John Galsworthy - Over the River

Dinny made the tortuous ascent, and stepped into a rather smaller sitting-room. It had two curtained windows looking over the mews, a couch with cushions, a little old bureau, three chairs, six Japanese prints, which Clare had evidently just been hanging, an old Persian rug over the matted floor, an almost empty bookcase, and some photographs of the family standing on it. The walls were distempered a pale grey, and a gas fire was burning.

“Fleur gave me the prints and the rug, and Aunt Em stumped up the bureau. I took the other things over.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“On that couch—quite comfy. I’ve got a little bath-dressing-room next door, with a geyser, and a what-d’ye-call-it, and a cupboard for clothes.”

“Mother told me to ask what you wanted.”

“I could do with our old Primus stove, some blankets and a few knives and forks and spoons, and a small tea-set, if there’s one to spare, and any spare books.”

“Right!” said Dinny. “Now, darling, how are you?”

“Bodily fine, mentally rather worried. I told you he was over.”

“Does he know of this place?”

“Not so far. You and Fleur and Aunt Em—oh! and Tony Croom—are the only people who know of it. My official address is Mount Street. But he’s bound to find out if he wants to.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, and told him I wasn’t coming back; and I’m not, Dinny; that’s flat, to save breath. Have some tea? I can make it in a brown pot.”

“No, thank you, I had it on the train.” She was sitting on one of the taken-over chairs, in a bottle-green suit that went beautifully with her beech-leaf-coloured hair.

“How jolly you look, sitting there!” said Clare, curling up on the sofa. “Gasper?”

Dinny was thinking the same about her sister. Graceful creature, one of those people who couldn’t look ungraceful; with her dark short hair, and dark, alive eyes, and ivory pale face, and not too brightened lips holding the cigarette, she looked—well, ‘desirable.’ And, in all the circumstances, the word appeared to Dinny an awkward one. Clare had always been vivid and attractive, but without question marriage had subtly rounded, deepened, and in some sort bedevilled that attraction. She said suddenly:

“Tony Croom, you said?”

“He helped me distemper these walls; in fact, he practically did them, while I did the bathroom—these are better.”

Dinny’s eyes took in the walls with apparent interest.

“Quite neat. Mother and Father are nervous, darling.”

“They would be.”

“Naturally, don’t you think?”

Clare’s brows drew down. Dinny suddenly remembered how strenuously they had once debated the question of whether eyebrows should be plucked. Thank heaven! Clare never had yet.

“I can’t help it, Dinny. I don’t know what Jerry’s going to do.”

“I suppose he can’t stay long, without giving up his job?”

“Probably not. But I’m not going to bother. What will be will.”

“How quickly could a divorce be got? I mean against him?”

Clare shook her head, and a dark curl fell over her forehead, reminding Dinny of her as a child.

“To have him watched would be pretty revolting. And I’m not going into court to describe being brutalised. It’s only my word against his. Men are safe enough.”

Dinny got up and sat down beside her on the couch.

“I could kill him!” she said.

Clare laughed.

“He wasn’t so bad in many ways. Only I simply won’t go back. If you’ve once been skinned, you can’t.”

Dinny sat, silent, with closed eyes.

“Tell me,” she said, at last, “how you stand with Tony Croom.”

“He’s on probation. So long as he behaves I like to see him.”

“If,” said Dinny slowly, “he were known to come here, it would be all that would be wanted, wouldn’t it?”

Clare laughed again.

“Quite enough for men of the world, I should think; I believe juries can never withstand being called that. But you see, Dinny, if I begin to look at things from a jury’s point of view, I might as well be dead. And, as a matter of fact, I feel very much alive. So I’m going straight ahead. Tony knows I’ve had enough physiology to last me a long time.”

“Is he in love with you?”

Their eyes, brown and blue, met.

“Yes.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I like him—quite a lot. Beyond that I’ve no feeling at present.”

“Don’t you think that while Jerry is here—?”

“No. I think I’m safer while he’s here than when he goes. If I don’t go back with him he’ll probably have me watched. That’s one thing about him—he does what he says he’ll do.”

“I wonder if that’s an advantage. Come out and have some dinner.”

Clare stretched herself.

“Can’t, darling. I’m dining with Tony in a little grubby restaurant suited to our joint means. This living on next to nothing is rather fun.”

Dinny got up and began to straighten the Japanese prints. Clare’s recklessness was nothing new. To come the elder sister! To be a wet blanket! Impossible! She said:

“These are good, my dear. Fleur has very jolly things.”

“D’you mind if I change?” said Clare, and vanished into the bathroom.

Left alone with her sister’s problem, Dinny had the feeling of helplessness which comes to all but such as constitutionally ‘know better.’ She went dejectedly to the window and drew aside the curtain. All was darkish and dingy. A car had drawn out of a neighbouring garage and stood waiting for its driver.

‘Imagine trying to sell antiques here!’ she thought. She saw a man come round the corner close by and stop, looking at the numbers. He moved along the opposite side, then came back and stood still just in front of No. 2. She noted the assurance and strength in that trim over-coated figure.

‘Good heavens!’ she thought: ‘Jerry!’ She dropped the curtain and crossed quickly to the bathroom door. As she opened it she heard the desolate tinkling of the sheep-bell installed by the antique dealer.

Clare was standing in her underthings under the single bulb, examining her lips with a hand-glass. Dinny filled the remains of the four feet by two of standing room.

“Clare,” she said, “it’s HIM!”

Clare turned. The gleam of her pale arms, the shimmer of her silk garments, the startled light in her dark eyes, made her even to her sister something of a vision.

“Jerry?”

Dinny nodded.

“Well, I won’t see him.” She looked at the watch on her wrist. “And I’m due at seven. Damn!”

Dinny, who had not the faintest desire that she should keep her rash appointment, said, to her own surprise:

“Shall I go? He must have seen the light.”

“Could you take him away with you, Dinny?”

“I can try.”

“Then do, darling. It’d be ever so sweet of you. I wonder how he’s found out. Hell! It’s going to be a persecution.”

Dinny stepped back into the sitting-room, turned out the light there, and went down the twisting stair. The sheep-bell tinkled again above her as she went. Crossing that little empty room to the door, she thought: ‘It opens inwards, I must pull it to behind me.’ Her heart beat fast, she took a deep breath, opened the door swiftly, stepped out and pulled it to with a slam. She was chest to chest with her brother-inlaw, and she started back with an admirably impromptu: “Who is it?”

He raised his hat, and they stood looking at each other.

“Dinny! Is Clare in?”

“Yes; but she can’t see anyone.”

“You mean she WON’T see ME?”

“If you like to put it that way.”

He stood looking intently at her with his daring eyes.

“Another day will do. Which way are you going?”