Two Solitudes (60 page)

“Did Paul give any reason for his refusal?”

“How can you expect me to remember everything Huntly said over the telephone? As if I didn't know anyway! That kind of a person–I've always said those French-Canadians were all the same. Oh, Heather…” Her voice trembled. “As if I didn't know! You're well out of it. Very well out of it indeed!”

Heather's hands were clenched tightly on her purse, but her voice was quietly controlled. “What reason did Paul give for refusing the job, Mummy?”

“What difference does it make? The point is, he's shown himself in his true colours. He's ungrateful, and he…Your grandfather always used to say that blood and breeding will tell every time. Let's both be thankful you found him out in time.”

Heather's face was expressionless. “What else did Huntly say?”

Janet shook her head from side to side. “Heather dear–can't you see this is all for your own good? It would have been
such an awful mistake for you to have made–a mixed marriage like that. I'm quite sure he's quite a decent boy–among his own kind. You're…” Janet's hands were drumming on the spread. “You must know this, Heather. I've devoted my whole life to your happiness. You'll make a really brilliant marriage one of these days. I'm sure of it!”

Heather rose to her feet, her eyes cool and sceptical. “You needn't go on, Mother. I happen to know Paul better than any of you. Unless you can tell me what reason he gave Huntly you haven't told me a thing that matters.”

Janet shook her head and twisted away with an expression of acute distaste. “Oh, he said something or other about writing a book. Of all the absurd excuses! Then he actually had the impertinence to tell Huntly we'd be at war before he could even get out to British Columbia. As if a French-Canadian would join the army anyway! And can you imagine the impertinence–a boy like that trying to tell Huntly McQueen about a thing like the war! Huntly's been confident all along there'll be no war. He did very well to wash his hands of the young man…and after all the trouble he had years ago with his father, too!” She sat up in bed and put her hands to her hair. “Heather dear–I think perhaps I'll get up for a little while. Would you mind handing me my slippers?”

Heather appeared not to have heard her mother's last words. She stood very quietly in the middle of the room. “So his work is going well at last! How wonderful!”

Janet stared at her.

Heather began to laugh quietly. “I'm so glad you've told me all this, Mummy. It makes everything clearer than you know. I'm going home on tonight's train.”

“You're what?”

“If he refused Huntly, his work must be better than he dreamed it could be. He has so little time left. Maybe I can help by looking after him, or copying his stuff, or–”

“Pull yourself together!” Janet said.

Heather looked at her calmly. Janet stared back.

“I forbid you to go.”

Heather held her mother's eyes for a long minute. Then, breathing deeply, she said in a low voice, “I'm Paul's wife, Mummy.”

Through the window the slow surge of incoming waves made the only sound.

“I didn't want to tell you like this, but you've made me. Paul and I were married before I left Halifax–two days after Grampa's funeral.”

A low cry, half moan, issued from Janet's lips. Her eyes shut tight, and choking sobs began to pulse out of her throat. Tears flowed down her cheeks, staining the white powder. Her right hand clutched spasmodically at her left breast as if trying to reach through to her heart; then, like an independent claw, it jerked to her forehead, flattened out, passed back and forth through her hair. She made one single violent movement from side to side, then straightened out rigidly and lay utterly still. Her face was as white as flour, with long canals worn by tears through the powder that covered it.

Heather watched in horror. She bent over Janet, murmuring soothing phrases as she tried to push the hair back from the flushed forehead. She laid her head against her mother's lips trying to catch her breath, but detected nothing. She picked up one of her mother's wrists, tried to find the pulse but in her fright missed it entirely. When she dropped the arm it fell like a weighted pendulum, swung over the edge of the bed and hung dangling.

Afterwards, Heather had no recollection of reaching for the telephone and calling the doctor. An hour later she was sitting alone in her own room, still numb with fright. She had seen her mother upset before, but never like this. Dozens of times she had seen her mother break down and cry hysterically, but the fits had never lasted long. Janet's pride and willpower had always returned quickly.

There was a knock on the door and the doctor entered. He was a white-haired old man with rather shaky hands, little eyes bright behind thick glasses and a furry voice. Heather knew little of doctors, for the Methuens had all been healthy. She did not realize that her mother was the first patient this guest of the hotel had seen in five months.

He shook his head. “I'm afraid your mother's a very sick woman, Miss Methuen.”

“What's the trouble? What is it?” Heather's eyes fixed themselves on the old face.

“Well…” The doctor cleared his throat. “Well…there's a certain condition of the heart. Nothing to worry about, perhaps…one of those things we all have to reckon with as we get older. One of those things. And at her age…” He patted her hand and she drew away. “Your mother must have absolute rest and quiet for a week or two. Then we can have tests made. But she mustn't be disturbed in any way whatever.”

“It–it isn't a stroke, is it?”

“Well,” the doctor said, “there are strokes and strokes. On the whole, I wouldn't say so. Not yet. But at the moment rest is the main thing. I've given her a sedative now, and I'll be calling regularly to watch her.”

“I see.” Heather hesitated. She looked at the man sharply but got nothing from his eyes. “I'd planned to return to Montreal tonight. It's rather important that I be there tomorrow.”

The doctor shook his head as he conveyed a strong suggestion of moral disapproval. “By no means! By no means whatever! I must absolutely forbid it.”

“Is it really that serious?” Heather scanned the grey face desperately. “Are you sure there's anything I can do here?”

“She asked constantly about you, Miss Methuen. You must realize–a shock at a time like this might be extremely serious. Your mother's health to a large extent rests in your hands.”

“I see,” Heather said. Her voice was flat and lifeless. “I'll do whatever you think best.”

The doctor nodded and went downstairs to join a bridge game. After a while, Heather walked out onto the beach alone.

 

FIFTY-ONE

Just after midnight, in the early morning of September first, Paul was sitting at his desk when his neighbour's radio announced through the wall that German troops had crossed the Polish frontier. Beside his desk was a pile of manuscript two hundred pages high, almost half his book. At his feet the wastebasket was full. He sat very still for several minutes listening. The radio had fallen quiet, there were no noises in the lodging house, he could hear no street sounds through his open window. He picked up the manuscript, tapped its edges even, and put it carefully away in his drawer. Then he put the typewriter in its case, locked it and dropped the key in his pocket. Everything was silent.

 

FIFTY-TWO

Thirty-two hours later Paul was with Heather on the beach of Kennebunkport, Maine. They sat side by side on the sand while the sun glittered off the sea. They watched long waves roll slowly in and break, sluice back and roll up again, each one making a hissing sweep across the hard sand.

“Now tell me about your book, Paul.”

He shook his head, still staring seaward. “There's nothing to tell about it. It's half finished. I may be able to complete it in spite of everything.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not. I don't know.”

The waves continued to ride up the beach in endless monotone.

“Mummy's determined to hear Chamberlain when he speaks this morning,” she said at last. “They're all sitting around the radio now, listening to anything that comes over. They say even the King is going to speak.”

Paul rose slowly, still staring out over the water; then he dropped his hand and helped her to her feet. “Exactly what is the matter with your mother?”

She let her eyes rest on him as he continued to stare out to sea. His face looked tired and set, older than it had a few months ago. His eyes were narrowed against the glare, his hands hung at his sides.

“The doctor won't say anything definite.” Her voice was lifeless. Numbness in her nerve-ends, the skin of her face taut and dry, before her the sea, behind her the continent drugged with sun, in Europe the first bombers taking off…. “Oh Paul–I feel so helpless. Smaller than I know I am. And ashamed.”

“Never mind,” he said. He continued to stare out over the water. Then his voice, calm, factual, “Are you sorry you married me?”

She slipped her hand through his arm, her cheek brushed his sleeve, pressed against its harsh tweed. “Don't!” she whispered. Then, more calmly, “When I saw her lying there I couldn't leave her, Paul. I'd told myself my life was my own. That I was free. I'd sworn to myself I'd never let her hurt you. Then–” She stopped; added simply, “I was afraid she was dying.”

For a moment he did not answer. “Has she done this often before?” he said at last.

“She's never been strong. Poor Mummy–she's had such a wretched life. Paul–why don't you curse me for being such a helpless little fool?”

“Has she honestly had a wretched life?”

Heather took his hand again. It closed strongly over her fingers. Her voice said, “She's always tried to be something she never was.”

“Like many others.” Suddenly he faced her. “I want to speak to the doctor. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. He's usually playing bridge at this hour of the morning. Today I suppose he's listening to the radio with everyone else.”

He began walking. “Come on,” he said. “Let's find him.”

The moment they entered the lounge they heard the radio. A commentator was talking about the evacuation of children from London. Heather still held Paul's hand. “He's that old man over there. I'll get him.”

Paul stood aloof by the door as she crossed the lounge to speak to the doctor. The gayness of her light gingham dress only heightened the grimness of the mood in the lounge. The
men and women sat listening with church faces to the radio, and when they spoke they used whispers. The few Americans present seemed ill at ease. Perhaps they felt what was happening in London as sharply as the Canadians did, they certainly hated Hitler as much, but it was not their war yet. Heather returned with the doctor. He came slowly forward with head bowed, bobbing slightly as he walked. His left hand clasped the lapel of his jacket and Paul saw a brown age-stain behind the knuckles, a tiny tuft of hair protruding from it. Heather introduced them.

“Would you mind if we talked on the veranda?” Paul said.

The doctor looked at him suspiciously, dropped his eyes. “If you wish.”

They walked to the far end of the veranda where they could not hear the radio. The salt air blew up to them with noise from the sea. Heather stood slightly apart and looked at the two men: Paul intense, his face pale and tired but his eyes very bright, balanced easily on the balls of his feet like an athlete on guard. In front of him the doctor stood with a grey face, clipped white moustache and silver hair; as neat as a bird. Yet his eyes looked somehow lost and baffled. Heather thought: how many wars has he seen begin? What was the colour of his hair when the first airplane flew?

Paul was speaking. “I want you to tell me frankly just what is the matter with Mrs. Methuen.”

The doctor's Adam's apple rose and fell. “She's a pretty sick woman. She's been in bed a fortnight now. I've been seeing her every day.” An attempt at a smile. “Miss Methuen's been very good to her.”

Paul kept his eyes on the old face. “I understand she wants to get up to listen to the radio. Are you permitting her to come downstairs?”

It seemed to Heather that the doctor had become too old even to be tired. She sensed the suggestion of hostility; but vague, edgeless, like an object stirring behind fog. Old eyes on Paul's strained face, old face vaguely on guard against it knew not what.

“Miss Methuen–” The doctor cleared his throat. “I intended to tell your mother she could come down whenever she wished. I forgot. Will you go and tell her?”

Heather looked from one to the other, then turned and disappeared.

The doctor shifted away from Paul's steady gaze and began walking slowly back along the veranda, his eyes apparently counting the cracks in the boards. “I'll tell you how it is, Mr. Tallard. These women like Mrs. Methuen–they excite very easily. There's nothing anyone can do about it when they start. Now take yesterday–when she heard the war'd started, she felt a lot better.”

The doctor reached the door and stepped inside.

“Are you telling me there's nothing the matter with her?” Paul said behind him.

The doctor turned slowly, his face weary and aloof, his remote eyes apparently looking over Paul's shoulder to the glittering sea, a bird-like dignity enfolding him. “That's right,” he said, “not a thing.” Without looking back he walked slowly into the lounge.

The radio was still describing the evacuation of the children, already disinfecting the reality of the war by concentrating on ordinary action and human interest in trivial details. Paul walked across to the desk and asked the number of Mrs. Methuen's room. Then he went upstairs to find it. When he knocked on her door it was Heather who opened
it. He saw them there: mother and daughter. Janet's eyes black in a pale face, fierce, restless, old.