Nightingale Wood (25 page)

Her guess was true. He was most strongly attracted to her, but not romantically. The intentions of the Prince towards Cinderella were, in short, not honourable: and as we have seen, he thought it the prudent thing not to see her. He did not wonder how she felt about him. He assumed that a widow like that would have plenty of men and plenty to do with them. He knew nothing about the dullness of life at The Eagles. He only just knew Mr Wither by sight. For all he knew to the contrary, life at The Eagles might have been a whirl of gaiety, and he purposely did not ask Hetty any questions about Viola because he did not want to be mocked at.

Hetty saw quite plainly, in fact, that he was attracted to Viola, but the situation made her so impatient and irritated that she would not think about it. How petty men and women were! getting attracted to each other, fussing over new frocks, planning parties, while the human race was living through perhaps one of the most repulsive yet interesting eras it had yet known! And Hetty took the bus to Chesterbourne to inquire if her German grammar had arrived.

At the back of Victor’s mind was a feeling that sooner or later he was bound to run into the Merry Widow again. Couldn’t help it, surely, as she lived so near; and then, if he had a good excuse for seeing her, no one could say that he had looked her up on purpose, and things must just … work themselves out. That was how Victor put the situation to himself, when he occasionally thought about Viola in the intervals of working hard and seriously playing a lot of games.

But Viola believed that he felt about her as she felt about him; and therefore, she could not, though she thought of every possible and impossible reason, imagine why she did not hear from him.

She knew that he was not officially engaged to that marvellous girl; but presently the thought occurred to her that he might be unofficially engaged to her. If he is, thought Viola indignantly, then he oughtn’t to have squeezed my hand.

Here she hit on just the sober truth; but she did not for an instant accept it as such, because it was sober.

She did not dare to telephone him. Even Shirley, whose methods with men were unorthodox and successful, said that it was a dam’ silly thing to do to phone a man you’d only met once, unless you had a cast-iron excuse like a cinch for the Derby or the news he was a father, and even then, better not.
So we can’t do anything
, Viola had said dejectedly and Shirley had replied,
That’s about the ticket, darling. Vote, Marie, perms, and all, we can’t do anything
.

Proper pride, of which Viola had a larger share than the better-educated and more intelligent Tina, prevented her from going near Grassmere when she went for her walks, and as she did not have the luck to meet Hetty again in the wood, she had no news of Victor, as well as no glimpse of him; and the lowness of her spirits was increased by the fact that she now had five shillings and three half-pence in the world.

She would very much have liked a confidante; but she was shy of writing a long letter about Victor to Shirley. She did not know why, but the feeling was strong enough to prevent her from writing. Tina was the obvious person in whom to confide, and on the day after the Ball gave her an opening by saying, casually, ‘You made rather a hit with young Spring, didn’t you? What do you think of him?’ but she had seemed so low-spirited herself, and so uninterested in her own question, that Viola had only replied hastily that he danced marvellously and was awfully good-looking, wasn’t he? but that she hadn’t really thought much about him; they had only danced once. Tina had replied rather snappily that she supposed he was good-looking but he wasn’t her type, and no more was said.

Viola never thought of analysing her own feelings, and if she had tried, she would have done it incorrectly. For the first days after the Ball she lived in a romantic, dreamy, hopeful excitement that made time fly and every-day matters delightful. She did not say to herself:
I love Victor Spring
, but thought about him constantly with glowing admiration; every object connected with him became dear to her and interesting, apart from the glamour of his position.

She was full of innocent snobbery. It never entered her head to fall in love with Saxon, who was better-looking than Victor and nearer her own social and economic position. No, Saxon worked with his hands; one did not fall for someone who worked with their hands. One went up and up and on and on. Even had Saxon not been working in her father-in-law’s establishment, Viola could never have fallen in love with him, because he was a chauffeur.

Hail, Snobbery, by mink and broadtail bounded,

On whom the English hierarchy is founded.

It was Tina, the would-be realist, who discerned beneath Saxon’s dangerous beauty and his low birth a quality that drew forth Love and Love’s despised elderly sister, Respect.

The dim youthful day-dream of marrying Victor never occurred to her nowadays. She was so busy wondering if she should encounter him by chance whenever she went out, or whether that was him on the telephone, that she had no time for picture-making.

Tina had no time for it, either. She had never much indulged herself in dreaming since she left her late twenties, because all the psychological handbooks, in one great bellow like the trumpets outside Jericho, said that day-dreaming was Pernicious; and Tina, having no religion and no husband and children, had to hang on to something and tried to hang on to Psychology. As a girl she used to day-dream, but after she took to Psychology she tried not to, and partly succeeded. She had not day-dreamed about Saxon. She had only wanted to be with him and breathe the quiet, enchanted air that his presence made for her. When she was away from him, she longed to be with him again, but she never let her fancy off the lead. She did not want to. When some women fall in love their thoughts do not go beyond the present (though it is very difficult to make men believe this) and Tina was one of them.

On the morning after the Ball she lay, as usual, staring out of her open window, arms behind her head, while her tea cooled on the little black lacquer table. She was in a painfully agitated state, for shame, anger, love, alarm and a great many minor but disagreeable emotions were running across her nerves in exhausting waves, and she wished with all her heart that she had not told Saxon she would have her lesson that morning.

Yet she must go, or he would think his kisses had meant more to her than a piece of moonlit impudence.

Besides, she wanted to see him. Yet she dreaded to see him. How
unpleasant
violent feeling is, thought Tina angrily, forgetting for how many mornings in the past she had lain in that same position, staring at the sky as it changed with the changing seasons, and longing to
feel
.

Suddenly there slid into her mind the memory of a forgotten friend,
Selene’s Daughters
, thrust contemptuously to the back of her stocking drawer. What would Doctor Hartmüller say about the exhausting, humiliating situation she had blundered into? I made a mess of things because I tried to mix psychology and common-sense, thought Tina. I gave way to my desire, but I tried to be ‘sensible’ as well. I ought to have been all one thing or all the other. Mixing them’s fatal. If I’m to get out of this without more misery, I must make up my mind what I want, and go all out for it, clearly, using my intelligence, not getting in a state.

What do I want?

She lay there, trying to get out of a state.

It was not easy. Emotions crowded in upon her mind, and she was also rather shocked. It seemed so cold and calculating to decide what one wanted, and go all out for it. Yet one did that when one was matching embroidery silks. Why should not one do it with one’s feelings?

Well, do I want to be sensible, or not sensible?

Both.

But which do I want
most
?

Ah! I want to be not-sensible.

How not sensible?

I want … this took some thinking out. Tina frowned with the effort.

I want to be with Saxon. I want him to kiss me (gently,
not
all crushed up. Oh well, I suppose I may want him to kiss me all crushed up subconsciously, but certainly not consciously, not at all). Do I want to marry him? No! no, I certainly don’t want to marry him, that would be a disaster; it always is when a woman marries ‘beneath’ her – though men seem able to do it successfully for some reason. Do I want to have an affair (beastly word!) with him, then? No, I don’t; I should hate it, it would be vulgar and horrible and spoil everything, all that feeling of his being part of my youth.

I think – why – she sat up in bed in her excitement – I think I want to be friends with him. That’s it! I’ve got it. I want to be friends with him and have jokes, and go for walks and talk, as though he was a boy again in his old red jersey and I was the same age.

Only (she fell back on the pillows) when he really was a boy, I was a girl of twenty-two.

The thought sobered her, but not for long. Now that she knew she wanted Saxon’s friendship, there was no harm in going coolly ahead to get it. Of course, I expect he’ll think it rather peculiar at first; he may not even believe that’s all I want, but I can make him see, I’m sure I can, if I always keep the same honest, friendly attitude. I don’t see why we shouldn’t be friends. Of course, it will be difficult …

If Father sees him kissing me, it certainly will
, coarsely observed the little voice in her head. Well yes, it will, admitted Tina, glowing with will power and mental hygiene. Very difficult.

I never thought that it wouldn’t. But surely it’s worth a bit of difficulty to begin with to get the whole thing straightened out.

Eight o’clock. Time to get up.

She got out of bed, calmed, strengthened and refreshed because she had faced the situation; and very determined to work coolly to win Saxon’s friendship.

How brutal and numerous are the defeats sustained by applied psychology! It is more like a ninepin than a science.

When she came out into the yard (pale gold in the sunlight now!) Annie was chaffering with the butcher at the back door, Madge was watering Polo, and a man had arrived to put a washer on a tap; the place, in short, was seething with people.

And there stood Saxon by the car, his eyes wrinkled up against the morning sunlight, smiling at Polo’s antics.

People ought to be surprised if I didn’t love him (not that I do) thought Tina, confusedly, but advancing with a friendly smile. She had on a new frock; she thought she looked rather attractive.

‘Good morning,’ she began, kindly.

‘Good morning, Miss Tina,’ returned Saxon, standing to attention, touching his cap, and using his chill, correct chauffeur’s voice.

Tina’s smile grew mechanical, her heart seemed to be sliding away down miles of a dark shaft towards her shoes … but perhaps it’s just that he doesn’t want to flaunt things in front of other people … only I
don’t mind
if people
do
see we’re friends, I must make him see that.

But as the car moved out of the yard and the expression on his fine profile did not change, and he did not speak, her courage died. I did try to show him I want to be friends, and apparently he doesn’t want to. I can’t—

‘Where would you like to go, Miss Tina?’

She nearly said, Anywhere, I don’t care, but controlled herself and replied briskly that she thought it might be a good idea to have a little practice with traffic in Chesterbourne this morning (no more lanes at the end of the world, where sounded the enchanter’s far-off voice).

‘Very good, Miss Tina.’

Alert and efficient, he watched her hands on the wheel, her footwork, while she drove steadily through the summer lanes towards the town. Once he lightly and quite impersonally dropped his hand over hers to make some change in the car’s direction, at the same time explaining why he did so. Never once, by any note in his voice, or any glance, did he remind her that eleven hours ago she had been in his arms.

This was most calming. When the car turned back into the yard at half-past twelve Tina felt that she would just be able to get upstairs to her room before she began to cry.

‘Shall I come at the same time tomorrow, Miss Tina?’

‘Please, if you will.’ (
Oh, how can you be so brutal to me? You must know almost anything would be better than pretending nothing’s happened
…
and yet he’s perfectly right, this is the only way to take it
.)

‘Good morning, Miss Tina.’

‘Good morning, Saxon, thank you.’

Saxon put the car away and went into the kitchen to take the small glass of beer with bread and cheese provided for him on the days he worked in the garden; he exchanged two decorous jokes with Annie, Fawcuss and Cook, then went out to the tennis court. As he cut the grass, he whistled blithely as a blackbird.

Tina, powdering her pink nose in her room, heard him and swallowed a fresh gush of tears.

Saxon felt blithe. He had done a good morning’s work, carrying out to the letter the plans he had made while walking home through the wood last night. He had then made up his mind to let Miss Tina make all the running, with no encouragement from him, until they were well away. Then he would go to Mr Wither, and threaten to tell the whole neighbourhood what was going on unless Mr Wither paid him not to.

Some people might say that’s a dirty trick, thought Saxon, deftly guiding the old mowing-machine over bumps, with his handsome, serious face looking quietly absorbed over the job, but if you don’t make up your mind what you want in this world and go all out for it, you’ll never make good.

I want enough money to get started in a filling-station of my own; and I don’t see why little Tina shouldn’t help me get it.

A few more lessons like this morning, and she’ll be asking me to kiss her again. And I don’t mind if I do.

He smiled a little as he turned the mower and began on the return trip over the thick glossy grass. Sweet and careless, the whistle broke out again, a rival to the courting-notes of the birds.