The Happy Prisoner (17 page)

“Read the paper.”

“
Horse and Hound
hasn't come this week.”

She came back with the children's enamel milk-measuring jug, the” kettle, which she wedged crookedly, hissing, on the fire, several doorsteps of bread, the bowl of dripping, two kitchen knives and two mugs with nursery rhymes on the sides. “I found these in the cupboard,” she said. “D'you remember them? This was yours—Old King Cole—and the Simple Simon one was Heather's. Mine's broken.” Although she had not been a particularly happy child, always left out of her brother's and sister's schemes, she often harked back with an unfounded nostalgia. “This was Daddy's toasting fork, wasn't it?” she said, taking it off the hook by the side of the fire. She and her father had not been especially fond of each other, but at least he had left her alone and had not seemed to notice when she got bad reports or was stupid with visitors.

She hummed throatily as she made the toast. She was very happy. She was never allowed to do anything for Oliver. There was never anything she could do, but today she had given him a tea which he enjoyed and they had had a lot of laughs. When they had finished, and the kettle was black all over and the milk jug black all up one side where Violet had stood it near the fire to keep hot, Oliver, licking greasy fingers, said: “This is nice, Vi. Thanks for looking after me. You're getting quite domesticated.”

Violet, lying on the hearthrug with her feet under the armchair, her third mug of tea cradled in her hands, said: “Oh, rot. I'm no good in a house and never shall be.”

“I can't see that it matters. It's better to be like you than those women who rush at the table with a rag and a tin of polish before you've even finished your dinner.”

Vi grunted and took a noisy swallow of tea. “It's all right
now
, Ollie,” she said presently, “with Ma and everyone to do things, but I mean, suppose one had to do it, if one were looking after a house, or some rot like that.”

“What, you mean if you were married?” People had stopped talking about Violet marrying a long time ago, when it became quite clear that she never would.

She guffawed. “Me married! Don't make me laugh.” But
there had been something a little forced and unnatural about her guffaw. An insane idea came to Oliver, but looking at his sister slumped on the hearthrug in a pile of lumpy chunks, he put it aside.

“Ollie,” she said suddenly, “shall I tell you something?”

“Anything you like.” But her impulse had already passed and she mumbled: “No, it's nothing. Don't think I will.” He turned on the wireless and a cinema organ began to sob quietly that roses were blooming in Picardy, with every note a tremolo.

“I like that thing,” said Violet, humming it off key. She put down her mug and lit a cigarette, then heaved herself over on to her back, where she lay with her head propped against the footstool and her feet on the seat of the armchair. “It was really why I didn't go out today,” she said. “Not because I had a cold.” While she was coughing, Oliver turned down the wireless, only a fraction, in case she should be put off by his too obvious attention.

“It's so silly really,” she went on, when her paroxysm was over, putting her hands behind her head and mumbling through her cigarette. “I don't know what to do. Never had to cope with this sort of thing before.”

“Anything I can do?” Oliver suggested.

“Gosh, no. You see, what makes it all so difficult is that nobody likes him.”

“Likes who?”

“Fred, of course. That's what I'm talking about.”

“But I like him. I think he's a grand chap.”

“Oh, you. You'd like anybody. You've gone soft since you were wounded. Nobody else does. I didn't even think I liked him much myself. He's not so bad, though. He's been jolly decent to me.”

“What's he done, then, that makes it all so difficult?”

“Asked me to marry him,” said Violet in her grimmest, gruffest voice.

“Good God!” said Oliver before he could stop himself.

“Go on,” she said, “laugh. I know it's damn funny.”

“It's not as funny as you think,” he said. “I think it's a jolly good idea.”

She squinted round at him, but could not see his face at that distance, so she turned her head back again, wriggled her feet farther on to the armchair and said: “You make me tired. You're as bad as the rest of them. That's what they'd all say—jolly good idea to get old Vi off, even to Fred.”

“What am I supposed to do then? Register horror and say that no Williams is good enough for a North?”

“Don't be wet.” She threw her cigarette on to the fire and suddenly laughed, relaxing in relief at having got it off her chest.

.…

“I say, Ollie, you know, it was damned funny really,” she giggled. “Fred of all people. You could have knocked me down with a boathook. But he was so decent about it, and I felt such an ass. It's supposed to be the high spot of a girl's life, isn't it? Not girls like me though. I did feel a lemon.

It was a couple of days ago. I'd been having tea with him in his cottage. I do sometimes, you know, when we've finished work. I rather like it there; dogs all over the place, a nice smell of horse blankets drying, and it doesn't matter where you put your feet Homey.

Fred always makes the tea, and gets the buns out and all that. He's awfully good at that sort of thing. He'd have to be, wouldn't he, if we— Keep your hair on; I'm not going to.

It's too
mad
. Old Fred and I, we get on pretty well. After all, I've worked for him for five years now, and we can be together without having to gas. That's one thing I do like about Fred, I must say. He's almost as good company as a dog. Well, this particular day, we were both dead beat. We'd been a couple of men short or something—oh yes, and I know—something went wrong with the drier and Fred spent about three hours messing about inside the works. When we'd had our tea—Eccles cakes it was—we both dropped off. He's got a rocking chair there. I do like a rocking chair. I woke up, feeling an owl, and honestly, Ollie, I thought he was ill or something. He was leaning forward, half out of his chair, staring at me, bright red in the face. He did look funny; his eyes were all bulgy and he kept opening and shutting his mouth like a fish. I thought he was going to have a fit or something, and I was just wondering whether I ought to go for Elizabeth, when he suddenly said, in the most odd, squeaky voice: ‘Violet, I'd like you to marry me.' That was exactly what he said; I'll never forget it. D'you know what I did? I laughed. Wasn't it awful? I felt sorry afterwards, because he was hurt, but, honestly, I couldn't help it. It must be my perverse what-d'you-call-it that Miss Driver always said I had. When I'd come to a bit, I asked him why, and he talked a lot of rot, you know, about being lonely, and us getting on together, and couldn't we make a go of it. It's all right, there wasn't anything about love. It wasn't quite that funny. He would keep calling me Violet, though. I mean, he
never
calls me anything but Vi.

For a moment, I almost said yes, because I was sorry I'd
laughed, but then—you know how dumb I am—somehow I couldn't. So I biffed off as quick as I could, and when I got home and looked at myself in the glass, I was darned glad I hadn't, because I knew he obviously couldn't have meant it. I felt such a sausage having to see him the next day, but, thank God, he'd forgotten about it. At least, I thought he'd forgotten, but in the afternoon the silly ass suddenly clutched me when we were going across the rick yard to look at that barley that Tom said was going mouldy, and said: ‘I'm still waiting for my answer.' Just like someone in a book. I told him not to be wet—I mean, how could anyone marry me? I'd be as much use as a wife as a sick cow. He got quite cross. You ever seen Fred cross? Of course that made me laugh again, and he got madder than ever, and said I was being coy.
Me
coy! I hopped it then, and I haven't seen him since. Thank God this cold gave me an excuse not to go to the farm, but I can't keep it up for ever.

Ollie, what shall I do? I can't face him again, much less go on working with him like we did before. I had an awful thought in bed last night. I thought perhaps he'd only asked me because he was sorry for me not getting off.”

.…

“Ollie, I think I shall have to go away. What shall I tell Ma?”

“Tell her you're going to marry Fred.”

“Shut up. I'm serious.”

“So am I. If you want to, of course. I think he'd make a pretty good husband myself, far better than most.”

“How could I?” She had rolled on to her side to look at him, her hips an enormous mound in the air. “I don't know whether I do want to.' I haven't the foggiest idea what it's like to be married. I couldn't dither round the house all day making tasty dishes and putting out his slippers and kissing him when he came in from work. Can you see me?”

“Other women do it.”

“Yes, but I'm not other women. I don't like doing the things that women do. I like doing the things that women do. I have tried, Ollie, these last few days; you know—a bit of powder here and there and trying to do my hair nicely, but it doesn't work, and it's a hell of a bore.”

“Look here, Vi,” Oliver said eagerly, “if he asked you to marry him, he obviously likes you as you are. And if you did, why shouldn't you go on working at the farm, the same as you do now? It would be a very good partnership.”

“And him go on paying me?”

“No, you ass, not if you were his wife.”

She laughed. “Perhaps that's why he asked me, to get a spot of free labour.” She let down her feet with a thud and got up. “I think it'll go and put some pants on. It's damned draughty in a skirt and these suspenders are giving me hell. Why does this dress look so funny, Ollie?” She tugged at it. “I've tried putting a different belt on it, and wearing a scarf the way Heather does, but it doesn't look right. No, I'm afraid if Fred wants a wife he'll have to find someone else.”

“He doesn't want anyone else, he wants you. And he wants you as you are,” he repeated. “I'm sure he wouldn't expect you to try and make yourself different.”

“Couldn't, anyway, if I. wanted to, old bean.” She stretched and yawned. “Heigh ho! Well, I've got that off my chest, anyway. Ollie, if you ever tell a soul, I'll shoot you in your bed with that rook rifle you gave me. The old spinster will now clear away the tea-thing before Ma comes back and finds out what we've been up to.” She clattered about in the hearth.

The cinema organ was now playing a curly version of the
Blue Danube
. Oliver said: “Oh, Vi, do marry him. It would be very unkind not to. He's frightfully keen on you.”

She turned round, scarlet with stooping, embarrassment and her cold. “That's the best joke I've heard yet,” she said without laughing.

“No, honestly, I mean it. He practically told me so one day, hinted like anything,” he lied.

Violet came slowly towards the bed, dangling the dripping jug from one hand. “I wish I. had my specs on; I could see whether you were lying.”

“Cross my heart,” said Oliver, crossing his fingers under the sheet.

Violet looked past him out of the window, her rugged face softened and shadowed in the failing light. “D'you know what the Min. of Ag. want Fred to do?” she said. “They want him to plough up the hill field and grow crops on it. Have you ever heard of anything so mad, even with tractors?” She listened. “There's that bull calf shouting again,” she said. “He's been at it since Thursday. I remember hearing him when I was in the cottage, though I didn't take much notice; I was in too much of a stew. It would be rather nice in a way,” she went on thoughtfully, “to have my own house to do what I liked in. I could have Poppy and Dalesman indoors, and we wouldn't ever have to have visitors. D'you think everyone would laugh if I said I was going to marry Fred?”

“Hullo there!” Mary Brewer burst in at the door, carrying her little fibre attaché case. “Soft lights and sweet music, eh?
Oh Danube so blue
…” She waltzed across the room and fetched up giggling by Oliver's bed, not looking directly at him. Violet picked up the rest of the tea-things from the fireplace and went away.

.…

He was bursting to tell someone. He even wanted to tell Mary Brewer. She would have thought it deliciously romantic, but of course she didn't know Fred. He told her about the surgical spirit instead and she put on rather an uppish voice and walked with dignity to the cupboard in the panelling in the little recessed corner of the room. “I was always given to understand this was where it lived,” she said and put it prominently on a table. “I'll leave it here so she'll be sure to see it when she comes back.” Mary and Elizabeth, who had never met, always spoke of each other as She.

Mrs. North and Heather got home late, and Oliver heard both David and Susan crying in the hall. There had apparently been some trouble at the party about presents. The hostess had muddled them up and given David's to another child who would not part with it and David had made a scene. Heather would not let him come in to see Oliver, but took him straight upstairs, wailing. No one came in at cocktail time that evening. Heather was too busy, Evelyn had gone out with a torch to see how much whitewashing had been done without her, and Violet had disappeared.

“She's gone out,” Oliver's mother told him. “Isn't that just like her? After hanging around the house all day being a pest to everyone, she goes out as soon as it gets cold and damp. She can't be so ill after all.”

“She's all right.” Oliver was longing to tell her. He wondered where Violet was. Could she have gone to see Fred already? The thought that he might have influenced her was most gratifying.