Outbreak of Love (31 page)

“It
is
worrying,” said Diana, “with John in the army, and Josie just off to Europe.”

“You mustn't worry. It won't happen. As you pointed out, the Emperor has gone yachting. But you're going to Europe yourself. I am delighted to hear that we are to travel on the same ship. You know Mr Lockwood? But of course, you were at his luncheon.”

“Yes,” said Diana. “He's an old family friend. We played together as children.”

“He will be on the ship with us.”

“I think he's leaving a week earlier.”

“Only to go to Perth. He joins our ship there. I thought you would know this.”

Diana was puzzled by this conversation. She wondered how Miss Rockingham knew all this, and there seemed an odd hint of complicity in her remarks. Probably Russell had thought it wiser to tell her of his movements, than suddenly to appear on the ship. Perhaps she had been trying to find out how much Diana knew of his plans. But she appeared to be very friendly. She praised Josie highly, saying: “She will make all the young men come out to find Australian wives.”

When the men came in from the dining-room, Wolfie did not look happy, and as they drove away he said:

“It was not good so to speak of my countrymen before my true face.”

“English people can be hideously rude,” said Diana carelessly, although they had been very polite to herself.

“But those are noble.”

“That only makes them think it doesn't matter.”

Wolfie was not soothed by this explanation, but Diana controlled a further impulse to comfort him.

Josie came alone to Brighton on the next day, her last in Australia for many years. Diana had thought that being alone with Wolfie and Josie might create awkward tensions, and disturb the delicate balance of her attitude to him, which, in spite of his speech at the wedding, he appeared to accept. And she thought that it might cause her some pangs, but on the contrary she had a sense of calm, that a phase of her life was over, and that this was its pleasant and peaceful ending. She did not repudiate this phase in her mind, but only regarded it as complete. It had been marked by anxieties and troubles, but also had its rewards, in the affection, if not the gratitude, of the children for the efforts she had made for them. They might feel gratitude in another thirty years, as she now felt a belated gratitude to her own mother. The children had chosen the lives, which, she thought, really suited them. Daisy was happy in her semi-squalor, describing every young man who came to the house carrying a violin or painting materials as “brilliant”. Harry was happy to be away from the bright spirits of his blood, amongst the Presbyterian sheep-farmers, while Josie, the only one really fitted for it, was returning to civilization. She was saved from not exactly the wreckage, but from what, by the standards of Diana's youth, was a kind of disintegration of the family. Her own mother had been really cultivated, acquainted with people of note in Europe, and rich enough to express her taste, and also to sustain her family above the level of poverty. Diana thought that she was a rather dim reflection of her mother. When Daisy married the quite penniless but “brilliant” Jimmy Byngham, that was a further dimming of the same pattern. She hoped that Daisy's children would, in a violent reaction against artistic poverty, go into the city and make fortunes. As it turned out they sank even further into the creative midden. But she could not foresee this and she thought perhaps that everything was tidied up. The phase, the second movement as it were of her life had ended satisfactorily.

Josie stayed to tea, but she had to be back at Government House by six o'clock. Before she left she made a tour of the house and Diana felt that she was saying good-bye to it. But she did not seem to mind, as she said: “When you come back from England you ought to sell this house. It's too big for you and Daddy alone, and it's too far out. Miss Rockingham was praising you tremendously last night after you'd gone. She said that you had so much elegance. You waste it out here clipping hedges. You ought to build a nice little house in South Yarra where you can see your friends.”

Diana was amused at the new assurance in Josie's manner, but she only agreed that perhaps the house should be sold. There was plenty of time to think about it.

She called to Wolfie that Josie was leaving, and puffing at a meerschaum pipe he came out of his music-room. He might have been emotionally dramatic at this departure of his daughter from her childhood's home, but the slight melancholy that he had felt at luncheon, thinking that this was the last meal he would have with her for many years, had wakened a sad little cadence in his mind, and he was now preoccupied with working it into a prelude. He kissed her absently and said that he would see her on Friday on the ship.

When they went to Port Melbourne to see her off, and found her and John surrounded by the staff from Government House, Sophie, Cynthia, Aunt Maysie and all kinds of important people, he thought it a nice party, and became gay and pompous, and forgot to be sad.

Diana spoke to her for a few moments in her cabin.

“Well, darling,” she said, “it's only about seven weeks till I see you again—no longer than when you went on that holiday to Queensland.”

“But if there's a war, Mummy?” asked Josie, puckering her forehead.

“Don't worry. There won't be a war, and if there is it couldn't last more than a month—so Mr Lockwood says. People aren't as silly now as they used to be. They don't want to wreck their own countries.”

“Still, I wish there wasn't all this talk,” said Josie.

“You mustn't think of it. Everything before you is wonderful.”

They kissed a little tearfully, and went back on deck, where Wolfie was entertaining a large circle.

Six days later Russell collected her, not at the house, as for some reason Wolfie had not gone to the Conservatorium, but at the Brighton Beach railway station. She felt that this kind of subterfuge was sordid, but as it was the last of their meetings she almost appreciated it as a reminder that it would never again be necessary. They drove on down the coast road to Mornington and sat under the ti-tree at the top of a cliff looking at the sands of the little bay below them, and across the placid waters of Port Phillip, which is practically an inland sea. On the horizon a ship was steaming towards the heads.

“I shall be out there tomorrow,” said Russell, “and you in another week.”

“Yes. The way's clear at last,” said Diana, but there was not absolute conviction in her voice, He noticed it and said:

“You don't sound absolutely certain.”

“Oh, I am.” She was faintly surprised. “I suppose I was thinking about the possibility of war.”

“But we've agreed that wouldn't change our plans. Even if the very worst happened, and we couldn't get to England, we could stay somewhere quietly in Western Australia, but I don't think that's likely.”

“I don't mind what we do if we are together and free,” she said.

They walked down the cliff path to the beach and picked up shells from the sand. Diana tied a few pretty ones in her handkerchief. After a while they climbed back and strolled round the little township, until they found a primitive tea-shop, where they sat on a veranda, drinking strong tea and eating dry, solid, yellow cake.

“I love doing this sort of thing,” said Diana, “going to look at some pleasant place and having tea out of doors. I think my parents only felt at home in a coach or a train. I must have inherited the feeling. Perhaps all Australians have it or they wouldn't have come here in the first place, unless they were transported, and that may have given them the taste for travel.”

“I'm really happiest travelling too,” said Russell. “I can't imagine anything more perfect than travelling with you, and not having black tea under a tin veranda, but lunching under the vines at Frascati, and looking down across the Campagna to Rome.”

“But it's nice here too,” said Diana, “in the winter sunlight.”

“Yes, but that will be heaven.”

“Shall we have a house? We haven't thought anything about that? Or an apartment? Where shall we live d'you think?”

He thought the best thing would be to travel for a year, all the time looking out for some place where they might finally settle, which he felt would most likely be in Italy. He described places they might go to, a few of which she had seen, but only in brief glimpses, and twenty years ago.

“I'm just beginning to realize how wonderful it will be,” she said. “Up till now, because of all the things I've had to deal with first, it has seemed a little unreal, like a dream. But now the dream is beginning to take colour and more definite shape. This afternoon is like a foretaste, but it's rather like a dream too. It's so peaceful here, and I don't mind the black tea and this sawdusty cake. Perhaps it will become a dream, and when we're at Frascati I shall say: Wherever was I sitting under a tin veranda, eating yellow cake and feeling blissfully happy?”

They sat talking until the sun was low across the bay, and the air became chilly. It was dark when they reached Brighton, and he pulled up by St Andrew's church, with its sandy, scrubby graveyard, from where she could easily walk home.

“This has been a wonderful afternoon, Russell,” said Diana. “The first, when we could look straight ahead. Not only that, it was lovely to be with you down there by the sea. I felt as if we were in Italy already.”

“There'll be thousands more like it.”

“Thousands? Isn't that a great many?”

“There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. So only three years is about a thousand.”

“When one afternoon has been so lovely, it sounds overwhelming. But I would have liked this afternoon to go on for ever.”

“So would I. I don't want to leave you now.”

“I don't want to leave you.”

“Shall we just drive on?”

She smiled. “Not now—but quite soon.”

It was nearly dark now and there was no one about. He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. He opened the door of the car for her, and stood watching her cross the road. They were not to meet again until Fremantle, as she could not very well go to see him off at the ship. When she reached the other side of the road, she waved her hand, and again before she turned down the side street which led to the sea.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Russell sailed the following afternoon and on the same day France declared war on Germany. On Monday England declared war on Germany. On Wednesday was Mildy's birthday party. On Friday Diana was to sail for Europe.

On the day England declared war Mildy rang up Westhill and said to Steven: “Of course my party's off?”

“No, why?” asked Steven peevishly.

“But the war!”

“I don't suppose the Germans will arrive in Melbourne before Wednesday,” he said, and rang off.

In spite of this, during the next two days, Mildy talked more of the impropriety of her having a birthday party after war had been declared, than of the cataclysm itself.

We drove to the hotel through crowded streets, where newsboys were shouting special editions. People had streamed in from the suburbs to learn the last-minute news, and to enjoy the feeling of excitement. When we joined my parents in the hotel there was a slight feeling of apprehension, but no lack of cheerfulness. When the Flugels arrived Steven said: “We asked George and Baba but she couldn't come.”

“That is nice,” said Wolfie complacently. Cynthia arrived and we went in to dinner.

Steven said to Mildy: “What shall we drink? You're the birthday queen, so it's for you to choose.”

Mildy did not answer, but opened her pale blue eyes with an expression of astonishment. This was meant to express gratitude at his magnificent generosity. He merely thought as usual that she was off her head, and asked irritably: “Well, what wine d'you want?”

“Is it right to drink wine in wartime?” answered Mildy pursing her lips.

“Good Lord! What wine d'you want?” he repeated.

“Any wine is a nice treat,” said Mildy humbly.

“Champagne is nice,” said Wolfie.

Steven laughed and ordered two bottles of champagne. Several people whom we knew were dining at the hotel. They were all talking about the war and some stopped at our table to ask Steven's opinion or to give their own. One with a red, jovial face said: “I bet it's over in three weeks.” Another, more pessimistic, said he thought that it would last till Christmas.

Mr Hemstock came in with the Cambridge couple, who had just returned from three months' primitive sex observation in the Northern Territory. He stopped behind our table and boomed: “Good evening, Miss Cynthia.” Cynthia introduced him to Laura and Steven.

“Ah, the squire of Westhill,” he said. Steven was not very agreeable, as he disliked being made part of the bogus eighteenth-century atmosphere which Mr Hemstock built up for his Johnsonian role, especially as he was still the authentic squire of Waterpark, which was not sold until after the war.

Mr Hemstock spoke with an air of immense gravity about the war, enjoying the feeling of moral grandeur this gave him. He had a sense of power, of inflicting a stern duty on mankind as he said: “I do not see how it can end before fifteen or twenty years. But we shall smite them. Be sure we shall smite them, and doubtless this young man will be of the first.” He put a lecherous hand on my shoulder.

When he had passed on I muttered to Mildy: “The old fool! I'd like to stick a knife into his hot-water bottle.”

Mildy giggled with pleasure at sharing a secret with me. She had now overcome her scruples and had drunk a fair amount of wine. About many things, in fact most things that did not affect herself, she was incapable of instinctive good feeling. She had to see what others were doing, and because she had the intelligence to know that her moral sense was, at it were, floating, she was always nervous of doing the wrong thing. Now that she saw that others besides ourselves were drinking wine in wartime, she was only too eager to have her full share.