Love in Our Time (15 page)

The Night Sister came back twice and felt Mr. Sneyd's pulse.

She smiled at Gerald in an understanding way that he disliked.

“He's asleep now,” she said.

The ward seemed to grow even quieter till Gerald felt that he was the only thing awake in the world. The bedclothes rose and fell almost imperceptibly upon Mr. Sneyd's chest. He seemed to have reached a stage where all the living that he wanted to do could be done without much effort. The only signs of life were the fingers of the right hand that still twitched even in his sleep; and occasionally the jaw moved.

“Don't let him die,” he kept saying to himself. “Don't let him die and I won't ever see Celia again. Don't let him die and he can stay with us until he gets better.”

In the silence of the ward his mind began to drift backwards as well as forwards. He saw little flashes of things that had happened long ago when he was a boy—going fishing with his father in Corporation Park; being taken on the cross-bar of his father's bicycle to see a cricket match in a village five miles away; simply walking beside his father on the way to church. But always it was the same. His father was there all the time. No matter what happened he and the sick man
on the bed beside him were tied up and entangled in an everlasting mesh of experience.

He heard a noise behind him and turned. There was a hand protruding round the edge of the screen. It was a plump, prosperous-looking hand, with the first two fingers raised in a salute—the Mariner's Salute. A moment later the rest of Mr. Biddle emerged. His face was brimming with encouragement; warm waves of sympathy ran over it. Then Gerald noticed Mr. Biddle's expression as he looked towards the bed.

He took a quick look at his father himself. The right hand had stopped picking at the sheet edge and the lower jaw was no longer moving. His eyes were open now, and stared up at the ceiling with a foolish, surprised expression.

At the end of the bed Mr. Biddle was still standing with his hand raised in the Mariner's Salute. Then he caught Gerald's eye. Rather self-consciously he lowered his arm.

Up the ward the Night Sister was coming.

Mr. Biddle insisted on going back with Gerald; he even took his arm as they walked down to the tram. And on the long ride from Tottenham Court Road he was unremittingly comforting. At intervals he would lean across and whisper advice about keeping your pecker up and how it had to happen sooner or later to everyone. But in between there were periods of something deeper, when he would relapse into long, moody silences. He kept shaking his head and swallowing. It was as though in his chosen role of comforter he might himself at any moment break down and give way to tears.

When they reached Boleyn Avenue he could hardly get the words out.

“Allus … Allus'll be a comfort to you,” he said.

Gerald nodded.

“You've got each other,” Mr. Biddle went on.

He nodded again.

“Shall I break it to her or will you?” Mr. Biddle asked.

“She'll probably be asleep, anyhow,” said Gerald.

“I'll tell her in the morning.”

But Alice was not asleep. She wasn't even undressed. When they came in she was sitting in front of the fire looking at a magazine. She seemed surprised to see her father.

“Gerald's got something to tell you, dear,” Mr. Biddle said in a low, unnatural sort of voice. “I know you're going to take it bravely.”

“Why, what's the matter?” she asked. “It isn't—?”

“Yes, it is,” Gerald said. “He had a relapse. It killed him.”

“Oh, Gerald, I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

She came over and put her arm round him.

“I was worried when you weren't here when I got back,” she said. “I've been out myself. I wouldn't have gone if I'd known.”

“Been out?” he said.

“Yes, I went out with Tony. He came round to take me to the Dogs. You remember he promised me he would.”

“You went out with Tony?”

“Yes; we went to Harringay. He asked if I thought you'd mind. … ”

But Gerald wasn't listening. He had thrown back his head and was laughing.

“Of all the bloody funny things,” he said. “To think that you were out with Tony to-night.”

Mr. Biddle crossed over and laid his hand on Gerald's shoulder.

“Steady, old boy,” he said. He turned to Alice. “It's the shock,” he said quietly. “It's upset him a bit.”

The second Mrs. Sneyd arrived at Euston on the two-fifteen.

Gerald was there to meet her. He saw her at once. On the long expanse of platform—the train was comparatively empty; it was only on excursion days that Tadford came to London in any numbers—she was as conspicuous as a nun on a cricket field. It was her clothes of course that gave her away. Since the event she had done some frenzied spending and was now dressed in black from head to foot.

It wasn't mourning on the ordinary scale that she was wearing. Everything about her was crêpe. She was a large woman and she had swathed herself in the stuff. From her hat was suspended a dense mesh veil of the kind that people, in happier circumstances, wear when hiving bees. There was something
provincial
about it all, something that didn't fit in with his own grey suit and neat, black tie.

When he reached her the first thing that he noticed was that the front of her dress was covered with crumbs. She must have been nibbling biscuits all the way down, and then have been too much overcome to tidy herself up properly before alighting. And now that he was close he saw that she had altered hardly at all. She was still the same florid, high-bosomed woman whom his father had brought back eleven years before to Station Approach
to introduce to his son. Her face under the veil had not changed; it wore its old expression of expectant helplessness. But now she had been crying as well, and her eyes had red rims to them. Standing there in front of him she looked like a big demented schoolgirl.

Then impetuously she rolled back the veil and kissed him.

“Oh, Gerald,” she said. “I knew you'd come.”

He took hold of the case that she was carrying—it was a cheap, cardboard thing like a laundry-box—and led her down the platform. Being nice to Mrs. Sneyd was, he realised, the last atoning tribute which he could render to his father.

“Oh, Gerald,” she kept saying at intervals. “Oh, Gerald.”

“You look tired out,” he said. “Come and have some tea.”

Her step quickened at the suggestion. Somewhere underneath all that black she was gratified. But all she said was, “Oh, Gerald.”

They went into the long buffet together and found a small round table in the corner. Mrs. Sneyd sat down with a little gasp as though standing had been an effort almost beyond her.

The room presented the strangely impersonal appearance of all railway bars there were palms and imitation stained-glass windows and rows of sandwiches underneath bell-jars, like specimens. The place smelt of beer and stewed tea and train smoke.

“What'll you have?” Gerald asked.

“Just tea,” she said. “Just something hot.”

He leant back and watched her drink it. Upon contact with another human being she had started
crying again. Tears kept on rolling out of the corners of her eyes as she sat there. The waitress had brought a plate of cut cake and she had absent-mindedly taken a piece. Her veil was thrust right up over the top of her hat and she was pursing her lips as she ate. He wondered what she was thinking about. For she had reached that state of misery when she was living in a remote, desolate world of her own. She probably wished that she were dead, too. Yet there “she was, sipping tea that was too hot for her and eating a slice of almond Madeira.

“When can we see him?” she asked at last.

“I dunno,” he said blankly. “I didn't ask.”

“Take me to him,” she said as though she hadn't heard. “Just let me get a few flowers first and then take me to him.”

Gerald got up.

“You wait here,” he said, “and I'll find out first.”

He went out leaving Mrs. Sneyd like a tripper with all the empty tea things round her. On the way, he crossed over to a bookstall and bought her the
Daily Mirror
to occupy her mind. She was quite overcome when he gave it to her. At first she seemed surprised to find him back so soon and then, when she found that it was something for her, she started crying again.

“Oh, Gerald,” she said. “I shall never be able to repay you for all this.”

“That's O.K.,” he said.

The hospital was perfectly businesslike and matter-of-fact.

“There'll have to be the usual
post mortem
first,” they said on the phone, “and then you'll be able to make your own arrangements.”

“What sort of arrangements?” he asked blankly.

“With the undertaker.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “I—I'll have to see about that.”

“Any friends or relations should go round to the undertaker's,” the voice from the hospital was saying.

“Thank you,” he said. “I'll tell her.” Then just as he was ringing off he remembered something. “Are you there?” he asked.

“Yes,” the voice answered, “What is it?”

“Excuse me?” Gerald said; “but can you recommend me someone?”

“What for?”

“An undertaker, I mean.”

“I'm sorry, but we're not allowed to recommend any particular firm.”

It seemed strange this reluctance to help him to bury his own father. He did not know quite what was the next move expected of him.

“I'd be awfully obliged if you could———” he began.

“There's a firm the name of Umble in the Pentonville Road,” the voice said. “You could ring them.”

“How do you spell it?” he asked.

The voice told him.

“O.K.,” said Gerald.

He found the firm in the telephone book, Samuel Umble and Son, Undertakers, and he spoke to Mr. Umble himself; the man was evidently sitting there by the telephone waiting upon Death. And Mr. Umble was very helpful. He seemed to understand just how Gerald was placed.

“From St. Martin's,” he said. “Just so, I quite understand. We'll attend to everything. We have our own
private chapel.” He paused. “Where will the funeral be?” he asked.

“Tadford,” said Gerald.

“Tadford?”

“That's where he lived,” Gerald explained.

“Just so, I quite understand.” The smooth voice of Mr. Umble continued. “Had you any special wishes as to the style?” he asked.

“Style?”

“The coffin. Will it be oak or ?”

“Make it oak,” said Gerald.

“And the handles?”

“Just ordinary handles.”

Mr. Umble seemed just a little taken aback. “It might be easier,” he said, “if you could call in. Then we could show you our catalogue. Or we could send a representative. We're always pleased to send a representative.”

Gerald found himself suddenly disliking the voice of Mr. Umble.

“I've told you what I want,” he said. “I want an oak coffin with plain handles.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Umble. “I quite understand.”

There was a pause and Gerald screwed up courage to ask the final question.

“What'll it cost?” he asked.

“For a plain oak coffin,” Mr. Umble said, “with ordinary handles and our standard lining, fifteen pounds.”

“O.K.,” said Gerald.

Mrs. Sneyd had exhausted the
Daily Mirror
by the time he got back. Its pages lay in a disordered mass on the chair beside her.

“Can I see him now?” she asked.

“Not just for a bit,” he told her. “They're taking him round to the undertaker's. They'll let us know when they're ready.”

“Well, what can I do?” she asked. “I can't just stop here.” Her eyes filled with tears as she said it, and she started crying again.

He paused. “You come home with us,” he said. “We'll put you up.”

“Oh, thank you, Gerald,” she said.

It appeared to give her a little tremor of excitement when she found that she was going up to Finchley by sports car; it was evidently something better than she had expected this funereal day to provide. Almost before they were out of the Station yard the novel experience began to show its effect on her; she wound her veil tightly round her chin and became more motorist than mourner.

And all the time she was explaining over and over again how it was that she had not been with Mr. Sneyd at the end.

“They never delivered the telegram until next morning,” she said. “And of course I had to be up there because of young Violet. I couldn't leave her. And Stan kept saying he'd be all right. So I didn't worry. And they never delivered the telegram until next morning. I went cold all over when I saw it. So I got some clothes and came straight down. Mrs. Heppell's looking after Vi. And Stan kept saying he'd be all right so I didn't worry. And you see they never delivered … ”

What was worrying Gerald was how Alice was going to take it all. It had been one thing to say that she could go there if she had nowhere else to go; but it
was going to be something quite different actually to have her. And when Alice had offered she hadn't actually seen Mrs. Sneyd. She was, Gerald reflected, going to get a bit of a shock when this outsize figure in black with the cardboard suitcase came over the threshold.

But Alice seemed to understand at once. She did everything she could to be nice to Mrs. Sneyd. And Mrs. Sneyd kept thanking them. Whenever there was a pause in the conversation Mrs. Sneyd said how grateful she was. There was something shameless and pathetic about so much gratitude; she seemed to be afraid that, unless she were desperately polite, they, top, like the rest of Fate, might turn on her.

And Alice, Gerald noticed, had actually brightened up since their arrival. He wondered if, in a way, she had resented the fact that so much drama from which she was excluded had been going on all round her; now that she was in the thick of it and doing something she seemed happier. She took the unhappy woman into the drawing-room to rest while she made her some tea and then led her upstairs into the bedroom—their bedroom—to lie down. She even pulled the blinds so that Mrs. Sneyd could snatch a few minutes' sleep.