Snow and Roses Read online

  Once she roused herself to ask Lalage,

  “What about Cecily and Daisy? Do you know anything about them?”

  “Yes. Cecily has surprisingly been what everybody calls ‘wonderful’. Daisy, poor little girl, cried for three days and had to be put under sedation. Of course all Hugh’s friends did everything they could for them. They went away after the funeral, to Cecily’s mother who lives at Branksome; I heard that Cecily planned to find a small house near there and to send Daisy to school in Bournemouth. She will be glad to get away from Oxford, I should think, and cut all connection with it. She hated it, didn’t she?”

  Yes, she did. Damn her! Blast her! If she hadn’t, none of this would have happened. Hugh could have stayed here and he and I could have gone on being happy together. Spoilt, selfish, neurotic woman, always worrying about people not liking her, and now she has them admiring her and praising her for being wonderful. And she’s going to get away from Oxford, which was all she really cared about. She can’t have loved Hugh. I could have been happy anywhere with him. She never did love him, she just used him. But Daisy crying for three days, that’s something real … How much Hugh would have minded that. But I don’t … not really. I don’t care what happens to either of them; I only felt as if I cared when they were part of him. Now I don’t care about anybody, not even Lal. Not even myself. I’m dead before dying.

  Of course all those people in the college who had anything to do with her noticed the change in her: they either avoided her without knowing it or spoke to her with special kindness. One or two of her colleagues asked her for a drink or for coffee after dinner. She hastily refused these invitations in a way that made people not sure if she really knew what they had asked her to. Lalage told everyone that Flora was very tired and had had some upsetting news from her family, she felt that she must conserve her energies for work until the end of term. Her friends were all very busy themselves; they let her alone except for concerned glances; she saw all the glances through a mist but they did not matter. She was a long way off from them. Only two people tried to break through to her, Nan Coates, and the Principal.

  Nan, as Flora half indifferently realized, was doing the minimum of work. Ralph Destrick, who was reading P.P.E., was just starting Schools. He was out of college in lodgings for this last year; Nan, if she had not spent the night with him, went down early in the morning to cheer him into the examination room. She was there again at midday with special treats for his lunch that she couldn’t afford to buy, and she was outside the Schools waiting for him to come out at the end of the afternoon.

  Lalage, who sometimes talked about them to try and distract Flora, speculated as to whether in this critical week Ralph found Nan more of a help or a hindrance.

  “She’s such a thorough girl. She may be absolutely smothering him, and he’s probably too young to know how to stop her. She’s evidently a much stronger personality than he is.”

  “Oh, yes, she’s that all right.”

  “Do you think she asked him to marry her?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Lalage patiently repeated her question.

  “No, she wouldn’t do that, she’s too proud. I think she willed him to ask her. And at the moment he probably wanted to. But he must have recoiled very soon after or why all this secrecy? He’ll never go through with it, and Nan will take it very hard, and it will probably mean that her last year’s work will be mucked up, and she may not get her First. Oh well, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Flora got up restlessly from her chair, went to the window, pressed her hot forehead against the glass, and shut her eyes.

  “Flora! You aren’t fit to go on with this. Don’t you think you ought to get a doctor’s certificate and go home or go away and rest somewhere? Are you doing any good to the girls you are coaching at present?”

  “Yes, I am. That part of me luckily seems to be self-generating. It isn’t only that I can’t let my Schools people down; nobody who took them over now could know what they need at the last minute. But I need the work too, it’s the one thing that keeps me sane. I’m doing all right for them, Lal. Don’t worry about them.”

  “I’m not. I’m worrying about you.”

  “Don’t. I’ve got to stand things like everyone else. I’ve been spoilt up to now. I’ve had no troubles. That’s probably why I’m bad at putting up with this one. I don’t know about being unhappy. I don’t know what to do. But I shall learn, Lal, and I’m sorry because I know it’s a weight on you.”

  If any anxiety about how Flora was doing her work troubled the Principal she never referred to it; only, as she was leaving the high table one night at the end of dinner, she stopped by the chair behind which Flora stood, half leaning on it.

  “If by any chance you are free could you come and have a cup of coffee with me? In about ten minutes.”

  The Principal’s room ran right through the new wing so that at one end it looked down on the lately enclosed quadrangle; from the other window the view was the same as Flora’s, the tennis courts, the field of winter games, the river. Evening light from both windows flowed in and warmed the varied colours of the books in their tall shelves and of the bright flowers in bowls and glasses. On the desk there were framed photographs of soldiers in uniform. Dr Singleton came of a service family. Her husband was a military historian living in their house between Abingdon and Radley where she joined him in the vacs. Her two sons were in the Army. Confronted with the Principal’s graceful dress, her cool, smiling face under the swept-up dark hair, Flora became distinctly aware that her own cotton frock, worn for several days, was unfresh, and her hair had not been washed and set for three weeks.

  “Come and sit down, Flora. I asked for some iced coffee. I thought we should like it, it’s been a stuffy day, hasn’t it?”

  Flora sat down and took the long glass, hardly colder than her hand. Since Hugh’s death she had been cold all the time except for her head and face. She would have liked hot coffee and was childishly disappointed. She did not realize that she had not spoken at all except for a mechanical “Thank you” when the glass was put into her hand. She perceived that the Principal was repeating something that she had already said.

  “I was asking you about your starters. Are they in fairly good form?”

  Flora came back into herself.

  “I think so. Brenda Hall is very nervous. It’s a toss-up for her between a First and a Second. Of course it depends partly on what questions she gets, whether they happen to suit her, but a lot depends on whether she’s at the top of her form. She’s always been very variable, but she’s worked much more steadily these last two terms. She’s got a good ear, she writes well. I think the others are all set to do themselves justice. I don’t know about Wendy Hilverston …”

  “Poor Wendy, we made a mistake there didn’t we?”

  “She tries very hard, when she can see where to try, but she needs teaching all the time as if she was still at school.”

  “And now she’ll be out on her own. Well, we must just hope. I’m sure you’ve done everything that could be done for her.”

  They went over the chances of all Flora’s seven. Dr Singleton showed that she knew very nearly as much about their prospects as Flora did. Some people said that she was not a good head of college, she was a snob, and far too much of a socialite. Lalage, who was congenitally allergic to anyone in authority, disliked her, and said that St Frideswide’s was a pawn in her game. Flora could not quite see what game it could be a pawn in, and was inclined to admire the Principal’s grasp of everything that went on in the College.

  “By the way, I saw a very good poem by Nan Coates in the Isis. How is her work coming on?”

  Flora was obliged to admit that so far as her academic work was concerned Nan was not coming on at all.

  “A young man at Merton I think I heard?”

  She heard everything.

  “Yes, but he’s going down this term. At present they’re engaged,
but he wants it kept private until he comes back from America at Christmas. His father’s in the Embassy at Washington and Ralph is probably going into the Foreign Office next January.”

  “I see. One of those student engagements that don’t last.”

  “There isn’t enough stuff in him for her.”

  “Meanwhile, from our point of view, if not at the moment from hers, it is vital that she should work hard for most of this long vac, especially as she has been slacking. Shall I speak to her, or leave it to you?”

  Flora hesitated. Nan was another person who didn’t like Dr Singleton. The Principal had a reputation for being particularly good with students, but Nan called her friendly manner patronizing. Flora at another time would have known that she herself was more likely to make Nan buckle down to it, but her morale was at the moment so low that she was inclined to feel that anybody else could do better.

  “She’s so used to me. I think it would help if you would have a word with her.”

  “I want to congratulate her on her poem, and I’ll make that a starting point. She’ll be going home to Yorkshire, I suppose?”

  “Yes, for most of the vac certainly. I don’t know if she’s going away for a holiday, but she’s had a good holiday this term anyhow.”

  “Judging from the verses I have seen she still draws most of her strength from her roots. And now, my dear, what are your holiday plans?”

  “I don’t really know … I shall go to my parents for a bit at the end of term, and probably to my sister. I did have a plan for going to Turkey, but I don’t think I shall this year. I want to spend most of the time at my cottage. I haven’t touched my book this term and I have two new lectures to write.”

  “None of that seems to me to be quite what you need. Have you had a medical check-up lately?”

  “No. I’m quite all right. I don’t need one.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not looking at all well.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me, it’s only just that I’m end-of-term tired.”

  “No end of term has made you look like this before. I think there’s something else, isn’t there? Do you feel inclined to tell me what is the matter?”

  Flora did not answer at once.

  “Of course I don’t want to attempt to force your confidence.”

  You can’t, Flora thought, but not angrily as Lalage or Nan might have thought it. Dr Singleton if she was not being kind—why did one never feel at bottom quite sure of her kindness?—was certainly doing her job.

  She pressed gently on with it.

  “I hope there has been no recent trouble in your family, has there?”

  “No, thank you. They’re quite all right.”

  The Principal waited. Flora realized that she was not going to get out of this room without saying something.

  “I have had a private trouble.” She stopped, threatened by an uprush of tears. She tightened every muscle in her face and throat.

  “It has to be private … because of other people.”

  “I see. I am very sorry. Of course if at any time you feel you want to talk about it to somebody who can be relied on to treat it as confidential, I am always here and glad to see you. Why did the Turkey plan for a holiday fall through? Who was going with you?”

  “Lalage Penfold.”

  It was only by an infinitesimal movement of the lips and eyelids that the Principal betrayed a want of enthusiasm for Lalage, who never had been subversive yet, but always might be.

  “Isn’t it rather a pity to spend the whole year with the same people? One needs to see things from a fresh angle sometimes. Isn’t there somebody else you would like to go abroad with, since Lalage can’t?”

  “She could, but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” Flora could hear that this came out spoilt-childish. “Lalage has got a job for July and August coaching a girl in Scotland for her O Levels. She will join me at the cottage for September.”

  “I think the cottage would be a mistake. I should like you to get right away somewhere, have a complete change of scene and company. People who are grieving or in some kind of trouble often feel that nothing like that could help them, but sometimes they find out that it can.

  “People who are grieving” startled Flora. But Dr Singleton couldn’t know. Nobody except Lalage knew.

  “I’ll try and make a plan for going abroad for some part of the vac.”

  “Yes, do. Meanwhile I should like you to see a doctor. You’ve lost weight so very rapidly in the last week or two. You probably just need some vitamins or perhaps a few tranquillizers to help you through to the end of term. And I hope you won’t think me impertinent if I suggest that a visit to your excellent hairdresser who always makes your hair look so charming might be a good minor restorative. You have been thinking too much about other people lately and not enough about yourself, I expect.”

  “One thing about her,” Lalage had remarked, “she always makes it quite clear to you when to go. She does it with just a slightly different kind of smile.”

  Flora recognized the moment now. Thankful that she had neither burst into tears, nor given anything away, she took herself out of the room.

  Her work with the immediate victims as well as her own trouble prevented Flora from having as much attention as usual to spare for Nan, but she was sometimes aware that the girl was looking at her intently. She had surrounded her large bright eyes with a set of improbably dark lashes: her own were so light as to be unnoticeable.

  “She says Ralph likes them,” Lalage reported. “So long as he doesn’t want her to dye her hair!”

  But evidently Ralph too admired the russet valances, now much more often shiny with brushing.

  Nan came to a coaching bringing an essay which, although not one of her worst, was still far below the best she could do. Flora told her to read it and determinedly forced her attention on it.

  “You’ll have to do better than that next term, Nan.”

  She would not have been surprised if Nan had replied belligerently, “What’s wrong with it?” But she only said, “I’m sorry, I’ll do it again.”

  “No, don’t do it again. You’ve read the stuff, and put the essay together quite well. It’s just that this is anybody’s essay, not yours, not a first scholar’s. You’ve written it off the top layer, with only half your mind on it. I know it’s difficult for you not to do that at the moment, but we all have to do things under various kinds of difficulties.”

  “I know. I’ll do it again. I want to. I’ll make time.”

  Next evening, when Flora came up to her room after dinner, she found a wad of foolscap, and a sealed envelope propped against her door. The essay, abominably written in a hurried scrawl so that Flora could hardly read it, was the first piece of brilliant work that Nan had produced that term. The envelope contained a short poem about a miner working on the coal face who knew that the man working next to him along the line was in trouble, but did not know what was the matter because, although he had the lamp in front of his helmet which enabled him to see the coal he was cutting, he had no light to show him what was in another man’s heart.

  Except for one commonplace line the poem was terse and vivid. Both essay and poem reassured Flora that the essential Nan was still there. She caught her after breakfast the next morning, thanked her for making the extra effort with the essay, and warmly praised both that and the poem.

  Nan looked as though there was something she wanted to say, but the Yorkshire habit of bottling up her feelings, sometimes at odds with the poet in her, held her back. She only glowed with pale pink colour up to the edge of her hair. Flora, always now afraid of losing her self-control, turned away from the girl, but she felt strengthened. She tucked the poem inside the Collected MacNeice which was the last book that Hugh had given her when he had spent an evening with her at the cottage on her birthday at the beginning of that term.

  To leave Oxford seemed to be a relief. There was some relief as well as a sense of desolation in lea
ving Lalage. Flora thought that it might now be easier to be with people who knew nothing at all about Hugh.

  Lalage shut the car door on her.

  “I hate going so far away from you. Look, if you want me, let me know and I’ll find some place near Dunwoodie where you could stay. There’s sure to be a fisherman’s pub near there or it’s only a few miles from Oban. I shall have my car, I could spend all my spare time with you.”

  “Don’t worry, Lal. I shall be all right. It’s time I managed to be. I can’t thank you for everything, but I’ll write.”

  “Yes, do write, really, not just scraps, and tell me the truth about yourself.”

  “I will. I hope it’s lovely up there. It should be at this time of year if you get good weather. I hope the Standings are congenial, or anyhow kind. You’ll be living in luxury, which is always nice.”

  “I’ll be down at the cottage at the beginning of September. Take care of yourself. Goodbye.”

  The day was cool for the end of June with fleeting sunshine and a changeable sky. Movement and the different scene made Flora feel a little better. On the downs above Winchester she drew into a lay-by, nibbled languidly at the ham roll that Lalage had buttered for her, and drank her hot coffee.

  The peculiar taste of Thermos coffee brought back the memory of one of her rare expeditions with Hugh. Cecily had gone to her mother for the week-end. Flora and Hugh had gone on the Saturday to a matinée at Stratford. Careful as always, they had each separately booked a seat in a different part of the house, but they had driven to Stratford together, sharing a picnic lunch on the way in a field off a side turning. Although she could not even see Hugh from her seat in the theatre Flora had become as acutely conscious of him as if he were part of the play, which was Twelfth Night. In spite of a fantastical decor spawned by a fashionable young producer who admired himself more than Shakespeare, Flora felt that she had never before to the same extent seen or heard any play, so happily open was she to every word and gesture. The drive home through the sweet-smelling countryside, the leisurely supper in the cottage, and the whole night together had been a mounting crescendo of joy.