The Hours Before Dawn (6 page)

‘My dear, you needn’t say any more!’ interrupted Mrs Henderson. ‘The word “Children” is enough. It goes without saying, that if there are children in the house, there won’t be a single container of any sort in less than eight mangled pieces!
Don’t you think,’ she went on, turning to Miss Brandon, ‘that the most wonderful moment in a woman’s life is when her last child clears off and leaves her free –
free?
’

Miss Brandon did not reply; unabashed, Mrs Henderson continued: ‘Look; isn’t that a suitcase you’ve got up there on the wardrobe? Could you possibly lend it to me? I think it’ll just about hold all this lot.’

For a moment Miss Brandon still did not speak. Then, as if rousing herself with an effort, she said:

‘Of course. Let me get it down—’

With a powerful and oddly graceful movement she hoisted the case off the top of the wardrobe and laid it before her
visitor
. Quite a big case it was, reflected Louise, in spite of Mrs Morgan’s neighbourly disparagement. She hadn’t particularly noticed it herself in the darkness and bustle of that evening of arrival; but now she looked at it with interest. Such a distinguished-looking case, with its rich dark blue leather, and its array of foreign labels. Greece Miss Brandon seemed to have been to – that would be in connection with the book on Homer, no doubt. Turkey too, and Sardinia; Helsinki; Portugal…. How absurdly out of place such a case seemed in a suburban street like this….

Louise was aware of a queer, lurching giddiness. When – where – had she thought exactly these thoughts before? Where had she seen that suitcase – or one the very double of it – and had found herself thinking, exactly as she was thinking now: How out of place that is! Fancy seeing a suitcase like that
here,
of all places!

But what place? Louise passed her hand across her
forehead
. What
would
be the most unlikely place to find a suitcase covered with foreign labels? A Church jumble sale? A Westcliff boarding house? Louise shook her head. Was she, after all, merely experiencing that well-known sensation of
‘having-done-all-this-before’? Didn’t they say that this
sensation
was very commonly caused by lack of sleep?

She became aware that Miss Brandon was watching her. Watching her interest in the suitcase, her puzzlement. With an awkward, hasty movement the older woman pushed the
suitcase
nearer to the wall, planted herself in front of it and began packing the books with hasty, nervous movements.

The task was soon finished, though with shockingly little help from Louise, and the party set off down the stairs; Miss Brandon, at her own insistence, carrying the case, while Louise followed with the remainder of the books piled in her arms, and Mrs Henderson went in search of Mark.

When she saw Mrs Henderson’s miniature three-wheeler drawn up in front of the house, Miss Brandon dumped the case down on the pavement in surprise.

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ she exclaimed, with the
schoolgirlish
brusqueness which occasionally marred her poise. ‘Don’t tell me that your mother-in-law’s proposing to get all this lot in there! And the seat’s all covered with dinner-plates already,’ she added, peering in through the toylike window.

‘I expect she’ll manage,’ began Louise uncertainly; and at that moment Mrs Henderson reappeared, followed by the
reluctant
Mark, who, hidden in the bedroom, had begun to hope that he was escaping the whole of this book business.

‘Manage? Of course I’ll manage!’ she exclaimed, always alert to defend her little car against any hint of criticism. ‘And thank you
so
much, Miss Brandon – you’ve been most kind…. What’s that, Mark?’ she added, as Miss Brandon turned back towards the house – ‘but of course it’ll go in, dear. You just have to get it up a little farther – slantways – no – the
other
corner, dear. You’ll soon get the knack—’

‘For God’s sake – it weighs about a ton!’ protested the
panting
Mark as a corner of the blue suitcase caught him savagely
on the ear. ‘How on earth did you manage to get the thing downstairs?’

‘Miss Brandon carried it,’ explained Louise anxiously. ‘She insisted. I did ask her if it was too heavy, but—’

‘She must be Strong Sam of the Fair in disguise!’ gasped Mark giving the suitcase a final shove. ‘Mother, I do wish you’d get a bigger car if you want to cart all this junk about. It wouldn’t be any more expensive in the long run – in fact, it would work out cheaper, because—’

‘You know very well that a small car suits me better for
business
,’ interrupted his mother. ‘The smaller the better for parking in town. You’d know that if you were a motorist. And in any case,’ she added, plunging into the recesses of the queer little vehicle to rearrange a soup tureen under the steering wheel, ‘in any case, I absolutely refuse to own a car that could possibly be big enough for Family Outings. The very first Family Outing I ever took you for, Mark when you were only five months old, I remember resolving then and there that the greatest pleasure of my old age would be the knowledge that I’d never, never,
never
have to go on a Family Outing again. And it has been, too,’ she added complacently, settling herself into the driving seat. ‘At least,
one
of the greatest pleasures.’ As she spoke, she glanced with genuine pity towards Louise, who was sagging untidily against the garden gate.

‘Cheer up, child!’ she admonished gaily. ‘Only another twenty years, and then you’ll be able to have some fun, too!’

Louise started.

‘I
do
have some fun!’ she began indignantly. ‘I’m very happy—’ She stopped, wondering if the words sounded
insincere
. For she wasn’t happy exactly, not just now; she was too sleepy most of the time. It was more that she
possessed
happiness
, as one might possess an evening dress tucked away in the back of a wardrobe. Even though one might find no time to
wear it, it was still there; it wasn’t like not having an evening dress at all….

Her thoughts were interrupted by an agonised snort from the overworked little car; and with a wave of her
elegantly-gloved
hand, Mrs Henderson was gone.

‘H
ullo – Hullo! Is that you, my dear? This is Jean Hooper speaking. Listen. Can you be an absolute angel? Can you do something for me?’

Louise sighed. Would it be Christine? Or Tony? Or both? And would it be for the whole day, or only for tea? She asked herself the question that Mark had asked her, in masculine bewilderment, only a few days before: ‘Why on earth do you put yourself out for the woman?’

Well, why did she? Not for friendship’s sake, certainly – why, she and Mrs Hooper didn’t even call each other by their Christian names yet. Though, of course, that was largely because their acquaintance had begun in adjacent beds at the maternity hospital where Michael was born; and there everyone was so firmly ‘
Mrs
’ So-and-So that you got into the way of it, even with someone who became an intimate friend. Not that Mrs Hooper
had
become an intimate friend – far from it. And yet, reflected Louise, there was undoubtedly something likeable about her, in spite of everything. Her very selfishness had such a childlike, confiding quality that one scarcely knew how to resent it. But all the same, decided Louise grimly, I don’t like her all
that
much! Not enough to have Christine dribbling and screaming in the sitting-room all the evening – especially on a Monday
with Mark home early, and Margery to be got off to her music lesson. No, most decidedly not.

‘Very well,’ she heard herself saying: ‘about five, then—’ and flung the receiver back into its cradle as if
it
was the one to blame. How
did
Mrs Hooper do it? How did she always manage to twist things so that it was impossible to say ‘No’? And could she do it to everybody, or was it just Louise who was the simpleton?

It was, in fact, barely half past three when the damp and lowering Christine was dumped into Michael’s playpen; and when Mrs Hooper returned, long after the promised hour of seven, she brought with her an angular and somewhat haggard youngish woman whom she introduced as Magda. Late as it was, neither of them seemed to be in any hurry to collect the baby and go; and before long they were settled in armchairs, one on each side of the fire, without Louise having any clear idea of how this had come about. Which was a pity, because later on Mark was undoubtedly going to want an explanation of how it had come about, and in no uncertain terms; that much had been clear from every line of his body as he beat his precipitate retreat.

The young woman Magda, it appeared, had read just
every
thing
about psychology, and Mrs Hooper proceeded to put her through her paces in front of Louise, rather as one might display a performing seal. Unfortunately, the performance resolved itself at a very early stage into a recital of Magda’s own life, beginning with the lack of understanding of her parents, and working through to the lack of understanding of her second husband, who had left her four years ago.

‘Of course,’ explained Magda tolerantly, ‘I understood what his trouble was. He was neurotic. He lacked inner security. Subconsciously, he felt that he wasn’t indispensable to me, and he resented it. Nothing I could do would convince him that he
was
indispensable. Nothing. I see now, of course, that it was hopeless from the start. Nothing would have convinced him, because, subconsciously, he didn’t want to be convinced. It was his lack of inner security, you see.’

‘I should have thought that the only thing that would
convince
a husband that he was indispensable would be if he
was
indispensable,’ remarked Louise. ‘Was he?’

The two friends stared at her reproachfully. It was as if she had dashed into the ring and rearranged the hoops.

‘Of course he wasn’t!’ snapped Magda. ‘I told you I was
earning
my own living at the time – I earned more than he did, actually. Besides, my own inner integrity—’

A ring at the front door released Louise from the rest of this sentence; and a minute later she returned with her mother-
in-law
, a bunch of syringa and Miss Brandon’s blue suitcase. Louise noticed that among the numerous labels on the case there was now a raw patch of ragged white, as if a label had been torn off recently, and in haste; but there was no time to reflect on this now, as her visitors were waiting to be introduced.

‘I’m on my way to Hugh’s party, really,’ explained Mrs Henderson. ‘I have to fly; I only dropped in to get that suitcase off my conscience. Oh, and those flowers – you’d better keep them, dear. They’re from a grateful client, you know, an absolute pet, but all the same I can’t drag them around with me all evening, now can I?’ She settled herself, legs elegantly crossed, on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ll just smoke a cigarette, and then I must dash,’ she explained. ‘Don’t let me interrupt whatever it is you’re talking about.’

Magda, who had had no intention of letting anything or
anybody
interrupt what she was talking about, continued her recital. The husband was finished now – at least, this particular one was – and she had reached her son, now sixteen, who also didn’t really understand her. Nor, it appeared, did she understand him;
but then he was so impossible to understand. In spite of never having been repressed, in spite of having been educated at no less than eight progressive schools, all he seemed to want to do now was to pass the G.C.E. and go in for the Civil Service. And worse still; although he had had the facts of life dinned into his ears ever since he could speak, he had so far showed no inclination to make any use of them whatever.

‘Of course,’ allowed Magda tolerantly, ‘it may not be really his fault. In fact, I’m sure in my own mind that it’s the girls who are to blame. They’re repressed, you know. Most of them have a fearfully conventional upbringing, even nowadays. Of course, it’s only thirty or forty years since they were all accepting meekly the notion that no nice girl ever thinks about sex at all.’

‘And nowadays they’re accepting equally meekly the notion that no nice girl ever thinks anything else,’ retorted Mrs Henderson. ‘If she does, then she’s repressed, inhibited, full of complexes – in fact, not a nice girl at all. Yes, it’s true: girls are very suggestible.’

It was some minutes now since Louise had heard Michael’s first tentative squawks from upstairs. It wasn’t really time for his ten o’clock feed yet, but she might as well fetch him before he worked himself into a rage over it. It was a wonder, really, that he hadn’t done so already. Having once woken up he didn’t usually stay quiet so long.

‘It’s time for Michael’s ten o’clock feed,’ she announced firmly, standing up; hoping as she did so that this would call the attention of her guests to the lateness of the hour.

But the results were disappointing. Her mother-in-law was the only one who leaped to her feet in proper dismay.

‘Gracious heavens! I’d no idea! Hugh will be furious! Poor darling, I promised I’d be there early and give him moral support – he’s an absolute baby when it comes to entertaining.’

A moment later she was gone, in a whirl of apologies for her
short visit – though Louise suspected that her sudden departure was due less to concern for the incapable Hugh than to the imminent prospect of encountering one of her grandchildren while in her best clothes.

But the two remaining guests seemed to suffer from no such qualms. They sat on, evidently expecting Louise to bring the baby down and go on with the conversation while she fed him. Louise made one more half-hearted attempt:

‘Isn’t it time for Christine’s feed, too?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Oughtn’t you to be getting her home?’

‘Oh
no!
’ Mrs Hooper was shocked. ‘I believe in Demand Feeding. That’s the natural way – feed a baby when it’s hungry, not to a timetable.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Magda. ‘I think any other method must be terribly frustrating to a child, it could affect him for the rest of his life. When Peter was small, I made
everything
give way to his demands. If I was in the middle of cooking the supper I’d leave it to burn rather than risk frustrating him.’

Louise could not help feeling that this method of
housekeeping
might have contributed something to the lack of inner security suffered by the departed second husband; but before she had time to say anything there was a yell, sudden and terrifying, from upstairs. Not an ordinary yell of hunger; of boredom; of loneliness. Fear was it then? Or pain? Or sudden rage? Louise raced upstairs; and as she ran she was aware of the pattering of bare feet on the landing above.

‘Margery!’ she called; ‘Harriet – whoever it is – get into bed! Whatever are you doing?’

There was no answer. But she had no time to spare for whichever tiresome little daughter it might be; she hurried past their room and into Michael’s. He was still screaming, with the quick, breathless screams of real distress; his face was scarlet and beaded with sweat; and his arms and legs were flailing wildly.
Louise snatched him up and tried to soothe him, and at the same time to find out what had happened. A pin? No, they were both secure. A sharp-cornered toy? Something left
accidentally
in the cot? But there was nothing; and as Michael’s screams were now subsiding, Louise began to think about the footsteps she had heard. One of the girls must have been in and upset him somehow. She dismissed at once the possibility that either of them had hurt him on purpose. In spite of all the warnings one received nowadays about jealousy of a new baby, they had both seemed entirely delighted with him right from the start, and they handled him with an instinctive gentleness that seemed proof against any amount of provocation. But all the same, Margery was often clumsy; Harriet often heedless; there could easily have been some accident – a toy dropped on him – his finger pinched in the fittings of the cot – anything. It was Harriet, probably, scuttling away like that. If Margery had had any kind of mishap she would still have been standing there, tearful and inept, waiting for someone to come and scold her and put matters right. Settling Michael, now pacified, into the crook of her arm, Louise tiptoed into the girls’ bedroom.

‘Harriet – Margery!’ she called softly. ‘Which of you has been playing out of bed?’

There was no answer. Both little girls were breathing deeply, regularly. She switched on the light, and peered in turn into each of the apparently sleeping faces.

No, there was no shamming about it – nothing easier to recognise than a child pretending to be asleep. Odd that whichever child it was should have fallen asleep so quickly after her mischievous adventure. Louise wondered uneasily if either of them was developing the habit of sleep-walking? Wasn’t it said to be fairly common in children of – well – some age or other? On her way downstairs, she thought of asking if Tony had ever done anything of the sort, but quickly dismissed
the idea. With Magda there as well, she would certainly be told that sleep-walking was a symptom of repression, frustration, and, above all, of regular feeding in babyhood. Particularly since she had already told them that this was Michael’s ten o’clock feed, and the clock was tactlessly striking ten at this very moment.

She was surprised when she returned to the sitting-room to find that the blue suitcase was gone. Apparently Miss Brandon had come in to collect it while Louise was upstairs, and must have gone on up to her room without Louise hearing her.

‘And do you know – such a funny thing,’ added Mrs Hooper, ‘I know her. That is, she didn’t seem to recognise me, but I remember her very well – she came to our Sex and Society Group two or three times last winter. Such a pity – I thought she was going to become a regular member, but she quite suddenly dropped out. I don’t know why.’

‘Too repressed and frustrated,’ chipped in Magda, eager as a child who has come to the bit of the lesson that it knows. ‘That sort never go on coming long. They can’t take it. Didn’t you notice she went out early every time, as soon as the discussion began to get really intimate? And your Tony says—’

‘Talking of Tony,’ Louise interrupted, with sudden hope, ‘won’t he be wondering what’s happened to you? Surely you should go back?’

But this only evoked a fresh assurance that it was
perfectly
all right; that Tony was with a neighbour, and didn’t mind a bit how long he stayed there; he never worried a bit, even when left so late that the neighbour had to make up a bed for him on the sofa.

By this time Christine was complaining, in her thin, peevish fashion, and her pram in the corner of the room was jerking
irritably
. But it appeared that the Natural Method of feeding allowed a margin of time sufficient for her mother to hear an
account of three further neurotic characters who didn’t
understand
Magda; and it was nearly eleven before Mrs Hooper finally bumped her pram away into the darkness, while Magda set off at a loping stride in the opposite direction, to who knew what haunt of further misunderstanding.

Louise had to lock up herself that night, for Mark had gone to bed without a word – in a fit of sulks, no doubt, about the unwelcome visitors. Louise, indeed, felt very much like having a fit of sulks herself, if only it would have done any good. All that ironing would have to wait till tomorrow now; tonight, she could hardly stand up for sleepiness. But what
could
you do with people who wouldn’t take a hint? Even if you told Mrs Hooper point blank that you wanted her to go because you were tired, she would only beam at you and explain that it had been proved that tiredness was all psychological; and Magda would back her up, and tell you it was because you lacked inner security…. Louise bolted the back door with a violence which nearly took the skin off her knuckles; and quite suddenly, as she stood there nursing them, her tiredness seemed to push her over some invisible frontier, and everything took on the
quality
of a dream. And in that dream it seemed very, very important that the house should be locked up thoroughly tonight. Half sleeping, half waking, she stumbled from room to room, fastening windows, trying latches. Downstairs, upstairs – even to the top floor of all, where there were only Miss Brandon’s room and the lumber room. There was no bulb in the lumber room, but there was plenty of light from the landing to show her the way past Mark’s fishing tackle, past the broken scooter, past the roll of underfelt. Plenty of light to cast wild, huge shadows on the white walls. Among the shadows her own head swayed and dipped, oval and distorted where the ceiling sloped nearly to the floor. For a moment the shadow seemed to quiver … to divide into two heads, vast and impossible; and
then it was one again, swooping insanely across the ceiling, and vanishing as Louise stepped into the darkness at the far end of the room. Clumsily she made her way among the old chairs and lino; senselessly she latched the window which could scarcely have admitted a skilful cat; and then she hastened, trembling, down the stairs to the bedroom.