He was happy and resigned. Did he realise — probably not, he was too happy to go in for irony — that, in a different sense, it was he who had won? All those passionate arguments for freedom — which meant sexual freedom. The young George in this town, poor, unknown, feeling himself outside society, raising the great voice I had just heard. “Freedom from their damned homes, and their damned parents, and their damned lives.” Well, he had won: or rather, all those like him, all the forces they spoke for (since he was, as someone had said during one of his ordeals, a “child of his time”) had won. How completely, one could not escape at the Court that morning. The freedom which George had once dreamed about had duly happened: and, now it had happened, he took it for granted. He didn’t cherish it as a victory. He just assumed that the world was better than it used to be.
I had expected that we should have a meal together — but George was looking at his watch.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’m rather pressed tonight.”
He had the air, which one sometimes saw in businessmen or politicians, of faint estrangement from those not regulated by a timetable.
I did not ask where he was going. I said I should attend the Court in June, and that we could meet as usual. Splendid, said George. Splendid, he repeated, with immense heartiness. He got up to leave me. As he went to the door, I noticed that he was making one, though only one, concession to his physical state: he was walking with abnormal slowness. It was deliberate, but from the back he looked like an old man.
When I myself left the pub, I didn’t stroll through the streets, as I often liked doing. That meeting with George had had an effect on me which I didn’t understand, or perhaps didn’t want to: it hadn’t precisely saddened me, but I didn’t want my memory to be played on. It was better to be with people whom I hadn’t known for long, to be back in the here-and-now. So I returned to the Residence: this time the drawing-room lights, seen from the drive, were welcoming. The sight of Vicky was welcoming too. They had had an early dinner, she said, and her father had gone off to his manuscripts. She said: “When did you eat last?”
Not since breakfast, I replied. She clucked, and said that I was impossible. Soon I was sitting in front of the fire with a plate of sandwiches. Vicky curled up on the rug. I was tired, but not unpleasantly so, just enough to realise that I had had a long day. It was all familiar and comfortable, the past pushed away, no menace left.
Vicky wouldn’t talk, or let me, until I had eaten. Then she said that her father had told her about the Court proceedings. She knew the result, and she was relieved: anyway, we had time to work in: perversely, she was enough relieved to be irritated with me.
“You two (she meant her father and me) had an up-and-a-downer, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s his account, anyway.”
I told her that I thought I deserved a bit of praise. She said: “I must say, I should like to knock your heads together.”
It appeared that Arnold Shaw had told her of a violent argument, in which he had prevailed. Actually, she was pleased. Pleased because she was protective about her father and trusted me. She was hopeful about the next moves. I said that the academics were being sensible, and I myself would try to involve Francis Getliffe.
She was sitting on her heels, her hair shining and her face tinted in the firelight.
“Bless you,” she said.
I had not mentioned Leonard Getliffe’s name, but only his father’s. That was enough, though, to set her thoughts going, as if I had touched a trigger and released uncontrollable forces. Her expression was softened; when she spoke her voice was strong, but had lost the touch of bossiness, the doctor’s edge.
Could she make a nuisance of herself again? she said. She knew that I understood: questions about Pat had formed themselves. My first impulse, before she had said a word, was of pity for Leonard Getliffe.
Though I knew, and she knew that I knew, she started off by seeming unusually theoretical. Was a marriage, all other things being good, likely to be affected if the wife was earning the livelihood? Even for her, the most direct of young women, it was a pleasure to go through a minuet, to produce a problem in the abstract, or as though she were seeking advice on behalf of a remote acquaintance. I gave a banal answer, that sometimes I had known it work, sometimes not. In my own first marriage, I added, my wife had contributed half the money: and, though it had been unhappy, it had not been any more unhappy, perhaps less, because of that. She hadn’t heard of my first marriage: and after what I had just said, she still really hadn’t heard. She said: “So you’re not against it?”
I said, once more banal, that any general answer had no meaning. Then I asked: “Are you going to get married then?”
“I hope so.”
I had another impulse, this time of concern for her. She was speaking with certainty. I wished that she was more superstitious, or that she had some insurance against the future.
“You see,” said Vicky, “I can earn a living, though it won’t be a very grand living, while we see if he can make a go of it. Is that a good idea?”
“Isn’t he very young—” I began carefully, but she interrupted me.
“There is a snag, of course. You can’t do a medical job with young children around. I’m too wrapped up in him to think about children now. You know how it is, I can’t believe that I shall ever want anything but him. I have to tell myself of course I shall.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m just the same as everybody else, aren’t I? I expect I shall turn into a pretty doting mother.”
“I expect you will,” I said. I was easier when she got down from the heights.
“If we wanted to start a family in three or four years’ time, and we oughtn’t to leave it much later, because I shall be getting on for thirty, then he might not be able to keep us, might he?”
Practical plans. Delectable practical plans. As delectable as being on the heights, sometimes more so.
“However good he is,” I said, “it’s hard to break through at his game—”
“I know,” she said. “Well, what else can he do on the side?” I said it would be difficult for his father to allow him anything. Martin had a daughter still at school, and, apart from his Cambridge salary, not a penny. As for myself–
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly let you give us money.”
Her young man quite possibly could, I thought. I nearly said it: but she, like George in the pub an hour or two before, would not have recognised my tone of voice.
In any case, there was something that I ought to say.
“Look, Vicky,” I began, as casually as I could, hesitating between leaving her quite unwarned and throwing even the faintest shade upon her joy, “I told you a minute ago, he is a very young man, isn’t he?”
“Do you know, I don’t feel that.”
“Your character’s formed,” I went on. “You’re as grown-up as you’ll ever be.” (I wasn’t convinced of that, but it was a way to talk of Pat.) “I’m not so sure that’s true of him, you know.”
She was looking at me without apprehension, without a blink.
“I mean,” I said, “parts of people’s character grow up at different rates. Perhaps that’s specially so for men. In some ways Pat’s mature. But I’m not certain that he is in all. I’m not certain that he’s capable of knowing exactly what he wants for his whole life. He may be too young for that.”
She smiled.
“You’re wrong,” she said.
She smiled at me affectionately, but like someone in the know, with a piece of information the source of which cannot be revealed.
“He’s a very strong character,” she said.