I and My True Love (19 page)

“I’m terribly late, Rose,” she explained hurriedly after she had greeted Ben. “I really can’t come in, tonight.” She looked around the circle of waiting faces, solemn, anxious. “And I doubt if there would be room for me,” she added. But no one smiled.

Rose squeezed her way between the stove and the chair where one of her daughters sat holding a three-year-old child in her lap. “How is he, Miss Sylvia?” Rose’s round rich voice was hushed as if Thomas Jerold might have heard the question all the way up at the big house, and disapproved.

“He’s a little tired, today,” she said.

Rose nodded sympathetically, her large dark eyes worried. She had been crying, Sylvia noticed. And she noticed, too, the watching serious faces at the table. Even the children were subdued as if they had been listening to gloomy predictions as her car had driven up to their front path.

Sylvia said, quickly, “Father is all right, Rose. He’s only tired because he is depressed.” Rose and Jennifer, she thought, each with the same worry, each with the same feeling of insecurity. But it had been easier to deal with Jennifer: you could allow yourself to speak sharply to Jennifer.

“It was a cruel day,” Ben said. He shifted uneasily, giving his wife what he called a hush-up look. But her concern had touched him, too, and he couldn’t shake himself free of it.

A cruel day, Sylvia thought, threatening crueller ones to come. She smiled as brightly as she could to the circle of round eyes: had her face seemed so sad when she had first appeared at the door, confirming all the fears that Rose had been talking about?

“I must go. I’ve an appointment. So I’ll say good night and let you get on with supper.” She kept her voice light, a confident smile on her lips. And when she waved to them, the serious faces suddenly smiled and became young again.

“Good night, Miss Sylvia,” Rose said, but her large black eyes were grave.

Sylvia turned and walked to the car. Ben came with her, tonight, holding a flashlight as an excuse.

“Rose is upset,” Sylvia said, “but we’re all upset today, for one reason or another.”

“She’s the worrying kind,” he said in his rich slow voice. And when Sylvia spoke of the long winter and the spring that was late in coming, he only nodded. He wasn’t thinking about her words.

Then, as he stood by the car, he spoke almost hurriedly. Perhaps the walk along the path had given him time to collect his courage and he couldn’t let the moment slip away with his worries unanswered. “Some day, they will be building all up this road.” He stared across the rutted driveway to the dark fields.

And then, what happened to Ben and his family? “Mr. Jerold won’t allow that,” Sylvia said.

“No, Mr. Jerold just naturally wouldn’t like that.”

“Nor would anyone else.”

“Miss Jennifer,” he said hesitatingly, “she’d like a farm. She’s been telling me of all the beef that’s being raised near Richmond, now.”

And then where would Ben’s job be? “They’ll still need vegetables and eggs at Whitecraigs,” Sylvia said.

“Miss Jennifer was saying it would be cheaper to buy them.”

Sylvia was silent for a moment. Whitecraigs had always been run on sentiment, not on economics. “Ben, if anyone talks about changes at Whitecraigs, then remember you won’t be part of the change.”

In the darkness, she couldn’t see clearly the expression on Ben’s face. She couldn’t know whether her words had done any good. She started the car. “And you must stop Rose worrying about my father’s health.” She smiled suddenly, as she gave him the reason he had so often offered to her when he had been considering one of her suggestions: “Mr. Jerold just naturally wouldn’t like that.”

That could have been an answering smile.

“You’ve been having good news from Detroit?” she asked encouragingly.

“Yes.” But something else troubled him now. “Young Ben says he’s going there, too. He aims to find himself a job with automobiles. He don’t want to stay here.”

And none of the older boys had stayed either. She was angry with herself for reminding him of that.

“I could use some help this spring,” Ben added, admitting his age for the first time. “But I just can’t seem to talk young Ben into staying. He’s crazy about automobiles.”

“Perhaps we should bring in another man.” Sylvia could almost hear Jennifer’s scream of protest. What? Two men hired to do the work that one could do if he were young enough and not so set in his ways?

“No,” Ben said vigorously. “Strangers coming in here, messing up everything, bossing around, arguing and leaving and upsetting everyone. No, Miss Sylvia. Wouldn’t be no peace with a stranger around.”

“I suppose not,” Sylvia said hopelessly.

“How is Miss Kate?” Ben asked, dropping the subject of strangers. “Perhaps she’ll write Mr. George and tell him I was remembering him. It don’t seem all these years since he was running around here.”

“I’ll tell her you were asking for her. Good night, Ben.”

“Good night, Miss Sylvia,” he called after her as the car started forward, bumping its way over the uneven surface. She drove slowly at first, for spring had softened the ground and twice she felt the car slide on the mud. And she was thinking about Ben. It was no good calling him illogical, any more than calling Minna, working in the Georgetown kitchen, illogical— Minna who avoided the new electric dishwasher as if it carried the plague. Or myself, even, when I bought that pressure cooker to help with Sunday night supper: I’ve never used it. Or Payton, too: he hates airplanes, uses them only in necessity, and sits in silent protest throughout any flight. We are all illogical in some way or other: we have our peculiar likes and dislikes, our refusals and our prejudices. If we hadn’t, we’d all work predictably like well-ordered machines, and blueprints for human beings would look as admirable in practice as they do on paper.

Or am I trying to find an excuse for my own behaviour? she asked herself bitterly.

It was a relief to come to the road, where the surface was smoother. Now she could increase speed and concentrate on the twists and turns of the little hill and leave all thoughts behind her, hidden away in that green tunnel of arched oaks. You’re as ready to evade the real issue as Father, or as Ben, she told herself. And again came the excuse: didn’t we all try to postpone the real issue if it was going to destroy our happiness?

She was driving recklessly now. She was late, very late. She passed the bright lights of Straven, shining through its well-kept trees. She passed the darkness that now was Strathmore, with a bulldozer and two trucks waiting patiently at the edge of a field for daylight to come again. Soon she would reach the main highway. She slowed down, her eyes searching the last quiet stretch of road in front of her for Jan Brovic’s car.

Then she saw it, drawn well into the side, sheltered by the high hedge. And there was Jan, walking towards her. She edged the car as close to the hedge as possible. By the time she had switched off the engine and the headlights, he had reached her.

“Oh, Jan, I’m late. I’m sorry...”

“You’re here,” he said, “that’s all I was worrying about.” And his arms were round her, holding her fast.

14

Jan lighted a cigarette carefully, his eyes watching Sylvia. He held the match long enough to see her face turned towards him, her head leaning back now against the seat, her mouth curving into its soft shy smile, her eyes relaxed and happy. The match flickered out, and the darkness surrounded them again. But he was still aware of the warmth of her body, of its softness and fragrance.

He leaned over to kiss her lips once more, and then placed the cigarette between them. She laughed and moved it a little to one side.

“Didn’t I aim straight?” he asked, feeling her gesture.

“Too straight. I almost swallowed half of it.”

He lit his own cigarette. “It’s like trying to put another man’s hat on his head for him. You can never get it quite right.” He leaned back against the seat, slipping his arm around her, pulling her close again so that her cheek lay against his. Now was the time to relax, the time for small talk and a cigarette and a feeling of nearness. His arm tightened gently around her waist, reminding her of what they had shared.

“You’re smiling,” she said. “I can feel your cheek smiling. Oh, how happy I am, Jan!”

“Because I smile? Is that all I have to do?”

“Because you smile in that way. You’re happy, too.”

“Who wouldn’t be at this moment?”

“And there, just then, the smile went away. Why? So suddenly?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. “I was thinking that we snatch our happiness in moments. And hours and days have gone past when I can’t even see you. We are grateful for moments and we’ve wasted years.”

“With luck,” she said, “we’ve still a lot of years to spend on each other. I’m thirty. You’re thirty-one. We’ve still a lot of years ahead of us.”

“You’ve no fears?” His hand gently traced the pattern of her brow and cheek.

“Not with you, Jan.”

“If only—” He stopped abruptly.

She waited, but he smoked his cigarette in silence. He would be frowning, his eyes blankly staring ahead of him. That was a new habit he had brought back to America with him.

“If only what?” she asked at last.

“If only we were free, all of us, to live our personal lives.”

“That’s difficult enough.” What is right? What is wrong? Only someone like her mother, who believed so comfortably that all goodness and all evil were relative, could rationalise guilt.

“But not as difficult, not as overwhelming as—” Again he left the sentence unfinished. Then, as if he were trying to make his words clear and yet guard them at the same time, he said, “You and I could work out our lives by ourselves if getting married was the only problem we had to face. We’d choose the shape of our lives and make it good together.”

“We will make it good together.”

“Yes. If we’re given the chance, we’ll make it good.”

“We’re taking that chance, aren’t we?”

“We’ve taken it.”

“Jan,” she said in sudden alarm, “if we don’t believe we’ll win, we’ll be beaten. Don’t you see?”

“I know,” he said, and his voice calmed her.

She let that thought slip back into the darkness from which it had come. Then, “Jan,” she said slowly, “what would happen if Payton won’t let me go free?”

“That’s one worry we can forget about. He had his chance and lost you. You’re mine now, and I’m not going to lose you.”

“But if Payton refuses to divorce me”—she bit her lip—“it would add difficulties to your choice of career. Certain jobs might be closed to you.”

“I’m used to that,” he said quietly, “and I wasn’t given any happiness to balance it.” Suddenly, he reached out and switched on the dashboard light, as if to see her more clearly. His face was tense. “Never leave me, Sylvia. Never.”

“No one will separate us,” she said reassuringly. But there was still worry lying deep in the grey eyes that watched her so intently. “You don’t believe me? Jan, no one is going to bully me or frighten me or force me to change my mind. No human being is going to separate us. Not this time.”

He stubbed out the cigarettes, slowly and surely as if he were slowly but surely shaping his next words. “No human being... yes. I believe that too. But what about the forces over which we’ve no control? That’s what I meant when I said it would be easier if only we were free to live our personal lives. But an outside force could sweep all our plans away. As violently as a mountainside can be stripped by an avalanche.”

He looked at her again. “Outside forces, systems, events, plots, accidents, duties, obligations, call them what you like. They can be the wreckers. You don’t want to believe that, Sylvia? But think of your cousin, the one who’s in Korea. There he was in California, finishing college, planning his career, probably in love with a girl. The event happened. The North Koreans invaded the South. What about your cousin’s plans?”

“But they may not be changed for ever,” she said. “He may come back, start once again... Jan, what’s wrong? Have you heard bad news about your family?”

“I’ve heard nothing. Nothing at all.”

“But it will take a little time to reach you.”

“I expected it before this.”

“But—” She couldn’t speak. She gripped his hand.

“Oh, I’m a fool,” he said savagely, “to let worry catch me up like this. They will escape. The plans were good. Carefully made. We thought of everything.”

“Others have escaped.”

He nodded. “It’s just this strain—I’m living, thinking on four different levels. Working beside men whose guts I hate, keeping guard over myself every single minute, waiting for the news that will give me my release, worrying about you.”

“Don’t. Not about me.” She raised his hand and kissed it and held it against her cheek. “It’s just the strain,” she agreed. “How is your work going, actually?”

“As badly as I can make it without running into trouble.”

She looked at him, studying his face. There were new lines etched round his mouth, a small permanent furrow between the dark eyebrows. “Jan,” she said softly, “the news may be waiting for you at this very moment. But how will it reach you?”

“We’ve arranged for that. A letter will be sent to—well, to someone who wouldn’t be expected to get a letter like that. A woman.”

“You are allowed to see her?”

“Yes.”

“I’m jealous.” She pretended to smile. “Why didn’t you have the letter sent to me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice free from the sharp touch of annoyance that had frozen her for a moment.

“And have Pleydell open it?”

“He wouldn’t do that, Jan.”

“Then who stopped all my letters from reaching you?”

“I got them,” she said. And even if she had decided not to answer them, even if she had made the resolution to try and forget Jan Brovic, the small number of letters had wounded her.

“I wrote you twice a week after I returned to Czechoslovakia in 1945. I wrote you twice a week for almost a
year.
Then, when I was coming to visit Washington in 1947, I wrote again. But I never even saw you. You were in San Francisco.”