When I Was Otherwise (31 page)

“Was it really?” said Dan, looking at Erica in a noticeably troubled way. “Poor old Henry.”

She allowed them to think a little about that.

Then she asked a question.

“If you rarely go to the pictures—and I can't imagine you often go out dining or dancing or drinking—what do you do with yourselves in the evenings?”

“Oh, nothing very much,” he answered.

“No, I didn't suppose you did. Somehow.”

“Read… Do a jigsaw… Listen to the wireless… They put on some interesting plays.”

“I'm reading
The Sound and the Fury
by William Faulkner.”

“Is it good?”

“No.”

Conversation was desultory.

“Marsha's a very lively girl, isn't she? I'm a great admirer of Marsha's. You couldn't wish for anybody prettier.”

“Yes, Marsha's a grand girl.”

“Not one of the most heavily endowed up here,” and Daisy tapped her forehead, “but then tell me—these days, who is? Nobody I know; anybody that you do? Oh, at the club maybe, but that's altogether different. And at least Marsha doesn't
pretend
. That's the refreshing thing about her: always honest enough to be herself and call a spade a spade, not a…what's the French for spade? Still. Sometimes I do rather wonder if she'll manage to hold onto Andrew. Though better not tell her I said so!”

“But why, Daisy? Why on
earth
? I'm sure they're very happy.”

“Are you? Well, they certainly started on a baby soon enough, if that's any indication. They'll probably breed like rabbits supposing they do stay together. When are you two going to set your minds to it?” She enquired about this mainly from Erica, having forgotten she had earlier asked Dan.

Erica didn't answer.

“But whatever made you say that?” persisted Dan, quickly. “About Andrew and Marsha?”

“Simply that he strikes me as having something more between the eyes than she has; and I've often thought it must be hard for a man with any sort of potential to be chained to a thoroughly boring woman. And I only wish Marsha would sometimes display a bit more character! Because a pretty face isn't everything, you know—I'm willing to bet it's not. Although I daresay it may sometimes help,” she added after a pause; looking at Erica.

Erica stood up.

“Can this be a record? You have insulted me; you have insulted your mother-in-law; you have insulted your sister-in-law. I don't know whether you've insulted Dan yet; but what is worse—far worse—you have actually managed to belittle him in front of me. I would have thought that was impossible. But you, Daisy—
you
have done it! Should congratulations now be given? Oh, yes. I feel quite sure they should.”

With which, she left the room.

There was a silence.

“That woman,” said Daisy, “is paranoid. You ought to have her treated.” She looked at Dan; then raised her eyes expressively towards the ceiling. “Well,
I
thought we were enjoying a pleasant little hour of conversation. Didn't you?”

“Just something about a cake,” repeated Daisy. “I can't remember any more than that.”

“No,” said Dan, “I can't either. Except I'm sure it would have been a chocolate cake: the kind you used to get before the war—there was a little shop off Rosslyn Hill.”

He gave a sigh.

“Penny for them?” offered Daisy.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, really. I was only thinking.”

“Yes?” She nodded, encouragingly.

Dan smiled. His eyes grew moist.

“Only thinking that those were the days,” he told her. “Those were the good old days.”

41

When she was dusting the shelves one morning, taking the books down and giving them a bang—a job she normally tackled like an automaton, while thinking about something else—Marsha came across a copy of a classic she had lent to Erica years before and then forgotten. She gazed a moment at the soft maroon composition-leather cover; she opened it and looked at the flyleaf. Four-and-sixpence written in pencil, in figures just decipherable. In the bottom lefthand corner, a tiny printed sticker: ‘The Delphian Arts, 6 Wilton Court, Marina, Bexhill-on-Sea'. She nearly cried.

She stood there and put the book to her nostrils and smelt the binding.

She had known how it would smell.

Twenty-five years ago. A full quarter of a century. 1956. August. The sun slanting into the small bookshop; the owner—a nice man with grey hair and kind eyes—talking about the excellent tea you got at Susan Throssil's; herself deliberating between a Pearl Buck, a Philip Gibbs and a Frances Parkinson Keyes.

“Here! Read something decent for a change!”

Malcolm had held up
Wuthering Heights
.

“I saw the film,” said Marsha. “It was very sweet.”

“Well, read the book,” said Malcolm. “You'll like it even better.”

“Oh, no. Jane Brontë. Isn't she a bit on the heavy side?”

“
Emily
Brontë. And there could never have been anyone less so. This book is as romantic as even you could wish for.”

“Well, darling, I'm not honestly quite sure.” She looked for a moment at the opening page. “Perhaps another time.”

“No nonsense. I'm buying it for you.”

It had been a perfect holiday. She remembered her first sight of the sea, from the train, near Eastbourne; she had felt like a child again. Sitting on one of the seats along the front they had shared a box of Bassett's liquorice allsorts.

She didn't like
Wuthering Heights
. Indeed she had read only the first two or three chapters—mercifully they were short—and then Malcolm relented. “All right, go back to your Elinor Glyn,” he said. “You're hopeless.” In fact, she went back to her Georgette Heyer.

She remembered another dose of culture—surprisingly less painful. The film of
Hamlet
had been revived at the Playhouse. She wouldn't say that she enjoyed it but—well, no, she wasn't bored. She rather sympathized with Gertrude; Gertrude, who had so much loved her son. Hamlet himself reminded her a little of Malcolm. Except that Hamlet had been older.

For there was no disguising the fact that Malcolm as well could sometimes be a mite difficult. Moody. Of course, he'd inherited this from his father. But several nights after supper he had gone off for lengthy walks on his own, along the beach towards Hastings. Marsha wondered if he'd found himself a girlfriend although he kept on denying it. She wouldn't have minded, she told him; she'd just have liked to be let in on the secret and to hear some of the details. While he was away she usually sat and talked with Mrs Anderson in her kitchen. She and Malcolm were quite her favourite visitors, the landlady had said, and, as always, Marsha never cared much for her own company. Sometimes, when they could get away, the Andersons sat on the beach with them. Mr Anderson had very white legs above his stocking tops and wore suspenders to hold those stockings up. His brown leather brogues gleamed in the hot sunshine. He was in his fifties. He intimated, very nicely, that he fancied Marsha. On their last day in Bexhill she let him go to bed with her. Rather unexpectedly he made a good lover; she wished she had discovered earlier. But it was not—she realized even then—it was not really very much of a conquest; although a small conquest was naturally better than none at all. As you grew older you were thankful for even that.

But what a holiday it had been—perhaps the one she now looked back on with the most affection. They hadn't done much: seen
Twinkle
at the White Rock Pavilion and another typical seaside show at the De La Warr. They'd been to the Playhouse a second time and also to the Ritz (
Interrupted Melody
, she thought—or was that the following year? In any case it had been a mistake to try to repeat it. Even the Andersons had packed up and gone to Aldershot.) They'd had their morning coffees and afternoon teas each day at one of three or four not dissimilar places—though mainly at Susan Throssil's for its meringues and
The Nell Gwyn
for its flapjacks and macaroons and for the spruce young waiter with his red hair, white jacket, spotlessly clean fingernails. And before bed they had wandered along to an ice-cream parlour to have a milk shake or an Ovaltine and a packet of wafer biscuits—a packet each; they were only small. It had been a fortnight of near-heaven…though perhaps while it was actually taking place she hadn't fully realized it. At the time, maybe, she had even been a little bored at odd moments or positively out of sorts: for instance, one afternoon when they'd been playing miniature golf and her Elixir of Senna just hadn't worked that morning. She castigated herself later and got depressed because she hadn't reminded herself, all the while, that she was happy. She hadn't really taken it in. Even a mere week after they'd left Bexhill she had discovered, to her chagrin, that she couldn't remember the pattern on the kitchen lino.

She had told Malcolm about this. She recalled that he had shrugged: disconcertingly mature for a boy of only sixteen. He said, “It's often the same with a holiday. Good to look forward to—good to look back on—not always so hot while it's going on.”

“But it shouldn't be like that!”

“Should or shouldn't doesn't come into it. Just is.”

It was meant to be comforting; she supposed it was in a way—other people plainly suffered the same thing, but it hurt her slightly too—hadn't
he
thought it just as special as her? He must have seen she was hurt. He added quickly: “Did you know that an awful lot of crackups occur during a holiday or else immediately after? People who've been hanging on by just the skin of their teeth expect it to provide the magic cure. Of course it doesn't—can't. And as the imperfections pile up, they blame themselves for allowing the first, which activated the second, which led on to the third, et cetera. Why couldn't they just have cut the thread?” He shrugged again and laughed. “I think I sound like
Reader's Digest
.”

She didn't understand him; she found him almost frightening. How could
she
have given birth to somebody like Malcolm? She felt touched by the very miracle of it. “But do you realize,” she asked, returning to much easier things, “that this time two weeks ago we'd have been sitting at our table by the window eating supper, with the Thompsons at their table on one side and Miss Price at hers on the other? Always with her bottle of Wincarnis and the pencil lines on the label? And you said that when she ran out of label she'd clearly have to stick on another one, lower down, and shouldn't we prolong our holiday to see whether she did?”

“Perhaps she'd patented a sliding label,” answered Malcolm, “else, what had happened at the start?” It was an intriguing little mystery, one which they both savoured.

But of course it hadn't really been so bad: returning to London. Joan was there. Beryl was there. In fact it had been a thoroughly happy homecoming. For one thing, she had bought them rather handsome presents. There had been the joy of giving those.

Also she had carried back a bag of macaroons and a bag of flapjacks—regretfully, she'd had to militate against meringues: too fragile for the journey and the cream could so easily have gone off—and they'd had a lovely little party, all four of them!

So she'd made a little promise to herself: that no matter what had gone before, from then on she would really make the most of her life; she would do her best to appreciate every little experience, whether good or bad, and she would try to do something a little new, she would try to broaden her outlook just a teeny bit, every day.

She would even read
Wuthering Heights
…!

Yet she never had.

She'd never managed to get past those opening chapters.

And—now—she never would. She'd lost all impetus; she'd lost the urge; the feeling that she still had time.

No point in even trying.

For the greater the success—
now
—the sharper the regret. Obviously.

With a sigh, she was just about to replace the book when she noticed something held between its pages. It was a postcard, unused, which had made her laugh when she had glimpsed it on its rack outside a souvenir shop and Malcolm had hurried back—without her knowing—and got it as a bookmark. “Not quite suitable for Miss Brontë,” he had said, “—oh, I don't know, though—but eminently suitable for you.”

Two short-skirted bosomy blondes were gazing at a guard on sentry duty—of whom you only saw the back. One was confiding to the other:

“I do love the way they always stand so stiff!”

Somehow that card just seemed the final straw.

Mr Anderson with his smooth white legs and his suspenders and his well-kept shoes (but had she ever known his Christian name?) had been the last, the very last, whom she had ever had. And she had only been forty!
Forty
! So why was there nothing that ever told you: this is the last? The last time you'll ever hear your favourite tune; the last time you'll ever have a bath—or a cup of tea—or a lover. The last Christmas. The last book. The last slice of buttered toast.

And would it have been better, or would it have been worse, if you
had
known?

Marsha sat down and put a hand across her eyes and wept.

42

One of the bitterest blows of Marsha's and Daisy's last years, or year, was the emigration of Malcolm to Canada; they forgot that these days they didn't see much of him anyway. “I always knew there was no good in that Phoebe-girl of his!” declared Daisy roundly, when they first heard of his intentions—by which time it had been virtually a
fait accompli
. “It's all her doing, of course,” she said to Marsha. “That scheming little hussy!”

Remembering the days when Daisy had so often referred to Phoebe as being one in a million—following the visits of the three of them to Notting Hill or of Malcolm and Phoebe to Hendon—Marsha was not greatly impressed by this present claim to prescience.