The Sea Change (10 page)

I went on holding her arm when we were on the sidewalk, with the pangs of being too hard about her on my conscience. Whenever I spent a few hours alone with her I felt something like this: she
was no more entirely composed of affectation than most people; she was simply somehow out of her element, and if one can’t throw a fish back into the water one gets a kind of guilty
irritation when it doesn’t keep still. I made a resolve to try and like her pictures – at least to take an interest in them.

Well – I tried. I told Lillian to go ahead at her own speed, and I would take one or two pictures slowly and see if I could get something out of them. The first was called
Lundi
Matin
, and was of two women sorting laundry in a rather foggy looking room. They wore drab Victorian clothes and had untidy buns and rather blotchy faces. The whole thing had a dusty shut-up
appearance: then I discovered that it was done in those dusty chalks that come off on everything, and supposed the poor man couldn’t afford paints. The next one was very small and macabre
– a row of gentlemen in dress clothes in a theatre box – all laughing. If you got too far away from it, their faces looked like a set of false teeth, but even close to they looked a
nasty lot. Then there was an extraordinary picture of what looked like a huge wooden tiger in an overgrown field. Everything was very carefully, and I thought badly, painted in this one, including
the tiger who had a kind of glassy squint, but at least the colours were a bit brighter. I’d just reached a huge picture of hardly any pears on a red table with a green background, when
Lillian joined me. She looked dreadful – there was no pretence about that: I put my hands under her arms – they slipped trying to grasp her through her fur – and practically
lifted her on to a seat. Her handbag fell off her wrist as she sat down, I seized it and struggled with the clasp. ‘Push, Jimmy,’ she said. I could only see salts in her bag, unscrewed
the stopper and gave them to her while I hunted for a capsule. She made a small choking cough which meant things were better, but meanwhile the gallery owner was standing over us, spinelessly
concerned.

‘Would you get a cab?’

‘Shall I ring for one?’

‘Any way you like.’

Some people who had been looking at pictures were turned now with far more interest, to us, except one – a woman – who was quietly engrossed.

‘I’m afraid they’re engaged.’ He shook the telephone and looked hopelessly about him.

Lillian had leaned her head against the wall: she was still a bad colour, and she was trembling, but I think the pain was dying down. I looked hard at the woman’s profile and said:
‘I wonder whether you’d be so kind as to get hold of a taxi?’

She turned round, saw Lillian, nodded, and went out of the gallery.

‘Shall I try to get hold of a doctor for Mrs Joyce?’

This increased the crowd interest; an expression of distaste crossed Lillian’s face and she murmured: ‘No – home.’

The gallery owner’s secretary appeared with a thick white cup of water which I gave to Lillian. She couldn’t hold the cup, but she drank some. The woman came back.

‘The taxi is outside.’ She had a foreign accent.

I looked at Lillian; she smiled faintly and nodded.

The gallery owner hovered: ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

I thrust the cup of water into his hands. ‘Do you want to walk it?’

She did; but when, with the woman on one side, we got her to her feet, I felt her legs giving way; picked her up and carried her out to the taxi. The woman opened its door. Lillian, with a
tremendous effort, said: ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Where to?’

I gave the Bedford Gardens address, and we were off, but Lillian, looking suddenly very frightened, said: ‘I’m perfectly all right; I just want to go home.’

‘That’s it. We’re on our way now.’

We rattled and swayed along in silence until we came out of the maelstrom of Hyde Park Corner, when, as though she’d been considering it all the time, she said: ‘Isn’t it funny
that all I want is to go home, and you understand that, and we haven’t really got one?’

I said: ‘Yes,’ and she went on:

‘Poor Jimmy, you’ve never had one, and mine is demolished; I don’t know which is worse. It’s a bit underprivileged of us, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry about it: collect your strength.’

She gave a little laugh and said: ‘It takes some looking for.’

I put my arm round her, and she looked pleased. A little later she said: ‘You ought to get married, Jimmy – then you’d have a home – and it’s very kind of me to say
that, because I’d miss you.’

Because I was loving her courage, I said: ‘You are kind, Lillian. You’re one of the kindest people I know.’

By the time we got back to the house she was OK – a bit blue under the eyes, but relaxed, with that kind of quiet elation she has when she gets through one of these things.

Emmanuel wasn’t back, so I put her to bed, and turned on her electric blanket and fire for her. She lay down without a murmur, but I saw her eyeing the open suitcases which were all over
the room, and I said: ‘Sure you want to go tonight?’

She gleamed at me. ‘Why not?’

I bent down and kissed her forehead, and she made a little settling of contentment into her pillow.

‘I’m all right, Jimmy, I promise you – there won’t be any more troubles. Thank you so much.’

It was what she’d said to the foreign woman, but she was saying it quite differently.

‘I’ll be downstairs if you want anything. Wake you at five thirty? Yes?’

‘Yes please.’

As I went out she called: ‘At least we managed to keep off Miss Williams.’

‘That was quite something.’ I shut her door and went down to wait for Emmanuel, hoping he’d get back before I had to wake her up.

He did – looking so pleased with himself that I wondered where he’d been. I told him quickly about Lillian because I had to, and I was accurate about it because I knew that as usual
he would have to make a decision – or try to make one if Lillian would let him. He stood motionless while I told him – Emmanuel’s full attention is of a kind that I’ve never
had from anyone else – and when I’d finished, he held out his hand for a cigarette.

‘She ought not to go, of course.’ He thought for a moment, then added: ‘You remember when I stopped her?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you think I could persuade her to follow us by boat?’

‘No – I think she’s had that one.’

‘Even if we left Alberta to travel with her?’

‘She’s not a trained nurse; she’s just a kid – it’s not fair on her.’

‘Well then, I must do it, and you’ll have to start the Clemency hunt.’ He saw my face and said: ‘Come on, Jimmy: ring up our friend in Cunard, and see what there is
– tomorrow if possible. No – I’ll do it. Is the telephone switched on downstairs?’

‘As far as I know.’ Then I felt ashamed, and said: ‘I’ll get through for you.’ He loathed telephones, and he didn’t want to travel by boat.

While I was working my way through the switchboard to his secretary to the man, I was feverishly assembling my objections to Emmanuel arriving six days late in New York: at least six days
– it might be more. There might not be a sailing, or they’d be booked up – but if there
was
a sailing, I knew he’d get a passage. Emmanuel always got everything he
didn’t particularly want. It wasn’t just the auditions. He had a television appearance on the series of authors introducing their own plays: there were two public dinners being given
for him and the people who were giving them, at least, thought they were important, and there was a first night of the big musical of one of his earliest plays – all this within the next week
– he
had
to be there . . . I was through; he was at my elbow, and I left him to it. It was a quarter past five, and as I went upstairs it occurred to me that I could wake Lillian
early, and get her to insist on flying as arranged – and then what? She might be very ill on the plane – she might even die, and then how would I feel? An interfering lunatic, and not
having a life of my own didn’t give me the right to interfere with other people’s. It wasn’t even fair on the airline: I’d got morose by now about the whole thing. The door
bell rang: it was Alberta back – with her luggage. I helped her in with it, and noticed irritably that she was wearing a completely shapeless camel hair coat, and looked as though she had
been crying. I told her briefly what was going on, and she said: ‘Would you like me to cancel their aeroplane?’

‘It’s probably too late, and Mr Joyce is calling someone anyway.’

‘Mrs Joyce likes very weak tea. Shall I make her some?’

‘Yes, do.’ I tried to sound pleasant, but I wasn’t. I was mad, because I knew what I had to do, and I did
not
want to do it.

Emmanuel came back. ‘All fixed: we’re lucky. The
Mary
: sailing the day after tomorrow. They had one spare, and they’ve had a cancellation of another – double state
rooms. I’d better go and tell Lillian. Will you call Claridge’s – we’re supposed to be out of this house this evening?’

‘Wait a minute.’ I told him he’d got to go that night, and why, and then I said I’d stay and go with Lillian if she really felt she didn’t want to fly. He looked
impatient – almost angry – when I said that, and interrupted: ‘It’s not a question of what Lillian feels. It’s what has to be done.’

‘Well, I’m telling you – I’m prepared to do it!’

He looked at me coldly. ‘The way you are at the moment, I wouldn’t want to go to Hatch End with you – let alone New York. Nor, I should think, would Lillian.’

His loyalty was engaged, he would be immovable, and it was all my fault.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t take kindly to sudden changes. We had a very good lunch together, and I’ll make it a good trip if you’ll let me. Could I
tell her about it?’

He looked sweetly at me then, and I felt good again. Then Alberta came up with the tray.

‘You take it, I’ll be up in a minute. And don’t argue with her.’

I left him giving Alberta instructions about calling Claridge’s and the airport.

Well – that’s how it was in the end. The funny thing was that we
all
drove to the airport: there was an argument about it, and I suppose all you can say is that some natures
are more human than others – in this case Lillian’s; she flatly refused to be left behind. We drove in a huge Daimler – a ponderous, calm journey. Emmanuel reminded Lillian from
time to time of other journeys they had taken, and got the minimum response: Alberta sat staring out of the windows at the Minibricks houses and coy flowering trees, but she didn’t say
anything, and I sat trying to remember what I’d forgotten. I’d given her Emmanuel’s engagement book, and told her that she must get him to everything on time. I told her this in
front of him; she looked nervous and impressed, and she smiled and said wasn’t it extraordinary about time – the only moments when it was important one didn’t notice it. We were
past the last Tudor pub – the last cheery injunction to eat, smoke, or drink alarmingly cheap, quick, nourishing commodities, and into the tunnel on the airport road. I did remember
something, and gave Alberta a ten-dollar bill – she hadn’t a dime – and she put it away in her bag saying in a nervous practical voice that she’d remember how much it was.
Poor kid; she looked terrified – or maybe just excited – but ever since she’d been told that she was flying with Emmanuel she’d been speechless.

The bonus about London Airport is that they’re all as nice to you as people are before you have an operation, and as you aren’t going to have one, it makes you feel good. They met us
with the information that the tourist seats for Alberta and me had been rebooked. The press also met us and took some pictures of Emmanuel and Lillian getting out of the car. We weighed in the
luggage and the press took some pictures of Emmanuel and Lillian waiting while it was being weighed in. The tickets were checked and we all went up the escalator, and the press came too. They
wanted farewell pictures, and as we were drinking, a picture of Lillian drinking to Emmanuel. She was the only one who wasn’t drinking, but she seized a glass of water and smiled at him with
the right kind of gay devotion. They asked who Alberta was, and we looked round for her, but she’d left us and was talking to a man in an overcoat with a mothy fur collar who looked a typical
English heavy. Lillian raised her eyebrows, and Emmanuel said: ‘Her Uncle Vincent. Let her say goodbye to him in peace,’ and then we got rid of everybody and sat down to wait. Lillian
was being alternately gay and querulous: Emmanuel was abstracted, and I was just wishing like hell that we were all going. The thought of going back – of Claridge’s – of the train
to Southampton – the whole measured business filled me with impatience and despair. Years ago, when I began living with them, Emmanuel had said to me: ‘Three is not an easy number for
people, so don’t try to do anything in that context unless you are able.’ I’d said OK and put on my most successful expression of obedient comprehension, and now I was just
beginning to see what he’d meant.

Lillian was saying ‘. . . really – it’s ridiculous. I could perfectly well be flying. I do
wish
that you wouldn’t all make plans behind my back – it’s
much more nerve-racking in the end.’

Emmanuel was stubbing out half-smoked cigarettes and smiling at her, when a boy came up with a Cellophane box of flowers.

‘Mrs Joyce?’

She looked at Emmanuel, and opened the box, and I gave the boy a shilling. It was a spray of bright mauve orchids and they came from Sol Black. Lillian looked at them with exaggerated
horror.

‘My God. They might be all right forty feet up a tree in Brazil, but can you
imagine
pinning them on to your dearest enemy?’

Emmanuel said: ‘He just knows you like flowers.’ He was beginning to look hurt; as though he’d given them to her.

‘But these
aren’t
flowers: they’re some other diabolical form of life masquerading as flowers to lull everyone’s suspicions. I wouldn’t be seen dead with
them.’ She turned to Emmanuel. ‘For goodness sake see to it that I’m
not
seen dead with them.’