Cotter's England (48 page)

"And yet in the depths of my dream it was quiet, safe and peace, peace," ruminated Nellie.

No one ever…

N
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ever got out of the country as fast as Nellie. When the news came that George had a place for her, the newspaper, all her friends hastened to do what they could, pull wires, run messages, buy the outfit, promise to keep an eye open, organize a farewell party and reserve a seat in a plane. Everyone from Robert Peebles to Bob Bobsey had been so much afraid of a crack-up, and saw so gloomy a future for Nellie, probably dependent upon a pauperized Tom, that they did all in their power to help her to get off. Delightfully rattled, in the middle of her packing party, with Tom packing a big trunk he had got for her on the way from the station, Vi Butters passing judgment on her old clothes, condemning her cherished turbans and scarves, "You can't wear things like that in Geneva!" and even Camilla, who had been told and had come round with gifts of clothes, Nellie, though never more bowed or bony, yet tinkled and gleamed with charm. She was surrounded with love and fuss, and the unbelievable had happened. George, whom she, and frankly all the others, had thought lost forever, had made a right about turn and was calling for her.

"They won't let me stay here as a bachelor, they insist upon wives!" he cried over the phone in his well-known way. "They put beautiful girls in my office and then say, Bring your wife! I was brought here under false pretences."

"God bless Europe," said Nellie.

Tom was all smiles. Everyone said some complimentary thing about his sister. He had very much the aspect of a young bridegroom. He did not know which way to look, and whether to blush or clear his throat, and said in a deep voice, "Yes, I know!"

People from the newspaper were there, dropping hasty appreciations in his ear about her good work, all the friends were there, jolly, tender, relieved from the bottom of their hearts that anything so fortunate could happen to poor Nellie. Their minds were engaged, as well with her good fortune, as upon the problem, "Will Geneva, a continental world be able to change the old Nellie? Is it too late? Was it ever possible? Is she cast, not formed?" But all were bent on one thing, to get her away before she became too ill to go, and as old friends and total strangers were united in this urgent, intense purpose, it worked.

Nellie saw in it all nothing but love; and Tom was not far from that.

"You will write Peggy a letter," said Nellie drawing Vi aside. "I don't dare tell the poor pet, I feel so guilty; she will feel she's abandoned."

"Well, she is," said Vi, "and what about me? Haven't you a thought for me too, Cushie?"

"Ah, pet, yes, but you would think that England had died for me with the old soldier, poor old Tommy Atkins. Now George is my country. I'm a traitor I'm afraid. But you'll do that for me? Write to the poor pet?"

"I will."

"She's a noble woman, a grand girl, Vi, she'll forgive me. She'll know my place is with my husband."

"Yes, I suppose they'll grudgingly say that even in Hadrian's Grove."

"There's a letter and a packet for you, Tom," cried Nellie, turning away, "it's somewhere around, look inside the piano. Some one of your sweethearts has been knitting for you." She shrugged one shoulder and eyed him sarcastically. "You're the only thing that worries me, sweetheart, but I've got to leave you to your fate, a ship without a rudder. Will you take care of him for me, pet?" she said with equal sarcasm, winking at Eliza. "I know you've got a soft spot for the changeling lad."

"Don't worry about me," said Tom in a deep voice. He had now laid his hand upon the packet and the letter.

"A girl's writing," said Nellie winking, "and a tearspot as large as a shilling on the address!"

"Ah!" cried Tom, "I didn't want to reopen that. I didn't ever want to think about it again!" He drew out a knitted waistcoat.

"Who's knitting for ye, darling?" jeered Nellie, rushing round with seven half-pounds of tea which she packed in a tin box.

But Tom was sitting down opposite Vi reading a long letter, and after a while, he handed it to Vi. She read:

Dear Tom,

I said I'd write to you and never kept my promise. I tried to sometimes, but never felt I could. However, now I feel better about it and as I finished the waistcoat some time ago I thought I'd send it and my news. I hope you haven't got any fatter or thinner. If you got thinner, you can easily change the buttons, as I thought of that in the design. Now for my news. I was in London quite a bit, going gay you would think. But I got someone to help me on the orchard, a very good man. I saw Patrick a few times for tea but he always had an appointment afterwards and I suspected, you know, a lady in the case and so there was. Now he has written to me to say he is going to get married. He did not join the air force after all: too old I suspect; but he says he is going to settle down. This is a sort of preface to my own news, Tom. I am going to get married myself. The lady is very charming, I think, and I think anyone would think so; not in her first youth though. She has domestic ways but is more a bird of paradise than a modest hen, I think, and I wonder what you would think! I cannot understand how it was she waited for me, as it were. Of course, we didn't know each other until recently. Well, I was nervous about putting the question, for one never knows, but one day after Patrick had left me, I thought, It is now or never, I must take the plunge and I went in and won through. We are being married in a month and I want you to come. I asked Patrick but he will be in the country with his beloved! Isn't this exciting and unexpected news? I am a happy man.

Yours sincerely, Connie.

"I don't understand this," said Vi, "is it a man or a woman?" "That's the husband! I took his wife from him!" said Tom.

"What husband?"

Tom frowned. "Marion's husband."

"Did she have a husband?"

"Good heavens, of course; where did you think she lived?"

"I thought she was trailing round the country with you in a —heavens knows in what. Oh, I don't know. You and Nellie never tell me anything. You just led me by the nose all my life. I'm a fool to you."

Tom said proudly, "Nellie did it to protect me. She has always been faithful to me." After a while he smiled, "It is quite a coincidence, because I am going to get married myself." And at this he smiled, looking for a compliment, up at Eliza who was standing by.

Eliza turned away and went into the back yard. She thought, "Well, that's a good thing, now he's off my shoulders. I feel free again."

Later, however, she felt as if she had been cracked on the head. She was dizzy and in pain. She thought that it was a good thing there was so much to do.

Nellie saw her upset and was delighted and moved, "I'll write to you, pet," she said, kissing Eliza several times, "we're great pals, we'll be pen pals, won't we?"

But that was all the time she had for Eliza in her flurry. She went off in the early morning and with her, most of the helpers. Only Tom and Eliza were left.

He and Eliza discussed what they should do about the house which neither of them could keep up. They breakfasted and presently Tom said he must get back to Blackstone.

A horrifying thing had happened there. There were three old men who called him The Engineer, and who used to wait for him on a seat on the London Road. They sat in the same places every day. The middle old man thought he owned houses and had troubles with imaginary tenants. A local lad, a dark middle-sized young fellow of football build with a thick chapped skin and narrow eyes was very contentious, had a bone to pick with everyone, "an unspeakable nuisance," and he swooped down on the middle old man. He was a smallish, rather good-looking old man, with wide cheekbones, blue eyes; he had a cap like a Chelsea Pensioner's and his white hair stuck out unwashed, underneath. Sometimes the three old men would take a walk and the landlord in dream would point down a street, "My houses are just down there, three of them in a row." The others would agree. The young busybody got to work on this harmless old man and after weeks of destroying his arguments and his proofs, had convinced him that he had no houses.

"The poor old cove tried to drown himself in the swamp and is in the hospital now. I must see him."

And so Tom went. Eliza went to the station with him, to have the stirrup cup, but he said, "I won't be coming down now, Eliza. I won't have the money. I must look for a home."

"Aye, Tom."

The two women, friends of George, who had once employed Mrs. McMahon, took her back but they were disappointed in the change in her. She was dull, inattentive, stupid, it must be admitted. She did her best but she was not as clean as before. Still, because they had made the promise to George, they kept her on, complaining about her behind her back.

After she had been there about a year, she said timidly to one of them, "Do you ever hear from Mr. Cook, Madam?"

The woman started, looked keenly at Mrs. McMahon: she thought her mind had gone.

"But Gwen, he died nearly a year ago."

"He died?" she said faintly, stood there with the pail in her hand, turned and went out to the kitchen. The woman felt upset.

She went to Gwen, who was standing by the kitchen sink, her mouth slightly open, "Didn't you know, Gwen? I didn't mean to blurt it out. He died in a skiing accident. He shouldn't have tried at his age; but he would try anything."

"And is he over there, buried, Madam?"

"Yes, Gwen. Far away."

Gwen did her work and went away, quietly. The women talked about the changes in her and one said, I think she was in love with George Cook; but they could not accept this idea; a servant in love with George Cook who had been described in the foreign press, when he died, as a "great fighter for the British working class, who turned many to socialism by his ready forceful expositions."

Nellie had invited Tom to that foreign funeral and they had brought back a photograph: Nellie gay with success as a hero's widow and Tom smiling, hand in hand. This is a problem the press always meets, people smiling for the camera in disasters; and the paper did not publish this one. Nellie bought the paper. There was a picture of Anthony Butters, husband of her friend Vi, a man whom Nellie always described as "a puir thing, a frail waif, unable to cope, an out-of-work mechanic"; but who was, as she knew, the organizer of one of the largest unions in the country. Anthony was leading a strike in a basic industry. Nellie read about Vi's husband and dropped the paper into the next litter basket on the street. Her heart turned to bitter water.

Not long after Nellie returned, Walter the window washer came to the door to ask about the Mister. Nellie told him all about it at length and he was charmed by her with all her bells swinging at him. He was a dull, respectable man who thought well of himself. He told her he belonged to a circle which was interested in consolation, in the human heart, in solving unsolved problems that the professors and scientists could not solve. She smoked, listened to him, laughed, said balderdash, but in the end thought she might go along; and that week, one evening, he took her to what she called a "Nabob villa," porch, pillars, fine windows, to a side door, over which was nailed a horseshoe. They rang and went in. Nellie, slowly at first, became interested in the problems of the unknowable.