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It’s true what they say, she had thought, men are just like children …
She said gently, ‘I daresay—but life isn’t holidays. We’ve got the future to think of, Rodney. There’s Tony.’
For Tony had been a baby of eleven months then.
She added, ‘And there may be—others.’
He looked a quick question at her, and she smiled and nodded.
‘But don’t you see, Joan, that makes it all the better? It’s a good place for children, a farm. It’s a healthy place. They have fresh eggs and milk, and run wild and learn how to look after animals.’
‘Oh but, Rodney, there are lots of other things to consider. There’s their schooling. They must go to good schools. And that’s expensive. And boots and clothes and teeth and doctors. And making nice friends for them. You can’t just do what you want to do. You’ve got to consider children if you bring them into the world. After all, you’ve got a duty to them.’
Rodney said obstinately, but there was a question in his voice this time, ‘They’d be happy …’
‘It’s not practical, Rodney, really it isn’t. Why, if you go into the firm you may be making as much as two thousand pounds a year some day.’
‘Easily, I should think. Uncle Harry makes more than that.’
‘There! You see! You can’t turn a thing like that down. It would be madness!’
She had spoken very decidedly, very positively. She had got, she saw, to be firm about this. She must be wise for the two of them. If Rodney was blind to what was best for him, she must assume the responsibility. It was so dear and silly and ridiculous, this farming idea. He was like a little boy. She felt strong and confident and maternal.
‘Don’t think I don’t understand and sympathize, Rodney,’ she said. ‘I do. But it’s just one of those things that isn’t real.’
He had interrupted to say that farming was real enough.
‘Yes, but it’s just not in the picture. Our picture. Here you’ve got a wonderful family business with a first-class opening in it for you—and a really quite amazingly generous proposition from your uncle—’
‘Oh, I know. It’s far better than I ever expected.’
‘And you can’t—you simply can’t turn it down! You’d regret it all your life if you did. You’d feel horribly guilty.’
He muttered, ‘That bloody office!’
‘Oh, Rodney, you don’t really hate it as much as you think you do.’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve been in it five years, remember. I ought to know what I feel.’
‘You’ll get used to it. And it will be different now. Quite different. Being a partner, I mean. And you’ll end by getting quite interested in the work—and in the people you come across. You’ll see, Rodney—you’ll end by being perfectly happy.’
He had looked at her then—a long sad look. There had been love in it, and despair and something else, something that had been, perhaps, a last faint flicker of hope …
‘How do you know,’ he had asked, ‘that I shall be happy?’
And she had answered briskly and gaily, ‘I’m quite sure you will. You’ll see.’
And she had nodded brightly and with authority.
He had sighed and said abruptly: ‘All right then. Have it your own way.’
Yes, Joan thought, that was really a very narrow shave. How lucky for Rodney that she had held firm and not allowed him to throw away his career for a mere passing craze! Men, she thought, would make sad messes of their lives if it weren’t for women. Women had stability, a sense of reality …
Yes, it was lucky for Rodney he’d had her.
She glanced down at her wrist watch. Half past ten. No point in walking too far—especially (she smiled) as there was nowhere to walk to.
She looked over her shoulder. Extraordinary, the rest house was nearly out of sight. It had settled down into the landscape so that you hardly saw it. She thought, I must be careful not to walk too far. I might get lost.
A ridiculous idea—no—perhaps not so ridiculous after all. Those hills in the distance, you could hardly see them now—they were indistinguishable from cloud. The station didn’t exist.
Joan looked round her with appreciation. Nothing. No one.
She dropped gracefully to the ground. Opening her bag she took out her writing pad and her fountain pen. She’d write a few letters. It would be amusing to pass on her sensations.
Who should she write to? Lionel West? Janet Annesmore? Dorothea? On the whole, perhaps, Janet.
She unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen. In her easy flowing handwriting she began to write:
Dearest Janet: You’ll never guess where I’m writing this letter! In the middle of the desert. I’m marooned here between trains—they only go three times a week.
There’s a rest house with an Indian in charge of it and a lot of hens and some peculiar looking Arabs and me. There’s no one to talk to and nothing to do. I can’t tell you how I am enjoying it.
The desert air is wonderful—so incredibly fresh. And the stillness, you’d have to feel it to understand. It’s as though for the first time for years I could hear myself think! One leads such a dreadfully busy life, always rushing from one thing to the other. It can’t be helped, I suppose, but one ought really to make time for intervals of thought and recuperation.
I’ve only been here half a day but I feel miles better already. No people. I never realized how much I wanted to get away from people. It’s soothing to the nerves to know that all round you for hundreds of miles there’s nothing but sand and sun …
Joan’s pen flowed on, evenly, over the paper.
Joan stopped writing and glanced at her watch.
A quarter past twelve.
She had written three letters and her pen had now run out of ink. She noted, too, that she had nearly finished her writing pad. Rather annoying, that. There were several more people she could have written to.
Although, she mused, there was a certain sameness in writing after a while … The sun and the sand and how lovely it was to have time to rest and think! All quite true—but one got tired of trying to phrase the same facts slightly differently each time …
She yawned. The sun had really made her feel quite sleepy. After lunch she would lie on her bed and have СКАЧАТЬ