Love Again (38 page)

Mid-afternoon. Henry’s car came to a crunchy stop on the gravel. He jumped out to open the door for his wife. Out stepped a small woman, almost invisible because of the large child in her arms. She set him down, and the little boy, about three years old, rushed into his father’s arms with screams of delight. Now it could be seen that Millicent was pretty and blonde, if that was an adequate word for the casque or fleece of yellow hair which, like Alice’s, fell almost to her waist. From it a little determined face smiled while Henry whirled his son around and then again, before setting him down, but Joseph refused to be put down. He clung to his father’s legs until Henry picked him up again. Millicent stood looking about her. It was a competent but above all democratic inspection: she was refusing to be diminished by ancestral magnificence. She smilingly faced the big steps, where Stephen, Elizabeth, Norah, and Sarah were waiting. She had a philosophical look. They have a hard task, the wives, husbands, loved ones generally of the adventurous souls who so recklessly (and so often) immerse themselves in these heady brews and who have to be reclaimed for ordinary life: talked down, brought down, reintroduced to—reality is the word we use. Norah descended the steps to help carry up the innumerable cases, holdalls, bags, of toys and clothes and comics necessary for a contemporary child’s well-being. (Children, that is, of certain countries.) She and Millicent managed it all, because Henry’s arms were full, and likely to remain so. His face and his son’s were joyous.

Introductions were made, and the family went upstairs; Norah went with them to show the way. She came down in a few minutes, joining the others in the little sitting room, where tea was waiting for them. Her smile, as so often, was brave, this time because of the tender scene she had been observing. Elizabeth and Stephen were there, and Mary Ford had arrived, with apologies from Roy, who had departed to London. His wife had decided after all not to live with her new lover, and he hoped to talk her into returning to him, restoring the marriage. He was armed with arguments, and statistics too, one of which was that 58 percent of men and women in new marriages regretted their first marriages and wished they had never divorced at all. The company drinking tea wished poor Roy well: he had really been looking awful recently, they agreed. They wished him well for the space of about half a minute, and then Norah remarked, ‘I’m afraid Millicent has put a veto on the restaurant. It seems the little boy is overwrought. I can’t help feeling he would put up with me. I am supposed to be good with children.’

Mary said, ‘I’m afraid we are up against that good old culture clash again. Well, I’m on their side. I love it when I’m in Italy and France and you see everyone from granny to the new baby out together having a meal.’

‘Speaking for myself,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I think it’s extraordinary they should take it for granted a three-year-old child would go out to dinner with adults.’

Stephen said, ‘But they wouldn’t see it as going out to dinner. It’s normal for them to go out for meals in restaurants.’

‘Since they’re off tomorrow, I suppose that’s it. I’ll ring up the restaurant and cancel,’ said Elizabeth. When she was doing something practical, her body filled with vitality, her haunches moved with a look of intense private satisfaction, her hands seemed ready to take hold of a situation and manage it. ‘And the next excitement,’ she said, coming back from the telephone, ‘is your Frenchman. Do you think we should take him out to dinner?’

Sarah said, ‘You don’t seem to realize—just being in this house will be a thrill for him, as it is for all of us.’

‘I suppose we do rather take it for granted. Damn. I wouldn’t have minded going out to dinner. They’ll just have to take pot luck.’

‘Never mind, darling,’ said Norah. ‘I’ll take you out to dinner when everyone has gone.’ She spoke emotionally, and the darling had slipped out. She was embarrassed, and Elizabeth did not look at her.

Stephen said quickly, ‘Too much cooking and catering these last few days. I did warn you that it might be too much of a good thing.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ said Elizabeth, smiling at them all. Then she gave Norah a smile, just for her. The two women began talking about the people they had gone to lunch with, in a hearty social way, and this became a joking exchange of gossip about neighbours, Joshua among them. Stephen was listening to the women with that look one sees on the faces of husbands and wives—and lovers—not in the confidence of their partners, when they talk in their presence to other people. It was a strained eavesdropper’s look. Elizabeth and Norah then said they had thought of taking a week’s holiday when
Julie Vairon
was done. Stephen remarked that it was possible he would not be here. Elizabeth said, ‘Well, never mind; the boys will be at school by then.’

The gravel announced an arrival. It was Jean-Pierre, who shook hands all round, kissed Elizabeth’s hand, and then kissed Mary, one, two, three. For the space of seconds the two were in a time of their own. Again the grounds had to be shown, and soon, because Jean-Pierre would be off early tomorrow, with Sarah. They all strolled about in the late afternoon sunlight, and Jean-Pierre exclaimed in polite enthusiasm about everything he saw, as well he might. He was overwhelmed, he said, it was magnificent, he said, and so it went on till they showed him the theatre area, when he began to show doubt. They had expected him to.

The chairs had no numbers on them: did the audience not reserve seats?

It was not necessary; people sat where they could find a seat. And if they’re late, too bad, they have to stand. We only reserve the front row.

The paths leading to the theatre were not marked. The posters were everywhere, so how did people know where to go?

‘Don’t worry, they work it out for themselves,’ reassured Norah maternally.

And there was no definite place where refreshments were served. He supposed there were refreshments?

Stephen said all that kind of thing was very well organized by Elizabeth and her staff. Wine, ice cream, soft drinks, cakes, appeared on trays in the intervals, borne by volunteers from the town, who enjoyed this contact with the world of the theatre.

‘Of course, sometimes they don’t turn up,’ said Elizabeth, who was enjoying teasing Jean-Pierre. ‘But if they don’t, then I and Norah and the children, if they’re here, we fill in the gaps.’

Here Jean-Pierre dramatically shrugged his shoulders. He certainly did not approve of the owners of this imposing house working as servants. But there was more in the way of a style or even drama in this shrug. The French expect from the English a falling off from some paradigmatic excellence of which they are the natural custodians for the whole world, and this English indifference is not even from an innate inability to conform to the highest when they see it, but from choice. What can one expect? said the shrug.

The usual pre-performance supper, at seven, had people sitting around a table in the smaller room, not standing about for a buffet meal, because most of the players had telephoned to say they would eat in the town.

Stephen, Elizabeth, and Norah were at one end of the table, with Susan sitting opposite Stephen. Jean-Pierre was by Mary. Sarah saw she had put herself in the middle where she had empty chairs on either side, a statement of how she felt: to her such a dramatic, not to say self-pitying one that she hastily moved up to sit by
Joseph, who was near Millicent, who sat at the end opposite Elizabeth.

While Henry had been upstairs with Millicent, he had confessed his misdemeanour, as he was bound to do. A bizarre solution, but who does not know about Oedipus complexes, and a shock it could not be. Besides, for a young and pretty woman to accept that her husband has a crush on a woman old enough to be his mother, or hers, does not demand the maximum in the way of marital tolerance. There was an attractively humorous little look on Millicent’s face. At the same time, because Henry, an honest fellow, had not minimized the extent of his lapse (which he had been careful to make sure had included not so much as a kiss), Millicent was appraising Sarah with every intention of giving credit where it was due. Sarah was sure that the slight—slightest possible—indications of unease were due to, as the proverb has it, ‘If one drop, then why not two?’ But Millicent was an intelligent person, and her demeanour said: I understand it all. And I remain in control. Of my husband. Of my child. Of the situation. As for Henry, he had not abdicated his rights, such as they were. His eyes did not fail to inform Sarah that they would be parting tomorrow, and that he remembered it.

The ‘pot luck’ turned out to be braised pheasant, and its accompaniments, which presented problems for Joseph. Susan and Mary offered him bits of this and that to make up for this unknown meat which he was refusing to eat. The child was wildly excited, out of control, enjoying being the centre of attention.

Millicent commanded her husband, ‘Give him your potatoes.’

Henry at once put his two potatoes on his son’s plate.

‘But we aren’t short of potatoes,’ Elizabeth protested.

‘Give him your water,’ said Millicent to Henry. Henry put his glass of water before Joseph, but hastily swallowed some wine, making a point.

Taking the roll from Henry’s side plate, Millicent buttered it,
spread it with red-currant jelly from Henry’s plate, and presented the roll to the child. Joseph held his hands around the pile of food on his plate and laughed and yelled, his face red, his eyes wild, wickedly full of enjoyment.

Elizabeth indicated with her eyes that Henry should help himself to more food, but Henry shook his head and pushed his plate away. There was pheasant on it, which Millicent ate, reaching across with her fork to take up mouthful after mouthful, though there was pheasant on her own plate. Then she calmly ate her way through her own food. Henry was again pale and dejected, but when he looked over at his son, his face went soft with love. He smiled at Sarah, his eyes full of tears.

Joseph stood on his chair and began running a small lorry over the cloth. Millicent said to Henry, ‘You take him.’

Henry obediently walked around the end of the table behind his wife, lifted his son, but, instead of returning to his seat, sat down in the chair near Sarah. The child leaned over, patted her hair, and ran the lorry up and down her arm.

Stephen, Elizabeth, and Norah sat watching, and vibrated together gently in disapproval. It is safe to say that the three boys had never, ever, been indulged in this way. And where were they? Off in the fields somewhere, or upstairs, and when the performance began they would eat their supper in the kitchen with Alison and Shirley. There would be gales of giggles, all kinds of fun, and treats from the dishes filled with cakes and pastries for the audience. Perhaps they were in the kitchen already? Alison and Shirley came in to remove the plates, and they were flushed, with a look of suppressing laughter. They set puddings on the sideboard and went out. From the kitchen, as the door closed, ‘Oh, you’re naughty…’The guests were invited to help themselves. Millicent got up and served herself, her husband, and her son. She set two plates in front of Henry and Joseph. It was a light creamy pudding from a seventeenth-century recipe, a speciality of Norah’s. While Jean-Pierre served himself and
Mary, demanding to be given the recipe to take to his wife, the child spooned up his pudding with cries of pleasure. When his own plate was empty he pulled his father’s plate towards him, with a wicked look. Millicent, not looking at Henry, took away the child’s empty plate and pushed Henry’s in its place. Joseph ate up his father’s pudding. Millicent ate her pudding. She did this thoughtfully and calmly, not looking at anyone.

Only just audible, as it were offstage, it was as if someone laughed—a wild, anarchic, derisive, sceptical laugh—and against such forces of disorder a young American woman humbly but firmly asserted the rights of civilization with ‘Henry, take Joseph up to bed, see that he cleans his teeth, and say good night to him before you go to the performance.’

Outside, people were streaming into the theatre. Word had got around, and music lovers and theatre lovers alike were prepared, as in Belles Rivières, to stand several deep to watch. Afterwards they stood in lines to congratulate Elizabeth and Stephen.

Then it was proposed that they should all drive to where an inn served drinks on lawns sloping to a river. Millicent said she would like to go. Everyone waited to see if she would command Henry to stay with the child, who was too excited to sleep, but Henry walked with Joseph in his arms to the car, handed the child in to his wife, and they joined the procession of cars that were filled with the company, their friends, and—by now—the friends of friends.

On darkening grass slopes overwatched by ancient trees, they sat about drinking, while Jean-Pierre exclaimed about the gentle beauties of England. For he was from the south, had never lived further north than Lyons, and this was the first time he had been introduced to the subtle charms of a northern summer. At last Joseph fell asleep, and was wrapped in his father’s jacket, safe in his father’s arms. Sarah had put herself a long way from Henry, near to Stephen, who had Susan next to him. Susan had just heard that Stephen was leaving tomorrow, did not know when he would
return. ‘Probably not till the end of the run,’ he remarked. Her eyes were red. Tears were filling them as often as tears filled Sarah’s and Henry’s and, so it had become evident, Mary’s and Jean-Pierre’s. But Henry had his face turned away and was staring over the riverside lawns through the thickening dusk. And then the night came down and they were enclosed in its mercies.

Back at the house, Sarah confirmed with Jean-Pierre that an early start would suit her. She said goodbye to everyone she would not be seeing in London. There were many hopeful cries of ‘See you next year in Belles Rivières’—which pleased Jean-Pierre. ‘Because the real
Julie Vairon
has to be in France. I must say it—it is not the same thing here.’

And he was absolutely right: everyone agreed.

Henry went upstairs with the child in his arms, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

Sarah hurried to her room to put an end to the goodbyes. She did not sleep. In the early morning she crept down the stairs, and there was Jean-Pierre waiting on the steps, watching thrushes and blackbirds busy on the lawns. They walked to the car park, while the leaden hand tightened around her heart. As they drove off she looked back and saw Henry on the steps, looking after her. He was alone. The last sight she would have of him was his white face, his bitter, burning black eyes.

They drove fast, but not so fast that, approaching a lay-by, Sarah did not see a group of youngsters standing around a shabby van that had on its side an amateur scrawl in red paint,
Tea and Snacks
. She asked Jean-Pierre to stop. She said, ‘I won’t be a minute,’ and got out, slamming the car door to attract attention. Joyce, Betty, the unknown youth, who seemed even more pale and ill in this strong sunlight, and half a dozen others all turned to watch her approach. Sarah could not have felt more absurd, arriving in that sleek car from the world of interesting work, success, money. Joyce greeted her with her predictable hilarious smile, as if good news was her
portion in life and her Auntie Sarah its reliable purveyor. Betty smelled sour even at several paces away and seemed hung over, with red eyes and a sick brave look. Sarah felt two strong conflicting impulses: one to take her in her arms, like a child; the other to shake her hard. The wretched youth stood blinking, his eyes too weak for this sunlight.

‘Well, Joyce,’ enquired Sarah briskly, ‘are you all right?’

‘Oh, lovely, thank you, how lovely to see you,’ enthused Joyce.

‘Do you want a lift back to town?’

‘But there are lots of us.’

A bitter wouldn’t-you-know-it smile appeared on Betty’s face and on other faces too, as Sarah said, ‘We weren’t offering a lift to everyone; there wouldn’t be room.’

‘Oh no, Sarah, we’ll stay together.’

‘Then give me a ring,’ said Sarah, but after she had gone a few paces, she returned to give Joyce money, thinking, What use is twenty pounds to a girl who tried to steal three thousand? Joyce stood there with the notes in her hand, until Betty took them from her, with a housewifely air.

‘That one there with the pretty hair is my niece,’ said Sarah as they roared off, thinking it was as well he did not know she had been offering lifts on his behalf.

‘Sarah, I must say it is surprising to see you with such people.’

‘I take it you have no disreputable relations?’

His half-shrug insisted that in France things were better ordered, but after a moment he said with a sigh that his younger brother, aged sixteen, was giving their poor mother problems.

‘Drugs?’

‘I think so. But so far not the very bad ones.’

‘Well, good luck, then.’

‘Good luck is what we all need,’ said Jean-Pierre, acknowledging the times we live in.

She went straight to the theatre. In the office, she found the
reviews from the dailies. Too soon for the weeklies. ‘She Was Poor but She Was Honest’—as a heading—twice. ‘An exotic setting does not conceal…’ ‘Martinique is obviously just the place for a package holiday.’ ‘As a feminist I must protest…’

In the afternoon there was the meeting to decide the future. They were all there. Mary Ford had come from Oxfordshire by train. Roy had interrupted his leave to come. He remarked that his wife said she had had enough of men to last her a lifetime, but on the whole he felt confident she would take him back, for the sake of the child. Patrick was there, and Sonia, and Jean-Pierre and, at the last minute, Stephen.

In the few weeks since the end of the run in France, Jean-Pierre had done a lot of work. He was presenting them with plans, not possibilities.
Julie Vairon
would be put on next year for the two main months of the tourist season, July and August, but there was talk of beginning earlier, in June. He had checked the availability of Henry, Bill, Molly, Susan, Andrew. Henry was the most important and would be free. Bill would not, a pity, since he was more right for the part than the new Paul. Both Molly and Susan would be available, and that left them with a difficult choice. If they wanted the same musicians, they must be engaged now. The singers must be approached at once: they were perhaps the most important element. Andrew was engaged for a film. A pity. It would be hard to find such a good Rémy.

And now he had to tell them something he was afraid they wouldn’t like. The town authorities had already agreed that a large stadium, to hold two thousand people, would be built in the woods around Julie’s old house. If that shell could be called a house. No, he must insist they listen to him: he knew it didn’t sound well, but that was only because the idea was new to them. He himself had had difficulties to start with.

‘You are going to cut down trees?’ asked Mary.

‘Only nine or ten trees need to be cut. They are not very beautiful trees.’

And now there was a silence, while Jean-Pierre, sure of himself and his plans, went to stand tactfully at the window, his back to them, while they looked at each other: that is, the Founding Four did. Patrick had an air of holding a good deal back. Sonia had not been to Belles Rivières. Stephen seemed to be reserving judgement.

In that silence a good many things were acknowledged. Jean-Pierre and the town authorities had every right to decide what to do with the town’s chief asset. The English really had no right to say a word. Yes, they had had the original idea, but that was not something they could stake a claim on for long. Anyway, it was no one’s fault—as usual. The gods of tourism were to blame.

Jean-Pierre turned around and said, ‘We know it is a shock. It is not the most attractive thing that could happen—I am speaking for myself now. But put yourselves in our place.
Julie
will bring prosperity to the whole region.’

‘It is surely not a region of France that lacks visitors,’ said Sarah.

‘No, that is true. But Belles Rivières is just a little town. It has nothing else, only
Julie
. There will be new hotels and restaurants—they are being planned already. And this will affect all the towns of the area.’

‘You haven’t said anything about the language,’ said Stephen. Of all of them, he must be the most affected by the news of the destruction of the original
Julie Vairon
—but only Sarah could know that.

‘Of course that was discussed. For a while we decided to go back to the French, but we changed our minds. This will sound absurd, but we thought it might even bring bad luck. Julie has been so lucky. To change her completely…but there was the other reason, and that is more important. Most of the tourists in our part of France in summer are English-speaking. And that decided it.’

He waited, but no one said anything.

‘And now I must leave you all. I must catch my plane.’

‘Next year in Belles Rivières,’ said Roy, for this joke seemed likely to stay, and Mary and Jean-Pierre looked at each other, and
Sarah was reminded of Henry’s wretched face that morning as she left.

‘Oh no, we must discuss it all before that. I hope to see you all…Sarah…Stephen…and you, Mary…’ He nodded at Patrick, and it occurred to them that since Patrick had scarcely been in Belle-Rivières, that nod, with a special smile, was carrying more meaning than they knew the reason for. And Patrick was in fact looking guilty. ‘All of you, we will fix a meeting and we will go through everything. I shall telephone Benjamin when I get to my office. Stephen—it would be a sadness for us if you decided to withdraw.’ That meant that if Stephen did, there would be other willing angels.

Jean-Pierre left an atmosphere of mourning. The audiences filling the new stadium next year and—presumably—succeeding years would be enjoying successful, fashionable theatre, but only those people who had been there the first year—still this year—would know how rare a bird
Julie
had been, a magically perfect event that had seemed at its beginnings no more promising than a hundred others, had gathered substance and shape in what it was easy to believe was a series of mere lucky chances, one after the other, blown together by the winds of heaven, and then…but there is only one thing to do at the vanishing away of a wonder: put a clamp on your heart.

And it was only the theatre, after all.

‘It’s only the theatre,’ said Mary, ending their silence and sounding miserable.

Now, finally, they had to decide whether to put
Julie Vairon
on in London. But it seemed this decision had already been made, for they hardly discussed it.

‘Now,’ said Sarah to Patrick, ‘let’s have it.’

Patrick stood before them, grinning. Full of affection, yes, but fuller of a cheeky guiltiness.

‘Sarah…guess what…you’ll never guess…you’ll have to shoot yourself…well, shoot me, then…. We can’t have victim
heroines any more—remember? Do you remember? Well…’ And here he hesitated on the brink, gave Sonia a look of comic despair, plunged on, ‘How do you like the idea of a musical?’

‘A musical!’ protested Stephen.

‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ said Roy, in a fury. ‘There’s this pathetic little half-caste from Martinique who falls in love with the handsome lieutenant. He ditches her. She earns her living doing the can-can in Cannes. There she is seen by the patrician Rémy—’

‘Too complicated,’ said Patrick airily.

‘No Rémy?’ said Stephen.

‘No Rémy. She has a child by Paul. She puts her in a convent with the nuns. Julie earns her living as a singer. The master printer wants to make an honest woman of her—’

‘But she commits suicide because of…?’ enquired Sarah.

‘Because she knows the townspeople will never forgive her, or forgive him for marrying her. If he marries her she will ruin his life. There’s a great scene where the citizens sing they will boycott his business and bring him to bankruptcy. They won’t have that whore Julie. She leaves a suicide note: Remember my Minou! She flings herself under a train. Just like you know who. Last scene: the master printer and Minou, already a nubile nymph sought in marriage by a handsome young lieutenant.’

‘You’re joking,’ said Stephen.

‘He’s not joking,’ said Sonia, sounding huffy. From this it could be seen she was involved with this musical.

‘I’m not joking,’ said Patrick. ‘The libretto is written.’

‘You’ve written it?’

‘I’ve written it.’

‘Is she allowed any intelligence?’ asked Roy.

‘Of course not,’ said Sarah.

‘I expected you and Stephen to be much more cross than you are,’ said Patrick, obviously disappointed.

‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘I’m off.’

‘Well,’ said Sarah, also getting up, ‘when is this masterpiece going to be put on?’

‘We have to get the music written,’ said Sonia.

‘Not Julie’s?’ asked Mary.

‘We are thinking of using one of the troubadour songs as a theme song. Not the words, of course. You know. “If this song of mine is a sad one…” It’s a torch song, really.’

‘So what words?’ enquired Sarah.

Mary said, ‘I love you, I love you.’

‘Very good,’ said Patrick. ‘Brilliant. All right. Sneer if you like. It’s possible they’ll première it in Belles Rivières the year after next.’

‘The bad will drive out the good,’ remarked Stephen. ‘It always does.’

‘Oh thanks, thanks a lot,’ said Patrick.

‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Mary. ‘They aren’t going to let our
Julie
go if it’s successful next year.’

‘Honestly,’ said Sonia, ‘I don’t think you people should start panicking. It hasn’t happened yet.’

‘No, but it’s going to,’ said Patrick. ‘And there’s something else. My
Julie’s
going to be called
The Lucky Piece
…no, wait—I found it by chance. The lucky piece is early-nineteenth-century slang. It means the child of a mistress who has been left well set up by her boyfriends. Well, no one could say that Julie’s mother wasn’t living in clover.’

The meeting ended early, and a long sunlit evening lay ahead. Stephen and Sarah walked for a while in Regent’s Park. Stephen said he was going to visit his brother in Shropshire. After that he might visit friends in Wales. She recognized his need to move. If it were not that she had so much to do in the theatre, she would be buying an aeroplane ticket to almost anywhere.

There was no way of putting off what faced her. She sat and thought how already the family would be speeding along French
roads that were dusty and burned by this summer’s sun. As soon as the car stopped, the little boy would be in his father’s arms. In fact one could be sure that during the three weeks they were in France, whenever the car was not actually in motion, Joseph would be held by Henry. Meanwhile her body sent inconsistent messages. For instance, that sensation of need in the hollow of her left shoulder demanded that a head should lie there…was it Henry’s head? Often it seemed to her it was an infant newly born, and naked, a soft hot nakedness, and her hand pressing it close protected a helplessness much greater than could be encompassed by this one small creature. An infinite vulnerability lay there: Sarah herself, who was both infant and what sheltered the infant. When a hot wanting woke Sarah from a dream she knew had been about Henry, the face that dazzled behind her lids was Joseph’s, a bright cheeky greedy smile announcing that it would grab everything it could. And then, an intimate and loving smile—Henry’s, and both of these wraiths disappeared as her hand went to the soft hollow, and she was filled with a wild and cherishing love.

In her diary, page after page was filled with entries like ‘Emptiness.’ ‘Pain.’ ‘It is such a
weight
—I can’t carry it.’ ‘Wild grief.’ ‘Storms of longing.’ ‘When will it end?’ ‘I can’t stand this pain.’ ‘My heart hurts so much.’ ‘It
hurts
.’