The Happy Prisoner (47 page)

One week when I went home my dog wasn't there, and she told me that he was getting so old and decrepit it had been kinder to have him put away. My father backed her up, though he wouldn't meet my eyes. He knew as well as I did that Dumbell had loved his life. It didn't matter him not being able to go upstairs; he didn't have to go upstairs. It was the week after that that I made some excuse not to go home—said I wanted to study or something—and that was the beginning. After that, I often slept at the hospital on my day off, which was horrid, because you didn't get any breakfast, and as we shared rooms the other girl used to wake you up at six when she got up. It was better than going home, though, and feeling as if I'd butted in on something, and as often as not finding my bed not made up and dust-sheets over the furniture in my room.

I got friendly with Elspeth, the girl I go and stay with in London, you know, and sometimes I used to go home with her. She pestered and pestered me to take her to my home, until at last I had to.

It was awful. I was so embarrassed. I'd rung up my stepmother and asked her most humbly, hating myself for being so servile, whether we could possibly have tea. She knew we'd only have a short time there, because we had to be back on duty, but she hadn't got a thing ready for us, and when I asked her if we could have tea, she said: ‘I suppose so, if you get it yourself. I don't see why I should make a skivvy of myself for you and your friends.' And can't you hear Honey saying something like that in a few years' time when Evelyn wants to take a friend home? I can.

My father tried to approach me once or twice to find out why I hardly ever went home, but how could I tell him that when I did I felt like a visitor, and an unwelcome one at that, and felt that when I left I'd got to thank my stepmother for having me? Once,

he started to give me a high-faluting, pious sort of talk about jealousy and young people thinking they knew better than anyone else how to lead their own lives. He thought it was me who had changed, when all the time it was him.

After I'd finished my training I went on taking jobs in hospitals, as my one idea was not to have to live at home. After two years as a staff nurse and a junior Sister, I found I couldn't bear the life in a female institution any longer. I could feel myself getting like the other Sisters—everybody does in the end, you know—and it frightened me to hear the way I'd sometimes catch myself talking to some soft new little probationer who still thought nursing was a noble and charitable profession. I took up private nursing, because there was more money in that, and I had to be independent. My father needed all he earned to satisfy my stepmother, but in any case I wouldn't have taken any money from home, and I never shall. I must always be independent. Now when I gave him presents on his birthday and at Christmas, it was my money, but somehow it made less of a present than in the days when it had been his.

I hardly ever go home now. I don't know whether that hurts my father, but he's got used to it. He's quite happy with her, I think. She's got rather ugly since the war, because she was terrified of the raids, and because she couldn't get all her cranky foods and wouldn't eat the ordinary rations, so she's got very thin and her skin's all dry. It flakes off her face under the powder, and her teeth are getting discoloured. Pretty soon, I suppose, she'll have them all out and have a false set and then she'll be beautiful again. Not that I ever thought she was; her nose is too near her chin, but my father did, and so did her friends. They would keep telling her so, which was such a mistake.

Well, you know the rest. Dr. Trevor got my name from another doctor I used to do a lot of work for, and I thought it sounded like a nice job, so along I came. It has been a nice job, too; I don't know whether you realise how happy I've been. I know you've thought me unfriendly and secretive because I wouldn't talk about myself or my home, but I never wanted to tell anybody. I never would have told you now, but it's just that I can't bear to see Evelyn faced with that sort of life, and you being such a happy family, I was afraid you didn't understand what it's going to mean to her to be pushed out.

Have I made you see, Mrs. North? Can you do something? You must do something, find some excuse to keep her here. Never mind if it is going to offend your brother. It's too late to stop him marrying that woman, but it's not too late to stop
Evie suffering for it. You must do something—anything, to stop them taking her to New York.”

.…

When his mother had gone upstairs, still undecided whether to take her Slumbello and sleep on it, or lie and let things sort themselves out in her head, Oliver said to Elizabeth: “Turn on the light. I want to look at you.”

“I don't look very nice. I haven't got anything on my face.”

“I can stand that. But I must,” he said, as she switched on the centre light, “see what a girl looks like before I tell her I love her. It's such ages since I said it, and I've never meant it before.” Elizabeth stood by the door, one hand still on the switch, frowning, not knowing whether he were serious or not.

“Don't look so sceptical,” he said. “I do love you so much. I have for a long time, as a matter of fact, but there hasn't been a propitious moment to say it till now. It's all right, I can love you. It's you who aren't ever going to get attached to anybody, remember, not me.”

“You're just talking like that because I pitched you a hard-luck story.”

“Don't be absurd, and couldn't you come a bit nearer? It's a bit of a strain to carry on this sort of conversation at a distance.”

She did not move. She looked rather frightened. “I don't know what to say,” she said. “You see, I—”

“You don't have to say anything; I'm not asking you for anything; I'm simply making a statement, and all I ask is that you should come a bit nearer so that I can see how you're taking it.”

“Oliver, I've got to tell you something. I meant to tell you before, but when I got back from my holiday this business with Evie was on, and I thought I'd better wait with my bit of news. I'm going to be married.”

Oliver tried to pretend it was not a shock and a terrible disappointment that made him feel physically sick. “If you mean you're engaged to Arnold Clitheroe,” he blustered, “that's no news. It was written all over you when you came back from London. I was wondering when you were gong to tell me. Well, you've got the security you were looking for, haven't you? A nice, coldly calculated security, which means that you don't have to work any more, and you don't have to go home, and Arnold has plenty of money and is a bit of a stick, so there won't be any emotional upsets. Poor old Arnold Clitheroe, of course, doesn't
count. He loves you, poor fool, with a humble devotion that will make no demands on you.”

“Oliver, stop it.” She came over to him now. “How can you be so horrid? You twist all my words and make me out to be something despicable. You sound as if you hate me, and yet a minute ago you said you were in love with me.”

“Oh, that's nothing,” he said airily. “I'd be in love with any reasonable-looking girl under the circumstances. Patient and nurse, you know; it's one of the oldest situations. Don't let that worry you.”

“Oh!” she cried, and her face got red. “I hate you! Oh, I hate you!”

“Good, good!” he jeered miserably. “I like to see you let yourself go for a change. Go on, cry, I don't care. Let your back hair down. I wish you would, too. Why do you wear it like that? It looks like some damned awful yellow draught extinguisher.” He shot out a hand and pulled at the ribbon round which her thick hair was rolled. She put up her hands and stepped back, but the ribbon was off and her corn-coloured hair was falling round her cheeks and neck as far as her shoulders, hiding her furious, weeping face.

“God,” he said softly, “the times I've wanted to do that when you were leaning over me with that damned stuff half an inch from my face, and smelling of hay and apples.” She did not hear. She was halfway to the door, stumbling because she had lost one slipper and was blinded with hair and tears.

After all their talk, Evelyn solved the problem on her own by waking next morning with a temperature of a hundred and one and the blotchy beginnings of a rash all over her chest. Obviously she could not go with measles to Liverpool, much less to New York. Berths were scarce, and Honey, who had had enough of England and rationing, would not forfeit hers, so she and Bob decided to sail alone.

It was as simple as that. Mrs. North, who had lain awake all night trying to decide what to do, felt quite cheated to find that it had been settled without her. She had arrived at a beautiful plan about five o'clock in the morning, taken two Slumbellos and
slept stertorously through people coming in with tea and breakfast and news of measles until she woke at midday with a splitting head and the knowledge that she had forgotten something it was imperative to remember.

Still half doped, she groped her way downstairs to find out what it was. Elizabeth, hearing her go into Oliver's room, came in with a cup of coffee. “Well,” she said, “there must be about a grain of morphia in those pills. You've been sleeping like the dead for twelve hours.”

“I didn't take them till dawn.” Mrs. North shook her head to try to clear it. Her hair was still pinned up and cold cream glistened in the corners of her nostrils and the folds of her chins. Without her glasses she looked small-eyed and undressed. “I was thinking things out. I've decided what to do about Evie, but I—did I tell you what it was? I can't quite remember. I can't seem to think straight at all.”

“You don't have to.” Elizabeth smiled. “It's decided itself.” Mrs. North was amazed to hear of all the things that had happened while she slept. That anyone but she should have discovered the spots on Evelyn's chest, she, who was such a specialist in rashes; that they should have sent for Dr. Trevor on their own; that Bob and Honey had already left for Liverpool—it was disappointing to have missed so much.

“You might have woken me when Hugo came,” she said.

“I did look in,” said Elizabeth, “but you didn't wake, and he wouldn't hear of disturbing you. I think it's only a light attack; he thinks so, too.”

“But Bob!” Mrs. North was gradually beginning to take things in. “I haven't said goodbye to him. How could he go off like that without saying goodbye? Why didn't he come in to me?”

“He did,” said Oliver and Elizabeth together, and, hostilely polite, each offered the other the chance to speak.

“They must be some pills,” Oliver said, “if you can sleep through that. He said you did stir and mumble at him, but Honey was screeching at him from the car that they would miss their train, so he had to go. He's going to ring up tonight and settle about Evie. But by the time she's over this he'll be safely in New York and so busy interfering with the people who's been running his business much better without him that he won't have time to remember about having her. He won't come over again for ages—Honey will see to that—and Evie obviously can't go alone, so it'll all blow over and she can go on living with us, at least until he's got rid of that woman.”

“What do you mean, darling, got rid of her?”

“You don't expect the marriage to last, do you?”

“I hope not,” she said, and put a hand to her mouth guiltily. “Maybe I shouldn't say that. I think I'll go up and put some clothes on. Imagine not being dressed at this hour! I haven't slept like that since Heather was born. What about lunch, Elizabeth? Oh, have you? You are a good girl. You look as though you could do with a Slumbello yourself, dear; you look all washed out. Didn't you sleep well?”

“I'm quite all right,” said Elizabeth, turning away.

“Miss Gray,” said Oliver loudly, “is the happiest girl in the world. She's going to be married.”

Mrs. North looked at him quickly and then ran to overtake Elizabeth. “But isn't that
too
exciting!” She looked back at Oliver once more and he saw that she was still uncertain whether her fears had not at least been realised, so before she could say anything embarrassing he said: “She's going to marry Arnold Clitheroe, her friend in London, you know.”

As she knew nothing about him, Mrs. North enthused as if it were all desperately romantic. She kissed Elizabeth warmly and said a lot of spontaneous, affectionate things. “But this means you'll be leaving us; that's not so good.”

“Yes, quite soon. Arnold wants to get married soon so that we can have our honeymoon before the winter. I'll stay and see Evie through measles, of course, but Oliver's all right now; he doesn't need a nurse.” She nodded coolly towards him.

“Oh, sure.” His mother looked at him thoughtfully, wondering how he felt about all this, and he foresaw nights and nights of fending her off when she came downstairs to discuss it.

Elizabeth could now take Arnold's sizeable diamond from the ribbon round her neck and wear it on her engagement finger, where it caught Oliver's eye every time she did anything for him. He did not want her to do anything for him. He insisted on getting in and out of bed on his own and dressing himself, although it took him twice as long, but he did not want her near him. He made the excuse of wanting to learn to manage on his own before she left. “And I don't want you infecting me with measles,” he said. “I've never had them and I don't intend to now.”

Dr. Trevor had at last sent a man down from London to measure him for his artificial leg. It was to be a mechanical miracle, according to the man, and Oliver would be able to do as much with it—nay more—than he had with his real one.
“Oh yes,” said Oliver sceptically. “I'll play football the day after I get it, I suppose.”

“Oh, come,” the man laughed indulgently, rolling up his tape measure, “we mustn't try to run before we can walk, must we?”