Cold Pastoral (23 page)

“Now we know,” said David, touching Mary Immaculate's white
cheek, “where this child gets her zest of living.”

“Well, sir,” agreed josephine, “It's a grand world for them with
eyes to see. I'll be thinking of you all and, if I might make so bold, I'll
include you all in my prayers.”

“We'll be richer for it,” said the mater with real grace. “Mary and
I will walk with you to the gate.”

The child walked between them down the gravel path.

“What a natural woman!” said Felice, pushing back her hair.
“What a gift of faith!”

“Isn't it wonderful?” agreed David, sitting down. “I 'm worried
about Dalmatius not getting the winter out of Teresa.”

“you would, dear,” reproved his wife; “you were positively vulgar
the way you laughed. As for our remarks about the fishery…Wasn't Mater marvellous? I had no idea she knew the country so well.”

“She told a lie,” said Philip as if he heard nothing else.

“Who, Mater?” asked David languidly.

“No, damn you!—Mary, and you know it. She doesn't do all of those things and you know she doesn't fast. She told a lie!”

“Obviously, my dear Phil, for your sake and reputation in her mother's eyes.''

“Well, I'm damned—”

“Who refused to let Mary fast?”

“I did, for the sake of her body.''

“Nonsense, she's as strong as a pony and, even if she weren't, in her mother's world her soul would come first.''

“She lied,” said Philip distastefully. “If she'd given me the opportunity I would have explained that medical knowledge requires growing children—”

“Don't be pompous, Phil! Use some imagination! It's mysticism Mary lied for, not sweet reason and science.”

“I would have done the same,” said Felice in a quick, decided voice. “It would be unfair to take away a vestige of faith.”

They stopped suddenly when they saw the child and the mater within earshot. Mary walked straight into Philip's frown.

“You're cross,” she said at once. The direct attack disconcerted him in view of the truth she seemed to represent.

“Yes,” he admitted slowly. “I don't care for lies and I consider it most unnecessary.”

“Mary understands her mother's life better than we do,” said Lady Fitz Henry. “I like the truth, but I'm sure she had excellent reasons for lying.”

Some of the strain of the visit went into the child's clasped hands. Looking from one to the other, she bit her lip. David extended a hand but pride made her stand on her own feet.

“If you don't see, Philip, it's no good my showing you. If Mom knew I didn't fast or observe the rules of the Church, it would make her sure there was something wrong with you. Nothing you could say from books would make Mom believe them. She'd go home miserable, thinking my soul was in danger. You can't believe that?”

“Yes, we can, Mary,” said David and Felice together.

“Can you, Mater?” she questioned. “I'd never lie to you because you don't need lies to—”

“Hush, dear—”

“Your mother would have seen reason, Mary, and the importance of health.”

The child looked at Philip and her glance held pity and childish scorn. “In religion like Mom's there's no directive thinking. Philip, could you dream and know that I was drowning just when I was?”

“No, I don't think so,” he admitted.

“You don't dream, Philip,” she said softly, “and you don't believe in the Little People! You couldn't be sure St. Anthony will find everything you lose. Mom does, as well as Heaven and Hell being places.” Her lip was trembling and she was on the verge of tears.

“Mary dear,” said the mater in a voice mitigating rising emotion, “will you please go and say we'll have tea now?”

The child turned without a word, seizing the privilege of time by herself.

“My son,” said Lady Fitz Henry, “I think you're showing very little imagination. We promised to let her remain a Catholic. We must either let her be one completely or be satisfied with her conduct on occasions like these.”

“I won't let her fast,” said Philip as if he wanted it both ways.

“Then let her lie,” said David easily. “Don't be a fool, Phil. The truth should always be handled sparingly. Where would you be if you told everyone the truth about their wretched insides?”

“Yes, where?” asked Felice like someone seizing on the perfect argument.

David smiled at his wife. “Felice dear, I hope I get the winter out of you.”

His light touch restored balance. When the child returned she breathed normality.

As before, there was no compromise between herself and Philip. He was just the same to her, but sometimes she felt he had given her a black mark.

“HOME FROM THE NORTH.”

J
osephine's visit gave background to Mary Immaculate. She was no longer the atavism of fisherfolk or a frozen dryad of the snows. She was the begetting of flesh and blood.

Response came through individual mediums. Lady Fitz Henry charged herself with a monthly letter. David commanded Felice to send heads of wool. Felice sent some garments, sensing the pleasure in something ready-made. Philip had his own ideas of bestowal. Josephine's daughter was extravagantly photographed. Unselfconsciousness made her an excellent subject, though the results produced narcissism.

“Philip, I'm lovely,” she said, hanging over her pictured face.

He recaptured the pictures, administering reproof to self love.

“They're for your mother, Mary, and I'm glad they flatter you.”

For her mother! How could she get one for Tim? It would be a nice return for the white ship.

Tim was missed, but he lived in her thoughts. They had the ideal secret, something between two, and she knew he was no cause for Confession. He was the course where she flowed untrammelled. They could not avoid meeting outside, but he had determined their relations for those occasions. Walking between the mater and Philip she had seen him approaching with schoolboys. As separation lessened recognition retreated to their eyes. Barely by, she gave a backward glance. He was touching his cap with the same turn of his head. Instantly she smiled ahead, walking according to the mater's idea of deportment.

At the cottage an increasing knowledge of cliques made her treasure Tim as a classless boy. Perhaps he stayed in the garden because his mother and Auntie Minnie did not go to Government House. An orbit was uncomplicated, enclosing only themselves. From the people at the cottage she learned the standards of the town, the right English school, official position, big business and the dinner-list at Government House. Merely to attend the receptions and the garden parties was socially second-class. Schoolmates had bequeathed a wariness of women. They refused to see her for herself, and voices bade her remember the lowliness of her mother. Quick to scent patronage she could abandon it quickly. There was a special expression for those who did not matter, and a film for her eyes. Sensitive and insensitive, she became vulnerable only through people commanding respect. Those who did things received attention, and she hovered modestly in their circle. Talent was acknowledged and the grace of fine minds. Many women cause an instant detour; those who talked incessantly of bridge, bewailing the limitations of one playing-body. Frustrated, they seemed to gesture with shuffling hands. Neither did the too motherly woman attract. She hated the cluck of maternity smothering a child.

It was inevitable she should prefer men. They met her foursquare without staring beyond for the shadow of the cook.

If anything they gave her too much attention and often Philip took her away. He merely left her when she talked with older men, amused at the sea-knowledge of the child. Natural resources could be discussed intelligently when they did not encroach on her life.

The mater could not be induced to visit the cottage when other people were present. Occasionally she motored towards the fierce sunsets and watched the grey steal over the sea. The arrival of others caused a leisured exit, with Philip ready to take her home. In the Place she received a few people for brief visits; some relatives of her husband, a sombre lawyer, the rector of her church and a bishop with an impressive hat. Seeing it in the hall, Mary Immaculate regarded it with awe. Even without Church-purple it was an exalted hat for heretics.

A thrill came in waving the family to dinner at Government House. They were going to dine with an Admiral. She could stay home like a Cinderella, revelling in her ashes. Eyes could recapture the wink of the mater's rings. Unexpected jewels had emerged from a case and different clothes were laid out by Hannah. Interest in the occasion made Mary Immaculate ingratiatingly friendly.

“Hannah, I didn't know she had things like that.”

“And where would you see evening dress I'd like to know? Many a year she went out decked three and four times a week.”

“Ermine,” she said, smoothing the collar of a coat.

Hannah snatched it away.

“Don't touch; your hands are dirty!”

It was an extreme libel, but it was useless to protest.

David and Felice came to town to dress, and the child hung over the gallery watching the closed doors. Informality did not belong to such processes. They shut themselves up and emerged quite ready. The mater had only been seen in bed and fully clothed. Some instinct told her David would not be the same. He was not! At a certain moment his door was thrown invitingly open. The length of his legs, flat stomach and the black-and-white of his shirt and trousers brought instant admiration.

“Oh, David!—”

“Yes, I know, I'm lovely,” he said, screwing up his face in the mirror.

She leaned against a tallboy watching every movement.

“Will it be very grand, David?”

“So, so; but we won't eat peas with our knives.”

“Is the house grand?”

“Not any grander than the drawing-room downstairs.”

“Why does Mater go to this and nowhere else? I heard a woman whisper it was snobbish to go to Government House and nowhere else.”

“Did you, indeed? Mater was brought up in a tradition that considers an invitation like this a command. The Governor represents the King, and when the King says come, well, they come. Colonials have less traditional ideas.”

“I'd like to go, David.”

“I'm sure you would,” he agreed dryly.

She was fingering something she suddenly identified.

“David,” she shrilled, “you've got medals. Such little medals—”

“Yes, of course, I'm a hero. Those are miniatures for official occasions. I got them for wounds multiple, for returning without Arthur and John and for Father's premature death. Dearest possession and all that.”

She shook her head in consideration.

“David, in polite places people don't get mad and bawl at each other. They get mad inside and it sounds worse.”

“That's civilisation as far as it goes. A gentleman is not supposed to show his feelings. They beat it into you at school and then send you out with bayonets.” He glanced derisively at the medals. “I'm against war and I don't care who knows it, and they're going to have it again, Mary, and all for nought.”

“David,” she said sympathetically, “your war was no good. You should have fought for the Church.”

“Not on your life,” he said in horror. “So that the other fellow could tell me where to kneel down? No, Mary, if it comes again you and I are going to the Cove to play with the Little People.”

“If you don't mind, David,” she pleaded, “I'd like to stay in the thick of it.”

“God!” he shrugged with humour and horror. “Youth again, and more Arthurs and Johns. Laugh, Mary, or…No, you won't go mad,” he said definitely. “You're too tough and you'll shake off the burden of personal sorrow, but be forewarned and forearmed. Have some special place to hide when—”

“Felice,” she said like lightning, and then clamped her hand over her mouth for fear she had gone too far.

David frowned. “My dear Mary, I was just talking, and Felice will tell you it's the Greek chorus that goes with those medals. She's got one for being a Fany. I admit we did shiver together more than once.” He settled into his coat. “Here, give me the damn things. I wanted to give them to the charwoman's little boy to play with, but Felice wouldn't let me.”

Dressed, David was staring into a mirror as if he despised his reflection.

She made a step towards him, putting arms round his waist. Her voice was soothing and a shade motherly.

“David, I love you. You're so foolish! If Felice dies I'll marry you.”

“Well,” he said with a clearing face, “it's not exactly a prospect of undiluted bliss, but thanks just the same. It was a charming spontaneous offer, but I'm afraid you musn't build up any false hopes. I couldn't do without Felice. Perhaps Phil will oblige. He's so much younger and unspotted by shrapnel. If you don't marry one of us you'll have to live in another house, and we'll miss you a great deal.”

“I wouldn't like that,” she said, startled into giving him a possessive squeeze.

“No, I thought you wouldn't. Let's hope Phil will fall in line. He will if you're good to him. Make him laugh and make him play. He was quite a gay little chap until the war rolled over him. By and by he'll be able to stop this grind and go to Vienna, if there's any Europe left. He might take you along. It would be great fun to travel, wouldn't it—”

“Fun, it would be wonderful! I could see—”

“Yes, you could see a lot,” he said impressively. “Keep it in mind, but ah—perhaps for the time being I wouldn't discuss it. Let it come about naturally....”

“Yes,” she agreed with avid yellow eyes. “I'd like Europe very much. I'll be full of directive thinking.”