The Merciless Ladies by Winston Graham
Her lips were on mine for some seconds. ‘Pistol’s gone’, I said. ‘The race is to the swift. Goodbye, my dear.’
They were in the big Chrysler Paul had recently bought. Paul’s self-contained eyes met mine. These last months he had lost weight. The change suited him; he looked less worldly.
‘This is it’, he said. ‘You’ve helped, Bill. I’ll not forget.’
‘No point in looking back’, I said. ‘Look ahead now.’
‘I’ll do that’, he said, and glanced at his wife. ‘This is it, Holly.’
She nodded distantly. ‘ Go on. Don’t make me make a scene now.’
He touched my hand, which was on the door, then leaned forward and started up the engine. A few moments later the grey car had disappeared down the drive.
Chapter Sixteen
A selection from among the letters that lie on my desk, and one news cutting.
From Holly Stafford to William Grant at Via Caglioni 21, Trastevere, Rome.
Royal Avenue 1 May
Dearest Bill,
I’m writing to say how disappointed we were not being able to see you again before you left. We missed you by only two days: the weather in Guernsey was damp and windy so we didn’t prolong our h/moon, there being so much to see in London.
I thought you’d refused the offer. I know it’s short term and may lead to something better – what: do we know? – but you’re back writing of a regime you don’t like, and, from what you tell me, that can’t be altogether without risk. Also, does it mean you’ve left the M. Guardian permanently?
I’m now comfortably settled in here and feeling quite good about it, though one cannot help noticing a few differences from Newton and Oxford. Still not got used to being called Mrs Stafford. Also I’ve never known before what it is not to be short of money!
The people we meet are very quaint and have quite a different standard of values from normal people like Daddy or Mother. Paul wants to become a recluse, but I refuse to be pampered and insist that it’s good business to mix with a few people, even though he may at present feel sick of them. He’s always refusing invitations.
I had a letter from Bertie yesterday. He seems very happy among the lepers. He enclosed photographs of people covered with sores and says in six months he’ll send me some snaps of the same people after treatment. Leo remains in Paris. A pity you missed him on the way out. He’s still disgruntled at the necessity of earning a living and thinks of marrying some rich widow in order that he could devote the rest of his life to composition.
Paul is at present very deep in a portrait of Mary, Countess of Doughmore. I hope it will not be like the one of Mrs Marnsett. Paul tells me you said that was a wicked portrait, and from the reproduction, I agree. I told him my sympathies were entirely with Mrs Marnsett.
Mummy has just bought a new cocker spaniel which she has christened Mussolini, because she says it is always barking up the wrong tree.
I go to Newton about once a fortnight, to see them both, Mother and Daddy I mean. I hope you are happy in Rome but won’t accept an extension of stay. Now that I’m married and living in London I should like to see more of my third brother and best friend.
Ever yours, Holly
Letter from Holly Stafford to William Grant, at same address.
Royal Avenue
Dearest Bill,
Thank you so much for the lovely Venetian bag. It was sweet of you. I do hope you had a good Christmas.
We were lucky and managed a family reunion at Newton. Bertie is back on holiday, as you probably heard, looking very well and not dried up with the climate, and no sores. He has formed a cricket team out there and they play in the morning before the sun gets high. He’s discovered a left arm spin bowler, and seems upset that he can’t bring him to England until his few remaining patches are cured.
And Leo came from Paris! He’s having his first concerto performed next month and is very much the composer now. He rather got on Paul’s nerves, who as you know is always so matter-of-fact in his dress and behaviour; but we all really managed very well together. Mother had a cook in for the week, some friend of hers who is hard up; but when she came we found she couldn’t cook after all; so Bertie and I (mainly Bertie) did the Christmas dinner.
These days it takes me most of my time looking after Paul in one way or another: arranging appointments, answering letters and invitations. So far I haven’t had so much leisure as I’d planned for helping Daddy with his physics, but we maintain a correspondence. Anyway Paul is still dead keen to cut out a lot of his present work. I’m dissuading him from any change at the moment because I’m afraid it might be an emotional change, all bound up with marrying me etc. Any new direction in his life has to be taken coolly and in detachment.
I met Olive entirely by accident last week – at least I think it was accident. She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? But probably a little uncomfortable to live with.
I have never seen so many plays in my life, some marvellous but others so inane that one wonders what the critics saw to praise in them or the audiences to laugh at.
Write soon, please.
Love, Holly
Extract from a letter to John Nichols in Scotland, from his wife Madge, later passed on to William Grant. Dated 12 April 1929.
… I must tell you about Mavis Hammersley’s latest party, where I met – at last – Paul Stafford’s new wife – and on her own! Seeing they’ve been married nearly a year, she’ll soon cease to qualify for that description; but at least she’s new to me, so closely has Paul kept her under his wing.
They say she’s brainy – but so young, like a schoolgirl almost – not good-looking, with horn-rimmed glasses, nice eyes – straight of body but with a sort of hiccup of a walk. Someone said she looked like an awkward colt suffering from underfeeding. Out of her depth at this party, which was the usual thing, bridge, tea, gossip. She couldn’t play bridge, or wouldn’t, stood or sat (figuratively) with her back to the wall for an hour or so, not sulky or defiant but self-contained and mute unless spoken to.
And then who should come in but Olive Stafford. Mavis swears she wasn’t invited, but Mavis is such a harebrain that you can never be sure. Anyway from the moment she got there Olive was not in a good mood. Something had got in her – long before she knew her successor was there. You know what Olive’s like – slightly smaller than life, tip-tilted face, those eyes. And you know how she dresses. The way I’d like to dress if I had the figure and you gave me the money! Mrs Stafford II was wearing a tweed skirt and a créam lace blouse; terribly correct for a suburban afternoon.
Of course in that company it wasn’t possible to keep them apart for long, and of course in most circumstances it wouldn’t much matter. After all, if divorce can’t be treated as a civilized expedient these days it’s just too bad for everybody. But because Holly S is not that type we did our best. Alas, no go. Olive soon got the message from somebody and at once went across and said something about how glad she was to meet Mrs Stafford in such pleasant surroundings as she’d fully expected to encounter her in the divorce courts.
Holly S didn’t quite take this in, as no one had told her who Olive was, but naturally she could see she was being got at.
‘But tell me’, Olive said, sweet as arsenic, ‘how is dear Paul?’
Mrs Stafford II still didn’t cotton, and said to Olive: ‘You know Paul well?’
Olive laughed at this and said: ‘I ought to, my dear, I slept with him long before you did.’
So far, a little rancid, you’ll agree, but not exceptional in that company. But then Olive really let rip – and there are standards, my love, even in that job-lot of Mavis’s friends, who I know you don’t think too highly of yourself. Out came the poison pills, coated with sugar. Paul and his working-class manners and his eccentric vices; the dreariness of life with him, his habit of sucking his teeth when asleep, his dislike of changing his socks, his … well, I can’t remember it all, but it got nastier and nastier. Until now I’ve alw
The second Mrs Stafford, who had been going whiter and whiter, suddenly forced a smile and said: ‘Well. I’m sorry for your unhappiness. I do hope I shan’t make such an awful mess of the job as you did … I wonder if I could have my coat, Mrs Hammersley? Thank you for a lovely party.’ And swept out.
It really was done with dignity after all, and, although when I helped her into a taxi I could feel her arm trembling, she didn’t at all give way or let herself down. I expect she felt pretty bad when she got home.
After all this I went back in and found Olive too was on the point of leaving. She was aware that she’d behaved pretty badly, and she obviously preferred to leave us to talk about her in her absence. The only explanation was offered by Mary Whitethorn who said she’d heard that Olive’s engagement to Peter Sharble was in a shaky state, and maybe she was working something off.
My cough is better, so this is the last long letter you’ll have before we meet.
Love, love, Madge
From Holly Stafford to William Grant, at Piazza San Borromeo, Borgo Monalieri, Rome.
Royal Avenue 6 May
Dearest Bill,
So sorry to have been such an age replying to your last letter.
My reason for the delay, which is no excuse, is that we have been away on a motor holiday. Last month I caught a streptococcal throat, and when it was better the doctor said ‘a change’, so we went a tour, up through Wales and the lovely Welsh scenery before there were too many char-à-bancs about, through the Mersey tunnel, which reminds me of a Bax Symphony, and then Lancashire and up to the Lakes. Quite a few people, including a fellow called Wordsworth, have had a go at them; but it’s hard to pin down in words what they’re really like. A first silly thing that struck me was the lovely absence of banks. Not the sort that are crashing in America at the moment but the common or garden earthen ones which serve usually to contain. In the Lake District they hardly seem to exist: there’s just green valleys brimming with clear water, and where the water ends the trees and the green lawns begin, sloping gently up.
I must tell you of one day. Paul wanted to see Wastwater, which is supposed to be different from the others, more gloomy. From Broughton-in-Furness one takes a road north and branches off. Well, we did branch off, but too soon, and followed a narrowing track into an enchanted valley.
I call it enchanted because it seemed without life, not a bird was singing, not a house to be seen, only this narrow road winding in and out of huge lichen-covered boulders. Then a stream joined the road and went with us, bubbling but somehow hollow and not very cheering. Perhaps that was because there was no other sound; not even wind. You know how quietly our Chrysler goes. We just stole along into the quietness, up little rises and round corners among the boulders and the undulating moorland and the short stunted trees. It was the sort of experience I felt I might have after I was dead: moving along without effort and without sound through an empty moss-grown valley, not knowing what to expect round any corner, but devoid of fear. Not quite alive and nothing else alive but the stream.
At length we passed a small empty house and then came on a large cottage standing by itself where the valley broadened, among a few trees and with a stone bridge across the stream, and with mountains on either side. We were both hungry, as we’d intended getting something at Broughton, and we were also curious to know what the name of this valley was. So we stopped and went to the door. There was a ‘For Sale’ notice in one of the windows, but the house was occupied and an oldish woman came to the door.
Paul asked her if she could make us a cup of tea, and after an argument she gave way and we went in. In one room we could see chicken feathers scattered all over the floor, and in the kitchen there was a dirty child playing in front of the fire. The room we went into had a stone floor with one rug and grubby lace curtains at the window and a big deal table.
The woman told us that this was Crichton Beck. We were eight miles from the nearest village and there were only three ways into this valley: the road we had come on or over the two mountain passes, west to Wastwater, east to Langdale. Her husband was working in the fields; there was one other cottage three miles up the valley and the empty house we had passed; no, she didn’t find it lonely, they were leaving because the child would have to get schooling and she couldn’t walk sixteen miles a day. No, they’d only lived here a matter of two years, up to then they’d lived in the cottage up the valley. You couldn’t farm this land. No, she didn’t think much about the scenery. It was all right for visitors who saw it fresh-like, but when you lived in a place one view was much like another.
After tea we went on to Wastwater: an awful climb, then a precipitous descent in the rain with seven hair-pin bends and any number of gates and water splashes and slipping yellow mud.
Paul did nothing but talk about the valley. If only he could drop everything and go up there and paint. But I still had that first impression of unearthliness; the silence and the stream, then the interior of the old cottage with its dirt and its air of having been something better; the woman’s rigid narrow peasant face and her story of disappointment and failure, and all round the sloping brown mountains. I’m afraid Paul wouldn’t get many portraits to paint there unless they were the portraits of deparred spirits.
We called to see Paul’s father on the way home. He’s a nice old man, fierce outside and soft in. He is coming down to stay with us next month. You must by now be wondering whether the germs have left behind them what Daddy pedantically calls a cacoëthes scribendi, so will finish.
Love from Holly
Enclosed with above a scrawled note from Paul.
What’s this – a flat in Rome? Are you setting up a ménage?
Don’t mind, except that I don’t want you to settle there. Come
home soon.
Holly has been off colour but is fine now.
Will write more soon.
P.
From Paul Stafford to William Grant, at the same address.
Royal Avenue 30 June
My dear Bill,
Again thanks for the letter. Am glad you appreciate my offer, even if from a purely monetary point of view; though I don’t think my stuff will fetch much in the pawnshops of the Eternal City. So sorry, though, that I can’t send you one of Holly as requested. To tell the truth I have never once painted her, and your letter made me face up to the matter and ask myself why.
The only answer that seems to be an honest one is this: Holly is the one thing in my life that has come to serve as a sort of touchstone for the genuine. She means something which is true and without alloy, that is, something with which I’m not prepared to compromise. So the two sides of existence just don’t meet at present. Do I make myself clear?
Besides, she isn’t beautiful and I don’t want her to be. She exists but you don’t paint her. Who can put her kind of personality on canvas? I can’t. There’s no way of making it more clear. I know if you want to be awkward you can argue that Monet and others have painted light, and maybe air; but that’s not really the point.
Am sending you the ‘ Head of a Parisian Girl’ which you admired.
In haste, Paul
Letter from Holly Stafford to William Grant at same address.
10 September
Dearest Bill,
A word in a hurry to say how delighted we are you’re coming home, and especially as Lit. Ed. of the Chronicle. This should suit you exactly. Congrat-u-lations!!!
Are you likely to be back by Thursday the twenty-third? Leo is in England and is playing his concerto at Torquay; an afternoon show, but its first performance in this country. If you can drop us a card we’ll save you a seat – not that there’s likely to be a crush. Do if you can. Looking forward to it if you are there.
Holly Extract from the Daily Telegraph, 12 September 1929.
‘The marriage took place at Brompton Oratory yesterday of Mr Peter Frank Sharble, Member of Pa
Chapter Seventeen
Torquay drowsed like a middle-aged prima donna in the autumn sun, its ample curves and plump little hills warm and prosperous under the ripe blue sky. People thronged the promenade and main streets, little white boats clustered in the harbour, wasps hummed and struggled about the waste-bins in the harbour car park.
The orchestra was just finishing the Midsummer Night’s Dream Scherzo as I entered the Pavilion; and when it was over I squeezed up the third row and found myself sitting next to Holly. She put up her left fist and I gripped it and pecked her cheek. Paul leaned across and put his hand on mine.
‘Welcome home.’
‘Bill, this is perfect! It’s Leonora next and then comes Leo. How are you?’
The conductor held up his baton and the Beethoven overture began. Glance sideways at Holly. Happily not too smart. Glossy hair worn rather long and turned up at the ends. Pale horn spectacles. No colour on her face; some on the lips, that was nice; thank God she hadn’t mucked about with her eyebrows. Mature, though; she was mature now. Paul … the same old Paul; an expression of inscrutable power and discontent. His skin was clearer.
I looked down at the programme. There it was: ‘Concerto in D Minor for Pianoforte and Orchestra, by Galileo Lynn … Allegro con brio, Andante sostenuto, Allegretto … Soloist, Galileo Lynn.’