The Aerodrome: A Love Story (17 page)

something important I want to tell you." I took her hand and said: "Can it wait for an hour?" and was about to continue when she interrupted me, displeased as she always was if any of her plans were in any way thwarted. Over her strong face passed quickly an expression of sulkiness, as though she were a child. "No, I can't wait," she said, and then, smiling again to show that she was not really angry, she added: "What is your important business that makes you in such a hurry?" I began to tell her about Bess, feeling somewhat uneasy as I spoke, for I could not convey to her my own sense of the urgency of what I was doing, nor pretend that, so far as the facts went, there was any need for me to be so determined not to waste an instant before seeing the doctor. She listened to me impatiently and soon interrupted me. "That's not important," she said. "Or is it that you're still in love with the girl? She's certainly not in love with you." I was unreasonably angered by this remark, not, I think, because of its inaccuracy (for my feeling for Bess was certainly not what I should have recognized as love), but because Eustasia's manner seemed to indicate that she regarded herself as having some kind of proprietary right over me, and I was unwilling to admit such a right. I looked hard at her and found, to my surprise, that I was looking at her with a certain distaste. "Of course I'm not in love," I said. "Anyway, haven't I told you that she's my sister?" "You don't even know that," she said, and stared at me angrily, challenging me to reply, but I made no answer and, as I looked at her, observed that tears were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. No doubt my own expression must have softened, for she stretched out her hand again and said, "Come upstairs for a minute or two. I must speak to you", and I followed her somewhat reluctantly and somewhat ill at ease, for I saw that what she had intended to be a pleasant meeting had started inauspiciously on the verge of a quarrel. When we were in her room I sat down on the divan and she sat in an armchair facing me. Her eyes were bright again with suppressed excitement, but I was still anxious to be gone and I fancied that she sensed my feelings and was distressed by them. But she smiled more than ever, and spoke in a voice that was even more than usually confident, as though her own assurance were calculated to make me speak and feel as she wished me to do. "I told you I'd got a surprise for you, a secret," she said. "Well, now I'm going to tell you. I'm going to have a baby." She paused and looked at me eagerly, as though to estimate precisely the effect of her words. Then her eyes left mine and she stared at the floor with a small smile at the corners of her mouth. "Are you angry?" she said, without looking up at me. For some moments I found it impossible to answer her question. Certainly my first feeling after hearing this piece of news had been one of horror at the prospect of seeing my career in the Air Force irretrievably ruined. My mind went back to the scene in the chapel when as a mere recruit I had listened to the Air Vice-Marshal's address, and I could even now see his confident face in front of me and his lips moving as he pronounced the words: "No airman is to be the father of a child. Failure to comply with this regulation will be punished with the utmost severity." I knew that I could not hope to retain for another day the position of trust which I now occupied when once it became known that I had permitted myself to be an accessory in the breaking of this rule, and I knew that it would be useless to attempt to hide what had taken place. Yet together with this horror and shame I could not help feeling at the same time a certain satisfaction. I had never once envisaged the possibility that I might become a father, and it was a pleasant sort of excitement to discover that I was now on the way to being what I had never imagined. I thought of the many agreeable hours which I had passed with Eustasia and, when I looked at her, I could see that she herself was pleased with what she had no doubt deliberately arranged. "No," I said. "I'm not angry. I'm rather pleased", and as I spoke she left her chair and put her arms round my neck gladly and with a kind of triumph, as though I had surrendered to her something of great value. As for myself, I had been shocked to listen to the words which I had just spoken, for they seemed to show that I was willing to renounce the loyalty which I had sincerely believed to be the foundation of all my activities. I asked myself how I could possibly declare myself pleased at this event, when I was aware that once it became known I should infallibly forfeit the confidence of the Air Vice-Marshal and of my brother officers. I might say that this particular regulation, though valuable for others, was not of so much importance in my case, as, however many children Eustasia might have, my own work would not be affected by them. Yet I could imagine how the Air Vice-Marshal would look if I attempted to make to him so puerile an excuse for my direct disobedience to his clearest instructions. No: I saw nothing for it. My career was evidently at an end, and I was startled to find that I was, though distressed enough, much less distressed at this prospect than I could have imagined possible. Could it be, I wondered, that all this time I had been engaged in a pursuit for which my enthusiasm had been in a way forced and not natural? Had I not had my heart in my work? For now I began for the first time to wonder what was the point of our tremendous programme, what lasting satisfaction was to be obtained from the acquisition of power over men's lives, what were the precise qualities of the new race of men which we designed to promote and for which we were asked to sacrifice what had already begun to appear to me something of importance. I saw that Eustasia was watching me closely. Her large eyes were fixed on my face and there was an expression of eagerness in them, as though she were attempting to drag to her my thoughts from behind my forehead. "You'll have to leave the aerodrome," she said. "We'll go away together." I looked at her in surprise and a kind of consternation, for it appeared that she was convinced that I should accept this proposal without objection, whereas in reality I knew that I had no wish whatever to ally myself with her in any permanent sense. Indeed, I began to see now that what I had chiefly enjoyed in our relationship was the feeling that it could at any time be ended. I fancied that we had both conducted ourselves in accordance with the best traditions of the Air Force. We had given and received pleasure, but had undertaken no responsibilities each to each. Now she was speaking in a manner with which I had no sympathy at all. "We can go away to another part of the country," she was saying. "I've got enough money. We might even get married if I can get a divorce. Really I've always wanted to leave the aerodrome. Oh, I'm so glad that you were pleased." Here she broke off and looked at me with a kind of dismay, for she could no doubt see in my face that I had none of her enthusiasm for the life which she had set before herself. Indeed, I could not imagine her outside the aerodrome, and knew that if I were forced to leave I would much sooner leave by myself. I was conscious of feeling some distaste for her as I reflected that this was the first occasion on which she had ever expressed a wish for my undivided attentions, and that of all occasions this was the one when I was least likely to regard such a prospect as either possible or desirable. Yet I felt somewhat awkward as I told her that to my mind her plan seemed impracticable; that I had never contemplated marriage; that after having left the aerodrome it did not seem likely that we should meet very often in the future; that the love which we had shared was the creation of a particular time and place. As I was speaking I saw that her eyes were filling with tears, but soon she brushed them from her eyes with the back of her hand in a gesture that seemed to me curiously childish and when she spoke she spoke angrily. She said: "So you never loved me at all", and then looked at me as though she were horrified by what she had said. In a flash I remembered how I had used these very words to Bess in the hut upon the hill, and I was secretly pleased that it was not I who was using them now. I felt a mounting anger, though I was conscious that this anger was both cruel and irrational. I had no wish to hurt her, but was hurt and irritated myself by her expectations from me. Had she not already got what she wanted, I asked myself. How could she imagine that I had failed her? We had promised each other pleasure, never any kind of devotion. "Love?" I said. "It covers a lot. But certainly I loved you, and still do." "Liar," she said, and I looked at her in surprise, for there was no trace of anger in her voice. Her large eyes were wide open and there was a softness in them, a generalized compassion that made me feel that I was looking at a religious picture rather than at a woman whom I had oifended. "With me," she continued, "it has grown and grown. With you it never started to increase. You don't know what love is, unless perhaps you were in love with that mad girl. But I would do anything for you." Her eyes and the corners of her mouth were trembling as she looked at me with no reserve whatever in her face. So, I remembered, the Flight-Lieutenant had looked at her on the occasion of our first meeting; so I myself perhaps had looked at Bess in the course of our last conversation in the hut. There was nothing attractive in the hopelessness and abnegation of such expressions of the face, yet I knew now the misery that lay behind them, and the thought of Eustasia with her gaiety and generosity, a woman who had given me nothing but pleasure, being plunged on my account into this misery was a thought that was unspeakably painful to me. I knelt on the carpet by her side, holding her in my arms and kissing her. And as we made love I felt perhaps as wretched as she did, for we were both of us aware that something new had come into our relationship, throwing suddenly out of all proportion what had previously appeared so symmetrical; or else that in a moment there had become apparent some flaw, hitherto unnoticed, and yet of so serious a kind as to reduce almost to nothing the value of something which had seemed precious. I had no anger for her now, as she had none for me, and her love-making had been rather sad than desperate. We said little to each other, even pretending perhaps in words that no great alteration between us had taken place. Her extreme gentleness made me wish not that I could ease her suffering but that I had never acted in such a way as to have become the occasion for it. It seemed to me then that the Air Vice-Marshal had been right, that by some law of nature a love affair must end in pain. When I left I was aware that there were tears in my eyes, for I knew how weak was my pity when compared with Eustasia's much stronger feelings, and I began to wonder what necessity it was that made my very unwillingness to hurt her more painful to her perhaps than anything else.

CHAPTER XVII

Bess

NOT LONG AFTERWARDS I was walking back to the village from the aerodrome with Dr Faulkner. Some time soon, I knew, I should have to face an interview with the Air Vice-Marshal, which could be agreeable to neither of us, but of this I did not think much, nor even much of Eustasia and of her news. My thoughts were again with Bess, and as I walked I looked from time to time at my companion, wondering how much I should tell him of my old relationship, for I wished him to be in possession of all the facts that might help him in dealing with the case. I had found him very willing to accompany me, although in doing so he was losing the short time of the day in which he was accustomed to rest, and now I looked at him with gratitude, almost as though I were seeing him for the first time. Actually, since I had taken on my new appointment I had seen him nearly every day, for he was on terms of great intimacy with the Air Vice-Marshal; indeed was perhaps his only friend who was not directly concerned with the organization of our final aims. When they were together they would hardly ever talk of the aerodrome, but would discuss such subjects as music, literature, and the general principles of medicine or psychology. These conversations were, I could see, a valuable form of relaxation to the Air Vice-Marshal, and there was no doubt that he valued the Doctor's company very highly. For this reason perhaps the Doctor occupied a unique position in the Air Force. Though he wore uniform, he seemed to have no precise duties, and was given every encouragement to follow his own inclinations in his work. He was recognized as our leading authority on cases of injury to the brain, and had a number of the most remarkable cures to his credit; but in spite of his great reputation and his singular position he was so unassuming as to be almost inconspicuous, for neither his appearance nor his manner were at all remarkable. He was a short stout man with an almost bald head, rather older than the Air Vice-Marshal, I should imagine. His eyes were deep set and keen, but when he was not looking directly at one his large red face made him appear placid, contented, and even lazy, although in point of fact he was capable of working all day and night without a rest, and was as rapid in his thinking as the Air Vice-Marshal himself. There was so much in him that inspired confidence that I determined now to tell him the whole story of my relationship with Bess, and so ready was his understanding and pertinent his questioning that in a very short time I had done so. I had never before related the whole story continuously to anyone, and as I spoke I found myself curiously moved by recollections of the past. It was not that I felt now any shame or much pain at what had taken place; nor had I any definite desires at all for the future. But I thought constantly with extreme pain of the state of mind in which Bess must be now, and was determined so far as possible to help her. This determination was not due to a wish to redress any wrong which I may unwittingly have done her, nor was it an example of any kind of altruism. It was an impulse so strong that I was neither able nor inclined to account for it, and it so far dominated my thoughts that I was at this time indifferent to the trouble and disgrace which, I must have been aware, awaited me in the immediate future. When I had finished my story the Doctor looked at me, I thought, rather oddly. "I take it," he said, "that you have no desire to continue your old relationship with this girl. I believe you are quite content elsewhere." "I don't even think of it," I said, and remembering my recent interview with Eustasia, I did not reply to the second part of his statement. He looked at me again rather as though he were examining me in an official capacity. Then he looked away and began to speak with a curious hesitancy that at the time surprised me. "It is quite possible," he said, "that this girl is suffering at least in part from a sense of guilt. Unfortunately, we judge ourselves much more harshly than others could judge us. However impossible it may have been for us to estimate the effects or even the nature of our actions, we still in the deepest part of us are self-condemned if later events prove us to have been mistaken. This girl believes that she has married her brother, and though at the time she could not possibly have suspected that she was doing so, she none the less cannot forgive herself." I listened without much interest to this diagnosis, which indeed seemed to me sufficiently obvious. After a few moments' silence the Doctor looked at me again. He was frowning as though his mind were concentrated on a subject of unusual difficulty. He appeared to be about to make some important pronouncement, opening his mouth and looking sternly at me; but in a moment looked away from me and said in a careless voice: "The affair is also complicated by her infidelity to you. The case is, in fact, absurdly complicated." Again he stared at me as though he were attempting some difficult work of classification. "I know quite well," he said, "what I ought to do. The question is, can I do it? And if I can do it, can I rely on you?" I was mystified by this remark and by the manner, half embarrassed and half conspiratorial, in which he made it. But he refused either to answer my questions or declare himself satisfied with my assurance that I would do everything that he wished me to do in order to assist Bess's recovery. He shrugged his shoulders, as though he had lost interest in the conversation. "Let's see the girl first in any case," he said, and quickened his pace towards the pub. We soon arrived there and were received in the front parlour by Bess's mother, who proposed at once to show us upstairs to the room in which Bess was. "Perhaps she won't speak to you, Doctor," she said. "Many a time I've been with her and she's stared through me as though I were a ghost. She just sits in her chair looking out of the window and crying. She must lose her strength that way, mustn't she, Doctor?" The Doctor nodded and proceeded upstairs. I was in doubt whether or not to accompany him, and Bess's mother, too, seemed to wish to detain me below; but he took me by the arm and said: "Come up for a minute or two. I'll send you down soon", and as I followed him up the narrow stairway I had to grip tightly the thin iron rail to keep myself upright, so great was the trepidation that had spread over my limbs. The Doctor paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, for he was somewhat short of breath. Then he rapped with his knuckles on the door that faced us, and without waiting for a reply turned the door-handle and entered the room. I followed him, but was no longer aware of him at all after I had crossed the threshold and could see Bess sitting in a long chair by the window with her face turned from us in profile staring, it seemed, at the wall and at the corner of the window. It was neither the pallor of her face nor the thinness of her hands nor the despair of her posture, that so deeply moved me, though all these features I noticed in a moment. I was filled, I believe with the most contradictory feelings, a profound pity for her condition, and an extreme delight at finding myself once more in her presence. I stepped forward quickly and knelt on the floor in front of her, looking up into her eyes which were still averted from me and noticing how large, wide-open, and expressionless they were, or rather how constant was their expression of hopelessness. Very slowly she let her gaze fall from the cord of the window to the top of my head and there her eyes seemed to pause as though reluctant to receive a new impression. It seemed a long time before they rested on my eyes, and I saw in them a slow gleam of recognition and a hint of surprise. Perhaps I was gazing on her too wildly, for soon she began slowly again to raise her head to the position which it had held before and to stare again at the wall and the window by the wall. I saw that she was crying to herself, softly, noiselessly, and almost restfully, without knowing for what she cried, or perhaps even that she was crying at all. The innocence of her face was too unearthly to be called childlike, for it was no confidence in the world but a total resignation to despair that gave her that look of unapproachable peace. But I could not bear not to approach her, and so I took one of her hands in mine and let my head rest in her lap, and so remained for some time. She had some early primroses on her lap, a gift perhaps from a visitor, which lay unregarded on the rough material of her dress. I fixed my eyes on the pink and hairy stalks of these flowers and was conscious for some moments of nothing else but of them. Presently I felt her other hand moving to and fro in my hair, uncertainly in the way that a blind man might use if he were examining some object of whose identity he was uncertain. As I felt her hand and looked at the primroses on her lap, I remembered suddenly and vividly the moment in the past when we had been together in the field listening to the larks singing, the time when I had decided easily and gladly to abandon myself to her love. The promises and ambitions of that time may have been stupid and ill-considered. I had believed them to have become null and void; but I saw now that the feeling that had prompted them could never be recalled. It was not that I had any more a desire to possess her. Such an idea would in any case have been absurd; but I knew in a moment and with certainty that compared with her health and happiness the aerodrome and all that it contained meant nothing to me at all; and in my own mind I insisted on my own right to secure for her what health and hapiness I could. I wished to hold her in my arms and perhaps would have done so, regardless of her frailty, had I not felt the Doctor's hand on my elbow and heard him speak. "Wait for me outside," he said as he pulled me to my feet, and I went to the door and paused there for a moment to look back into the room. He had pushed forward his chair to Bess's side and had begun talking to her at once. "Listen, my dear," I heard him say. "I'm a friend of yours. I used to know your father quite well, and I'd like to talk to you about him. I used to know Roy's father also, and I'll tell you about him, too, if you like." He spoke slowly and cheerfully, without letting his eyes leave her face. I saw her large eyes turn to him and a gleam both of comprehension and of fear momentarily light them up. Then I opened the door softly and went downstairs, my mind too full of my own feelings to allow me to speculate on what story the Doctor was proposing to tell. When I reached the bottom of the stairs I found that Bess's mother was serving in the bar. From behind the door I could hear the voices of men whom I used to know, and these voices were strangely attractive to me, although I knew that the men themselves had little liking for the aerodrome and had already proved themselves incompetent in the work which we had set them to do. I thought of the Flight-Lieutenant's remark - "Somehow these people seem to fit better into the country than we do" - and I began again to wonder what particular merit there was in being expert in the kind of work we did, and for the first time I began to realize the nature and the extent of the sacrifices which we were required to make. Constantly before my mind was the imagination of Bess lying in the upstairs room like a sleeping beauty, with no hint of hapinness to bring back life and gaiety to her wide eyes. I thought, too, of Eustasia and of her disappointment in my love; of the Flight-Lieutenant as he had knelt in the church above the dead body of the Squire's sister; of the Rector's funeral and of the Rector's face when he had confessed to God the murder of his friend. Against these scenes I set the hours of liberty which I had enjoyed with Eustasia, the drinks and easy conversation at the club, the pleasure in becoming expert with a machine and the greater pleasure of sharing in the control of the operations of men. In return for the ease, the security, and the excitement of this life what we had been asked to renounce had seemed to me at the time of little importance. It had been no sacrifice to me to give up my parents when I neither knew certainly nor cared greatly who they were. I had been willing enough to make certain of pleasure in my love affairs rather than risk again the distress which had seemed inseparable from an excess of love. And it had been gradually, almost insensibly, that I had lost touch with the country where I had been bred, looking down on it from the sky with a kind of contempt, indifferent to the changes of climate and of seasons, the rising and falling of the ground, except in so far as these things affected the readings of my instruments or the immediate purpose of the hour. Now I thought with longing, and with shame for my neglect of them, of the meadows whose soil I had not touched for so long, of the clumps of hazel in the spinneys beneath which the primroses and wood anemones would be flowering. And I saw again the stalks of the primroses in Bess's lap, and it seemed to me certain that there was more life even in her despair, even in the Rector's rankling conscience, even in the Flight-Lieutenant's perplexity and in Eustasia's disappointment, than there was in the ease, efficiency, and confidence of our ways. In contrast with the villagers, with women, with clergymen, and squires, we were simple, carefree, and direct, having made ourselves the servants of a single will and imagination, constituting as a result an instrument that could shape like clay, cut through like butter the vague, amorphous, drunken, unwieldy, and unsatisfactory life that was outside our organization. Yet I began to see that this life, in spite of its drunkenness and its inefficiency, was wider and deeper than the activity in which we were constricted by the iron compulsion of the Air Vice-Marshal's ambition. It was a life whose very vagueness concealed a wealth of opportunity, whose uncertainty called for adventure, whose aspects were innumerable and varied as the changes of light and colour throughout the year. It was a life whose un-wieldiness was the consequence of its immensity. No skill could precisely calculate the effects of any action, and all action was dangerous. The fumbling conventions that had centred around church, manor, and public house had been the efforts of generations of the dead to establish some basis of security in the middle of a mystery which to many of them had been delightful as well as startling. We in the Air Force had escaped from but not solved the mystery. We had secured ease for ourselves, discipline, and satisfaction. We had abolished inefficiency, hypocrisy, and the fortunes of the irresolute or the remorseful mind; but we had destroyed also