Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

Recurrent reprieve was becoming too much for the solicitor. ‘Then you haven’t thought it over enough,’ he gabbled. ‘What should we do without you, Sister Manhood? Aren’t you — I understand — Mrs Hunter’s favourite? You can’t possibly let her down.’ Hearty overtones were turning the situation into something incongruously schoolboyish: better that, however.

‘The truth is,’ she said, halfway between the giggles and a blubber, ‘I no longer know what I really want. I don’t seem to have control over myself.’

Was she about to twitch back the curtain from some other equally distasteful problem of her own? He wanted that no more than this.

‘I should have thought a position like yours would have given you a sense of security: good money; at least one excellent meal a day,’ to which you aren’t entitled, he prevented himself adding; ‘and your patient’s appreciation and affection.’

‘Nobody’s appreciation and affection helps, Mr Wyburd, when it comes to making decisions for yourself.’ Then Sister Manhood’s voice inflated, and he was reminded of a windsock filling and tearing at its mooring, only the wind was a noisy one, at a deserted country airstrip on which they stood facing each other. ’ Anyhow, if I stay, what good will it do Mrs Hunter when you dump her at the Thorogood Village?’

The solicitor began backing into the passage. ‘No decision has been made. That is, nobody has the intention, I’m sure, of forcing Mrs Hunter to do anything against her will.’ Desperation was fuddling him. ‘Is this another of Mrs Lippmann’s delusions?’ In asking, he felt he was wildly grabbing.

Sister Manhood said, through swollen lips and what sounded like a blocked nose, ‘It was Sister de Santis who told me. That’s why I have to believe it.’ Then, growing panicky, ‘I don’t want to get Sister into trouble. You won’t go for her, Mr Wyburd?’

‘Nobody will be “got into trouble”. We must only — all of us — keep our heads.’ How could he console others, himself a ricketty thing even before the termites had gone to work?

Sometimes Arnold Wyburd wondered whether his being surrounded in his family life by too many women had nourished a streak of weakness in him. As he escaped from Sister Manhood he was pursued by some of the sounds he most disliked hearing: the sniffs, the sighs, tissues ripped from the box, the blown (female) nose. Much as he loved and depended on his regiment of women he often regretted their sogginess. He feared rather than despised their weakness: now especially it seemed to equate»-let’s face it — with masculine duplicity.

So he not exactly scuttled down the passage towards Elizabeth Hunter’s door, where he was brought up sharply against woman’s strength. This, perhaps, was what he feared, not the flattering demands of feminine weakness.

And yet, when he stealthily opened the door, the concrete reason for his almost physical fear was reduced by the enormous bed to the form and the feverish innocence of a sleeping child. Not even a child, her breathing or dreams were stirring her like a hank of old grey chiffon; the cheeks, sucked in on time, were puffed out as regularly against the breathing; a strand of hair blew less frantically than a moth. Yes, that was how he saw her finally; because it would have been to his advantage to stoop quickly, crush the soft creature between his hands, and be saved or damned for ever: each a remote possibility, for the soft moth’s steeliness precluded her destruction.

‘Arnold,’ Mrs Hunter said, ‘I’ve been trying to cal — cul — ate,’ the breath of a sigh tormented her, ‘how many weeks you’ve neglected me.’

‘It’s only last week, Mrs Hunter — or anyway, the week before — ten days I should say,’ her whippersnapper was actually trying to tot it up. ‘Not neglect, surely?’

‘Not in employment. It’s hellish long in a love affair. Or a good marriage-which can be the same thing.’

They both decided against developing the theme.

Her eyelids had opened, but continued batting. ‘What I think I wanted you for was to show you the letter I had from Basil — our son.’

‘What did he write to you about?’ The solicitor thought that when the time came to leave the house he would never have felt so glad. (Lal and himself eating a simple meal together: that would be the ultimate in gladness; and to tell her what he had been through.)

‘Basil wrote to thank me for the cheque,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘All the nurses have read it — Mrs Lippmann too — Mrs Cush — all agree it’s a sweet letter, which of course it is. Basil is a great actor, and knows how to choose words for their — marrow; he’s learnt the business thoroughly.’

The lids stopped batting. Her stare would have been trained directly on her visitor if sightlessness and the position of the lamp had not made the eye sockets look hollow.

‘I would like you to read it.’ Her intense seriousness turned it into a command, while a certain invalid tone appealed for sympathy for herself rather than his approval of the letter. ‘See whether you don’t also agree it’s sweet.’

‘Of course I’ll read it if you show — if you’ll tell me, Mrs Hunter, where it is.’

‘It’s here on the bedside table so that it can be easily found.’ Waved vaguely in that direction, her hand collided with his, which at that moment could not have looked more ephemeral: under the transparent skin, bones awaiting distribution for the final game of jacks.

He had no difficulty in unfolding the letter: it must have been read so many times.

‘Aloud please,’ Mrs Hunter ordered.

My dearest Mother,

On opening The Envelope in Mr Wyburd’s office I was moved before anything else by your kindness in devising such a stunning surprise. No, it was not surprising; you have always been the soul of generosity. Now, if I am the richer for your gift, I am also humbler for your thoughtfulness

Mrs Hunter cleared her throat; possibly she also laughed. Because he had to continue reading to the end, the solicitor was unable to distinguish laughter with certainty.

‘… Soon I shall come in person to thank you. In the meantime, I send my grateful love, and leave you in the hands of those whose affectionate dedication, unexpected charms and rare skills are all that I could wish for you in your life of trials.’

‘You didn’t read it very well, Arnold,’ Mrs Hunter complained. ‘You sounded like some old man — trembly and addled.’

If he had been more than temporarily relieved by the evasions of the letter, he might have rejected some of her scorn. But he did feel old, and would not grow any younger trying to guess how the fatal blow might fall.

So he joined in the hypocrisy. ‘It’s — yes, it’s a wonderful letter.’

‘“Sweet” is what the others call it,’ Mrs Hunter corrected. ‘And I am inclined to think that is what it is.’ From movements of her tongue on her lips she might still have been testing the letter’s flavour.

‘At any rate, I expect he’s been to see you since-probably more than once,’ the solicitor ventured.

‘No. And I didn’t expect it. I expect nothing with absolute certainty,’ Mrs Hunter said, ‘but death.’

It started shocked sensibility battling in Arnold Wyburd against immense physical relief.

Somewhere in a lull of his own, he tried to offer consolation. ‘I seem to remember he did mention not wanting to tire you out with talk.’

Then it must have been Dorothy who had dropped the rumours at Moreton Drive; a sly, vindictive woman, she couldn’t have resisted flashing her knife prematurely. ‘Well, the princess — daughters don’t forget their duty so easily. I don’t doubt you’ve had visits from Dorothy.’