A Ripple from the Storm

‘You could put it like that.’ She turned her face away from him, fiddling with the door-handle as if about to jump out of the car. At the look of angry repulsion on her face he said quickly, laughing: ‘Any intelligent person knows that when two people get divorced, even if they are normally the most delightful and veracious couple in the world, not a word either of them says is to be believed.’

‘In that case, I don’t know why you bother to ask me questions.’ She opened the door and was about to leave him.

‘No, do wait a moment. Do wait.’ He, in his turn, had coloured: the handsome, heavy face was suffused with blood. He passed his hand over his eyes, which were closed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been put in a false position. I don’t know why I agreed to talk to you at all – but I suppose I must. Take me as an emissary. Just tell me, there’s a good girl, and let’s get it over with.’

‘All this business makes me sick,’ said Martha. ‘I don’t know why it has to be so – disgusting. I saw Douglas a few days ago, and he said he would divorce me for desertion and I agreed. Why shouldn’t I agree? I’m not going to get mixed up in all this.’

‘Mixed up? But aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not.’ At his ironical expression she went on: ‘If they want to make something ugly of it it’s their affair.’

‘Not yours?’

‘No. If Douglas tells Mrs Talbot I’m making a fuss it’s not because he wants an excuse not to marry Elaine, I’m sure he does …’

‘Why? I’m not sure at all.’

‘Obviously. The sooner he marries someone else the sooner his pride will be soothed, won’t it? Obviously he’ll marry someone or other before the year’s out – and there’s Elaine all conveniently on hand. He’ll marry the day after the decree’s absolute, just to show everyone.’

‘You mean, to show you?’

‘Me? said Martha, genuinely surprised. ‘Why me? He doesn’t care about me. He cares what people will say, that’s all.’

‘Ah,’ commented Mr Maynard.

‘And if Mrs Talbot knew anything about Douglas she’d know he’s only saying I won’t divorce him so that she and Elaine can feel terribly sorry for him, that’s all.’

‘I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that Douglas will never forgive you for not asking him to be chivalrous and allowing himself to be divorced?’

‘You mean, he won’t forgive me for not giving him the opportunity of looking noble in front of Mrs Talbot and Elaine – he’d get months of self-pity out of it.’

‘That degree of contempt is really not forgivable, you know,’ he commented at last, his voice ironically aggrieved as if it were he whom she accused.

‘Oh Lord, all I want is to be rid of the thing. I keep telling you …’ She stopped. After all, she had had no opportunity of telling him anything, and the you was collective, her old life which was in no way connected with what she was now.

‘Ah,’ said Mr Maynard, this time finally. He examined his fine handsome hand, back and front, for a few moments.

‘Well, your attitude seems to be clear, and I’ll take a suitable opportunity to convey your message to Mrs Talbot.’

‘I haven’t sent any message to Mrs Talbot.’

‘You can’t expect her to approve of you.’

‘I don’t see why not. Now she can have what she’s always wanted – that Elaine can marry Douglas. God knows why she wants it, but I always thought she did.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right. About this you’re very probably right.’ Martha turned her eyes on him, startled: the way he had said it applied a degree of knowledge – at the moment ironic – of Mrs Talbot that she had never suspected. He raised his eyes from a contemplation of his fingers, saw her look and said hastily: ‘Mrs Talbot and I are old friends.’

She shrugged, impatient at the idea that he might imagine she was interested one way or the other.

‘Well,’ he said, annoyed at her shrug, ‘I shall never succeed in fathoming the complicated depths of your morality, but if you’re shocked, as you appear to be, then I can only say you are quite devoid of a sense of humour.’

Again Martha shrugged. He examined her, noted she was pale, much thinner than he had ever seen her, and her mouth was set over unhappiness.

‘You miss your daughter?’ he inquired.

‘No,’ said Martha decisively, wincing.

‘Ah,’ he said, on a softer note. ‘Well, well. And you are going to marry that young man of yours?’

‘What young man? Oh, you mean William?’

‘I didn’t know there was another I might mean.’

‘He’s been posted. For taking part in politics,’ she added.

‘Quite right too.’

‘If people can die for politics I don’t see why they shouldn’t be allowed to take an active part in them.’

‘How naïve. Is that the line of that rag there?’ He reached over for a limp copy of The Watchdog and regarded its exclamatory front page with raised black brows.

‘So crude,’ said Martha.

‘Quite. I prefer my left-wing propaganda put into decent English and appearing in unobtrusive paragraphs in the serious weeklies where only reactionaries like myself can see them. I like them to begin: “According to our correspondent it is believed that there might be a possibility …” ‘ He smiled at her, inviting her to smile back. She did not smile.

‘Why do you call it propaganda? And, anyway, it’s not meant for you.’ She took back the paper and folded it into the pile of others.

‘It’s not, I should have thought, for you either.’

‘What’s the time?’ she asked.

‘Come and have a drink at the Club?’

‘At the Club!’ she said derisively.

‘Then come and have a cup of tea at Greasy Dick’s.’

‘I’m late, I told you.’

‘Are you making many recruits among the working masses?’

She grinned at him, for the first time, saying nothing.

‘Well, are you?’

‘I must go.’

‘No, wait a moment.’