The Bohemian Girl (18 page)

‘Yes,’ said Diana, ‘I’ve done it before.’

Dr Graham picked up his bag and said at the door: ‘I shall back in the morning, early, Mrs Molloy.’

When he was gone, Diana knelt down by her husband’s bed and prayed. She knew no Catholic prayers but the first few words of the ‘Ave Maria’, in English, and she muttered these now although Michael claimed to be an atheist and was certainly anti-clerical: ‘Hail Mary full of grace, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb …’ Even in her worst moments Diana believed that the superstitious rituals of his childhood could prevent Michael from reaching the crisis of his illness, and make him recover as though it had never been.

This was a very bad moment, worse than any before. Before, her most dreadful hours had been flavoured with a romantic terror which Diana now thought wicked. She had had a tiny bit of confidence in Michael and the doctor then, it had been hard really to imagine that he would die and leave her empty. ‘Hail Mary –’ Diana stopped, and got to her feet, crying with shame.

It was dark in the room; outside it was raining and the sky was solid grey. Diana did not light a lamp, but she looked down at her husband. Michael’s skin was so pale it looked like candle-grease, though his nose was swollen and flushed. Thin locks of unwashed hair lay like flatworms on his forehead,
and his open mouth was lifted in a sneer. Michael was very worried about life. He had told Diana yesterday what she had never known before: that they had debts amounting to nearly two thousand pounds.

The crisis of pneumonia came upon Michael sometime before midnight, and progress after that was swift. He said ‘Sorry,’ several times, probably referring to his debts, thought Diana, and often added, ‘I’m not dying.’ Dr Graham came at nine in the morning, gave Diana a mild sedative, and stayed on through the hours till late afternoon. But for one brief period during which Alice was screaming, there was silence in the house.

Michael’s last words were: ‘My wife’ – addressed to Diana whose hand he was clutching; then he died, at seven o’clock. Five minutes afterwards, a triangle of sunlight cut through the rainclouds for the first time in days. Diana thought of what she would do, tomorrow, outside in the warm.

‘But he’s
dead
,’ she whispered, making the doctor say: ‘Hush!’ ‘Oh no no no, he can’t just – be dead.’

*

In spite of being sixty years old, Sir Walter could not remember how one dealt with a death, with undertakers and funerals: Violet, who had never seen a dead person, had no idea at all but knew she must do something. Walter’s steward, Brown, advised her.

‘If you could ask Mrs Molloy where she wishes her husband to be buried, I would be more than happy to undertake arrangements, Lady Montrose.’

‘She’s already told me he wished to be
cremated
, can you believe it? She won’t hear of burial.’

‘What a monstrous, irreligious practice – cremation!’ he observed. ‘To be burned – I’d be afraid – wouldn’t you, Lady Montrose?’

‘Yes, I know, he even refused a priest and he was a Catholic, you know. We might easily have fetched old Father Mayhew for him. But what is to be
done
, Brown?’ said Violet.

The steward got up and rubbed his hands together. Violet noticed how chapped they were, and how pale he looked,
though he was a large handsome man. ‘So far as I know there’s no crematorium in all of Scotland. The coffin will have to be sent down south with Mrs Molloy.’

‘Oh, poor Didie!’

Brown said, after a little hesitation: ‘I wonder why
you
should be forced to be so anxious, Lady Montrose? Sir Walter and Mrs Molloy ought between them to see that you’re not distressed – troubled in any way.’

‘They don’t, and I don’t see why my sister should,’ said Violet, looking dignified.

‘I beg your pardon. Leave everything to me, Lady Montrose.’

‘
Thank
you, Brown.’ She smiled, then rose from her chair and looked woeful again. ‘But my sister’s mourning! I don’t think she
owns
a black dress, in spite of Papa – oh, well. I can at least deal with that.’

‘I’m sure you will deal with it admirably, Lady Montrose,’ said Brown, holding the door open for her and bending over her very slightly. Violet blushed.

That night, Walter ate alone in the big dining room, while Violet and Diana dined together, upstairs. Diana, looking very plain and tired, listened to Violet’s description of Brown’s arrangements and agreed suitably with all that was so tactfully said.

‘Thank you, Violet.’

Diana was dressed in a loose blue gown, while Violet wore a black day-dress, her mourning for Lord Blentham.

‘It must be so hard for you to realise – always – that he’s gone.’

‘Yes, it is hard. Don’t talk about it, please.’ Diana had not yet even been angry with fate. Since Michael’s death twenty-six hours ago, she had felt only anaesthesia, interrupted by moments of panic. Now, lax and miserable tears came. They were, she thought, so very unexpected.

‘Michael,’ she said. ‘Oh, Michael, darling.’ Hours ago, Dr Graham had given her laudanum to stop her thinking about him. But it had not worked.

‘Darling – dearest, oh, Didie, don’t!’ said Violet, pushing
her sister’s plate of chicken away and pressing her hand down on the table. ‘I wish I’d never said anything. But cry, darling.’

‘Michael. What’ll become of Alice? What shall I do?’

‘Didie, let him be buried up here. Stay with us for as long as you like.’

‘No. No.’

‘Oh, dear! Darling, remember –
try
to remember you still have Alice.’

‘What does she matter?’

‘Didie! Dearest, you are shocking. You
must
stay here for a while.’

Diana sobbed harshly for a few minutes more, then said: ‘Ring the bell for Bridget, Vio, I want Alice – I –’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Violet, getting up.

Walter, who had finished eating, opened the door. They were all still for a few seconds before he came in and closed it, making the two women shift in their places.

‘My dear Diana, I felt I had to come up,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ She was polite.

Violet walked away from the bell-pull, and sat down.

‘I feel I haven’t done all I ought – haven’t even expressed my sympathy for you. I’m so very sorry,’ said Walter with tears in his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ said Diana, remembering drearily that a minute ago she had been crying as though she was being torn apart and flung into airless black space.

‘Didie,’ said Violet, interrupting her husband who had opened his mouth again, ‘before I ring for Bridget, I must just tell you – don’t worry about your mourning, I’ve had Mrs Bell dye that green dress you told me you didn’t like. It’ll be quite dry by tomorrow. And I sent off an order to Glasgow for more things, so –’

Diana looked up, and her face was strange. ‘You dyed my dress black? You’ve decided I must put on weeds – you’ve even ordered clothes from Glasgow, without asking me?’

‘Yes, dearest, I thought you wouldn’t want to be troubled with things like that.’

Diana left her chair, trembling. She spoke in a low voice,
but gave the impression of shouting. ‘No, I’m not
troubled
, Vio! How dare you try to dye my clothes, try to drag me down, to make me – you of all people. How dare you think I’d bother with such an idiotic superstition – it’s what women who hate their husbands do, wear mourning!’

She stood by the door. The Montroses gaped at her in horrified pity.

‘But
Didie
–’

‘My dear Diana, Violet meant only –’

She raised her hand and brought it slapping down again on the air. ‘I do not care if she meant it for the best. I’m going, by the first train tomorrow. Michael happens to be dead and it was only – because of him – I could stand you. All of you, my
family
, this – oh, God. You can burn the dress, Violet, and your dear handsome Mr Brown can see to it that Michael’s coffin is sent on the same train. I’m going home. I won’t wear black. I shall be alone – alone.’ She stopped and choked.

‘I shall send Brown with you, Didie,’ said Violet, who was very pale. ‘You will need him, to organise things, the cremation you want, when you’re in this state! Oh, darling!’

Diana said nothing. She ran out of the room, down the corridor, up the stairs and round the corner to Bridget and Alice’s little brown room.

‘Thank God you didn’t have to share the nursery,’ she said unsteadily as she looked at the child. ‘I couldn’t bear you to be in Violet’s nursery. Nurse Tomkins would have made your life wretched – because you are not what you are not!’

‘Mam, what on earth!’ Bridget pressed her hands to her chest.

‘Nothing, nothing, nonsense. We’re going home first thing tomorrow, Bridget,’ said Diana, turning towards her. Alice was asleep, and she looked perfectly happy in the clean womb of her wicker cradle.

‘I’m glad, mam,’ said Bridget then. ‘’Tis best to be over with things, and at home it’ll seem like … Oh, poor Mr Molloy!’ They were quiet for a moment, looking at each other. They had never been so intimate as this.

‘I loved him so very, very much. So much.’

Diana lay face down on Bridget’s bed and cried into the night. Bridget stroked her hair like a mother, and several times she prevented Diana from getting up and smothering Alice in wayward grief-sick embraces.

‘She’s only seven months, mam – only seven months.’

In November 1898 Diana, Bridget and Alice were living in three small rooms above a greengrocer’s in Museum Street, WC. From the attic bedroom, there was a view of the Museum. The other rooms were too low down to have a view of anything but brown walls, pipes, and dusty windows.

The sitting-room was roughly partitioned off from the kitchen, where there was a tiny stove and one cold-water tap. The only lavatory was an earth-closet in the back yard, which was used as a dumping ground for torn soggy paper and battered wooden crates. Diana took some of these, covered them and used them as makeshift stools and bookcases. She even made a bed for Alice, but then the greengrocer found her out, and obliquely accused her of theft until she paid him two shillings.

‘Two shillings!’ she said when she had recovered from her anger. ‘Remarkable! To think that even when I was in Mornington Crescent – let alone before – I could have had as many orange boxes as I liked from him or any other tradesman for nothing. Ironic, is it not, Bridget?’

Bridget, who was trying half-heartedly to scrub away the flaring smoke-stains on the wall, said: ‘You were not in arrears with anybody’s rent then, mam. Lucky you are not to be turned out to eat grass like the cattle, like we were in the Great Famine, before I was born to be sure.’

‘Oh, Bridget, I heard enough about the Great Famine from Michael! Of course I’m lucky – lucky – lucky – even though no one will employ me even as a shop-girl and all my possessions are in pawn or sold.’

Bridget sighed, and picked up Alice, who was grizzling with
a desire to be included in the conversation. ‘There, there, my darling. The trouble is, mam dear, you look too much like a lady still, and sure ’tis that makes all suspicious, but ’twill be to your advantage to one day, mark my words, will it not just!’

‘And can I find employment as a
lady
typewriter?’ said Diana, looking into the saucepan, where the evening’s mutton stew had burnt. She imitated the senior clerk who had interviewed her that afternoon. “I regret, Mrs – er – but, despite our recent advertisement, Mr Blenkinsop has changed his mind about the desirability of employing ladies in this office.” Damn Michael for dying – I said damn him, Bridget, and don’t correct me!’

‘Wonderful you were with the bailiffs,’ said Bridget, ignoring this. “Can I help you?” says madam, and makes them slink about the house, lifting their hats every two minutes.’ She looked up, and saw that she had not cheered Diana.

‘How dared he spend so much money, without even
telling
me?’ said Diana. ‘I’d like to spit on his grave, if he had one, I’d like to –’

‘Holy Mary Mother of God, mam!’ cried Bridget, crossing herself. ‘Do you want to bring the Evil Eye upon us, talking like that about the poor misguided gentleman, and him your husband too?’

‘The Evil Eye is already upon us,’ said Diana. She banged the saucepanful of stew down on the table, and sat down before it. ‘Why, should I not be angry, Bridget?’

‘Yes,’ said Bridget slowly, ‘you didn’t know men, and you didn’t expect to be deceived. ’Tis an innocent you are.’

‘An innocent? Now? Good God!’

‘’Tis no insult.’

Diana waved a hand, and they ate their stew. Between them they fed Alice, and when they had finished, Diana said calmly: ‘Bridget, I know, of course, how very fortunate I am in having you. It’s most good of you to have been such a friend, to have stayed with me all this time, and I promise you that I shall be able to pay you very soon. When you want to go, I’ll give you a very good reference, and –’

Bridget stood up and narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s that you say? Are you trying to turn me off then, mam? After all I’ve done for you, may the Blessed Virgin forgive me for mentioning it?’

‘You can’t want to stay!’ cried Diana.

‘Sure and I want to stay! For one thing I’d never get a place, not if a lady took it into her head to check you and your reference, Mrs Molloy!’ She said nothing just now about her affection for anyone.

A moment later Diana laughed, and Bridget relaxed a little, though she was offended. ‘You said you would not desert me, when I was afraid,’ she said.

‘It’s hardly a question of my deserting you! You could find a very much better place than this. We could still see each other.’

‘Place, indeed! Oh, it’s noble you are. It’s of no use talking,’ said Bridget. ‘But I’ll tell you this, mam, of the kindness of my heart indeed: it’s a plain fool you’re being when you’ll take no money from your family, nor go to live with her ladyship. You took your twenty pounds from Mr Roderick, but now you say you’ll have nothing more to do with any of them, and poor Lady Montrose in her grave and all!’

‘Be quiet, Bridget!’ Diana got up and left the room, knocking over an orange box as she went.

‘You’re cracked, mam! Oh, forgive me, then!’

Diana came back. ‘If it weren’t for Violet’s dying, and if we were only not quite so poor, Bridget, I’d – I’d be as nearly happy now as I could ever be with Michael dead. If I could only earn a little more money, but I shall, one day.’ Diana hurried on, pushing a straggling curl out of her face. ‘Don’t you see, Bridget? My family are not really trying to help me. If Edward offered me an allowance – as he ought to do, but won’t, because of my dear sister-in-law – I’d take it.’ She paused. ‘They want to see me the repentant Magdalen, in attendance on Mamma. And I’m not a repentant Magdalen – if it’s necessary to point that out.’

‘No, mam, but for all that her ladyship would be a very good source of income.’

‘Oh, you’re impossible!’

Diana went into her own room, which measured ten feet by ten, and which she knew in greater detail than she had known any room she had lived in since childhood. She could have drawn the chips in the paintwork round the window from memory. Now she sat down before the typing machine, which a friend of Michael’s had lent to her in a moment of careless kindness, and closed her eyes.

She meant to practise, so that one day someone would employ her in a dusty office as a lady typewriter. No one wanted her. Michael’s Irish and artistic friends, who had liked her well enough, had proved to be as unforgiving of mistakes and misfortunes as people in the fashionable world. One man, a journalist, had enabled her to do a little penny-a-lining on women’s subjects for the newspaper he worked for, but he had not come to see her since she had been forced to sell Mornington Terrace. Neither had anyone else she knew.

Diana sometimes thought it was all her own fault. As Michael’s wife, she had felt no need of real friends, and had thought of those outside her house as amusing, living scenery. Her husband’s cronies had not liked her being well born and very beautiful and careless, and they thought, like Bridget, that now of course she would return to the place she came from.

Diana put a sheet of paper in the machine:

*

She tore up the nonsense.

Perhaps she would go back, and take over the place of Maud, who was now such an active member of the Fabian Society, and was not addicted to laudanum any more. Diana no longer cared for political ideas of any kind, and though she often re-read
News
from
Nowhere
because she liked it, she held socialist beliefs as thoughtlessly as she had once held Anglican ones. Her indifference was odd, she thought, because now she knew what poverty truly was, and surely that ought to make her more ardent. She ought even to be a syndicalist, like a working person, or an anarchist or a communist, but she had not the energy and was, after all, naïve. She had no place in the world from which to fight, or to make friends, and she never would have.

There was only Bridget, and Alice, and herself, and none of them belonged anywhere. Violet had died of a miscarriage which she had suffered in August; Diana sometimes imagined now that, had she lived, she would have left Sir Walter and joined them all in some better lodging in, say, Bloomsbury Square. Diana’s grief for Michael was seldom tearful now, though it was ghastly; but she cried whenever she thought of her sister’s dying at twenty-seven because her old husband had no self-control. She sometimes thought the loss of Violet even more shocking than widowed disgrace.

Some months ago, Diana had asked Bridget to call her by her name, because they were not only friends but equals now. It horrified her to think that Bridget could be seen as an ever-faithful abigail – a literary creature who could not exist and was most unsocialist. The thought would have amused her in happy times. Bridget had taken time to consider her mistress’ request. After two days, she had concluded that the use of her name would highlight the differences between them, not rub them out; and had told Diana so.

‘And ’twill be difficult, mam, when our luck turns.’

Diana knew that Bridget was wise, but she felt rejected: the girl could not really love her.

‘Help me,’ she muttered to the typing-machine.

*

And my greatest desire now is to help her, thought Lady Blentham as she folded up Diana’s letter. Although I am so poor. She thought resentfully of the coarse Sir William Harcourt’s budget of 1894. Had it not been for the heavy death-duties introduced by him, she would have been able to live on in the Queen Anne’s Gate house she had inherited from her father and dutifully made over to Charles. As things were, it had had to be sold, and Angelina had been forced to spend part of her jointure on the lease of a little house in Sumner Place, South Kensington. She lived there now in an obscurity she thought excessive even for the widow of a man who had not succeeded in his world; on an income of a thousand a year with one manservant, two maids and no carriage.

Angelina could not understand how any woman so warm-hearted as she was could have five children who had all deserted her in their separate ways. Edward was intolerable, Maud unbelievable, Roderick both puzzling and dull. Schoolgirlish to the end, Violet had died without even telling her mother she was pregnant; and Diana was possibly the worst of all.

Angelina would always love her the most, for she considered that of all her children Diana was most like her. Charles’s seeming to love Diana best had been pure self-deception: Maud, thought Angelina, had been his real favourite, though he had never indulged her and had used her as an unpaid secretary. Diana
must
, surely, be as lonely as I am, she thought, turning swiftly with a rustle of weeds. Why won’t she come?

Lady Blentham sat down, and reread the letter, which had no date and no address. Diana had asked her to write care of the post office.