Kind Are Her Answers (34 page)

“It’s queer,” she was saying, “to think that when I get back it will be nearly Christmas time. Oh, by the way, did you manage to get me a paper?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve got it somewhere.” He dug into the pocket of his driving-coat.
“Lilliput
—
Digest
—will those do? And a picture-paper.” He pulled it out, looking absently at the headline.
“German Press Attacks Poland.”
“Here you are. Nothing much in it.”

More people were leaving the ship. A party of Groupers further along the deck seemed to have shed all theirs already; they were all waving over the side. Kit followed the direction of their eyes. He saw, conspicuous by his ginger hair, Timmie Curtis close to the edge of the dock. A qualm assailed him; had the unhappy boy meant to see Janet off, expecting her to be alone? He calculated the chances—and the ultimate kindness—of affording a last-minute opportunity by making himself scarce, but decided against it, because Timmie did not look particularly dejected. Next moment Kit perceived that the brown-skinned girl on Timmie’s right was not, as he had supposed, pressed against his side by the denseness of the crowd. She was clinging, with both hands, to his arm.

“Have you seen some one we know?” Janet asked. But already, before he thought about it, he had shifted himself between her and the group on shore. To be her buffer against truth had been his function for so long that, even in this latest minute, he fulfilled it by instinct.

“You wouldn’t know him. He used to be a patient of mine.”

K
IT SMOOTHED OUT the
letter and read it again. This time he smiled a little. He could have written it for her, he thought.

Well, he would be there in good time to-day. The work had panned out very conveniently. He put the note into his pocket and ran up to his room to change. Burford—Jimmie Burford? Oh, yes, of course. He had been at the Easter School, a rather dim hanger-on of the younger set. A prep-school master, or something similar. He had looked as if he might refer at any moment to keeping a straight bat or playing for the side; and had performed with even less abandon than Kit himself. No doubt he had been there in the interests of the school dramatic society. It was impossible to work up much emotion about any one so neutral; Kit, as he wriggled into his shirt, merely hoped that Christie hadn’t led the poor little devil too far up the garden path. All from the most generous motives, of course. Probably he worried about his job, or had an ailing mother. Whatever it was, Christie would have had it out of him within half an hour. It had started, of course, in the three weeks or so before Janet’s departure, when he had not been able to get away.

What did it matter? This one would be the last for a long while. He would be able to see her, now, every week, and sometimes on a Sunday as well. At last he could begin to make things up to her a little. Whatever she did, now, he would think of it like this. The luxury of forgiveness was denied him. It was he, not she, who was tied to a profession which expelled divorce respondents. It had never occurred to her to question or reproach him, to demand any pity or any compensation. Now at least he could partly fill, with the smaller kinds of happiness, the gap of the greater.

He was wearing a new suit, and paused over it dubiously. It was a lighter grey than he generally had: he dressed conservatively on the whole. It looked all right, he supposed, in its way. Anyhow, Christie would probably like it. He did not actually admit to himself that this thought had visited him when he chose the cloth.

He opened the roof of the car—it was a beautiful day—and started out, feeling happy, not only because he was going to see her, but because he was learning to take this kind of thing in his stride. Apart from other considerations, jealousy had offended the physician in him, like a septic focus. He had attacked the symptoms with a good deal of resolution and some success. The cause remained. It was too deep even for surgery now; he knew that, and accepted it.

The spell of fine weather had lasted. A thin film of white dust powdered the green stuff at the edges of the road, and settled, as he drove, on the paintwork of the car. The sky was brilliantly blue. His mind, too, felt clear and serene. It was not getting her back that was important—he had always done that, and felt less anxiety about it this time than ever before—but getting her back without mess or suffering or indignity.

Christie had asked him to meet her at the outside door of the theatre; she had a coaching to work in, she said, before she could get away. He parked the car there and waited for her to come out, wondering what she would have on.

She did not see him for a moment or two. When the door opened, she was still deep in conversation with her pupil, a grave intelligent little boy of twelve or so. He was asking advice about something, with the deadly serious logic of his age. Christie’s opinion was evidently valuable, and she was considering it with proper weight. For a moment she looked concentrated, impersonally satisfied, free; all the fluffy edges of indecision cleared away. The boy felt carefully in his pocket, and drew forth, delicately cherished, a fat white mouse with a black rump. They bent over it together. He transferred it to her cupped hands, where it sat, twitching a translucent whiskered nose. Presently its owner received it back again, like one who has conferred the ultimate recognition of merit, raised his cap politely, and departed with an important clump of metal boot-heels.

Christie looked up and saw Kit. She smiled uncertainly; but he had expected that. Returning the smile cheerfully, he opened the door of the car.

“I’m so sorry I had to be late,” she said in a small voice.

“It’s all right. I’ve only just come myself. Who’s the boyfriend?”

“Oh, Billy. I’m giving him voice-production. He’s got an accent.”

“Have you reformed it?”

“Not much. It’s so attractive, I shall probably end by having it myself instead.” She laughed without conviction. Kit took her firmly by the elbow.

“Tea first, I think. Then you can tell me all the news.” He turned the car in the direction of Paxton.

“Kit, not that Paxton place. It’s so full of people. Why not that farm where we went before?”

“All right. It’s too good a day, really, for town.” He began to reverse down a side-turning. Suddenly she began to search about on the seat.

“Oh, Kit. I’ve left my bag in the theatre. Do you mind?”

He stopped the car. “I suppose it’s no good saying come without it. Probably take another world war to bring in pockets for women. Don’t be long.”

“Come in with me. There’s no one there. I don’t want to be away from you.”

“Well, it might save time.” They went through the echoing theatre, chilly now that the heating had been turned off.

“We were in one of the practising rooms,” she said, “behind the stage.” As they went through the side door into the wings Kit sniffed, affectionately, the familiar smell. “This one,” Christie said.

He murmured, as he followed her in, “It’s nice to be in here again.”

“It’s all different now.”

“Yes,” he said. “It looks a bit chilly, doesn’t it, without the bed.”

There was nothing in the small cell but a piano, a deal table and a couple of chairs. Christie’s bag was on the table. She picked it up, and sat back on the table’s edge. He came towards her, but she held him off for a moment, looking at him.

“You’ve got a new suit on. You look so nice in it. It matches your eyes.”

“It’s too light. I chose the cloth in a gloomy shop.”

“Of course it isn’t. You always ought to wear that colour.” She threw her arms round his neck. “Oh, darling, I wish you weren’t always more than I bargained for—sweeter, or better-looking, or something. You always are. I might have known you would be to-day.” She gave an unreal laugh, and buried her face in his shoulder.

He stroked her hair. “Look here,” he said gently, “if you’re going to worry about this till it’s off your chest, why not get it over now, before we start? Then we can enjoy ourselves. No point in spoiling your tea.”

She looked up, as if she were frightened. “Darling, why are you being like this? I thought you’d … Don’t you mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “yet.” It must have gone further than he had supposed. What had that little swine looked like? If he could … Look out! he thought, checking himself quickly. He must, just this once, carry it through as he knew, when he was quiet and alone, it ought to be done. If he didn’t spoil this, all the months of happiness ahead would be better for it. “It’s all right,” he said. “Tell me the worst to start off with, and then how it happened. Like a detective story. Then I’ll tell you how to detach the poor wretch without undue suffering. That’s what you want, I suppose? Come on. Don’t look so scared. After all, I’ve been there before.”

She drew back. He noticed, then, that her face was white and strained with sleeplessness. He had not seen her like that since Miss Heath died. He sat down on the table beside her, taking her hand in his.

“Kit. Didn’t you read my letter?”

“Of course. All but the postscript. You’d spilt a bottle of ink, or something, over the bottom of the page.”

“But all the rest, after. I wrote it out again.”

“I should think you forgot to put it in, then.”

“Oh, Kit, I
couldn’t
have. Did I? I remember, I did have to post it in a frightful hurry in the end. So that was why … I couldn’t think why you were so …” She stopped. The strain in her face changed, slowly, to relief. “Oh, well. I’m glad really. It doesn’t matter, now.”

Kit, too, felt a moment’s sense of reprieve. Need he know about it? It was so much easier without the details that Christie charged with such unconscious vividness; they had a way of taking on a life of their own afterwards, when he was driving home, or in bed at night when there was a week to wait before he saw her again. Let it go. In an hour or two it would be nothing to do with either of them. … No, it was too easy. The certainty of truth was the only thing in their relationship that was rare, that kept it above the level of a million furtive philanderings.

“Come on,” he said, putting his arm round her shoulders. “You know you’re bursting to tell me really.”

“I’m not. I don’t want to think about it any more. I’ve got you. Nothing else matters. I don’t know now why I thought it did. Things look different when you’re alone. … I love you, Kit. I want you more than anything else. I was mad—I want to forget about it.”

“We both will afterwards. You know you’ll feel better if you spit it out. Fire away. The end first. You slept with this chap, I take it. How many times?”

“Oh, Kit, no!” She had never lied to him. Even if she had, he would have known she was not lying now. His face lightened. He was glad, all over again, that he had kept himself in hand. Just a little good listening, and it would be over. He almost glanced at his watch. She was still talking, however.

“… you’ve no idea how upright and everything he is. He never even said anything till he’d been offered a housemastership. The junior masters aren’t supposed to get married, you see. He doesn’t believe in long engagements. Poor old Jimmie.”

She smiled reminiscently. It was not till Kit withdrew his arm from her shoulders that she looked up and saw his face.

“Darling, what
is
it? Don’t. Honestly I haven’t been to bed with him. I promise you. I’d say if I had, you know I would. He didn’t even ask me.”

“No. He asked you to marry him.”

“Well, precious, so would you if you could. Don’t look so hurt, I can’t bear it. It was a crazy idea. I knew I’d realize it as soon as I saw you again. That’s why I asked you to come—oh, I forgot, you didn’t read that part. Well, you came, anyway. I’ll write to him to-morrow.”

“You hadn’t refused, then?”

“Well, no, not finally. I hadn’t the heart to turn him down flat—it seemed less snubbing, sort of, to say I’d think it over and let him know. Besides … Kit, darling, don’t think me a beast, but he’ll have twenty little boys in his house between six and thirteen. I couldn’t help just thinking about it for a second. Not longer than that.”

He was silent, watching her thoughts run, clear as water, through her eyes. Already the reminder of her doubts had raised them again. She was waiting for him, now, as she always waited, to make up her mind for her in the only way she understood. She was quite near him still. Her hair was soft and fluffy to-day; she must just have washed it. He said nothing.

“He’s fond of children, you see. He wanted somebody who was too. I expect he’ll soon find some one else, though, don’t you?”

“Possibly. Are you fond of him?” He spoke distantly and precisely, as if he had been in the consulting room. He had learned the manner, however, with Janet. It made him seem older than he was.

“Oh, we get on all right. Kit, what’s the matter? You don’t sound as if you cared whether I married him or not. Why are you so queer?”

Yes, he thought; why am I? A moment’s lapse of control, and everything would settle itself. Quite natural, quite involuntary. Or almost involuntary, after the first split second of consent. “I thought you sent for me because you wanted advice.”

“Of course I did, darling. You’ve always got me out of all my jams. Look at Mr. Cowen.”

“We’re not discussing Mr. Cowen now.”

“Kit, I can’t stand this. Don’t be cross. You asked me to tell you. … Don’t you mind, or what? Kit, look at me, say something.” Her voice shook dangerously. “You haven’t stopped loving me, have you?”

Well, he thought, that would be one way. Old-fashioned surgery, dirty and destructive; the Heroic Lie. It mattered, he supposed, very little; still …

“No,” he said, without emotion. “Not yet.”

“Not
yet?
Darling, what do you mean?”

“I haven’t discussed my wife with you, have I?” Surely something would give him away. But he had learned not to make mistakes; it was too late to unlearn it now. “I’m afraid I may have given you the impression that I was never very fond of her. That isn’t true. I loved her as much as I was capable of loving any one. It lasted three years. That includes the time when we were engaged. Now do you see?”