The Jury (6 page)

“Well, this Tottenham chap,” remarked Ernie, “seems to have done the job with a hairbrush, by all accounts. Take a bit of doing with a hairbrush, I should say. But I'd like to see you having a try, Mum. Expecting a visitor?” he added, noticing the fourth place set at table.

“Your sister Dolly is paying us a call,” said Mr Bayfield, with humorous grandeur. “If she can get away from her numerous engagements.”

Ernie acknowledged the information with a grunt, and instantly became aware of his mother's eyes fixed penetratingly upon him.

“It's a long time since we saw our Dolly,” she remarked pointedly.

“Yes,” agreed Ernie. “Matter of fact, I've got a date tonight. So unless she looks sharp I shall miss her.”

“Can't you put it off for once?” pleaded Mrs Bayfield.

Ernie shook his head, flushing. “Imposs.”

“The pictures again, may I ask?” said his father, with ponderous humour.

To avoid further inquisition Ernie stuffed a piece of bread and cheese into his mouth and washed it down with tea. He got up, scraping his chair on the ground as he pushed it away from him. “Well, so long, folks!” Aware that his hunger was still unsatisfied, he glanced involuntarily at his father's now empty plate. “Enjoy your kippers, Dad?”

Before Mr Bayfield could have replied, Ernie was out of the room. But Mr Bayfield, having missed the point of the question, had no intention of replying except with a bare acknowledgment of the unexpected courtesy. He glanced at
his watch. It still wanted twenty minutes of nine o'clock. Time for a nap before Dolly arrived: she was sure to be later than she had said. He was secretly excited by the prospect of her visit, but at the moment he felt weary and drowsy. While Mother began clearing the dirty things from the table, Mr Bayfield removed his teeth, placed them in a wooden cigarette-box which he kept on a shelf at his elbow for that purpose (he was a man of method and had a place for everything), and leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh. Sleep, however, was warded off by a small quivering anxiety lest he should be caught by Dolly unawares; and when, some forty minutes later, the front-door bell rang, his eyes opened with a start and his hand groped hurriedly for the wooden box.

So Lucy Prynne, instead of hearing Mr Edward Seagrave's paper on ‘The Religion of Wordsworth', spent the evening sitting with her mother. They sat for the most part in silence; for, like the Bayfields, like the Stroods, these two had long ago exhausted all possible sources of conversation between them; except on matters they could not or would not broach, they knew each other's minds and could hope for nothing fresh. From time to time, however, Mrs Prynne would ask a question or make an observation. “And what did you do today, dear?” she would say. Or, “We had a nice little shower this afternoon. Quite a little shower we had. Did you see anything of it in town, dear?” And Lucy would obediently provide a suitable answer. All this was usual enough, perfectly in accordance with the routine of their life together. But though outwardly much the same, this evening was different from previous evenings because Lucy herself was different. Her answers were given more at random than usual, and she was obliged to make an effort to control her impatience. No outward sign betrayed her; her “Yes, Mother,” and “No, Mother,” fell as gently as ever from her lips; but in her heart she was saying quite other things. I'm
thirty-one, and I shall never escape. Other girls are mothers long before thirty-one: I shall never be a mother. Soon I shall be forty, and Mother will be sixty-nine. And I shall never know about Wordsworth and all the things Mr Seagrave knows about.

“You're very quiet tonight, dear.”

“Am I, Mother?”

“You're not feeling ill, are you?”

“No, of course not.” Habitually truthful, Lucy realized too late that had she pretended to be suffering from a headache she could have put an end to the evening by going to bed. She added half-heartedly: “A little tired, perhaps. Brenda keeps us at it, you know. Not that it's her fault: the work's got to be done.”

“Did you have a proper lunch?” asked Mrs Prynne.

Lucy began to be surprised by the catechism. How thoughtful Mother is, she told herself reproachfully. But in fact this manifestation of solicitude was a little unusual, and she did not wholeheartedly welcome it.

She disposed almost briskly of the question about her lunch and retired again into her private dream. Had she been less deeply immersed in it she might have been surprised at her novel state of mind. For this active, this almost passionate discontent was a new experience; or if not quite without precedent it was something which had not troubled her for a long time now. With the ways and means of livelihood to worry her, she had found it easy not to think overmuch about herself; and a few hours ago she would have asked nothing better than that tomorrow should be as much like today as possible, since to be safe was everything. She would have found it strange, had she paused to reflect, that a letter could have made all this difference, could have so definitely disturbed her peace. And a letter from someone whom she hardly knew.

“Why don't you get your sewing, dear?”

“Oh … I don't know. I don't feel much like sewing tonight.”

“I'm sure,” said Mrs Prynne, cheerfully, “I couldn't sit still with my hands in my lap.”

“Couldn't you, Mother?”

Mrs Prynne looked sharply across at her daughter, as though suspecting irony. But Lucy had answered without malice and even without thought; for she was busy with other things. She was thinking of a school reader which contained two or three poems by Mr Seagrave's Wordsworth. There were
We are Seven,
something called (she fancied)
The Idiot Boy,
and a poem about dancing with the daffodils. Perhaps there were others: she wondered if the book were still in the house, feeling sure that Mr Seagrave would be interested to hear about it. She half-smiled at the thought, but the memory of tonight's disappointment came suddenly back, and a pang of resentful misery seized hold of her.

“I think I shall go to bed, Mother, if you don't mind.” Mrs Prynne glanced at the clock, pursing her lips. Half-past nine.

“Very well, dear. I suppose I must go too.”

“Oh, must you, Mother?” cried the girl remorsefully.

“I'd rather you saw me upstairs, dear. One of these days I shall turn giddy on those stairs, and then I shan't trouble you any more.”

“Oh, Mother! What a dreadful thing to say!” Tears stood in Lucy's eyes, and she was ready to give up the idea of going to bed early. But Mrs Prynne was already raising herself in her chair. Lucy ran to help her. What a brute I am, she thought. And Mother is so brave.

Twenty minutes later, when Mother and her bravery had been at last put to bed, Lucy opened the arms of her spirit to embrace the best hours of the day. Life held for her no greater pleasure than the pleasure of going to bed early with ‘a nice book'. Having kissed her mother good night, she went to her own little room and stood for a moment pondering the problem of the nice book, with tantalizing memories of that school reader still haunting her. She wanted something that would take her mind off herself. All Lucy's reading was done either in bed or in the train, for nowhere else was she free from incessant interruption. And even now, in her musings, she was interrupted. Was that, or wasn't it, a knock at the front door? If so, it was the discreetest knocking that ever fell on mortal ears. With self-effacing politeness it seemed to
be apologizing for the fact that, by its very nature, it could not avoid calling attention to itself. If only there were such a thing as a noiseless noise, it seemed to say, that is the kind of noise I should be. It was like a modest cough, or a hesitating murmured word. But this very gentleness doubled its effect for Lucy. It fell on her heart like a thunderclap, and the wildest fancy flashed across her mind. With an instinct to secrecy she ran quietly downstairs, and, against all precedent, quite unthinking of the dangers to which normally she was so much alive, she quietly, almost conspiratorially, unbolted the door.

“Oh, good evening,” he said. “I'm afraid …”

She did not pretend to be surprised that it was Edward Seagrave. That he should come was utterly unexpected, fantastic, incredible; but the knocking had announced him to her, and she would have been astonished had it proved to be anyone else.

“Oh,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, good evening.”

“I'm afraid, Miss Prynne … forgive this very late call …”

Her shyness seemed to rebuke him, and she knew it. Even with his stoop he was a tall man; and even though his years were perhaps nearer forty than thirty he seemed very young at this moment. His confusion, his respectfulness, his fear of offending, all this was suddenly as real to her as the touch of the night air on her face. And a strange warmth, like a gathering wave, moved in her breast.

“Won't you come in for a minute?” she said, in her cold, polite, rather husky voice.

“Thank you, no. No, I mustn't do that. I just came to inquire …”

He hesitated. And after a silence she said, helping him out: “Yes?”

“Not seeing you at the meeting, I thought perhaps … Of course,” he broke off hastily to add, “I had no right to
expect
you at the meeting. You'll think me very presumptuous …”

In her sympathy with his confusion her own vanished. Suddenly she knew that she was very happy. “But do come in for a minute,” she said. “And you shall tell me about it.”

She opened the door wide, and as an afterthought switched on the light in the little hall. He stepped timidly across the
threshold, and took up his stand just inside the door, which she quietly shut.

“I won't keep you,” he stammered. “I mustn't stay. I only wanted to say …”

She faced him meekly and gravely, forbearing to invite him into the sitting-room, knowing that in his eyes the situation would compromise her and fill him with self-reproach. She was wise and old and serenely careless of the conventions. She was everything that she was not.

“… to say, to inquire,” he went on, “if you were quite well. You'll think it strange of me, but I felt I couldn't go to bed without seeing you.”

Though the implications of this added nothing to what he had already told her without words, she found herself blushing a little, and was constrained to counter with a question: “Did you have a good meeting?”

“Very nice indeed,” he said. “Everybody was most kind.”

“I wish I could have been there. I should have been
so
interested.” She wondered whether she should tell him about the school reader. But it seemed hardly the time and place for that. “I was terribly disappointed I couldn't come.”

He looked at her eagerly, courage returning. “Were you really?”

“And it was
so
kind of you to write.”

“Oh, no,” he said, with manifest surprise. “Not kind at all.”

“Did you read your paper?” she asked. “Or just, I mean, speak it?”

“Oh, I had a manuscript.” He touched the breast pocket of his coat. “I couldn't have managed without that.”

“I suppose …” began Lucy. She broke off and tried again. “It's a lot to ask, but I wondered if I might, well, borrow it to read.”

The effect of this simple request astonished Lucy. For a moment Mr Seagrave seemed struck dumb, and a vast childish joy began dancing in his face.

“Really?” he stammered. “That's wonderful of you.” He snatched the manuscript from his pocket and thrust it into her hand, too eager for ceremony. She thanked him, and there seemed no more to be said.

“Well, good night,” he said, holding out his hand. “So kind of you.”

“Thank you for coming,” murmured Lucy politely. Fearing lest that sounded too formal she added quickly, with a laugh: “I shan't need to write to you now, shall I?”

In retrospect it sounded an ungracious speech, but Mr Seagrave did not interpret it so. “To write to me?” He stared in sheer beatific wonder. “Were you going to write to me?”

“To answer your letter, you know,” she explained.

His face fell a little. “Ah, yes. I'd forgotten.”

Seeing his crestfallen look she said: “But of course I shall have to write to you about this paper. I won't keep it too long.”

Standing on the doorstep he stared at his boots, seeming unable to go. She waited, nervous now, and wishing him gone. The excitement of this strange interview was already inducing a reaction. If he stayed much longer he would spoil everything. If he said anything more he would brush the bloom off an unspoken enchantment that the warm hour held. Go, go, her heart said to him, and leave me to find my bearings in this brave new world.

At last he looked up, and said: “I simply had to see you.”

“Had you?”

There was another silence

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

She shut the door on him almost too quickly and, locked fast in her dream, moved towards the foot of the stairs.

“Lucy!”

“Oh!” cried Lucy. Her heart leaped into her throat. “How you frightened me, Mother!”

Mrs Prynne stood at the stairhead, a lean, watchful figure wrapped in a dressing-gown.

“Who ever was it, Lucy? And at this time of night?”

Mother. This was the real world. The other had been only a dream. As she raised her eyes to meet that inquisitory gaze, a thought, gone as soon as come, flashed into and out of her mind: If Mother were to lose her balance …

THERE was something about the little Essex town that made it irresistible to Charles and Betty Underhay. So, having inquired of a friendly policeman, they parked the two-seater in the space between church and market square that seemed to have been set apart by Providence for that purpose, and got out to explore.