The Diamond Waterfall (54 page)

In the last week before he left she developed a kidney infection—she supposed it to be that, since the symptoms were the same as once before. She decided to tell no one, at least until she could be sure it would be the new doctor sent for. Apart from the pain, she felt sick—an empty cold nausea. She spent two days in bed, pleading a stomach upset.

She knew that he would come to say good-bye. When he arrived she was sitting downstairs, writing letters. She bit her lips to give them color, and stood up to greet him.

He was carrying a puppy in his arms. Asleep, one paw hanging over coat sleeve, pink stomach just visible beneath the Airedale fluff. For a few moments they were alone. His face, white and strained, betrayed fatigue and pain. His first words when the maid had left:

“You're all right? They said, darling—”

“But
yes.
Just some upset—something silly with, whatever do you doctors call it,
waterworks.
I'll get it seen to by your successor.”

“It isn't—it's nothing to do with—what happened?” She shook her head.

“You would tell me? You promised. I could not go if—”

“It's all right, truly.”

Still he hesitated. She was tempted again. I have only to say I am worried, and he will know what to do.

“You're quite quite certain?”

“Yes, really. Yes.”

The seconds ticked by. They were both silent. I could speak now, she thought desperately. There is still time. She put a finger out and stroked the puppy's sleeping head. He said:

“It's for you, you know—”

“Oh, but darling. I, I …” Tears, always near the surface, threatened to spill.
I cry for our parting.

“I thought of it last month, when I saw the litter, but couldn't decide. Most of this man's Airedales are trained as ladies' guards. I somehow thought of him taking care of you …” He paused. “When I cannot.”

She said, “Mother will be here in a moment. Clarice will have called her.” She felt sick with pain, cold, misery. The visit was almost over. He said, quickly, for at any moment they would no longer be alone:

“I shan't write—as we agreed. But for the last time, thank you—for the sort of happiness I didn't and never could deserve.”

The ache, an ache to touch, hung, unbearable. She could feel it still as, cold and sick and small, she told Mother in a bright voice:

“Oh, but look at this gorgeous little puppy—Dr. Selwood had agreed to buy it for his children before his new post was settled and now he wonders if we can give it a home? Of course I said yes! Isn't it absolutely dear? How I shall love it”—she stumbled over her words—“come here into my arms, then, see I've woken it—isn't it sweet? Oh, but I shall give it
so much love.”

On an ocean liner bound for New York, Teddy Nicolson, aged twenty-two, was on her first long sea voyage.

She had come alone (although she had tried to persuade Sylvia). It was all part of her determination to travel. And a visit to New York would be a fresh experience, the excitement of another culture. She meant to enjoy herself. Also, the visit would give her mother pleasure: although they were never completely at ease with each other, she cared so very much that all should be right for Lily. Soon, please God, Lily would be able to marry her Erik. Mother deserves that happiness, Teddy thought. And I, I feel part of
her
side
of the family, so that time spent with Aunt Daisy, a stay with Cousin Ruth and her children—she could not help but feel happy anticipation, a sense of purpose.

On board, money bought comfort. A first-class cabin, and every advantage that went with that. And dance, dance, dance. Her feet tapped relentlessly. It was almost as if she'd chosen the boat for its dance band, the quality of its dance floor. She did not consider herself in mourning for Robert. She did not, to be truthful, mourn him very much. He had never liked her and had shown it (at least now she knew the reason why).

Gossip, drinks, deck quoits, shuffleboard—and dancing. By the second evening out, two men at least had suggested a visit to her cabin. She did not expect to take up these suggestions. Saint might well not be faithful in her absence, but for some undefined reason, she felt that she should.

There was a vast heated swimming pool, marble benches around its sides, a fountain playing at the head of the twin staircases above it. She and Daphne Hillier, another young widow, were there every morning. Daphne's five-year-old daughter Iris was enchanting, with fat dimpled knees which she showed to Teddy daily. (Oh, the envy. If that child were
mine.)

In the evenings Daphne and she swapped dancing partners: Max Gunning in the diamond business (and fascinated by hearing about the Waterfall: “all those stones, on one person!”), fancy free and keen to remain so; Wingate Stephenson from Philadelphia; Dennis Hobson-Turner in banking. She was having a good time. She and Daphne were having
a good time.

Gossiping with Daphne just after bouillon time on the last but one morning, wrapped up in steamer rugs on the promenade deck:

“You really don't want to visit Romania? My dear, it seems crazy. Aren't you curious?”

“No,” Teddy said, “I'm not.” She quickly changed the subject.

It was true. She was not curious at all. The facts themselves she would confide occasionally, but always to comparative strangers and always in offhand tones as if it were a bit of a joke. Saint she had not told. It was better not to give him weapons for his humor.

She could not bear to examine it, the story of her birth. It was unalterable past, muddled and messy. But as so often before, after talking about it, she was hit that evening by a mood of utter blackness. She, who never looked at the past, took from her jewel case the frail bundle of cheap paper, pencil already fading, that was Gib's last diary. She sat in the cabin with it on her lap, as if it held in it some consolation, some explanation of everything that had gone wrong. And knew that it did not.

She had been happy that evening, September of 1917, the seventeen-year-old bride arrived back from her honeymoon. Happy because, like everyone in
those days, she had learned to snatch the present. Happy perhaps because of what had just been. And sure, sure that she was with child.

Pleasantly tired, looking idly through the pile of mail—congratulations, good wishes, offers of photographs, advertisements. Then seeing The Letter. Secreting it at once (I must have known, she thought afterward), and reading it by herself late that night, locked in the bathroom.

… I
can't think why
I ever loved you or called you sister, to think I used to
help
you with your sewing when you were little, and that I went on loving you
after
I knew WHAT I KNOW. You see, you are just like your mother and that is nothing to be proud of, the sort of person who steals away a man. She is a cheap and deceitful—what I have to call a WHORE. Do you know what that means? No, you are too innocent or
think
you are, but really you are
very, very
wicked and you will be punished. Not him but you, because it was
you
did the wicked thing. I think that you are really a
witch
and wove a magic spell, because you are ROMANIAN—there, that gave you a surprise, didn't it? And now I am going to tell you all ABOUT IT.

On and on, written in scratchy black, two large blobs where she must have shaken the pen. It had smelled too of hospital, even though Alice had said, “I am sitting in a cafe, filled with hate and anger.”

She had wanted to believe it had been written
at once,
without time to think, by an overwrought, exhausted, war-torn woman. But that what Alice had revealed to her might perhaps not be true—she had never thought that. Long before she spoke with her mother about it, she had
known
it to be true.

She had destroyed the letter at once. The one person who must not know, must not be distressed by it, now or ever, was Gib. Deeply shocked, trembling, she passed off her upset as grief and worry about his departure. She herself felt unclean, wicked—and uncertain who she really was, as if a tree under which she sheltered had been felled. …

Gib's departure, how soon that happened. Now I shall never know peace of mind again. A day like autumn. Up behind the house the wind tore at the trees in the copse. Stray rose petals blew into the lily pond. A few hours after he left, even as she grieved, came proof that there would be, this time at least, no child.

Berthe and her mother had moved over to Harrogate, to lodge and work with a family there. Amy was more in love than ever with her Basil, who by now had made an almost complete recovery. He was to appear before a board any moment, and after that he too might be sent back to France. “We have a secret understanding, Teddy. You won't tell a soul?”

Six long months passed. It was the winter of 1918. By now Basil was back out again. She heard regularly from Gib, but no mention of leave. Then
in March he was reported missing. She thought “missing” a cruel word, in spite of, or rather
because
of, its small grain of hope. How many people in the end heard good news? When exactly did one give up hope?

Easter, spring, Maytime, blossom—the war news worse and worse. She began to think of herself as a widow (“It's best, really it's best.”). Her mother was especially kind. So much so that often she would ask her about the Romanian story. Even Robert seemed sympathetic. She supposed someone had told Alice—since she had not. (She tried now never to think of The Letter.) She was helped, supported, by all the officers now at The Towers. Everyone knew, everyone cared. Amy, when she received a letter from Basil, would be afraid Teddy might be upset, would hesitate before mentioning it.

In June, Settstone had its Midsummer Fair, held every five years, although there had been talk of postponing it because of the war. Amy and Teddy, taking an afternoon off, made the round of the sideshows: Teddy, for Amy's sake, trying to put enthusiasm into weight-guessing, shove-penny.

There was a small tent behind the coconut shies with a notice: Gypsy Eliza Lee, Fortuneteller to kings, emperors and moguls.

Amy said, “Oh, let's—shall we?”

Why not? Inside the tent Gypsy Eliza, a dark spotted scarf down over her forehead, sat at a small table. She had a lot of hair on her face, particularly the chin.

“That'll be five shilling.” Her accent was very Yorkshire. When they had handed over a half-a-crown coin each, she told them to sit down. The tent was hot and smelled of stale beer and rubber. They waited in hushed nervousness.

“You'll have questions then, about loved ones? It's nowt else these days. I'll do best I can.”

As, hands still, she concentrated on the crystal ball in front of her, it seemed to Teddy, waiting her turn, that here, last resort of all, must be
the key.
I believe, she told herself—as if she were in church.

“Basil, you said? I'm looking hard—we're—he's over there, is he, somewhere in France? I see—no, it's not clear. It's gone misty, love, quite misty, I'm having difficulty, dear. Wait … he's smiling now, he's in white, yes, dear, that's him, he's—I think he's throwing a bomb would it be? No, a
ball”

“Yes, yes,” Amy said eagerly. “Cricket, he only thinks about cricket. He—”

But Gypsy Eliza interrupted her, staring at Teddy: “What's his name, young lady? … Well, I see Gib. He's fair, dear, and tall, yes? But thin— was he always too thin? Wait a while, he's lying down, yes, he's … what's this, there's sand—where's he fighting, dear? I'm a little confused—but he's moving, don't fear, he's alive right enough. But it's hot, dear, and you'll pardon me, it doesn't smell nice, there's something, some bad smell.”

Suddenly Teddy had had enough, and she ran out, hungrily breathing in
fresh air outside. Amy followed her. “We shouldn't have …” She was almost crying. “People are right, you shouldn't—I was frightened even though it's nonsense. Except …” she hesitated, “she
seemed
to think Basil's all right. And Gib—she didn't know Gib was meant to be missing.”

But Teddy didn't want to talk about it. She said hurriedly, pulling out her watch, “We're meant to be in the Red Cross tent at four o'clock.”

The evening mail brought Amy a letter from Basil. Someone was getting a team together to practice a little bowling when they came out of the lines for a rest next week. Two days later she heard of his death at a casualty clearing station, of head wounds.

For Teddy the wait was longer. When the news came through that Gib, wounded and then captured, was a prisoner of war in Pomerania, relief and joy made her almost ill. He is
alive.
She mourned with Amy, but each night, kneeling by her bedside, prayed that Gib would soon be healed and the war over. … No longer a widow, she became once again the wife who waited.

Hal, and tragedy again. Mourning … Then November and the longed-for Armistice, and hope that Gib might soon be returned to her.

When he arrived, she could not believe what she saw. A tiring journey hadn't helped—he had been continuously sick between Rotterdam and Hull —but this emaciated, dull-skinned man could not be her Gib. She felt it was a stranger she embraced in front of the family, lined up to kiss him too. (Alice, sad Alice already departed. Hurrying to fulfil her vocation, her call from God.)

At first she believed his physical state, the weakness due to malnutrition, would soon be cured by good food, bracing Yorkshire air, and love. But the malaise went much deeper. Alone with him, night after night beside his chilled, almost inert body, she knew that. Rubbing his limbs, talking to him all the while, kissing him, as if the very heat of her breath could warm him deep down.

The Towers as a hospital was being wound up; as many as possible had gone home at Christmas. Gib was still in the Army, officially on convalescent leave. No mention yet of being demobilized. He himself never spoke of it. In fact, he hardly spoke at all.