He laughed with genuine amusement.
“With Jenny? My dear Mother! Of course he was! Everyone in the house knew about it!”
“Not Jenny!” Her voice had a startled sound.
“I should think Jenny most of all. You needn’t worry-she turned him down, you know.”
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
He laughed again.
“I have my methods. Well, I mean it was fairly obvious. You must have been very taken up not to be on to it yourself.”
His words struck home. She frowned. It was true-when he was there she had no eyes or thoughts for anyone else. For a moment she had a clear-cut vision of herself concentrated on the one image. She was not a stupid woman. She knew what she was doing. She knew very well that of the four children of her body only the eldest, only Mac, was the child of her heart. Alan, Meg and Joyce were physical accidents. In Alan’s case, he had been so linked with Mac that the realization of this fact had been, as it were, veiled. Mac and Alan were linked. For Meg and Joyce she felt only a decent family feeling. She would bring them up, and she would marry them off, and that would be the end of it. Meg was going to be pretty. Joyce… Too early to tell.
She came back to Alan. Just as well for him to be out of the way for a bit if he really had this stupid feeling for Jenny. She supposed she should have thought of the possibility before. She said so.
“I suppose I ought to have thought of it, but I didn’t. I oughtn’t to have had her here.”
Mac laughed.
“Oh, there’s no harm done. If he wasn’t in love with her, it would have been someone else. Where’s he going?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t really say-I don’t think he cared. I think the other boy wanted to go to Italy. He said they’d write when they’d settled on a plan.”
Chapter XXIX
Kathy Lingbourne had made up her mind. She was twenty-two, and she had taken her mother’s place at seventeen. Her father was a hardworking solicitor with very little time to spare for his children. In the five years that had passed since Kathy had become mistress of the house all her endeavours had been to supply her dead mother’s place, and to keep her father from being worried. She wasn’t the eldest of the family. That was Len. Then came Kathy, and David, and Heather. They were all close together. Heather, the youngest, was just eighteen. Jimmy Mottingley had been Len’s friend to start with, and she had taken to him at once because he was shy and had very nice manners-much nicer than Len’s. That was the worst of not being the eldest at home. She could manage David and Heather, but when Len wanted to take his own way he took it, and if she said anything he would laugh and say he was two years older than she was, and what about it? Jimmy Mottingley wasn’t like that. He was gentle and rather shy, and he was frightfully afraid of his father and of his mother. Of course they were grim-Kathy admitted that. But he was their only child, and you ought not to be afraid. In a muddled sort of way she thought that to be afraid like that was wrong, and she dimly saw that the more afraid you were, the more harm it did, not only to you, but to the people you were afraid of.
Latterly she hadn’t seen quite so much of Jimmy, and she knew why. She had met Miriam with Jimmy, and Miriam had made her blood boil -she really had. She spoke to Jimmy exactly as if she owned him body and soul, and no one had the right to do that with anyone else. And Jimmy had changed, she saw that at once. And here Kathy blamed herself very much because she had thought about herself and not about Jimmy. She had let herself feel hurt, and she had shown it not only to Miriam but to Jimmy himself. She could still see his look as she turned away, and she could still hear what Miriam had said, not loud but in that dreadful kind of whisper which carries more than anything, “What a frightful girl!” It was after that that Jimmy stopped coming to the house. And it was after that that Kathy began to find out what Jimmy meant to her.
It was no use of course. Jimmy had gone. Miriam had got him. And it wouldn’t have mattered if she had been a different kind of girl. Jimmy wanted someone who was kind and firm, and who didn’t care for herself but only for him. And Miriam wasn’t like that-she wasn’t like that at all. She was hard and self-seeking. She would be very bad for Jimmy. Kathy went through a bitter time of unhappiness, but no one knew about it. And then just when she had got through the worst of it there came that dreadful Monday morning. Len was down first for a wonder. She had come into the room and found him frowning over the paper. She had only to shut her eyes and the scene sprang to life. She came in with the eggs and bacon, and Len turned sharply and said, “Oh, I say, Kathy, here’s a dreadful thing-Jimmy’s got taken up for murder! That beastly girl he used to go about with, she got herself bumped off, and they say Jimmy did it-Jimmy! Why, he couldn’t kill a mouse!”
Kathy saw herself standing quite still. Looking back at it, she saw the whole scene just as if two other people were acting it on the stage. She saw herself putting down the eggs and bacon slowly, carefully, and then turning round to face what was coming to her. She didn’t know what she said. Her memory stuck fast on that one dreadful minute when she knew what had happened, and that Jimmy was accused of murder. It was quite unbelievable, but it had happened.
In the time since then she had gone about her usual jobs. They were not the kind of things you can leave undone. And gradually she began to know what she would do. Jimmy was at Colborough. She would go there and she would try to see him. If they wouldn’t let her, she would try and find out what she must do to get permission. She wasn’t going to ask her father-not yet. When she found out what she must do she would think about whether she would tell him or not. Just at present that would be enough. Things were like that with her-she could see one thing to do and she could do it. When it was done she would think about the next thing, but not till then.
It was Mrs. Crowley’s day for coming in, so she saw her and said that she would be out for the day.
“Mr. Len and my father will be out, but David and Heather will be home to lunch. Just tell them that I’ve gone out for the day, and I don’t know when I shall be back.”
Mrs. Crowley nodded and smiled.
“Do you good to have a day out. Too much sticking to your job’s a mistake, that’s what I say. Do you good it will to get right away from all of it. You’re only young once. You get on with it and enjoy yourself, that’s what I say.”
Mrs. Crowley left a little warmth in her mind. She was a kind woman.
She took the train to Colborough. It was Monday morning. She didn’t remember when she had come away on a Monday morning before. She had come away, and she had left everything. She was very glad that there was no one she knew in the train. She just wanted to sit quiet and think about Jimmy.
It wasn’t until she stood at the prison gates that she thought, “I don’t know what to do.” The idea of getting to the prison had been so fixed in her mind that she had never thought past it to what she would do when she got there. Now, as she surveyed the grim gateway and the high walls, a feeling of despair threatened her. At once she rose to combat it. She had thought that it was all going to be quite easy. That was nonsense. But you couldn’t do anything at all if you let things threaten you. She lifted her head and looked at the prison gates. “I won’t be frightened of them-I won’t-I won’t,” she said to herself.
As she stood there, a little lady in old-fashioned clothes came round the corner. She was walking quite briskly, and ordinarily she might not have noticed the girl who stood looking at the prison gates, but since she intended to turn in at the gates herself she did notice her and, noticing, became sympathetically attentive.