Justin Go - The Steady Running of the Hour

— You mean the baby could use it.

— You need it too.

— But it’s not me you’re concerned about. You only care about the child.

— Of course I care about you. Only sometimes you’re so cross with me, I don’t know what to do—

— It’s simple. Let me out of here.

Eleanor stops sweeping. She swallows, looking at the floor.

— Imogen, you can’t change your mind now. It’s too late.

They begin to bicker, the arguments running along circular tracks. Imogen tries to keep crocheting as they talk, but she grows more agitated and soon Eleanor puts away the broom and sits at the table, resigned to the quarrel. For on this night Imogen seems unusually animated, more angry and more wistful and more desperate than before. Around midnight she throws the afghan on the floor, swearing that she cannot stand the confinement of the house any longer.

— You can’t keep me here. Nothing can keep me here.

— Darling—

— This isn’t my life. And I’d rather die than live someone else’s life. Is that what you want?

— Imogen—

— Did you know I haven’t written to him? Of course you know. And do you know why I haven’t?

— Please, Imogen. Calm down.

— Because I’m not going to lie to him. If you want a child, have your own damned child, it’s not my fault if you can’t. I’m leaving here. I’ll go back to him and you shan’t ever see me again. And you’ll never see the baby.

Eleanor turns away and begins wiping the table with a cloth. Suddenly she swivels back toward Imogen.

— So you wish to change your mind now, and you blame me for your troubles. But what put you in this position? You imagine it was me?

— It wasn’t my idea.

— But it was your decisions that brought you here. Imogen, what’s become of your life? After all, you’re supposed to be the gifted one. Papa used to brag about it to Mr. Wallenberg and the other fellows, Imogen who learnt Greek so well in nine months that the tutor returned his check and said she needed a more advanced teacher. Imogen who had only to read a poem or hear a sonata to know it by heart—

— Stop it.

— It’s true enough. But what I want to know is, if you’re the gifted one, why am I painting all day in that bloody barn while you do nothing but stare at the ceiling or knit a bloody afghan? Is that your great dream for your life — to be twice as clever as everyone, then throw it all away to be melancholy, and raise a melancholy child? As if you could manage even that. Imogen, it isn’t my fault if you walk out of your exams and spend a useless year in London. It isn’t my fault if we’re having a row at one in the morning. And it isn’t my fault if we’re in Sweden because you couldn’t stand to wait for Ashley—

— Don’t you dare.

— Am I wrong? Two months ago you told me Ashley wished to marry. It seemed to amuse you as rather quaint. But now that you’re expecting, you tell Papa he won’t marry. And yet he seems to send whole mailbags of letters.

Imogen gasps. — You read them?

— I don’t need to. It’s already clear enough to me why we’re here. Because you couldn’t stand to do what every grown woman in England does every day, and simply support the man she loves.

— Support him to certain death?

— He’s a soldier, Imogen. He was a soldier when you met him, you simply ignored that as long as you could. When you finally realized what that meant, you decided you’d scorn everyone and raise a child on your own. Only when Papa tells you it’s impossible and proposes Sweden instead, you’ll go along with it for so long. You’ll sit quietly while we tell the Graftons and half of London that I’m expecting. You’ll say nothing while Charles and I move heaven and earth to prepare for a child, to prepare this house, and you’ll come all the way here without so much as a word. But once we get to Sweden — once you know it’s too late for us to turn back — now you say you can’t do it, for if someone expects something from you, you can’t bear to give it to them—

— I never chose this. Papa forced it on me.

— Because you’d turned away from ordinary choices. You wanted only the impossible. Can’t you see that? If all the world wants one thing, you shall have to have the other, if only for that reason. If Ashley loves you, that’s fine with you, because he’s only in England for a week, and after that you’ll write every day and say all kinds of things to him, so that he thinks of you the whole time he’s in France. You’ll sleep with him right away—

— Stop it.

— You did, didn’t you? But you couldn’t stand beside him, because it was too hard.

— You don’t understand. I only wanted to save him, for the two of us to make our own way.

Eleanor scoffs. — I understand more than you know. Didn’t I read the same books as you, years before you took them from my shelf? Do you imagine that Charles wished to be in the army, or that I wanted him away in Palestine? I didn’t. But part of growing older is caring about other people enough to accept their responsibilities. Even when things are not quite perfect. Especially then. It’s fine to have high ideas about the world, but Imogen, you find fault with everything. Ashley couldn’t satisfy you, and Papa drives you mad, and now I can’t please you. And I don’t deny this has become a trap for us both, but hating each other won’t bring us out of it. You think it’s no good if you can’t do it all yourself, but there are limits—

— It’s my life. I can’t give it over to other people.

— You can. You must, to some degree. A woman can’t live only for herself. They may say she can, but she can’t. Not even a man can do it and have much of a happy life, but a woman even less.

— How do you know? How long did you live for yourself, before giving in to the first decent man who proposed?

Eleanor narrows her eyes at Imogen.

— You’re a child. An utter child about to have a child of her own, and it makes me fearful. You haven’t a clue what you speak of, or I couldn’t forgive you for it. You imagine you’re cleverer than all of us, and perhaps so, but I think you’re only more stubborn.

Imogen shakes her head.

— Then tell me what to do. If you’re so clever, tell me what I can do, what will fix it all and make everyone happy.

— For God’s sake, that’s exactly the point. You’ll have to give up something. You can’t please everyone, but you want to please no one. Choose your family, or choose Ashley, or even choose your own bloody self over everyone, as you wanted all along. But don’t change your mind every hour. And don’t blame your troubles on me.

Imogen looks into the door of the stove. They have not put a fresh log on for hours and they sit in the cold with their arms crossed. Suddenly Imogen stands.

— Then I’ve made my choice. I’m leaving.

She goes upstairs and packs the large Gladstone, tossing in skirts and tunics at random. Eleanor comes into the bedroom, pleading for her to stop, saying Imogen will wake Mrs. Hasslo and if this goes much longer the housekeeper is certain to give notice.

— Let her give notice, Imogen says. You won’t need her when I’m gone.

Imogen pulls on her overcoat, tugging fur-topped boots onto her feet with difficulty, Eleanor watching and wishing to help yet feeling that she must not help. Imogen dashes down the steps and out the front door, hatless with her coat buttoned halfway to her neck.

It is frighteningly cold. In the darkness Imogen stumbles down the twisting path to the pier, trying to follow a faint set of footprints covered with fresh snow. Eleanor shuffles a few paces behind, buttoning her own coat, a candle in her hand.

— Come inside, we’ll freeze out here. Think of the baby, you might be damaging—