THE VISITATION
By HELEN SIMPSON
MY dear, there you are! How are you? How heavenly you look! I like the gas-mask so absolutely matching. Come and have something fattening, it's good for our nerves. Coffee or something.
Well, now listen, my sweet, because as a matter of fact rather a frightful thing's happening, and I must tell some- body. It is luck I met you, because you always have FO much poise and rightness. Well, you know that time before they declared war? (What ages ago it seems!) Of course, I wasn't going to stay and be bombed, so I went off weeks ago and I found a heavenly cottage, right in the middle of a wood, completely invisible from the air. It had some people in it, gamekeepery people, but the landlord said he'd find them somewhere else. Anyhow, you know that brooch the family gave me for a wedding present, hideous, not bad stones though ; so I popped it and paid the landlord three months' rent down and a sort of premium or whatever you call it. Everybody was after country cottages then, so it was quite reasonable really, only it sounded a lot. This was in August, early. The billeting people bad seen it, but it had seven people living in three rooms so they let it alone.
I got back to London and told Bill about it all calm and organised, as I thought. However, he said: Now this is quite incredible, but it's what Bill said. He said: " You can have it if you take someone else, some person who can't get away." So I said: " Have it, I like that ; I've got it, and I popped my brooch ; so it's my idea and I'm paying for it, so I don't see where this kind permission of yours comes in." Well, honestly, do you? Of course, Bill's rather nervy. Men hate you to notice it, but he is. Fro not a bit. All this war, I mean, you needn't read the papers, and you can always turn the wireless off. There's simply no need to let it upset you, I mean.
What was I saying? Oh yes, about Bill. So I said: " It's my cottage, paid for with my money, and if yert're good I'll ask you to stay." He said he wasn't leaving London.
They'd given him an area—transport or something. So I said: " I'll take both the servants, if that's what you mean."
But Bill said he'd fixed it up for them both to go back to their relations in case of trouble. My dear! So I said I'd always understood it was the wife's job to deal with the servants, and I thought he'd been extremely officious. He said who would I get to come to the cottage, and I said I must have time to think, and ring up my friends. I was going to ring you up first, as a matter of fact, because you cook so divinely—don't you? I thought you did. Anyhow, I was going to ring you up. Only then this frightful Bal- 1 try to make excuses for him, because we've lost some money and all that, but honestly—well, he said he didn't mean people like friends, friends were all quite able to look after themselves ; what he meant was a poor person, or some children, or both. Now, I do just ask you! Somebody I'd never seen before, and would probably loathe, staying there absolutely cheek by jowl with me in the divine cottage I'd given my brooch for. Is that selfishness, or isn't it?
So I took rather a strong line. This was the Wednesday before that really frightful week. I said to Bill: " Since you seem to have made arrangements for yourself, and the servants, and everyone except me, I shall take the law into my own hands, and go off to Pinks "—that's the cottage's name ; nice, I think ; easy to remember—I said: " I shall go down to the cottage tomorrow, and if you come, too, I shall love to have you, but I don't see that you've got any right to insist on my taking in refugees from the East End. They'd be miserable in the country, and besides, it's the Government's job to look after them." Bill didn't say much after that. He rather looked at me Then later that night he asked if I really did mean to go. I said it was helping the Government for people like me to evacuate themselves, and not take up room in the trains at the last moment. I mean, that's ordinary common sense, don't you think?
Bill made just a bit of a scene, as a matter of fact. Hoy, ever, he was all right in the morning. He went off early to his area. I drove round a bit, and scratched some food together, and filled up the car with tins, and got down to the cottage about four.
Yes, it was just on four when I got there, because I passed the church clock—it's a real village, with a church and everything—I heard it strike. I drove down into the wood, and there was the cottage, with smoke coming out of the chimney. The funny thing was, I didn't have one single qualm, not one. I just thought how nice of the game- keepery people to light the fire. Not that one needed it. but it looks so welcoming. I got out, and, my dear, I went in to the place singing at the top of my voice, because it was nice to be out of it all. And then my blood absolutely curdled. What do you think was sitting there, with her feet up? An East End grandmother, my dear, and three children under five!
Wasn't it unspeakable? I said " I'm sorry, but this is my cottage." And the grandmother got up, and said she'd been evacuated, and she'd got the order she could show me ; so she hauled it out from inside her skirt somewhere, and there it was, some sort of official order all right, and signed by. who do you think? Now, who do you think? Who'd be so disgusting, who'd think out such an absolutely foul come- back? Bill, of course. He'd brought the creatures from his area, brought them down himself, that morning. The gamekeepery people let him in, because, of course, they knew my name and he showed them his card and said he was my husband. And will you believe it, I couldn't get them out? I could not get them out. The police wouldn't come, nobody would pay me any attention, so there they were, and there they are still, and they eat like horses, all four of them. I can't tell you!
But it's really about Bill I wanted your advice. He knew perfectly well it was a dirty trick, and he ought to be ashamed of himself, but, of course, he's proud like all men. and as I say frightfully nervy, and do yot. know, to this day he's never referred to it, or said he's sorry or anything.
Well, I mean, what is one to do? He's getting more and more difficult and tiresome. I ring him up every day, I've been angelic to him ever since, I've given him every chance to say he's sorry, I even asked him down to the cottage, but he won't. He hardly speaks to me when I do get him to the telephone. Well, I mean, isn't that the sort of thing they call—what's the word I'm think- ing of? You know, you have to go to one of these men. psycho somethings—what is the word? Inhibition, that's right, how clever you are. Exhibition, really, because that's what he's making of himself. So what I wanted to ask you about was whether you'd advise me to call it all off, Bill I mean, and get a separation or something. I mean, we are separated anyhow. Honestly, this sort of thing's getting me down, I've lost pounds, not that I mind that. It's the strain. Sdmetimes I feel I'm going absolutely mental with it all.
I wonder if those lucky people in America have any notion what a war's like?
Previous page
