Absent in the Spring (12 page)

In fact, quite an interesting idea.

Only Blanche had said that she, herself, wouldn't like to try it …

She had sounded – almost –
afraid
.

I wonder, thought Joan, if one
would
make any discoveries about oneself.

Of course I'm not
used
to thinking of myself …

I've never been a self-centred sort of woman.

… I wonder, thought Joan, how I appear to other people?

… I don't mean in general – I mean in particular.

She tried to remember any instances of things people had said to her …

Barbara, for instance:

‘Oh,
your
servants, Mother, are always perfection.
You
see to that.'

Quite a tribute, in a way, showing that her children did consider her a good manager and housewife. And it was true, she did run her house well and efficiently. And her servants liked her – at least, they did what she told them. They weren't, perhaps, very sympathetic if she had a headache, or wasn't feeling well, but then she hadn't encouraged them on those lines. And what was it that that very excellent cook had said when she had given her notice, something about not being able to go on for ever without any appreciation – something quite ridiculous.

‘Always being told when a thing's wrong, Ma'am, and never a word of praise when it's right – well, it takes the heart out of you.'

She had answered coldly, ‘Surely you realize, Cook, that if nothing is said it is because everything is all right and perfectly satisfactory.'

‘That may be, Ma'am, but it's disheartening. After all, I'm a human being – and I did take a lot of trouble over that Spanish Ragout you asked for, though it was a lot of trouble and I'm not one that cares for made-up dishes myself.'

‘It was quite excellent, Cook.'

‘Yes, Ma'am. I thought it must have been as you finished it all in the dining-room, but nothing was said.'

Joan said impatiently, ‘Don't you think you are being rather silly? After all, you are engaged to do the cooking at a very good salary –'

‘Oh, the wages are quite satisfactory, Ma'am.'

‘– and therefore the understanding is that you are a sufficiently good cook. If anything is
not
satisfactory, I mention it.'

‘You do indeed, Ma'am.'

‘And apparently you resent the fact?'

‘It's not that, Ma'am, but I think we'd best say no more about it and I'll leave at the end of my month.'

Servants, thought Joan, were very unsatisfactory. So full of feelings and resentments. They all adored Rodney, of course, simply because he was a man. Nothing was ever too much trouble to do for the Master. And Rodney would sometimes come out with the most unexpected knowledge concerning them.

‘Don't pitch into Edna,' he would say surprisingly. ‘Her young man's taken up with another girl and it's thrown her right out of gear. That's why she's dropping things and handing the vegetables twice and forgetting everything.'

‘How on earth do you know, Rodney?'

‘She told me this morning.'

‘Very extraordinary that she should talk to
you
about it.'

‘Well, I asked her what was wrong, as a matter of fact. I noticed her eyes were red as though she had been crying.'

Rodney, thought Joan, was an unusually kind person.

She had said to him once, ‘I should think that with your experience as a lawyer, you would get tired of human tangles.'

And he had answered, thoughtfully, ‘Yes, one might think so. But it doesn't work that way. I suppose a country family solicitor sees more of the seamy side of human relationships than almost anybody else, except a doctor. But it only seems to deepen one's pity for the whole human race – so vulnerable, so prone to fear and suspicion and greed – and sometimes so unexpectedly unselfish and brave. That is, perhaps, the only compensation there is – the widening of one's sympathies.'

It had been on the tip of her tongue to say,‘Compensation? What do you mean?' But for some reason she hadn't said it. Better not, she thought. No, better to say nothing.

But she had been disturbed sometimes by the practical expression of Rodney's easily awakened sympathies.

The question, for instance, of old Hoddesdon's mortgage.

She had learned about that, not from Rodney, but from the garrulous wife of Hoddesdon's nephew, and she had come home seriously perturbed.

Was it true that Rodney had advanced the money out of his private capital?

Rodney had looked vexed. He had flushed and answered heatedly:

‘Who's been talking?'

She told him and then said, ‘Why couldn't he borrow the money in the ordinary way?'

‘Security isn't good enough from the strictly business point of view. It's difficult to raise mortgages on farmland just now.'

‘Then why on earth are
you
lending it?'

‘Oh, I shall be all right. Hoddesdon's a good farmer really. It's lack of capital and two bad seasons that have let him down.'

‘The fact remains that he's in a bad way and has to raise money. I really can't feel that this is good business, Rodney.'

And quite suddenly and unexpectedly, Rodney had lost his temper.

Did she understand the first thing, he had asked her, about the plight that farmers all over the country were in? Did she realize the difficulties, the obstacles, the short-sighted policy of the Government? He had stood there pouring out a welter of information concerning the whole agricultural position of England, passing from that to a warm, indignant description of old Hoddesdon's particular difficulties.

‘It might happen to anyone. No matter how intelligent and hard-working he was. It might have happened to me if I'd been in his position. It's lack of capital to begin with and bad luck following on. And anyway, if you don't mind my saying so, it isn't your business, Joan. I don't interfere with your management of the house and the children. That's your department. This is mine.'

She had been hurt – quite bitterly hurt. To take such a tone was most unlike Rodney. It was really the nearest they had come to having a quarrel.

And all over that tiresome old Hoddesdon. Rodney was besotted about the stupid old man. On Sunday afternoons he would go out there and spend the afternoon walking round with Hoddesdon and come back full of information about the state of the crops and cattle diseases and other totally uninteresting subjects of conversation.

He even used to victimize their guests with the same kind of talk.

Why, Joan remembered how at a garden party she had noticed Rodney and Mrs Sherston sitting together on one of the garden seats, with Rodney talking, talking, talking. So much so that she had wondered what on earth he had been talking about and had gone up to them. Because really he seemed so excited, and Leslie Sherston was listening with such apparently tense interest.

And apparently all he was talking about were dairy herds and the necessity of keeping up the level of pedigree stock in this country.

Hardly a subject that could be of any interest to Leslie Sherston, who had no particular knowledge of or interest in such matters. Yet she had been listening with apparently deep attention, her eyes on Rodney's eager, animated face.

‘Joan had said lightly, Really, Rodney, you mustn't bore poor Mrs Sherston with such dull things.' (For that had been where the Sherstons first came to Crayminster and before they knew them very well.)

The light had died out of Rodney's face and he had said apologetically to Leslie:

‘I'm sorry.'

And Leslie Sherston had said quickly and abruptly, in the way she always spoke:

‘You're wrong, Mrs Scudamore. I found what Mr Scudamore was saying very interesting.'

And there had been a gleam in her eye which had made Joan say to herself, ‘Really, I believe that woman has got quite a temper …'

And the next thing that had happened was that Myrna Randolph had come up, just a little out of breath, and had exclaimed:

‘Rodney darling, you must come and play in this set with
me
. We're waiting for you.'

And with that charming imperious manner that only a really good-looking girl can get away with, she had stretched out both hands, pulled Rodney to his feet and smiling up into his face, had simply swept him away to the tennis court. Whether Rodney had wanted to or not!

She had walked beside him, her arm familiarly slipped through his, turning her head, gazing up into his face.

And Joan had thought angrily to herself, It's all very well, but men don't like girls who throw themselves at their heads like that.

And then had wondered, with a sudden queer cold feeling, whether perhaps men
did
like it after all!

She had looked up to find Leslie Sherston watching her. Leslie no longer looked as though she had a temper. She looked, instead, as though she was rather sorry for her, Joan. Which was impertinence if nothing else.

Joan stirred restlessly in her narrow bed. How on earth had she got back to Myrna Randolph? Oh, of course, wondering what effect she herself had on
other people. Myrna, she supposed, had disliked her. Well, Myrna was welcome to do so. The kind of girl who would break up anybody's married life if she got the chance!

Well, well, no need getting hot and bothered about that now.

She must get up and have breakfast. Perhaps they could poach an egg for her as a change? She was so tired of leathery omelettes.

The Indian, however, seemed impervious to the suggestion of a poached egg.

‘Cook egg in water? You mean boil?'

No, Joan said, she didn't mean boil. A boiled egg in the rest house, as she knew by experience, was always hard boiled. She tried to explain the science of the poached egg. The Indian shook his head.

‘Put egg in water – egg all go away. I give Memsahib nice fried egg.'

So Joan had two nice fried eggs, well frizzled outside and with hard, firm pale yolks. On the whole, she thought, she preferred the omelette.

Breakfast was over all too soon. She inquired for news of the train, but there was no news.

So there she was fairly and squarely up against it. Another long day ahead of her.

But today, at any rate, she would plan her time out intelligently. The trouble was that up to now she had just tried to pass the time.

She had been a person waiting at a railway station for a train, and naturally that engendered in one a nervy, jumpy frame of mind.

Supposing she were to consider this as a period of rest and – yes,
discipline
. Something in the nature of a Retreat. That is what Roman Catholics called it. They went for Retreats and came back spiritually refreshed.

There is no reason, thought Joan, why I should not be spiritually refreshed too.

Her life had been, perhaps, too slack lately. Too pleasant, too easy going.

A wraithlike Miss Gilbey seemed to be standing at her side and saying, in the well-remembered bassoonlike accents, ‘Discipline!'

Only actually that was what she had said to Blanche Haggard. To Joan she had said (really rather unkindly), ‘
Don't be too pleased with yourself, Joan
.'

It was unkind. For Joan never had been in the least bit pleased with herself – not in that fatuous sort of way. ‘
Think of others, my dear, and not too much of yourself
.' Well, that is what she had done – always thought of others. She hardly ever thought of herself – or put herself first. She had always been unselfish – thinking of the children – of Rodney.

Averil!

Why did she have suddenly to think of Averil?

Why see so clearly her elder daughter's face – with its polite, slightly scornful smile.

Averil, there was no doubt of it, had never appreciated her mother properly.

The things she said sometimes, quite sarcastic things, were really most irritating. Not exactly rude, but –

Well, but what?

That look of quiet amusement, those raised eyebrows. The way Averil would stroll gently out of a room.

Averil was devoted to her, of course, all her children were devoted to her –

Were they?

Were her children devoted to her – did they really care for her at all
?

Joan half rose out of her chair, then sank back.

Where did these ideas come from? What made her think them? Such frightening, unpleasant ideas. Put them out of her head – try not to think of them …

Miss Gilbey's voice –
pizzicato
–

‘
No lazy thinking, Joan. Don't accept things at their face value, because that's the easiest way, and because it may save you pain …
'

Was that why she wanted to force these ideas back? To save herself pain?

Because they certainly were painful ideas …

Averil …

Was
Averil devoted to her?
Was
Averil – come now, Joan, face it – was Averil even
fond
of her?

Well, the truth was that Averil was rather a peculiar kind of girl – cool, unemotional.

No, not perhaps unemotional. Actually Averil had been the only one of the three children to give them real trouble.

Cool, well-behaved, quiet Averil. The shock it had given them!

The shock it had given
her
!

She had opened the letter without the least suspicion of its contents. Addressed in a scrawled, illiterate hand, she had taken it to be from one of her many charitable pensioners.

She had read the words almost uncomprehendingly.

‘This is to let you know as how your eldest daughter is carrying on with the Dr up at the Saniturum. Kissing in the woods something shameful it is and ought to be stopped.'

Joan stared at the dirty sheet of paper with a definite feeling of nausea.

What an abominable – what a disgusting – thing –

She had heard of anonymous letters. She had never received one before. Really, it made one feel quite sick.