He thought of course, and all the time, about Brownie. He did not want to tell Brownie either, though it would at least serve as an explanation of his boorish departure if he could tell her the reason. If he confessed to her that would make an extra bond, between them; yet the revelation could not but be ‘too much’. Brownie had perhaps, though he might never know, forgiven him for what he did to Mark. How could he be forgiven? At any rate she had put her arms around him. If he told her he had done this thing as well, she would shudder away from him as from some damned and mutilated outcast. With all this however, in the poor confusion of his mind, he yearned for Brownie, he pictured her sitting in a chair while he laid his head on her knee and she gently stroked his hair. At times he desired her fiercely and embraced her in waking dreams, feeding on her kisses. But these desires were terrible to him, as glimpses of an inaccessible paradise. He did not know where she was, and his present task was to find Jesse. He could not go round to Mrs Wilsden’s house. He thought of writing to Brownie there, but could not bring himself to compose the letter, which in any case her mother would probably intercept. What could he say about their last meeting? And if he wrote, he would dread receiving no reply or else a cool polite one. At present, it was better to wait and to keep even hope upon a leash. Brownie’s emotion and her kindness were perhaps momentary impulses which later she would be glad to leave behind, together with her sense of having done enough for the man who had killed her brother. Yet hope, in the guise of faith, remained to him, and he felt sure that Brownie would not abandon him, and that soon somehow they would be together again. Soon, after he had found Jesse, he would find Brownie.
Anxiety does strange things to time. Every day dawned as the day when his uncertainty might end, so the end was kept near. Yet that would still be so if he had the peculiar doom of having to spend the rest of his life searching for his father. Ilona had said that she would ‘let him know’, but would she? She was probably angry with him, she must feel that he had betrayed and denied the love which he once said he felt for her. This thought hurt Edward with a special separate pang of guilt and sadness. In any case, could she write, get hold of a stamp, post the letter? And if he wrote to her would she get his letter or would
they
seize it first? Edward now regretted that he had not told Mother May and Bettina that he was going, thanked them for their kindness. He ought to have put on a pleasant and courteous demeanour instead of running off like a thief. He should not have appeared to treat them as enemies. His flight must suggest desperation, perhaps arouse suspicion. But what could they suspect him of? Even more terrible and dark thoughts had already begun to breed in Edward’s mind as he went over and over the events of that dreadful day. As he had been going through the door Mother May had tried to stop him, she had cried ‘Edward!’ Did she know that Jesse had walked out? Were they hoping that at last … he had gone out to dire …? Were they afraid that Edward might find him before he had had time to …? Or, where was Bettina? Was she perhaps at that very moment drowning him, holding his head down under water like someone drowning a big dog? When Edward had come back Mother May had said, ‘He is all right. He is sleeping.’ Did she mean — dead? After all they must have wanted him to die, because of the horror of his continued being. These thoughts were so sickening that Edward tried to bury them. He detested and feared them especially because he might be tempted to believe in them in order to exonerate himself. If
that
was how it was, then Jesse would have died anyway. He felt such awful pity for his father, and the pity was almost worse than anything. It was somehow in association with these nightmarish speculations, as it were as something of the same sort, that it bccurred to Edward that he might go again to see Mrs Quaid. But he had lost the card with her address, she was not in the telephone book, and although he walked more than once round the streets near Fitzroy Square he could not at all remember where her house had been.
‘Look,’ said Harry, ‘let’s not keep going round in circles. I’m not against your telling Thomas, I’m
longing
for you to tell Thomas, so long as it’s part of your getting a divorce and coming to live with me
at once.
You must set the whole thing up together, say it all in the same sentence. I keep suggesting this and you keep hedging. I know you’re frightened of telling him. If you like I’ll tell him. Of course we can’t go on justdepending on the discretion of those two boys! But that brings out the absurdity which has been in this situation all along. When we fell in love I wanted to have it out with Thomas at once, only you wouldn’t. You said you weren’t sure. But you’re sure now, and you still won’t make up your mind — you’re driving me
mad!’
‘I’m sorry — ’
‘Of course what happened at that ghastly house which you would go to — it’s all your fault — ’
‘If you hadn’t got so bad-tempered with the car and backed it into that ditch — ’
‘All right, my fault too, we’ve gone over all that. I know what happened, and Stuart being there, Edward wouldn’t have been so bad, has been a frightful shock. I can see it’s made you feel guilty! Pretty crazy reasoning to start feeling guilty when you’re being found out! Well, I daresay that’s not uncommon!’
‘I’ve felt guilty all along.’
‘Yes, but you’re making a crisis out of it now, and I can’t see why! Midge, your marriage is over. It was never what you really wanted.’
Harry and Midge were seated at a table opposite each other in the little flat, the ‘love nest’ which had so happily occupied Harry’s time and thought, and was to have been a present for Midge, a joyful surprise. They were together in the tiny sitting room. They had not yet been together in the tiny bedroom. It was the afternoon of Midge’s first London day since her return from the country. Harry had been out that morning discussing how to rewrite his novel with a publisher who had shown some interest. He had been annoyed and upset by Midge’s disappearance to Quitterne which he felt she could have avoided. But his brief unavailability had other reasoning behind it, he had not studied Midge for so long in vain. He knew how awful she must feel about the Seegard drama. Of course he felt awful too, but had already put it behind him except in so far as it concerned his immediate strategy. The shock would make Midge retreat, want to tend and soothe her wounded consciousness, repair her lost face, rethink it all into some less disastrous perspective. Whereas what Harry wanted was yet more chaos, more violence, a final advance through the carnage. In all this he would have to manage Midge: to alarm her a little, then to force her. So he felt it would do her no harm to come back to London and not to find him waiting for her telephone call. The abstinence hurt him too of course, as he longed desperately for her company, and even now as they argued felt that deep rhythmic heartbeat of perfect joy which comes from being in the one right place, the presence of the beloved. Midge was looking, today, tired, worried, older, with a sad moving beauty which he knew that certain gestures of his, which he purposely withheld, would change into a happy beauty. She had her ‘smart woman’ look, in the plainest most expensive dark grey coat and skirt, covered with the tiniest faintest black check, and a blue silk blouse open at the neck and a narrow very dark green silk scarf. How long had she spent choosing it all that morning? Ages, he hoped. Her stockings were black with an open-work diamond design, her black high-heeled shoes shone as if her feet had never touched the ground. She was hitching up her skirt and crossing her legs and looking round the room. Harry hoped that she would start to make plans for the flat, adopt it quickly as
theirs
, their first home: a very temporary one, of course, representing an essential intermediary stage.
‘What curtains should we have,’ he said, ‘plain or with flowers and things?’
‘Plain,’ said Midge, ‘if we’re having pictures. I like the brown carpet and the wallpaper. We could have a nice rug.’
‘Oh Midge, I’m so glad you say that, you
believe
in the place! Darling, just believe a little bit more and we’ll be home, safe in harbour. All that dreadful mix-up was a good thing really, it’s moved things on a stage. It means we’ve got to go forward. It’s a challenge, it means life, it means force, it means
avanti!
We must advance with our banners high! Oh Midge, what’s the
matter
with you, you look so quiet and melancholy.’
Midge pushed her multi-coloured mass of hair, which the hairdresser kept so high and fluffy, back from her brow and shook it. Her mouth drooped at the corners. She said, ‘An awful lot has happened somehow.’
‘You mean at Quitterne? Thomas guessing? I’m delighted!’
‘No, he doesn’t guess — and that’s so odd — it’s important — ’
‘God, you don’t mean touching!’
‘He’s so clever and he knows so much about people in a way. But he doesn’t see this. He just doesn’t see. He just trusts me. He’s blind.’
‘Well, what’s happened if it’s not that? Of course, yes, Seegard and so on, but that’s not important in itself, it’s just forcing us to do what we want to do!’
‘You see, I think I had to go to Seegard.’
‘Magnetised by Jesse’s aura, yes, you said! Don’t be plain stupid, my darling. Don’t mix up the past with the future. But go on, why had you to go?’
‘I suppose it was to do with Jesse — ’
‘You never forgot that moment when he said, “Who is that girl?” — and you couldn’t help wondering — whether he mightn’t have wanted you instead of Chloe.’
‘Yes,’ said Midge, throwing back her head. ‘How did you know? Well, yes — but it’s not that — ’
‘You had to triumph over Chloe! I know that’s been one of your aims in life. Chloe dead and Jesse kissing you. And you’ve got hold of me as well. There’s nothing more you can take away from the poor girl.’
‘It was extraordinary — ’
‘Even though he’s old and insane and thought you were Chloe!’
‘Perhaps you can’t imagine — but just to be
touched
by that man — let alone — ’
‘He grabbed you, he enveloped you, he practically ate you! Shall I take you back to him?’
‘I don’t want to see him again. That was enough.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Something’s unsettled you. So it was Jesse, of course, I understand. You need to recover. But, my darling girl, don’t let us waste any more time. We are larger, we are stronger, the world is ours. Compared with us all
that
isn’t anything at all.’
‘Jesse was a marvel — ’
‘Yes, good, but — ’
‘He was a beautiful miracle, but not connected with real life — ’
‘Good — ’
‘Except that somehow — I can’t put this — he somehow — mopped up the past — ’
‘You mean your obsession about Chloe — ?’
‘Not just that — it was as if he touched me and then sent me away — like striking something and making it fly off at a tangent — ’
‘He shot you like an arrow! Good, so now we’re both airborne!’
‘It’s not Jesse that’s bothering me. It’s Stuart.’
‘Yes. His knowing is indeed, one might say, a damned nuisance! He might take it into his head to go and inform on us because he felt he ought to. And
that’s
a very good reason why we should now tell Thomas all about it, in case Stuart does first! Midge, darling,
concentrate
, just imagine how we’d feel if Stuart did! We’d feel like miserable little criminals, mean little liars, found-out cheats — we’d lose all the initiative. That at least we’ve kept all this time, we’ve
chosen
how to play it,
we’ve
chosen. You’re right to say Stuart is the problem. But once you put it like that, you’re right up against the solution!’
‘Stuart won’t tell Thomas.’
‘How do you know he won’t?’
‘He told me so.’
‘He
told
you so?’
‘Yes, I went to see him this morning and he told me.’
‘You met him at my house, you came to look for me and — ?’
‘No, I went to see him at his lodgings, I wanted to talk to him — ’
Harry jumped up, knocking over his chair, Midge backed her chair against the wall. The small space was still almost bare of furniture, the walls and windows bare. The plain dark brown carpet, approved of by Midge, alone drew the scene together into a room. There was a smell of fresh paint.
‘You
went to see
Stuart, to
talk
to him — without telling me? What about? Did you go to beg him not to give us away!’
‘Not beg — yes, I did want to know — but not only that — ’
‘What else for heaven’s sake?’
‘I wanted to
see
him — ’
‘You mean to stare at him?’
‘Yes. And to talk too. I used to dream about him. At least I dreamed about a pale man on a horse looking at me. Thomas said it was death. I just realised, when I saw him, that it was Stuart.’
‘All right, he’s a gorgon, but Midge, you’re mad, do you realise what it
does
to me, when you say so calmly that you went to Stuart and talked to him — after all
that
, and his knowing and his witnessing, and his sitting silent in the car, when we so wanted to be together — ’