Terra tribus scopulis vastum … Not longum!
Brother Edward began communing with himself, long and unintelligibly as to where he should meet his sister at 19:30 and give her a blowout! The names of restaurants fell from his lips into her panic. He decided hilariously and not quite steadily—a quart is a lot to a fellow from a minesweeper carrying no booze at all!—on meeting her at 7:20 at High Street and going to a pub he knew; they would go on to the dance afterwards. In a studio. “Oh, God!” her heart said, “if Tietjens should want her then!” To be his; on his last night. He might! Everybody was coarsened then; on the surface. Her brother rolled out of the house, slamming the door so that every tile on the jerry-built dog kennel rose and sat down again.
She went upstairs and began to look over her frocks. She couldn’t tell what frocks she looked over; they lay like aligned rags on the bed, the telephone bell ringing madly. She heard her mother’s voice, suddenly assuaged: “Oh! oh! … It’s you!” She shut her door and began to pull open and to close drawer after drawer. As soon as she ceased that exercise her mother’s voice became half audible; quite audible when she raised it to ask a question. She heard her say: “Not get her into trouble … Of course!” then it died away into mere high sounds.
She heard her mother calling:
“Valentine! Valentine! Come down. … Don’t you want to speak to Christopher? … Valentine! Valentine! …” And then another burst: “Valentine … Valentine … Valentine …” As if she had been a puppy dog! Mrs. Wannop, thank God, was on the lowest step of the creaky stairs. She had left the telephone. She called up:
“Come down. I want to tell you! The dear boy has saved me! He always saves me! What shall I do now he’s gone?”
“He saved others: himself he could not save!” Valentine quoted bitterly. She caught up her wideawake. She wasn’t going to prink herself for him. He must take her as she was. … Himself he could not save! But he did himself proud! With women! … Coarsened! But perhaps only on the surface! She herself! … She was running downstairs!
Her mother had retreated into the little parlour: nine feet by nine; in consequence, at ten feet it was too tall for its size. But there was in it a sofa with cushions. … With her head upon those cushions, perhaps. … If he came home with her! Late! …
Her mother was saying: He’s a splendid fellow. … A root idea for a war baby article. … If a Tommy was a decent fellow he abstained because he didn’t want to leave his girl in trouble. … If he wasn’t he chanced it because it might be his last chance. …
“A message to me!” Valentine said to herself. “But which sentence. …” She moved, absently, all the cushions to one end of the sofa. Her mother exclaimed:
“He sent his love! His mother was lucky to have such a son!” and turned into her tiny hole of a study.
Valentine ran down over the broken tiles of the garden path, pulling her wideawake firmly on. She had looked at her wrist watch; it was two and twelve: 14:45. If she was to walk to the War Office by 4:15—16:15—a sensible innovation!—she must step out. Five miles to Whitehall. God knows what, then! Five miles back! Two and a half, diagonally, to High Street Station by half-past 19! Twelve and a half miles in five hours or less. And three hours dancing on the top of it. And to dress! … She needed to be fit … And, with violent bitterness, she said:
“Well! I’m fit. …” She had an image of the aligned hundred of girls in blue jumpers and men’s ties keeping whom fit had kept her super-fit. She wondered how many of them would be men’s mistresses before the year was out. It was August then. But perhaps none! Because she had kept them fit. …
“Ah!” she said, “if I had been a loose woman, with flaccid breasts and a soft body. All perfumed!” … But neither Sylvia Tietjens nor Ethel Duchemin were soft. They might be scented on occasion! But they could not contemplate with equanimity doing a twelve-mile walk to save a few pence and dancing all night on top of it! She could! And perhaps the price she paid was just that; she was in such hard condition she hadn’t moved him to … She perhaps exhaled such an aura of sobriety, chastity and abstinence as to suggest to him that … that a decent fellow didn’t get his girl into trouble before going to be killed. … Yet if he were such a town bull! … She wondered how she knew such phrases. …
The sordid and aligned houses seemed to rush past her in the mean August sunshine. That was because if you thought hard time went quicker; or because after you noticed the paper shop at this corner you would be up to the boxes of onions outside the shop of the next corner before you noticed anything else.
She was in Kensington Gardens, on the north side; she had left the poor shops behind. … In sham country, with sham lawns, sham avenues, sham streams. Sham people pursuing their ways across the sham grass. Or no! Not sham! In a vacuum! No! “Pasteurized” was the word! Like dead milk. Robbed of their vitamins. …
If she saved a few coppers by walking it would make a larger pile to put into the leering—or compassionate—taxicabman’s hand after he had helped her support her brother into the dog kennel door. Edward would be dead drunk. She had fifteen shillings for the taxi. … If she gave a few coppers more it seemed generous. … What a day to look forward to still! Some days were lifetimes!
She would rather die than let Tietjens pay for the cab!
Why? Once a taximan had refused payment for driving her and Edward all the way to Chiswick, and she hadn’t felt insulted.
