The Beautiful Visit (18 page)

Gradually a shallow light showed in the window; the street lamps lost their power and stood useless and squalid in the pale grey air; and I was able to tell him that the day had really begun, as
though it held some magnificent promise. He slept then, his head on one side, and his short, strong, somehow elegant fingers curved in a little with content.

In the middle of breakfast, my younger brother arrived. He walked straight in, kissed us all in the right order, inquired after my father, and without waiting for a reply, told us that war had
been declared on Germany.

‘At midnight. Exactly at midnight. We are at war,’ he repeated, almost as though he were asking us whether we really were. He was in a state of profound excitement. My mother
received the news as a fresh personal tragedy; my sister was indignant (surely something could be done?). I think she minded the deflection from what was, to her, the main issue. To me it meant
precisely nothing. I remembered the clock striking twelve, and wondered why, if it had been such an important moment, it had not seemed so then.

‘Who will win?’ I asked innocently. My brother shot me an exalted, terrifying glance.

‘We shall, of course,’ he said. ‘Thank God, I’m eighteen. They’ll need all the men they can get.’

‘Oh, Hubert,’ said my mother.

‘We must keep it from Father,’ said my sister, her voice elevating us to more spiritual matters.

Then they started to tell Hubert about father. Hubert walked about the room with folded arms, raising his eyebrows and frowning; asking intelligent questions with a kind of suppressed energy, as
though he were really meant for something else.

I went to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days later my father died. He died at two o’clock in the morning; none of us had been to bed and we all saw him die. His head just slipped sideways, and my sister in
a choked voice said he was dead, although his eyes were open, which seemed very terrible to me. ‘Take Mother,’ she commanded. We led her away, Tom and I, one limp hand for each of us,
and I put her to bed, unresisting and quite silent.

When I went back to my father’s room, my sister would not let me in, but told me to go to bed. My brothers kissed me and asked if I would be all right. In my room I sat a long while
without crying. Eventually I groped in my chest of drawers until I found Rupert’s postcard. I did not read it; just stared until the writing was blurred and my eyes ached. Then I put it
carefully away and slept.

The funeral was a slow practical nightmare. Processions of wreaths with shiny cards; piles of letters; and four and a half inches in
The Times
(which considering the war was rather good,
said my sister complacently). The house, converted from the silent dread of illness, became crowded with people and their expressions of sorrow. As my mother pointed out, unconscious of the irony,
one never knew how many friends he had, until he was no more with us. My sister managed everything with admirable propriety and control. On the afternoon of the funeral, we were all sitting round
the dining-room table waiting for the kettle to boil, when the bell rang. My mother began to rise, but my sister motioned her back and went into the hall. She returned with letters and a large
cardboard box. ‘For you, Mother. I wonder what it is,’ she added in the tone with which one encourages a child. ‘The letters are all for you, too.’

‘Nothing for me?’ Hubert relaxed in his seat impatiently. He behaved all the time as though he were waiting for something. Tom continued to read the newspaper, which was blaring with
headlines.

I watched my mother undo the string, and remembered that it would be the frock, the red frock she had had made from my material. My heart warmed at the prospect. The lid of the box fell open,
and there under the tissue paper lay my present, glowing and beautifully folded. My mother lifted it out by the shoulders and turned to me. ‘There, darling, it’s come at last,’
she said, as though it were mine.

My sister was leaning over her chair. ‘It will have to be dyed,’ she said. ‘What a pity. But it will come in very useful.’

My mother lowered her head, and I saw her hands fall slack on the red.

‘What?’ I cried. ‘It will ruin it. You
can
’
t
!’

‘It will have to be dyed,’ repeated my sister gently, looking at me.

There was a terrible emotional solicitude hovering in the air. Everyone was very still, watching my mother.

‘It is very good material. It won’t be spoiled,’ said my sister.

At last my mother raised her head, her face covered with tears. She saw us all watching; her shame at being seen to cry broke her shadowy dignity, and she sobbed holding the stuff to her
face.

‘He never even saw it. He said I won’t know you. I can’t help it. He didn’t see it once.’ Her fingers raked in among the silk with an awful comfortless energy.

Swiftly my sister leaned forward, put her arms under my mother’s, and lifted her to her feet. ‘You are tired. You need a rest. Come and lie down and I will bring you some tea.’
With gentle force she led my mother from the room.

I sat like a stone, with grinding pain in my heart for her at the very beginning of her grief; with years ahead, and the poor commiseration by which she was now surrounded contracting until it
was just a casual memory, half forgotten and finally vanished. One’s own sorrow, I thought then, how bearable, how understandable; but the misery of another person, a separate being, how
unimaginably terrible, of what unseen quality, unknown duration, inconceivable anguish! Nobody would feel my mother’s suffering even for the years left in her life.

‘She’s wonderful with Mother,’ said Tom, indicating my sister with the newspaper.

Hubert acquiesced moodily and suggested fetching the kettle; at least tea could be made to happen.

‘Hey, what are
you
for?’ said Tom, and I fetched it.

When I returned, they were both discussing the future, or rather their futures.

Hubert shocked us all by announcing that the chief reason for his anxiety was that he had volunteered for the Army, which meant his immediate departure.

‘If they won’t have me, I shall lie about my age.’

Tom seemed deeply concerned and implored him to reconsider his decision. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘there’s Mother.’ It was all exceedingly dangerous and meant putting
a terrible strain on her just at this moment.

‘She’s got you and the girls. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought.’ He frowned deeply, with his eyes sparkling. ‘If Father
were alive, I should have done it, and it’s far too important a business to forgo simply because of Mother.’

‘She may not have me. I may feel I should join up.’

‘Good Lord, no! This war will be over in a few weeks, or months at the outside. They won’t have time to start on schoolmasters. They’ll need them where they are.’

‘You might not like the Army, Hubert,’I cried.

Both brothers smiled kindly.

‘It’s not a question of what I should like,’ replied Hubert gravely. I noticed his eyes still sparkled.

I poured out the tea. My sister came and fetched cups for mother and herself and retired with them filled.

The brothers were deep in speculations on modern warfare. I wondered desperately what was going to happen to me. The thought started quite casually, like the beginning of rain, but it quickly
increased until my mind was full of it, and the need to disperse it amongst the others became too great to overcome.

I remember asking them what I should do. What could I do? I repeated. They both looked at me in astonishment.

‘Do? You mean about the war?’

‘About anything. About me chiefly.’

The best thing you can do is to keep the home fires burning.’ Tom patted my knee. ‘Men do the fighting. All you have to do is to keep yourself fascinating for when we
return.’

I think it was coming from one of my brothers that made it such a watery jest.

‘But I can’t just do nothing.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. Couldn’t I teach or something? If what you said about your being needed is true, surely they will need women for teaching.’

‘But you haven’t been educated for teaching. It’s a serious profession. You didn’t go to a school. You haven’t passed any examinations.’

‘Good thing, too.’ Hubert sighed deeply and stared into the fire.

‘There’s Mother, you know,’ I was reminded. ‘She will need looking after.’

‘
She
does that all the time. There won’t be enough for me to do.’

‘If Mother sells the house and moves into a smaller one, you will have plenty to do with the move.’

‘Tom, you don’t understand. That won’t last. That’s like a – like a Bazaar.’

‘Well, you’ll get married one day. That’s what happens to most women, unless they have some kind of vocation.’

‘
She
won’t,’ said Hubert, and they fell to rapt contemplation of my sister’s chastity.

I looked from one to the other in despair. Did they seriously consider me so different from themselves? Did they think that I could live without any of the support they deemed so necessary and
admirable? That to prepare meals and clothes and beds in which to sleep was for a woman an end in itself. I stared from Tom’s pale moustache to Hubert’s shaven cheek, and hated them.
That was all they need do, trim their moustaches and shave. Their clothes were mended; they did not cook their food or pull back the sheets each morning. They were able to use the means of living
as a means: for me they were assumed to be an end.

‘It isn’t as though you were artistic,’ said Tom kindly.

‘As though she were what?’ Hubert wiped his mouth and put the handkerchief back in his pocket.

‘As though she had anything to do with Art.’

‘Oh. Good Lord!’ he added as an afterthought.

I got up and went to the door.

‘What about the tea?’ called Tom.

‘Clear it yourself.’

I remember feeling inanely proud of that petty little retort. It gave me the courage to lock my door and find the postcard in my top drawer. Some street in Chelsea. I had never heard of it. I
must have a suitcase. I crept out into the passage, up the rickety flight of stairs which led to the box-room. The door was stuck; even the paint had melted in the heat. The door yielded, and I had
the sense to shut it, for fear of any noise I might make selecting my case. It had been a servant’s bedroom, and had white paper striped with watery roses, hanging loose in triangles. The
cistern in the passage made horrible furtive noises. I should not have liked to sleep in that room. It was unbearably hot, and the small window was tightly shut. I struggled with the sash until
there was a pain in my chest The sash opened, and a large bluebottle fell out. I turned to survey the trunks. They were all too big and very dirty. There was the black one I had used for my
beautiful visit. I unstrapped it almost without thinking, and inside, under the tray, was a small worn case. It had a label marked Bruges on it. It would do. I strapped the trunk and tried to shut
die window, but it was jammed. I Hooked right down into the garden with the weedy square bed in the middle, spattered with nasturtiums. Hubert’s bicycle was leaning against the wall. Soon I
should be away. I should never come back. The thought provoked action. I slipped down and into my bedroom, locking the door carefully. I packed my best clothes and a hairbrush and looked round.
There was nothing else that I wanted; I had no precious possession. There was a photograph of my father looking tired and pensive. Perhaps I had better have something like that, although the frame
would make my case heavier.

It was finished. I felt almost light headed with calm. I would leave them all. At that moment the whole thing seemed so simple that I could not understand why I had not thought of it before. One
just packed a case and walked out of the house. My mind stopped at that point, but I felt no need to consider any further. I washed my hands and put on a coat. A door slammed downstairs and I heard
my brothers coming up. They passed my room and I stood motionless until my ears almost hurt with listening. I heard them go into Tom’s bedroom and shut their door.

I seized the case and ran down the stairs, out of the house, down the path, out of the gate, and down the road until I was breathless and had to stop. Then an irrational fear of pursuit spurred
me on again until I was two streets away. After that I walked, aiming for Gloucester Road; changing hands as the suitcase established its weight. The familiar streets fell away and I became more
conscious of adventure. I passed a little girl skipping in a front garden. She did not notice me, but skipped violently, intent on achieving a ‘double through’, with her pigtails flying
up each time she jumped. Her feet on the stones interrupted my plan until I was listening to them as they grew fainter in the distance behind me. I passed the shop where we had bought hoops and
tops as children. It was a stationer’s, but specialized in a few rare and delightful toys. A faint regret made me stop just past the shop and put down the suitcase. I was in sight of
Gloucester Road and a bus lumbered by. Where was I going? I realized that I had neither the postcard nor money. Neither. Not a penny, and I could not remember the address.

Sixteen? six? twenty-four? Any of those numbers seemed probable: indeed, each, when considered separately, invited approval. Four sixes make twenty-four, I murmured frantically aloud. But I had
read the postcard many times. I was almost sure that it was sixteen. Perhaps it was simply that my cousin had lived at number sixteen. It could be six. I shut my eyes and tried to see the squat fat
handwriting on the postcard. I knew it by heart, but not the number. Not the number. And I had no money. I was trembling and desperately hot. I picked up the suitcase and put it down again. One
could not appear at a strange house with no money. I felt foolishly in my pockets. My fingers were merely speckled with stuff like powdered glass. Of course there was no money there. I must think.
I could not go on. I could not go back. A man walking on the other side of the street looked at me curiously. Dizzy with chagrin, I staggered up the side streets to the park.