The Stars Look Down (66 page)

“Is that true?”

Staring back at him glassily, sobered by the shock, she saw that she had gone too far; she had never meant to let out the truth to David. Terrified, she began to cry. She collapsed. Sagging against him she wept herself into hysteria.

“Oh dear, oh dear! I’m sorry, David. I’m bad, I’m bad. I’m bad. I want no more to do with men, never, never, never, never. I want to be good. I want to be good. I’m not well, that’s the trouble, I’m not really well, I’ve got to take a little glass to keep my strength up.” She howled and howled.

With that set cold face he dragged her to the sofa, supporting her sagging head with the palm of his hand. She began to drum her heels in the frenzy of her hysteria. She went on:

“Give me another chance, David, oh, for God’s sake give me another chance. I’m not bad, really I’m not; he just came round me like and it’s all finished and done with years ago; you could see that to-night, you’d have thought I was dirt beneath his feet. And you’re the best man living, David, the best man breathing. And I’m sick, David, oh, I’m awfully ill. I haven’t had a holiday for ages, I’m not really well.
Oh! if only you’ll give me another chance, David. David, David…”

He stared darkly away from her, letting her race on, letting her work off all the agony of her remorse. A heavy pain pressed upon his breast; it was a frightful blow she had given him. He had loved the memory of little Robert, treasured it in his heart. And she had besmirched even that!

At last she stopped whining, the nervous beating of her heels was still. There was silence. He took a long breath. Then in a still voice he said:

“Let’s not talk about it any more, Jenny. It’s perfectly true, what you say. You’re not well. I think it might do you good if you went away for a little. How would you like to go down to Dan Teasdale’s farm in Sussex? I could easily arrange it. I’m in touch with Dan.”

“To the farm?” Jenny gasped, then lifted agonised, enraptured eyes. “Down in Sussex.”

“Yes!”

“Oh, David.” Jenny began to weep again; the sudden prospect was so wonderful, and David’s kindness so wonderful, and everything so wonderful. “You’re so good to me, David, just hold me in your arms and say you still love me.”

“Will you promise me not to touch drink down there?”

“I do, David, I do, I do.” Sobbing, she swore it in a passion of goodness and devotion.

“All right, I’ll arrange it, Jenny.”

“Oh, David,” sobbing and choking and clutching at him, “you’re the best man that ever breathed.”

One morning early in June, the following month, David saw Jenny off at the Central Station, Tynecastle. It had been a simple matter to arrange with Grace Teasdale for Jenny to go to Winrush—Grace was delighted. The weekly sum which David could pay was small enough, but from Grace’s frank and unassuming letter, David had the feeling that it would be welcome.

Jenny was thrilled, the excitement of the holiday had risen to her head and flushed her cheeks and made her eyes bright. She was warm and tender and penitent. She saw herself feeding the chickens, caressing the sweet little lambs and returning to David at the end of the three weeks purified and sanctified and prettier than ever. Oh, it was
nice
!

She stood with David by the open door of her compartment, her corner seat facing the engine reserved by a little pile of papers and a magazine. She thought it good of David to have bought her the magazine—not that she approved much of his choice but it was the correct thing for a lady to set out on a journey with a magazine. And Jenny was never happier than when doing
the correct thing
. She chatted away to David, darting tenderly pathetic glances at him from time to time, indicating her contrition and a sincere desire for amendment. He was very silent. She often wondered what he thought about… well… what she had so foolishly “let out.” Sometimes she felt vaguely that he had forgotten about the whole thing, or that he disbelieved it entirely, for he had never once referred to it. At any rate, she was sure he had forgiven her, and that flattered her vanity. She had no conception of the frightful blow which her disclosure had been to David. He had believed her entirely faithful to him. He had cherished the memory of little Robert with a great tenderness. And in one drunken sentence she had smashed it all. He suffered abominably, but because he did not accuse her, cross-examine her, wrest every sordid detail from her and then beat her within an inch of her life, Jenny felt that he did not suffer. She did not really know David. She could not appreciate the strength and fineness of character which kept him silent. And in her secret heart she was puzzled, pleased, perhaps a little scornful.

She looked at the big clock at the end of the station.

“Well!” she said, “it’s nearly time!” She got into the compartment and he shut the door. The whistle blew. She gave him a big hug. Her last words were:

“You’ll miss me, David, won’t you?”

Then she settled herself with a pleased sigh. It was a long journey but it passed quickly between her magazine and the sandwiches and an interesting examination of her fellow passengers. Jenny took great pride in her ability to
place
people: at one shrewd glance she could tell what they had on, what the hat cost, whether that diamond was real or false, whether or not “they were real class.”

At two o’clock Jenny changed trains, at three she went along the corridor and had a cup of tea and a refined conversation with a nice fair young man at the same table. Really at the next table, he was, but he came over and sat down. Funny he should be a commercial traveller!—with a little inward giggle she remembered the bald-headed commercial she had created for David’s benefit on the honeymoon at Cullercoats. Dear David! She was really quite distant to the nice fair young man, only politely interested when he told her he travelled for surgical appliances—oh, she was extremely as she should be, shaking hands ever so ladylike when he said good-bye.

At half-past four she reached Barnham Junction and Dan met her at the station. Dan looked big and healthy and happy—he wore an old army shirt open at the neck, leggings and corduroy breeches. Dan had a little Ford runabout shaped like a lorry at the back, and swinging her suit-case up as if it had been a feather, he drove down to Winrush and the farm.

The farm delighted Jenny and Grace’s welcome delighted her even more than the farm. Grace had a splendid tea ready with new-laid eggs and a sponge cake and lots of little shortcakes which were lovely and which Grace said were Sussex griddle cakes. They all sat in together, Jenny, Grace, Dan, little Caroline Ann and Thomas the new baby—who answered to the name of Dickery Dock—perched in his high chair to the right of Grace. There they sat, in the big stone-flagged kitchen, and Jenny went into raptures over the griddle cakes and the new-laid eggs and Dickery Dock. Jenny went into raptures about everything. Everything was so nice, Jenny said.

After tea Grace took Jenny round the farm, explaining to Jenny that it was a very small place, only forty acres, which they had rented from old Mr. Purcell. Grace made no concealment of what shrewd little Jenny had already clearly seen. Grace said with perfect simplicity that Dan and she were extremely hard up. Chicken-farming, which was what Dan chiefly went in for, was hard work and small profit. But they would have a number of paying guests in the summer and paying guests, Grace smiled, did pay. Grace smiled often: she was extremely happy with Dan, Caroline Ann and Dickory Dock; she had to work like a nigger but she was happy. She had got Dan out of the Neptune, far, far away from the wretched pit, and that was what counted. As
for money, Grace added, money doesn’t matter a dump!

Touched by Grace’s confidences Jenny warmly agreed. Why, she simpered, with a little thrill at being able to cap Grace’s argument, why, that’s exactly what
my
David says about money.

Tired out by her journey, Jenny went to bed early that night. She slept like a top and wakened to bright sunshine and green trees waving in the breeze and the sound of a mooing cow. Oh, it’s nice, thought Jenny, lying luxuriously. A knock came to the door.

“Come in,” Jenny sang out, feeling wonderful.

A rolypoly of a girl—Grace’s one maid, a daily from the village—entered, bringing Jenny her tea. The girl’s name was Peg. Her cheeks were as red cherries and her short trotters massive as piano legs. Jenny knew she would get a lot of fun out of Peg’s legs—Peg’s legs were a scream!

After she had sipped her tea Jenny got up, slipped on her dressing-gown and her green mules with the pretty marabout trimming. Fluffy, like her dressing-gown, and
nice
. She pattered to the bathroom. It was an old house with big bare polished boards and no paper on the walls but Grace had been busy with her paint-brush. The vivid painted walls were extremely effective against the old dark wood. The bathroom was pleasant, too, very plain and enamelled. Jenny took her bath. At home, Jenny never bathed in the morning but when one was staying with people, of course… well… naturally.

After breakfast Jenny wandered round the farm by herself, discovering fresh enchantments at every turn. The cute little chickens, the lovely smell of the bam, dear Grace’s rock garden full of sweet saxifrage, the darlingest school of piglets which fled before her, flicking their tails and leaping, leaping like a pack of miniature hounds. Oh, isn’t the country too wonderful, Jenny breathed in an ecstasy of romance.

At eleven Grace asked Jenny if she wanted a swim. Grace said that in the summer Dan and she and “the family” went for a dip every day, no matter how completely or infernally busy they might be. Smiling, she said that Dan and she had solemnly taken an oath to this effect. Jenny couldn’t swim but she went gaily with them to the beach—a short strip of sandy beach bordering their land.

Jenny stood watching on the beach while Grace and Dan and “the family” went in. Dan carried Caroline Ann and
Grace carried six-months-old Dickery Dock. There was enormous fun in the shallow water; then while the two infants lay sprawling on the warm soft sand Grace and Dan swam out. They swam far out, quite a wonderful swim, and when they came back they looked exactly like the picture on the front cover of Jenny’s magazine. A queer catch took Jenny by the throat. Grace’s strong slender figure was tanned and upright and careless. She was playing a game with Dan now, tossing Dickery Dock between them like a ball, and didn’t Dickery Dock like it! Caroline Ann ran about in the buff, shrieking with delight, imploring her mummy and daddy to let Dickery Dock fall. But mummy and daddy wouldn’t and finally Dan pulled Caroline Ann’s legs away from her, and there was a glorious mix up on the sand.

Then Dan’s half-hour was up and he dashed back to drive the Ford into Fittlehampton. Jenny returned with Grace thoughtfully. What did money matter to these happy people? They had wonderful health, fresh air to breathe, the sea to bathe in and the sun to shine on them.

Jenny sat down straight away after lunch and wrote a four-page tear-stained letter to David, exalting the beauties of the simple life and the pleasures of the country. She walked all the way to Barnham Junction to post it and felt rarefied and pure. She knew that she was
finding
herself. She could be like Grace, too, if she wanted—why, indeed, not? She smiled. Tenderly she tried to pat a tiny lamb which poked its nose at her through the hedge of the lane, but the lamb ran away and stood in the middle of the field doing duties at an adjacent haystack. Never mind, never mind, it was all too wonderful for words.

Next day came bright and sunny and the next and the next, and it was still wonderful. Perhaps… well, on reflection… perhaps not so completely wonderful. Jenny understood that one got used to things in time and that was why, though still fond of the farm, she was not quite so fond of the farm as she had been. Funny! Jenny smiled to herself as, on the following Saturday, she sat on the beach enjoying a cigarette by herself. It was not that Dan and Grace were not still nice to her. Dan and Grace were perfect. But it was just the tiniest bit dull down here, she had to confess; not a single soul on this beach, let alone a band and a promenade, and as for feeding the chickens she was frankly sick of feeding the chickens! And these pigs—she hated the very sight of the dirty little brutes.

She got up from the beach and, feeling that she must do something, she decided to walk to Barnham. At Barnham she bought another packet of cigarettes and a morning paper, then she called in at the Merrythought and had a glass of port. What a hole! Did they really have the nerve to call it a hotel? And she was looking her best, too, she saw from a mirror advertising Bass on the opposite wall. Looking her best and no one to see her but the gnarled old woman in the Merrythought who glanced at her suspiciously and almost refused to serve her. The old woman had been feeding her hens. O Lord, thought Jenny, amn’t I ever to get away from these blessed hens?

She walked back in quite a paddy and went straight up to her room and began to read the paper. It was a London paper. Jenny adored London, she had been to London four times in her life and had loved it every time. She read all the London society news, then she read the advertisements. The advertisements were really interesting, really they were, especially those referring to experienced saleswomen wanted. Jenny went to bed thoughtfully that night.

Next day it was raining.

“O Lord,” said Jenny, staring blankly at the rain. “A wet Sunday!” She refused to go to church, mooned about the place and was snappy to Caroline Ann. In the afternoon Grace lay down and Dan went into the bam to trim some hay. Five minutes later Jenny wandered into the barn.

“Hello, you!” she called up brightly to Dan, flashing a sprightly glance at him, her feet planted coquettishly apart.

Dan looked down at her, very simple and unsmiling.

“Hello,” he said without enthusiasm, and turning his back he re-engaged himself vigorously with the hay.

Jenny’s face fell. She stood for a minute saving her pride. She might have known that Dan had no eyes for anyone but Grace, he was nothing but a turnip. Then she wandered out into the rain. Turnip, she muttered, blessed turnip.