Giant’s Bread · Book IV · II · Chapter 4 2 2

II

It was true⁠—really true! The leave train came in and disgorged its multitudes. She saw him. He was actually there. They met. Neither could speak. He squeezed her hand frantically. She knew then how afraid she had been.⁠ ⁠…

That five days went by in a flash. It was like some queer delirious dream. She adored Vernon and he adored her, but they were in some ways like strangers to each other. He was offhand when she spoke about France. It was all right⁠—everything was all right. One made jokes about it and refused to treat it seriously. “For goodness’ sake, Nell, don’t sentimentalize. It’s awful to come home and find everyone with long faces. And don’t talk slush about our brave soldiers laying down their lives, etc. That sort of stuff makes me sick. Let’s get tickets for another show.”

Something in his absolute callousness perturbed her⁠—it seemed somehow rather dreadful to treat everything so lightly. When he asked her what she had been doing, she could only give him hospital news, and that he didn’t like. He begged her again to give it up.

“It’s a filthy job, nursing. I hate to think of your doing it.”

She felt chilled, rebuffed, then rebuked herself. They were together again. What did anything else matter?

They had a wild delightful time. They went to a show and danced every night. In the daytime they went shopping. Vernon bought her everything that took his fancy. They went to a Paris firm of dressmakers and sat there whilst airy young duchesses floated past in wisps of chiffon and Vernon chose the most expensive model. They felt horribly wicked but dreadfully happy when Nell wore it that night.

Then Nell told him he ought to go and see his mother. Vernon rebelled.

“Oh! darling, I don’t want to! Our little short precious time. I can’t miss a minute of it.”

Nell pleaded. Myra would be terribly hurt and disappointed.

“Well, then, you’ve got to come with me.”

“No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

In the end, he went down to Birmingham for a flying visit. His mother made a tremendous fuss over him⁠—greeted him with floods of what she called “glad proud tears,” and trotted him round to see the Bents. Vernon came back seething with conscious virtue.

“You are a hard-hearted devil, Nell. We’ve missed a whole day! God, how I’ve been slobbered over.”

He felt ashamed as soon as he had said it. Why couldn’t he love his mother better? Why did she always manage to rub him up the wrong way, no matter how good his resolutions were? He gave Nell a hug.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m glad you made me go. You’re so sweet, Nell. You never think of yourself. It’s so wonderful being with you again. You don’t know⁠ ⁠…”

And she put on the French model gown and they went out to dine with a ridiculous feeling of having been model children and deserving a reward.

They had nearly finished dinner when Nell saw Vernon’s face change. It stiffened and grew anxious.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily.

But she turned and looked behind her. At a small table against the wall was Jane.

Something cold seemed for a moment to rest on Nell’s heart. Then she said easily:

“Why, it’s Jane. Let’s go and speak to her.”

“No, I’d rather not.” She was a little surprised by the vehemence of his tone. He saw that and went on: “I’m stupid, darling. I want to have you and nothing but you⁠—not other people butting in. Have you finished? Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the beginning of the play.”

They paid the bill and went. Jane nodded to them carelessly and Nell waved her hand to her. They arrived at the theatre ten minutes early.

Later, as Nell was slipping the gown from her white shoulders, Vernon said suddenly:

“Nell, do you think I shall ever write music again?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Oh! I don’t know. I don’t think I want to.”

She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on a chair, frowning into space.

“I thought it was the only thing you cared about.”

“Cared about⁠—cared about⁠—that doesn’t express it in the least. It isn’t the things you care about that matter. It’s the things you can’t get rid of⁠—the things that won’t let you go⁠—that haunt you⁠—like a face that you can’t help seeing even when you don’t want to.⁠ ⁠…”

“Darling Vernon⁠—don’t.”

She came and knelt down beside him. He clutched her to him convulsively.

“Nell⁠—darling Nell⁠—nothing matters but you. Kiss me.⁠ ⁠…”

But he reverted presently to the topic. He said irrelevantly: “Guns make a pattern, you know. A musical pattern, I mean. Not the sound one hears. I mean the pattern the sound makes in space. I suppose that’s nonsense⁠—but I know what I mean.”

And again a minute or two later: “If one could only get hold of it properly.”

Ever so slightly, she moved her body away from him. It was as though she challenged her rival. She never admitted it openly, but secretly she feared Vernon’s music. If only he didn’t care so much.

And tonight, at any rate, she was triumphant. He drew her back holding her close, showering kisses on her.

But long after Nell was asleep Vernon lay staring into the darkness, seeing against his will Jane’s face and the outline of her body in its dull green satin sheath as he had seen it against the crimson curtain at the restaurant.

He said to himself very softly under his breath:

“Damn Jane.”

But he knew that you couldn’t get rid of Jane as easily as that.

He wished he hadn’t seen her.

There was something so damnably disturbing about Jane.

He forgot her the next day. It was their last, and it went terribly quickly.

All too soon, it was over.