A Desirable Husband (17 page)

‘No, I won’t. You must be mad. It’s – it’s humiliating, and
stupid.
I suppose any minute now you’ll be saying I promised to obey you!’ added Finola.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Gerard lost his faint look of curious amusement.

‘I am
not
being ridiculous, and what’s more I’ll see Winston as often as I like.’
In
public
, she thought, but he did not know that.

‘I ask you not to.’

‘Mummy!’ said Eleanor. ‘Mummy, Richard’s taken my mon-sters and
hidden
them!’

The child stood there, dark and fat in the doorway of the sitting-room, with her face screwed up in fury.

Eleanor showed no interest in any toys but her little slimy rubber animals whom Richard had christened Repellent, Repulsive, Disgusting, Foul, Vile and Squalid. His parents had been surprised to discover that his vocabulary, though he never read, was so large: those words were not often upon their own lips.

‘Well, is this true?’ said Gerard to Richard, who had now pushed past Eleanor and was sitting in front of the fireplace, sulkily stroking the dog.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I won’t tell you where, so there.’

‘This is quite impossible,’ said Finola. She looked at Gerard, and he shook his head, which meant that he agreed that Richard was not the child he had been. Eleanor saw that her parents’ attention was on her brother, and she snarled. The Parnells had the greatest difficulty in trying to understand why it was that a child who was neither passionate, bookish, nor sensitive, who spent his whole time either in a
lethargy or doing violent things with other little boys, could sometimes be unhappy.

With cold contempt they made him confess that he had flushed the rubber monsters down the lavatory.

In September, Constance had both her sons to stay with her at Headington; Gerard did not bring his wife. Finola was staying in the little flat in South Kensington which she and Gerard had bought the previous year, and here Gerard rang her from his mother’s each night at eleven. She made sure that she was always at home at that hour.

Darcy’s affair with Miranda was eighteen months old. He thought that it was not going well, because Miranda was merely fond of him. He wished to convert her properly to love, to make her less like Isabel, and other women of fashion. Because he was having so little success, he was cross to discover that his mother had somehow found out that he was visiting her frequently, in a way which made her sigh with resignation.

‘So nice to have you
both
here,’ she said. ‘Such a pity Finola had other things to do, Gerard.’

‘We’re both very dutiful sons, Mamma,’ said Darcy, opening
The
Times.

They were in Constance’s poky sitting-room, which was over-full of good furniture, but which still had the previous owner’s dark and florid paper on the walls. Constance had acquired two ill-tempered miniature poodles, who were now whining for love and attention by her chair.

‘You’d find someone else to
marry
, darling, if you really were a dutiful son,’ she said, clumsily lighting a cigarette. ‘Hush Deezy-darling! Naughty! Instead of all these married women, and unsuitable girls. I do so want to see you settle down! One is so
lonely
when one’s not married.’

‘Yes, Mamma, darling.’

‘William is beginning to discover that,’ said Constance, looking out into her garden. ‘He is such a
clever
man, and he puts things awfully well sometimes, but he’s really
not
fit to live alone. Of course if we were younger, one might hope – well! Such a pity.’

Darcy thought of his mother as a very frank person, whose affectations were so blatant that they might be charming to some. ‘“The clever men at Oxford know all that there is to be knowed,”’ he said, ‘“But none of them knows one half so much as intelligent Mr Toad.”’ William tended rather to patronise him.

‘Darcy,
what
are you implying?’

‘That our dear Sir William is not worthy of you, Mamma.’

‘Darling!’

‘You’d never laugh if Finola or I spoke to you like that, Mother,’ said Gerard, smiling.

‘One can’t pay any attention to what your brother says just to be clever.’

‘How true,’ said Darcy. ‘That is the opinion of the whole world, darling. I do
everything
just to be clever.’

‘I can’t think what your women see in you.’

‘Sex-appeal, Mamma.’

‘Don’t talk such rubbish, Darcy,’ said Gerard, smiling very broadly now. He thought his mother would be shocked: it was only because he knew Darcy so well that he was not startled himself.

‘Do you deny that I have sex-appeal, Brother?’

‘So nice that we’re all so happy!’ said Constance. Her sons were quietened. They wished sometimes that she could be merely a brisk hunting lady, but they knew that their mother could not be that. They were unusual, as Hugh had always said when he was pleased with them.

‘I ought to go down to the village and catch the post,’ said Gerard, looking at his watch.

Constance took no notice, and began to ask her son questions about the estate, the village, the neighbours at
Combe Chalcot. Darcy took no interest. He was attached to the Cedar House, of which he thought always as home, and he assumed that it was his right to go there when he wished; but he knew nothing about the estate. He always said that he liked to own property which was his and not his family’s, and could therefore be sold. His mind shifted now between Miranda and his work. Suddenly he interrupted Gerard and Constance, and said: ‘You know, Mamma, I do wish you hadn’t called me Darcy. It’s so affected.’ Miranda had told him that she liked plain English names for men, Thomas, William, Henry, Charles: he supposed she had been teasing.

‘It’s a perfectly good Winter name,’ she said. ‘Great-uncle Darcy was a charming man.’

‘You might have changed it,’ said Gerard. ‘You’re rather too old now.’

‘Now, it really
is
affected to change one’s name,’ said Constance.

‘Didn’t Finola do that? What’s her real name?’ said Darcy suddenly.

‘It is her real name. She changed it to Fenella when she joined the Wrens, apparently, but she told me that she was actually Finola and I told her it was a much prettier name. So she went back to it: I can’t think why she wanted to change it.’

‘She wanted a new personality,’ said Darcy, crossing his hands. ‘That’s the trouble, one does need to be so strong-minded to persuade people to call one something else. I only know one man who’s done it, and as it seems he was christened Gwynfor, one can hardly blame him. Lowell, you know, Gerard,’ he added, turning.

‘Oh, Welsh I suppose,’ said Constance.

‘I didn’t know he was Welsh,’ said Gerard. Yesterday Gerard had discouraged Darcy from teasing him about Winston’s fondness for Finola: Darcy had told him that Lowell was indeed a bad man, and Gerard would have to rely upon his wife’s virtue alone. ‘I knew he was in the Welsh Guards, of course.’

‘On his mother’s side, I believe.’

‘I can’t think why he chose Winston.’

‘Oh, don’t be obtuse, Polly dear,’ said Darcy, smiling. ‘I told him myself it was far too obvious, it seemed to amuse him.’

*

As a born Londoner, Finola had a very limited knowledge of the city. She knew Earl’s Court and South Kensington very well indeed, but she did not know what lay south of the river, and had never been to Westminster Abbey or the Tower. Only once, when she was a child, had she visited the Zoo, and when Winston offered to take her again, one Friday afternoon, Finola gravely accepted. He knew London far better than she, and he loved it as Alice did.

They walked up from the Zoo to Primrose Hill, where Finola admired the lanterns by the side of the paths, and the loaded hawthorn trees. It was a warm and clear day, but rather smoky in town. She walked a little ahead of him, as she always did when they were out in public, from a nervousness which she told herself was foolish, after all this time. When she was walking with Gerard, she was often quite happy to dawdle behind him, if she did not walk by his side; it saved her from having to think about where she was going.

They reached the top, and found the air was too thick to allow them to see the dome of St Paul’s. A few other people were there, and Winston and Finola paused for a minute or two, before walking down the other side, to the obscurer part of the hill.

Since coming close to a quarrel with Gerard on the subject of Winston, Finola had thought about him far more often than she had done before. Because (like Gerard, before she was engaged to him) Winston had never done more than take her arm, the thought of him was often with her late at night. Finola recognised now that his slowness was beginning to annoy her; it was as though he did not find her as attractive as he should. The sight of him, and the thought of his pressing her, made her feel that a crazy love must surely follow a frightened enjoyment of messy, bloodthirsty
sex. She blushed to think of it. Finola was certain that she was now grown-up and wordly, and full of self-knowledge. She would not think of Gerard, who was stiff, indifferent, and old. She and he had never finished that quarrel which the children had interrupted, never talked about anything since June 2nd but when they were going to London, and what they were going to eat. Gerard’s digestion was becoming a great problem to Finola.

Winston knew that he must frustrate Finola in order to win her, and he was a great believer in the deferring of pleasure. He wished all the same that it were possible to see her more often, to move a little more quickly; the practical difficulties of adultery had meant that she and he had met only three times since June. On these occasions, he reminded himself, it had not been necessary to go back over old ground in conversation, or to cope with her fear. He had noticed that Finola no longer appeared to be in the least frightened of him, and he thought perhaps he should not have teased and calmed her, by inviting Alice to his rooms when she was there.

I would do it, thought Finola, as she looked ahead towards the dark brown backs of the houses of Elsworthy Road. I need experience of real life, I never did anything when I was young. I wish he weren’t so ugly. She did not think of Gerard.

They walked on the thick grass, away from the path. Finola was a little worried about the state of her idlers, which should not get damp, but she followed Winston all the same. When they were very near the shade of a hawthorn tree, he pulled her towards him and kissed her roughly on the mouth.

Winston did not stop. Although she struggled, she was panting, and he thought it quite unnecessary to stop. He pushed his hands beneath her open coat and laid his stout fingers on her breast, grasped her by the waist, forced her head back and bit her neck; then picked her up with one arm and half-dragged her under the tree, although he knew that he could hardly make her his mistress there. It was not as
though they both were young, or beyond considering propriety.

‘No, no! Stop it! You beast!’ shouted Finola. She had imagined a single hard and penetrating kiss.

‘Don’t say that – shut up – come on.’

‘
Stop
it
!’ she yelled. ‘Stop
IT
. I’ll never, never – God!’

He released her suddenly, and looked. She seemed to him to be extremely angry, and he adjusted his thoughts temporarily. She looked almost, for a moment, as though she were going to be sick.

Her anger went as soon as he let go of her, and she tried to catch it, but disappointment was too strong, and she sobbed, although no tears came. Quickly she hurried out into the full daylight again, and stood, shaking, waiting for him. ‘I didn’t
want
you to do that,’ she said.

‘I thought it worth trying,’ said Winston, who had pulled his own overcoat round his knees. ‘One never knows one’s luck.’

‘Well, you’re bloody well not going to try again!’ She realised then that he could have raped her in the empty park, and no one would ever have known. If she were to have told anyone about it, he would have presumed she had rather enjoyed it. Finola was trembling. She had enjoyed a picture seemingly close to it, alone in bed at Combe Chalcot.

Winston moved on the grass, and looked out at her. She glanced away, back up to the top of the hill. In the end he was only repulsive, not exciting at all. There would never be anyone else, but she could not cry about that now.

‘After so much patience on my part, and going so well!’ said Winston.

She would have to excuse herself and explain to him, because she could not very well run away, run a long way to the nearest bus stop, dishevelled and alone, at her age and dressed as she was.

‘You must not do that,’ she said, hearing her own words very clearly. She had barely taken in what he had just said. ‘Because it’s
wrong.
I mustn’t do it. Don’t you understand? If I give in to you, I’ll just die. I’ve got to think of Gerard –
I’ve got to. If you m-make a big thing of it, I’ll probably give in, and then what will happen? It’ll be all right for you.’ She did not know quite why she was telling these lies, implying that he had power over her, and that she would be ruined, if he did not choose to be merciful. To Finola, her last words sounded rather insulting.

Winston got up and walked out from under the tree, a little bent, but with his head held high. He had thought for a moment that he had repelled Finola, and he knew that to many women he was extremely attractive.

‘Don’t look so frightened, Mrs Parnell.’

She jumped at his insolence. ‘I’m not frightened of you.’

He was beside her now, and she began walking.

‘Shall I take you home?’

‘No. I must be able to get a taxi outside the Zoo, or a bus or something.’ It now sounded to her as though he had forgotten everything, it meant so little to him.

‘I wish you would give in,’ he said. ‘Come, Finola, don’t pretend.’

‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I don’t love you. That’s why its wrong.’ That was true.

‘But didn’t I tell you I love you?’

‘No you didn’t, and you don’t, or you’d have told me ages ago and not tried to –’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He was a most frustrating man.

Finola remembered that once he had embarrassed her, by telling her it was clear that she and Gerard loved each other very much. He had had no business to make any such remark, and make her doubtful.

‘We can’t see each other again, of course,’ she said stiffly.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Oh, I must be mad!’

‘There is one slight difficulty,’ said Winston. ‘Aren’t you giving a dinner-party in London next month? I think I’ve been invited.’

‘Well you’re not invited any more. You can say you’re ill on the night.’

‘Oh, but I don’t want to do that.’

‘Then I’ll tell Gerard I’ve – quarrelled with you, and I don’t want you to come.’

‘Nonsense, Finola.’

‘I shall, Winston.’

‘You’ll do yourself a great disservice if you say anything about it.’

‘Actually, I won’t.’

‘Of course, I would suffer too,’ said Winston pleasantly, after a moment. ‘I suppose Gerard would think he ought to cut me when we met, and of course if I tried to join the Athenaeum, he could always blackball me.’

‘He wouldn’t do anything so conspicuous,’ said Finola, who was now crying at this mockery, but determined to do her best. ‘He wouldn’t want people to talk.’

‘It’s not precisely conspicuous, to blackball a man.’ Winston had never tried to join a club in St James’s, for fear of being rejected.

I hate you, thought Finola. You are coarse.

‘Dry your tears, Finola. There, I didn’t mean to upset you so much.’

‘I didn’t know I would be so upset!’ she said. His last remark made her cry harder. ‘I’m sorry – but I’ve always hated that part of life.’ Another lie, she thought. A bad lie.