“She ought to eat her greens.”
“Not when she’s sick; the first time I made her eat them she vomited and the next day she was still sick and you made her eat them and she vomited again; of course she’s got to eat greens when she’s all right, but only last week, when she was really ill, running a fever, and I told you she was ill, you waited until I was out of the room, and—”
“I didn’t know she was ill.”
“Charles Boxer! I told you! The whole house knew it! How dare you— And you waited deliberately until I was out of hearing— What kind of training is that for a child?”
“It was the only way I could be sure you wouldn’t interfere.”
“But she was ill!”
“Well, I didn’t know it.”
“I can’t do more than tell you. If you’re walled off in the seventeenth century, that’s just Carola’s bad luck. You roared at her too. Of course it doesn’t hurt to roar at a child if you’ll only do it consistently, but you hadn’t even looked at her for two weeks and then suddenly decided to discipline her all at once. When she was running a fever.”
“Well, what the hell was she doing downstairs at lunch, then?”
“The doctor said— But I don’t want to talk about Carola, what I do resent is your daring to discuss ME—”
At two o’clock the Major had declared that Carola was sure to lose all her teeth because I didn’t inspect them regularly every week, the way his mother did his when he was little, and I had retorted that she hadn’t had even a cold all winter until this flu, which all the school came down with, and then he said her hands were often dirty and that’s how she had got this stomach trouble, and I said what stomach trouble, and he said didn’t she have Stomach trouble? he was sure somebody had said so.…
“No, she has no stomach trouble, and that shows how much you know about Carola in general, and for God’s sake let’s stop talking about Carola and get this other thing settled; you and Louise must have had long, cozy chats about how awful I am too. I won’t stand for it, I tell you, I’m going away. And I’ll take Carola with me, though it would serve you right if you had to look after her every day instead of once a month when it happens to suit you—”
At three o’clock I was sitting on the dressing-table stool—I had been there for hours—very warm indeed, and not at all sleepy. The Major now reminded me that somebody in Hong Kong had told him I was a terrible mother and much too indulgent, and I retorted with a quotation he doesn’t like at all from a life of George III and the Prince Regent, which goes like this:
“Fathers who try to shape the characters of their children by severe rule or discipline, by the imposition of a tabulated code or the recitation of platitude, are usually surprised by the results. Of course it is only the stupid father who tries to do this; but such fathers have never been uncommon.”
Choking back his wrath, the Major said charitably that he supposed he must make allowances, as women who have children late in life are notoriously inept. It was then, as I now remember it, that I realized I must leave the Major forever, that very minute. Anything else was out of the question. All was lost but honor.
I swept out, still very warm though the night was cold. The Major turned off the light as I went and shifted loudly to dispose himself for sleep. I could not very well pack up and walk out of the house at three in the morning, because we are five miles from town and the taxi man would refuse to wake up, let alone take me. My intention was merely to sleep somewhere else under the hated roof until morning, when I could escape. Alas, I had forgotten that we had several guests and no extra beds.
The only possible bed was Carola’s in Mary’s room (Carola being in a guest room with her flu) which geographical position made it, too, impossible, unless I wanted her to rush down to Mrs. Clifton’s early in the morning with the news. I walked restlessly through the halls, beginning at last to feel cold. I would make up a bed, I decided, on the drawing-room sofa.… No, the sofa was still at the upholsterer’s. I would sleep on the floor, then. I went to the linen press for blankets. There were no blankets. It was a cold night and we had guests.
It seems unreasonable, now, that I should have blamed the Major for there being no blankets, but I did. I stamped back into our room, turned on the light, pulled the eiderdown off him, grabbed my pillow, and went to bed on the floor.
Even now I am not sure why he coaxed me back to bed. Was it because he is fond of me, or because he missed the eiderdown? I am a cynical woman, but I got back into bed.
“What a strenuous life you lead,” said the Major. “It must be awful.”
“It’s cold,” I said in surprise. “Terribly cold.”
Well, it was.
“So he said I could just ask you if he isn’t right,” I said. “Lord, I’m sleepy. He went up to London this morning. I’m still furious. Oh yes, we’re speaking to each other, but I’m so mad still I could spit.” This was in the Coopers’ drawing room.
Ruth, the perfect school owner, thought it over. “Lorraine just happened to hit him in the tender spot,” she decided at last. “He’s very fond of Carola, Mickey, and I know he worries, but he’s no reason to. She was dreadful a few months ago—children do get dreadful, and she’s pulled every which way at your house, what she needs is discipline—but she’s a dear little girl, and Nurse and I were just congratulating each other on the way she’s come on lately. As for discipline, well.”
“Well,” I said. We were both quiet for a little.
“You can’t change,” said Ruth thoughtfully. “People can’t change. And mothers are almost always no good at discipline. But fathers are worse.”
“If only he’d be consistent,” I said. “He veers with every passing breeze about Carola, except cheerful ones, yet most of the time he ignores her. Honestly it would be better, even, if he’d ignore her all the time, instead of descending on the nursery and thundering like Jove about three times a year. Why can’t he consult me first? Why can’t I consult him, for that matter, only he wouldn’t be bothered so often as would be necessary. It’s—”
“Fathers are never any good,” said Ruth. We sat there looking sadly at the situation.
“I’ll try,” I said at last, dolefully, “but you know it won’t be any good; I always think a thing over too late, when it’s done with.”
“She’ll do better as a weekly boarder somewhere. I’m not pressing you to send her here. Just anywhere.”
“You English.”
“Well, Carola’s English, after all!”
We laughed. “I’ll tell him,” said Ruth. “If he’s too disgusted with her, I’d be delighted to have her myself; she’s a charming little girl.”
“Well, you tell him that.”
When I got home, the eiderdown had been put away.
21. FITZROY
With all this space around, one naturally begins to think sooner or later of owning a dog. In spite of the Major’s gloomy protests that Carola was no animal lover and I might just as well save my strength and the parquet floor, I went about finding one. A dachshund? We had owned a dachshund in New York, a highly unsatisfactory animal to everyone but the nurse Margrethe and, in a secondary way, to Carola. The dachshund Kiwi was a miniature, or toy—I don’t know the proper word—and she never got away from Margrethe long enough to lose permanently the proud notion that she was delicate.
“She has a delicate appetite—very choosy about her food,” Margrethe would sigh, and indeed as long as she was watching, Kiwi lived up to what was expected of her, shivering and recoiling in horror from her plate. I have even seen her nibbling daintily off one end of a chop bone while Margrethe lovingly held the other. She acted like a lady ghoul who ate rice with a bodkin, until Margrethe’s day off, when she acted like the same ghoul at large in a graveyard. She always had a good hearty appetite, once Margrethe’s back was turned.
Something less impressionable was needed for Conygar, I felt. But buying a dog in England is always rather a chancy ceremony. I have
often thought it would be a good thing for the United Kingdom if they would abolish their quarantine rules and let those dogs which can’t survive such a test simply die off. The result of all these years of segregation is that English dogs are awfully uncertain in their health. They don’t seem to have any resistance. I have in my time bought one dog after another only to see it die of distemper. One takes it for granted in England that every dog must be “distempered,” and even then he may die of the thing later on. It is quite shocking, and now I believe they’ve got another scourge, called Beta Strep. Dogs are much cosseted and spoiled and pampered here, but it’s necessary and will be necessary until they’re allowed to take their chances in a rough-and-tumble world.
I was still stewing about these thoughts, which I have whenever I think of getting a dog in England, and still looking at the dog advertisements in the Times, and still weighing the advantages of large dog versus small, when the Cooper wirehair bitch gave birth to a litter of nondescripts, children of Taffy, her companion Corgi terrier. Ruth offered Carola one of them, and in spite of the Major’s objections we took it. He objected on general principles.
“A dog is no animal for the house,” he said. “I never had one in my life.”
These were shocking sentiments for an Englishman to express, I argued. “Besides, they’re not the truth. Your photographs when you were a boy have all got a cocker spaniel or something in them.”
“Oh well, my dog was always kept in the kennel at night. He wasn’t allowed in the house. Aunt Alice would have had a fit if dogs had come in on the parquet floor and the rugs.”
“Men are awful,” I wailed. “You sound exactly like my father, all fidgety and spinsterish. Carola should have a dog, and she’s going to have one, or she’ll grow up just like you.”
In England, fathers as well as mothers have a say in the bringing up of their children. It is a custom which never fails to surprise me when I am reminded of it. I was brought up in a normal American matriarchy myself, where if Dad ever did express an opinion about us it was understood he was talking through his hat, being a mere man. We all greeted his strictures with open mockery or with quiet, bitter acceptance of injustice—for sometimes even Dad put his foot down. It did not happen often, to give him his due, but when it did we said to each other, “Dad’s nervous,” and submitted out of charity for his nerves, though we knew it was all wrong. It must have been wrong, because it was Dad.
The tables have been turned on me here, but occasionally I, too, put my foot down, and the Major probably tells himself I’m nervous and gives in, if the point doesn’t matter too much. He gave in on the puppy. We watched it grow, and argued about who should clean up the latest mess, and the Major had to admit that Carola did show every evidence of being an animal lover. Moreover, he himself fell victim to Fitzroy’s erratic charm. Reluctant, growling like a bear, he grew very fond of the dog nevertheless.
Fitzroy had a strong personality which remained constant in its main characteristics, whatever happened to his appearance. This, compared with his brother puppy over at the Coopers’ house, fluctuated to a fascinating degree, from week to week and almost from day to day. He was bigger than either of his parents, and at times his legs looked too long for his body, although at other times he seemed to be built more like a dachshund than anything. His hair, of a bright yellow color, was short and reddish in youth, like his Corgi father’s, but all of a sudden it bleached out to buff and then curled, and grew into a sort of ruff round his neck, and added a stylish twist to his stubby tail. None of these things happened to Teaser, his brother. Fitzroy had a sweet, stupid, good-natured face with a wirehair sort of jaw like a box; Teaser looked more like a fox. Fitzroy’s ears were pricked; Teaser’s flopped.
“He’s a weird-looking beast,” I would say.
“But a good dog,” the Major would add. “No guts, of course. Did you see him run away from that rabbit this morning? Still, a good dog.”
“He’s the sweetest puppy in the world,” said Carola indignantly.
“And what’s our trouble?” asked Mr. Thornton jovially.
Just my luck, I reflected, to get a dog doctor with a bedside manner. “Well,” I said, “I know it sounds awfully silly, but he jumped out of an upstairs window. It was terrible. My husband and I were in the library, and there was this awful bump and then a sort of screaming, and he went under a hedge and we had to pull him out. He’s been carrying his back leg up like that ever since.”
“Let’s look at it.”
I had brought Fitzroy in to Dorchester on the early-morning bus, and now he stood forlorn on the doctor’s table, his tail tucked down and his eyes rolled up in a pious manner. Even in good health he always looked rather odd and absent, as if he were worrying about his parentage, which well he might.
“Look here,” I said, “do many dogs jump out of windows in England?”
“Mmmmmmm,” said the vet, feeling bones. “Nothing broken here. Nothing here, either.… Ah, that’s where it hurts, isn’t it, old boy? He’s pulled his hip. Just a little rest and quiet, and he ought to be good as new.”
Fitzroy and I caught the ten-o’clock bus back home, and I made my report to the family at lunch. “He ought to be all right in time for the dog show,” I said. “We’ll have to feed him up a bit first. The vet gave me a pink tonic to improve his appetite.”
“And then will he take a prize, Mummy?” asked Carola.
“Sure to,” I said. Mary nodded her head emphatically.
The Major suddenly looked up from his lunchtime reading. “Dog show? You’re not thinking of entering that dog in a show, are you?”
“Why not?” I said.
“Why not?” He stared at me in horror. “What sort of dog shows are you used to in America?” he demanded. “Here in England—”
“It’s not that kind of show. It’s at a fair they’re having over at that town with all the buildings in the guidebook. For the church roof.”
“Guidebook? Church roof?”
“It’s an abbey,” I said patiently. “You took me there once and showed it to me. There’s a tithe barn somebody lives in, and the church roof is going to fall down soon—remember? It’s all in pieces. We saw lots of other old places in the same town.”
“It’s not a town at all,” said the Major. “Cerne Abbas is a village.”
“It’s all the same,” I said.
“And Fitzroy is going to take the prize,” said Carola.
“They want to raise money for the roof,” I continued, “and they’re going to give a prize for the funniest-looking dog, or something like that. Anyway, they’ve invited us to put Fitzroy in.”
Carola proudly regarded Fitzroy where he lay, under the table. “He’s such a clever dog, isn’t he, Mummy? He’s brave too.”
The Major snorted.
“He is, too, brave,” she said, her voice rising. “It’s brave to jump out of a window. Isn’t it, Mummy? Will he win the prize?”
“I don’t suppose you’ll want to come, Charles?” I said. “You’re invited, of course.”
“Good Lord, no.”
“Well, anyway, Mary, you’ll come,” I said.
“Oh yes, and we’ll fix him up too,” she said. “I seen one show like that where they put a bowler on a bulldog and give him a collar, and he took the prize for looking like Winston. A perfect picture, he was.”
“Clever little darling,” said Carola, throwing herself on Fitzroy. She hit his bad leg, and he growled.
It was a lovely afternoon when we went to Cerne Abbas. This was fortunate for the church roof, for the merrymakers, and for Lady Fairly, on whose grounds the fair was being held and whose job it was to declare it open. When we arrived, she was standing with the vicar on a slight eminence of the lawn. She wore a silk print, a smart hat, and gloves. Nobody in England walks through the fields in gloves any more on ordinary occasions, but this was no ordinary occasion, and we all knew it.
For a place that, as the Major insisted, was a village rath
er than a town, Ceme Abbas had produced a remarkable turnout. Scores of women were sauntering on the grass and gossiping, or picking over the stalls, which were full of jumble-sale articles, vegetables, and point-free but high-priced tinned food. Most of the women wore cotton dresses, cardigans, and that peculiarly English sort of hat that in summer or winter, felt or straw, always turns up in back and down in front. In one corner of the lawn was an alley for skittles, and there most of the men congregated, vying for the honor of winning a small pig, which was on view in a crate nearby.
It was a strangely childless gathering, I thought at first, but in a few minutes I understood why the children were not visible in force. Against the wall of the hostess’s house a loud-speaker roared musical numbers without stopping, and suddenly from the shrubbery opposite, under the watchful eye of a red-haired gentleman who looked like a schoolmaster, came a group of children skipping in pairs. Carola ran off to join them, dragging Fitzroy by his leash. Mary and I joined a clump of spectators at one side of the lawn. With tremendous energy, the children executed a few folk dances, then curtsied in a desultory way and ran back into the shrubbery. A different group, made up of younger children, succeeded them. We onlookers stood about and made admiring noises. The high point of the performance came last: it was a play in costume about nursery-rhyme characters.
Lady Fairly was standing at my side. “You can always tell which ones in the crowd are the mothers and fathers,” she whispered. “Just look now. Do you see how one woman’s face lights up when a new child begins to talk? And every other mother is glum and worried until it’s her child’s turn.”
Just then my own child, still holding tightly to Fitzroy’s leash, came over and pulled at my arm. “When’s the dog show, Mummy?” she asked. “Whenever is the dog show?”