Long Summer Day (50 page)

‘You could try!’

‘I have tried, far harder than you imagine.’

‘You haven’t tried hard enough, Grace! Take this election; you aren’t committed to the Party but I am and as your husband I’m entitled to at least a pretence of support from you.’

‘I’ve never been the least good at pretending, Paul. That’s something you should have learned by now.’

‘But damn it, lots of wives aren’t deeply interested in what their husbands are doing but they make some kind of show. They stand beside them once in a while!’

She said, slowly, ‘I don’t think it’s much use prolonging this argument, Paul, at least, not in your present mood. Perhaps it won’t seem so vital in the morning!’ and she reached out an arm with the object of turning her beside lamp out.

‘Leave that light alone!’ he snapped. ‘I tell you this
is
vital, Grace, and it won’t seem less so in the morning! Are you prepared to discuss it or aren’t you?’

He had never addressed her in this tone and she was more astonished than hurt, probing among the probable reasons for the loss of his sense of humour and the male tenderness that had been his most endearing characteristic. She was angry because hectoring always angered her yet she retained a very real regard for his sincerity and it was this that kept her temper in check. They faced one another in silence for a moment and it was as though each hesitated to push the quarrel further but then it seemed to her that so they might stand for ever, unless she made a gesture, something that, however inappropriate, would restore the delicate balance of their relationship. She said, ‘That ballet company, Paul, they are due in Bristol on Thursday for two nights so I wrote off for tickets. I think you badly need a change and I’m sure it would help us put this nonsense behind us before we start saying unforgivable things to one another. Will you take me, as you promised?’

It was probable that, had the approach been made earlier, he would have surrendered but he was under no illusions as to what surrender would mean. It would be the final acceptance of a measure of spiritual isolation down the years ahead and they were still young, and there were many years, too many to renounce all hopes of the full partnership on which he had set his heart. He said, miserably, ‘Thursday is eve-of-poll and Friday is polling day. I couldn’t be away from here until Saturday but that doesn’t mean you can’t go, if you have to. It seems to me, however, that we could make a better start by you joining me on the platform at the rally on Thursday. You do what you think best, Grace,’ and he picked up his robe and walked out of the room, making his way along the corridor to the guestroom beyond the nursery. Simon’s cot was visible through the half-open door with a night-light burning under a pink glass between cot and door. He hesitated outside but he did no more than glance inside. At that moment the child did not seem to belong to either of them.

V

T
he eve-of-poll rally was scheduled to open with a small-fry warm-up at seven-thirty. Paul, and several other local speakers, had undertaken to keep the audience occupied until nine o’clock, the earliest hour the candidate could be expected to arrive with the Great Man, for Lloyd George had wired that he would cover the last five miles of the journey by four-horse brake and act as chairman for Grenfell on the last stage of his eve-of-poll tour. The Tory Party had not succeeded in getting anyone of comparable weight into the West and Grenfell’s foresight had baulked them of the opportunity to hold an equally big rally for he had booked the only large hall months ago and the opposition was reduced to an open-air gathering in the cattle market. Liberal luck was in flow during those last few days for the weather turned dull and showery, to the delight of the nine hundred ticket-holders queuing outside the Drill Hall hours before the doors were opened.

Paul, as chairman, welcomed the responsibility thrust upon him, for at least it kept thoughts of Grace at bay and when the meeting commenced and he faced the difficult task of controlling a restive audience (in addition to a few hecklers who had slipped in with forged tickets), his nervous energy was fully deployed. He had never addressed a meeting of this size or importance, certainly not without Grenfell’s professional support. He was no more than adequate as public speaker but tonight he was better than he imagined for all that was needed was a summary of the candidate’s achievements in local government, his fitness for wider horizons and the unique treat in store for everyone present—that of seeing and hearing the most celebrated firebrand in the country.

Paul himself had been looking forward to the occasion, for Lloyd George’s brazen attacks upon the Boer War had made him a byword among the troops overseas and since then hardly a day had passed without examples of his wit, impudence and debating skill providing headlines for the newspapers. It was known, for instance, that he had attacked privilege in a hundred dynamic speeches, that he had hounded Joe Chamberlain up hill and down dale, had trounced the brewers financing the Tories, had even challenged the Lords and cocked a snook at Royalty, generally keeping the country in an uproar. Grenfell’s success in getting such a lion to the remote provinces was the best card he could have played and as soon as news of the visit was made public the betting on a Liberal victory shortened from five-to-four to two-to-one.

The stewards, to Paul’s relief, soon disposed of the scattered hecklers and the stop-gap speakers, inveighing against the sins of the Government and howling for Free Trade and Irish Home Rule, gave him a chance to scan faces in the hope of recognising Grace among the converted. It was just possible, he told himself, that she had taken advantage of his order to Chivers to bring the carriage and pair into town by the time the meeting began and, being Grace, she might have entered the hall by the speakers’ door and taken her place among the anonymous at the back. They had not reopened the quarrel during the last few days but had said very little to one another during the brief intervals that he had been at home. He thought it possible that she might have gone to Bristol by herself but more likely remained at home, nursing her imagined grievances. At last he saw Chivers sidle in by the platform door and take his stand behind one of the side benches and then there was a stir at the back of the hall and a great shout went up as Grenfell marched down the centre aisle and behind him, hardly able to progress because of the hysterical surge on either side, came the Great Man himself, short, thick-set, smiling and apparently well satisfied with his reception. As he mounted the platform the audience threw off all restraint, rising to their feet and roaring a welcome so that Paul, after a formal handshake, indicated by gesture that it was useless to begin a speech of introduction and that Grenfell must take over from here on. Grenfell was given an almost equally enthusiastic reception but wisely limited his speech to a simple statement of his intentions if returned the following day. Then, to the accompaniment of another prolonged roar, he ushered Lloyd George forward and the famous Welshman began to weave his spell about the hall, his first words compelling a hush that seemed frightening after such a din.

He began very quietly, his soft, persuasive voice seeming to reach out and caress the rows of upturned faces, as he spoke of the certain dawn of the Celtic revival, of the kinship of Welshmen and Westcountrymen, of the rising clamour for justice and security in a world of plenty that, for centuries past, had been reserved for the wealthy, the privileged and their nominees at Westminster. It was not a political address so much as an inspired fairy-tale, related by a man who not only knew every trick in the book but could use subtle inflexions and wide, graceful gestures to highlight the pathos of the story and point the way to the infinite possibilities that lay ahead for a race already the envy of every community in the world. His theme was The People, a majority poised to enter the ark of the covenant of Democracy. He extolled their patience, their courage and their determination to transform the social pattern of Britain but without—and here his voice gained volume—without resort to pike and tumbril and without endangering gains won since the ancestors of all those present had sweated as villeins on acres stolen from The People! He said that there had been an awakening among some who had been their masters for so long and that a few of the unselfish landowners (such as their young chairman tonight) had already espoused the cause and were marching with them, and at this direct reference Paul found himself hoping very much that Grace was present, so that he missed a searing comment on the enclosures of common land that must have had local relevance for a growl of anger rose up and was instantly checked by one of the speaker’s swift, heaven-pointing gestures. And then Lloyd George began to speak of the candidate, turning to smile paternally upon Grenfell, asserting that he and Grenfell had much in common for both, he understood, had known what it was to hoard their pennies to buy an education and that Grenfell was the type of man so badly needed in Westminster, a man of The People, with The People’s interests at heart! By this time tomorrow, he went on, ‘as sure as the sun will set over these beautiful Westcountry uplands’, they would have a champion in Westminster whom they could trust to work selflessly and unstintingly in their interests, in their children’s interests, and, above all, a man in step with the march of the twentieth century!

It was difficult to determine whether the speaker had intended to finish on this flourish for at these words the tension broke and suddenly everyone in the hall was on his feet, surging and swaying towards the platform, so that stewards, poised for such an emergency, had to rush in from all sides to head off a dangerous stampede. Paul slipped down to floor level to help and almost at once was buffeted against Chivers, who clutched at him as if he was a lifebelt and the two of them were swept involuntarily on through the exit that had been flung open to ease the pressure inside the building. Chivers said breathlessly, ‘God Almighty, sir, I never saw aught like this bevore! Nor my old dad neither, notwithstanding his tales o’ bygone elections! I brought the trap, not the carriage, sir. The new cob would have dragged her feet all the way back after two outings, I reckon!’

‘You mean the carriage has been out today?’ said Paul, breathlessly and rather irritated by the change. ‘How far did Mrs Craddock drive?’

‘Why to the station, upalong,’ the man said, ‘with her heavy luggage. I would have taken her in the trap but there wasn’t room to stow the baggage, sir!’

The din from the hall beat across Paul’s brain like breakers and in the wild confusion about him only a word or two registered so that he took Chivers by the arm and dragged him round to the rear of the hall, where the uproar was partially subdued. Bewilderment made him sound furious. ‘What happened, Chivers? Never mind about what’s going on in there, just explain why you brought the trap instead of the brougham, as I ordered!’

Chivers’ peaked face stared up at him in the glow of the gas lamp above the platform entrance. The man’s wits seemed lost in the noise and excitement.

‘It’s like I said, sir, I had to use both cobs for the brougham and I didn’t reckon they could stand the fifteen-mile trip here and back tonight, not after taking Mrs Craddock up over the moor to the station! I know you give orders for the brougham, sir, but there wasn’t room in the trap for Madam’s luggage.’

This gist of the groom’s stuttered explanation filtered through to him. Grace had needed the brougham to convey luggage to Sorrel Halt and she would not have taken heavy luggage for a two-day trip to Bristol. The transport of her and her trunks in the brougham, instead of the trap, could only mean one thing. She had left home for a prolonged period.

The effort needed to absorb the shock was the more difficult inasmuch as he was prevented from advertising astonishment or alarm to Chivers, who seemed no more than puzzled by his master’s failure to excuse his switch of vehicles. Paul said, quickly, ‘Mrs Craddock must have changed her plans, she intended going on Saturday. She probably left a message with Mrs Handcock.’ And then, sharply, ‘Bring the trap round here now. We shall be going home in a few minutes,’ and he climbed the steps into the band-room behind the platform, shouldering his way through a crowd of party workers until he saw Grenfell standing talking to the treasurer. He said, briefly, ‘I must have a word with you at once, James!’ and they edged into the scullery where the Women’s League were brewing tea in huge urns and here they could hardly see one another for steam.

‘I shall have to go home at once, James,’ Paul said. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t avoid it. You can manage without me now, can’t you?’

Grenfell, struck by his expression, said, ‘It’s nothing serious I hope, Paul?’ and Paul replied, ‘Serious to me, Jimmy! Grace has left home. We had a quarrel, partly over this business, but I never dreamed … well, I can’t burden you with my domestic troubles at a moment like this, I just wanted you to know I couldn’t stay and may not be able to get over tomorrow.’

He was grateful for the man’s serenity. Most people, he thought, would have plagued him with questions and offered a choice of fatuous possibilities but all Grenfell said was, ‘Of course, and please don’t worry about me. It’s decided now one way or the other and we’ve got all the transport we need for tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with you the moment I can and I’m sorry, Paul, truly sorry.’

He had no opportunity to say more for one of the local secretaries spotted him through the steam and shouted, ‘Hi, there, Jimmy! There’s to be a torchlight procession! They’re getting drag-ropes on the wain now!’ and Paul thought, ‘What the devil am I doing here, anyway? How childish it all seems, and how vulgar and noisy!’ and he thrust his way into the cool night-air, half-running down to the Close and standing at the junction of Angel and Resurrection Street, until Chivers should appear with the trap. He was sweating and trembling and the dull roar coming from the Drill Hall was like the clash of gongs inside his head. He thought, savagely, ‘I must get hold of myself! I mustn’t let Chivers see what’s really happened! It would be all over the estate by morning and suppose there was nothing in it? Suppose she had just decided to take a trip to town and give this idiotic quarrel a chance to blow over or teach me a lesson?’ Yet he knew that this was not so, that there was a measure of finality in what she had done and that it would take all his tact and persuasion and pleading to induce her to return on even the old terms. The certainty of this made him grind his teeth for he now saw himself humiliated as never before in the face of every man, woman and child in the Valley; a squire who had stepped into the shoes of the Lovells and had been deserted by his own wife, herself a Lovell.