Love and the Loveless (11 page)

“It’s every word of it true, every word, I swear it! There was the Dook of Connaught, and several Ladies of the Court invitin’ me,
me
Me Darlin’, to the Palace, to tell them all how to make-up for Charades at Christmas! Up and down the Throne Room we steps, the Dook and me, his arm in mine, while I try to keep step. Such big boots he wore, and spurs, my word, he’d been turnin’ out the Guard, or somethin’. Well, Flossie Me Darlin’, there we were, or there was I, all mixed up, the Dook holding me by the arm, like I was pinched by a copper, walking me up and down, up and then down, me knees knocking, me toes turned first in then out, the Throne Room it was, too, like an ambassador, me all the while tryin’ to kip step wiv ’im in Field Marshal’s costume! Me Darlin’,” he quipped, “I did me best to suggest you for the part of Britannia, but the Honourable Mrs. You Know Who said ‘No, Definitely No!’ I could have sunk into the floor at me floater! Oh blime! I’ve bored you! Sorry!”

The excited, painted little doll stood beside her in bright nervous jerks, adjusting his
toupé,
false teeth, set of padded shoulders, and shooting his cuffs.

“Go on, Willie, I know it so well, you tell it differently every time. Go on, don’t mind me, I want to say something to
Valentine
here before I forget. Go on with your lines, dear, they all want to hear.”

But the marionetting enlarged doll seemed to be broken in several places. Flossie was whispering into the ear of a
pink-and-white-faced
young Irish peer, who had been telling her of his vain attempts to get posted to Paris, where the love of his life awaited him. Jack had told Phillip that Valentine had been wounded during the Retreat, left for dead by the Germans, and repatriated through Switzerland. His only brother Dermot had been killed at Loos, so Valentine had not been sent back to his regiment, though he had asked to be posted, because there was no other heir.

“Good lord, I saw his brother then! He thrashed some of the 24th Division men, who were leaving the battlefield on that Sunday, with a hunting whip! I was with them, and saw the advance party of Guards going up, my cousin among them!”

“Yes, the whole line gave way, I remember. I was with the Yeomanry then, waiting for the Gap.”

He looked at the young Irish lord with interest. So people in high society had their problems just like anyone else. “Leave it to me, I’ll talk to Max, darling,” Flossie was saying. Valentine, his fresh oval face topped by raven hair, thereupon called for more Veuve Cliquot, to drink to the damnation of the Boche who had found him wounded during the Retreat, left him for dead, and kicked him when they had seen that he was alive. He and the playwright called Freddie seemed to be great friends. Here I am, thought Phillip, among the famous and the beautiful, in the very hub of the world, although I hope to God I won’t revolve in this hot room, that would be too damned awful, I mustn’t drink any more fizz. Has it always been like this, he thought, as the
red-bearded
painter he had seen in the Café Royal, and again at Albert, came in, to kiss Flossie’s hand. He was in the uniform of a major, with one gold ear-ring hanging from an ear. Has it always been like this, or is it the war? What fun war is—except in the front line. But for the war, I, Phillip Maddison, would never have known such wonderful scenes and people! If only I had the power to express all this in words!

A gramophone was now blaring out a Highland reel,
The
Dashing
White
Sergeant,
and everyone was dancing, it was a sort of kaleidoscope pattern, ever shifting like the sort of telescope he had got when a child from the Cave at Beereman’s at Christmas, you turned it and bits of coloured glass made gaudy patterns like spiders’ webs thick with coloured bundles and blobs of flies. They were yelling now, Highland Chieftains, a chap in a kilt was yelling
in a high cutting yelp-voice. Hell, hell, the noisy kaleidoscope was revolving, he knew that fatal sign, and staggered out.

*

When he was better he tottered to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, leaving on the light. He awoke to feel someone taking off his shoes, very quietly and gently. A voice whispered, “
Darling
, you’re shivering. I’m going to get a hot-water bottle and put you to bed.” A hand cooled his forehead, fingers smoothed his hair. Undid his belt. He felt an eiderdown covering him. Later was vaguely aware of the door opening again, and cool fizzing. “Drink this, darling. It will make you better.” He drank. Hid face under eiderdown to muffle what he hoped was only a belch. “How very polite you are, darling. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got two sons—or one, perhaps I should say. Although Robin still comes to me, the pet.”

He felt better. He looked about him. “Two sons, Sasha? They must be babies.”

“Yes, always my babes, darling. Ninian was killed last
September
, on the Somme, bless him. His aeroplane simply stopped flying! Alex his brother is still at Eton.”

“Oh, I am sorry. But—are you joking? You can’t be older than I am, surely?”

“I am old enough to be your mother, darling. But what does age matter? It’s how one
feels
that matters. Only the few
understand
. Painters, like Augustus John and Jimmy Pryde—
composers
like Ralph Williams and Frederick Delius—poets like your beloved Francis Thompson. Heavenly creatures, all of them! And poor Valentine, bless him. He’s a poet really, such a nice boy, but so wild! And all because his mother disliked him, and loved Dermot, his brother. Poor darling Valentine, he’s mad about that gel in Paris. He ought to be allowed to go to her, to be loved by her. If he had a son, I’m sure his mother would forgive herself, and love Valentine.”

“Sasha!”

“Yes, darling?”

“I know it’s not the thing to ask questions, but I am so puzzled about you.”

“There’s nothing you needn’t ask me, darling. But first, let me put your pyjamas on for you. May I open your haversack?” “I’m afraid I forgot to bring any.”

“Of course, there was no room, was there, with those great big books of poems, darling. Why wear pyjamas, anyway? I’ll pull
off your slacks, they must be folded, ready for tomorrow. Undo your braces, and the top buttons, darling. I am a trained valet. I’ve done it so many times.”

When he was in bed she said, “Well, good night, darling, sleep well.”

He held her hand. “Don’t go.”

She slipped off her gown, kicked off shoes, wriggled, pulled and unbuttoned, and stood naked, as he saw in a glance, her breasts sagging from the feeding of her sons. Then the light clicked, and a sweet-scented spirit was moulding itself warmly into the shape of his body. He had no feeling of her being a woman, only of warm, child-like kindness. Damn, his mouth was beginning to run with saliva.

“Sasha, do forgive me, but I think I’ll have to go outside for a moment.”

“Poor darling, won’t it pass when you feel warmer? I hope it’s a false alarm.”

“I have a hydrometer which is an infallible warning!”

“Oh, lucky you! Would you like me to hold your head?”

“Oh no, thanks all the same. I’m quite used to this sort of thing.”

Cold, shivering, he crept back to her warmth, lying against her back. Her arms were crossed over her breast, like a Crusader effigy on a tomb. He did not know what to think, until,
remembering
Lily, it seemed to be very simple. She was what she said she was. But if she loved her husband, as she said she did, how could she go to bed with other men? Or had she really fallen in love with him? When Lily had done so, she had given up all others. But then Lily had said she had not loved them, only been sorry for them. Then fear arose—Clewlee.

“I can feel you thinking, darling.”

“I’m a bit puzzled.”

“What about, darling?”

“Do you mind if I’m frank?”

She turned round. “Of course not, darling! Say anything you like!”

“I was wondering if you were a sort of Club. I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s a very natural question, in the circumstances, isn’t it? It’s a compliment in a way to be likened to Flossie, but no, I don’t think I’m exactly what you’d call a sort of club. That doesn’t help much, does it, my pet?”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind my being frank?”

“Of course not, darling. I told you I didn’t.”

“How many men have you loved? It’s awful to continue questioning you like this, I know.”

“How many? Goodness knows. I was always bad at arithmetic.”

He laughed. “I think you’re playing with me.”

“I’m so glad, darling. Play on!”

“Twenty? Thirty? Forty?”

“I honestly don’t know, darling. Such things as numbers don’t count with me.

“But how about having babies? Would your husband mind if you did?”

“Unfortunately I can’t have another baby. Alex had a rather hard time arriving, he took three days, poor darling, and
afterwards
I couldn’t have another,” she said, hugging him.

“And your husband doesn’t mind you—loving others?”

“Oh no, darling. If he were that sort, I’d be no good to him. He’s my second husband—my first was killed on the Aisne, exactly two years, to the day, before Ninian was shot down over Mossy Face Wood, his friends call it. The Germans were very good. They dropped a letter giving the time of the funeral, and didn’t fire or anything when Ninian’s great friend flew over and dropped a wreath. He did have an idea to land on their field, to thank them personally, but thought it might not be understood when he got back, so he hedge-hopped, and got fired at, but it was his fault, for not keeping height.”

“But do you tell your husband, the one you have now, about your affairs?”

“The details, you mean? Of course not. I don’t even
remember
them myself. They are unimportant. He knows the real ‘me’, and did before I married him, and understands. If he had all my love, it would swamp him. I can’t help loving people—I told you, didn’t I, darling?”

“What would he say if he walked in now, and found you with me?”

“Well, if he could walk, he’d say hullo, darling, and feel a bit sorry for you, knowing you’d feel rather odd, and then find himself another bed somewhere.”

He lay still. What a frightful bounder he was, to ask all those questions. So the man with no legs was her husband. At length he said, “Oh, I am so frightfully sorry. Yes, of course I
understand
. Oh, what must you think of me.”

“Darling, please don’t worry. Oh, you are so tired. Now you must go to sleep, darling.” She could feel him lying very still. “I’m not turning you down, darling, you do what you want.” After some minutes, “Don’t worry, darling. If you were the aggressive sort, I would not be able to love you. The rings I have on my door bell at night, from men I’ve never met, who think I’m—what’s your word, darling?—a club.”

“Sasha.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I am so ashamed I asked those questions. I didn’t realise that the man at your table was your husband.”

“Don’t worry, darling. He thought you were very sweet. You see, he was rather badly hurt, as well as losing his legs.” With a touch of her lips on his cheek, she breathed the word
darling,
and turned round, crossed her arms on her breast, and lay still.

He could not sleep. He floated down long corridors of the mind, revisiting scenes of past defeats and disasters. When he thought of Lily, he breathed deeply, and held to the steadiness of her eyes. Francis Thompson had known someone like her, in
Dream
Tryst.

“Darling, why do you sigh so absolutely silently?”

“I didn’t want to wake you. Were you asleep?”

“Yes, I was. But also I was thinking about you.”

“I think you are Mother Eve. And I feel tremendous love for your husband, really.”

“Darling, how sweet of you to say that. I think you
understand
, like God. I
felt
you did, when I saw you at the
thé
dansant,
sitting alone. You have the most gentle mouth, darling. How your mother must love you.”

He lay still, thinking of himself in Mother’s bed when he was little, wiggling his toes to get rid of twistings in his mind, and Mother saying,
Oh
Sonny,
do
keep
still,
dear,
and
let
me
sleep.
It had been torture to lie still, in the white night beyond the
darkness
.

Rising gradually, he dressed with prolonged quietness, then
felt his way slowly to the table, and having part-covered the electric reading lamp with a towel, turned the brass switch. In the glow he wrote on a piece of writing paper taken from the box,
Thank
you,
Sasha.
Then a similar note to Captain Hobart, in an envelope. He laid them on the floor, then removing the towel, crept to look at her. Her face looked quite different in repose, without the eager expression which made her so young, and her lips, parted and loose, seemed fuller, but without colour. It was a face devoid of all feeling, yet not heavy; almost she might be dead, so peacefully did she lie across the pillow. He knelt to kiss her a gentle goodbye, and without moving head or opening eye she put out a hand and touched his face, murmuring, “
Good-bye
darling.” Was she dreaming? For she lay as before, across the pillow, curly head almost hanging over the edge.

*

He walked down Whitehall and along the Embankment to Vauxhall Bridge, and crossing the Thames, continued down the long tramless highway of the Camberwell New Road until, thinking to take a shorter line, turned up Rye Lane and came to a Common, which he had never seen before. It was six o’clock, and too early to make directly for home. He thought to arrive by half-past seven, by which time it would be growing light. He circled the open grassy space, braced by what he thought of as “the hard glitter of the ebon night”, seen jubilantly with the delayed effects of wine. Then by the Pole Star he set off in the direction of Wakenham, and arrived at Hillside Road as the sky was showing a smoky red line low in the east, thinking that now along the Western front, from North Sea to Alps, hundreds of thousands of weary men were standing-to, or perhaps attacking across livid wastes, sharing equal fear with the attacked.