The Balliols (36 page)

And all the time he was chattering away. He hadn't written; he didn't believe in letters. One didn't say things the way one wanted. One got misunderstood. Letters were a substitute. Always best to wait till you could see someone. Besides, he'd been busy. She couldn't think how busy. Living in tents, too. He didn't stop talking the whole way to the Ritz. Yet it was she, not he, who seemed breathless when they got there.

Not that she felt shy with him. On the contrary, she had the feeling of being at last back where she belonged. It was not till they had taken their seats in the restaurant, till lunch had been ordered and the wine agreed upon, that they really looked at one another. Then their eyes met in such a slow fond look of home-coming as the traveller fixes on a familiar, long-loved landscape: a recognition, a reassurance, a taking of it all in, bit by bit; a seeing that it is still all there, that for absence' sake it is dearer than it ever was.

A smile came into their eyes. They burst out laughing. This is very good, they said.

Just as that other time that they had lunched, their talk was light, casual, easy. He told her about his camp, his brother officers, the men; what he liked, what he disliked about the life; what his
plans were; when he expected to be sent out. She told him about the canteens she worked at; her various experiences; the things the men had said to her; the new types that she had met.

“It's hard work,” she said. “A twelve-hour day quite often. And the nights.… One begins to feel pretty drear by four o'clock.”

It was not till the very end that he made any reference to their own plans, his and hers.

“I suppose that you're not so chaperoned now that there's a war on?”

There was a twinkle in his eyes. For answer she drew a latchkey from her bag and tossed it on to the table.

“No one knows where I am or what I'm doing, nowadays.”

“Are you on duty to-day, at all?”

“I was: from nine this evening; till I got your letter.”

There was no need for further explanation.

“Hampstead's a long way off,” he said. “Shall I tell you what? We'll save you the long journey out there by getting a dress at Paquin's.”

“But.…”

“That's a very nice coat and skirt. But I'm not going to let you wear it in my company after seven. Come along now.”

For a moment she hesitated; then fell in with his mood. Why not, after all? Since he was in a party spirit, since he had been away for six weeks from London and lights and dresses, since he was in the mood to enjoy wasting money; and since, all other things set aside, it would be so very much more convenient, would save so many explanations not to have to go back home to change.

So they went to Paquin's, and a great many mannequins swayed and undulated in front of them; and a great many frocks were tried on, were set aside, were tried again, before almost in desperation Ruth pointed a finger at a shiver of silver tissue. “It's got to be that,” she said.

“Now for some shoes,” said Victor.

His eyes had the brightness of a small child in a toy shop. For six weeks he had been exiled from luxury, elegance, display. He's loving it, thought Ruth. I'd be a spoil sport to try and stop him. She did not check him when he insisted that she might like to sit in front of a fire after her bath, that she really needed a dressing-gown. And what was the point of a dressing-gown without a night-dress? And if she was going to wear a dressing-gown after her bath, a great many things were needed before she could have a bath. So he told the taxi, which was already high-piled with packages, and whose
meter registered twenty-seven shillings, to drive to Elizabeth Arden. From which ten minutes later they withdrew, bearing a sponge two feet across, and a vast array of bath salts, face creams, drying powders. He was inclined to stop at Asprey's and acquire a dressing-table set of hair brushes and mirrors. But there Ruth drew the line. “I've enough things to explain away already. Let's take these back.”

As the taxi rattled towards the river, she remembered in what spirit she had driven there only seven weeks ago: excited, a little frightened, on her guard, ready to throw up defences. She was less excited now, more thrilled. There was no shyness left; no sense of being on her guard. On the contrary, the relief of being able to relax. Last time when she had come into the flat, she had taken a quick, apprehensive look about her; as though she were entering an arena, a scene set for conflict. She had now a sense of home-coming, just as Victor had. He had not been here for six weeks. He looked round with an air of relish. Though it was September, and still fairly warm, fires were burning in the sitting-room and bedroom. They were friendly and welcoming.

“I'm glad Chambers thought of that; he's a stout fellow.”

He tossed the packages on to the chesterfield.

“I've not had a lie-down bath since Saturday. I'm going to have one now,” he said.

“And I want to try those bath salts.”

That first time she had been grateful to him for leaving her alone. She would have felt awkward pulling chemises over her head, getting caught up in them, not knowing what she must be looking like, with a slip of silk half-way up her back and her hands waving despairingly above her head. But now it seemed the most natural thing in the world to patter about the flat half-dressed, to dive her way out of camisoles in the middle of an anecdote; to perch herself on the edge of the bath, sprinkling him with crystals; to dry herself before the fire. It was all of it very different, and very much more jolly.

And afterwards, when he took her in his arms, that too was different.

Before, there had been a part of herself held back; a part of herself that was outside, that was watching what was going on, was thinking “Here's Ruth Balliol having her first affair,” so that with a part of herself she was watching, waiting, wondering, making notes, almost scientifically. And in part, too, she had been afraid, with a nervousness that she had checked and concealed almost from herself, by the excitement of“ being a devil “; so that there had been an incompleteness
that she had scarcely noticed; of which she was only fully aware now when there was no reserve, no outside part wondering what would happen next; instead a completeness of surrender, a giving and a taking that surprised her into a fullness of sensation of which before she had experienced casual intimations; not so much in point of actual rapture, as the feeling that she had never known herself before; that she was launched upon a voyage of self-discovery; a sea of limitless delight.

That evening in the restaurant she did not notice the heads that turned in her direction as she walked to their table at Victor's side. At the theatre as they strolled round the hall between the acts, it was by shadows, friendly shadows, that they were hailed and greeted. She was conscious only of the warm feeling of happiness about her heart. In a little while, in three hours, two hours, one hour, I shall be in his arms again.

It was close on eleven next morning when she sat up with a start in bed. “I've got to get up,” she said.

She looked down at him as he lay beside her, his head cradled on the pillow in his crossed and lifted hands. His hair was ruffled and damp upon his forehead like a tousled faun's. The sleeves of his pyjama coat had fallen back below his elbows. The skin of his forearm was very white, with a faint down of hairs on it; in contrast to his brown hands and face. His coat lay open, the line of his neck and shoulders had an Attic grace. “Yes, I love you, right enough. More than you know; more than you ever will know. It would worry you if I tried to tell you. You might have a feeling of responsibility to me then. It would make it all too serious for you. It might bring in tragedy. You want this to be light, carefree; a reckless spending of your last hours of freedom. I can make it that for you. That's how I can prove my love to you; not by protestations, by writing you ten-page letters every day; but by making your leaves happy for you; by not being a nuisance; by being out of the way when you don't want me; by being the thing you'd have me be.” And looking down at him as he lay there, she realized by that divinatory second-sight that takes you behind the screen of another's thought—you are so absorbed in another person that you become that person, seeing through their eyes—how at that moment he was thinking of all the masculine things that he needed to do that day, his first day of leave; and was not quite sure that he'd be able to manage them because she was there. He was hardly aware that he was thinking
that. But a shadow of preoccupation lay across his brow. Ruth knew how to settle that.

“Shall I tell you what I'm going to do now?” she said. “I'm going to go straight back home. I'm going to tell them that I've had a fearfully long night at the canteen, that I've got to be back in London again by seven, that I'm going straight up to my room and that I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Oh but… well… I thought we'd have lunch, and then do a matinée or something.”

His protest was not quite convincing. She detected, or fancied she detected, a tone of relief. Even if he isn't relieved, it's as well that he should have a holiday from me. He'll be glad, really, to be alone; to go to his club, his hairdresser, see his friends. And even if he isn't now, he will be another time. He mustn't get the idea that he's got to spend his whole time with me.

She ignored his protests.

“Though I've got a latchkey, I've still got to give some kind of an account of what I'm doing. Besides,” she added with a laugh, “I need some sleep.”

The autumn of ‘14 and the spring of ‘15 which have now in retrospect such different meanings for so many people, were for Ruth Balliol a protracted honeymoon. With his preliminary training finished, Victor was allowed a reasonable amount of leave. Practically all of it he spent in London, and Ruth was able to arrange her canteen duties to suit his leisure. She lived for his leaves. They never wrote to one another. They never planned ahead. They would take a casual leave-taking. “I'll let you know when I'll be coming up again,” he'd say. “Give me twenty-four hours' warning and I'll be free,” she'd answer. A week would pass, ten days, as much as a fortnight sometimes. Then there would be a telegram or a card: the day, the train, the station. And for a day, two days, three days, Ruth would be the inhabitant of another country.

Happiness has no history. There are no detailed stages to a happy honeymoon. Minutes were hours, hours days. They went to theatres; sometimes they drove out to Richmond for a morning's golf; often when it was wet they would spend a whole day picnicking in the flat, playing a gramophone, dancing to a gramophone, kissing as they danced, turning on baths and then forgetting them; laughing, chattering, making love. Then in the evening when the hooded lamps flung their reflections on the glistening pavements they would dress and go out to dinner, languid with loving, utterly at peace.

For Ruth it was a deepening, widening enchantment. She had never known before, she had never suspected before, the luxury of giving, of yielding herself, her thoughts, her memories into another's keeping; so that there seemed nothing left of herself to give; though every day, every night, she found there was. It was like diving into a deep, clear pool that grew deeper and deeper every second, whose floor she felt that she must surely reach at any moment, and yet never did. It was complete surrender. Yet in spite of its completeness, though she was utterly abandoned to another, she felt more alive, more herself, more complete than she had ever dreamed of being. She seemed to be knowing herself for the first time. Every hour with him the miracle widened, deepened, sweetened.

She was so happy that she never wondered what or how much it meant to Victor. She was so happy that the world round her had a shadowy look; the long hours at the canteen, the irritating supervisions of her superiors; the badinage with soldiers across a trestled table; her lessons at a garage, till she could not only drive a car but overhaul an engine, so that she should be ready, if occasion offered, to drive a lorry or an ambulance. All that was shadowy. Just as her life at home was shadowy. Her father's discussion of to-day's and the evening's news, his recital of conversations; of what had been said to him by this man and what by that, the high-pitched precise voice, reducing to the same level of indifference the capture of ten thousand prisoners on the Western front and the duty on wine that the next Budget was likely to enforce. Hugh coming back on leave from Berkhamsted, first with a lance-corporal's, then a corporal's stripes upon his arm, then one afternoon in January jubilantly announcing the news that he was gazetted to the Loamshires; taking Francis with him on his first walk through London as an officer. Francis excitedly announcing afterwards, “He was saluted by eighty-one privates, ten corporals, a sergeant and”—after a pause—”two sergeant-majors.” Her mother's vague acceptance of all this novelty, listening and rarely questioning, usually commenting at random as though she had been following another train of thought. The weekly letters from Lucy, with their amusingly out-of-date comments on events which already appeared to belong to another century, since they had happened three weeks earlier; the bulletins about Lucy's health; her fears that she would have to stay in Malaya till the war was over, adding that she supposed it couldn't be for very long. Of all that Ruth was too happy to take any real account.

She was too happy to look far ahead. She lived in the moment.
On all sides of her she felt a living in the moment; in the hurry with which men and women walked the streets; the brightness of their eyes; the pitch and frequency of their laughs; the crowded restaurants; the queues outside the music-halls; the speed of the revues; the fast pulse of the music; as though there were everywhere a hurrying, a dread of missing something, a resolve to make the most of every instant. It was as though the world was saying, or all those “at least who lived in happiness were saying: “This cannot last, we know that. The dark hours lie ahead, we are prepared for them. But there is first this moment of happiness to be enjoyed. We will pay the price for it afterwards, to the last farthing. But we must have it first, to enjoy fully.” The knowledge that they were perched precariously on the branch that sustained this happiness made every moment richer, tenser, more complete. The thought “This may be for the last time” made them proudly, recklessly improvident.