Valley of Decision (20 page)

‘Yes. You may not begin with anything out of the ordinary. Or anticipate it.'

‘One thing leads to another,' George Stiles said. ‘That's so.' His wife looked neither surprised nor disapproving.

‘That's how you think it started?' she asked, grinding away at him.

‘You wanted me to suggest what had happened. “To make it up,” was your expression. I've done so.'

‘And is that how it was?'

‘Probably.'

‘You're prepared to say that about your wife?' Mrs Stiles accused.

‘Something's happened that has to be accounted for. She's told you she's in love, and is presumably not coming back. Some pretty important change has taken place. What it is I'm as much in the dark as you are. But it's no use trying to make out nothing's happened.'

‘I'm not doing that.'

‘All right, then.'

‘You're angry, David.'

He gave no answer and she quailed, shrivelling in on herself.

‘This is the time for that cup of tea,' George Stiles said, almost cheerfully. When he went out David left doors open, but from the kitchen he could hear no conversation between the Stileses; they must have sat dumb as stones.

On his return with the tray they seemed not to have moved at all.

‘Very welcome,' George said, sipping.

‘It doesn't bring Mary back,' his wife snapped.

They champed biscuits, took second cups, George accepted a third, with barely a word exchanged. Mrs Stiles roused herself.

‘What are you going to do?' Plain, businesslike, but lost.

‘I shall wait until she writes to me, until I find out what she has to say for herself.' David spoke flatly, pain singeing his words. His fingers seemed too large for his hands.

‘I see. And should we write?'

‘I'd think so.'

‘Or would it be better if we telephoned?'

‘Haven't they gone to Harvard? You won't know the number.'

‘No, but New York might give it to me.'

‘Yes.'

They sat glumly after he had collected the cups back on the tray.

‘That's about it, then.' George Stiles, tentatively. He put his hands beside him as if to lift himself off the settee.

‘I can't tell you,' Mrs Stiles interrupted, ‘how ashamed I am. I would never have thought . . . She's had her head turned like a teenage girl.'

‘She's twenty-four.' George.

‘We shall write to her. I mean, I would have said there was always six of one to half a dozen of the other, that there was some fault in you. But since I've spoken to you, and to your mother, I'm not so sure. It's her.' This last was vehement.

‘Life in this house isn't as glamorous as the stage over there,' he said bitterly enough.

‘Glamour's not everything. I should have thought she'd have had more sense.'

‘Now, Mother,' George spoke pacifically, without looking straight at her.

‘What?' Fierce.

‘Don't go upsetting yourself.'

‘What would you feel like,' she asked, ‘if you were in David's place? How many husbands would have agreed to let her go for a start?'

‘It's done,' George answered.

‘And the baby,' she continued, disregarding her husband. ‘It's half David's, isn't it? She can't just deprive him of his share. As I shall tell her.' She thrashed about with her hands in the air very briefly, as if her language had become inadequate.

‘She's not having an abortion?' David asked.

‘I never thought . . . She never said so. I took it she was keeping it, and this Red had agreed. That's what she meant when she said, “We've talked it through.” She would never . . .' Mrs Stiles broke off. The idea of abortion had not occurred to her? That seemed unlikely. ‘I don't know, David. It gets worse the more you think about it. Well, I'll write tomorrow. It's no use putting it off any longer. Perhaps I should have done it before. It's terrible.' Her mere position in the chair spelt out her distress; without moving she appeared to strain in all directions; the wrinkles, unnoticed before, were cut, deep, dirty. She stirred herself to jump upright. ‘Come on, Dad. We've a busy day tomorrow what with one thing and another.' George struggled up. ‘I can't tell you how sorry we are, David. To think it's our daughter acting like this.' She moved across, kissed him awkwardly, laid a claw on his arm, made for the door. ‘Right, George Stiles.' The father put out a hand which David shook.

There was a second hiatus in the hall while George donned hat and coat, and then they were gone, without further words. Through the closed door, David heard the car start, and he walked back into the front room to turn out the fire, open the curtains.

He stood on the rug by the hearth, indecisive now the small chores were done. He could wash the dishes. The biting grief had dissipated itself; torpor asthenically blanketed him. There was nothing to be said in his favour. Anger had died, replaced by feebleness. The man of straw carried his tray out to the kitchen to stand by the sink staring at his reflection in the window.

Mrs Stiles was like her daughter in looks, but less finely fashioned. He recalled Mary who had fought him off her virginity until they were married, that Mary who had stood naked for the first time. She was nothing like this woman in temperament. And yet, Eva had kissed him, crudely expressing her concern, grabbing him by the sleeve. There was no way of telling what she felt, thought, suffered. She lacked the subtlety of language and experience. She must have known loss; both her parents were dead; Mary's determination, acquisition of a new accent and manners, the putting into her place of a mother who knew no better must have hurt, but she was unprepared for this. Her husband could do nothing for her but mouth clichés or put the kettle on, but she could not imagine herself deserting him on that account. She had given her old-fashioned word. David smiled, not sourly, wondering if ever Eva had been tempted beyond the business in nails and Cosywrap, the hard-working husband, the rising and beautiful daughter; they had been enough and now, when all should have been settled, this had felled her.

His mother, who seemed in on the plan of the Stileses' visit, made inquiries. When he had given his account, she asked, ‘They're going to write, then, are they?'

‘Mrs Stiles is.'

‘Do you think she will?'

‘Yes. She said so.'

‘Well, as long as you're satisfied.'

‘What are you getting at?'

‘I wasn't altogether impressed,' Joan answered, ‘when I went up there. The father will find excuses if she murders the President of the United States, but I can understand that. But she's a funny customer.'

‘In what way?'

‘Sly.' Joan waited for his comments and, receiving nothing, continued. ‘She wouldn't say anything outright, but I had the impression that she thought you were to blame, that Mary wouldn't have acted like this unless you'd given her cause.'

He explained Mrs Stiles's present position about this, and Joan fell momentarily silent.

‘Are you going to write?' she asked, recovering.

‘When she writes to me.'

‘Why wait? You know what's happening. Perhaps if Mary heard from you, it might make her realize what she's doing.'

‘Don't you think she knows, then?'

His mother tried consolation, haltingly. He listened, without optimism.

‘We'll wait and see,' he concluded.

Joan offered meals, advice; he said he'd survive. Both wished the conversation had not taken place.

A DAY OR
two later David crossing the schoolyard on the way to his car passed Dick Wilson, who was standing, overcoat unbuttoned, staring upwards, his case leaning against his legs.

‘Going home?' David inquired.

‘Yes.' Wilson dragged his attention earthwards with difficulty.

‘Want a lift?'

‘That's kind of you. My car's in for repair. But it's out of your way.'

‘Not much. Not now I'm a bachelor.'

They spoke about the weather, wishing it was warmer. Wilson had to be told to fasten his seatbelt.

‘Oh, yes, yes. I mustn't break the law.'

‘I was sorry to hear about your father,' David muttered as they emerged through the gates. His occupation with busy traffic seemed to cover a risky interference.

‘Yes.'

‘Was it unexpected?'

‘Yes and no.'

‘He wasn't very old, was he?'

‘Sixty-three. He was still at work. Wouldn't retire.'

Wilson's voice carried a heavy confidence; he laid down velleities or hesitations with the same strength as his certainties. His legs might twitch, his gaze drop uncertain, but his speech never lacked assurance.

‘It's bad, really.' They were now on the main road, edging round buses. ‘It's left my mother in an unenviable position.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘The truth is that he was an inveterate gambler.' Wilson might have been making a judgement on some historical statesman. ‘Horses. The stock exchange. The pinball machine. The casino. It all came alike.'

‘Oh.' Wilson watched David skilfully manoeuvre his car across two traffic lanes.

‘He got through a considerable fortune, one way or another. He always claimed that's why he had to stay at his teaching. I don't think that's exactly true, but it salved his conscience. My mother has a little private money, thank God.'

‘I see.'

‘She's thinking about going back to Sweden. She was born there.' David recalled Wilson's Christian names: Richard Henry Sellberg, pronounced Sell-berry.

‘How long has she been in England?'

‘She came over as a language student after the war, and met my father in Oxford. They were married in 1947.'

‘And she's not been back since?'

‘Only for holidays.'

‘What does she think about it? Going back, I mean.'

‘It's difficult to tell. She could have stayed where she is, or moved nearer to me, or to my sister. There are friends in Manchester, but not close enough to detain her. Janet wouldn't want her here at our place, and Eleanor moves about. I think she'd quite like to be Swedish again.'

David stopped outside Wilson's house, a Victorian semi-detached villa on a steep tree-lined avenue.

‘It's worrying, though,' Wilson said, not hurrying. ‘I've no idea what she really thinks. She's relieved now that my father has died. She knows where she is financially, and she realized that he'd only a year or so at most to live. The bad thing is that he wasted so much money. She ought to be well-to-do on his account now, and she isn't. On the other hand she thinks she'll be her own woman for the first time in thirty-five years. At the age of fifty-six.'

‘She hasn't been happy?' David asked.

Wilson drew in a huge breath, shifted heavily in his seat.

‘Who's to say?' he replied. ‘She married a comparatively wealthy man, but then they have, or rather she has, never been certain where the next hundred pounds is coming from. She couldn't leave him. I believe she admired my father. He was an impressive man in some ways. And then there were the children. She couldn't desert us. By the time we were off her hands, it was too late.'

‘Does she regret . . .?'

‘I shouldn't think so, for a minute. She kept the home together, saw to it that we had enough money while we were at school and university.'

‘She doesn't think she's wasted her life?' Impudent and imprudent.

Wilson considered this, rasping his left hand over his throat, which was badly shaved compared with the chin.

‘If she'd returned she'd have married some Swedish businessman or academic. No, her life wouldn't have been so markedly different.'

Still he didn't open the car door.

‘Mary's thinking of staying in America.' David blurted it out. The sentence had been rolling in his head like a dried pea in a matchbox, but now he had said it he regretted the confidence, a more than just return for Wilson's confessions.

‘To continue with her musical career?' Wilson asked, politely, distant.

‘Yes. The opera's been a great success.'

‘And she wants you to go over there to live?'

‘Well. No. It's not been . . . I don't think it's possible.'

‘No.' Wilson tapped the dashboard with a fingernail. He seemed incapable of sitting still. ‘That's not good, is it?' He shook his head too vigorously, like a dog clearing its wet coat. ‘Not good at all.' He blew breath out, noisily again, clasped the lapels of his overcoat, released them to pull his case to his chest. ‘Well, must show my face. Thanks for the lift. Very good of you. Many thanks.'

He heaved himself out, crossed the pavement, pushed open his front gate but did not turn to wave. Already David guessed, he had forgotten about Mary. And now Mother Wilson knew she could return home, lose her Englishness, take up the rusty language of her childhood because her husband was dead and her children did not much mind what she did, provided she did nothing to impede them. That was her reward for thirty-five years of exile, fidelity to a gambler, making ends meet for respectable children. Put like that it almost seemed a justification for Mary's decision to cut and run. Or a minatory parable.

Though he still slept badly and lacked energy David surprised himself by his perseverance at work, and the amount he got through. Depression, unrelenting as it was, could be beaten down by his teaching, his practice, his rehearsals. He found he began to resent his mother's daily telephone calls and her muted insistence that he contact America. The idea of writing before his . . . before Mary wrote angered him so that he would thump a fist incontinently down on his desk, and once scattered a pile of exercise books with a wild, back-handed blow. He rang the Stiles household on Sunday but they had heard nothing.