Ordeal by Innocence

Chapter 17
"And what are you doing, Hester, my love?" asked Philip.

In his wheeled-chair he was propelling himself along the passage. Hester was leaning out of the window half-way along it. She started and drew her head in.

"Oh, it's you," she said.

"Are you observing the universe, or considering suicide?" asked Philip.

She looked at him defiantly.

"What makes you say a thing like that?"

"Obviously it was in your mind," said Philip. "But, frankly, Hester, if you are contemplating such a step, that window is no good. The drop's not deep enough. Think how unpleasant it would be for you with a broken arm and a broken leg, say, instead of the merciful oblivion you are craving?"

"Micky used to climb down the magnolia tree from this window. It was his secret way in and out. Mother never knew."

"The things parents never know! One could write a book about it. But if it's suicide you are contemplating, Hester, just by the summer-house would be a better place to jump from."

"Where it juts out over the river? Yes, one would be dashed on the rocks below?

"The trouble with you, Hester, is that you're so melodramatic in your imaginings. Most people are quite satisfied with arranging themselves tidily in the gas oven or measuring themselves out an enormous number of sleeping pills."

"I'm glad you're here," said Hester unexpectedly. "You don't mind talking about things, do you?"

"Well, actually, I haven't much else to do nowadays, said Philip. "Come into my room and we'll do some more talking." As she hesitated, he went on: "Mary's downstairs, gone to prepare me some delicious little morning mess with her own fair hands."

"Mary wouldn't understand," said Hester.

"No," Philip agreed, "Mary wouldn't understand in the least."

Philip propelled himself along and Hester walked beside him. She opened the door of the sitting-room and he wheeled himself in. Hester followed.

"But you understand," said Hester. "Why?"

"Well, there's a time, you know, when one thinks about such things... When this business first happened to me, for instance, and I knew that I might be a cripple for life..."

"Yes," said Hester, "that must have been terrible. Terrible. And you were a pilot, too, weren't you? You flew."

"Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky," agreed Philip.

"I'm terribly sorry," said Hester. "I am really. I ought to have thought about it more, and been more sympathetic!"

"Thank God you weren't," said Philip. "But anyway, that phase is over now. One gets used to anything, you know. That's something, Hester, that you don't appreciate at the moment. But you'll come to it. Unless you do something very rash and very silly first. Now come on, tell me all about it. What's the trouble? I suppose you've had a row with your boy friend, the solemn young doctor. Is that it?"

"It wasn't a row," said Hester. "It was much worse than a row."

"It will come right," said Philip.

"No, it won't," said Hester. "It can't - ever."

"You're so extravagant in your terms. Everything's black and white to you, isn't it, Hester? No half-tones."

"I can't help being like that," said Hester. "I've always been like it. Everything I thought I could do or wanted to do has always gone wrong. I wanted to have a life of my own, to be someone, to do something. It was all no good. I was no good at anything. I've often thought of killing myself. Ever since I was fourteen."

Philip watched her with interest. He said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice: "Of course people do kill themselves a good deal, between fourteen and nineteen. It's an age in life when things are very much out of proportion. Schoolboys kill themselves because they don't think they can pass examinations and girls kill themselves because their mothers won't let them go to the pictures with unsuitable boy friends. It's a kind of period where everything appears to be in glorious Technicolor. Joy or despair. Gloom or unparalleled happiness. One snaps out of it. The trouble with you is, Hester, it's taken you longer to snap out of it than most people."

"Mother was always right," said Hester. "All the things she wouldn't let me do and I wanted to do. She was right about them and I was wrong. I couldn't bear it, I simply couldn't bear it! So I thought I'd got to be brave. I'd got to go off on my own. I'd got to test myself. And it all went wrong. I wasn't any good at acting."

"Of course you weren't," said Philip. "You've got no discipline. You can't, as they say in theatrical circles, take production. You're too busy dramatising yourself, my girl. You're doing it now."

"And then I thought I'd have a proper love affair," said Hester. "Not a silly, girlish thing. An older man. He was married, and he'd had a very unhappy life."

"Stock situation," said Philip, "and he exploited it, no doubt."

"I thought it would be a - oh, a grand passion. You're not laughing at me?" She stopped, looking at Philip suspiciously.

"No, I'm not laughing at you, Hester," said Philip gently. "I can see quite well that it must have been hell for you."

"It wasn't a grand passion," said Hester bitterly. "It was just a silly, cheap little affair. None of the things he told me about his life, or his wife, were true. I - I'd just thrown myself at his head. I'd been a fool, a silly, cheap little fool."

"You've got to learn a thing, sometimes, by experience," said Philip.

"None of that's done you any harm, you know, Hester. It's probably helped you to grow up. Or it would help you if you let it."

"Mother was so - so competent about it all," said Hester, in a tone of resentment. "She came along and settled everything and told me that if I really wanted to act I'd better go to the dramatic school and do it properly. But I didn't really want to act, and I knew by that time I was no good. So I came home. What else could I do?"

"Probably heaps of things," said Philip. "But that was the easiest."

"Oh, yes," said Hester with fervour. "How well you understand. I'm terribly weak, you see. I always do want to do the easy thing. And if I rebel against it, it's always in some silly way that doesn't really work."

"You're terribly unsure of yourself, aren't you?" said Philip gently.

"Perhaps that's because I'm only adopted," said Hester. "I didn't find out about that, you know, not till I was nearly sixteen. I knew the others were and then I asked one day, and -1 found that I was adopted too. It made me feel so awful, as though I didn't belong anywhere."

"What a terrible girl you are for dramatising yourself," said Philip.

"She wasn't my mother," said Hester. "She never really understood a single thing I felt. Just looked at me indulgently and kindly and made plans for me. Oh! I hated her. It's awful of me, I know it's awful of me, but I hated her!"

"Actually, you know," said Philip, "most girls go through a short period of hating their own mothers. There wasn't really anything very unusual about that."

"I hated her because she was right," said Hester. "It's so awful when people are always right. It makes you feel more and more inadequate. Oh, Philip, everything's so terrible. What am I going to do? What can I do?"

"Marry that nice young man of yours," said Philip, "and settle down. Be a good little G.P.'s wife. Or isn't that magnificent enough for you?"

"He doesn't want to marry me now," said Hester mournfully.

"Are you sure? Did he tell you so? Or are you only imagining it?"

"He thinks I killed Mother."

"Oh," said Philip, and paused a minute. "Did you?" he asked.

She wheeled round at him.

"Why do you ask me that? Why?"

"I thought it would be interesting to know," said Philip. "All in the family, so to speak. Not for passing on to the authorities."

"If I did kill her, do you think I'd tell you?" said Hester.

"It would be much wiser not to," agreed Philip.

"He told me he knew I'd killed her," said Hester. "He told me that if I'd only admit it, if I'd confess it to him, that it would be all right, that we'd be married, that he'd look after me. That - that he wouldn't let it matter between us."

Philip whistled.

"Well, well, well," he said.

"What's the good?" asked Hester. "What's the good of telling him I didn't kill her? He wouldn't believe it, would he?"

"He ought to," said Philip, "if you tell him so."

"I didn't kill her," said Hester. "You understand? I didn't kill her. I didn't, I didn't, I didn't." She broke off. "That sounds unconvincing," she said.

"The truth often does sound unconvincing," Philip encouraged her.

"We don't know," said Hester. "Nobody knows. We all look at each other. Mary looks at me. And Kirsten. She's so kind to me, so protective. She thinks it's me, too. What chance have I? That's it, don't you see? What chance have I? It would be better, much better, to go down to the Point, throw myself over..."

"For God's sake, don't be a fool, Hester. There are other things to do."

"What other things? How can there be? I've lost everything. How can I go on living day after day?" She looked at Philip. "You think I'm wild, unbalanced. Well, perhaps I did kill her. Perhaps it's remorse gnawing at me. Perhaps I can't forget - here." She put her hand dramatically to her heart.

"Don't be a little idiot," said Philip. He shot out an arm and pulled her to him. Hester half fell across his chair. He kissed her.

"What you need is a husband, my girl," he said. "Not that solemn young ass, Donald Craig, with his head full of psychiatry and jargon. You're silly and idiotic and - completely lovely, Hester."

The door opened. Mary Durrant stood abruptly still in the doorway. Hester struggled to an upright position and Philip gave his wife a sheepish grin.

"I'm just cheering up Hester, Polly," he said. "Oh," said Mary.

She came in carefully, placing the tray on a small table. Then she wheeled the table up beside him. She did not look at Hester. Hester looked uncertainly from husband to wife.

"Oh well," she said, "perhaps I'd better go and - go and -" She didn't finish. She went out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Hester's in a bad way," said Philip. "Contemplating suicide. I was trying to dissuade her," he added.

Mary did not answer.

He stretched out a hand towards her. She moved away from him.

"Polly, have I made you angry? Very angry?"

She did not reply.

"Because I kissed her, I suppose? Come, Polly, don't grudge me one silly little kiss. She was so lovely and so silly - and I suddenly felt - well, I felt it would be fun to be a gay dog again and have a flirtation now and then. Come, Polly, kiss me. Kiss and make friends."

Mary Durrant said: "Your soup will get cold if you don't drink it." She went through the door to the bedroom and shut it behind her.