The Wheel of Fortune (41 page)

More ghastliness. Blanche had a little boy but he only lived a few hours. The clergyman came as soon as it was realized that death was inevitable and the baby was christened John before dying in Blanche’s arms. I feel very, very upset and condemn myself utterly for my past cattiness about Johnny and Blanche when I mocked them for being a couple who were much too good to be true. I was just jealous because the marriage is so blissfully happy—and there’s no charade going on there either; they’re both far too young and innocent to fool a cynical old hag like me.

The tragedy has made me nervous about my own baby although Dr. Drysdale assures me that all is well. Certainly the baby feels healthy enough. I’m always so excited when the baby becomes active, and despite my troubles I’m excited this time too. I can picture the baby gritting his toothless little gums and flailing away with his little legs and wondering where on earth he is. Why do we think of the womb as cozy? I think it must be terrifying, a dark padded cell. Poor little baby. But never mind, he’ll be free soon, and once he’s free Robert and I can begin to emerge from this nightmare which has overtaken us.

It’s quite a challenge trying to treat Robert as if he were God, display endless loving solicitude and still keep the charade reassuringly sexless, but I’m battling on. Julie was right when she said that Robert would be relieved. He is. No doubt he imagined he would be burdened with a frustrated sulky lump for the remainder of the pregnancy, so in his gratitude he’s sending me flowers every day and giving me extra money to spend at Harrods to ensure that I keep smiling.

Of course he feels guilty because he’s made me miserable, and of course I feel guilty because … Well, I made him miserable too, didn’t I, but I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, I got in a panic and said the wrong thing, that’s all. Darling Robert, what a dear little boy he was; I can see us picking those strawberries in the kitchen garden, I can hear him saying, “I’ll always come first with you, won’t I?”—oh yes, I love Robert so much, he
does
come first, and Conor’s just a skeleton in the closet who periodically rattles his bones too loudly.

That’s the truth. That’s reality … or is it? Yes, of course it is, and I shall now prove it by conducting the conversation that will triumphantly exorcise Conor’s ghost once and for all. …

“… and I can’t believe any decent woman would approve of such behavior, but because he was my husband … well, it was my duty as his wife to obey him, wasn’t it, and he did have the right to do what he liked in bed …”

Would Conor have recognized this description of our marriage? No. He would have burst into incredulous laughter, but I couldn’t stop to think of that. I didn’t dare.

I struggled on.

“… and that’s why I was so horrified when you suggested … well, you do understand, darling, don’t you? I didn’t want our marriage dragged down to that level, and I didn’t want
you
dragged down to that level because I think of you as a much finer person than Conor, far more civilized, far more … well, to be frank, far more the sort of man I want to be married to.”

I paused. I decided it was time I gave him an honest look so I dredged up my courage and gave him one. We were sitting side by side on the sofa in the drawing room before dinner. I had had to conduct the interview before dinner because otherwise I would have been unable to eat.

Robert’s eyes were steady. “I see,” he said. “Yes. Thank you.”

I almost collapsed with relief. The hard part of the story was over. All I now had to do was to add the finishing touches.

“I love you better than I ever loved Conor,” I said, and added in a rush: “Oh darling, you do believe that, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Robert. “Of course.” And as soon as he spoke I knew how deeply I’d lied—and what was far, far worse, I knew
he
knew how deeply I’d lied. For one terrible second we were back in the music room at Oxmoon in 1913. I could hear him saying brutally, “Always tell me the truth because if you don’t I’ll know and that’ll mean the end.”

To my horror I started to cry. “I’ve told you the truth,” I whispered. “You’ve got to believe it’s the truth, you’ve got to—”

But he stopped me from betraying myself further. His mouth closed protectively on mine for three seconds, and when he withdrew I found myself beyond speech. I could only listen as he said with perfect calmness, “We’ll both accept that what you’ve said is true, shall we? And I think we should also accept that although we’ve been distressed we’ve discussed the matter satisfactorily, with the result that we can now put it behind us once and for all.”

I nodded dumbly, still weeping. He passed me his handkerchief.

“Oh Robert …” I felt my tears flow faster than ever.

“My dearest, think of the baby, calm down and be sensible. I love you just as much as I ever did, and I’m sure everything will come right in the end.”

It’s a lie. The entire conversation was a lie. He knows it, I know it, but because we love each other we’ve invented this charade which will enable us to go on. I can’t ask myself how long we can go on or where the charade is going to end. I can’t ask because I can’t face the answers. I can’t even confide in Julie. I’ll just tell her all’s well—and so it is, in a way. Robert’s affectionate and considerate; I’m loving and cheerful, but it’s all an act, it’s false through and through, and beneath the falsehood I can feel our marriage disintegrating.

I must be very near my time because I’ve joined in my housemaid’s spring cleaning. I can’t sit still, I’m turning out my wardrobe, I have to be constantly busy. Conor said I was like a bird who had suddenly realized at the last moment that it had forgotten to feather its nest. Now I’m rushing around feathering it.

I do wish the baby could be a girl, but Robert would never love a daughter, not a hope, he’d simply regard a daughter as a failure to have a son, so it’s got to be a boy and I must reconcile myself to the fact that I’m destined to be the mother of sons.

Stop. I feel the first twinge. Oh God, how thrilling this is, and how sad, how very very sad that Robert can’t share my joy.

“Is it a boy?” I gasped, and when I heard it was I fainted not from the ordeal of giving birth but from relief. However panic returned the instant I recovered consciousness. “Is he normal?” I said wildly. “Is he deformed? A cretin? An imbecile?”

My kind Dr. Drysdale hastened to end these agonized inquiries, and while she was speaking the midwife placed the baby in my arms.

He was washed, shining, serene.

“Oh!” I was speechless.

“Isn’t he lovely?” said the midwife pleased. “I don’t see them like that every day, I can tell you!”

I felt confused still after the gas and I had the dreadful desire to hide the baby from Robert as he entered the room a few minutes later, but I soon stopped feeling terrified. After he had kissed me he gazed down at our immaculate pink-and-white infant, so different from the messy red-faced babies who had cluttered up the nurseries at Oxmoon, and to my joy I realized he was stupefied with delight.

“What a
tour de force
!” he exclaimed with complete sincerity, and as I wept with joy I thought, If we can survive this we can survive anything. Yet despite all my euphoria I knew the fate of our marriage was still very far from being resolved.

I’m taking infinite trouble. I’ve decided (with reluctance) not to breast-feed because I sense Robert would find this repellent. I’ve bought a new brassière—how on earth did we manage before with those awful camisoles?—and I’m lacing myself daily into a fiendish corset so that I can regain my figure as quickly as possible. I’ve bought a gorgeous nightgown, wickedly décolleté, for the coming seduction. I’m reading the parliamentary reports from end to end so that I can be an interesting companion. I display unflagging absorption in the news of all Robert’s activities, I hang on his every word, I pet him, cosset him and utterly exhaust myself with the effort of being the perfect wife.

It’s such a relief to be with the baby because then I don’t have to be perfect, I can just be myself. Dear little baby, he’s quite adorable, and we’ve decided to call him Robin. He’ll be christened Robert Charles after his father and grandfather, but to address him as Robert would be too confusing and of course there’s no question of calling him Bobby. Robert did say that “Robin Godwin” sounded odd and the baby might well object to it in later life, but I said we’d cross that bridge later.

Why worry about the future? There’s quite enough to worry about in the present because although Edmund’s safe in hospital again, this time with an attack of typhoid, Declan’s still on the run in Ireland, and meanwhile the war gets worse and worse. The food shortages have now begun in earnest. I’m bribing both the butcher and the grocer so I’ve had to ask Robert to increase the housekeeping money, but this was inevitable anyway because food prices have soared out of sight. There’s some demented Food Controller at the Food Ministry at Grosvenor House who’s covered up the Rubens murals to protect the virgin typists from corruption and is issuing a stream of orders forbidding the consumption of crumpets. It gives a new mad dimension to a life of rushing into the Underground stations to escape from the latest air raids, skimming through the casualty lists and writing the mechanical sympathy letters. To conform to the new regulations, The Gondolier can now only serve a two-course meal in the middle of the day, but I don’t mind because I’m banting.

America will come into the war soon after her three sunlit years of sitting on the fence. Her soldiers will saunter across the Atlantic to save us, and how surprised they’ll be when we regard them with anger and resentment! They won’t realize that they’ve waited too long and that we’re now beyond their naive notion of saving; we’ve bled too much, and the wounds are too deep. We may survive to live again, but it’ll be a very different kind of living from the life we knew before.

Meanwhile we still haven’t won and the war’s going as badly as ever, and I know I’m going to start worrying about Edmund again as soon as he returns to France. …

Wonderful news! Dervla writes to say that the authorities have dropped the charges against Declan: they accept that he didn’t shoot the British soldiers after all. Thank God. Dervla tells me Declan’s come out of hiding and plans to join Michael Collins, the famous Irish leader, so this is only a brief respite for me. But at least I know Declan’s not in immediate danger of execution.

I’ve written a note to tell him about Robin but I know I’ll have no reply. Yet I think one day there might be a letter. I shall never give up hope of a reconciliation, never, but meanwhile I can only console myself by looking at my old photographs of Conor and remembering those happy days we all shared in New York.

I’ve just survived the christening at Oxmoon. Everyone adored the baby and said how wonderful it was to see that Robert and I were so happy. Margaret was so relieved that she even confessed to me how worried she had been in case Robert had disliked the baby on sight, but fortunately I only needed to smile in reply because Robert is in fact behaving very well. It helps that the baby is greatly admired; Robert can consider his venture into fatherhood a huge success and regard himself once more as a winner.

That was the right moment to stage the seduction so I staged it. We were pathetically out of practice but I’m not worried; we achieved what we wanted to achieve and so logically, rationally, it should only be a matter of time before our private life returns to normal.

And yet …

There’s something going on here, but I’m not sure what it is. Robert seems as interested in sex as ever, but … No, I really don’t know what I’m trying to say.

I won’t think about it.

Another wonderful piece of news—Edmund’s been wounded at Passchendael! And he wasn’t permanently maimed—he just suffered a severe leg wound which has rendered him unfit for further service! It’s so wonderful that I want to cry when I think of it. Edmund’s coming home. He’s won, he’s safe, he’s going to live. …

Thank God Edmund was invalided home because if he’d remained he’d be dead by now. The past seems to be bizarrely repeating itself as if the war were completing some macabre circle. The old names are recurring again; we’re on the Somme, we’re at Ypres, we’re on the Aisne and now at last, in the June of 1918, we’re back once more along the Marne. The same few miles of mud, the same terrible suffering, and only the names of the dead have changed.

I suddenly long to turn my back on it all by accepting Daphne’s invitation to spend August with her in Scotland. It would suit Robert too because he’s been working much too hard and his doctor has recommended a holiday, but I know very well I’d have to go on my own. …

“I’ll come with you,” said Robert.

I was both amazed and delighted. “Darling!” I exclaimed, kissing him warmly. “Nothing could please me more, and I’m sure it would do you good, but … well, don’t think I wouldn’t understand if you refused to come. I know why you always shy away from the thought of returning to the country around Ben Nevis.”

“I shall be all right.” He made no other comment and I made no attempt to pursue the matter, but of course, as I realized later, I had no understanding whatsoever of his aversion to the sight of Ben Nevis. I merely thought he was reluctant to be reminded of a past tragedy but the truth was I was like a wife who had offered her drunkard of a husband a bottle of brandy—and, what was worse, just poured it into the largest glass she could find.

“But you swore you’d never go climbing again!”

“I’ll only go once. Just once.”

He went back to mountaineering. At first he had merely contented himself with long walks in the company of one of the ghillies from the Wynter-Hamiltons’ estate, but soon he had gone riding into Fort William to buy climbing equipment and renew his acquaintance with the mountain guides.

“Just once,” he said. “Just once.” But he could no more satisfy himself with one expedition than a drunkard could satisfy himself with a single glass of brandy. He went climbing once but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He went out every day. He cut all the social engagements the Wynter-Hamiltons had arranged and he even ignored the start of the grouse season. I was deeply embarrassed by this rudeness to our hosts, but my embarrassment, as I was finally coming to realize, was the least of my problems. After so much physical activity during the day he would sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow at night—and that, I realized as the truth slowly dawned on me, was exactly what he wanted.