed to use up as much of their energies excusing their failure that they had little power left to surmount it.