South Riding (56 page)

It appeared that they had little to say to one another.

She asked, stupidly: “How’s Midge now, really, do you think?”

“Much better.”

“It was a good idea, sending her to Mrs. Beddows.”

“Yes. She’s there now. I’m going up the day after tomorrow to bring her home for Christmas.”

“That’s a good woman,” said Sarah, twisting the stem of her glass between her fingers, watching the firelight catch the golden sherry. She felt generous towards Mrs. Beddows because she was so happy.

It was a quarter to seven.

“Well,” she said, “if I’m to wash my hands—and write a note, which I should do—I suppose I’d better go and do it. What time do we dine?”

“Seven-thirty—would that suit you? or quarter to eight.”

“Seven-thirty—why not? I’m hungry.”

The lift rattled up and up, bearing her to her ugly room.

It could not depress her. She found something comic and lovable in its gaping grate, lined with soot-smeared white paper, in its sofa and “easy” chair upholstered with drab-coloured rep so deeply engrained with dirt and smoke that it felt dank and smooth to touch, and in its immense white sepulchre of a broad double bed. The sounds of Manchester reached her from the square below as she unpacked her bag, brought out her best dress of peacock taffeta, her satin slippers and her new silk stockings. Shivering more with excitement than with the chill damp room, she flung off her travel-crumpled clothes and washed and powdered her slim youthful body. She redressed herself without remorse in the satin under-garments she had bought for her sister; she brushed her flaming hair, she pulled on and smoothed round her the rustling taffeta. She examined her face forgivingly in the dim greenish glass, darkening her brows, reddening her lips, not even wishing this time for the beauty which was not hers. She saw a small light figure, vivid and inhuman as a paroquet, with blazing hair and dancing eyes, rising from full skirts that floated out like a rich blue and emerald shining flower.

It was still only quarter-past seven. She had learned to dress so quickly in her full hurried life that even now she could not force herself to be slow; yet she could not bear to wait in the cold grim room. Down the corridor she moved, her taffeta whispering across the wide landing, past the lift and down the stairs.

She could not go straight to the lounge where she had arranged to meet Carne. She must seek other diversion. Of course, she knew, she had a note to write.

On the first floor landing a notice with an arrow pointed to “Writing Room.” She followed it, and found herself in an apartment not unlike a station waiting-room. It lacked human occupants, but there was accommodation for them. Round the walls stood desks, back to back, with dusty blotting-paper gummed to their surfaces. Inkwells in which the moisture had long since dried, cross nibs, and half-torn envelopes.

If she had wanted to write, this equipment might have deterred her. But she wanted nothing. No words could describe, to no one could she communicate, this extraordinary rapture which had transformed the universe—because she was going to eat a third-rate dinner in a second-rate hotel, with a ruined farmer who was father to one of her least satisfactory pupils.

She could not keep still. The wide skirts of her dress swayed round her as she moved about the room, examining the elaborate but dusty stationery, and the papers on the circular table in the middle of the room.

Who, she wonders, reads
The Textile Mercury
? or
Iron and Steel
, the
Autocar
, the
Iron and Coal Trades Review
, the
Electrical Times
? Ah, the times are electrical, she thought, “perhaps that’s what’s wrong with them,” and trembled, quivering with laughter at her small feeble joke, pressing her palms on the cold, smeared mahogany, because she suddenly found her eyeballs pricking with hot irrational tears.

“Five minutes to go yet,” she thought, and sought other distraction, for she could not face Carne immediately on the half-hour, as though appearing punctually for school prayers.

On a shelf near the fireplace stood a row of severe little books. She went to them and read their titles—
Light
, she read,
Protection
and
Vindication.
She pulled out
Vindication
and saw that it was by Judge Rutherford of the International Bible Students’ Association. She remembered seeing advertisements of his meetings years ago outside the Albert Hall. She had wondered then what they were all about. Well, any time was a good time to learn. She opened and read at random:

“Jehovah is the husband man, and Jerusalem stands for his woman. She was ‘married’ to Jehovah and brought forth her offspring to him. Moreover thou hast taken thy sons and thy daughters whom thou hast borne unto me, and these thou hast sacrificed unto them to be devoured. Is this of thy whoredoms a small matter?”

Too much for me altogether, she began to think flippantly, then suddenly crushed the volume between her hands and bowed her head. Oh God, she thought, I should like to bear his child.

And with that desire she felt again the hot tears rising, and thrust the book back into the shelf and turned again to face the desks, the blotting-paper, the circular table with the
Electrical Times
opened on it.

I shall remember this room until I die, she told herself.

She opened the door, closed it carefully behind her, and walked away slowly along the corridor.

As, when a child, she had nibbled her biscuit slowly, tasting every crumb, hoarding each grain of sweetness, so now she walked slowly along the passage, slowly to the head of the stairs, and slowly down. At every step her wide skirts rustled round her, her shoe buckles sparkled in the electric light; she was conscious of her bright incongruity in that dull, solid place.

Carne was standing in the lounge facing the staircase. His face was no longer bleak with misery. His eyes met hers, and held them with a welcoming smile as she walked down and towards him.

He had changed into a dinner jacket, and she felt that they two made a gala party in the clattering and commercial atmosphere.

All she said was: “Have I kept you waiting?”

And he, verifying his remark by a glance at his wrist-watch, said, “Exactly one minute, thirty-five seconds.” And they both laughed.

They went into the dining-room; it was more cheerful than the lounge and bedrooms had suggested. Carne had reserved a table by the fire. Only three others were occupied. They had a sense of convivial privacy there, in a little alcove, with the shaded lamp and the yellow chrysanthemums and the attentive waiter.

We shall have nothing to talk about, Sarah told herself. She was mistaken. He asked her questions, mostly about places that she had visited, and she was surprised to learn how much he knew. Paris she had expected, but not Biarritz, Monte Carlo, Vienna, Baden-Baden. She found in herself an appetite to learn every episode of his history. When he mentioned Budapest, and added “the Hungarians—you can get on with them—wonderful chaps with horses”—she wanted to know when he had formed his opinions, why, how and where.

He had ordered a light hock, rather scornfully, saying that all the wines were bound to be bad there. She was no connoisseur, and she drank little, yet she felt a rare exhilaration threading her veins. Only to sit there, eating indifferent food, listening to his slow voice, watching his hands manipulate knife and fork, meant a timeless ecstasy.

He no longer treated her as though she were Midge’s teacher. She was a woman and charming, and he was entertaining her. She prayed desperately that she might do nothing to jar upon him, yet her consciousness of the times when she had made other men think her attractive calmed her panic.

From far away sounds of a dance band reached them.

“Is that wireless?” she asked idly, to fill a pause in the conversation.

He asked the waiter, who replied that it was a dance band, that every fortnight there was dancing in the ballroom, tickets five shillings—half a crown to residents.

Her fingers tapped the tune on the table-cloth. He asked her, “Do you like dancing?”

“I love it, but I haven’t danced for over a year, I think.”

“Nor I—for far more than that.”

“You like it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. She felt his dark eyes regarding her sombrely. Suddenly she wanted so badly to dance with him that she nearly wept.

The waiter was serving them with fruit salad in little metal cups. She wondered—when did he dance last? With whom? She was not jealous of his wife, but she could have gladly killed the other women whom he had ever held.

She said: “Do you remember the war-time dance mania? Were you ever at the Grafton Galleries?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Once,” he said. She cursed herself, guessing that she had aroused unwelcome memory. But what were you to do with a man whose entire past was raw with wounds—either to himself or to her? There was no safety. The taste of pineapple in her mouth was the Grafton Galleries. The flavour of tinned apricot was the flavour of grief.

“What about having our coffee in the lounge?” he asked.

“Why not?” It would perhaps prolong the evening. They would have coffee. They would have cigarettes. Oh, God, God, God, make him like me a little. Make him like me enough to be glad to spend the whole evening with me.

But of what use is prayer? When prayer becomes necessary, she thought ruefully, its futility is already proved.

She swept out of the dining-room before him, with all the dignity of which her small figure was capable. The saxophones and violins wailed louder. They were playing a stupid little tune called “Didn’t want to say good-bye.” Sarah paused, and Carne came up beside her. He too was listening. The silly persistent music beckoned them. They went on into the lounge and drank brandies with their coffee.

Conversation flagged. The bright distant places were overshadowed. The pink and white azaleas of Monte Carlo, the mountain-shadowed gardens of Aix-les-Bains, the wild seas of San Sebastian froze themselves in the memory; Muriel had been there; pain dwelt there. Sarah would not touch them.

He handed her his cigarette case, gold, plain, slender. Inside was engraved in square letters, “R. from M.” and a date.

I don’t care, Sarah told herself, taking a cigarette. It was a long time ago, and he got little satisfaction out of her. She has been shut away for fifteen years; there must have been others.

“What about this dancing?” he asked suddenly.

Again her heart stood still.

Suddenly she felt. I can’t bear it. If I dance with him, I’m lost.

But smiling she said, “Well, what about it? It might be quite agreeable.”

“There doesn’t seem much else to do—in Manchester. Unless you like those film things.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a good film on. And I’m sure you loathe them.”

They went down to dance.

The underground room was rather hot and tawdry. Couples in every stage of morning, afternoon and evening dress were dancing. They danced well and badly. The only rule was that ladies must take their hats off. A coloured limelight swept the jogging gyrating crowd.

It’s not real. It’s all impossible, thought Sarah. Big and black and white Carne stood before her, solid as a cliff. Into her mind flashed that vision of him in the snow on his black horse. She slid into his arms.

She was conscious of his height, his strength and her smallness. She made herself deliberately as light, as small as possible. Perhaps, she thought, if he hardly notices me he’ll think I’m Muriel. Perhaps he’ll forget I’m any one and only remember that he’s enjoying himself.

He danced as she would have expected—well but gravely. Between the dances, they sat at a little table and he drank whiskies and sodas and she sipped lemonade. It occurred to her that unless he had a very strong head, he must be growing a little tight, but he showed no signs of it in speech or movement. Once he ordered the band to play a special tune, and her spirits rose absurdly. He wants to dance this with
me
, she thought. This tune is mine.

To her disappointment, it was not a tune she recognised, and again she wondered, How does he know this kind of thing? With whom has he danced?

She began to remember that, even if she had met him earlier, there would have been no hope for her; she was a blacksmith’s daughter and he was a snob.

He is a snob and stupid, she told herself, thinking by reasoned criticism to cure her infatuation; but it was useless. His arm was round her. His hand held her hand. She could feel the hard uneven thumping of his heart; her body was pressed to his, interpreting by a profound foreknowledge his movements before he could make them. I know, she thought, when he’s going to dip, pause, turn; I know nothing of his mind, nothing, nothing, nothing. But I know what his body is going to do before he does it. His body was a thick impenetrable fortress. She could never learn his heart.

And suddenly this contact of her body with his, which she had desired so hungrily, became unbearable. She lost step; the invisible current between them snapped.

“Let’s sit down,” she said, and he led her to her seat.

It was half-past eleven. Dancing continued until midnight. Earlier she had resented that closure; now she longed for it. She forced herself to smile airily.