The Lord Have Mercy, page 6
“The Old School tie, God bless it! I always say you never know when it will be useful,” he said blithely.
To have a lover was for Mrs. Petrie like waking to life again after the deep deadness of the last years. The fountain of gladness in her heart continually flung up little sprays of gratitude. She was in love, or believed she was, which comes to much the same thing. He came to seem everything she most admired in a man; he had looks and charm and gaiety and an undefeatable courage; he was resolutely humorous even about his disastrous financial state, for he did not attempt to conceal from her that he was flat broke. Of course he tried for jobs, but for a man of his age employment was hard to find. What one needed was a bit of capital.
“God, if I had some of the money I’ve chucked away in my time!” he sighed. “I’d know what to do with it now all right.”
“What?”
“One learns too late, alas. I’d put it into some safe and steady little business. Like a brothel.”
She burst out laughing, it was so unexpected, so ludicrous, so typical of his whimsical humour. He looked at her in surprise and then joined in her merriment, pleased that she should be amused by it.
Mrs. Petrie was entranced by her vision of lush pink rooms with girls in chemises and an electric piano in the parlour – an idea she’d culled from a picture she’d once seen.
“You kid,” he laughed, “I hate to disillusion you, but that’s not what I have in mind at all. Nothing so crude. I only want what is called a house of assignation. You see,” he began, and she listened with amusement to his absorbed explanation of costs and profits.
The subject evidently fascinated him and it became a sort of joke between them, the idiotic kind of joke lovers delight to share, part of the fantasy of their lives.
Most days he went off to one of the big neighbouring towns to “see what was doing” as he put it. And Mrs. Petrie drifted about her little cottage all day in a happy dream waiting for him to return. Their cosy unreal existence seemed almost too good to be true, and sometimes she caught her breath in uneasy dread that somehow it must come to an end.
What did happen was that one day Harry took her in to Lowbridge with him and with an air of superb extravagance stood her lunch at The Market Hotel. Flushed with wine, she giggled happily at the absurdities he invented about the other diners. In the corner behind them, Lucien Verney, with his customary “pot” and “plate”, held the newspaper well before his face so as not to be observed. The meal spun out, and they had nearly finished when a man came in whom Harry recognized with a loud cry. He came over and Harry insisted on his joining them.
“Meet the wife” he said, pinching Mrs. Petrie’s elbow fondly.
Harry’s friend was a fattish, middle-aged man with a leery eye. He greeted her with polite indifference and immediately plunged into man talk with Harry to which she only half-attended. This boring encounter was spoiling their delightful outing, was all she thought. But Harry noticed everything and even though he wasn’t looking at her he seemed aware of her dull face, for he suddenly leaned towards her and squeezing her hand gave her an intimate smile and mysteriously said:
“He’s got a flat.”
“How nice” said Mrs. Petrie with a vague smile at Harry’s friend.
“Just what we’ve been looking for,” Harry confided with half-closed eyes.
“You couldn’t do better; take my word, little lady” said Harry’s friend.
What on earth was he talking about, Mrs. Petrie wondered. Was this one of Harry’s elaborate jokes?
“The refs were okay,” the fat man was saying, “so I brought the agreement along. If you’d like to have a dekko.” He took some papers out of his brief case and passed them across to Harry.
“It’ll have to be in my wife’s name” Harry said, flipping over the pages as he scanned them. That’s all right with you, dear, isn’t it?” he added casually, turning to her.
“Yes, of course” she said uncertainly, still not seeing what it was about.
“You sign here, dear... and here...” he pointed out the places to her, laying the papers before her and flattening them with his hand. The fat man unscrewed a fountain pen and passed it to her politely.
She looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just sign the agreement, dear, that’s all.”
“But what for? I don’t understand.”
“It’s for the flat, dear. The flat we’ve been looking for,” Harry explained with the merest suggestion of impatience in his voice.
He looked quite serious, there was nothing about his expression to indicate a joke, and to her bewilderment was added a faint alarm.
“I don’t understand,” she said again.
“Oh, Good Lord!” he exclaimed, setting his lips.
“Harry,” she said in a low pleading voice, “I want to speak to you.”
The two men exchanged a glance.
The fat man said with heavy tact, “Look, I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls, if you’ll excuse me,” and waddled away.
“Now what are you baulking at?” Harry asked in displeasure.
“But, Harry, I honestly don’t know what it’s all about. You never told me.”
“Never told you?” he repeated, amazed. “Why, we’ve been into it again and again. What sort of gag are you pulling now?”
“But Harry, you can’t mean... “ She gave a nervous laugh. “Is it a joke then?”
“A joke? I don’t know what you’re driving at. We’ve been over the whole damned project time and time again, you never pretended it was a joke before. You were as keen on the idea as I was. You never raised any objections then, so why all this fuss suddenly?”
She stared at him incredulously.
“One of us is crazy,” she muttered. “It was only a game. You must know it was only a game. How could you have dreamed that I would really do anything like that? You must have a horrible opinion of me.” She stared down at the white tablecloth shimmering before her eyes. “I suppose I’ve only myself to thank for that.”
“Well, my God, this is a fine time to back out, letting me down at the last moment” he said savagely. “After all the trouble I’ve been to. Making a chap look a perfect fool.”
She pleated the cloth in careful folds.
“If this thing means so much to you, why not sign the agreement yourself?”
“Because I can’t, of course. Why do you suppose I had to give your bank for a reference? I’m an undischarged bankrupt.”
“I didn’t know” she muttered, sick at heart at this sudden revelation of his careful secret plotting behind her back. She said huskily, “I thought you really were fond of me. I thought you meant all the things you said. What a fool I’ve been!”
“No, my dear, I’ve been the fool” Harry said with a bitter laugh. “I imagined that in you I’d found the woman I’d been looking for all my life, a partner, a real sport. One more illusion vanished,” he made a conjuror’s gesture in the air. “God, how you pulled the wool over my eyes! I trusted you!”
It was astonishing how he contrived to make her feel the one in the wrong, the one who had let him down, so subtly did he turn the tables on her. Thoroughly muddled with wine and shock and his queerly theatrical air of disillusion, she struggled confusedly with the feelings of guilt and bewilderment creeping over her. She leant her head on her hand.
“But why didn’t you tell me all this before? If you really believed I’d agree to it, why did you have to hide from me that you were using my bank for a reference? It was because you knew it was illegal and you must have known I’d never do anything illegal,” she pondered aloud.
He said contemptuously, “You’d never do anything illegal! Excuse my smile! Never bought anything on the Black Market during the war? Never fiddled your Income Tax returns?”
She turned away from his angry bloodshot eyes.
“That’s different. Everyone does those things.”
“Oh, if everybody breaks the law that’s all right, is it? You’re cheating, you’re actually depriving other people, but what harm would I be doing, pray? I’m not forcing anyone to use my house. It’s simply there for their convenience. Has it ever occurred to you that there are hundreds of people in love who literally haven’t anywhere to go where they can be alone together? Not everyone is as lucky as we – as we were,” he amended.
She was silent.
A waiter presented the bill.
“Well, that’s that!” he said, when the waiter had gone. “You’d better cut off now.”
“Aren’t you coming?” she timidly asked.
“No. What’s the use? In any case, I’ll have to stay and cook up some story for this chap when he comes back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’ll get over it. I’ve had worse disappointments than this in my day. I’ll move on, try my luck elsewhere.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t be so simple! I’ve got to make money somehow. If I can’t make it here, I must go somewhere where I can. I have my own sense of honour, you know, and one thing I’ll never do is to sponge on a woman.”
“Are you trying to tell me this is the end?” She was white to the lips.
“I should have thought that was evident.”
“But Harry, please, we – I can’t let you go like this,” she quavered desperately.
“Don’t let’s have a scene, my dear. It would be too ugly. Let’s just acknowledge that it didn’t work out the way we hoped and say good-bye without ill will.”
“Harry, I can’t say good-bye here, like this. For God’s sake come back this evening and let us talk this thing over!”
“No sense in prolonging the agony. My motto has always been, cut your losses quick.”
“But, Harry, I love you,” she whispered hoarsely.
He smiled grimly at that and stood up.
“Let’s clear out, shall we?” he said politely. Blindly she followed him to the hotel entrance and on the steps outside he said in the same cool tone, “You can find your way home, can’t you?” and turned back to the hotel.
“Harry!” she cried. But he never looked round.
Lucien, on his way back to the office, saw her moving somnambulistically through the buffeting crowds with the tears still running down her cheeks.
Chapter Four
Slender Girls in Summer Dresses...
“Had a good day?" Mrs, Verney asked her son, as she asked every evening, having no suspicion how the question maddened him.
He mumbled a nothing as usual and went to wash. Presently, when he came to the table, the next question came: “Anything interesting happened today?”
To that also there could never be an answer. What did she suppose could happen of interest in a dreary provincial architect’s drawing-office? The petty details of his day would be as tedious to relate as they were to endure.
Mrs. Verney brought in the big dish on which the food was arranged in an exquisite pattern of colour (she liked her food to look romantic besides tasting well) and began to serve it. That was always the moment for the third question: “Did you see anyone we know in Lowbridge?”
Tensed to receive it, he found himself growling out, “No.” before he could stop himself. He had to fight a silent battle with his will before he could bring himself to mutter, without any of the gaiety he had originally intended, “Only Mrs. Petrie.”
“Oh, really, darling? What was she doing?”
“Sobbing her eyes out in Market High Street,” Lucien said, doing his best.
“No!” said his mother. “How extraordinary! Why, do you suppose?”
He had savoured the incident keenly himself and with (for him) a surprising curiosity that had made him look forward quite eagerly to discussing it with his mother, for once in a way; but now to his dismay, the avid glint in her eye revolted him. Having begun, however, there could be no turning back till the end. He sighed, and began flatly to recount what he had seen.
*
Lately, Mr. Duncton had become more irascible than ever. He did not sleep at night, he said. He complained that the sleeping-pills prescribed by Dr. Horace did no good, had lost their effect. And Catherine, his obstinate cruel Goneril, was making an absurd issue of asking the doctor to call and prescribe him something stronger. She had the gall to tell him that she could not ask the doctor to come out for something so trivial as a sleepless night, and anyway she was convinced that he would never give her father a stronger drug; those barbiturates, he had warned her, were dangerous. There was no doing anything with the girl! When he suggested increasing the dose, she pretended to be horrified.
“Father, you might never wake up again!” she cried.
“So much the better. Who would care if I never woke again? Not I? And certainly not you, my Goneril.”
In silence she folded back the sheet.
“Perhaps you’ll sleep better to-night, Father,” she said in a soothing voice.
“Does it please you to watch me die by inches of pain and exhaustion? Does keeping me alive, however painfully, salve your miserable conscience? A good daughter! So people tell me. How lucky I am, they say, to have such a good child. It’s ironical to think it isn’t me they pity, but you. Doubtless, Goneril too went about piously complaining how hard life was for her with her intolerable old father.”
“Father, I never say such things!”
“It is all the more effective if it is not put into words.”
“I never think them, either,” she protested.
“Ah, the monstrous nature of the female! She has her own subtle methods of tormenting a helpless creature utterly in her power. One would suppose that in my own home I might expect some small kindness, some small consideration from my only child. If the truth were known, I’d be better treated in a public institution.”
“Yes, Father,” Catherine said meekly, knowing it was useless to argue when he was in this frame of mind.
He uttered a sound that represented laughter.
“Yes, I thought you would agree with that. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Bury the old man out of sight somewhere while he is still alive and forget him!”
Catherine bent to straighten the bedclothes, and it gratified him to see that her lips were trembling.
It was not out of malice that Mrs. Verney called at Lavender Cottage the next day. Her feeble pretext was to ask if Mrs. Petrie would help with the refreshments at the next Conservative dance.
The disorder of the little sitting-room with its rumpled cushions and cigarette ends littered about, conjured to her imagination the picture of someone smoking furiously as she restlessly paced the room and every now and then flinging herself on to the cushions to weep.
Mrs. Petrie was abstracted, so far away with her unhappy thoughts that she scarcely attended to what Mrs. Verney was saying. Her face was white, puffy, tragic between the soft fall of her faded little girl’s hair. Mrs. Verney’s sympathy could scarcely contain itself and she was about to break the silence with some impulsive gesture when the cottage door – leading straight into the parlour, as they always did – opened.
Mrs. Petrie, startled, cried out, “Harry!” to the figure standing there.
He looked at her solemnly without a word. Mrs. Verney got up to go, murmuring vague excuses. They listened in silence to her heels tapping down the path.
“Why have you come back?” Mrs. Petrie said at last.
“To collect my bits.”
“Go ahead. They’re upstairs,” she said, turning her back and pretending to rummage in a drawer.
In a few moments he came down again.
“Could I trouble you for a piece of brown paper?”
“You’ll find some in the kitchen,” she said indifferently.
Neither looked at the other as he passed through the living-room. Presently she called, “Can’t you find it?” He muttered something she did not catch and she went to the kitchen. “There,” she said coolly, laying her hand on it at once and pulling out a sheet. She found herself suddenly face to face with him. Their eyes met and for a long moment they gazed at one another. The paper in her hand shook. “Oh, Harry,” she muttered and flung herself against him.
“There, there, Toots,” he murmured, stroking her hair.
“I’ve been so miserable,” she wept into his shoulder.
“You mustn’t cry” he said softly.
“I thought I was never going to see you again. You said such cruel things.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“What for?”
“Letting you down like that.”
“My fault” he said gallantly. “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“It’s generous of you to say that, Harry, but I reproach myself. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about it.”
“You poor sweet! That’s why I came back. I couldn’t go away without seeing that you were all right.”
“You won’t go now,” she murmured, her cheek against his, her eyes closed.
“I must, my dear,” he said helplessly.
She leaned away and stared up at him, scared.
“Why, Harry? Where are you going?”
He shrugged.
“God knows! I shall just hump my pack and wander on till something turns up, like the soldier of fortune I am.”
“Don’t go!” she said huskily.
“What else can I do, Toots? You must have seen by now that I’m no damn use to anyone,” he said on a note of brave self-pity.
“I want you,” she said, fiercely locking her fingers in his.
He smiled down on her tenderly.
“I’ve done some pretty rotten things in my time, but I’ve never been a sponge.”
She went very white.
“Harry, I can’t let you go! I love you.”
“Dear little thing!” he said.
“Oh, don’t make it so hard for me,” she implored. “Don’t you understand? I’m asking you to marry me.”
*
Catherine woke early the day of the Dr. Barnardo Fete to see a curtain of fine rain swaying outside her window. This seemed like the last intolerable blow of fate. She had slept badly, pursued all night by horrible dreams from which she awoke with a thudding heart, only to slip reluctantly back into uneasy slumber. And the feeling of oppression with which she woke turned to despair at sight of the weather. While she dressed, while she combed her hair, she uttered over and over frantic insincere little petitions: “If it be Thy will, O Lord, if it be Thy will, let it be fine!” With the tortured superstition of the love-obsessed she ceaselessly offered up small compulsive acts of propitiation to the God of wrath.
