Love in a Cold Climate (19 page)

“Oh, but you must,” said Jassy. “There’s us to consider.”

“Children, do stop interrupting,” said Aunt Sadie. “If you can’t hold your tongues you will have to leave the room when we are having serious conversations. In fact,” she said, becoming strict all of a sudden, just as she used to be when Linda and I were little, “I think you’d better go now. Go on, off with you.”

They went. As they reached the door, Jassy said in a loud aside,
“This labile and indeterminate attitude to discipline may do permanent damage to our young psychology. I really think Sadie should be more careful.”

“Oh, no, Jassy,” Victoria said. “After all, it’s our complexes that make us so fascinating and unusual.”

When they had shut the door, Davey said, rather seriously, “You know, Sadie, you do spoil them.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Sadie, “I’m afraid so. It comes of having so many children. One can force oneself to be strict for a few years, but after that it becomes too much of an effort. But, Davey, do you honestly imagine it makes the smallest difference when they are grown-up?”

“Probably not to your children, demons one and all. But look how well we brought up Fanny.”

“Davey! You were never strict,” I said. “Not the least bit. You spoilt me quite completely.”

“Yes, now, that’s true,” said Aunt Sadie. “Fanny was allowed to do all sorts of dreadful things—specially after she came out. Powder her nose, travel alone, go in cabs with young men—didn’t she once go to a night club? Fortunately for you she seems to have been born good, though why she should have been, with such parents, is beyond me.”

Davey told Polly that he had seen her mother but she merely said, “How was Daddy?”

“In London, House of Lords, something about India. Your mother doesn’t look at all well, Polly.”

“Temper,” said Polly, and left the room.

Davey’s next visit was to Silkin. “Frankly, I can’t resist it.” He bustled off in his little motor car on the chance of finding the Lecturer at home. He still refused to come to the telephone, giving out that he was away for a few weeks, but all other evidence pointed to the fact that he was living in his house, and, indeed, this now proved to be the case.

“Puzzled and lonely and gloomy, poor old Boy, and he’s still got
an awful cold he can’t get rid of. Sonia’s evil thoughts, perhaps. He has aged, too. Says he has seen nobody since his engagement to Polly. Of course, he has cut himself off at Silkin, but he seems to think that the people he has run into, at the London Library, and so on, have been avoiding him as if they already knew about it. I expect it’s really because he’s in mourning—or perhaps they don’t want to catch his cold—anyway, he’s fearfully sensitive on the subject. Then he didn’t say so, but you can see how much he is missing Sonia. Naturally, after seeing her every day all these years. Missing Patricia, too, I expect.”

“Did you talk quite openly about Polly?” I asked.

“Oh, quite. He says the whole thing originated with her, wasn’t his idea at all.”

“Yes, that’s true. She told me that herself.”

“And if you ask me, it shocks him dreadfully. He can’t resist it, of course, but it shocks him and he fully expects to be a social outcast as the result. Now that would have been the card for Sonia to have played, if she had been clever enough to foresee it all. Too late, once the words were spoken, of course, but if she could have warned Boy what was likely to happen and then rubbed in about how that would finish him for ever in the eyes of society I think she might have stopped it. After all, he’s frightfully social, poor chap. He would hate to be ostracised. As a matter of fact, though I didn’t say so to him, people will come round in no time once they are married.”

“But you don’t really think they will marry?” said Aunt Sadie.

“My dear Sadie, after ten days in the same house with Polly I don’t doubt it for one single instant. What’s more, Boy knows he’s in for it, all right, whether he likes it or not—and of course he half likes it very much indeed. But he dreads the consequences, not that there’ll be any. People have no memory about that sort of thing and, after all, there’s nothing to forget except bad taste.”

“Détournement de jeunesse?”

“It won’t occur to the ordinary person that Boy could have made
a pass at Polly when she was little. We would never have thought of it, except for what he did to Linda. In a couple of years nobody outside the family will even remember what all the fuss was about.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said my aunt. “Look at the Bolter! Ghastly scandal after ghastly scandal, elopements, horse whippings, puts herself up as a prize in a lottery, cannibal kings—I don’t know what all—headlines in the papers, libel actions, and yet she only has to appear in London and her friends queue up to give parties for her. But don’t encourage Boy by telling him. Did you suggest he might chuck it and go abroad?”

“Yes, I did, but it’s no good. He misses Sonia. He is horrified, in a way, by the whole thing, hates the idea of his money being stopped, though he’s not penniless himself, you know. He’s got an awful cold and is down in the dumps, but at the same time you can see that the prospect dazzles him and as long as Polly makes all the running I bet you he’ll play. Oh, dear, fancy taking on a new young wife at our age—how exhausting! Boy, too, who is cut out to be a widower, I do pity him.”

“Pity him, indeed! All he had to do was to leave little girls alone.”

“You’re so implacable, Sadie. It’s a heavy price to pay for a bit of cuddling. I wish you could see the poor chap …!”

“Whatever does he do with himself all the time?”

“He’s embroidering a counterpane,” said Davey. “It’s his wedding present for Polly. He calls it a bedspread.”

“Oh, really!” Aunt Sadie shuddered. “He is the most dreadful man! Better not tell Matthew. In fact, I wouldn’t tell him you’ve been over at all. He nearly has a fit every time he thinks of Boy now, and I don’t blame him. Bedspread, indeed!”

S
OON AFTER THIS
, Polly announced to Aunt Sadie that she would like to go to London the following day as she had an appointment there with Boy. We were sitting alone with Aunt Sadie in her little room. Although it was the first time that Polly had mentioned her uncle’s name to anybody at Alconleigh, except me, she brought it out not only without a tremor of self-consciousness but as though she spoke of him all and every day. It was an admirable performance. There was a pause. Aunt Sadie was the one who blushed and found it difficult to control her voice and when at last she replied it did not sound natural at all, but hard and anxious.

“Would you care to tell me what your plans are, Polly?”

“Please—to catch the 9:30, if it’s convenient.”

“No, I don’t mean your plans for tomorrow, but for your life.”

“You see, that’s what I must talk about, with Boy. Last time I saw him we made no plans, we simply became engaged to be married.”

“And this marriage, Polly dear—your mind is made up?”

“Yes, quite. So I don’t see any point in all this waiting. As we are going to be married whatever happens, what can it matter when? In fact, there is every reason why it should be very soon now. It’s out of the question for me to go and live with my mother again, and I
can’t foist myself on you indefinitely. You’ve been much too kind as it is.”

“Oh, my darling child, don’t give that a thought. It never matters having people here, so long as Matthew likes them. Look at Davey and Fanny, they’re in no hurry to go. They know quite well we love having them.”

“Oh, yes, I know, but they are family.”

“So are you, almost, and quite as welcome as if you were. I have got to go to London in a few weeks, as you know, for Linda’s baby, but that needn’t make any difference to you, and you must stay on for as long as ever you like. There’ll be Fanny, and when Fanny goes there are the children—they worship you, you are their heroine, it’s wonderful for them having you here. So don’t think about that again. Don’t, for heaven’s sake, rush into marriage because you think you have nowhere to live, because for one thing it’s not the case at all, since you can live here, and, anyhow, it could never be a sufficient reason for taking such a grave step.”

“I’m not rushing,” said Polly. “It’s the only marriage I could ever have made, and if it had continued to be impossible I should have lived and died a spinster.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Sadie. “You’ve no idea how long life goes on and how many, many changes it brings. Young people seem to imagine that it’s over in a flash, that they do this thing, or that thing, and then die, but I can assure you they are quite wrong. I suppose it’s no good saying this to you, Polly, as I can see your mind is made up, but since you have the whole of your life before you as a married woman, why not make the most of being a girl? You’ll never be one again. You’re only twenty. Why be in such a hurry to change?”

“I hate being a girl. I’ve hated it ever since I grew up,” said Polly. “And besides, do you really think a lifetime is too long for perfect happiness? I don’t.…”

Aunt Sadie gave a profound sigh.

“I wonder why it is that all girls suppose the married state to be
one of perfect happiness? Is it just clever old Dame Nature’s way of hurrying them into the trap?”

“Dear Lady Alconleigh, don’t be so cynical.”

“No, no, you are quite right, I mustn’t be. You’ve settled upon your future, and nothing anybody can say will stop you, I’m sure, but I must tell you that I think you are making a terrible mistake. There, I won’t say another word about it. I’ll order the car for the 9:30, and will you be catching the 4:45 back or the 6:10?”

“4:45 please. I told Boy to meet me at the Ritz at one. I sent him a postcard yesterday.”

And by a miracle the said postcard had lain about all day on the hall table without either Jassy or Victoria spotting it. Hunting had begun again, and although they were only allowed out three times a fortnight the sheer physical exhaustion which it induced did a great deal towards keeping their high spirits within bounds. As for Uncle Matthew, who went out four days a week, he hardly opened an eye after tea time, but nodded away, standing up in his business room, with the gramophone blaring his favourite tunes. Every few minutes he gave a great jump and rushed to change the needle and the disc.

That evening, before dinner, Boy rang up. We were all in the business room listening to
Lakmè
on the gramophone, new records which had just arrived from the Army and Navy Stores. My uncle ground his teeth when the temple bells were interrupted by a more penetrating peal, and gnashed them with anger when he heard Boy’s voice asking for Polly, but he handed her the receiver and pushed up a chair for her with the old-fashioned courtesy which he used towards those he liked. He never treated Polly as if she were a very young person, and I believe he was really rather in awe of her.

Polly said, “Yes? Oh? Very well. Goodbye,” and hung up the receiver. Even this ordeal had done nothing to shake her serenity.

She told us that Boy had changed the rendezvous, saying he thought it was pointless to go all the way to London, and suggesting the Mitre in Oxford as a more convenient meeting place.

“So perhaps we could go in together, Fanny darling.”

I was going, anyhow, to visit my house.

“Ashamed of himself,” said Davey, when Polly had gone upstairs. “Doesn’t want to be seen. People are beginning to talk. You know how Sonia can never keep a secret, and once the Kensington Palace set gets hold of something it is all round London in a jiffy.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Sadie. “But if they are seen at the Mitre it will look far worse. I feel rather worried. I only promised Sonia they shouldn’t meet here, but ought I to tell her? What do you think?”

“Shall I go over to Silkin and shoot the sewer?” said Uncle Matthew, half-asleep.

“Oh, no, darling, please don’t. What do you think, Davey?”

“Don’t you worry about the old she-wolf. Good Lord, who cares a brass button for her?”

If Uncle Matthew had not hated Boy so much, he would have been quite as eager as his daughters were to aid and abet Polly in any enterprise that would fly in the face of Lady Montdore.

Davey said, “I wouldn’t give it a thought. It so happens that Polly has been perfectly open and above board about the whole thing—but suppose she hadn’t told you? She’s always going in to Oxford with Fanny, isn’t she? I should turn the blind eye.”

So in the morning Polly and I motored to Oxford together, and I lunched, as I often did, with Alfred at the George. (If I never mention Alfred in this story, it is because he is so totally uninterested in other human beings and their lives that I think he was hardly aware of what was going on. He certainly did not enter into it with fascination like the rest of us. I suppose that I and his children and, perhaps, an occasional clever pupil seem real to him, but otherwise he lives in a world of shadows and abstract thought.)

After luncheon I spent a freezing, exhausting and discouraging hour in my little house, which seemed hopelessly haunted by builders. I noted, with something like despair, that they had now made one of the rooms cosy, a regular home from home, with blazing fire, stewing tea and film stars on the walls. As far as I could see,
they never left it at all to ply their trade and, indeed, I could hardly blame them for that, so terrible were the damp and cold in the rest of the house. After a detailed inspection with the foreman, which merely revealed more exposed pipes and fewer floor boards than last time I had been there, I went to the window of what was supposed to be my drawing room, to fortify myself with the view of Christ Church, so beautiful against the black clouds. One day, I thought (it was an act of faith), I would sit by that very window, open wide, and there would be green trees and a blue sky behind the college. I gazed on, through glass which was almost opaque with dirt and whitewash, forcing myself to imagine that summer scene, when, battling their way down the street, the East wind in their faces, Polly and the Lecturer appeared to view. It was not a happy picture, but that may have been the fault of the climate. No aimless dalliance hand in hand beneath warm skies for poor English lovers who, if circumstances drive them to making love out of doors, are obliged to choose between the sharp brisk walk and the stupefying stuffiness of the cinema. They stumped on out of my sight, hands in pockets, heads bowed, plunged, one would have said, in gloom.