Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

A pause, some readjustment at the other end, he couldn’t tell what.

‘Yes, it does, it does sound more like you.’

‘Well, what about coming round to see me? I’m not catching now. You could even kiss me if you wanted to.’

‘Of course I want to, but. . .’

‘But what?’

‘Well, I’m engaged this afternoon.’

‘Then come at drink-time.’

‘Yes, if I can manage it.’

He had brought himself to the point of not expecting her when Deirdre came.

‘Darling, of course I’m glad you’re better but I should be gladder still if you hadn’t been so cruel to me.’

‘Cruel to you?’ George repeated, when, after some hygienic holding back their kiss was over. But his conscience smote him: he had been cruel, or had meant to be.

‘You said you were too ill to see me, but I think you were shamming.’

‘If you had come to see me you would have known I wasn’t.’

‘To begin with, perhaps. Then you said you didn’t find it convenient to speak to me—such a nasty way of putting it.’

‘Mrs. Buswell said that.’

‘I don’t care who said it—it came through your mouthpiece, and all the time I was in agonies, wondering what was happening to you.’

‘You were having a bathe when I was worst.’

‘You couldn’t expect me to stay indoors all day, George dear, just because you had a tummy upset. And you’ve always said you wanted me to enjoy myself.’

‘Oh, don’t let’s bicker,’ George said. ‘You’re here now, that’s the great thing.’

‘Yes, in the end you sent for me, just as if I was some sort of call-girl.’

‘Oh, what nonsense you talk.’

‘It isn’t nonsense at all—you’ve changed towards me. You don’t love me any more.’

‘What?’ said George, and his heart missed a beat.

‘You don’t love me any more, that’s why I’ve done what I’ve done.’

‘What have you done?’ asked George, and a nameless terror clutched him.

‘First tell me you’re truly sorry, and then I might not do it.’

‘But you said you had done it.’

‘Well, I have and I haven’t. If you said you were sorry and were really nice to me——’

George took her in his arms.

‘—then I might change my mind. But I don’t think I shall, because, you see, I know that you don’t love me.’

‘I do love you, I do love you!’

‘No, or you wouldn’t have played me up like you did. That’s why I decided——’

‘What did you decide?’

‘I oughtn’t to tell you because it has to do with someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Now you’re asking.’

Sounds came from the kitchen—it was Mrs. Buswell, his ally, come to cook his supper.

Something stiffened in him.

‘Of course I’m asking, and I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a child.’

‘It was only because I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘Hurt away,’ said George. ‘You can’t hurt me more than you have hurt me these last few days.’

‘Don’t you think I can?’

‘Just try.’

‘Well, darling, since you must know, though you can’t say I haven’t warned you, it’s Rupert.’

‘That man at the party?’

‘Don’t call him that man, darling, he’s very well off and very nice to me. He said he’d like to——’

‘Well?’

‘See a lot more of me. Don’t misunderstand me—we’re just great, great friends, that’s all.’

Mrs. Buswell, in the kitchen, was making quite a clatter. George released Deirdre and got up shakily.

‘Then go to him,’ he said.

Deirdre turned her large eyes on him, those eyes that stained with blue the intervening air, and suddenly he saw the fear behind them. ‘You don’t mean that, treasure, do you? You don’t really want me to go to Rupert?’

‘You can go to hell for all I care.’

‘Oh, but sweetie-pie, you wouldn’t like that, would you? You wouldn’t like to hear me sizzling, because you would be there, too, because in a way, you know, you seduced me—it wasn’t nice of you. And I’ve been with you all these years, as everybody knows. If you send me to Rupert——’

‘I’m not sending you.’

‘If you let Rupert have me——’

‘It was your idea, not mine.’

‘Well, you’ll be lonely, won’t you? You won’t find another girl to make things as easy for you as I have. You’re shy, you know—you haven’t much self-confidence with a girl when it comes to the point.’

George said nothing.

‘And you know you’ve messed my life up—the best years of my life. You’ve trailed me around and put a stigma on me—Rupert won’t like that.’

‘But you said he wanted you to go to him.’

‘Yes, darling, he does, but I don’t want to—not very much, that is. Of course he loves me and I could get to love him——’

‘Well, why not?’

‘Because I love you better, oh, much better.’

What a racket Mrs. Buswell was making in the kitchen!

‘You don’t love me,’ George said. ‘You told me so yourself.’

‘I told you so? I never. You must have dreamed it.’

‘Well, if I did, it’s true, and you must go now.’

‘Go? Go where?’

‘Out of this flat.’ And taking her arm George began to propel Deirdre to the door.

‘Oh, but how can you be so cruel? I haven’t anywhere to go to—only my own rooms, that you pay for. Oh, what shall I do? It wasn’t true what I told you about Rupert—he doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him. I only said it because you were so unkind to me.’

‘Get out of here, get out!’

‘How can you turn me away like this, when you’ve been so fond of me and done so much for me? You’ve always been so good and generous——’

‘Get out—get out!’

The door shut out the sound of Deirdre’s sobbing. George sat for what seemed a long time, looking at his knees, then round the room, then at his knees again. Like everyone who has taken violent action he was unable to comment on it.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said, hardly knowing whom he was going to see.

‘She’s gone,’ said Mrs. Buswell.

‘I thought she went half an hour ago.’

‘No, she didn’t, she stayed on the landing, outside the door. She rang once or twice but you didn’t hear and I wouldn’t let her in—I said you were resting. Of course she didn’t dare to use her key. I should get it back from her, if I was you. You never know. She’s gone now.’

‘Oh, dear, Mrs. Buswell.’ The ‘dear’ might have been for her, or part of the exclamation. ‘What do you think about it all?’ Somehow he took it for granted that she knew what had been happening.

‘I say good riddance to bad rubbish.’ She looked with compassion at his working face. ‘Don’t take on, sir, she’s not worth it.’

George wasn’t so sure; he didn’t know how to feel, and it seemed incongruous, disproportionate, almost incredible that the emotional experience of three years could be ended by one small act of violence, lasting only a minute.

Much later in the evening, after Mrs. Buswell had gone, he went to the telephone and dialled a number.

‘Can I speak to Mrs. de Sole?’

‘Speaking. But who is that?’

‘George Lambert, Délice.’

‘ George ? I didn’t recognize your voice.’ Would his voice never be the same again? ‘You are a stranger. Well, when can we meet?’

‘Could I come round and see you now, or is it too late?’

‘It’s never too late to mend. I’m not clairvoyante, but I suspect you want to tell me something.’

‘Don’t be hard on me, will you? I’ve just been rather hard.’

‘On yourself, no doubt.’