He took much longer to appear than on the previous night. When he entered his face was set in a way which recalled to Griselda his repudiation of Lotus and his defiance of his father. Without a word he turned off the light and the heater, and climbed into his bed. He had not even bidden Griselda good night, or kissed her.
In the foggy darkness there was silence for a while. Then Kynaston said ‘Shall I turn on the heater again? We might leave it on.’
‘We can’t afford it, darling.’
‘Of course I’d rather not get up, but I don’t want you to be be cold in bed, darling.’
‘I don’t want to be either.’
This time there was a really long silence. Griselda, who was positively rigid with wakefulness, wondered if Kynaston had fallen asleep. Then she recalled that when asleep, he snored. Suddenly he spoke. ‘Griselda.’
‘What is it darling? I was thinking about The Faery Queen.’
‘On the subject of any physical relationship between us.’
‘Living together as man and wife?’ Griselda elucidated helpfully.
‘I imagine all that’s of secondary importance to you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have always said you don’t love me.’
It was odd, Griselda reflected, how few people seemed to know the condition of being to which she would refer that word. She supposed she knew, and would always know, something that few knew, or would ever know. She felt to Kynaston as she had once felt to Mrs Hatch: very superior. Though she had lost, she had loved. All the same it was difficult to explain to Kynaston that lack of love as she understood the word, did not necessarily imply precisely proportionate lack of love as Kynaston understood it.
‘I married you.’
‘Yes.’ He sounded as if it was a case of forebodings being fulfilled.
‘I knew what I was doing, Geoffrey darling.’
‘Of course, darling . . . I’d better go on with what I was saying.’
‘I’m sorry not to be more helpful.’
‘No, it’s I who am sorry. You’re utterly in control.’
‘Go on, darling. What do you want to say?’
He gulped; and sucked at the bedclothes. ‘First, it’s marriage. At least I think it is. You know how it is with men?’
‘Not very well, darling, I’m afraid.’
‘A man sees marriage in terms of affection, domesticity, and inspiration.’
‘I understand that.’
‘With me it’s particularly true. I need a woman – a woman of character, like you, Griselda – to mould my life.’
‘I remember your saying so.’
‘You’ve seen Lotus. You understand that there’s been something between us?’
‘I guessed there had.’
‘You don’t mind?’ It was as if he hoped she did.
‘You say you love me.’
‘Passion’s possible with Lotus, great drowning seas of it, but none of the other things.’
‘Whereas with me—’ A hard shell was beginning to enclose Griselda’s entire body; beginning with her still cold feet.
‘With you the situation is further complicated by what you said last night. Whatever Lotus is like in other ways, she is good at making things easy. I hope you’ll let me put it clearly. Because I love you so much.’
‘Do you mean, darling, that you married me just because I don’t love you?’
‘Of course not, darling. I’m utterly determined to make you love me. I don’t think it would help for us to begin with a physical misunderstanding.’
That, however, was what they did begin with, Griselda, her new shell hardening and tightening all the time, had supposed that now for certain she would be spending the night alone, and an uncertain number of future nights, until (she surmised) she broke down in health or espoused a good cause. But, instead, Kynaston almost immediately entered her bed and gave her ample and unnecessary proof that his hints of unease and inadequacy to the circumstances were firmly grounded. Things were not made better by a continuous undertow of implication that it was all to please Griselda. At the end, there was very little mystery left, and less wonder.
After similar experiences at irregular and unpredictable intervals on twenty-eight occasions, Griselda, when a twenty-ninth occasion offered, felt positively but indefinably unwell. It would be deplorable, she spent much of the time reflecting, if, moreover, nature, despite counter-measures, took her course. She began to wonder more than ever whether she was truly suited to marriage.
Energy, thwarted of satisfactory direct outlet, expended itself obliquely, as is the way in marriage. Griselda began to apply herself more steadily and more forethoughtfully at the shop; and also to see that Kynaston applied himself as efficiently as his temperament and his job permitted. Soon the shop became the subject of a note in The Bookseller, and Colonel Costa-Rica was holding before Kynaston the possibility of a position, at higher pay, in the Orinocan Intelligence Service. Not only did they become richer, their increase in income being coupled with a diminished desire to expend; but they began to scent the first faint sunrising of social approbation renewed.
Before long Kynaston was losing interest in both poetry and his plastic poses, in favour of a projected Anthology of Curatorship, for which he hoped to obtain a Foreword from the Editor of Country Life. Sometimes they found themselves invited to visit homes of repute and to mingle on equal terms with the enbosomed families. More and more the shop stocked books which might sell, instead of minority books. Lena, over whom, of course, hymeneal happiness had yet to hover, regarded this last tendency disapprovingly; though the proceeds conveniently augmented the slight returns from her own new book. A climax was reached when Kynaston received an invitation to stand in the Labour interest at the Parish Council Elections. He declined, because he deemed politics to obstruct full self-realisation; but he declined politely, conscious that, far more than any other party, the Labour party gives careful heed to the morals and probity of all it permits to join its pilgrimage.
When she had been married nearly a year, Griselda one morning realized with surprise that Lena, to judge by some remarks she made, regarded her state with envy.
‘But, Lena, you don’t have to marry a man in order to enjoy him.’
Lena leaned back against the counter, her hands in her pockets. ‘There are times, Griselda, when your superficiality is equalled only by your smugness.’
She had never before spoken so to Griselda, though given to the style when speaking to certain other people. Griselda had observed, however, that Lena’s censoriousness, though seldom judicious, was seldom wholly undeserved.
‘Am I becoming smug, Lena?’
‘I apologize for what I said. I’m a bitch.’
‘But am I becoming smug?’
‘As a matter of fact, you are.’
‘What should I do about it?’
‘I wish I knew.’
Before the matter could be taken further, they were interrupted by the arrival of a thousand copies of a book describing the atrociousness of the new German government.
Not the least remarkable change in Kynaston was his sustained firmness in dealing with the problem of Lotus. Quite soon Lotus was reduced to supplicating Griselda: a procedure which Griselda considered superfluous and irrelevant, though, with a perverseness new to her nature, she did not say so to Lotus.
‘You gave me your word,’ cried Lotus, her beauty rising from her tears, like Venus from the flood.