No More Meadows (43 page)

It was a musical show, not outstanding, but Christine enjoyed it more than she remembered ever enjoying a play in the days when she used to go to the theatre nearly every week in London.

‘Now let's you and me go find ourselves the most expensive dinner in town,' Matthew said as they came out. ‘If you feel all right that is.' He treated her very cautiously. He was afraid of pregnant women, ever since he had once taken the wife of an absent friend out to dinner and she had been assailed by premature labour pains in the restaurant.

‘Of course. I feel fine. But I wonder if I ought – suppose Vin got back before we did? He hates me not to be there.'

‘He said the conference would last for hours, didn't he? Well,
if I know the Navy, you can add a few hours on to that when they get talking. He won't be back. Come on, Chris, this is your night out. Enjoy yourself.'

Christine did enjoy herself. It was fun going out with Matthew. He took her to a French restaurant where she had never been with Vinson, and he knew the right food to order. He liked her as much as she liked him, and they had a lot to talk about. Christine told him about her life in England before she was married, and Matthew told her about his girl friend Carol, who was trying to make him jealous with a television producer. They both agreed that Matthew should give her up, but Matthew said she was the most wonderful thing since penicillin and he did not think he could.

After dinner he took Christine home in a taxi and sang her all the songs from the show they had seen. Christine wished that Vinson could play the piano or sing. He could not keep two notes of a tune together, and the only music he liked on the radio was the hillbilly songs. He hummed sometimes when he was carpentering or painting, but it was a tuneless hum. He never sang or whistled about the house.

Matthew's crooning tenor inspired a mood of pleasing sentimental melancholy. Christine wished that the evening were not over. Matthew was the nicest brother-in-law she could have wished for. He was just what she would have chosen for a brother.

He left her at her home with a light kiss on the cheek, very different from the moist embraces Milt gave. As Christine walked up the path she saw a chink of light between the livingroom cortains. Had she left the light on, or was Vinson home? Oh well, he would not mind. He would be glad that his brother had given her a good time. She told herself this to stifle the little qualm of fear as she put her key into the lock. Ridiculous to have qualms of fear about your husband, and to feel guilty because you had gone out when he could not take you. But when she saw his face as he came into the hall to meet her her little qualm grew to full-size apprehension.

It was the worst quarrel they had ever had. They had bickered before, but they had never lost control to the point when they blazed out the most hurting things they could think of. Always
before, when anger had sprung up between them, Vinson had said: ‘I won't quarrel with you', and made himself annoyingly unassailable. But now he wanted to quarrel. He was out to have a full-scale row, and he made her come into the living-room and sit down opposite him so that he could tell her all the things he had been brooding over while he waited for her to come home.

He was jealous of Matthew. That was the crux of it. Christine was horrified and slightly repelled that he could be jealous of his own brother, who was so obviously not the kind of person to try and step out of line with a sister-in-law.

‘Do you think I'd have gone out with him if he was like that?' Christine asked. ‘What do you think I am?'

‘I don't know. You can't trust any woman. I learned that a long time ago. What you've told me of your past history doesn't incline me to think you're any different from the rest. What about that Canadian – and the man you picked up at that nightclub?'

‘Oh, Vin, that was nothing. I'd never have told you, but you made me promise to tell you everything.'

‘I'm wondering how many more things there are that you haven't told me.'

‘You talk as if I were a prostitute. It's a fine way to talk to your wife. Look here, Vin, nobody gets to the age of thirty-four without having
something.
You're such a prude.'

‘A prude!'

‘Yes, a prude. Where do you think I've been with your brother? To one of those hotels where you can get a room for a couple of hours?'

‘Christine, please.' Vinson shifted on his chair. ‘Don't talk like that. You know I'm not suggesting–'

‘You're suggesting something, whatever it is. Look at me -the shape I am. As if anyone could be jealous about a woman who looks like this. I think it's vile of you when Matt's so nice. Yes, he is. I like him, like him, like him, do you hear? He's a lot nicer than you in many ways.'

‘A pity you didn't marry him, instead of me.'

‘I didn't see him first.'

This was terrible, hateful. They were saying things they did
not mean, but they could not stop. They had to go on finding worse things to say as they sat there, hating each other.

Christine got up, hot and trembling. She could not stand any more. ‘I'm going to bed,' she said. ‘I feel sick.'

‘I'm not surprised, the way you've worked yourself up. Even if you don't care about me, you might at least give some thought to our baby.'

‘Don't start on that tack.'

‘Why shouldn't I? It's the most important thing in my life, and it should be in yours, but the way you behave makes me think that you're hardly fit to be the mother of my child.'

‘Oh, Vin!' A choking sound broke from Christine. She did not know herself whether she was crying or laughing. ‘You sound like a character in an old-fashioned melodrama. You're the most ridiculous–'

‘If you're going to laugh at me,' he said icily, ‘you'd better go to bed.'

Christine went out. When she was in the hall she found she was not laughing, but crying.

Upstairs, Honeychile jumped guiltily off the bed when she heard her step. Christine knelt down and tried to get from the dog the comfort that Timmy had always given her when she was distressed. Timmy used to stand like a rock, eyes soft with concern while Christine clutched and twisted the hair on his neck and told him all the injustices that no one else understood; but when she put out her hand to Honeychile the spidery dog wriggled away yapping. It fled under the dressing-table and cowered there with its legs apart, trembling as if its life was threatened. It was a useless animal.

When she was in her nightgown Christine forced herself to go to the top of the stairs and call down: ‘Vin! Have you had any supper?'

He did not answer.

‘Have you had any supper, I said.' Irritation mounted in her voice.

‘No,' he answered sulkily.

‘Shall I come down and get you something?'

‘No.'

All right, if he wanted to sulk, let him. Christine got into bed
and turned away from the door. When he came heavily upstairs she pretended to be asleep. When he got into bed perhaps, after all, she would turn over and put out a hand to him and he would take her in his arms and kiss her, and she would weep and everything would be all right. It was not too late to retrieve it.

He did not get into bed. He turned out the light and Christine waited, ready to turn over as soon as she felt his weight on the bed; but he went out of the room, and in a moment she heard the door of the other bedroom slam shut.

When the alarm clock woke her the next morning Christine felt as if she had not slept at all. Her head ached and every limb was weary. She combed her hair and powdered her face and went into the room that was to be the nursery. Vinson was lying very neatly in the bed, his face buried in the pillow and his short black hair sticking up like a porcupine. Christine turned his face over and kissed him. He woke frowning, and sat up. He did not kiss her.

‘Is it time to get up?' he asked in a completely wide-awake voice.

‘Yes. Oh, Vin – look, darling–' She had planned how she was going to say: ‘I'm sorry', but he swung his legs over the side of the bed and, without looking at her, felt for his slippers and slouched off to the bathroom.

He ate his breakfast in the kitchen, just like other mornings. Sulking did not impair his appetite. Christine did not know what to talk about, so she did not talk at all, except to ask him if he wanted more coffee.

He held out his cup. ‘I don't want you to use the car today,' he said. ‘The fluid in the brakes is low and they're not holding properly. I nearly hit a lamp standard coming home last night, in case that's of any interest to you. John Tanner's picking me up this morning and he'll bring me home. I'll take the car to the garage tonight.'

When he had finished his breakfast he got up without a word, went into the hall, put on his uniform coat and cap and picked up his brief-case. Christine followed him, feeling like a child sent to Coventry. When he opened the front door she put her hand on his arm.

‘Aren't you going to kiss me good-bye?' she asked.

‘I didn't think you'd want to.'

‘Do
you
want to?'

‘Of course.' He put his head forward. It was the bleakest kiss. It would have been better to have had no kiss at all.

Vinson stood on the lawn with his toes turned out, to be ready as soon as John Tanner drove up. He never kept anyone waiting. Christine stood just behind him in the doorway. She wondered if he knew she was there.

From the lawn next door Mrs Meenehan called: ‘Hi there, Commander! What do you know?'

Vinson did not answer. Mrs Meenehan went into her house. As soon as Vinson had gone she would be round at the kitchen window to ask what was wrong with the Commander. John Tanner arrived and blew his horn. Christine watched Vinson walk down the path. She always waved him good-bye when he drove off in the mornings. If he turned round before he got into the car she would wave today, but she did not think he was going to turn round. She hesitated, then went inside the house and shut the door. Immediately, she wished she had not. Suppose he looked round and she was not there? As she turned back to the door again she heard the car drive off. It was too late. She would have to wait until tonight. She would make it up with him tonight.

‘Had a tiff?' Mrs Meenehan appeared at the window as Christine went into the kitchen.

‘No,' Christine said coldly, putting dishes into the sink.

‘Oh yes you have.' Mrs Meenehan waggled a finger at her. ‘You can't fool me. The Commander looked like thunder. Don't worry, honey. It's because of your condition. I was just the same with young Gary. Daddy and I fought like cat and dog. It's physical. You'll see. Everything will be all-a-hunky when the baby comes.'

Perhaps she was right Everything would be all right when the baby came. All the little differences, the misgivings, the moments of boredom, the slight disappointments that her marriage had brought – all these would be swept away when their child was born. There would be no time for them.

All morning Christine felt particularly, keenly happy about
the baby. Her self-engrossed happiness drove out the sadness of the quarrel. It was no longer a tragedy. It could be put right in a moment this evening. Christine would find the right thing to say, and they would be back where they were before – two people who were going to have a baby which would hold them together in a bond that no petty differences of character could weaken.

Christine got out the vacuum cleaner. It always did one good to clean the house when one wanted to clean out one's mind. While she was bending to sweep under the sofa she suddenly straightened up and put a hand to her side. Yes! The baby had moved. It kicked.

She turned off the motor to stop Honeychile barking. If anything was making a noise the dog always had to augment it. The baby kicked again. She felt it very clearly. This was the moment for which she had waited so long, this proof that the mystery within her was alive and eager for the worlds.

Cnristine felt exalted. She wanted to tell someone. Who? Certainly not Mrs Meenehan, and Betty Kessler would only shake her head and say that now her troubles were really starting. Christine almost rang up Vinson, but the vision of him answering the telephone in a room full of stenographers and electrical typewriters checked her. Besides, he was probably still sulking. He did not know yet that the quarrel was over, that it did not matter, that nothing mattered because her baby was stirring into a new phase of life.

How wonderful it would be to tell him this evening! It would dispel everything else. He would come home frowning perhaps, determined not to make an advance before she did, and she would run to the front door as soon as she heard the car, and tell him about the baby. His face would light up, and it would be as if they had never said those terrible things last night.

When Matthew rang up she almost told him, but remembered his fear of pregnant women, and refrained. It only mattered to her and Vinson, anyway. The news was not for anyone else.

Matthew wanted to know if she had the car at home. He wanted to borrow it for the afternoon.

‘Matt, I'm sorry, but you can't. The brakes are bad. Vin said it mustn't be driven.'

‘To hell with that, Chris. I'll be O.K. I can always throw it into low gear, or use the emergency brake.'

‘No, Matt. Vinson said not.'

‘Vin's been saying not all his life. Listen, I have to have it. Carol's in town. She's here to do a show on one of the local stations, and I'm going to take her to lunch and then to the studio for rehearsal.'

‘Well, but couldn't you -?' No, of course he couldn't take a taxi. No American could take his girl out without a car.

Christine knew that even if the car had been all right Vinson would not have let Matthew borrow it, but Matthew persisted. He was excited. He was urgent and persuasive. It was his big chance. Carol was here. He had to be with Carol. His leave was up tomorrow and he was flying west this evening. Heaven knew when he would see her again. She might get married or anything.