When Emma was out of the house the pall of her misery shifted to Clara, who could not rest in wondering where she was, and from fretting at what might be happening to her, and worrying about what time she would come back, and how they’d be able to find her if Thomas was taken ill.
Clara stared at him until he moved out of sleep, or the mouth puckered because he could not get free of troubling dreams. She was stricken by a sense of his impermanence, as if at any moment he might stop breathing, or be found not living in the morning, in which case the unity in the family, which even his unwelcome presence had somehow cemented, would be broken for ever. Every live being on earth served its purpose, she thought. Every death reordered the position of those left behind.
Fruit trees blossomed, spheres of pink and white reaching one behind the other as far as the wall, while all beneath was cluttered with nettles and brambles because Percy had dismissed the man who looked after the garden for having taken a few sticks of wood without permission. Percy was too mean to give someone else the job, and when Emma suggested he walk to the nearest dole queue and choose a poor man for the honour, he appeared not to hear. Clara had opened a path with shears but the vegetation grew back to its former density.
White lilac, apple and plum blossom set against sunlight and cloud reminded her that there was nothing they lacked to make life pleasant. They had money, a house, all material things, good health, and yet – Clara turned from the blossom that was so pleasing to the soul – why is it one can cut the misery with a knife?
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Emma, when Clara could not resist voicing her reflections aloud. ‘It’s because we treat each other as if we’ll come to pieces if a cross word is said. I teased father about getting married, but actually did think how good it would be to hear and see another person in the house. Whatever my reasons for having Thomas, one of them was because I wanted to bring a new spirit into the family. I went about it the wrong way, of course. Father would like me to get an upright sanctimonious husband who grovelled with respect for him. So would you. But I couldn’t attach myself to any man for life, even if I thought I loved him. Nothing can be done for us. I can’t stand it here. I was hoping father would throw me out when I went on about him getting married, but he’s too old and soft. He’ll probably just cross me out of his will. He’ll get his own back, somehow, I know he will. There’s only one solution for me.’
‘You’re not going to leave, are you?’
Emma put on her hat at the dressing-table mirror. ‘Do you want me to?’
‘Of course I don’t. But if you’re really fed up you could just take off. With your money you could live anywhere.’
‘I wish I didn’t have it.’
Clara believed her, but such an attitude seemed like an attack on her own existence, and she scoffed: ‘You’d soon wish you had.’
‘You’re so sensible. That’s something else I can’t stand. Suffocating sense! It’s impossible to break out of.’
‘What do you want, then?’
She closed the wardrobe, and surprised Clara by sitting down when she had seemed in a hurry to go out. She needed glasses but hardly ever wore them, and peered into her face. ‘Only one thing.’
‘What?’
‘If anything happens to me, what about Thomas?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, who would look after him?’
Clara wanted to tell her that the maid was doing quite nicely. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you.’
‘But suppose I went out, stepped off the causeway, and got killed by a motor-car, or a tram? Or imagine I died of double-pneumonia.’
‘You’re as strong as a horse. You’ll live to be ninety.’
She spoke coolly, yet Clara saw the distress behind her darkened eyes. ‘I know. I’m asking you to suppose.’
Some other tone must be used, but Clara’s voice overrode the feeble effort she made, and produced a note of impatience. ‘I don’t imagine Thomas would lack the basic necessities. You can depend on that.’
Emma’s face seemed small. She was pleading, but Clara’s pain prevented her guessing the reason. ‘You’re not being sarcastic, are you? I can’t always tell.’
Clara faced her. ‘Do you think we would put the poor little chap on to the street? Really, why talk like this? You’ll have me in tears in a bit, and there’s absolutely no need to.’
‘I know,’ Emma laughed, ‘I can’t bear to see you crying. It’s such a sight: the flower of womanhood in a flood of tears! But I must go. I’m off to the Ritz. I met this wonderful chap, an engineer on leave from the Sudan who doesn’t give a damn about anything in the world. So refreshing. We have marvellous fun. I’d love to bring him here, but I don’t think it would be appreciated. He’d have the place topsy-turvy in no time. Father would have a thousand fits.’
‘What’s his name?’ Clara asked, desperate to know. ‘Let me meet him. I won’t run you off, though we might get on better than you think.’
Emma opened the door. ‘He’s going back soon. They all have somewhere to go back to. He asked me to marry him, but I don’t see how I could. I love Thomas too much to have to put him in an orphanage. No man is worth that.’
Clara held her hands. ‘You sound as if you’re in a bit of a mess. Stay with me this evening. Let’s talk. Why don’t we go to the Riviera for a month or two? There’s a pleasant hotel at Beausoleil we can stay at for a while. Or we can go to Menton. It’s a bit quiet, but there are lots of nice walks, and it’s closer to Italy. Thomas can come with us. We can get two or three rooms. Let’s sit down and discuss it. We can go to Cooks tomorrow, and they’ll arrange everything.’
Even while talking, Clara knew that they couldn’t leave their father – though they might be able to get him looked after if Emma agreed to the plan. Anything to keep her from the obviously horrible man she’d met.
Emma’s expression suggested that she might like the idea, but she said: ‘It’s too late.’
‘How is it?’
‘It just is.’
‘Why?’ Clara looked into her face, smelt her rouge and perfume. ‘You don’t believe what you’re saying. Nothing is ever too late.’
Emma said: ‘It is, though. Too late. Too late for me to believe in anything any more. Everything’s changed. I don’t know when it began, or how it happened. There’s nothing left in my mind. It’s all empty. Unless I’m enjoying myself I’m frightened. Just a dreadful emptiness. At times, too often, I feel there’s nothing there at all. Nothing – nothing. You can’t imagine. I didn’t want to tell you, but now I have.’
She has mother’s spirit, but father’s sickness, and she knows she’s got it, whatever it is or was, Clara thought.
‘But I must go, or I’ll be late.’
And she went out.
Clara felt the despair of the one who always stays behind, and could only soothe her pain by imagining that Emma blamed her for not having suggested the same plan for a holiday weeks ago, when it might have been possible.
She lay much of the night waiting to hear the front door open and shut, and fell into thick dreams towards dawn knowing that Emma hadn’t come home. She was away sometimes for days, so Clara didn’t worry. Yet she was troubled, knowing that Emma was always unhappy when they were absent from each other for very long. The same unease afflicted Clara, which nothing but a curtain of common-sense attitudes on her part could disperse. No matter how unjust, or unfeeling, there was no other way if fate were to be given the free hand that was, finally, impossible to stand up against.