Complete Short Stories (VMC) (45 page)

‘We have got this to live with now,’ Ursula thought, ‘and it will be with us for ever, I can see – the reason and the excuse for everything. It will even grow; there will be more and more of it, as time goes on. When we are those two elderly Misses Rogers we are growing into it will still be there. “Miss Melanie, who has such a sharp tongue,” people will say. “Poor thing … a tragic love-affair a long way back.” I shall forget there was a time when we did not have it with us.’

Melanie drank her milk and put out the light; then she lay down calmly and closed her eyes and prepared herself for her dreams. Until they came, she imagined walking by the lake, as she had done, that afternoon, only a few days ago; but instead of Mr Brundle coming into the scene, Professor Rybeck appeared. He walked towards her swiftly, as if by assignation. Then they sat down and looked at the tarnished water – and she added a few swans for them to watch. After a long delicious silence, she began to speak. Yet words were not really necessary. She had hardly begun the attempt; her lips shaped the beginning of a sentence – ‘I am …’ and then he took her hand and held it to his cheek. ‘I know what you are,’ he said. ‘I knew at the very beginning.’

Although they had parted for ever, she realised that she was now at peace – she felt ennobled and enriched, and saw herself thus, reflected from her sister’s eyes, and she was conscious of Ursula’s solemn wonder and assured by it.

Of course, Mrs Cotterell cried. Watery-eyed, on the arm of the bridegroom’s father, she smiled in a bewildered way to left and right, coming down the aisle. Outside, on the church steps, she quickly dashed the tears away as she faced the camera, still arm-in-arm with Mr Midwinter, a man she detested.

He turned towards her and gave a great meaningless laugh just as the camera clicked and Mrs Cotterell had his ginny breath blown full in her face. Even in church he had to smell like that, she thought, and the grim words, ‘Like father, like son’, disturbed her mind once more.

Below them, at the kerb’s edge, Geoff was already helping his bride into the car. The solemnity of the service had not touched him. In the vestry, he had been as jaunty as ever, made his wife blush and was hushed by his mother, a frail, pensive creature, who had much, Mrs Cotterell thought, to be frail and pensive about.

It was Saturday morning and the bridal car moved off slowly among the other traffic. Mrs Cotterell watched until the white-ribboned motor disappeared.

The bridesmaids, one pink, one apple-green, were getting into the next car. Lissport was a busy place on Saturdays and to many of the women it was part of the morning’s shopping-outing to be able to stand for a minute or two to watch a bride coming out of the church. Feeling nervous and self-conscious, Mrs Cotterell, who had often herself stood and watched and criticised, crossed the pavement to the car. She was anxious to be home and wondered if everything was all right there. She had come away in a flurry of confused directions, leaving two of her neighbours slicing beetroot and sticking blanched almonds into the trifles. She was relieved that the reception was her own affair, that she could be sure that there would be no drunkenness, no rowdy behaviour and suggestive speeches, as there had been at Geoff’s sister’s wedding last year. One glass of port to drink a toast to the bride and bridegroom she had agreed to. For the rest she hoped that by now her kindly neighbours had mixed the orange cordial.

Mrs Cotterell cried again, much harder, when Beryl came downstairs in her going-away suit, and kissed her and thanked her (as if her mother were a hostess, not her own flesh and blood, Mrs Cotterell thought sorrowfully) and with composure got into Geoff’s little car, to which Mr Midwinter had tied an empty sardine-tin.

Then everyone else turned to Mrs Cotterell and thanked her and praised the food and Beryl’s looks and dress. It had all gone off all right, they said, making a great hazard of it. ‘You’ll miss her,’ the women told her. ‘I know what it’s like,’ some added.

The bridesmaids took off their flower wreaths and put on their coats. Geoff’s brothers, Les and Ron, were taking them out for the evening. ‘Not long till opening-time,’ they said.

Mrs Cotterell went back into the house, to survey the wedding presents, and the broken wedding cake, with the trellis work icing she had done so lovingly, crumbled all over the table. Beryl’s bouquet was stuck in a vase, waiting to be taken tomorrow to poor Grandma in hospital.

In the kitchen, the faithful neighbours were still hard at work, washing up the piles of plates stained with beetroot and mustard and tomato sauce.

‘She’s gone,’ Mrs Cotterell whispered into her crumpled handkerchief as her husband came in and put his arm round her.

‘Soon be opening-time,’ Geoff said, driving along the busy road to Seaferry. He had long ago stopped the car, taken the sardine-tin off the back axle and thrown it over a hedge. ‘Silly old fool, Dad,’ he had said fondly. ‘Won’t ever act his age.’

Beryl thought so, too, but decided not to reopen that old discussion at such a time. For weeks, she had thought and talked and dreamt of the wedding, studied the advice to brides in women’s magazines, on make-up, etiquette and Geoff’s marital rights – which he must, she learnt, not be allowed to anticipate. ‘Stop it, Geoff!’ she had often said firmly. ‘I happen to want you to respect me, thank you very much.’ Unfortunately for her, Geoff was not the respectful kind, although, in his easy-going way, he consented to the celibacy – one of her girlish whims – and had even allowed the gratifying of his desires to be postponed from Easter until early summer, because she had suddenly decided she wanted sweet-peas in the bridesmaids’ bouquets.

To the women’s magazines Beryl now felt she owed everything; she had had faith in their advice and seen it justified. I expect Geoff’s getting excited, she thought. She was really quite excited herself.

‘Now where are you going?’ she asked, as he swerved suddenly off the road. It was perfectly plain that he was going into a public house, whose front door he had seen flung open just as he was about to pass it by.

‘Well, here it is,’ he said. ‘The White Horse. The very first pub to have the privilege of serving a drink to Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Midwinter.’

This pleased her, although she wanted to get to the hotel as quickly as she could, to unpack her trousseau, before it creased too badly.

It was a dull little bar, smelling frowsty. The landlord was glumly watchful, as if they might suddenly get out of hand, or steal one of his cracked ash-trays.

Geoff, however, was in high spirits, and raised his pint pot and winked at his wife. ‘Well, here’s in anticipation,’ he said. She looked demurely at her gin and orange, but she smiled. She loved him dearly. She was quite convinced of this, for she had filled in a questionnaire on the subject of love in one of her magazines, and had scored eighteen out of twenty, with a rating of ‘You and Cleopatra share the honours’. Only his obsession with public houses worried her, but she was sure that – once she had him away from the influence of his father and brothers – she would be able to break the habit.

At six o’clock Mr Midwinter took his thirst and his derogatory opinions about the wedding down to the saloon bar of the Starter’s Orders. His rueful face, as he described the jugs of orangeade, convulsed his friends. ‘Poor Geoff, what’s he thinking of, marrying into a lot like that?’ asked the barmaid.

‘Won’t make no difference to Geoff,’ said his father. ‘Geoff’s like his dad. Not given to asking anybody’s by-your-leave when he feels like a pint.’

Mrs Midwinter had stayed at home alone. It had not occurred to her husband that she might be feeling flat after the day’s excitement. She would not have remarked on it herself, knowing the problem was insoluble. He could not have taken her to a cinema, because Saturday evening was sacred to drinking, and although she would have liked to go with him for a glass of stout, she knew why she could not. He always drank in the Men Only bar at the Starter’s Orders. ‘Well, you don’t want me drinking with a lot of prostitutes, do you?’ he often asked, and left her no choice, as was his habit.

Beryl had never stayed in an hotel before, and she was full of admiration at the commanding tone Geoff adopted as they entered the hall of the Seaferry Arms.

‘Just one before we go up?’ he enquired, looking towards the bar.

‘Later, dear,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s unpack and tidy ourselves first; then we can have a drink before dinner.’ The word ‘dinner’ depressed him. It threatened to waste a great deal of Saturday evening drinking time.

From their bedroom window they could see a bleak stretch of promenade, grey and gritty. The few people down there either fought their way against the gale, with their heads bowed and coats clutched to their breasts, or seemed tumbled along with the wind at their heels. The sun, having shone on the bride, had long ago gone in and it seemed inconceivable that it would ever come out again.

‘No strolling along the prom tonight,’ said Geoff.

‘Isn’t it a shame? It’s the only thing that’s gone wrong.’

Beryl began to hang up and spread about the filmy, lacy, ribboned lingerie with which she had for long planned to tease and entice her husband.

‘The time you take,’ he said. He had soon tipped everything out of his own case into a drawer. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up something of mauve chiffon.

‘My nightgown,’ she said primly.

‘What ever for?’

‘Don’t be common.’ She always affected disapproval when he teased her.

‘What about a little anticipation here and now?’ he suggested.

‘Oh, don’t be so silly. It’s broad daylight.’

‘Right. Well, I’m just going to spy out the lie of the land. Back in a minute,’ he said.

She was quite content to potter about the bedroom, laying traps for his seduction; but when she was ready at last, she realised that he had been away a long time. She stood by the window, wondering what to do, knowing that it was time for them to go in to dinner. After a while, she decided that she would have to find him and, feeling nervous and self-conscious, she went along the quiet landing and down the stairs. Her common sense took her towards the sound of voices and laughter and, as soon as she opened the door of the bar, she was given a wonderful welcome from all the new friends Geoff had suddenly made.

‘It seems ever so flat, doesn’t it?’ Mrs Cotterell said. All of the washing-up was done, but she was too tired to make a start on packing up the presents.

‘It’s the reaction,’ her husband said solemnly.

Voices from a play on the wireless mingled with their own, but were ignored. Mrs Cotterell had her feet in a bowl of hot water. New shoes had given her agony. Beryl, better informed, had practised wearing hers about the house for days before.

‘Haven’t done my corns any good,’ Mrs Cotterell mourned. Her feet ached and throbbed, and so did her heart.

‘It all went off well, though, didn’t it?’ she asked, as she had asked him a dozen times before.

‘Thanks to you,’ he said dutifully. He was clearing out the budgerigar’s cage and the bird was sitting on his bald head, blinking and chattering.

Mrs Cotterell stared at her husband. She suddenly saw him as a completely absurd figure, and she trembled with anger and self-pity. Something ought to have been done for her on such an evening, she thought, some effort should have been made to console and reward her. Instead, she was left to soak her feet and listen to a lot of North Country accents on the radio. She stretched out her hand and switched them off.

‘What ever’s wrong, Mother?’

‘I can’t stand any more of that “By goom” and “Nowt” and “Eee, lad”. It reminds me of that nasty cousin Rose of yours.’

‘But we always listen to the play on a Saturday.’

‘This Saturday isn’t like other Saturdays.’ She snatched her handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed her eyes.

Mr Cotterell leant forward and patted her knee and the budgerigar flew from his head and perched on her shoulder.

‘That’s right, Joey, you go to Mother. She wants a bit of cheering-up.’

‘I’m not his mother, if you don’t mind, and I don’t want cheering-up from a bird.’

‘One thing I know is you’re overtired. I’ve seen it coming. You wouldn’t care to put on your coat and stroll down to the Public for a glass of port, would you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.

After dinner, they drank their coffee, all alone in the dreary lounge of the Seaferry Arms, and then Beryl went to bed. She had secret things to do to her hair and her face. ‘I’ll just pour you out another cup,’ she said. ‘Then, when you’ve drunk it, you can come up.’

‘Right,’ he said solemnly, nodding his head.

‘Don’t be long, darling.’

When she had gone, he sat and stared at the cupful of black coffee and then got up and made his way back to the bar.

All of his before-dinner cronies had left and a completely different set of people stood round the bar. He ordered some beer and looked about him.

‘Turned chilly,’ said the man next to him.

‘Yes. Disappointing,’ he agreed. To make friends was the easiest thing in the world. In no time, he was at the heart of it all again.