In her early twenties love had been the most important factor, and no good had come of it because it hadn’t been the most important thing to her husband. It was only now that she realized how little love he had been able to give her, both physically and from his spirit. He had wanted to give her all the love in the world (much as if it were a collection of Boy Scout honours and Sunday school prizes), great amounts of it (to recall one of his phrases), to smother her with far more love than she really needed. This was all very fine and well, she recalled, except that he hadn’t as much to give as he thought he had. The power of his emotions was so great that it held back the considerate speeches that should have been made; and whereas he saw it as a sign of the overpowering love within him — which it may have been — it only served to prevent him transferring this love to someone else. It was a deadlock that nothing could cure. The only chance was if she called off the fight and left him. Hadn’t he indicated once in a quarrel that he had so much love to give, and that it was her fault that he couldn’t give it to her, that maybe one day he would find someone with whom a sharing of his great and beneficial love would be perfectly natural and easy? Her unwillingness or inability to accept his love was killing him. After leaving, she suspected that this great untransferable passion he had raved about was really no more than self-love. Perhaps she was unjust in thinking this and, being able to use more intelligent and realistic terms nowadays, knew that maybe her side of it also needed explaining.
The end had been a nightmare, a violent festering wound finally causing death to the body politic of their married life. In the final weeks he had threatened to kill her, then to kill himself — in that order. The house had been a battlefield. He went off to Manchester for a three-day conference, and she knew that he wanted her to take this as an opportunity for going away, of leaving him in peace and sanity. She could, of course, have been mistaken, but she also had wanted to use these seventy-two hours to arrange her retreat from that bleak Labradorian coast of a wrecked and rotten marriage.
Now, in her isolation, she couldn’t understand how it had taken twelve years to find out that it wasn’t going to work. But the twenties of one’s life were like that: painful and slow, to which one tried continually to adjust against the most impossible odds. It was no use brooding on it, for that would merely show that they still had power over you, and such a thing was humiliating to a woman like Pat in her early thirties.
She hadn’t thought about it much before. What was the point? It was no use easing the plaster off a sore place until the wound had healed, and she admitted that hers hadn’t yet, though it was well on the way since she could reflect on it without getting back to the pain and dread. But to expose it to the fresh air of anybody else’s gaze would be both useless and uninteresting. She was very conscious of being now in her thirties, of having crossed certain chaotic miserable territories and landed on a sounder shore. It was no less hard and perilous, but things were seen more clearly than before. She felt more confident now, saw that some mishaps could even be avoided, armed as she was with this new foresight and intelligence. As the twenties had been ruined by love — or her preconceptions about it — so her thirties would be made by work. She grew to believe that work was the most important thing in one’s life. It was the rails, the mainstay, the only valid reason for being alive. Without embarrassment she remembered her parents stating exactly this, and she had scornfully denied it, calling them cynical, materialistic, Victorian, but now she knew they were in some way right. The difference was that her idea of work was not theirs. After twelve years of marriage to an advertising copywriter, she saw it clearly. His work to her parents was honest because it was greatly rewarding. Her work — to her — was better because it was rewarding in another way. She didn’t want to explain it further than that; but even that was far enough for her to accept the maxim that work was the only thing worth living for. As for love, well, that would either come or it would not.
There was no doubt though that lately she had been getting into a solitary state from which she could only emerge as an old maid with a cat on her shoulder. She couldn’t have set herself up in a more remote place. There wasn’t much friendship for her in this village. People were cheerful when their noses weren’t pressed to the soil by hard seasons, and talked to you often enough, but you were expected to do all the listening. The ordinary people respected her as the nurse, told of their simple and significant troubles, but from a distance that she could never cross. The so-called ‘gentry’ didn’t consider her worth knowing beyond the ‘Good morning, how are you?’ stage. As a nurse they all imagined she was someone who didn’t need ordinary human contact, and thought that her job gave her more than she could want. All she had to look forward to were the holiday visits of her eleven-year-old son, but even these were shared with her husband, and didn’t exactly fill her with the intimate and interesting conversation she had gone without all the rest of the year. Still, it was true that she did not rationalize this as solitude, and she did not complain about it now, either. She could not dislike the two years she had so far spent alone, partly because she might have to do so for a very long time, and also from a real and gentle feeling for solitude remembered from the time when she was without it. Since leaving her husband she had a way of liking whatever state her new life led her into. This was an advantage for her wellbeing, but she also saw that it was not so good to glory in such a state of mind, since certain deadnesses of perception and a limitation of experience also went with it. Such a thing was to be expected, but that too would change. After all, not only could you not have everything, but as far as she was concerned it was often true that the less you had the more might be in store for you later. This was a parsimonious, puritanical, yet unpredictable state of mind, at the mercy of any strong outlandish circumstance that came unexpectedly from beyond the outer limits of such prickly defences.
3
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘come in a moment.’
It was a plainbricked four-roomed cottage and, when he entered, a steep flight of stairs faced him. One door to the right led into a parlour, that to the left, a dining-room. ‘Leave your pack by the stairs.’ He dropped it and followed her into the dining-room. On the table was a tea tray, and she took another blue-ringed beaker from the shelf: ‘Sit down and have some tea. That is, unless you’re determined on water.’ She was tall, had ginger hair and flowerblue eyes, thin lips that smiled back at him. Her frock had a cardigan over it, and she wore stockings and houseshoes. He put her at over thirty, but then, he thought, I’ve never seen a young midwife. ‘You look as if you’ve walked a long way,’ she said.
He faced her across the table, slid down the sweet scald of the big cup. ‘From Spilsby.’ It had been the longest footslog so far, his eyes fried and feet sore, his body feeling dustcaked and sweatbound. He offered her a cigarette.
‘Thank you,’ she said. The silence won over the birds, backed up by heavy cloud shadows approaching road and hedgerows, and the humping softloamed fields beyond the window. A car went by, leaving a heavier silence. ‘It’s rare for someone to stop at my door and ask for a drink of water — unless it’s children in the summer.’