I Shall Not Want (34 page)

John Marco had risen and was facing her. He held out
his hand and, as he did so, he noticed that hers was unsteady.

“I was afraid that I wasn't going to see you,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” she replied, “but it's not always easy when there's a young child in the house.”

She did not raise her eyes to his as she spoke and as soon as he released her hand—even Mr. Petter noticed that he held it a little longer than was usual—she took a chair with her back to the light so that the whole of her face was in shadow. It was her husband who kept the conversation alive.

“I really wonder you didn't know each other already,” he observed complacently. “My wife was a Miss Kent before I married her. She was in the Tabernacle, too.”

“But I did know her,” John Marco replied. “We taught in Sunday School together.”

“That was a long while ago,” Mary said hurriedly.

Mr. Petter, however, was not to be put off like that. He came over and sat on the arm of Mary's chair. Occasionally his fingers would stray down towards her and begin stroking her arm.

“So you
did
know Mr. Marco all the time,” he said, “and you never told me. I call that a very naughty little wife.”

He pinched her arm playfully as he said it: it was obvious that he was distractedly in love with her.

But Mary only pulled her arm away: she seemed to resent him anywhere near her. And Mr. Petter after the rebuff did not seem to know what to do. He sat where he was on the arm of her chair, like an injured and unhappy cherub.

John Marco sat staring at them both. It was so manifestly impossible to think of this model druggist as a rival that he did not even feel any jealousy; he had only to raise his finger for the little man to fall over. But, after the first glance, it was not at Mr. Petter that he was looking: it was at Mary. The labour of bearing Mr. Petter's child had rested lightly on her. The only difference
between the Mary whom he had begged never to leave him and the Mary who now sat in the chair before him, was that this was a woman; the child who was now sleeping upstairs had somehow completed her. Her eyes when he could see them were the same; and the pure curve of her neck was unaltered. He looked at the pale gold of her hair, brushed up high over the temples and showing almost silvery beneath, and he loved her again.

“It seems strange,” Mr. Petter remarked, “that we hadn't met socially before. Of course, I'm new to this Chapel, but I've met most of Mary's friends.”

“Perhaps it's because I don't go out very much,” John Marco suggested. “I spend most of my evenings working.”

“Then we ought to be flattered, oughtn't we, Mary?” Mr. Petter asked. “Really we ought.”

There was no opportunity for Mary to reply, for at that moment there came the sound again of a baby's crying. Mary got up and went towards the door.

“You'll have to excuse me,” she said. “It's the child.”

When she had gone John Marco put his back to the fireplace and faced Mr. Petter. He was jocular now and rather hearty with him, like an employer talking out of business to one of his assistants.

“What about this baby of yours?” he asked. “Aren't I going to be allowed to see her?”

Mr. Petter's face lit up again.

“Would you like to?” he asked eagerly. “Would you really like to?”

John Marco ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. He was doing something to hurt himself in asking to see this child; he knew that. But it was Mary's child and he had to see it. It would be something else he could share with her. It would take him deeper into the pattern of her life again.

“Well I've heard a lot about her, haven't I?” he replied.

“Then come on,” said Mr. Petter happily. “We'll pay a surprise visit. She'd never let us get near it if she knew.”

They went up the next flight of the staircase—it had become narrower, more intimate and domestic by now—and Mr. Petter threw open the door in front of him. It was then that John Marco saw that it was the Petters' own bedroom that he was in. The big double bed under its pink silk eiderdown was against the wall and, beside it sheltered in a little alcove of screens, was the cot. Mary was bending over it, talking to the bundle in the cot as though it could understand her.

“Mr. Marco wanted to see her,” Mr. Petter announced brightly. “So I brought him up.”

Mary straightened herself hurriedly and took step between them and the cot. For a moment John Marco thought that she was going to prevent him from approaching the child.

But Mr. Petter had not noticed that anything was amiss. He took Mary by the hand and drew her to one side. Then he turned to John Marco.

“If you stand there,” he said, “you can see perfectly. You'll get the light on her little face.”

John Marco walked towards the cot and looked down. The child that was lying there had flaxen hair that would one day be gold; its skin was transparent and delicate. John Marco remembered the dark hair of his own son and shuddered. That child was Hesther's; this was Mary's.

He raised his eyes a little, and saw that Mary was looking at him. She did not avoid his gaze any longer. In her pride over the diminutive creature before them, she was smiling. She came up beside him and placed her hand on the side of the cot unable to resist this fascinating infant any longer. John Marco looked again at the child, then turning towards Mary he placed his hand over hers.

From the other side of the cot Mr. Petter observed everything that took place. For a moment he was horrified, he blushed a sudden embarrassed scarlet. Then reason came to him, and he understood. He stepped up and, putting his arm round Mary's waist, he completed the party.

“You're quite right,” he said to John Marco. “She is lovely, isn't she?”

It was still quite early when John Marco left them. Mr. Petter came down to the front door to see him off. And as he shook hands he gave a little laugh.

“How funny,” he said. “We didn't give you any tea and we haven't spoken a word about the Association.”

“Some other time,” John Marco answered. “I hope this won't be the last time I shall visit you.”

It was very flattering to Mr. Petter's vanity to have John Marco for a friend; for the six months during which he had known him, and his visits had become longer and more frequent. A whole week rarely went past now without his calling on them; and, once he was in the house, it was sometimes as late as eleven-thirty when he left. In particular, Mr. Petter was pleased to observe that Mary had grown to be much more at ease with his new friend. She no longer avoided him and sat by herself in another room while he was in the flat. Mr. Petter, of course, could tell instinctively that she disliked the man; but he was pleased to see how, for his sake, she had overcome her dislike and consented to be one of them. She now joined them quite naturally in the evenings, whenever John Marco was there and, sitting at Mr. Petter's feet, where he liked to have her, continued with her sewing as though the two of them were alone together.

Not until quite recently—a week or so ago, in fact—had Mr. Petter purely by accident discovered the unhappy secret of John Marco's private life.

One of the Chapel Brethren had mentioned it casually as one of those rewarding tit-bits that come the way of men of the world. As Mr. Petter had listened, his mind had suddenly responded. Everything that had been dark before was now lit up, and he understood a lot of things—why John Marco had not answered when he had asked him if he had any children of his own: how terrible, thought Mr. Petter, to have a son and be separated from it; why Mary had not spoken of her acquaintance with him; why John Marco had so self-effacingly resigned from the Synod rather than stir up any kind of scandal within
the Chapel. And as he thought of these things his heart went out towards John Marco. For all his fine business and his great company of assistants, the man was lonely and an outcast. Mr. Petter sighed and wished that it were within his power to give him all he wanted.

During all this time John Marco had never managed to see Mary alone. Once or twice in the evening when he had been there, someone had rung the night bell and Mr. Petter had been called away from them. But Mary had always used this as an excuse to leave him; and when Mr. Petter had got back from his dispensary he had always found his visitor sitting alone in the little white and apricot sitting-room, waiting for his return.

But, even though at first, John Marco had been content to abide his time, he realised as the days went past that he could wait no longer. The original solace that he had found in seeing Mary had passed; with Mr. Petter always beside her the pain of these meetings had become unendurable.

He therefore planned his next visit with especial care. He chose for it, four-thirty on a Saturday afternoon. And it was all just as he had expected: the little shop was crowded at the time. He sauntered idly in and stood there waiting for Mr. Petter to emerge from behind the glass partition which cut off his dispensary.

When Mr. Petter appeared, he was surprised and delighted to see his visitor.

“Hello, Marco,” he said, holding out over the counter a small pink hand that smelt of ether. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

This dropping of the “Mr.” gave Mr. Petter a fresh surge of pleasure every time he became aware of it: it showed how far he had come on since first the friendship had started.

“You can give me something for a headache,” John Marco told him. “I've been working too hard lately.”

Mr. Petter suppressed his usual reply about needing to find the cause before the effect could be remedied,
and took down a bottle of anti-kamnia tablets from one of the loaded shelves.

“I think you'll find that this'll put you on your feet again,” he said. “I'll give you a glass of water to drink it with.”

“I'd rather drink a cup of tea,” John Marco replied, and paused. “Why don't you leave the shop and come upstairs yourself for a moment?” he asked.

“Leave the shop at this time. Oh no, I couldn't do that.”

Mr. Petter seemed quite shocked at the suggestion; he evidently felt that it belittled his importance as a shopkeeper. But his face brightened again almost immediately:

“Why don't you have a cup of tea with Mary?” he asked. “She always brings me down a cup about this time.”

John Marco regarded Mr. Petter carefully.

“I don't like intruding in this way,” he explained. “Especially as you can't join us.”

“It wouldn't be intruding,” Mr. Petter said reproachfully. “You know that. Besides, Mary'd like it.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure of it,” Mr. Petter replied. “Why don't you go up?”

He opened the door of the private stairway that led down into the shop as he said it, and stood back for John Marco to pass. “I'd come up with you,” he said, “if it wasn't for the shop. Saturday afternoons are my busy time.”

John Marco heard Mr. Petter shut the door behind him and his heart stood still. Somewhere in the flat above him was Mary, and he would be alone with her. He was breathing deeply and his face was flushed when he reached the small landing and called out to her by name.

She came at once. But not in answer to his summons. In her hand she was carrying a cup of tea with two sweet biscuits in the saucer: it was Mr. Petter's afternoon feast being taken to him.

“Your husband has invited me to stay to tea,” he said. “That is if you'll have me.”

She paused, looking at him incredulously.

“I've got to take this down first,” was all she said.

John Marco went into the living-room and sat down on the settee: it was the same settee which he had seen Mary and Mr. Petter buy together on that afternoon when he tried to dismiss Mr. Hackbridge. And at that moment as he sat there and thought of what Mr. Petter had to lose, he felt sorry for the little man so blissfully dispensing in the shop below.

Then Mary came in and began setting out the table. John Marco was the first to speak.

“I've brought you this for the child,” he said.

He held out an ivory ring with a silver handle: it was an expensive toy—far more expensive than Mr. Petter would ever have been able to afford.

Mary seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“You're very good to her,” she said.

“She's yours,” he answered.

She shook her head.

“That's no good reason,” she said.

“It's reason enough for me,” he told her.

She left him and came back a moment later carrying one of those silver tea pots that have obviously been wedding presents. It amused him to see that she should have brought out for him the best that was in the house: there seemed to be both pride and defiance in it, as though she meant to show him that she had not married so badly after all.

Then, as he watched, he saw her cock her little finger high in the air and began to pour. With her fair head bent forward she might still have been Mr. Kent's unmarried daughter in the family living-room in Abernethy Terrace. It was as though the last three years had run suddenly backwards on their spool, carrying him with them.

It is difficult at any time to recall even the quite immediate past without some feeling of sadness, of misgiving; the years, looked back on from the finish, always seem loaded with regrets. And as John Marco crossed his legs
in front of Mr. Petter's fire the thoughts that had been in his mind when he had come there were subdued and replaced by other, gentler ones. In those few minutes the whole strategy of his subtle plan vanished and left him without a purpose. For some time he sat altogether without speaking.

“If we'd been married,” he observed almost as though speaking to himself, “it might have been like this.”

“I was thinking that too,” Mary answered quietly.

At her reply, the reserve, the careful, strenuous reserve, which he had been careful to show ever since these visits had started, left him for a moment. He reached out and grasped her hand. She let him hold it for a moment, even tightening her grip in answer to his urgent, increasing one, and then withdrew it.