Starlight (37 page)

Oh, then we’re all right, Arnold thought, more hopeful than he had been throughout the crisis. If you hate him, it was just a pash, and from now on I can begin to move in. Deathless adoration, eternal whatsit – and you hate him. Well, well. That isn’t the way I love you, and it’s not the way you’re going to love me. One of these fine days. Some enchanted evening.

Mrs Lysaght was sitting in her drawing-room, a week later. It was ten minutes past eleven, and she was sipping her coffee and reflecting that Gretl did not make it as well as a Continental girl should. Gretl was sitting in the kitchen, sipping hers and reflecting with complacence that it tasted just like that served in the London coffee-bars.

Mrs Lysaght’s chair commanded a view over the quiet tree-lined road at the back of the flats. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation. Could that be the Rolls, Cora’s car? gliding between the parked ranks of lesser machines? Yes, and Frobisher looking more glum than usual. She got up from her chair.

‘Gretl! Gretl! Mrs Corbett will be here in a minute. Listen for the bell, dear,’ she called musically, at the opened door.

‘Ollright.’

‘And
don’t
say that, dear. “Yes, Mrs Lysaght”.’ Her employer sat down again, and glanced round the room. Yes: charming. One did not try to
compete
…

The bell. Gretl’s voice, Frobisher’s voice, not a word from Mrs Corbett? Mrs Lysaght thought it more graceful to get up and move towards the door as it opened.

‘Cora! What a lovely surprise.’

‘All right, Frobisher, wait, will you, please,’ her friend said heavily. Face, voice, expression, her summer suit and stole of pale brown ermine, all seemed burdened; her elaborate white hat had no airiness. She turned lifelessly to Mrs Lysaght, who was staring.

‘Helen, I felt I must have someone to talk to. Dorry and Madge and Cis can be so unkind about Arnold …’

‘Of course, dear, of course. Come and sit down, let me take your fur …’ Mrs Lysaght was so full of thrilled anticipation that she omitted to calculate, as she gently removed it, what it must have cost. ‘Is something wrong? Is it Arnold? Not an accident? He isn’t—?’ She broke off, in hushed, staring alarm.

‘Oh no,’ Mrs Corbett said bitterly. ‘He’s perfectly well. I heard from him this morning. By phone, from a hotel in Fez. He’s there with … Peggy. They were married last Tuesday.’

‘Cora! I can’t believe it!’

‘Well, it’s true. I couldn’t believe it either at first. I hardly know where I am, I’m so shocked, so hurt, so …’

‘Here dear, you must have …’ Mrs Lysaght found enough kindness and pity in herself to forgo the spread feast, and hasten to the door and command Gretl, in carefully controlled tones, to bring another cup. ‘And biscuits, Gretl. Hurry, please.’

‘Packet finish,’ reported Gretl, leisurely, through the crumbs of the last three.

‘Open
another
, then.’ Mrs Lysaght shut the door and hurried back to Mrs Corbett, who was slumped in her chair and staring at the carpet, and sat down close to her.

‘Hadn’t you any idea at all?’ she asked gently.

‘I knew he wanted to marry her. He broke down and told me one evening. I could hardly believe that, either. The last type of girl … and he said he knew where she was and was going to find her. I ought to have been prepared, I suppose. He did warn me. (I keep on telling myself that.) But – so sudden. No engagement – nothing. I used to look forward to – to having … having …’ she began to cry, hopelessly, ‘…
grandchildren
,’ she ended, crying with bent head, into her tightly-gloved hands.

Mrs Lysaght sat gently patting her. It spoilt the excitement to have her taking it like this. Why couldn’t they have talked about Peggy’s slyness, and the couple’s future plans, and what they would do in Fez, and money?

Gretl came in with biscuits and cup, and, on Mrs Lysaght’s mimed instructions, put them down and went out again. Mrs Lysaght muttered. ‘Tt-tt.’

‘What is it, Helen?’ Her friend looked up, a little relieved by tears.

‘Oh nothing – she’s brought the
packet
in – really, these girls … go on, dear.’

‘There’s nothing more to say, really.’ Mrs Corbett wiped her eyes. ‘It’s all so … I don’t know … I shall just have to put up with it, that’s all, I suppose. One thing, I can’t have many more years to suffer.’

‘Now – now,’ Mrs Lysaght gave her a playful shake which Mrs Corbett disliked extremely but was too miserable to shrink from. ‘You mustn’t talk like that – next year you might have a lovely little grandson.’

‘What – with that girl? Don’t you believe it,’ cried Mrs Corbett, roused, ‘she’s as hard as nails – dreadfully, dreadfully hard. I’m sure she’ll never have children. She won’t
want
them.’

‘“With God”,’ pronounced Mrs Lysaght, ‘“all things are possible”.’ To which Mrs Corbett muttered ‘Oh …
God
–’ and a silence fell which Mrs Lysaght felt might be preliminary to the resumption of the dyed ermine stole, and departure – before the juice had all been squeezed from the situation. A dazzling notion burst upon her.

‘Cora!’ she cried. ‘
I
know. Now’s the time. You’re coming along with me – to Mrs Pearson for a sitting. No –’ as Mrs Corbett began to speak. ‘I won’t hear a word. It will take your mind off it. I’ll ring her up now.’ She started from her chair.

‘Don’t be silly, Helen – how can I? Peggy’s mother.’

‘Oh … yes, of course … do you know, I’d
forgotten
! But you’ll have to meet her some time –’

‘Why should I? horrid spooky woman – oh dear, why did you remind me? – and living in a slum –’

‘Frobisher can drive us!’

‘Oh Helen, do be quiet – my head’s splitting – there’s all that to think about, too. I wish I was dead,’ she wailed.

‘That’s easy to say. We’ve all felt like that. Why, when Ronald died –’ She broke off. No, we had not all felt like that. She never had. Mourned, missed, regretted, yes; but not beyond the bounds of commonsense. ‘You must be brave,’ she advised.

‘I hate being brave. I’ve always hated it. Charlie took care of me. When he was alive I didn’t have to be brave. And now I shan’t even have Arnold. He did at least see about super-tax and things … and I can’t bear Mr Truscott, he’s so
blunt
.’

‘Well, I’m going,’ said Mrs Lysaght, undeterred. ‘I shall ring her up now. Oh come on, Cora,’ catching girlishly at her hand, and just stopping herself from adding ‘be a sport’. ‘It’ll cheer us both up.’

‘Helen, I can’t. You know how I hate creepiness. I don’t know how you can suggest such a thing. All I wanted was … a little sympathy …’ She turned away, looking desolately around for her stole. She no longer wanted to go on pouring out her troubles to Helen.

Mrs Lysaght, seeing that the last drops were unforthcoming, lifted the two yards of ermine reverently from a chair-back and draped it about her. ‘I didn’t mean to be cross,’ Mrs Corbett added, ‘but you must see how difficult it all is. Comes of marrying the wrong type of girl – all sorts of things crop up.’

‘There’s her father, too,’ said Mrs Lysaght, as they moved towards the door; she could not resist this sentence, which brought a fresh burst of alarm, tears, and lamentation before Mrs Corbett was packed into the Rolls and, waving weakly and mouthing promises to meet again soon, was driven away. Mrs Lysaght had not suggested prolonging the visit; she was already moving, in spirit, towards further pleasures.

She had come down to the car with her friend. She returned to her flat with light and purposeful step. The news had stimulated her and lifted her spirits, as well as giving her the perfect excuse (one almost coloured by duty) for telephoning Mrs Pearson.

Mrs Pearson lay looking out at the summer weather. The splendour of the morning had soothed even her wearing anxiety about Peggy. She could see a few feet of sky, its vivid blue delicately tempered by the net across the windows, and the chimneys on the roof of the house opposite, glowing in the sun’s rays to wallflower-red. Her mind was empty; her soul dreamt; only her heart carried its burden, and that seemed remote this morning; her heart was numb.

She was thinking that a drive into the country would be nice – it was years since she had seen open fields – when the telephone bell in the hall rang. The faint insistent noise penetrated the shut door and her passive dreaming. She did not move but turned her eyes questioningly towards it, frowning.

It went on and on.

Erika must be still asleep. Resolved to ignore it, Mrs Pearson let her thoughts dwell on the child: she had been different since the death of Mr Fisher, giving up her excursions to buy stockings, or to meet a girl friend who knew plenty of boys, to be with Mrs Pearson; hardly leaving her room and sitting up with her all night. Her broken sleep had to be made up by late rising. She had bought flowers and taken them to the old man’s grave too, and she was more silent. At least, thought Mrs Pearson, turning her eyes again to the blue sky and the red chimneys, most of that worry with Tom about boys seems to have stopped. Not that I grudge her, it’s natural, but …

She could almost put aside all frightening thoughts, on this calm sunlit morning. Fear had retreated to the dimmest depths of her mind. She was not even touched by a suspicion that her own illness bore, in its slow secret current, the occasional sign, like a dark rock seen for an instant in the sweep of a grey stream, that pointed towards death; that Erika had seen these signs, and was awed.

The ringing had stopped. Thank goodness, thought Mrs Pearson luxuriously. But, even as the thought arose, she became aware of something crouching on her body’s threshold, waiting and intent, as it had not done for many days; not since the prayers of those kind people had, as you might say, begun to work … Her large eyes widened as if she saw the approach of something dreaded, and then she turned them towards the blank pink surface of the door, on which a faint knock had sounded.

‘Who’s that? Come in.’

Annie’s small old face peeped round the crack. Mrs Pearson raised herself on one elbow. ‘What is it, dear? Is something wrong?’

She asked this because of Annie’s expression.

‘Not as I know of. I’m sure I hope not. But it’s a lady. Says she must speak to you. It’s very important, she says.’ She paused, staring in vague alarm.

‘Didn’t you say I’m ill, dear? Not that it’s true, really, this morning, I feel almost my old self.’ She laughed, a little laugh. But as she laughed she felt the watching, waiting thing move very slightly nearer. One part of her could laugh, but another felt unmistakably, on some unnamed threshold, the stealthy, almost imperceptible, advance.

‘I said you was better, Mrs Pearson.’

‘Oh. Oh, then perhaps …’ She hesitated, still resting on her elbow, veiled in rosy nylon and lace. How pretty her room was. Her little plastic and glass creatures gleamed and glowed in the reflection of the outside world’s sunlight, and the many vases of summer flowers breathed their scents into the quiet, warm air.

‘All right, Annie. Will you ask her to hold on? I’ll …’

‘She said to say it’s about Peggy,’ Annie blurted, and at once Mrs Pearson sat upright, her smitten heart pumping blood in a rush to all the drowsing cells in the delicate skin of her face.

‘I wasn’t goin’ to upset you. But she did say …’

‘All right, all right, go and tell her I’m coming.’ She scrambled from the bed, pushed her thin, pretty feet into slippers, tied her girdle, distractedly moved her heavy hair about as if to gather it into order, then let it fall again and hurried, moving unsteadily, out of the room. Annie had just finished giving the message when she reached the telephone. Mrs Pearson snatched it.

‘Hullo? Who is it?’

‘Oh, Mrs Pearson. I’m so glad to hear you’re better. This lovely weather is enough to make us all feel better, isn’t it? I really rang up to congratulate you – it’s Mrs Lysaght speaking. You remember me, don’t you? Dear old Gladys used to work for me. I sent you some flowers.’

‘Congratulate …? Yes, I remember … but …’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Mrs Lysaght could hardly keep the note congratulating herself out of her voice. ‘About … but you must have.’

‘I haven’t – I haven’t – heard anything. What do you mean?’

‘What a naughty girl she is. About Peggy –’

‘Oh do
please
tell me. I haven’t heard from her for five weeks. I don’t know where she is –’

‘My dear, she’s in Fez. In Morocco. And she’s married.’

‘Who to?’ said Mrs Pearson, after a pause just long enough to lessen Mrs Lysaght’s enjoyment slightly. Her voice was exhausted and quiet.

‘To Arnold Corbett. Mrs Corbett’s son. He – hasn’t she told you about him?’

‘She hasn’t told me anything,’ said the mother. ‘She never did, not from a little thing.’

‘Well, he’s in the middle forties and really very nice. Quiet, you know, and plays a lot of golf. And – though of course, I hope dear Mrs Corbett will be with us for
many
years yet – one day he will be a rich man. Very, very rich. He’s more than comfortably off now … I’m astonished you hadn’t heard. Really astonished. But it’s
good
news, isn’t it? Such a comfort to think of one’s girl being settled. One doesn’t want to be material-minded but money is always useful. And the cost of living nowadays … I’m so glad you’re feeling stronger.’