Through the Wall

Chapter 15

When Richard Cunningham had gone away down the road to Farne, the part of Marian’s mind which had been troubled about Ina began to take charge. It was nearly seven o’clock. She had not realized that it was so late until Richard looked at his watch. He had exclaimed, and she had known very well that he would have liked to stay on, but she had not asked him. There had been a sudden withdrawal, a cold breath of fear not definitely attributable to anything special. It was just as if they had been sitting out in a sunny place and all at once the sun was gone and it was cold. She walked with him to the gate, and he said,

“When shall I see you again?”

“I don’t know. Would you like to come over tomorrow?”

“You know I would. What time?”

She said, “Lunch, if you like,” and watched him walk down the road before she turned back to the house and to the realization that she was definitely worried about Ina.

But she was only half way up the stairs when she heard a step going to and fro above. She came out on the landing, to see that the door of one of the two empty bedrooms was open and Ina standing there waiting. She looked pale and tired. As Marian came up to her, she said in a plaintive voice,

“What ages you’ve been.”

“But I didn’t know you were in. I’ve been worried.”

“You didn’t sound worried. I’ve been in my room, and I could hear you and that man talking. You just went on, and on, and on-I thought he was never going to go. I suppose it was Richard Cunningham?”

“Yes.”

Ina caught her breath.

“I heard you on the telephone.” She flung her arms suddenly round Marian’s neck. “Oh, darling, I’m a pig! Did you have a nice time? I do really hope you did. I saw him when he was going away, and I thought he looked terribly nice. Is he going to come again? Shall I see him? I wanted to come down, but I was afraid I was going to cry.”

Marian said, “Why should you cry?” But of course she knew.

Ina let go of her with a sob.

“I’m so unhappy!”

“You’ve been meeting Cyril?”

“Yes. He rung up when you were in the kitchen with Eliza. I went to meet him in Farne.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ina dabbed at her eyes.

“It really was partly because I didn’t want to spoil your day. I opened the study door when you were talking to Richard Cunningham, so I knew he was coming over-at least I didn’t think it could be anyone else.”

Marian said, “I wanted you to meet him.”

“I met Cyril.”

“And what did Cyril want?” Marian’s tone was dry.

There was a pause before Ina said,

“He hasn’t any money. He wants to come here.”

Marian thought, “Well, we’ve come down to brass tacks. Money-that’s all that ever does bring him back, but she’s never faced it before. Poor Ina!”

She saw the colour run up to the roots of Ina’s hair.

“Marian-”

“When does he want to come?”

“Now-tonight-for supper. I told him to wait till then. He hasn’t got any money at all. He was expecting some, but it didn’t turn up. He-he-said to tell you he was sorry- about the things he said. He didn’t mean them. Everybody says things they don’t mean when they’re angry-I do myself.”

It was a lame and faltering performance. There was no conviction in Ina Felton’s voice. She looked anywhere except at her sister. Marian couldn’t bear it. She never had been able to see Ina hurt. She said as lightly as she could,

“That’s all right. Of course he can come, and we’ll talk things over. But he must try and get a job.”

Ina nodded.

“He says he will.” She turned abruptly to the window.

It wasn’t until then that Marian noticed that the room had been got ready for a visitor. There was soap on the wash-stand, and two clean towels on the old-fashioned towel-horse. The carafe had been filled, and the bed made.

Standing at the window with her back to her, Ina said,

“I’ve put him in here.”

Cyril strolled in a quarter of an hour later with a deprecatory “My dear-” for his sister-in-law and a sunny smile for his wife. For eight years Marian had managed to keep her eyes shut to the fact that these manifestations really meant nothing at all. Cyril might not be a very good actor on the stage, but in private life he could play any part with ease and charm, and so convincingly as to be quite carried away by it himself. At the moment he was, in all sincerity, the careless, impulsive fellow whose tongue has run away with him, but whose heart is so very much in the right place. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that it overflowed with brotherly affection for Marian and devotion to his wife. He was wounded but uncomplaining over the spare bedroom, and exerted himself to be the best of good company at supper.

Penny, invited to come over and have coffee, was given what might be called a preview by Eliza Cotton, who had stepped in for the purpose, supper being cold and all put out on the table.

“Tongue like a leaky tap-drip, drip, drip, and nothing that’s any more good than what you’d let run down the sink. Darling this, and darling that!”

“He didn’t!”

Eliza snorted.

“Not to me, he didn’t.” Then, after an ominous pause. “Not yet. But I don’t doubt he’ll come to it. Darling, or sweet or both-they just run off his tongue. It’s ‘Marian darling,’ and ‘Ina my sweet,’ and arms round their shoulders, and bouncing up to open doors enough to turn you giddy. Tried it on Mactavish-called him ‘Puss’ which he hates like any poison-and who wouldn’t-and snapped his fingers at him to come.”

“What did Mactavish do?”

“Didn’t let on he so much as knew he was there-waved his tail and went out of the window. And if he’d touched him he’d have scratched.”

Penny’s eyes were round and serious.

“Poor Ina! Eliza, are you sure? Perhaps he just doesn’t know about cats.”

Eliza looked down her nose.

“Never was surer about anything in my life. There was one like him down at Bury Dene where I used to stay with my aunt. Jim Hoskins his name was-curly hair and blue eyes, and all the girls running after him. Joked with all of them, kissed a good few more than ever told, and married the one that had the most in her stocking foot, poor girl. She never was sorry for it but once, and that was all her days. Next thing anyone knew, the money was gone and so was he, and she was taking in washing to provide for his twins.”

Penny giggled.

“Well, Ina hasn’t got twins.”

“Not yet,” said Eliza, and departed in the odour of disapproval.

Penny went over. She wondered afterwards whether Cyril would have charmed her if Eliza hadn’t got in first with her Awful Warning. Perhaps he would, and perhaps he wouldn’t-she didn’t know. She saw that neither Ina nor Marian was being charmed. Marian was quiet and thoughtful, and Ina had smudges under her eyes. Nobody talked very much except Cyril, and the more he talked and the more charming he was, the less Penny liked him. Felix might have the worst manners in the world, but he didn’t smarm. He didn’t say darling unless he meant it, and if it didn’t happen very often, that was because he was so desperately unhappy, poor lamb. Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Felix was being shorn to the quick, and when there wasn’t any more to be got Helen Adrian would just toss it all away and go and look for somebody else. Like an odd sympathetic echo set off by the nursery tag, there slipped into Penny’s mind the words of a proverb she had heard Eliza use. Something about going out for wool and coming home shorn. She was to remember that afterwards.