Dark Angel

  Shawcross does not like this voice at all. It alarms him. Gwen sounds like a sleepwalker, looks like a sleepwalker, as she moves to the door.

  Shawcross stands; it is he who hastens to her and reaches for her hand. Now, he is fearful; this new Gwen, this transformed Gwen, looks as if she might be capable of anything. She might be deciding the affair is over; she might be contemplating a confession. Shawcross, a physical coward, intends above all else to avert that possibility. Images of Denton Cavendish, horsewhip in hand, lurch through his mind. He embraces Gwen with passion.

  “My dearest. Say you are not angry with me. Say you haven’t changed towards me. Gwen, please, you must let me explain—”

  “I have to go downstairs.”

  “Now you have, yes—but later. Gwen, this evening. We can talk then. We can meet then. Promise me, my darling. Swear you will. After dinner, after the comet—we can be alone then. You know we can—you said so. I’ll come to your room—”

  “No, Eddie.”

  “Then here. No, not here—” Seeing her expression, Eddie changes tack quickly. “In the woods then. Our place. Our special place. We can slip away separately and meet there. We could meet at midnight, under the stars—think, Gwen, just think of it. My dearest, say you will. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to look at you. I want to worship you. Gwen, please. Say you will.”

  There is a silence; Gwen opens the door, looks out, checks that the corridor is empty, then turns back.

  “Very well. I promise,” she says, and slips out through the door.

  Left alone, Shawcross gives a sigh of relief, checks his pocket watch once more. He must go downstairs soon (it would hardly do to arrive at the same moment as Gwen, even from different directions). First, however, he must wash.

  He moves quickly in the direction of the dressing room. As he approaches the curtained alcove he stops for a moment, thinking he heard something—some movement. He pulls the curtains aside; the room beyond is empty; the bathroom is empty. Yet something is wrong: The service door is unlatched. He closed it—surely he closed it? Now it is open a crack; even as he looks at it, it moves a fraction on its hinges and then subsides, as if some distant draft had caught it.

  He must not have closed it—which was careless. Shawcross feels a spurt of alarm. He crosses to the door, flings it back, and looks out.

  At once he feels foolish. There is no one there. Of course there is no one there. The landing is empty; the service stairs are empty. No cause for alarm.

  Shawcross returns to the bathroom, runs clear water, reaches for the carnation soap; a little pomade to his beard (Shawcross is proud of that neat beard), a comb through the hair, a fresh collar. Within minutes he feels confident once more; within minutes he is ready.

  Downstairs on the terrace it is becoming chilly. A breeze has blown up and Mrs. Fitch-Tench takes her tea in a mittened hand; two shawls around her shoulders, her knees well swaddled with rugs. Eddie Shawcross strolls across the terrace to join the group, a book under his arm. They are all assembled: Denton, Maud (who is pouring the tea; Gwen is still not in evidence), the Heyward-Wests, Jarvis (now wearing a more somber cravat), Jane Conyngham, the three older sons, and Steenie.

  As Shawcross approaches—So sorry, quite forgot the time, I was buried in my book—a shadow detaches itself from a corner and Constance falls into step behind her father. Shawcross looks down at her with irritation.

  “Oh, there you are, little albatross,” he says in a light voice, settling himself in a vacant chair. “Fly away now, there’s a good child. Don’t hang about me.”

  Constance retires several feet; a few smiles greet this remark, but not many. Shawcross accepts a cup of tea; a maid hands him a tiny napkin trimmed with lace, a tiny plate and silver knife, and offers sandwiches. Shawcross balances these (he has no appetite in any case) and allows the conversation to flow over him. When at last there is a pause, he interjects—in an admirably casual tone, he feels—“And where is Lady Callendar? Has our hostess deserted us?”

  “Resting, I expect.”

  It is Acland who answers him, Maud who backs him up with some remark, and Constance who—startling everyone—contradicts them.

  “No, she isn’t,” she says distinctly. “I saw her just now on the stairs.”

  “Mama came up to see me,” Steenie interjects. “She said she’d fallen asleep and forgotten the time. Now she’s changing.”

  And indeed, Steenie seems to be correct, for even at that moment Gwen appears, looking composed, rested, lovelier than usual. Her hair is freshly brushed and fastened with tortoise-shell and silver combs in a heavy chignon; she wears a new dress, Brussels lace over café-au-lait silk, which rustles as she moves.

  The men rise; Gwen smiles and begs them to be seated. She takes her place beside Maud and accepts a cup of China tea.

  “You must forgive me,” she says to the circle around her. “I’ve been asleep for such an age. Now, you must all tell me, how have you spent the afternoon? Maud, did you write your letters? Ross will frank them for you and send them down to the village to post if they’re ready. Mrs. Heyward-West, did you find the path by the lake? Did you see the swans? Isn’t it delightful? Denton my dear, have you recovered from your ill-humor?”

  This last is said with particular charm; as she makes the inquiry, Gwen takes her husband’s hand in hers. She smiles at him like a coquettish young girl.

  Denton pats her hand, presses it, then says in a gruff voice, “Quite recovered, my dear. Quite myself again. But I owe you an apology. Owe everyone an apology, for that matter. Hope you’ll all forgive me. In a state—you know how it is. Got myself worked up because of those d—those pheasants….”

  There is a murmur of general forgiveness; Maud laughs at her brother; Boy blushes crimson, and Eddie Shawcross looks away. It has not occurred to him until this moment that Gwen (stupid Gwen) is such an accomplished actress. The realization does not please him; Gwen’s behavior to her husband does not please him.

  Shawcross thinks of the scene just half an hour ago: Could he have underestimated Gwen? Could she have tricked him into those hideous, those demeaning and unnecessary avowals? Shawcross’s mood is often one of ill-temper when he has just been with a woman; the sexual act leaves him, he finds, with a sourness, a spiritual residue of bile. Now his mood is not improved, either by Gwen’s assurance or by the fact (the undeniable fact) that—as often happens at Winterscombe—he is being ignored.

  The circle of guests is chatting with some animation. As usual they are discussing the activities of friends they have in common. Even Jarvis seems included (Jarvis, invited at Shawcross’s behest, so that Shawcross should not be the only outsider). Shawcross looks from face to face. How he detests these people! How he despises them, all of them, with their mindless chatter, their inexhaustible fortunes, their calm assumption that they should never have to do a day’s work.

  They have money; Shawcross does not. They are the patrons, and it is he who must accept their patronage. He knows himself to be their superior in every way, yet they look down on him—he senses it. Out of politeness they smile at his witticisms (pearls before swine). They even listen attentively to his stories about London literary life, but Shawcross knows he does not really engage them. They do not know what it is to be insolvent, to have to scrape a living by reviewing books, by contributing essays. They do not have to grovel to literary editors (editors Shawcross despises, for he knows he could do the job far better if only someone would push the job his way). They do not have to fight for a reputation in a world where genuine talent and ability constantly lose out to the fashionable. Shawcross knows the merit of his own writing; he knows the sweat that has gone into his three novels (well, novellas really). For Shawcross these words, tenacious, dangerous, challenging, are electric with life. The critics, so far, have taken a different view—but then, Shawcross despises most critics also; to a man they are venal.

  But what do these people here understand of all that, of the struggles
of an artist? Nothing. They are not even interested. If he were perhaps more celebrated … But no, even then there would still be barriers. Bitterly, and for the hundredth time, Shawcross reminds himself of the truth. He was born the wrong side of a social and financial divide, and it will remain a divide impossible to cross—except in bed. Except there, where he enjoys a brief dominion between the sheets.

  Shawcross feels a familiar acid flow through his veins; he looks from face to face. He feels he would like to stand up and denounce them all, these friends of Gwen’s. To their faces he would like to tell them what they are: degenerates, philistines, parasites.

  His gaze revolves around the pathetic circle: Denton, the cuckold; fat, fatuous Freddie; Boy—well named—an immature, gauche, and boring fool; sister Maud, with her playboy prince and her diamonds; Jane Conyngham, a spinster in the making if ever he saw one. Acland Cavendish, the son Shawcross most detests—Acland, who is clever, cold, and condescending; Acland, the only one among them who never bothers to disguise contempt.

  Yes, he would like to denounce them, and yet it remains prudent not to do so. Their time will come, Shawcross reminds himself; their class will not endure much longer. Their days of supremacy are numbered, and meanwhile, with their country houses, their careless luxury, their parties, introductions, and their patronage, they have their uses. Oh, yes.

  Shawcross eyes them, vindictiveness now in full flow. He takes a savage bite from a cucumber sandwich, looks away, and catches his daughter Constance’s eye. As usual, she is watching him. She sits a few feet away, squats on the grass munching a piece of seedcake, alongside Steenie. Steenie is immaculate in velveteen breeches; Constance, Shawcross realizes, is filthy. Her hair is tangled and uncombed; her dress, torn at the hem, is muddied; she has not washed her hands, and her nails, Shawcross observes, are black.

  His temper snaps. If he cannot denounce the Cavendishes and their guests, he can turn on Constance, the child he never wanted, the child who cramps his style, the child who is an interminable expense. Constance has certain advantages, the chief one being that she cannot answer back.

  “Constance, my dear.” Shawcross leans forward, his voice pleasant and mild. Constance (who knows that tone, and dreads it) blinks.

  “Constance, I know you like to be a little gypsy, my dear, but really, don’t you consider you are taking things too far? We are not among tinkers here. We are at Winterscombe, and I rather think, Constance, that it might have been a good idea had you washed and changed before honoring us with your presence at tea….”

  Shawcross has begun this speech amid chatter; by its end, there is silence, a lovely still pool of silence into which his words fall with maximum effect.

  There is a small rustle of embarrassment from the circle. (Several of those present, if you remember, both dislike Shawcross and resent his bullying of his daughter.) Shawcross, sensing the disapproval and finding it, in his present mood, an added sting, continues:

  “Have you heard of soap and water, Constance? Can you recognize a hairbrush? What can you have been doing, child, this afternoon? Climbing? Tunneling?” Shawcross laughs. “Yes, tunneling, I think, to judge from the state of your fingernails.”

  “Nothing,” Constance says. She stands and looks at her father. “I was doing nothing. I was in the nursery. With Steenie.”

  She looks at Steenie as she says this, and Steenie (who knows it is not true; he woke up and Constance was not there) nods agreement. Steenie, alone of Gwen’s sons, actually likes Constance. He does not like Shawcross, who takes up too much of his mother’s time. Steenie decided long ago—he is Constance’s ally. His support irritates Shawcross further; he sets down his plate with a sharp clatter.

  “Constance, please do not lie,” he says. “Lying merely exacerbates the matter. I will not tolerate untruths. You will go to your room. And while you are there, you will be good enough to apply a little water, a little soap, to your person.”

  “I will take her up.”

  To everyone’s surprise it is Jane Conyngham who speaks. She stands and holds out a hand to Constance, which Constance ignores.

  “I’m going in, in any case,” she says. “The wind is getting up. Gwen, if you will forgive me. I feel a little chilly.”

  It is a snub. Shawcross knows this at once. A snub from a plain, stupid heiress, and to make matters worse, his anger is dulling his brain. No suitable rejoinder springs to his lips, and before he can make even a lame remark, Jane has left them. She puts her arm around Constance’s shoulders and half leads, half propels her into the house.

  Another silence. Mrs. Heyward-West remarks upon the volatility of spring weather; Freddie coughs; Boy stares in a fixed way in the direction of the woods; Daisy, the Labrador bitch, rolls over on her back and offers her master, Denton, her belly.

  “Tea, Eddie?”

  Gwen is holding out her hand for his cup. She has now taken over the teapot from Maud and is enthroned behind the tea table. A silver tray, a silver teapot, silver sugar bowl and tongs, silver milk jug … Shawcross regards the glittering array, considers that these few objects, if sold, would provide enough capital to support him for a year—two years. In style. No more seedy compromising of his artistic intentions; his genius would have the freedom to flourish….

  “Thank you.”

  He extends his hand with his cup. He glances at Denton, sitting beside Gwen, nodding off in his. chair, his large, liver-spotted hands slack in his lap. It occurs to Shawcross (for the first time, oddly enough) that if Denton were to die, Gwen would be a very rich woman.

  “No. No sugar. Thank you.”

  A very rich widow. Who might, in due course, marry again. Who might marry him (it would hardly be difficult to persuade her). Always supposing, of course, that he could face the idea of a second marriage, considering the boredom, the suffocating confinement of the first.

  If Denton Cavendish were to die … Shawcross lets the possibility eddy through his mind; he accepts his cup of tea from Gwen. Their fingers do not touch, but (is it possible Gwen has read his mind, or is she just remembering the events of the afternoon?) Gwen’s hand shakes. It is a tiny movement, a brief weakness; cup tinkles against silver spoon. Shawcross notes it, however; so, he observes, does Acland.

  Shawcross sips his tea, which is too hot, and burns his lips. Acland’s gaze, cold, hostile, knowing, meets his. An uncomfortable moment; Shawcross maneuvers in his seat.

  “Shawcross …” Acland leans forward, speaks in a polite voice. He asks a question, and Shawcross has the unpleasant feeling that the answer is known. “You never told us. Did you spend a pleasant afternoon? How did you divert yourself? Tennis? Croquet? A walk in the woods perhaps? Did you visit the swans on the lake? Enlighten us, Shawcross. Surely you cannot have been reading all afternoon?”

  II

  AN ASSIGNATION AND AN ACCIDENT

  From the journals

  Winterscombe,

  April 10, 1910

  A MEMORY OF MY mother: The gentility was thin but hard—you could see through it, as you can the best bone china. After I’d kissed her she would blot her lips with a white handkerchief. When I was very small I prayed that one day she would let me kiss her without wiping the kiss off after. I asked her if she would, but she said kisses carried germs.

  A memory of my father: When he belched, his stomach moved. You could see it, pumping the wind out. A man full of gas: gaseous matter, noxious matter. A man festering inside. You could smell the putrefaction when he died.

  Loose lips and large hands. I can see his hands, paddling inside her dress. I was three years old the first time I caught them at it; my mother panted.

  A memory of my daughter: Twelve months old; Jessica already starting to die in the next room, coughing day and night to stop me working. The child learned to walk in the middle of a chapter, and the bitch of a nurse brought her in to show me, of course. Five tottering paces, then she clasped me by the knee. An ugly thing, this Constance that I fucked into the world: yellow
skin, Asiatic hair, a Semitic hook to the nose, malevolent eyes. I wanted to kick her.

  Write about hate—and its purity.

  Tonight, the comet. Conceived by an accident of elements—like my daughter. Hot and gaseous—like my father.

  Odd, the associations of the mind. I miss my mother. Dead these twelve years, well-rotted by now. I think of her every day still. Blotting her lips after every kiss. She was clean and cold and distant. Like the moon.

  “Tinkers. Romanies. Gypsies. Vermin. Mark my words. They’ll be at the back of it.”

  Denton takes a hefty swallow of port, swills, gulps, and glowers. Dinner is over; the women have withdrawn. To his left and his right Denton has his cronies; certain of their sympathy (they are landowners, too), he has reverted to his current idée fixe.

  “Thought they’d been moved on,” remarks Sir Richard Peel, chief among the cronies (old Dickie Peel, chief magistrate, fearless huntsman), and he frowns. His estate adjoins Denton’s; if Denton Cavendish loses pheasants this month, he is likely to lose them next.

  “Moved on? Moved on?” Denton almost chokes. “Of course they were moved on. But they’re back. Down by the railway bridge. Filthy ramshackle lot. Thieving. Spreading dirt and disease. Hennessy’s boy Jack saw them up near my woods last week, told Cattermole. You want to see to it, Peel.”

  “Common land, down by the bridge. A bit difficult …” Sir Richard says musingly, and Denton’s nose purples and quivers.

  “Common land? What’s that supposed to mean? Means they can do what they like, does it? Means they can sneak into my woods at night and pick my birds off as they please? Means they can come into my village with their filthy flea-bitten lurchers—disgusting brutes; poisoning’s too good for them. One of them got at Cattermole’s best bitch last year. Mounted her, right outside the church—nothing Cattermole could do. Drowned the puppies, of course. Sunk them in a sack in the river—but that bitch of his hasn’t been the same since. Not the dog she was. Got into her system, you know, tainted her. Spoiled her. And she was a good bitch once. One of the best. Fine nose, nice soft mouth. And now …”