Authors: Dodie Smith
The Town in Bloom (16 page)
Brice went off in the village taxi in time to catch the last train from the little local station. I went back to a bedroom and sat on a basket of clothes, thinking. By now I had decided my plan was practicable but I was not yet sure if I dared carry it through; and I still had not made up my mind when the bells began ringing for the evening service. I stood at the window and watched people going into the church, including Molly accompanied by Bluff King Hal, and Lilian and Zelle with Mr Crossway.
I could go to church too, and then to supper, and then home with the girls. But would I? I told myself I must make up my mind before the bells stopped ringing – no, it would be time enough when they all came in to supper; I could say I had been too busy packing costumes to come to the service. Then it dawned on me that my last chance of all would be when the girls drove along the road to London.
I could stop the car, say I’d been for a walk and got lost … or something like that.
This would give me more time for thinking and I had a sudden longing to be out in the country, all on my own. Surely I could find some little wood to hide in?
I waited until the bells stopped ringing and the last straggler had hurried into church. The little street was now deserted. I went quietly downstairs. A pleasant smell was coming from the kitchen; no doubt there was going to be a good supper but what cared I about food? The front door stood open. I dashed out and ran the short distance to the road that led to the station and London. Once I had turned the corner I was behind a hedge and out of sight from the village.
I could see no wood ahead of me but there were some tall haystacks in between me and Mr Crossway’s house and on the opposite side of the road to the lodge. I went into the field, chose the best situated haystack and sat down behind it. Although I was only a few hundred yards from the church, and even less from Mr Crossway’s lodge, no one could see me here. And it was a perfect place for thinking. In front of me stretched a patchwork of fields, divided by hedges dotted by tall trees and pollarded willows, and above me arched the vast twilight sky.
As a child I had been too happy and too occupied to be introspective but I had become so during my aunt’s long illness, when I poured out my thoughts in my journal. Not one journal entry had I made since my first night in London and I had almost lost the habit of analytical thought about myself. Now I sternly told myself to concentrate.
Most of the concentration took the form of
self-justification
. My aunt’s views on the emancipation of women were pressed into service, also the behaviour of my favourite Shakespearian and Shavian heroines, so often as much the wooers as the wooed; though I reminded myself of what he
really
wished – had he not said so? In such a case, when only his conscience was coming between us, obviously I must make the decision. Only … it required courage.
I should have needed none if I could have acted on impulse, as I so often did. But with time to think, in this calm country twilight, I not only needed courage but also felt it ebbing away. Shocked, I reminded myself I might never again get the chance I had tonight. And I went on reminding myself. In the late dusk I got up and peered round the edge of my haystack. I was on higher ground than the village and could see both the church and the vicarage. I was surprised that there were lights in the church still – surely the service must be over by now? Then I saw that a group was forming in the churchyard and people in it were lighting lanterns; and I remembered hearing that the folk singers would end the day by walking the full length of the village, singing. I watched them troop out of the churchyard, swinging their lanterns, and for a moment I watched their progress along the street. Then the vicarage cut off my view of them but I could still hear their voices.
They were singing
The White Paternoster
, ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless the bed that I lie on.’ I had often sung it at school. Listening, now, I had the most intense sensation of being a child again. It lasted for as long as I could hear the voices. Then I returned to being myself standing there by the haystack. I remember thinking, ‘This
is
me
, in this present moment. And it is wonderful to be me, entirely my own responsibility. And I shall do what I must.’ Then the moment of acute consciousness passed and I was fully occupied with definite plans.
The lights in the church were out now and lights streamed from the vicarage. Would they have begun supper yet? I should have liked to be there, getting to know Adrian Crossway and Bluff King Hal; and in a secret, and therefore enjoyable way, showing off my dear Mr C. to the girls. I could still be there, in less than two minutes—
I sat down behind the haystack and watched the moon rise.
It must have been about an hour later when I heard voices and laughter, then the slam of a car door. I jumped up and looked towards the village. Now I could see the lights from a car in front of the vicarage; the girls must be leaving. The lights travelled forward, then turned onto the road near which I was. For a split second I thought of dashing out to intercept the car, but where I actually dashed was behind the haystack again. The car passed. Once more 1 came from behind the haystack and watched the rear lights for as long as I could see them.
Soon after they disappeared another car came from the vicarage. I dodged until it had passed me and then saw it turn in at the lodge gates of Mr Crossway’s house. I looked across the park; and a few minutes later I saw lights in his workroom.
Now I need wait no longer and the moon was high enough to light me on my way. Then it occurred to me that if I arrived too soon he might bundle me into his car and drive me – where? Perhaps back to London. So I must still wait.
Sooner than I expected the lights in the workroom were out. Now I must get there as fast as I could. I ran along the road and in at the lodge gates, glad to notice that the lodge was in darkness. Leaving the drive, I raced over the grass to the workroom.
What did I do now? Knock on the door, tap on a window? At first I could see neither, except for the large double doors which had served when the building was still a barn. These were no longer in use; roses were growing against them. Exploring, I found a French window open onto the warm, windless night. I tiptoed up to it and murmured into the darkness a very soft ‘hello’.
Nobody answered. For a moment of blank
disappointment
I thought he was not there. Then the moon, like a very stagey bit of stage lighting, shone in on him and I saw that he was already asleep. He did not stir as I moved towards him.
He was lying on his side, facing me, one hand childishly under his cheek. His left arm was outside the bedclothes. I noticed his naked shoulder; I had never before known that men sometimes slept minus pyjamas. I gazed down on him with love and great interest. He looked far younger than he usually did. This was partly due to the expanse of naked flesh but, even more, to his lack of facial expression. As a rule, his expression was one of controlled, sophisticated humour. Now, in utter repose, there was no control whatever, nothing but a youthful, slightly open-mouthed blankness.
I thought he must have been very tired to have fallen asleep so soon. It seemed unkind to wake him.
But I did wake him.
Less than twenty-four hours later I wrote:
How I wish I had kept this journal up since I came to London! Now it is too late. Even if I had time to write fully of all that has happened I could never recapture the flown moment, never be the me who lived it. Often I was happy – and I long for a record of that happiness. But if I made the record now it would be tinged by the sadness of farewell. Not that I am sad, exactly; or anyway, really unhappy. It is more that I am lonely, with a strange kind of loneliness which has nothing to do with being alone, away from people. Even if I could – and how I wish I could – be with him tonight I should still be lonely. Unless … yes, now I understand. It would be all right, even if we were apart, if he cared for me as I care for him.
But would it, quite? Surely even the most treasured (and legal) bride must feel a bit lost on discovering that belonging to a man does not make one feel closer but rather more noticeably separate? Or am I unusual? I only know that I felt much closer in the car at Hampstead than I did last night – when at one moment
I found myself thinking it was a bit like my
disappointment
when I was confirmed. This may be blasphemous but I think not. For expecting to achieve union with God is similar to expecting to achieve it with man. Only I minded much more as regards man.
I don’t remember doing much soul-searching after confirmation. I just became a cheerful atheist. And I can’t imagine that any number of confirmations would improve matters. Whereas I do feel they will improve if I can be with him again – as, surely, I shall be soon, now there is no point in his having a conscience about me. He did look deadly serious this afternoon but I think that was mainly concern for me. The fact that I am here now is due to that concern. He said to Miss Lester: ‘That child looks very tired. You should send her home early. She worked very hard yesterday.’ He was standing behind Miss Lester when he said that, so she could not see his face. And as the remark could be said to have a double meaning I thought he would give me the nicker of a twinkle, but he merely looked worried.
Miss Lester sent me home at six. I could have gone out to dinner with Lilian and Zelle but I was too tired. Molly is out with Bluff King Hal – already; he drove up to London today. Lilian and I looked down on him from upstairs while he was waiting for Molly, and then rushed to tell her he was carrying flowers. I said, ‘It’s happened at last – “Roses in the hall”!’ Then we sped Molly on her way, very happy for her. And Lilian was happy for herself as she has won her part at the Crossway. I was happy too – in a way; I am finding that out as I write. I am, some how …
exorcising
the loneliness. It will pass, it will
pass.
But with it will pass someone I shall be a little sorry to lose: myself as I was before last night. Aunt Marion had a book of poems by Charles Cotton which she bought for the Lovat Fraser decorations, and in one poem are the lines:
She finds virginity a kind of ware
That’s very, very troublesome to bear,
And being gone she thinks will ne’er be missed.
I think one
will
miss it, but only for a very little while. Soon one will forget that it ever meant anything. Perhaps it never did; already I can almost accept that. The great plane tree outside my window is as beautiful as it was that May night when I last wrote in my journal, though its summer leaves are a little less green than the leaves of spring.
When I settled here in bed, after the girls went, I planned to write very fully of last night while my memory of it is still vivid. (But surely it will always be vivid?) I meant to set down exactly what happened, without reticence. Why should sex, which is a part of love, be considered indecent when written about? Well, I still feel that. But before starting this paragraph I sat for a long time trying out words in my mind – and they didn’t so much sound indecent as embarrassing, ludicrous and, above all, unlikely. I quite see why novelists fall back on asterisks; also I see why so many people make jokes about sex. It is, no doubt, wise to keep a sense of humour about it. Perhaps it would also be wise to keep one about love, but that is beyond me at present.
Anyway, though I can enjoy remembering what happened (though goodness knows it wasn’t all enjoyable) I find I cannot bear the thought of writing one word about it. What I do want to record has nothing to do with sex.
I want always to remember:
Waking at dawn and hearing birds singing, and gradually seeing the room. I never before woke in a place that was strange to me. There were rafters high above, and all around were many fascinating things, models of stage sets, drawings of theatrical costumes, photographs…. I should have liked to look at everything but I only allowed myself, once I was dressed, to tiptoe to a few of the models. It was so light by then and the birds were so noisy that I was afraid he would wake. I looked back, before I went out of the French window, and thought how young and defenceless he looked. I thought of many other things, too, things I cannot write about.
I want to remember the dew on the grass in the park, and patches of mist, and some mushrooms I saw, and great trees with gnarled boles. It’s strange how conscious of trees I was all yesterday. I don’t remember noticing many flowers – which in London I am always noticing. Yesterday it was trees, trees, and the lofty Suffolk sky.
Once I was out of the park, on the road to the station, I saw a lark rising from the fields.
In spite of the early morning loveliness I did not truly enjoy the walk to the station because I was anxious about getting back to the Club, and even more, because it was hardly my morning for a long walk – though in a
complicated
and unwriteable-about way, I didn’t mind that.
I might have guessed that the little station would still be closed. And there was a timetable, on a board outside, which showed there wouldn’t be a train for hours. I stood there thinking that as I was an atheist I couldn’t pray for help. Then I remembered I am now an agnostic, and I thought that entitled me just to toss a prayer up on the off-chance. And it was fantastic. Within seconds, a lorry loaded with vegetables came along – slowly, because the road was narrow. I was just going to hold up my hand and look beseeching when the driver slowed up on his own and asked if I wanted a lift. I would have accepted a lift to anywhere, so I climbed up beside him. And it turned out he was going to Covent Garden.
He was an elderly man with a kind face. We talked a bit about the morning and the countryside and then he said: ‘What you been up to, little miss?’
I couldn’t think of any convincing story so I said: ‘Will you forgive me if I don’t tell you?’
He said: ‘That’s all right, don’t worry. But
I
think you’ve run away from school.’
I said gratefully, ‘However did you guess?’
He said: ‘Well, you’re in uniform, aren’t you? Was it an orphanage?’ It must have been my ‘Puritan Maid’ dress and black cloak that gave him that idea. So I said yes, I was an orphan but I had friends in London who would take me in. He asked if I was sure they would, and if I would promise to go straight to them. And I said I was quite sure and I would promise. Then he said why didn’t I have a bit of a nap? And I could lean on him if I liked. It seemed rude not to, though I didn’t think I should sleep – but I did, almost at once, though I woke
up a good many times. Each time I woke he said something encouraging. And when he set me down at Covent Garden, he made me promise that if my friends should happen to be away I would go to a police station for advice. If I live to be a hundred I shall remember his kindness.
I caught an early Underground train but still had to do some more walking to reach the Club. The doors were open so I got in easily, and managed to get to bed without waking Molly and Lilian. Anyway, I had a story ready for them that the little train had missed its connection with the London train and Brice and I had been forced to spend the night at a horrid little station hotel. I told this when Charlotte woke us with our breakfast trays. All they said was ‘Poor you!’ and then talked about themselves.
After breakfast I went to sleep in a hot bath and woke in a cold one. Surprisingly, there was enough hot water to warm it up.
This afternoon when I—
Lilian is back already. She has just called to ask if I will come up to Zelle’s room, and I have said I will. I think I would like to be with people. And I could do with some Veda toast.
Everything will be all right. I am really very happy – anyway, I shall be, once I can have a little time alone with him, to talk quietly. Today I only had two minutes, just on the stairs. I will write of that tomorrow.
I find parts of this journal entry astonishing. They seem written by someone older than I remember myself as
being, and certainly older than the girl who made the entry on my first night at the Club. The tinge of sophisticated humour about sex surprises me. Probably it resulted from life at the Club, where members (many of them not so unblemished as I at first thought they were) often broke their hearts over their personal sex-lives while treating the general subject of sex as a joke.
I am also surprised that I could tell myself I was happy. Perhaps that was bravado. No, on second thoughts, I believe that last paragraph was sincere; I did think everything would be all right. Now memory is tinged by hindsight. I know, as the writer of the journal did not, what was just round the corner.
I did not write – next day, or ever – of the two minutes on the stairs but I remember them most vividly. Mr Crossway’s ostensible reason for coming up to the office was to tell us that Lilian had read very promisingly and he was going to give her a trial. He talked for quite a while but no opportunity for seeing me alone arose. So when he went, he called to me from the stairs saying he wanted me to give Lilian a message. I hurried to him. He said nothing about Lilian, just looked at me intently and asked if I was all right. I nodded. Then he asked why I had run away without waking him and I said I’d thought it would be less trouble for him if I was gone when he woke. And I told him of my ride back with the cabbages – I thought that would amuse him but he said ‘Good God!’ under his breath and shook his head as if in disapproval. All the time, he was looking at me with an intimacy which I found valuable and exciting but I did wish he would smile. The only other thing he said was, ‘I’ll be in touch
with you when I can.’ He said this very kindly but still did not smile.
When I got back to the office Miss Lester asked what the message for Lilian was and I said it was to do with not learning her part until she’d had a rehearsal. Undoubtedly I had a talent for improvisation, even when hardly in the mood for it.
That was on the Monday. On the Tuesday I managed to be in the Throne Room on my own while Lilian was rehearsing. I looked through the spy-hole and saw that she was on the stage alone with Mr Crossway. He was taking her through the part line by line, making her copy his inflections. They were working on her long speech in the last act; and when they came to the end she said, ‘Please give me time to make some notes.’ He said, ‘
Can
you make notes on inflections?’ She said yes, they would mean something to her. After she’d made the notes, they tried the speech again and she’d remembered every inflection. He praised her but added, ‘They’re a bit parrot-like.’ She said, quite sharply, ‘Well, give me a chance! I’ve got to work on them, make them my own.’ He looked at her quickly, as if astonished by her tone, and then said, ‘Good girl. That’s exactly the right attitude.’
I closed the spy-hole feeling a new respect for Lilian, but also despising her a bit for copying, not creating.
The only other thing I remember about that afternoon was that Brice Marton came up after the rehearsal; he had been there, though I had not seen him. He told us Lilian was doing well, then he talked to Miss Lester, ignoring me. I was surprised, as we had got on so well only two days before. Just before he went he asked me if I had enjoyed
my drive back with my friends. When I said yes, he said ‘Good’ – but so off-handedly that I wondered if he had really been annoyed because I didn’t return with him.
When I got back to the Club that night Molly was out with Bluff King Hal again and Lilian was in a practice room, working on her part. I sat with Zelle in her bedroom – I think it was the first time we had been alone together since we had shared a room at the hotel. Being at the theatre so much, I saw far less of her than Molly and Lilian did.
She was eager to talk about the vicarage garden party and the evening service – ‘And the folk singers with their lanterns, winding their way through the village. Somehow they made me long to be good.’ It seemed strange that she and I had listened with such different feelings. Not that I thought of myself as being bad; still, I felt Zelle in her present mood would have been shocked at me. She had quite a holy look, perched on her window-seat in a madonna-blue dressing-gown, with her fair hair suggesting an aureole.
She kept saying what a wonderful man Adrian Crossway was, so I teased her by asking if she could fancy being a vicar’s wife.
‘It’s not a thing you ought to joke about,’ she said, almost angrily. ‘The man’s a saint. I wouldn’t marry him even if he asked me to, which he never would.’
I said I agreed it wouldn’t be a good idea to marry a saint.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant I’m not good enough. But I do hope I shall see him again. I’m going to write and ask if he knows of any work I can do, to help people,
especially children. I adored all those fat babies sitting on the mound with us. I’ve never done anything worth while in my whole life.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve been converted,’ I said, laughing.
‘Yes, I have and it isn’t funny. And I don’t want to talk about it. Promise not to say anything to Molly and Lilian.’
I promised, and said I hadn’t meant to jeer. But I didn’t take her conversion seriously, any more than I had taken her fears of being bitten by Dracula. I had never come near to knowing her well and accepted her as being irrational and sometimes a bit silly, but always charming and almost unbelievably generous.