It Ends with Revelations (14 page)

She laughed. ‘No, thanks.
You
should, as you’re the harrowed one. Well, the show opened – in Brighton and it was a great success. Our next date was Manchester. Most of the company travelled by train on Sunday, but Miles
went back to London on the Saturday night because he wanted to collect Alan, who was in a play that finished its run that night. They’d planned to drive to Manchester. Managements don’t much like members of a company to travel by car but Miles was allowed to. It was foggy on the Sunday and Alan, who had a horror of driving or being driven in fog, suggested they should go by train. But Miles wanted to have the car with him for the rest of the tour and the fog wasn’t at all bad and he thought it would probably lift. So off they went and took their time. But in the late afternoon, just as it was getting dusk, the fog got much worse and they ran into a car that had got onto the wrong side of the road. It wasn’t a bad crash as both cars were crawling – no one in the other car was hurt and Miles was only bruised, even the cars weren’t badly damaged – but Alan had been leaning out of his window, trying to see the kerb, and when his door shot open he went out head first into a stone wall. He was killed outright – suddenly gone for ever. And he hadn’t wanted to come in the fog. Well, you can imagine the horror of it all, and Miles had to play in Manchester the next night. You’d never have known anything was wrong with him. Oh, that’s not so remarkable, really; just the old tradition of “the show must go on”, lots of actors could have done it. What
was
remarkable
was the way he behaved off-stage. He sent a message to the company asking that no one should mention the accident to him, and he somehow carried his stage performance – he was playing a very debonair part – right out into the wings. He actually joked with people, and the
company played up like mad and joked back. It was so extraordinary that I wondered if he did, really, mind very much about Alan’s death, and then I happened to catch sight of him in the wings when there was no one with him and his face was like a mask of tragedy. That same night I was asked to run after him with some message and I didn’t catch up with him until he was going into the Midland Hotel, where he was staying. He simply switched on cheerfulness and insisted on my having supper with him.’

‘Perhaps he was glad to have someone he had to act to.’

‘Probably. But I think it was kindness, too. By then I must have been looking more woebegone than ever as I’d realized that I was pregnant. Such a charming situation. Jack was in Australia and I’d promised not to write to him –’

‘But surely in the circumstances –’

‘No. Because the circumstances were my fault. I’d hung round his neck for “one last time”, when he wasn’t expecting it. By now my father was dead, and I hadn’t even a woman friend I could consult. In the theatre you make friends in dressing rooms, and I was seldom in dressing rooms. There seemed no one I could turn to. I remember thinking how extraordinary it was, me with my miseries and Miles with his, just eating supper and chatting about the show. After supper he saw me back to my digs and before I went in he put his arm round me and kissed me on the side of the head and said “Bear up” and I said “You, too” – and just those two words of sympathy were more than he could stand. He simply dashed away into the darkness.’

She paused, collecting her thoughts. Every word she said was convincing her more and more that she could never leave Miles, and she must now convince Thornton too. Surely she could? Surely what she was going to tell him now would make him
see?
She hurried on to the last week of the tour.

She’d found herself staying in the same digs as Miles. Usually he stayed at hotels but these were good,
old-fashioned
rooms where he’d once stayed with Alan. He’d booked a bedroom and sitting room before the tour began and let the booking stand. She’d had a little combined room. Miles had asked her to have her meals with him, so they’d seen a good deal of each other, and half way through the week, when they’d finished supper after the show, he’d let his facade of cheerfulness break up and talked to her about Alan and the accident. From then on they’d been much more at ease with each other. On the Friday night it had been bitterly cold and the landlady had made up a specially good fire, given them a supper of bacon and eggs, and brought in a second pot of tea before she went off to bed.

‘You’d think we’d have turned to something stronger than tea for comfort but, with Miles, excessive alcohol acts as a depressant, and I’d never drunk much – couldn’t afford to. Anyway, we just went on coaxing cups of tea out of the teapot, while we sat up over the fire. He’d told me several days before that he’d guessed I was unhappy and I’d admitted I’d had an unhappy love affair but given him no details. Well, that night he asked me point-blank if I
was going to have a child. There was nothing anyone could see yet, so I suppose it was just intuition; Miles is like that. Anyway, I didn’t deny it and he asked me what I was going to do. I said I was still hoping things would come all right, especially if I could find something to take. He said that was a crazy idea, probably wouldn’t work, might make me ill, and even affect the child. If I was determined to get rid of it I’d better have a proper operation and he’d pay for it, but he was dead against it. So was I. Somehow “taking something” hadn’t seemed to me like abortion. Then he asked me if I was quite sure I didn’t
want
the baby – and God knows I was; I just wanted it to go away. I hadn’t really thought about it as a baby, only as a terrifying thing that had happened to me. But the way he talked about it made it real. He said he’d help me until it was born and then I could get it adopted – or why shouldn’t I keep it? I could always get jobs – his agent would help over that. And his housekeeper might know of someone who would look after it well; it was the kind of thing she always seemed to know. And anyway, I was to stop worrying. Whatever I decided, I could count on him to help.’

She found herself momentarily recapturing the enormous relief she’d felt that night. And at breakfast next morning he’d again told her not to worry. But she hadn’t felt any too well and Saturday was the worst day of her week – ‘Two shows and then I had to see the load – the scenery and everything – onto the train, and then walk back from the station. It was colder than ever, snowing a little. By the time I got in – it was long after midnight – I
was frozen, especially my hands. Miles had waited up for me. He said the landlady had left me some cold supper but he thought I ought to have something hot so he’d explored the kitchen and organized some bread-and-milk, he could do with some too, as he’d finished supper two hours ago. So he got it while I took off my coat and got into some bedroom slippers; I’d been on my feet, almost solidly, for over twelve hours. And even when I’d settled down by the fire I could hardly hold the spoon for my bread-and-milk because my hands were still numb. He warmed them between his and said my job was too hard for me, anyway it would be soon. Then, still holding my hands, he said, “Now don’t die of shock but I’ve been thinking, sitting here waiting for you, why don’t we get married? I like children and I shall never have any of my own” – during that week we’d talked quite a bit about his homosexuality – “and I could make everything easy for you. And you needn’t feel tied –”’ She broke off, wishing she hadn’t spoken the last words.

‘Did he say you could always have a divorce if you wanted one?’

‘Well, yes, but the situation’s different now. Neither of us could guess how we should come to feel about each other.’ She slid back into the past. ‘It shames me to remember that, in spite of feeling grateful to him, I was – well, almost horrified. Oh, even then I was perfectly tolerant about homosexuals but somehow the idea of marrying one did stagger me. But I don’t think I let him see I felt anything like that. I said surely he’d want to set up
house again with someone like Alan, and he said never. What he’d felt for Alan was the love of a lifetime and both he and Alan had felt it would last a lifetime. For the moment he couldn’t imagine ever being even attracted by anyone else. Presumably he would be some day but if so it would only lead to … I think he said there might be “interludes”, though he hated to think there would be. Anyway, they surely wouldn’t affect me, and he would sincerely
like
to marry me; being able to help me would somehow help him as well. Then he told me to eat my bread-and-milk before it got cold. He ate his too, sitting on the other side of the fire, and talked about his house in Islington and how he was dreading the thought of going back there without Alan. I knew he was trying to make me feel I’d be doing him a favour – and I believe he truly did want me to say yes on his account as well as my own; already there was something real between us. I never did actually say it, but I got as far as “Well, if you’re absolutely sure …” and then he plunged into making plans. Funny the things one’s memory hangs on to. Just beyond his head was a huge framed photograph of the landlady’s dead husband, enlarged from a snapshot and all blurred, like a spirit photograph. I’d have said I remembered everything about that room but I find I can only see the firelight and that man’s face; he had a waxed moustache. And Miles, of course, though in a way I see him as he is now. I wonder how much all this is conveying to you.’

‘At least it’s conveying that Miles didn’t exactly victimize you,’ said Thornton soberly.

‘Oh,
good
. One thing more, something I specially like remembering. It was nearly three when we decided to go to bed – by then there was no more coal. Miles parted the curtains to see what the weather was like; I’d told him it had been snowing and we had an early train call. Then he said, “Put the lights out and come here.” It must have gone on snowing – the whole street was white, under a bright moon. Normally it was a hideous street of drab, uniform houses with horrid bay windows, but it looked quite beautiful. I remember saying, “Transformation scene!” and Miles put his arm round me and said, “It’ll be all right, you know. We shall get through.” And we did.’

‘When were you married?’

‘Soon after the play opened in London. Miles got some kind of a special licence. And he tried to avoid publicity, but what a hope! Really, those weeks were fantastic. Miles was in love with a dead man and I with a man who was dead to me, and yet there was … well, a sort of spurious happiness, excitement, congratulations, and me making what seemed a marvellous match. Not very many people knew about Miles’s homosexuality, and some of those who did know thought they’d made a mistake, or that he’d reformed or something. Even now it’s far less known about him than about most stage homosexuals. Oh, God, when I look back! Do you know, I hadn’t taken in that he intended to treat me like a wife in every way but sleeping with me – I mean technically; we’ve always shared a bedroom, always wanted to. He showered presents on me. When we went shopping, if I said I liked something and
then wasn’t sure, he’d say, “Buy it and find out.” Can you imagine what that was like to a girl who’d had as little as I’d had? Even the food … I told you there was a time when I compensated with it.’

Thornton smiled. ‘Pregnant women are entitled to consider able gluttony, and God bless Miles for feeding you well. What happened to the baby?’

She said, trying to sound merely matter-of-fact, ‘Oh, I had a miscarriage three months after we married. Miles had got me released from the show ages before that and I’d been taking every care. But it happened.’ From now on there was much she didn’t want to tell; indeed, couldn’t have told coherently, so long was it since she had let herself think about it. Perhaps she needed to now – or rather, when she had time to think. For the moment she finished up, ‘We were both of us desperately sorry and I was very ill. Miles was wonderful to me. And I’m sure you’ve now had more than enough of my sob story.’

‘That’s a superficial remark that’s unworthy of you,’ said Thornton. ‘And there’s still a lot more I want to know. But I’ll admit I’m beginning to find this kitchen chair a bit hard.’ He got up and began re-packing the picnic case. ‘What’s your deadline for getting back? Make it as late as possible.’

‘I needn’t call for Miles until half-past ten.’

‘Then there’s plenty of time for what I have in mind. But I’d like to get you out of this house now. It’s even more melancholy by twilight – and the glare of electricity makes it still worse. If you’re interested in what my daughters call “the girls” there’s one off the hall.’

‘Thoughtful,’ said Jill.

‘One learns to be, with daughters.’

Studying her face in the looking glass of the little lavatory she experienced a fractional shock. She had been so immersed in the past that, for a split second, she expected to
see
herself in the past, with lank hair, drooping features. She was thankful to be herself as she was now, even with a smear of chocolate on one side of her mouth. Also – let’s face it, she thought, and faced it with the utmost eagerness – she now felt pleasurably excited, as excited as when alone in the house but without any trace of panic. In fact, the excitement was now exhilaration.

When she came out into the hall Thornton was
returning
from carrying the picnic case to the car. He said, ‘Out with us, quick, and no backward glances. And if I’ve left a cigarette burning, the house has my delighted permission to go up in flames.’

‘Wouldn’t you mind, really?’

‘Only because I feel old houses should be preserved. Apart from that, a fire would be a splendid solution. Don’t worry, anyway. I never do leave cigarettes burning.’

As they walked towards the car she said, ‘Wait a minute. I want just one backward glance.’

Beyond the woods at the back of the house the sky was now flushed a deep rose, by contrast with which the house no longer glowed with its own fictitious sunset. It merely looked dark and unutterably sad. She felt pity for it.

‘How much of it did you explore?’ asked Thornton.

‘Most of it – I even went up to the attic. Did you know all those photographs were there?’

‘Oh, yes. Sylvia turfed them out, said they reminded her of people.’