The Happy Prisoner (29 page)

Violet had kicked the furniture a bit and stuck out her jaw when she heard that Lady Sandys was staying, but as her wedding day approached she began to view it with less glee and more and more apprehension, until she finally became so depressed that she did not care whether Muffet were there or not. Nothing could make it any worse. She wished now, she told the family, that she had not let herself in for getting spliced. She croaked about the
wedding like a carrion crow. It would be a flop; she would make a fool of herself; everything would go wrong. If she had to marry Fred, and she was talking about this now as if it was everyone's fault except her own, why couldn't she do it in a registry office, without a crowd of rubbernecking old busybodies gawping at her? The dark red silk dress which had been made for her in London arrived, but she refused to try it on. “I shall look a sight, anyway,” she told her mother, “so why know it sooner than I need?”

Fred did not know what to make of her. She hardly went near him these days, and he took to coming up to the house, in spite of his terror of Lady Sandys. He did not come inside, but his face was sometimes seen for a moment at a window, shadowy and seeking, like one of the lost boys from the Never-Never-Land.

“It's just nerves,” Mrs. North told him. “Girls are often like that before their wedding.”

“Women are funny cusses,” he said to Oliver through the window, standing on the lawn with his hands in his pockets, very man-to-man. “I thought old Vi was perfectly happy, but now she's as broody as a sitting hen.”

“Love, old chap,” said Oliver. “Takes 'em that way sometimes. You ought to be flattered.”

“No, don't muck about,” said Fred. “I'm serious. Y'see, I've never been able to understand all along how she came to accept me. I just couldn't believe my luck, and, naturally, this sort of thing makes me think she's changed her mind.”

“Not she,” said Oliver. “But why not have it out with her? Might clear the air a bit. How do you know she's not wondering whether
you've
changed your mind?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Fred looked down and made patterns in the flower-bed with the toe of his boot. “Vi and I, y'know, we don't jaw much—don't need to as a rule. What's she doing now?”

“In the drawing-room, I believe, reading the paper.”

“Gee, is she? I might see her if I look through the window, then. I haven't seen her for two days.” His face, oppressed and saddened by the weight of his nose, looked wistful. It seemed that he really did love her. Oliver wondered what Violet looked like to a man who loved her. Did he see her as she was, or enhanced? How would she wear the magical aura, and how would her voice sound when, beloved, its most casual word was musical and full of meaning?

Fred slunk off and was back in a moment. “Mm,” he said, “she's there. She's got that blue thing on. I like her in that
blue thing, but”—he laughed indulgently—“she hates skirts, you know, can't bear 'em. Says she's only happy in trousers. And, I must say, she's the only woman Fve seen look well in 'em. See her turned out for hunting in a bowler hat and a white stock on that mare of yours—she can knock spots off the county ladies. Not that I don't mean she's not a lady,” he stammered. “She's too much of a lady for me, that's the trouble.”

Oliver, who couldn't bear to see Fred growing redder and humbler, changed the subject. “I wish I could be there to see you married.”

“I wish you could like hell, old boy,” said Fred. “You'd back me up. Old Ken's all right—he's going to be best man, you know—but he's as scared of the whole business as I am.”

“Lots of whisky beforehand,” said Oliver. “That's the secret.”

“You bet,” said Fred. “We've planned that. And we'll chew tea afterwards,” he said solemnly. “Sweetens the breath like magic.”

“And there'll be lots of booze afterwards,” said Oliver, “to help you through the reception. It was a bit of luck Stanford getting hold of that champagne for us. It'll make it a much better party.”

“Mm,” said Fred without enthusiasm. Stanford Black was one of the people who made him blink and go sweaty in the palms. He hoped Vi would not mind his hands being sweaty. Hers never were; they were dry and rough and strong.

One of the few cheerful features of the wedding was that John would be able, after all, to give Violet away. He was out of bed now, although still rather feeble, and a nasty yellow colour where his tan had paled. He swore tactlessly that it was due to Elizabeth's good nursing that he had recovered so quickly from his severe attack of flu. He and Elizabeth had become quite friendly over it, and shared one or two jokes and allusions which no one else understood. Heather had all along taken the line of: If Elizabeth's there, there's nothing
I
can do, and had confined her ministrations to John to leaving him in a howling draught every time she went in and out of the room, and airing her grievances about his mother at him while he lay in bed unable to escape. She was slightly revolted by illness, and had always made a great song about the children's disorders. She sprinkled eau-de-Cologne all over John, who hated it, and would ask him ten times in an hour now he could bear the room so hot and stuffy. If he coughed too much, she would say she was sure he could stop if he tried, and she left all his handkerchiefs for
Elizabeth to wash, saying that if she wanted to have the kudos of nursing him she could have the dirty work as well.

Oliver, who was feeling rather jaded, taunted her with being jealous of Elizabeth.

“Jealous!” Heather tossed her head. “What on earth for? There's no more between them than there is between her and you. It's simply this rather arch patient-and-nurse atmosphere. No, I'm afraid it's the most pathetically innocent relationship. I don't believe Johnny knows how to flirt; he never did with me. I remember the first time I met him, at the Strakers' dance, he stared hopelessly at me all evening and just sat looking miserable when I was dancing with anybody else. Poor Johnny, his technique was terrible, I'm sure it wouldn't work on Elizabeth after her London boy friend who sends her home with orchids on her coat. He wouldn't ask a girl if he could kiss her, like John used to. If I'd worn glasses, he'd probably have asked me politely if I'd like to take them off. There are men who do that, you know. I had a girl friend who wore glasses and she said it was hideously shaming, and when they did that she used to stop the taxi and get out.”

“What did you do when John asked you if he could kiss you?”

“Oh, I let him,” said Heather drearily. “I was kind of in love with the poor mutt.”

“And aren't you now?”

“Oh, Ollie, I don't
know
. Don't keep on at me, I feel terrible.”

“You want a change of scene, my girl, that's what's the matter with you. You're as fed up with all of us as you are with John. Wait till you get to Australia; you'll feel quite different.”

“I'm not going to Australia.”

“Blast, I thought we were getting rid of you.”

“Muffet says if we go she's coming too, if you please. John wants to take her because he thinks he can't leave her behind to fend for herself. Oh, she says she'll have a separate house, or igloo, or whatever you have in the Bush, but I know what it would be. She'd be on our doorstep all the time, and so would her creditors.

“How d'you feel?” she asked him suddenly, looking at him. “I feel rotten today,” he admitted. “I don't know why.” “You look it. You look like I feel, pale yellow, with touches of blue.”

“Not about the lips, I hope,” said Oliver anxiously, reaching for the mirror. “Oh God.” He thumped his chest cautiously. “Why can't one change a dud heart like the dynamo on a car?”

“You haven't been having proper attention lately,” said Heather triumphantly. “Miss Elizabeth's got a new interest in her cocky little head. She's paid to nurse you, though, not John.”

“I thought you weren't jealous,” he said. “Anyway, it's not you who pays her. Nor me either,” he added glumly. “God, Heather, it's awful to be so dependent. I shall have to get up and start earning money soon.”

“Let's you and I run away, Ollie, shall we, and live somewhere where you don't need to work because you don't need much money. You just lie around in shorts eating fruit and soaking up the sun, and at night you go to cafés, and gipsies come and play to you, and you put a glass of brandy on their violin.”

“You'd need money to buy the brandy.”

“It would be very cheap brandy.”

Oliver put his hand on his chest again. “If I run away,” he said, “it'll have to be with someone who'll push me around in a bath-chair. I can't see you doing that, Heather, wheeling me onto the front and tucking in my rug before you settle down beside me with your knitting.”

“Good Lord, we're not going to Eastbourne,” she said. “Don't be so damping. I'm offering you the tropics, and intoxicating wine, and music, and women with long brown legs, but all you want is Wincarnis in a South Coast town with Elizabeth. Yes, I mean it,” she said vehemently. “Go on, admit it. You're as jealous as hell of Elizabeth and John—just as jealous as I am!” She left him triumphantly, and he picked up the mirror and made a
moue
with his lips. They certainly did look shockingly blue.

As Violet's wedding day approached, inexorably and too rapidly it was not only the bride who began to wish it need never come. It was like all parties: fun to arrange and talk about at first, but less and less fun as the hosts begin to get cold feet, and to wonder whether the drink will hold out and what they will do if people stand about in lifeless groups, and to wish that they had some new clothes and had not invited so many people and, finally, that they had never thought of the party at all.

Even Mrs. North, who loved to entertain, was depressed about it because she was so tired. She and Elizabeth had been cooking like mad things for three days before the wedding, and the family were getting tired of makeshift meals. “It'll be worse after the party,” Heather said. “We shall be eating leftovers for days. You never saw such a mountain of food as they've made. It's absurd. People are never going to eat all those sausage rolls and cakes and cheese straws in the middle of the afternoon.”

Mrs. North, still flushed from her concentrated oven work, looked a little dashed. “You never know,” she said. “It's far better to have too much than too little. And some of them may not have had any lunch if they've come long distances. I'm sure Fred's friends will eat hearty, anyway.”

“Well, I mean to,” said Violet, who had just been inspecting the larder with a wetted finger. “I can't wait to get my hands on that trifle. I shan't have any lunch tomorrow, I don't think, so I can enjoy myself at the reception.”

“Think again,” said Heather. “The bride's supposed to be far too nervous and ethereal to eat. Ma hasn't half killed herself doing all that cooking for
you
.”

“You needn't be so snotty. I haven't noticed you helping much.”

“You're the last one to talk. Have you done a thing, just one thing, towards your own beastly wedding?”

“You know I can't cook,” said Violet, complacently.

“That poor Fred. But cooking's not everything. Who went to fetch the flowers? Who's decorated the church? Who sewed tapes on your dress so you won't keep twisting and wriggling to hitch up your shoulder straps all through the service?”

“You know you love doing flowers,” Violet said. “And you didn't fetch them; your mother-in-law did.”

“And gave some away to the conductress in the bus coming home, so that I had to go and get some more. And who's spent all day telephoning Christie's about the cake? Jolly clever of you to keep out of the house all day, so you couldn't be asked to do anything. I almost hope the cake doesn't come in time, except that it would be a let-down for Ma. What are you going to cut it with, anyway—a hay knife? Ma,
look
at her! The day before her wedding, and a dinner-party in her honour in an hour's time, and she just sits on the floor in those stinking trousers, burnishing a curb chain with your saucepan cleaner.”

“Most important,” said Violet, shaking metal polish into her hands and jingling the curb chain between them as if she were
playing in a rumba band. “It's going on my honeymoon with me.”

“I don't believe you'd notice if Fred got left behind,” said Heather scornfully, “as long as the horses were there.”

“Yes, I should,” said Violet, “because there'd be one horse too many, so sucks. I haven't shown you my new saddle yet, have I, Ollie?” She tilted back her head to look at him. “Jolly super of Fred, wasn't it? He wouldn't tell me what it cost.”

“Darned sight better than what you've given him,” put in Heather. “I'd call off the wedding if my fiancee only gave me a set of new teeth for the clipping machine.”

“But it was what he wanted!” cried Violet in dismay. “And it was an awful fag getting them; they're not making that sort any more. I had to go all the way to Birmingham in the end, didn't I, Ma?”

“Yes, dear, you took a lot of trouble. Don't be unkind, Heather, and if you two must bicker, as I've said hundreds of times, don't do it in this room. And don't do it anywhere where I am either, because my head's going round and round.”

“Poor old darling.” Heather went over suddenly and kissed her on top of the hair-net that was preserving her elaborate hair-set for tomorrow. Mrs. North loved to be kissed, and none of her children did it often enough. “You do look tired. You almost look your age for a change. See what you've done, Vi? You weren't allowed to kill your brother over your wedding, but you've succeeded in wrecking your mother. Let me get the dinner tonight, Ma. You stay here with your feet up and talk to Ollie.”