He did not often mention her now, and when he did the name slipped out
casually, by accident, giving him neither embarrassment nor a pang. So much
time can do.
But the remark gave Wendover the cue to ask: “By the way, heard anything
of her lately?”
“No, I suppose she’s still out there.”
And then, after a silence, the subject was changed.
Even in Browdley by now the affair was almost forgotten,
and George could
assess with some impartiality the extent to which it had damaged his career.
Probably it had lost him his chance at the general election of 1923, though
his subsequent failure at two other parliamentary elections might well have
happened in any case. Undoubtedly the divorce had alienated some of his early
supporters, especially when (owing to the legal technique of such things in
those days) it had been made to seem that he himself was the guilty party.
Many of his friends knew this to be untrue, but a few did not, and it was
always a matter liable to be brought up by an unscrupulous opponent, like the
old accusation that he had put his wife on the municipal pay-roll. But time
had had its main effect, not so much in dulling memories, but in changing the
moral viewpoints even of those who imagined theirs to be least changeable, so
that the whole idea of divorce, which had been a shocking topic in the
twenties, was now, in the forties, rather a stale one. George knew that a
great many young people in the town neither knew nor would have been much
interested in the details that had so scandalized their parents.
Those details included Livia’s re-marriage, at the earliest legal date, to
the Honourable Jeffrey Winslow, who had given up a diplomatic career to take
some job in Malaya. Except that Lord Winslow died in 1925 and left a large
fortune, some of which must have gone to the younger son, George knew nothing
more. The Winslow name did not get into the general news, and George did not
read the kind of papers in which, if anywhere, it would still appear. But
when Singapore fell, early in 1942, he could not suppress a recurrent
preoccupation, hardly to be called anxiety; it made him ask the direct
question if ever he met anyone likely to know the answer and unlikely to know
of his own personal relationship. “I think they must have got away,” he was
told once, on fairly high authority. It satisfied him to believe that the
fairly high authority had not said this merely because it was the easiest
thing to say.
Those years, 1941 and 1942, contained long intervals of
time during which
it might almost have been said that nothing was happening in Browdley while
so much was happening in the rest of the world. But that, of course, was an
illusion; everything was happening, but in a continuous melting flow of
social and economic change; the war, as it went on, had become more like an
atmosphere to be breathed with every breath than a series of events to be
separately experienced. Even air-raids and the threat of them dropped to a
minimum, while apathy, tiredness, and simple human wear-and-tear offered
problems far harder to tackle. But there were cheerful days among the dark
ones, days when the Mayor of Browdley (re- elected annually owing to a
war-time party truce) looked round his little world and saw that it was
—well, not good, but better than it might have been. And worse,
naturally, than it should have been. Sometimes his almost incurable optimism
remounted, reaching the same flashpoint at which it always exploded into
indignation against those old Victorian mill-masters with no thought in their
minds but profit, and the jerry-builders who had aided and abetted them in
nothing less than the creation of Browdley itself. Yet out of that shameless
grab for fortunes now mostly lost had come a place where men could have
stalwart dreams. George realized this when—a little doubtfully, for he
thought it might be regarded as almost frivolous in war-time—he
arranged for an exhibition of post- war rehousing plans in the Town Hall
—architects’ sketches (optimism on paper) of what could be done with
Browdley if only the war were won and the tragedy of peace-time unemployment
were not repeated. And by God, he thought, it WOULDN’T be repeated— not
if he had anything to do with it; and at that he wandered off in mind into a
stimulating post-war crusade.
One day he was visiting a large hospital near Mulcaster on
official
business; as chairman of a regional welfare association it fell to him to
organize co-operation between the hospital authorities and various local
citizen-groups. He was good at this kind of organizing, and he was good
because he was human; with a proper disregard of red tape he combined a flair
for side-tracking well- meaning cranks and busybodies that was the admiration
of all who saw it in operation. Indeed, by this stage of the war, he had won
for himself a local importance that had become almost as regional as many of
the associations and committees on which he served. More and more frequently,
within a radius that took in Mulcaster and other large cities, his name would
be mentioned with a touch of legendary allusiveness; somebody or other
somewhere, puzzled momentarily about something, would say to someone else:
“I’ll tell you what, let’s see if we can get hold of old George Boswell…”
And if then the question came: “Who’s he?”—the answer would be: “Just
the Mayor of Browdley, but pretty good at this sort of thing”—the
implication being that George’s official position gave only a small hint of
the kind of service he could render. And if a further question were asked:
“Where’s Browdley?”—the answer to that might well be the devastating
truth: “Oh, one of those awful little manufacturing towns—the kind that
were nearly bankrupt before the war and are now booming like blazes.”
After a meeting of the hospital board George was taken over the premises,
and here too he was good; he knew how to say cheery words to soldiers without
either mawkishness or patronage. And if any of the men were from Browdley or
district he would make a point of drawing them into neighbourly gossip about
local affairs. It was noticeable then that his accent became somewhat more
‘Browdley’ than usual, as if HOW as well as WHAT he spoke made instinctive
communion with those whose roots were his own.
On this occasion his tour of the wards was to be followed by tea in the
head surgeon’s room; and on the way there, waiting with his nurse escort for
a lift, he happened to glance at a list of names attached to a notice-board
near by. One of them was ‘Winslow’. It gave him a slow and delayed shock that
did not affect the naturalness of his question; she answered that the list
was of patients occupying private rooms along an adjacent corridor— all
of them serious cases and most of them war casualties. He did not question
her further, but a few moments later, meeting the head surgeon and others of
the hospital staff, he found himself too preoccupied to join in general
conversation; the name was already echoing disconcertingly in his
mind—Winslow… WINSLOW… Not such a common name, yet not so uncommon
either. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence—and yet those
coincidences DID happen. At least it was worth enquiry.
So he asked, forgetting to care whether any of those present knew anything
of his own personal affairs: “I noticed a name on my way here… a patient in
one of the private rooms… Winslow…”
“Winslow?”
“Aye, Winslow.”
Someone said: “Oh yes… rather badly smashed up, poor chap. You know
him?”
“Er—no… But I… I know OF him—that is, if he belongs to the
same family. Is he—er—related to LORD Winslow?”
The head surgeon thought he might be. Somebody else said he was. The head
surgeon then said: “You can see him if you want. He’s not TOO bad.”
“Oh no, no—I wasn’t thinking of that.”
But afterwards, while he was trying to talk about something else
altogether, George wondered if he HAD been thinking of that. For the idea,
once in his head, engaged those sympathies of his that were always eager for
a quixotic gesture. Years before, he had come near to hating the man who had
taken Livia from him—hating him BECAUSE as well as IN SPITE OF the
generosity with which he, George, had treated them both. But now there was no
hate or near- hate left, but only a wry curiosity, plus the warmth George
felt for any man broken by the war. Would it not be worth while to clinch
this attitude by a few words of well-wishing? Could it possibly do any harm?
Might it not, if it had any effect at all, do good?
When he was about to leave he said that perhaps he would visit that fellow
Winslow after all.
“Certainly… Briggs here will take you over.” The head surgeon singled
out a young colleague who responded with respectful alacrity. “Don’t stay too
long, though.”
“Oh no, only a few minutes. Not even that if you think it
might—”
The surgeon smiled. “It won’t. You’re too modest, Boswell.” But he added
quietly to Briggs: “Better go in first, though, and see how he is.”
As George accompanied the younger man across lawns and courtyards to the
block in which Winslow’s room was situated, they discussed the weather, the
big raid on Mulcaster (history by now), the widening circle of war all over
the world, and the difficulties of obtaining whisky and cigarettes that had
lately become so acute that George had begun to feel almost ashamed of his
own total exemption from such common hardships. But they provided a theme for
conversation, and only when Briggs left him in the corridor did his thoughts
recur to the nearer urgency, and then with a certain qualm. Was he doing a
wise or a foolish thing, or merely an unnecessary one? While he was still
wondering, Briggs emerged, his face youthfully flushed as he stammered: “I’m
afraid, sir, he—I mean, if you could perhaps come round again some
other time—”
“Why, of course… Not convenient, is that it?”
“That’s it.” But the assent to such a vague explanation was so eager that
George went on: “Is he asleep? Or isn’t he feeling good?”
“No… he’s no worse… and he’s not asleep…”
“Then what?”
“Well, sir, to be frank, he—he said he—er—he’d rather
not—er—”
“Didn’t want to see me, eh? Well, that’s all right. Don’t bother about
it.”
“It’s a mood they get into sometimes. They feel so low they just don’t
feel like having visitors at all.”
George said he perfectly understood, and then, to cover an embarrassment
that was more the young doctor’s than his own, added: “I’m glad it isn’t
because he’s worse.”
“No… he’s getting on as well as can be expected.”
They walked away together, again discussing topics of general interest. At
the hospital gate George said: “You did give him my name, I suppose?”
“Oh yes. I also said you were the Mayor of Browdley, but—
but—”
“But it made no difference, eh? Well, why should it?”
George laughed, and then they both went on laughing as they shook
hands.
But by the time he reached Browdley he could not see much
of a joke in the
situation, nor did he feel his usual zest for tackling the pile of clerical
work on his desk. So he walked across the town to St. Patrick’s clergy-house.
Wendover was in, and George, on impulse, told him all about his visit to the
hospital and his discovery of Winslow there. This led to a longer talk about
Livia than George had had for years with anyone, and also to a franker
expression of Wendover’s personal attitudes than George had yet encountered,
despite his many years of close friendship with the priest.
“You see, George, I never felt it my duty to discuss your affairs—
especially as you never told me much about them.”
“Aye, I never felt like it—which is no reflection on you, of course.
And I wouldn’t say you’ve missed much. I’ll bet you find it hard listening to
stuff about other people’s private lives.”
“Even if I did, it would still be part of my job. Another part is to offer
advice.”
“And that’s even harder, I should think.”
“Well, you know, a priest has one advantage—so many things are
decided for him by authority. Take divorce, for instance. The view of my
Church is very simple—we think it’s wrong, and therefore we’re against
it.”
“Aye, I know. And that makes me guilty of compounding a felony because I
made it as easy as I could for the two of them? Isn’t that how you’d look at
it—and at me?”
Wendover gazed at George very steadily for a moment before saying: “Do you
really want my opinion of you?”
“Mightn’t be a bad moment to get it out of you.”
“All right. I have it ready. Nothing new, either—I’ve had it for
years. I think you’re much more like a Christian than many people who come to
my church.”
“Quite a compliment.”
“Less than you think.”
It certainly failed to please George as most compliments did; indeed, for
some reason it made him feel uncomfortable. He said, almost truculently,
after a pause: “I’d do the same again if I had to. You can’t hold a woman if
she’d rather be with someone else. And anyway, twenty-odd years is a long
time to go on bearing a grudge. That’s what puzzles me—why should HE
bear a grudge?… Well, maybe I can guess. I can remember a few things Livia
once told him.”
“About what?”
“About ME.”
“Do you mean AGAINST you?”
George nodded.
“Why should you think that possible?”
And then, for the first time, after an almost quarter-century interval,
George disclosed to another human being the events of that memorable day,
September the First, 1921—the day of the foundation-stone-laying at
which Lord Winslow had officiated, and after which the two had had their long
conversation in George’s study.
When he had finished Wendover made no reply at first, though he did not
seem particularly surprised. And George, with his usual revulsion of feeling
in favour of someone he had lately been criticizing, hastened to continue:
“Mind you, don’t get too bad an impression. If I’ve given you that,
then—”