Venus Over Lannery (11 page)

The man whom Joan had recognised came up to
her, unsteadily polite. “So sorry I didn't see you, in the crowd, Mrs. Gardner. Can't I get you something to drink?”

Joan replied that she would have a glass of sherry, and he went towards the table to get it for her. On his way the auburn-haired girl touched his arm and spoke to him. Joan did not hear what she said, nor his reply, but she must have been asking him who Joan was, because next moment she turned to where Norman stood smiling with a glass in his hand. “Good God, Norman,” she called to him, “I didn't know you had a wife.”

It broke the babble of talk like a crash of glass and for a moment there was complete silence. Then Norman's voice, gay and affable as ever, ended the hush. “Didn't you, my dear Pauline? Then let me introduce you.” He waved an urbane hand towards Joan; he was about to perform a seriocomic introduction, but the red-haired girl turned her back on him and the murmur of talk and laughter broke out again. As Joan stood there, blushing painfully, overwhelmed with humiliation, she felt an arm slide through hers. “I'm going out of the room,” Edna's voice whispered in her ear. “I'll be back in a moment.”

As Edna left her, a voice on her other side claimed her attention. It was the dark woman, the one she had admired. “I want to apologise,” she said, “for our behaviour. I didn't know, when we came in, that you were Mrs. Gardner. I'm afraid we're an awful nuisance, but your husband is so incurably

hospitable. But it's high time they went home. I'll take my husband away,” she whispered, “and perhaps the rest will follow.”

Joan smiled at her, grateful for her sympathy, and the dark woman held out her hand. “Good night,” she said, “and do forgive us.” She went over to one of the men. “Richard, it's time to go home; and you, Pauline, had better come with us; we'll give you a lift.”

But the other man, the one Joan had recognised, broke in. “It's all right, Nancy; I'm taking Pauline home.”

Pauline turned on him. “No, you're not,” she said brutally. “Norman's taking me home; aren't you, Norman?”

Joan saw the man turn suddenly white, and Norman, for the first time that evening, looked for a moment shamefaced. “Well, my child,” he began, “as Nancy has so charmingly . . .”

But Pauline interrupted him angrily. “O, very well,” she said; “as you like. Freddie will do.”

Norman, suddenly anxious, hurried over to where Pauline stood. “Listen, Pauline . . .” he began in a low, urgent voice; but Joan did not hear the rest. Someone touched her on the arm. It was Edna.

“Come into the hall,” she whispered. “I want to speak to you.”

They went out together unnoticed and Edna shut the door behind them. “I've put some things for you in this bag,” she said. “You're coming home with me.” She threw a cloak round her, handed her
a hat and next moment they were running downstairs to the street.

What a brick Edna had been. To be out in the cool night air with Edna at her side, so suddenly and unexpectedly rescued, was like waking from a nightmare. And how nice Roger had been when they reached the flat. As Edna opened the door his voice reached them from the little sitting-room: “Hallo, Edna, is that you?”

“Yes,” Edna called back, “and Joan. She's come to stay.”

He could not have failed to realise, from that unexpected visit, that something strange had happened, but he showed no sign of expecting an explanation. He came out into the hall to meet them and his face left no doubt of the genuineness of his welcome. In half an hour Edna had got the spareroom ready and put her to bed, ordering her to go to sleep and make no plans till she called her in the morning. How comforting it had been to resign herself to that efficient, warm-hearted authority. She was so dazed and exhausted that she had actually obeyed Edna's orders and fallen asleep at once, and she had slept until half-past six next morning.

Her first thought on waking was that she must return home at once. If she were to get up and go at once she would be able to get home without the servants knowing that she had been away. Her mind ran on ahead. She saw herself at the door of her flat, taking her latch-key out of her bag... . But
there her plan stopped dead. Her bag! She realised that she had left her bag at home. She would not be able to get in without ringing the bell. What a wretched complication that simple fact introduced. At the thought of talk and conjectures between the two servants she felt deeply humiliated. None the less, she did not regret that Edna had snatched her away on the previous night. She had been almost at the end of her tether, and to have stayed and found herself face to face with Norman at the end would have been beyond endurance. But now, as soon as she had seen Edna, she must go back. She must get back in time for breakfast. After all, even though she would have to ring the bell and be admitted by Martha, it might be possible to avoid rousing suspicions. She could rely on Norman to keep up appearances, at least. Their breakfast hour was eight-thirty: she would start so as to get home then. There was no point in arriving earlier; and so there was nothing to be done for the moment but to lie where she was.

She turned over with a sigh, trying to drive off the thoughts that took advantage of her idleness to torment her. There was one especially that she had, so far, refused to face, which thrust itself upon her now, freezing her heart—the thought of Pauline. She had recognised Pauline at once last night as the materialisation of all those unadmitted doubts and fears that had stirred darkly in her mind during the past months whenever Norman had rung up to say that he was detained on business. She had felt an instinctive fear and hatred of her the moment she
came into the room. Yet why should she hate her? That deeply wounding exclamation of hers last night had proved at least that she had, up till then, been innocent of any attempt to take Norman from her. No, it was Norman who was responsible. But why couldn't he simply have said that he was dining with a friend? It would have been true and he must have known that she would have accepted the statement without asking questions. Why had he lied to her, and told her not merely a single lie, but invented all sorts of convincing details to make her believe it? That he had taken so much trouble to deceive her seemed to her to make it so much crueller. She could hear his voice now. “Is that you, darling? I'm so sorry; I've got to stay at the office to-night till about eleven. Andrews and I have to get out an estimate by tomorrow. We shall have to put up with sandwiches and a glass of beer. I'll get back as soon as ever I can.” It was unforgivable to call her darling and make a fool of her in the same breath. Her mind wrestled with it, trying vainly to make some sort of human sense of it, to reconcile her love of him and his love of her with his outrageous treatment of her. There was a sound outside her door and instantly her mind leapt back to her determination to go home. The door opened noiselessly and Edna appeared, carrying a tray.

“Hallo, Joan. You're awake. I brought a cup of tea on the chance.” She set the tray on the table beside the pillow and sat down on the bed. “I hope you obeyed orders and slept well.”

“I did, Edna. But since I woke I've been making plans.”

“Ah,” said Edna; “I hope they're the same as my plans.”

Joan smiled. “What are yours, Edna?”

“That you stay on here with us till we all go to Lannery on Saturday.”

Joan shook her head. “You're awfully kind, Edna, but I must go home at once.”

“Don't, Joan! Don't, whatever you do!” Edna broke out earnestly, her eyes flashing behind her spectacles. “You can't, after last night. Good heavens, if Roger had treated me as Norman treated you ‘last night . . .! Well, at least wait till he rings you up. Leave him to make the first move.”

“He can't ring up. The telephone's in the hall : the servants can hear every word you say. Besides, I've got to look after things at the flat; and anyhow, Edna, I can't just stay here and do nothing: it would drive me mad.”

“Then stay till this evening. Stay long enough to show him . . .”

“No, my dear; really I can't. You've been a perfect brick; I don't know how I should have got on without you last night; but I must go now. I must get back in time for breakfast.”

“But what are you going to do about it, Joan? You're not just going to take it lying down?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do. I shall see when I get there.”

Edna sighed. “I wish you'd let me go and tackle Norman for you. But listen, there's one thing I insist on: then I'll let you go. You must have breakfast first. I'll bring it to you here in a quarter of an hour. You can't deal with a thing like this on an empty stomach.”

Joan was about to protest, but Edna got off the bed. “Not another word! You can get up now. By the time you're dressed, your breakfast will be ready.”

After Joan had left them, Edna and Roger discussed her case over breakfast. “I wish I could have persuaded her to stay here,” said Edna, “and leave Norman to make the first move. That would at least have made him realise that he must give a thought to Joan sometimes, even if only for the sake of his own comfort.”

Roger nodded. “I quite agree. Whereas now ...”

“Now she's simply giving him a final proof of the hold he has on her.” She snorted angrily. “I know Norman. He'll turn on his sickening charm, apologise neatly, and everything will go on as before. Still, for all my dislike of him, I sometimes think it is Joan's appalling meekness that's as much to blame as anything else.”

Roger did not reply, and Edna, glancing across the table at him, saw that he had withdrawn from the discussion. His lips were firmly set: his spectacles had grown sombre and thoughtful. Edna watched him with a slightly critical smile. “What are you thinking about, Roger?”

“I was thinking,” he said, “that you used to be meek and it didn't wreck our marriage.”

“And you wish I was as meek as I used to be?”

“No,” he said judicially, “not exactly that, but I wish sometimes that you weren't so determined to be independent.”

“Do you think I do it on purpose?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“When, for instance?”

“Well, the other night when you refused to come to the Beethoven concert.”

“But I told you why, Roger. We couldn't afford two concerts in one week, and I was dying to hear Cortot play the Chopin Concerto on Thursday.”

“Yes,” he said doubtfully, “you told me all that.”

“But you didn't believe it?”

“I couldn't help feeling that your real reason was that you knew I particularly wanted you to come.”

“And why were you so desperately keen on my going?”

“Why, simply because it was such a gorgeous concert.”

Edna became thoughtful. “I see,” she said; “you thought I was simply being obstinate. But I, you know, thought just the same about you. I was annoyed with you for trying to force me to go with you against my will. I felt you were being selfish. Of course, if I had been meek I would have denied myself Cortot and gone with you. On the other hand, is there any reason why you shouldn't have been meek and given up Beethoven and come with me?”

“Not to hear Chopin, Edna,” he said with a shudder. “You admit you like Beethoven, but you know I loathe Chopin.”

“Yes,” she said, “that's quite true; and so, all things considered, what we actually did was the best solution, it seems to me.”

He laughed sardonically. “Of course it does, because you were the one that got your own way.”

“On the other hand, I didn't bother you to come to my concert.”

“No,” said Roger, “because you had more sense.”

“Exactly. Whereas you . . .!” They had finished their breakfast and Edna got up from the table. She went round to his chair, leaned over him and kissed him on the ear. “If I didn't like you so much,” she said cheerfully, “I should hate you.”

Wouldn't it have been less painful both for herself and Norman, Joan asked herself as she turned over once again the harrowing experience of that morning, if she had taken Edna's advice and not gone home? Then they might have come to their conclusion by letter and never have met again. As it was, their brief encounter that morning had been for her an ordeal as severe as the one of the previous night. When she had arrived at the flat she had managed to smile at Martha's surprise when she opened the door, and explain that she had been unexpectedly called away late the night before. Norman, hearing them talking, had come out of his dressing-room and played up as she had expected “Ah, you've got back all right, my dear!”—and she had felt with relief that, for Martha, nothing suspicious had occurred. But how little it mattered, as it turned out, what Martha knew or didn't know. Breakfast was ready and they went together into the dining-room. Norman shut the door and turned slowly towards her. His face was pale. For once, his self-confident affability had failed him and he stood
before her, shamefaced and hesitant, his hands in his trouser-pockets, his eyes avoiding hers and fixed on the ground. Was he going to speak or was he waiting for her to speak? But she had nothing to say. She felt suddenly tired, empty, convinced of the uselessness of words. If only they could agree to say nothing, to ignore the whole thing and begin afresh! How gladly she would have done that. But that, she knew, was impossible—impossible for him, and so impossible for her. For the first time she realised with anguish the gulf that divided them. His feet shifted uneasily on the carpet and he watched them as if absent-mindedly trying a new dance-step. “I behaved monstrously last night, Joan,” he began, his feet still shifting, his eyes still on the ground. “I can't defend myself, except to say that we were all pretty tight, as you saw, and not responsible for what we did or said. I'm really terribly sorry.”