No More Meadows (18 page)

When Vinson rang up and Christine told him what had happened, he said he would come down to her at once, but she did not want him either. People always wanted to rally round you, even though they could do nothing except talk round and round what had happened, and you did not want the bother of them. Certainly she did not want Vinson. He was outside her trouble, and she still could not think what she was going to say to him. Only Aunt Josephine could help her with that.

She promised him that she would ring him up in the morning, but in the morning she went off to the hospital and forgot about him. She had telephoned to inquire for Aunt Josephine three times during the night, and a busy Night Sister had told her briskly that there was no change and likely to be none, and no need to inquire. She would be informed of any change, the Night Sister said; but when she and her father reached the hospital, Aunt Josephine had been dead for two hours, and no one had told them.

It did not seem worth making a fuss about that. There was nothing to do but collect Aunt Josephine's clothes from a harassed probationer and go home.

As they went down the corridor, Sylvia and Roger came out of the lift and walked towards them. ‘How is she?' they asked, making their faces concerned. ‘We came as soon as we could.'

When they heard that Aunt Josephine was dead Roger pressed his father's arm in a manly way, and Sylvia's ever-fluid sinuses began to overflow at the eyes and nose. Seeing her sob and sniffle and flush loosened the stricture in Christine's throat
and she no longer had to fight to keep herself from crying. If Sylvia, who had not loved Aunt Josephine, was going to weep for her, Christine did not feel like crying.

They all went into the waiting-room and sat down on the wicker furniture. Mr Cope told over again the story of how he had been working and had heard the crash in the kitchen and had come out at once to find Aunt Josephine lying on the floor.

‘What I can't understand,' Roger said, ‘is how she could have been taken like that without ever having any symptoms. She always seemed so strong. I don't see how she could have had a stroke,' he grumbled, as if aggrieved that Aunt Josephine had pulled a fast one on him. ‘I don't see how she
could
have had a stroke.'

‘Well, she did,' said Christine. ‘It's no good keeping saying that.'

‘Take a hold on yourself, Chris,' said Roger, narrowing his eyes at her. ‘It's no good getting cross with me. It wasn't
my
fault.'

Why was everyone so concerned with proving that it was not their fault? It was not anybody's fault; and if it had been, fixing the blame somewhere would not bring Aunt Josephine to life.

Nor would talking about it, but they talked on and on in the overheated waiting-room, and Sylvia snivelled and Roger wore his heavy, serious face, and Christine listened to the ticking of the radiators and tried to make herself understand that Aunt Josephine had not just taken the leading part in a dramatic episode, but had gone away for ever and would take no more part in anything.

It was a scene in which Aunt Josephine should have participated. She had always been there at family conferences. She had always been the loudest voice, and given at the same time the sanest and the most startling opinions. She should have been there. She would have pulled them together and given the scene some point. Christine kept thinking that she should be there, and having to make herself realize that if Aunt Josephine were there the scene would not be happening at all.

A woman came in with a composed little boy, who carried a fibre suitcase and had evidently come for admission to one of the wards. They sat by the window and whispered, and presently
a nurse came in and said: ‘Is this the Tonsils for Mr Bishop?' and asked the Copes if they were waiting to see someone.

‘No, thank you, we're just going,' they said, and they all stood up, as if she had dismissed them. Roger and Sylvia wanted to get back to the country. Arrangements had been made about the funeral, and there was nothing more to be done or said.

‘Thank heaven for you, Chris,' Roger said, as they went out. ‘We needn't worry about the aged P. with you there to look after him.'

‘Do you think you'll be able to manage, Christine?' Sylvia asked. Manage was one of her favourite words. It applied to everything from a child's tantrums to a dinner-party without enough matching plates. There were two kinds of people in the world: those who managed, and those who did not, and it was only possible to be one of those who did.

‘I could ask my Mrs Hatchett to come up for a few days if you like, to help you get straight. I'll manage without her,' Sylvia said. ‘You may find it rather difficult at first to manage both house and your job. Until you find a Woman, that is. You'll have to get somebody in. I'll give you the address of that agency I always go to.'

In the slow lift, which was long and narrow to accommodate stretchers – or mortuary trolleys – she went on about Daily Women and Mother's Helps and two-and-six an hour. Christine let her talk; and when the gates slid back and they stepped out, she said: ‘I'll be all right, thank you. I'm sure I'll manage perfectly well.'

‘My little girl's going to look after me now, aren't you?' said her father, drawing her arm through his in an unwonted gesture of affection, and Roger said: ‘Good old estimable Miss Cope. I don't know what we'd do without you.'

No, thought Christine bleakly, but without bitterness, as they walked across the gravel space outside the hospital to their cars. I don't know what you would do without me. Aunt Jo solved the problem of Daddy before. Now I do.

They took it for granted that her lot in life was now to stay at home and keep house for her father. Unknowingly, they had decided for her what she should do about Vinson. Perhaps, in that far-away time which was only yesterday when Aunt
Josephine was still alive, she might have married him. Now she could not, and the idea of it was already a senseless dream.

Roger was more cheerful now that he was outside the hospital. ‘Still got that pansy car, I see,' he said, as Christine went towards the Buick. ‘That Yank must be pretty far gone to hand that smashing job over to a ham hand like my sister.' He wanted to make jokes now, to resume his position as funster of the family, and shake them out of their trouble.

‘I'll be giving it back,' Christine said. ‘He's going away soon.'

‘Oh well,' said Roger, ‘they come and they go. I don't suppose he'll be much loss to you, apart from the car. I must say, for one awful moment, we were afraid you might be going to marry him, weren't we, Syl?'

‘Hush, dear,' she said. ‘You're making too much noise.' She did not add: ‘with Aunt Josephine only a few hours dead', but that was what she meant.

Roger became grave again and helped his father dutifully into the Buick. Mr Cope had not spoken much since the nurse had met them at the entrance to the ward and they had seen through the glass doors the bare springs of the bed from which the mattress had gone to be fumigated, and the lost, empty look had come down on his face and settled there.

He was not irritable any more. He was not sarcastic or fidgety or self-centred. He was not even sad. He was just nothing. He muddled through the days, doing whatever Christine suggested, but she suspected that when she sent him into his study to work he spent most of the time staring out of the window.

Their tragedy did not bring them closer. They were two people together in the overlarge house, but alone, with nothing to say to each other. Christine had not yet been able to find anybody to come and help her in the house, and she was busy all the time she was at home. She and her father rarely sat together, except at meals, which he did not enjoy, because she could not cook as well as Aunt Josephine.

Mr Parker had offered to give her a week's leave, but she refused. She did not want to stop working. It was all she had left of her old life, and there were people to talk to at the shop. She
could not bear the thought of being at home all day, and so she struggled on, with the house growing dirtier and more untidy, the animals getting out of hand, Aunt Josephine's possessions still unsorted, and herself getting more and more tired and discouraged at the idea of the future, which promised to go on like this for ever.

Sooner or later she would have to see Vinson. She put him off with one excuse after another, but a few days after Aunt Josephine's funeral he arrived at ‘Roselawn' one evening when Christine was sitting in an overall in the kitchen, trying to sort out the tradesmen's bills.

Vinson came in by the open back door, as he had learned to do since he became a frequent visitor to the house. Christine got up, pushing back her hair and conscious of her bedraggled appearance as he put his arms round her and kissed her.

‘What's the matter?' he asked, when she did not respond.

‘You know what's the matter.' She turned away.

‘Sure. I'm terribly sorry about this. Christine, why wouldn't you see me before? You know how sorry I am for you, but it doesn't make any difference to you and me. I'm still there, honey. You can put your head on my shoulder and cry if you want to.'

The arrogance of him. The typical male arrogance, which thought that a loss could not matter to you as long as he was there. ‘I don't want to cry,' she said quite crossly. ‘I finished crying some time ago. I don't need to howl all the time to show how much I mind about Aunt Jo. I wish you hadn't come. Please take the car and go away. I don't want to see you.'

As soon as she said this she was afraid. She had seen Vinson angry once or twice, and she did not like it. He became different and quite frightening, his slight body tense, and revealing the strength it did not normally seem to have.

She looked at him cautiously, but he was not angry. He was evidently going to humour her and treat her gently, and she despised him for it. She would have preferred his anger.

‘Now then,' he said, putting his arms round her again. ‘Now then, darling. You're all upset, I know, but you mustn't be that way. It's all right. Everything will be all right when we're married.'

‘But we're not going to be married!' Christine pulled herself away and went to the stove, where she began to stir the dogs' horsemeat furiously. ‘I can't marry you, Vin. I know I can't.'

‘Look here,' he said calmly. ‘This isn't good enough. You told me several days ago that you'd marry me. I believed you. I believed you meant it, and I'm holding you to your promise. I expect you to keep faith with me as I shall with you.'

‘Oh, don't be pompous!' she said, resisting a theatrical desire to stamp her foot. She went on stirring, and the steam from the boiling horsemeat made her eyes smart. She would not turn round in case he thought that she was crying.

‘I'm not pompous,' he said. ‘I'm damned mad, if you want to know.'

She risked a look at him, and he was angry now, his brows down and his mouth set. He looked like a Sicilian with a knife in his palm.

‘What do you think you're playing at?' he asked roughly. ‘One day you'll marry me, and the next you won't. This is a hell of a way to treat a man, and you'll have to learn you can't play that game with me. Come away from that goddamn stove. Come here.'

‘I won't,' she said, hearing her voice rising. ‘I've changed my mind. I told you. I can change my mind, can't I?'

He dropped his voice. ‘I suppose it's because you think you can't leave your father now,' he said, and because he had guessed most of the truth Christine turned round and said furiously: ‘Can't you understand – are you so conceited that you can't understand that I just don't want to marry you?'

‘I see.' He picked up his uniform cap from the table and went out of the kitchen. Christine heard the Buick start, turn round and roar away, and she knelt on the floor and laid her face against the silky cheek of her dog, who always came to her when she was crying.

She cried several times during the next few days. She cried for Aunt Josephine, because she was tired and discouraged. Aunt Jo had always been the one to go to when you were tired, or could not cope with something you had to do. Aunt Jo would
say comfortably: ‘Leave it. It'll keep. Do it
domani,
like the Italians do.' And she would put you to bed with a hot-water bottle and a bowl of soup, or take you out to see a silly film, either of which worked equally well.

Margaret was away from work again. She had been ill and nearly lost her baby, and it was doubtful whether she would ever be able to come back to the shop. Mr Parker, who hated new people in the department, clung to the idea that she would, and did not ask for anyone to replace her.

Helen was on holiday, and Christine was sometimes too busy even to take her lunch-hour. When she did she could not be bothered to go out. She trailed up to the canteen and ate what they called Vienna steak, and listened to the futile complaints of the people who were always saying that they were going to tell the management, and never did.

In what she already thought of as The Old Days, when she came home from the shop, Aunt Josephine had always wanted to hear about her day and about the funny or irritating things that had happened. But her father did not want to hear. He was not interested in Goldwyn's, and if she said that she had had a hard day he would say: ‘Well, why don't you give it up? You know I've never liked you being a shop girl', although he could not possibly go on living in that absurdly big house on the little money his translations brought him, if Christine gave up Goldwyn's.

Now when she came home tired from the shop, dreading the thought of having to cook supper and do a mountain of ironing and clean the silver or wash the kitchen floor, or tackle any one of the hundred jobs that were piling up on her with no hope of ever getting done, there was no Aunt Josephine to make her go to bed early and say: ‘Do it
domani.'