Alfred and Emily (7 page)

‘Cedric, you are taking no care for Emily in her time of grief.'

‘Well, you are, so that should be enough,' said Cedric.

There was a good deal of money. Emily had had no idea at all of the extent of her William's little fortune. It was large enough to be called that. His father had been a stockbroker, had invested well, and the family had lived frugally. Until, that is, William married Emily and then she had made the house so elegant and, above all, so up-to-the-minute with her housekeeping devices.

‘Some of us have been thinking,' said Cedric, still determined to annoy the older Martin-Whites, ‘that this house would be perfect for a young couple. I shall be getting married
– but I am already well housed. There's young Raleigh: he's marrying a cousin, so it would be kept in the family.'

Emily was annoyed, but entertained, too. How glad she was that William had not much liked his family, if this was how they went on.

‘I shall bear in mind,' said Emily, ‘that Raleigh and – who?'

‘Rose,' said Jessica, regaining command of the proceedings. ‘Raleigh and Rose. I am sure Rose would appreciate your wonderful domestic arrangements.'

‘I shall keep in mind that Raleigh and Rose want my house,' said Emily. ‘Now, how about some more sherry, Jessica – Cedric, Tony…'

‘You see, Emily,' said some old buffer, whom she seemed to remember was an uncle Henry, ‘all that money, I am sure William would hate to think of it being frittered away.'

‘Well, I don't propose to do the house up again – redecorate. Nor do I need a new wardrobe. So rest assured, Uncle Henry.'

Surely they must have been heartened that her ideas of extravagance were so limited.

‘You could give this house to Raleigh and Rose and live in theirs in the country,' said a cousin.

‘Why should I live in the country when I never have?' said Emily. ‘Believe me, when I have made decisions, if any, I shall let you know.'

And so ended the family pow-wow on Emily's future.

Emily was in fact badly shocked by William's death and not
only because it was unexpected. She had thought of him as young – well, not old, not even middle-aged. He had been fifty, surely not of an age when one thought of anything definite, like retirement, let alone death. But what was throwing her into a perplexity was that her life had become so bound up with his; since they had married everything she had done and thought had been for William. And where was Emily McVeagh? Not so far away, obviously. But for ten years that was what she had done: she had been William's. And now what? She was forty. She could go back to nursing if she wanted. Already suggestions had been coming her way. She felt torn loose, floating…

She could marry again. But she could not imagine a man she would want to marry. However one put it, she had been married to William for better or for worse. After ten years, what kind of profit or loss could be made? She did not know how to start. And if she could not say what had happened to her – and she saw it, felt it, as something, somebody, taking up the strands of her life and twisting them up with his – then how could she even begin to think what to do next? She had been Emily McVeagh, a decided, definite, bold character, and now she was nothing; she was something that drifted.

Daisy? But even thinking of her as something to grasp hold of, be with, as they once were, was barred now, because Daisy was doing so well, so solidly grounded in what she was and did that Emily felt she would be like a little probationer tugging at Daisy's skirts. And, besides, Daisy had hinted that she was thinking of marrying herself. There was this surgeon at
the hospital, and it seemed Daisy ‘would not mind' – her words. She was thinking of it – well, not immediately, of course, but they were not youngsters.

Emily had no one to hold fast to, no one even to consult. How could she talk about her state, after years of marriage, and such an encompassing marriage, with someone who said she ‘would not mind' when thinking of a man to marry.

She had no one. No one. And no child, nothing.

But she had Mary Lane, and remembering her, it was like stumbling on a beam from a lighthouse.

She would shut up this house, and go down to stay with Mary Lane. This was impulsive, impetuous, a decision made between going to bed one night and getting up in the morning.

Of course, that was what she would do, must do.

Emily ran up the path to Mary Lane. It was suppertime, twenty-four hours after she had made her decision.

Her old friend stood at the stove, with a large pan. ‘I'm cooking you pancakes,' she said, ‘because you like them so.'

Emily dropped her case, flung herself into a chair at the old table, where Harold Lane already sat, and said, at Mary's diagnostic look, ‘In every life some rain must fall.' She had been using this to ward off emotions, her own too, since the death, but now she burst into tears. She sat and sobbed.

‘That's right,' said Mary. ‘You have a good cry.'

‘The poor woman has lost her man,' remarked Harold.

This almost stopped Emily crying, but the words were
fastened on by a disordered brain, and she thought, That's right. It's true. But she had not thought it before. The kindly remark, a simple message of the sort that always did relieve her of anxiety, was balm and solace, as if none had been offered her.

She glanced at Harold Lane, whom she had not noticed much before, he being so dependent on Mary, and thought, Funny he should say something so right when I need it.

Mary put pancakes and lemon on Emily's plate, and some more on her husband's, and sat down.

Emily began staunching tears and trying to smile. She felt as sick and as sorry as she had ever done in her life. But here she was, where she so needed to be, with Mary, and she looked about her and felt as if this was a dream, where familiar things had undergone change. This was the old kitchen she had sat in so often, and here were Harold and Mary. Everything seemed so dim, so muted, and it was not because she looked through tears. She had come here from her bright, light, clean house, and it seemed that there was dust on what she looked at, or a dimness. The big room was all dull pinks and browns, and even the cat on the arm of a chair seemed dingy. She remembered a white cat.

And Harold and Mary…how long was it since she was here? Months, surely, yes, more, many months, years…The two had grown large. They were ample, red-cheeked people with their fair strawy hair going grey.

‘I daren't eat anything these days,' mused Mary. ‘I am getting so fat.'

‘Nonsense,' said Harold. ‘The more the merrier.'

And now Emily began to laugh. It was strained, and hysterical, but better than crying.

Emily sat there in her sharp London black and made the kitchen even dingier.

‘You'd better leave off that mourning,' said Mary. ‘No one will expect it of you here.'

Emily said, ‘I don't think I've got anything to wear.' Her case was full of smart clothes.

‘And don't you fret,' said Mary. ‘So, it's turned out lucky I've gained weight. I'll find something for you after supper.'

Harold said he was going to read his papers in his lair; Emily helped Mary wash up, and then Mary came from her room with armfuls of clothes, and some of them Emily thought she did remember.

Emily slipped off her short black skirt, put on a longer brown one, dreadfully out of fashion, and a yellowish blouse. She looked pretty good, even then.

‘What a talent you have,' sighed Mary. ‘You could always make a smart show out of any old skirt and blouse.'

She lit the lamp and sat opposite Emily.

‘I feel so bad, Mary. I don't know what to do with myself.'

‘But did you expect to feel anything else?'

‘I don't know what I expected.'

The cat jumped from her armchair to Mary's lap.

‘If I had a child…but it never happened.'

Mary stroked the cat, which purred steadily.

Emily watched that large, strong hand. ‘What am I fit for
now, Mary? I didn't think like that when I was doing it, but for ten years now all I've done is lunches and dinners and suppers, and looked after William.'

‘If I were you I shouldn't think at all about it,' said Mary. ‘Just let yourself have a bit of a rest.'

‘A rest?' said Emily. ‘I don't think I've rested in my life.'

‘Well, then,' said Mary. Soon, she dislodged the cat, handing it to Emily, and brought out a big cardboard box full of coloured papers.

‘I have a new occupation,' she said. ‘There's a child here most days. I don't know if you ever noticed Bert? His wife, Phyllis, is having her second and I'm looking after their first for a little.'

This was what had happened.

Betsy harried and chivvied Bert until he promised to give up the drink for good.

‘It's the only way,' said she. ‘And didn't the doctor tell you the same?'

Bert stopped drinking, or nearly, until there was a bad night when he fell down and was concussed.

‘And now that's it, Bert,' said Betsy.

Alfred did help, as well as he could, but it was Betsy who cured Bert.

Two years passed and then there was this conversation. It was in Alfred and Betsy's sitting-room, in their new house.

‘Bert, who is this girl you go about with?'

She knew, of course.

‘That is Phyllis Merton and she wants to marry me.'

‘Yes, but do you want to marry her, Bert?'

‘Now that is the question. You know who I want to marry. I want to marry you.'

‘Oh, Bert, you are so silly sometimes.'

Bert, sober, had kept some of his bumbling, foolish-old-dog ways, partly because he was rather like that, but also because when he was drinking it had been hard always to tell when he was drunk and when not.

Did that mean he planned to return to drink one of these days? Betsy did wonder, and then asked him. ‘Bert, you put on all these foolish ways, and they are funny. I'm not saying they aren't, but sometimes I wonder if you are serious about never drinking again.'

‘Clever Betsy. Sometimes I wonder myself. To give up for ever – have you thought of that? Longer than a lifetime.'

‘But when you marry, Bert, you mustn't ever drink, not ever.'

‘That's the trouble, you see, Betsy.'

‘Do you like her, Bert?'

‘But do you like her? I'd never marry a girl you didn't approve of.'

‘I hope she is a real little termagant, like me,' said Betsy.

That was what Alfred sometimes called her.

‘Well, then, Alfred. Have I stopped him drinking or haven't I?

‘Because you see, Bert, being married, sometimes things are quite difficult. And you'll be tempted to start off again.'

‘I'll marry her if you approve,' said Bert.

Phyllis was a farmer's daughter from Ipswich way, and she had been thoroughly looked over by everyone concerned. It was generally agreed that she was after not just Bert, a nice enough chap now he was sober, but the Redway farm. Now, that was not something to be turned down.

On the whole people approved. She was a thin, dark, clever girl, always on the watch, observing, noticing. It was these last qualities that Betsy approved.

‘She'll be good for you, Bert. She'll keep you on the straight. And I must say I'll be so pleased to have her take over. You've sometimes worn me out, Bert. Many a time I've gone to bed crying because of you, worrying so much over you.'

‘Then to please you I'll marry Phyllis,' said Bert, in his foolish-old-dog mode.

The Redways approved. Rather, Mr. Redway did. Mrs. Redway did not find much in life to agree with her these days. There was a big wedding. Betsy was matron of honour. There were bridesmaids, ten of them, and the little church at Longerfield was full. Alfred's father played the organ.

Alfred was best man.

It went on well enough until Phyllis got pregnant, and there were difficulties. Bert came often to Betsy for counsel and advice.

The baby, a girl, was born, was healthy, but Bert had a relapse. Phyllis being busy with the baby, Betsy dealt with the relapse. ‘Never again, Bert. You promised, didn't you?'

After quite a time Phyllis got pregnant again and it was then Mary Lane had stepped in to help with the little girl.
Phyllis had a mother, but she didn't live only a short lane away, like Mary.

Mary adored the little girl, who adored her.

‘It looks to me as if this is as near as I'll get to being a grandmother,' she mourned, ‘so I shall make the most of it.'

Emily woke not knowing where she was or, indeed, who she was. Then, the lowing of cattle, not too far away, told her that this was not London. It was very quiet. Warm pressure on her legs absorbed her attention. It was the cat. Emily shifted her knees, and the cat woke and yawned.

What Emily needed, she now knew, was to find Mary, and to hear from her words that would define her, her situation.

She went to the kitchen in her wrap, and saw that any breakfast had been eaten long ago. It was already midmorning. Emily found water simmering in the kettle, made herself tea, and sat down. She decided she must be ill. She could not remember being ill. Her heart ached, but if that was a symptom, then…There were voices, one a child's from outside. A window from the kitchen showed the two, Mary Lane and a little girl, engrossed in each other, in a small room like a conservatory that had windows on to a garden.

The sight of Mary, bending forward to smile at the child, who was cutting out coloured paper with blunt scissors, made Emily's heart go cold with misery. The child leaped on to Mary's capacious knees, and Mary hugged and kissed Josie, Bert and Phyllis's child. Still Emily did not realize that what she wanted was to be that child, rocked in Mary's arms.

Emily retreated to the table, and her tea, and stayed there, listening to the sounds of woman and child, from time to time going to the window to see how it all went on. What total absorption from Mary. If she, Emily, had had a child, was that how she would have been? In the ten or so years she had been a dedicated hostess, could she have spent her time as Mary was now?