The Happy Prisoner (28 page)

Violet pushed her chair disgustedly away from the table and leaned back as if she were going to tip over. “Well,” she said, “if he's not all right by my wedding day, Ollie will
have
to come. It is a swizz. Just one thing after another—everything goes against it.”

“It will be all right on the day,” droned Smutty, but no one was listening or paid any attention. They were all too busy trying to go up to John and trying to stop each other going up.

John's temperature continued to rise, and as an invalid Oliver became a back number. All the next day, he hardly saw a soul, except Lady Sandys, who kept coming in to complain that they would not let her do anything for John. He heard a lot of activity going on overhead, and after dinner they appeared to be playing general post with the furniture in John's room. It was later than usual when Mrs. North came in to say her last good night to Oliver.

He told her she looked tired, and she said: “I am a bit. Illness always makes extra to do.”

“But I thought Elizabeth—”

“She's been invaluable, of course, plumb in her element. I dare say it's quite a good thing for her to have a bit more nursing to do. After all, it is what she's trained for, and I've sometimes wondered lately if she doesn't feel she's being wasted doing more of the household chores now that there's less to do for you. She doesn't complain, but it would be just too terrible if she suddenly said she wanted to leave.”

“I don't know,” Oliver said. “You could get a proper maid. I shouldn't need another nurse.”

His mother did not allow him to talk like that. “You'll have a nurse just as long as Hugo and I say,” she told him sternly, “but I should never get one I had such confidence in as Elizabeth. Although she's so young, I feel I don't have to worry when I leave the house. I never felt that with Sandy; she would have lost her head in a crisis.”

“Crisis!” scoffed Oliver. “What crisis could I have?”

“Elizabeth's so level-headed, and she knows her job backwards. She knew just how John's illness was going to develop, and she knew just what to do for him to make him comfortable.”

“Then for Heaven's sake,” said Oliver, “why not let her get on with it, instead of wearing yourself out running round John in small circles?”

“Oh well, there are all sorts of fiddling little jobs I must do myself. I've been moving Heather's bed into the children's room tonight. John wanted it. He pretended he thought he'd have a better night if he was on his own, but really it's because he knew his coughing kept Heather awake last night.”

“That man's too good to live,” Oliver said impatiently. “It's not decent to be unselfish when you're ill, especially with an embittering thing like flu.”

“He certainly has got a lovely nature,” mused his mother. “I've never seen such a good invalid—except you, of course, darling. And don't talk about him as if he was prissy; he's very much a man—except in his unselfishness. I sometimes think Heather doesn't appreciate what a fine person she's married.”

“Too right she doesn't. His noble nature merely annoys her.”

“I don't see why it should. She has a crack at being noble herself, with all that churchgoing, even though it doesn't seem to have the right effect, poor little Heather.”

“And that annoys her all the more; to find that she tries so hard and gets up so early so often and bicycles so many miles and still can't make her peace with the world.”

“Why did she have to go the whole hog like that? She could still have gone to Mass, without tying herself up to something she may lose interest in, and as I know Heather, she always loses interest in everything she takes up. Remember her stage training? And that flower shop she and Veronica were all set to start? And look how quickly she used to tire of the people she was in love with. She was just as rash then—always getting herself tied up and then having to wriggle out of it. How many times was she engaged—three or four?”

“Four, I think,” said Oliver, reckoning, “counting that B.B.C. man who was always eating cough lozenges.”

“Well, she won't be able to wriggle out of this. It's considered a terrible thing, you know, to stop being a Catholic, even worse than never being one at all.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh, I just do.”

“You know a little about everything, don't you, like all Americans?”

“Of course,” she said proudly. “That's what we mean by being cultured.”

Oliver said unthinkingly, “She'd have to stop being a Catholic if she was divorced.”

His mother clutched at the front of her apricot silk dressing-gown. “Darling, don't,” she cried. “Even in fun. They may
not get on very well at the moment, but it's wicked of you to talk like that.”

“Don't tick
me
off. It wasn't my idea. Heather mentioned it only this morning, as a matter of fact, admittedly in a fit of temper, but it shows it's entered her head.”

“I refuse even to think about it,” said his mother grandly, her brain obviously whirling with the subject. “I never heard such crazy nonsense.” She did her last little jobs for Oliver, like shaking up his pillows, and straightening his eiderdown, and giving an extra turn to the cap of the thermos, and putting her hand into the open window space to feel what sort of air was coming in on him. Having gone, she was back again within five minutes, under the pretext of returning a book he had lent her.

“And of course,” she continued, as if they had never left the subject, “she wouldn't be influenced by that. She might be just as ready to throw over her Church as she was to enter it. I wish you hadn't told me she'd said that—no, I don't; I like to know what people are thinking. But how could she? Those lovely children, and John so devoted to her.… It would ruin her life. And mine too, I reckon.”

“I thought you were an American,” said Oliver cattily. “You shouldn't get so worked up about a divorce.”

“Don't be cheap, dear. You ought to know better than to make silly sweeping statements about my country. Why, in the
old
places, like Philadelphia, and Boston, and Virginia, marriage is a lot more sacred than it is in England.”

“It couldn't be much less.” The giggling voice from the doorway made them both jump. In the shadows beyond the range of Oliver's lamp a little white figure glimmered, and came noiselessly towards them, like Elizabeth Bergner playing Lady Macbeth.

“Muffet!” said Mrs. North. “What on earth are you doing down here at this time of night? You went to bed hours ago.”

“I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come down and look for a biscuit. I do love bikkies.” Childish, in a plain white nightgown, a little jacket with a Peter Pan collar, and infinitesimal mules, she was matching her speech to her appearance. “I heard you talking,” she said appealingly, “and I've been so lonely all by myself up in that big room. You don't mind my coming in, do you?”

“Delighted,” said Oliver, wondering how much she had heard while she was listening outside the door.

“Do you know,” said Lady Sandys confidingly, “there's a snake that lives under my bed, and sometimes he crawls up the
angle of the wall and looks at me. Then there's that cupboard. I have to be sure and lock the door very tight so that the ape can't get out. I hear him rattling at the handle sometimes, when the lights are out.”

Oliver's mother looked at him in alarm. She had always known this would happen. She had known Lady Sandys would go over the top one of these days, but when it happened she did not want it to be in her house.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Er—what kind of a snake?” he asked feebly.

“Oh, the usual spotty kind,” said Muffet vaguely, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “Do let's go on talking about marriage. It's a subject I could talk about all night.”

Mrs. North took control of herself and the situation and laid a hand on the loose white sleeve. “Don't you think we'd better go to bed, dear?” she said soothingly. “It's very late, and you're supposed to be catching the early bus in to Shrewsbury in the morning, remember? Unless you'd like to stay in bed, as you don't feel so well tonight. How about that? I'll bring you up your breakfast quite late, and you shall have all the papers, and my electric hot bottle, and you needn't get up all day if you like.” This was just how she used to talk to Oliver when he was a small boy and had been sick in the night.

Lady Sandys shook off her hand and smoothed out the sleeve with a delicate little flick of her fingers. “Who says I don't feel well?” she asked. “Of course I'm going to Shrewsbury; I promised I'd do your shopping for you, didn't I? Now don't take
that
away from me.” She was childish again. “I was so thrilled to think that at last there was something I could do to help you.”

“Of course you shall, dear,” said Mrs. North hastily, “and Smutty shall go with you and help carry the bags.”

“That old creature. Must I always have her hanging around like a lunatic with its keeper?”

Mrs. North looked embarrassed. “I just thought it would be a nice change for her,” she amended. “After all, she doesn't get much fun. You could take her to have coffee and cakes at Lawley's. They're making
mille feuilles
again now.”

“And have her being sick on the bus coming home? No, thank you.”

“Well, anyway, let's go up to bed now, shall we?” said Mrs. North encouragingly. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“But I wanted to talk to my Oliver.” Muffet took a step forward into the lamplight. Her head was done up in a piece of
magenta net, tied in an enormous bow on top. Being colourblind, she presumably was not aware of what it did to her unmade-up face. Her eyes looked unreal and unfocused, glittering in the light like glass marbles. Was she acting, or was she really a little mad?

“Not now, dear,” said Mrs. North. “Oliver has to get his sleep, you know, or he gets tired.”

“And then you'll say I tired him,” said Lady Sandys quickly, peeking up at her with her head on one side, like a robin looking at a pigeon. “I couldn't bear that. Good night then, my pet. We'll have lovely talks tomorrow.” She darted forward, gave him a butterfly kiss and then skimmed away to the door, where she waited, like a little ghost, for Mrs. North.

“Think she's all right to be left alone?” muttered Oliver.

“I'm worried,” answered his mother out of the side of her mouth. “But she'll never have Smutty in with her. Say, Muffet!” She raised her voice. “If you feel chatty, why don't you come in with me tonight? That couch of mine is very comfortable, and it wouldn't take a minute to make up.”

“My dear,
no
, I wouldn't dream of it,” answered Lady Sandys. “I whistle in my sleep, you know. Poor Arthur always used to have to sleep in his dressing-room. Still, it gave the servants something to talk about.”

“I wish you'd come in with me,” pursued Mrs. North. “I feel kind of lonely tonight. I'd be glad of company.”

“O-oh, don't be such a baby.” Lady Sandys chuckled. “You're a big girl now, Hattie. You'll sleep in your room, and little me in mine,” she said in a sing-song voice, relieving Oliver's mind of its visions of his mother being found in the morning with her throat cut from ear to ear.

“Can't you lock her door?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Not from the outside. Oh well,” she looked suddenly very tired, and yawned. “We'll risk it.” Nevertheless, when she had put Muffet to bed she did push a heavy chair up against the door, wedged under the handle, and Oliver was woken next morning out of his best seven o'clock sleep by the uproar that was Muffet trying to get out to the bathroom.

She seemed perfectly normal next day, and Oliver and his mother wondered whether they had imagined her midnight oddity. She went gaily off in a tweed suit with a little round hat to match to catch the Shrewsbury bus at the crossroads, followed doggedly with the shopping bags by Miss Smutts, who refused to be shaken off.

Gaily she returned, without most of the things Mrs. North wanted, but with a pile of books for Oliver, bath salts for dear Hattie, and an armful of flowers and a melon bigger than her head for John.

“How generous of you, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. North, searching the bags in vain for the fish and soap and stamps and note-paper she needed. “You have brought lovely presents. Where did you get them?”

“At Lawley's. I put them down to your account, by the way. I'll pay you back,” she said vaguely, concentrating on the letter she was reading. “Well, doesn't this beat all! I thought the war was supposed to be over. Here's the builder tells me he hasn't even started on my windows, and he's so short of staff he can't promise them for another three weeks.” Oliver and his mother looked at each other over the little covered button on the top of her round tweed hat. “Begging to remain, yours truly, etc., etc., etc.… Oh well!” She looked up and beamed from one to the other. “I should worry, as you say in your country, Hattie. I wanted to stay for the wedding, anyway, so that I can help you with it, and of course I couldn't go back to London with an easy mind until Johnny's better. Are you
sure
you don't mind having me?”

“Why, of course not,” said Mrs. North hollowly. “I'm only too glad.”

“Yes, but it's Smutty. She's the most devastating bore, I know, and she will
eat
so much. She
was
sick in the bus, did I tell you? At least, not in it, but she had to hop out when it stopped at a village and go behind a sort of pigsty, and of course the bus started before she was ready and poor old Smutty had to run after it, pea green.”

Lady Sandys continued to be fairly sane and on her best behaviour. The half-moon table had been empty for a whole week, and Mrs. North was even optimistic enough to replace on it the vases and pot-pourri bowl for which it was intended. The household kept its fingers crossed and prayed that the excitement of the wedding would not throw her off her balance.