No Fond Return of Love (17 page)

‘Goodness!’ said Laurel, wishing that Marian were with her to make some pert and amusing comment.

‘What would you like?’ he asked, waving his hand towards the drinks which were decently set out on a small table near the gas fire.

Laurel hesitated, wishing that he would suggest something.

‘This is quite a pleasant sherry,’ he said, picking up a decanter. ‘Or there’s gin, of course, or even whisky – but I don’t suppose you’d like that.’

‘Probably not,’ said Laurel rather sadly. She accepted a glass of sherry and stood looking round the room, holding the glass in both hands.

‘Well, here’s to your very good health,’ he said stiffly, feeling that it was not quite the thing to say to one who looked such a picture of health anyway. He would have liked best to sit and gaze at her, not saying anything – for, delightful though they were, these young girls were not for talking to – but he tried his best to make suitable conversation, asking again after her aunt, inquiring about her work and how she was enjoying life in the hostel.

While he struggled with conversation Laurel’s eyes had strayed to a large table which was littered with papers.

‘You are looking at the proofs of my book,’ he said. ‘It’s now in its final stages.’

‘That’s the one Miss Dace has been helping you with?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, in a sense. She has only done the index,’ he said meanly.

‘I should find that kind of work terribly boring, I’m afraid,’ said Laurel confidently.

‘Yes, it’s a dreary job – one I simply can’t imagine you ever having to do.’ He smiled.

‘But somebody has to.’

‘Yes, somebody has to. But there are people trained to do such things.’

‘Like performing seals,’ giggled Laurel, who was not used to such large glasses of sherry as Aylwin provided.

But he seemed to think her little joke terribly funny and they both laughed rather more than was necessary. In the back of his mind Aylwin may have felt a little guilty, thinking of women he knew who made indexes – that nice aunt of Laurel’s, and poor Viola, of course – but this was not the moment to remember them.

‘Your glass is empty,’ he said, his hand on the decanter.

‘I don’t think I ought to have any more,’ said Laurel. ‘Or perhaps not a full glass. I really ought to be going now.’

‘Must you?’

He stood with the decanter poised over her glass, and Laurel, looking up at him, thought in a variation of Dulcie’s words when she had bent over him at the lecture, why, he must have been very good-looking once. And now the lines round his eyes and the few silver threads that her sharp eyes detected in his golden hair touched her heart, so that she felt rather pleasantly sad and remembered a line from a poem she had read in some anthology –

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d  –

and, when one came to think of it, he
must
be rather old – getting on for fifty, probably. She was rather sorry now that she and Marian had mocked him.

He bent down towards her, almost as if he were about to kiss her. A feeling of panic came over her and she cried out inside herself, Oh, Paul, Paul… but at that moment there was a knock at the door and a dark foreign-looking maid stood in the doorway.

‘Please sir, Mrs Williton is here. She will speak with you.’

Down in the hall Grace Williton stood in front of a mirror, ornately framed in gilt cupids, and straightened her pink felt hat. She had decided to wear her new hat with her grey costume for this visit to her son-in-law. He would have got her letter yesterday, warning him of her visit. She was glad that the maid had said he was in. That showed that he was not shirking his duty – for once, she added sarcastically. But sarcasm was not normally within her range. She liked to think of herself as a straightforward sort of per-son. ‘People always know where they are with me,’ she would say rather smugly; it never occurred to her that people might not always want to know such things.

She began to climb the stairs, wondering as she did so if the carpet was brushed every day and if moths lurked in the darkness of the treads. She had never felt at home in this house and she never would. Neither had Marjorie, if it came to that.

‘Dr Forbes is in the library,’ said the maid, backing away from the door so that Mrs Williton could go in. ‘I say you have come.’

‘Well, Aylwin,’ she began uncompromisingly, feeling as always what a ridiculous name he had.

‘Why, Grace, this
is
a surprise!’ he brought out, feeling that while ‘Grace’ was not quite right, ‘Mother’ was impossible.

Mrs Williton had not at first seen Laurel, who was over by the table, displaying an unnatural interest in the proofs of Aylwin’s book.

‘May I introduce Miss – er – Mainwaring,’ said Aylwin, who had temporarily forgotten Laurel’s surname.

Laurel looked up in surprise, not at first recognizing herself under her aunt’s name. She saw a little dumpy woman in a grey suit and pink felt hat, her gloved hands clasped tightly together.

‘Mrs Williton – my mother-in-law,’ Aylwin explained.

‘How-do-you-do,’ Laurel murmured, smiling because of the sherry and the unlikeliness of Dr Forbes having such a banal thing as a mother-in-law. ‘I was just going,’ she added.

‘Let me see you down, then,’ said Aylwin. ‘You will excuse us, Grace? I shan’t be a moment.’

‘I didn’t know you had a mother-in-law,’ said Laurel brightly, as they were going down the stairs.

‘Well, it isn’t the kind of thing one reveals – or conceals, for that matter,’ said Aylwin, unhappy that the evening should be ending in this slightly ridiculous way. ‘I’m sorry she should have chosen to call just no w.’

‘But I had to go anyway,’ Laurel reminded him.

‘You must come again. Goodbye!’ He took her hand and kissed it lightly. Laurel, astonished and inclined to giggle, ran out into the square.

Upstairs Mrs Williton prowled uneasily round the room, beating her still gloved hands together. She noticed the two sherry glasses and the almost empty decanter. Plying a young girl with drink, she thought, assuming that the decanter had been full at the start of the evening. It was disgusting. She had always known that her son-in- law was a man of loose moral character, but never before had she been confronted with the actual proof of his degeneracy. What might not have happened had she not chosen to arrive at that moment! And in a library, too, surrounded by great literature! She removed her gloves and took out her spectacles to peer at some of the titles of the books surrounding her – such fine old leather bindings, but the gilt lettering was a little difficult to read.
The Rosciad
,
Night Thoughts
,
The Pleasures of Imagination
,
The Bastard
– could it be? She peered more closely; it
looked
like ‘Bastard’, or was it perhaps ‘Bustard’, a kind of bird? … She turned away from the books shocked and confused. What made the whole thing even more shocking was that Aylwin should be carrying on in this way when he must have known from her letter that she would be arriving at any moment. And yet that too was typical of him. The man was – what was that word that Miss Wellcome had used when they met in the library that day and she had been returning a book about Lord Byron?  –  
a
libertine
, that was it. She repeated it to herself, saying it almost out loud.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Grace.’ Aylwin almost bounded into the room. ‘Do sit down and we’ll have a drink. What would you like?’ He fetched a clean glass from the table and stood for perhaps the third time that evening with the decanter poised.

‘No, thank you. You know I never take spirits,’ said Mrs Williton, pursing her hps.

‘Well, sherry isn’t “spirits” ‘ – he seemed to emphasize the word in a sarcastic way, she thought – ‘But I dare say we’ve got some tomato juice or something like that downstairs. I’ll ring for it.’

‘No, thank you – I don’t want anything. You got my letter?’

‘No, I didn’t. You wrote to me, then?’

‘Yes, the day before yesterday. It should have arrived by now.’

‘The evening post is here.’ He went over to the table. ‘But I haven’t had time to look at it yet.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ she said grimly.

‘Let me see – ah, yes, here it is. But my dear Grace, you put Quince Square, S.W.11! The correct address is W.11, you know. No wonder it was delayed! It’s probably been to wherever S.W.11 may be
  –  
Balham or Barnes or Battersea
  –  
who knows.’ He tossed off the names with a light contemptuous air, as if it was scarcely believable that people should actually live in such places, ‘Shall I read what you say or would you rather deliver your message in person?’

‘I only said I was coming to see you.’

‘Why didn’t you telephone?’

‘It was better to write.’ Mrs Williton had a deep mistrust and fear of the telephone, which she would use only in the gravest emergency. ‘Now that I’m here, all I want to ask is what you propose to do about Marjorie.’

‘What
can
I do?’ Aylwin poured himself some more sherry. ‘
She
left
me
, after all. I even tried to visit her once, which is more than she has done.’

‘When was that?’

‘You were having a jumble sale in aid of the organ fund,’ said Aylwin drily. ‘It seemed not
quite
the time to call.’

Mrs Williton’s grim expression softened for a moment, then her lips tightened again into a hard line.

Thinking of that handsome young organist, no doubt, said Aylwin to himself.

‘I’m sorry you felt unable to come into the house,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if you’d given us some warning …’

‘The whole point seemed to be to come
without
warning – on the impulse of the moment.’

‘It is always unwise to act on an impulse,’ said Mrs Williton.

‘Yes, I rather agree with you,’ he said. Had not his own marriage been that kind of an action? And Marjorie’s leaving him, also?

‘Couldn’t you and Marjorie have a talk with your brother?’ Mrs Williton suggested. ‘After all, a clergyman must see so much of this kind of thing – he would surely be able to help.’

‘Neville has seen rather
too
much,’ said Aylwin. ‘He’s quite unable to manage his own affairs, let alone advise other people.’

‘Our Father Tulliver is very wise,’ she persisted. ‘How would it be if you were to spend Easter with us? He could probably spare a moment to see you – I’m sure he would, though Easter is a very busy time for the clergy, as you know.’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. I have made arrangements to spend Easter in Tuscany this year.’

‘
Tuscany?
’ The mingling of incredulity and horror in Mrs Williton’s tone made him wonder what she imagined he was going to do.

‘Yes, in Tuscany,’ he repeated. ‘A part of Italy, you know – delightful in April.’

‘Oh, Italy!’ Her tone was contemptuous now. Italy and libertines seemed to go together quite naturally. Tuscany had sounded more sinister. Perhaps because the word reminded her of ‘tusks’, she had thought vaguely of elephants and Africa, or something farther back in the dark ages – mammoths, she believed. It was all very confused. She eased the pink hat slightly off her brow, where it was beginning to give her a headache, and stood up.

‘I can do nothing here,’ she said wearily.

‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that,’ said Aylwin pleasantly. ‘Why didn’t Marjorie come herself? How
is
she, by the way?’ he continued chattily as they made their way downstairs. ‘And what are
you
doing for Easter? Why not arrange to have a few days at Taviscombe – I’m sure my mother would be glad to have you. The hotel isn’t usually very full at Easter.’

And being related by marriage we should be taken on reduced terms and given poky little rooms at the top of the house, thought Mrs Williton grimly. Still, it was an idea. A breath of sea air would do her girlie good. Perhaps not at Easter, though. One did not want the upset of a strange church over the Festival, and then there was Father Tulliver’s Easter offering. She preferred to put it in the bag herself rather than send it to one of the churchwardens. One could never be
absolutely
sure that it would get to Father Tulliver that way, though of course it was ridiculous to feel that, really – they were both perfectly honest…

Mrs Williton walked briskly from the house without looking back. She had remembered noticing a tea-shop near the Underground station and she made her way towards it for that cup of strong reviving tea which Aylwin had not offered and which her pride would not have allowed her to demand. Here she sat, strength flowing back into her with the sweet brown liquid, while a big jolly-looking woman from the West Indies cleared away the used crockery and wiped over the table top with a huge dusky hand. It was about half past six in the evening and other solitary people sat, reviving themselves after their day or summoning up the strength to go home. Most of them looked as if they had problems worrying them – a novelist or a sociologist might have felt very near the heart of reality at that moment. But Mrs Williton was neither of these things. She finished her tea and made her way down into the station. As she stood uncomfortably in the District Line train, she began to wonder why Marjorie had married Aylwin, and when no answer suggested itself she went on to wonder why anybody married anybody. It only brought trouble to themselves and their relations.

THE morning of the Sunday chosen by Dulcie and Viola for their visit to Neville Forbes’s church was warm and springlike. It was the Fourth Sunday in Lent – Refreshment or Mothering Sunday – and Dulcie wondered if Aylwin had sent a present to his mother in the West Country. She somehow imagined that he had not. It was difficult to imagine him among all the cards and suitable ‘gifts’ that had suddenly blossomed in the shops. Dulcie preferred to think of him ordering a case of wines to be sent or choosing a piece of antique jewellery in a dark little shop.

During the morning she wrote some letters and went out to post them just before lunch. As she was returning, a taxi stopped in the road, and out got Mrs Beltane, holding Felix in her arms, followed by a good-looking elderly clergyman, carrying a bunch of narcissi. Felix, released from captivity, bounded along the pavement, yapping excitedly, and Dulcie stooped down to pet him. She was surprised and not a little curious to see Mrs Beltane with a clergyman. It seemed not to be quite in character, for, as far as she knew, Mrs Beltane never went to church. She was of that school which prefers to worship in a garden or some lovely ‘spot’: indeed, she would probably have maintained, if challenged, that one is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth.