It Ends with Revelations (20 page)

He came and sat beside her. ‘Why are you frightened
for
me?’

‘Because you’re trying to make the same mistake again. Compared with you, I’m as silly as she was.’

‘You’re
not
silly.’

‘Unsuitable, anyway. And so utterly limited in outlook. The theatre’s such a self-absorbed world. But I’ve told you, I’ve told you from the beginning.’

‘And I’ve told you it doesn’t matter. Though if you do want to widen your interests my children are panting to help you. And now, please, could we just sit quietly, not talk, not make love, just
be
together?’

He put his arm round her and she leaned against his shoulder. And after a few minutes she gave a little sigh of absolutely peaceful pleasure.

13

Little Letter from Cyril

She had intended to tell Miles of Geoffrey’s visit, very casually, during supper. But she found that Frank Ashton and the play’s young author had been invited to join them, so the conversation was devoted to cheering playwright and impresario up. As Frank Ashton had plenty more money to lose and the author had already sold a new play for television, Jill did not feel too harrowed. But when it struck her that but for the recently dead play’s production at the Spa Street theatre she would never have met Geoffrey, she felt a sudden fondness and regret for it, though this did not prevent her from being bored by the long suppertime postmortem.

In the taxi, on the way back to the flat, she mentally rehearsed various casual mentions of Geoffrey’s visit but spoke none of them aloud. Only when she entered the sitting room and came face to face with the little urn of flowers did
she manage to get out, ‘Oh, look what the Thornton girls sent me. Geoffrey brought it round this afternoon.’

Miles, having said it was charming, appeared to be gazing at it with extreme concentration for so long that she feared he might be wondering why the girls couldn’t have brought it themselves. Then he spoke, and she realized that his concentration had really been on the travel brochures, which were close to the flowers, for what he said was, ‘Jill, would you very much mind if I went abroad on my own?’

Of all the unexpected miracles! It was hard to keep intense relief out of her tone, to sound merely kind and unresentful. ‘Of course I wouldn’t, darling. I think it’s a very good idea – more of a change for you.’

But who was going to constitute the change? She had seen no indication that he was interested in any young man. But one had to face the fact that it could be just a chance acquaintance. Her job now was one she was accustomed to: she must show no curiosity and yet somehow demonstrate a warm friendliness which would encourage him to talk, if he wanted to. But he obviously didn’t for he merely said, ‘Bless you for being so understanding. Let’s get to bed. I’m dog tired.’

She did not even ask when he would go, but a few moments later he said, ‘I’ll probably be off tomorrow.’ She could hardly believe her luck – to be free to think her own thoughts, free to be with Geoffrey and the girls! And the fact that he was launching into an affair made her feel less guilty – though so great was her affection for him that she almost wanted to warn him, to cry out, ‘Don’t make it easier for me.’

While sitting with Geoffrey in the twilight she had remembered the television play she had undertaken to report on. (Miles seemed to have forgotten all about it.) Geoffrey had watched it with her and they had enjoyed it, though she guessed their enjoyment had been largely due to the shared occasion and the pleasure of exploring each other’s opinions. It hadn’t really been a good play and they had both of them disapproved of a noble and mawkish husband in a wheelchair. But she had provoked Geoffrey to delighted laughter by suddenly declaring, ‘Though if
you
were paralyzed from the waist down, I’d still want to spend my life with you.’ In view of which, he could not have been particularly worried that she still had not, in so many words, promised to marry him. But she had – more or less – undertaken to tell Miles, ‘very soon, just give me a few days.’ Ought she to tell him before he left for the Continent? No, she couldn’t face it. And perhaps he might be at the beginning of some grand, consoling romance, so that it would be
easy
to tell him when he got back. But she knew only too well that he always returned from such trips more devoted to her, more dependent on her, than ever.

On Sunday morning he packed a single suitcase. Had they been going on tour she would have packed for him but many years ago he had made it clear that, on occasions such as the present one, he wanted no help. This was all part of the secret mood which took possession of him: if she helped she would have to be told what clothes to pack and that might have indicated where he was going, which she was never allowed to know. Nor was she told how long
he would be away. And while away he would not write her so much as a postcard.

He excused himself from lunching with her, went out, and did not return until the late afternoon, when he did some last-minute packing. He then bade her a more affectionate farewell than she was expecting – often he merely smiled and said, ‘See you soon.’ This time he kissed her, asked if she was sure she would be all right, told her to take care of herself, and finally said, ‘See something of the Thorntons, won’t you? Why not give the girls some outings? They’ll be company for you. And tell them how much I admired their flowers.’ He then kissed her again and, with surprising swiftness for a heavy man burdened with a suitcase, whisked himself out of the flat.

She had never before seen him go without experiencing a mixture of regret and resentment, the resentment quickly censored and transmuted into a loving tolerance. Today, she was only conscious of relief.

About to telephone Geoffrey, she was smitten with nervousness in case Miles came back for something. So she waited an hour – and was then deflated to find that the whole Thornton family was out. (The wraith-like voice that told her so would be that of Mary Simmonds.) She left a message, but not until nearly midnight was she rung up, by both Robin and Kit, one of them on an extension line. On hearing that Miles had gone away they were ecstatically excited. Their father had driven to his constituency and would not be back until Tuesday evening. But would Jill come to them the first thing in the
morning – or would she come now, and spend the night – or should they come and spend the night with her? Was she sure she wouldn’t be lonely? Jill, who wanted a good night’s sleep, was quite sure. But she would be with them by eleven in the morning. ‘Such ages Father’s been holding us at bay,’ Kit complained. ‘But it’ll be all right now, won’t it? And soon we’ll have you for good.’

Jill protested that nothing was decided yet, but was so heavily over-borne by both girls that she hastily brought the conversation to an end and rang off. In the ensuing silence, she found that she
was
lonely. Oh, she wasn’t missing Miles or even, at the moment, Geoffrey. She just felt regretfully cut off from the girls’ happy voices.

When they opened the door to her next morning they were wearing tights and sweaters patterned with black and white lozenges. Tartan kilts, barely a foot long, were slung round their waists.

‘You look like harlequins,’ said Jill.

‘All but the kilts. Robin calls them minus-skirts.’

‘For once I’m trying to get ahead of fashion,’ said Robin.

‘Oh, darling Jill, how marvellous to see you.’

As on her previous visit, Jill found her progress upstairs painful. Kit edged her into the banisters. Robin bumped her from the rear. They were all three laughing in a way that unco-ordinated their movements.

‘It seems like months since you were here,’ said Robin.

‘Actually, it’s two weeks and three days,’ said Kit.

To Jill, it felt like light-years.

This morning there was a fire in the attic sitting room.

‘We thought it was just cold enough for one,’ said Robin.

The little room, in morning sunlight, looked even more attractive than Jill’s memories of it. Beyond the roof tops of the houses opposite, white clouds were scudding across patches of blue sky. A pigeon on the window sill had just discovered crumbs put out for it.

Jill, steered to an armchair, sat back and inspected the girls’ outfits more fully.

‘You should have one like them,’ said Kit. ‘And look like our sister.’

‘Oh, do, Jill! We could get the tights and sweater in your size, and me and me dressmaker could fix you up with a minus-skirt.’

‘Tights are so marvellously comfortable. And so decent when one feels the need to lie on one’s back and wave one’s legs in the air.’ Kit, on the divan, performed some contortions which looked liable to break her neck.

‘I’m much too old,’ said Jill. ‘Both for tights and waving my legs in the air.’

‘What, at thirty-four? That’s young enough for anything,’ said Robin.

‘Oh, how awful that we thought you were so much older! We can see you’re not now. Perhaps you were thinking elderly thoughts, trying to reconcile yourself to being married to dear Mr Quentin.’

‘But I didn’t need to reconcile myself, Kit. I love him very much.’

‘Of course. So do we. And I’d be honoured to marry
him myself in a year or two, if he’d have me. Really, it might be a good idea, seeing I’m more and more sure I’m going to be frigid. But not you, dear Jill. You’re the last woman to be married to a homosexual.’

Jill said uncomfortably, ‘I can’t get used to your knowing about such things.’

Kit, bringing her feet down and sitting cross-legged, regarded Jill judicially. ‘Will you kindly tell me why? Do you consider homosexuality an unmentionable crime?’

‘Of course not, Kit, darling. But somehow …’ She shook her head, at a loss for words.

‘Just not a suitable subject for little girls,’ said Kit, with a cat-like grin. ‘And should they also be debarred from discussing colour-blindness, or left-handedness, or – for that matter – genius? Should nothing that isn’t one hundred percent normal be mentioned by pure little lips?’

Robin said, ‘It seems to me that homosexuality is neither a wrong thing nor a right thing. It’s merely something that exists. Children should learn about it at the same time that they learn about normal sex – and they should learn about that jolly early. And they shouldn’t be told that normality is necessarily right.’

‘We’re not convincing her, Robin. She still thinks
homosexuality’s
wrong
. You do, don’t you, Jill? In spite of being married to such a very good and kind homosexual.’

She would have liked to say she didn’t. But these children deserved complete sincerity. The best she could manage was, ‘Not wrong, exactly. But I do think it’s a pity. Surely you agree with me about that?’

‘I don’t,’ said Kit. ‘That is, not unless it’s making people unhappy. Considered objectively, I think it ought to be encouraged. Everyone knows the world’s population’s exploding. There should be
dedicated
homosexuals, much honoured.’ She flung herself backwards on the divan and executed a somersault.

Jill, laughing, knew that the girls had freed her of inhibitions far more than ten years of marriage to Miles had. But were things quite so simple? To the pure all things were pure … but only to the pure.

‘How soon can you marry Father?’ said Robin.

‘Oh, Robin, darling –’

‘Don’t worry her, Robin. Father said we weren’t to. We rang him up this morning, Jill, and he said we were just to give you a happy time. There’s a thrilling exhibition at the Tate – we could go this afternoon – and a good concert tonight; you did enjoy that concert in the Pump Room.’

‘And I thought we might take you to a dress show tomorrow. But of course you must say if any of our ideas bore you.’

‘Nothing is going to bore me,’ said Jill, with conviction.

Already the girls had new possessions to show her, new interests to discuss. Their energy, both mental and physical, was infectious and she was suddenly aware that she was feeling particularly
well
. Idly, she picked up the kaleidoscope which had delighted her on her first visit. But she put it down without looking through it, succumbing to the quick clutch of superstition. Soon after she had last looked, the pattern of her life had changed so drastically. She did not
now want it to change again. Already happiness was hinting at its inbuilt snag: fear that it might not last.

When it was lunch-time Robin said, ‘We hope you won’t mind that we’re having it in the basement breakfast room. We always do when we’re on our own and Mary Simmonds has it with us. Father’s told you about her, hasn’t he? We’ll all be very grateful if you can manage to like her.’

‘Of course I shall,’ said Jill, with histrionic heartiness. She found herself unwilling to meet Mary. It was as if the link with the late Mrs Thornton cast a shadow across the day’s brightness. And the shadow intensified when, in the breakfast room – which opened on to the small back garden – she met the thin, pale woman who seemed incapable of taking part in the general conversation. Try as one could, Mary Simmonds again and again relapsed into silence. But it was not a gloomy or sulky silence. It suggested rather that she only wished to speak if others wished her to; there was nothing
she
wished to say. Only at the end of the meal, when she took scraps of food out to the birds, did she show signs of animation.

Robin, starting to clear the table while Mary was outside, said, ‘She loves birds and flowers – she works quite hard in the garden. Do tell her she must have green fingers. It’s a frightful cliché but she loves to be told it.’

Jill obliged, and talked about flowers and birds extensively. Mary seemed pleased but volunteered no information, merely answered questions. Jill eventually ran out of them, and then she and Mary went through into the kitchen where the girls, having stacked the dishwasher, were
tidying everything up. They did not leave until Mary was settled in her armchair – Jill saw that the breakfast room was also Mary’s sitting room. She had television, a radio and a stack of magazines. Robin, setting a tea tray beside her, said, ‘Now you’re not to do a stroke of work until six o’clock, and we’ll be back in time to help dish up dinner.’