The Jury (3 page)

Lucy did not mind that at all; she got on well enough with her brothers and could play most of their games. When they were tired of the beach and the cliffs, they wandered inland, down winding country lanes and through fields of standing corn. To children born and bred in the suburbs it was heavenly to be made free of such a paradise of fields and farms and far horizons, to breathe the rich country scents (even the smell of pigs was rapture to Lucy's nostrils), to lie in the lee of hedges watching the sky float past and filling all one's senses with the drowse of high summer. Why must Reggie spoil it all? But to Lucy it seemed not Reggie himself that did it, but something in the nature of things, something unspeakably horrible that lay concealed under the smile of the day. Reggie caught sight of a young rabbit and gave chase. The small creature quivered in his grasp, and with a queer grin, before anyone had time to think, he swung it carelessly by its hind legs and dashed its head against the post of a five-bar gate. Seeing the rabbit hang limp, the boy dropped it with a cocky excited laugh. His eyes, glittering with pleasure, stared boldly; but behind their glitter, behind their staring
defiance, they were furtive and ashamed. After a moment of speechless horror Tom broke out into loud schoolboyish protests. But Lucy took three steps towards the dead animal, then turned away, turned her back on the boys, and began vomiting. The shameful secret kept all three of them silent on the way back to the bungalow, and when, within sight of the door, Reggie broke the silence by saying “Are you going to sneak, young Lucy?” she could answer him only with a glance of pure misery. No one, she knew, would ever understand what had made her sick: both Reggie and Tom supposed it to have been the sight of the rabbit with blood trickling from eyes and mouth. She was glad when the holiday came to an end and they went back to Mother. They had said good-bye to Aunt Lena, but naturally she came into the conversation. It was Lucy herself, at the tea-table that first day home, who mentioned her.

“Aunt Lena gave us all half a crown, Mummy.”

“How kind of her!” said Mrs Prynne. Lucy was suddenly aware of something strange existing between her father and her mother, of something queer in the quality of her mother's pause before she added with a kind of breathless quiet: “And who is Aunt Lena, my dear?”

“Aunt Lena,” said Tom, “that's our new auntie, Mum. You never told us about her.”

Mrs Prynne had so far avoided her husband's eyes, but now she looked at him, and so did Lucy.

“Ah,” said he, jauntily, meeting her question with a look that was like a sneer, “you haven't met her, Mary. A charming woman. Isn't she, boys?” After a deliberate pause he added, without shifting his gaze: “She shared little Lucy's bedroom.”

He stared his wife out of countenance. She flushed a little, and her glance dropped. “That was very clever of you, Reginald,” she said tonelessly.

Watching her father's face, Lucy was reminded sharply of Reggie's look when he felt the rabbit hanging limp from his hand. The same glitter, the same twist of the lips. And in that moment her childhood came to an end; and summer, she half-knew, would never be the same again. Whatever immediately happened between husband and wife happened behind the scenes. Nothing more was said at the time, and it
was not till some months later that the final rupture came, that bewildering day when the three children were summoned to Father's study and commanded to choose which of their parents they would live with. Father, in his morning coat and white stock, straddled across the hearthrug, stroking his buttocks with an alternating movement as though trying to rub the fire's warmth into them. His head was held at a proud angle; his eyebrows and moustaches had never seemed so prominent, his eyes never so big and darkly shining. Mother, big with her fourth child, sat in a chair near the window, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes turned fixedly away from the room. She did not look up when her children, after respectfully tapping on the door, filed in. She made no sign when Reggie and Tom, warmed by their father's ferocious geniality, and perhaps not fully understanding the import of their choice, elected to go away with him and live in a fine new house.

“Aha!” cried Father, rubbing his hands together. “We'll have a jolly time, lads. You see if we don't. And now … what says little Lucy?” He brought the full power of those shining orbs to bear upon his daughter. His confidence was overwhelming, and for a moment she could not take her eyes off him. But something, whether a faint sound or something less palpable, broke the spell, and she turned, frightened and alone, to her mother for guidance. Mrs Prynne's posture had changed: one hand covered her eyes, the other lay twitching upon the arm of the chair. The child looked from one parent to the other.

“Well?” demanded Father. “Speak up for yourself, ducky.”

Lucy spoke at last. “I want to stay with Mother,” she said … and ran stumbling into the arms outstretched to receive her.

The young woman in the train did not recall these scenes, but they were deeply scored in a hidden part of her mind. She was thinking or dreaming now of more immediate things: of the day's events, the fat important woman who had come in to order an evening dress, the new designs, Brenda's earache, the ever-so-comical story told by one of the girls, and the sly insolence of the window-cleaner. Her happening
to know Brenda Willingdon had been a piece of good fortune; for who else would have given her her chance as a designer? And without that chance how would she have supported Poor Mother? When her parents separated by private agreement, kind Mr Brown, Father's solicitor, had drawn up a document which safeguarded, so he said, the rights of both parties. Mrs Prynne, humiliated and spiritless, the kind of woman that attracts persecution and is not surprised when it comes, put her name to this instrument without protest. Thirty shillings a week did not seem much for a woman and two children to live on, but kind Mr Brown, that sympathetic friend of the family, seemed to think it quite a nice little sum, and she was too desperately weary to argue about it. For that weariness Lucy had paid, and was still paying, with no help from her absent father or her equally absent brothers, whom she never saw. She had exhibited a decided talent for drawing, and after the break with Father she cultivated this talent assiduously, with her mother's languid and absent-minded approval. Being nursemaid to her new little brother, however, left her little time, out of school hours, for drawing. Besides, there was housework to do. Mother was slow in recovering from her confinement: in fact it might be said that she never recovered, for even now, so many years after the event, she was forced to spend the greater part of her life lying down.

All things considered, Lucy might have been expected to feel relief at her little brother's premature death; but in fact she grieved more tumultuously than the mother herself, who accepted the calamity with the same drooping misery, the same maddening resignation, that she brought to everything. Even the incorrigibly loyal Lucy sometimes caught herself wishing that Mother would rouse herself a little, though she would have held it blasphemy to speak the wish out loud. Leaving school at fourteen, by the kindness of a neighbour she was able to attend art classes for a few months; but she couldn't keep it up, so difficult was it to fit in with her other duties, and especially the duty of sitting with Mother in the evenings. As soon as Lucy began earning money, Mr Brown was instructed to pay Mrs Prynne ten shillings a week less, although the value of the pound had depreciated. Lucy said couldn't they go to a magistrate and show him their
precious agreement and get their rights; but Mother said she'd rather not be mixed up in any unpleasantness with Father, and of course Mother knew best. It hurt her to hear Father so much as mentioned, and Lucy acquired a nervous dread of seeing her mother wince at the mere approach of the subject. Yet after all one had to be a little practical, so Lucy secretly wrote to Father herself, sending the letter to Mr Brown's office to be forwarded. It was what she thought of as a very strong letter, but apparently it had not achieved its purpose of frightening Father, for it evoked no reply. Lucy wished afterwards that she had put things differently and appealed to his Better Self, but this regret was only half sincere, for she could not think of her father as anything but vicious and cruel, just as she could not think of her mother as anything but a martyred saint. Yes, one had to be a little practical, and Lucy did her best, taking and losing one job after another, till here she was (secure at last, she believed), earning three pounds ten with Brenda Willingdon, the
Madame Brenda
of the shop-sign.

The first stop was Finsbury Park, and at Finsbury Park she made ready to leave the carriage and get into another one; for everybody got out except the man in the far corner opposite, and at first it looked as though no one was going to get in. But in the nick of time two women arrived to relieve her anxiety, and the journey proceeded without further event. Arriving at her home-station, she set her face towards Mother and moved to that destination with a swift gliding motion, looking neither to right nor left, except when, crossing a road, she had to give heed to the traffic. By the time she reached her house—and hers it was, for it was rented in her name, lest Father should interfere—she had her latchkey ready to hand. She entered with habitual swiftness and care, shut the door quietly, and removed her hat and coat and gloves. Clutching her leather handbag under her left arm she approached the sitting-room door and tapped gently. A low response from within assured her that Mother was awake. Soundlessly the door-handle turned under her hand.

“Well, Mother? I'm back.”

“Good evening, dear. You're a little late this evening, aren't you?”

Mrs Prynne lay in a long chair by the window that overlooked a gravel path and a bed containing five small rosetrees. The room was small, and in Lucy's estimation cosy. She was a capable designer of women's dresses, but her notions of art did not extend to wallpapers. She was, however, conscious of the stuffy smell, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask her mother why she didn't have a window open. A fire was burning in the grate, somewhat at odds with the sunlight streaming in through the window. Some knitting lay on the table at Mrs Prynne's side; but Lucy could not resist the impression that her mother had sat all day with idle hands, waiting for her return. If Lucy's face had been lined and plump and submissive, instead of smooth and pale and timidly resolute, the resemblance between the two women would have been striking. And it was almost with her mother's voice that Lucy asked her accustomed question.

“Have you had a good day, Mother?”

“Quite nice, dear. A touch of my sciatica again, but I must expect that.”

“Poor Mother!” murmured Lucy. And to herself she said: How brave Mother is!

“But it's very nice to see you back, dear. Did you manage to get the library book changed?”

“Oh, not today, Mother,” cried Lucy in great discomfort. “It's tomorrow the boy comes round. I thought I told you.”

“Very likely you did, Lucy.” Mrs Prynne sighed deeply. “My memory's not what it used to be. And I'm sure you've more important things to think about than my library book.”

Feeling herself vaguely at fault, Lucy went to the sideboard drawer and got out a white linen tablecloth. She began laying the table for the evening meal.

“Has Mrs Baker been looking after you properly, Mother?” Mrs Baker was under contract to look in from time to time, in case Mrs Prynne should be suddenly taken worse. “Did she cook you a nice lunch?”

“I really forget, dear. Yes, I think so. Have you seen your letter?”

“A letter for
me”
? said Lucy in surprise.

“It came this afternoon. I put it on the mantelpiece for you.”

Lucy finished laying the table before looking at her letter, and before opening and reading it she scraped the potatoes and put them on the gas-ring to boil. The handwriting was strange to her. Strange and interesting, and even a little exciting. She read with startled eyes: Dear Miss Prynne, I wonder if there is any hope of your being at the Literary Society meeting tomorrow (Thursday) evening, when I, alas, am to give my little effort on ‘The Religion of Wordsworth'? I am dreading the ordeal of a public appearance, and I cannot tell you how much I should appreciate the moral support of your presence in the audience. I so much enjoyed our little talk three weeks ago, and I only wished it could have been longer. If you
are
able to spare the time, and would not be too bored, perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of escorting you home after the meeting. With kind regards, believe me, yours very sincerely, Edward O. Seagrave.

Lucy folded the letter and restored it to its envelope, conscious of her mother's anxiety to know all about it, and oddly (unreasonably, she felt) resolved to say nothing. All men were bad at heart. All men were potentially Father. All, except perhaps Mr Seagrave, who was somehow different. Mr Seagrave taught in the Congregational Sunday School and was an active member of the Congregational Literary Society. Lucy could not manage to get to chapel every Sunday, and she had only been once to a meeting of the Literary Society. It was on that one solitary occasion, three weeks ago, that Mr Seagrave had advanced from a bowing acquaintanceship to something that might have been the beginning of a friendship, had friendship with a man, and with so intellectual a man, been conceivable. He was old-fashioned in manner, even a little pompous; but his sincerity was manifest, and Lucy, on the strength of ten minutes halting conversation about books, mostly books she had never read, was inclined to suspect him of a secret shyness. Stooping, eager, intent, he had something gnomish about him that was at once attractive and a little comical. It would certainly be interesting to meet him again. And of course there was Wordsworth too.

But how could she leave Mother? How could she even broach the question? So that she might think unobserved she went into the scullery, on the pretext of seeing whether
the potatoes were done, and stayed there until driven back by the fear of her mother's impatience. Not till the meal was nearly over, and Mother supplied with her cup of chocolate, did she venture to remark: