The Echoing Grove (9 page)

When the band stopped playing, he waited with her on the floor, then when it started again put out an arm as if mechanically, encircled her and set himself once more in motion. He stopped trembling; but presently he seemed both to wake from a trance and to collapse. It was disappointing. His feet dragged, missing the beat, and suddenly he came to a standstill. With a sense, not unfamiliar, of bracing up for readjustment, she looked up at him and saw that he was yawning.

‘Sorry, Mary.’ He put a hand over his mouth in an exaggerated gesture of mock etiquette. ‘It’s this atmosphere. Miasmic, isn’t it? I must be getting old. I can’t stand asphyxiation the way I used to as a stripling.’ His voice was as flat as a voice on the edge of sleep, and his eyes looked extinct.

‘You’re tired, aren’t you? Poor Rickie,’ she said, brightly, feeling in her chest the sag of rejected self-abnegation.

‘Well, I don’t know. Do you think that’s it? One can’t be tired at a party, can one? It’s so anti-social.’

‘Silly billy. It’s getting late. I expect it’s time we all went home.’ She simulated a yawn to outmatch his.

‘Oh, no. Surely not,’ he said vaguely, following her back to their table. ‘Surely, surely not. Thank you, my dear Mary. That was very pleasant.’

‘Sandy gets done in too at the end of the week,’ she said, all gentle pity for men. ‘He misses the exercise. I do think office life is bad for you all.’

Jack and Mrs Enthoven were still dancing. Tim had just taken the floor with Clara, only Madeleine and Sandy were sitting at the table, chatting with an earnest air. Once more the two women exchanged smiles, to seal the handing-over—no harm done or dreamed of—of each husband to his lawful mate.

‘Well, well, well, Mrs W.!’ roared Sandy. ‘What about giving your old man a turn?’

Facetious only with his wife, and that only in company, because she caused him to fear that he was not amusing, Sandy was a sterling fellow, entirely innocent of the aggressiveness which his bristling moustache and crest of ginger hair, his bawling voice appeared to indicate.

Dismissing them with effusive nods, Madeleine and Rickie remained sitting side by side.

‘Light,’ said Madeleine after a long silence.

‘Mm?’

‘Could I trouble you for a light, please?’

‘Sorry.’ He whipped out the matches and lit her cigarette with care, his hand, he noticed, steady. They smoked, staring at the dancing couples, at the band, the waiters, at everything moving smooth and meaningless, two-dimensional like figures on a film screen, on the other side of the glass prison in which they sat together.

‘Fancy
choosing
nut-brown lace!’ said Madeleine loudly.

‘Mm?’

‘Mary. Brown lace, of all things, for a dance frock.’

‘Oh …’ He studied Mary for a moment as she passed. ‘It isn’t the height of glamour, I suppose. Still it suits her all right—it’s rather neat. She’s not a showy dresser, ever.’

‘
Showy
? …
I wasn’t objecting on that score … However, I suppose she thinks she looks like a little brown bird—a dear little Jenny Wren. Have I ever had a
penchant
for showy clothes?’

‘Have you? I do hope not.’

‘You know I haven’t. Quite the reverse.’

‘Then we are at one.’ He looked stonily ahead of him.

After another long silence, Madeleine said:

‘It might look better if we danced together
once.
’

‘Oh, would you like to? Right. Let’s dance.’

To the strains of a curdling Blues they took the floor.

‘What do you make of her?’ asked Madeleine, more pleasantly.

‘Who?’

‘Jack’s woman.’

‘Ah!’ He looked across the floor to where the bridal pair were dancing cheek to cheek. ‘Rather nice, I think, don’t you? Agreeable woman.’

‘Is she? I wouldn’t know. We’ve hardly exchanged a word. I don’t think she finds women as interesting as men.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Something about her … I think she’ll lead old Jack a dance.’

‘I hope not. But probably. However, he seems happy enough for the moment.’

‘Terribly happy. I
can
see she’s attractive in a way. Can’t you?’

‘Mm. Yes. Not unattractive.’

‘Amusing too, I expect. What did you find to talk about at dinner?’

‘I can’t remember. You know I never can. Nothing in particular.’

‘Well, at least you weren’t bored. I was so relieved, knowing you were feeling low. You looked absolutely engrossed, whatever it was. How are you feeling now?’

‘I feel all right now.’

‘Pain gone?’

‘Pain gone.’

It was true. No pain. No vertigo. Nothing in his head now but vacancy, which, when he tested it, as he had done once or twice with acute apprehension, seemed to give out merely a hollow continuous ringing whisper like the sound of a sea shell held against one’s ear.

They danced on in silence for a couple of minutes. She saw their reflections in the wall of mirrors at one end of the room—an ungratifying spectacle: a not-so-young woman dressed rather showily, like a rather respectable tart, her hair set unbecomingly, trying to adapt herself to the slack grasp and shuffle of a bored and exhausted-looking man.

She said in a thin nasal voice:

‘At least you might
look
as if you could just bear to dance with me—even if you can’t.’

He gave a start. Holding her at arm’s length away from him, he gaped at her, his jaw dropping with theatrical imbecility, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ she said, smiling. ‘I know it’s frightful for you to have to dance with me, but need you look
quite
so abject with self-pity? Could you possibly, for the sake of social decency, try to put a better face on it?’

On the edge of the dance floor, close to the band, he came to a dead stop; his arms dropped down nerveless, a thick dusky surge of blood suffused his neck, face, forehead. Then very deliberately he swung on his heel and walked away, treading a steady path between the tables. For a split second his back, portentous, was printed in empty space; then she obliterated him. She remained where he had left her, exposed to the grin, the insinuating eyes of the coloured drummer; then with a distant gracious smile and nod of acknowledgement towards the demonic convulsions of wrists, knees, ankles, instruments, strolled in the direction of Rickie’s vanished figure. Pausing by the exit, she looked back, cautiously scanning the whole room, half expecting to see him materialize treading a gay measure with a member of the party—or perhaps with a total stranger picked up to pay her out—or drinking and joking at their table. But topped by two bottles in an ice bucket, the table was deserted; she marked them all down one after the other on the floor, dancing to her favourite rumba. She sauntered through into the corridor, passing on her right the claustrophobic little lounge with its modernist bar and furniture and discreet strip lighting: empty. The
avant
garde
clock on the wall said
2
a.m. A solitary attendant in uniform stood by the revolving entrance door. Should she stroll up and sweetly inquire if a tall fair gentleman had just gone out? No, she would not … He might be in the Gents, might emerge in a minute. Perhaps taken ill there … The man was watching her curiously, waiting for the question he could answer. The answer would be yes … She turned purposefully and entered the door marked Ladies, lingered a few moments pouring cold water on her wrists, combing her hair, repainting her stiff lips, gave the attendant a dreamy smile, hurried back to the noise and lights. Through the bonfire effect produced by smoke and rose illumination she saw them all sitting round their table. No Rickie.

Well, he’d done it, he’d simply gone—walked out on her. Public humiliation. Where was he? It might have been a vanishing trick by Maskelyne. Let him wait, let him just wait till … I’ve put up with a lot, God knows I have and so do all our friends, but make no mistake I won’t stand for this sort of thing. What do you suppose they thought of you? I told them, I told them exactly what had happened, well, what else could I do? They all agreed, too monstrous, your bloody-mindedness, insufferable rudeness to me, to everybody, how you’re going to apologize to Clara and Tim I cannot think, their party ruined, all so sorry for me, pleasant for me, wasn’t it? … Supported by this inner monologue, she approached them with a smile, sat down, opened her bag, took out her compact and powdered her nose.

‘Madeleine, my dear child, allow me to pour you out a little glass …’

‘No more, thank you, Tim darling. Really, I must go home soon.’

‘Just
a
soup
çon.
We’re all going home soon. Getting on towards bed-time, I begin to think.’ He glanced at her, arrested by a certain tenseness. ‘What’s wrong, eh? Where’s that husband of yours?’

She leaned towards him and murmured, rueful, close to his ear:

‘My dear, he’s slipped off home. Ssh! He didn’t feel awfully well. You know since this wretched gastric trouble he collapses rather if he has late nights. He just hasn’t got any reserve energy, though he won’t admit it. And of course he really ought
not
to drink, though it seems such a shame on a festive occasion, I can’t bear to be governessy about it.’

‘Oh, the poor old chap!’ exclaimed Tim, all compunction and concern. ‘I
am
sorry. Was he feeling like hell?’

‘Ssh!—no, nothing much. Just a bit giddy and sick. He’s put down a good deal tonight, you know. We went outside to get some air, then he thought—we both thought—he’d better not come back. Don’t make a thing about it, will you? He told me to make his excuses—he was so afraid of breaking up the party.’

‘Bless his heart. But what a shame. I wish I’d known. It did strike me he looked all in a little while ago—never gave it another thought. Rotten. Take a turn with me, my dear. Or are you worried?’

‘No, I’m not worried. I know so well it’s only sleep he needs. I’d love to take a turn with you.’

They took a long turn together. Tim’s style of dancing was a restful affair of shuffle, sway and turn, coupled with a potent grip of his outspread palm and thumb on her shoulder blades. They discussed the improvement in Rickie’s health, schools for their respective sons, the possibility of sharing a villa near Dinard for September, and other soothing topics. Presently she ceased to cast surreptitious glances towards the entrance, to brace herself for Rickie’s reappearance, the blood of murderous hate still mantling his black face. While Tim’s ripe, husky, rather coaxing and deprecatory voice meandered on, she felt almost herself again. The boiling sense of outrage, the icy sense of panic—both had sunk down. She felt purged, confident, also coolly charitable, almost amused: almost as if all of it had happened in a dream. Owing this to Tim and wishing to show affectionate gratitude, she listened and responded to his conversation with particular sympathy. Goodwill flowed between them; a cosiness with a nostalgic undercurrent. He permitted his memory to dwell upon a romantic passage in a Sussex garden the deuce of a long time ago. He’d been a callow cub then, experimenting with girls and demi-girls and other sorts, considerably more business-like than idealistic; but he’d never quite forgotten how sweet she’d been at eighteen years old, the prettiest girl in the room, and the most oncoming you’d think—and then like as not wincing away like a filly or turning the ice on between one minute and the next. Ready to meet you half-way and a good bit more, solemn, teasing, anxious, laughing—you never knew where you were with her … one kiss in the dark, gauche, inexpert, with no sequel; he’d found out what he wanted to know. She was hot stuff all right—would be when she got into her stride. Might have flown off the handle … never had? Surprising under the circumstances … They must get on well in bed together. That often kept a woman faithful when the chap had other women. Might still? … Nothing would be easier, tonight, more tempting to suggest; nothing, thank God, more absolutely out of the question. Ah well, they were all settling down now, there were compensations …

Prey to the fervour of devoted gratitude aroused in him, not for the first time, by the lineaments of ungratified desire, he gathered her to his chest and pressed her tenderly. She relaxed against him, kind masculine friend to whom one could confide so much but never would. So she was still attractive to him: a comfort; had often wondered if he remembered that never since mentioned episode in the Vances’ garden the night of Sylvia’s coming-out dance. Almost her first house party and her frock split at the waist. Fairy lights in the trees, a bush of syringa they’d buried their faces in, his anticipated but in the event unbargained-for embrace which, shaken in her self-respect, she had discussed next morning in her bedroom with a girl friend. ‘I’m afraid he’s
very
physical.’ ‘How far did he
go
?’
‘Well … I can only say I
hope
I’ll never be kissed like that again.’ ‘Perhaps you ought to have slapped his face?’ ‘Perhaps I ought.’ ‘You don’t think you
encouraged
him?’ ‘Certainly
not.
’
‘And you didn’t sort of
enjoy
it?’ ‘No, not at
all
.’
Hysterical gales of giggling, comparing notes and agreeing that men must have desires completely unknown to women, and thoroughly distasteful. Next year when after a few weeks only of part-tearful, part-ecstatic sensations of inevitability, she had got engaged, he had written her a letter saying:
Darling Madeleine: congratulations. Rickie is a very lucky man. Ah me!—
which she had taken as a pleasing delicate hint that he hadn’t forgotten, or dismissed that incident in a cynical way; and ever since she had felt with him a secret emotional security; almost as if in some half dream, unanalysed, on the threshold of experience, he had taken, without violence, her virginity.

And he’s never been able to stand Dinah—thought Rickie must be out of his senses: Clara had said as much at the time of the worst trouble—another consolation … Oh, she could tell him anything. She would tell him now, he would give her sound advice. She looked up suddenly with her great blue-black dilated eyes, her forehead
puckered.