I really want is a first-rate life. I may not get it, but the only chance I have lies in getting out of a second-rate life. I may fail completely, but I do want to try. It’s to do with me, not you; so don’t worry.
But she wouldn’t be able to say any of this. There was a decorum to be observed, like the decorum about whether or notMichael had affairs. You had to obey certain rules, permit certain angers, respect certain forms of lying; you had to appeal to feelings in the other person which both of you pretended were there even if you suspected they weren’t. This, of course, was part of what she meant by a second-rate life.
She realized that Michael might be hurt by her departure; but this awareness, instead of urging her to stay, made her slightly despise him. She felt no pride at such a reaction, but couldn’t deny it. For the first time in their marriage she knowingly had a certain power over him. Perhaps power always encouraged contempt—perhaps this was why he had thought her abysmally stupid. If so, there was all the more reason for leaving.
She wanted to go at once, but didn’t. It was best for the child, she decided, if it slept through its first months without too many dinning reverberations from the life ahead, the life outside; better not to start its troubles before she had to. And there was a little farewell consideration to be had for Michael. If she vanished now, a couple of months pregnant, the village would mutter that she had run away to join a lover, some tea-dance gigolo or circus strongman. Whereas if she left with the child, or in late pregnancy, they wouldn’t know what to believe. Perhaps they’d think she had gone mad. Women often went mad, it was said, after giving birth; no doubt the probability was greater in a woman of her age.
Neighbours told her that a late child was a blessed child. The doctor warned her quietly about mongolism, and mentioned trains to London again. Michael watched her warily, moving between boyish self-congratulation and unfocussed fear. She sensed this fear, and did nothing to allay it; instead, she used it. She knew that pregnant women were meant to turn in on themselves, that mother and unborn child set up an autonomous republic, and that the old magic of the tribe taught men to behave differently as their wives swelled—taught them an awe which frequently expressed itself in soppiness.
So Jean allowed herself to appear more inward than she really felt. She began to behave capriciously as well, since this was halfexpected of her. Sometimes, indeed, she did feel capricious—the rich, mealy smell as she mixed the chicken feed made her want to put the bucket to her lips and take a swig; but she didn’t mention these normal oddities of her condition. Instead, on long afternoon walks beneath a dull grey sky, she practised a wider capriciousness. Deliberately, she behaved against her character and against her feelings. She found herself able to express anger and boredom with Michael, although she never displayed these emotions when she really felt them; she merely tried them out when they might have been appropriate.
Pregnancy seemed to nudge her into wider expectations, and her easy capriciousness whispered like a secret breeze that character need not be fixed. She did not particularly enjoy this phase of dishonesty, but thought it important; she was not yet brave enough to be completely honest. Perhaps that would come with her new life, her second life. She remembered Uncle Leslie’s disappointing hyacinths. Well, maybe a tee could sprout. After all, it was made of wood.
Under the flat, uncommitted sky of that autumn, with a soft wind parting her mackintosh and showing off her belly, she would sometimes think of Sergeant-Pilot Prosser. His posting had come through a few weeks before the wedding. He had stood by the creosoted gate with the sunrise motif, shifting from one foot to the other, occasionally jerking his head down to check that his case was
But she wouldn’t be able to say any of this. There was a decorum to be observed, like the decorum about whether or notMichael had affairs. You had to obey certain rules, permit certain angers, respect certain forms of lying; you had to appeal to feelings in the other person which both of you pretended were there even if you suspected they weren’t. This, of course, was part of what she meant by a second-rate life.
She realized that Michael might be hurt by her departure; but this awareness, instead of urging her to stay, made her slightly despise him. She felt no pride at such a reaction, but couldn’t deny it. For the first time in their marriage she knowingly had a certain power over him. Perhaps power always encouraged contempt—perhaps this was why he had thought her abysmally stupid. If so, there was all the more reason for leaving.
She wanted to go at once, but didn’t. It was best for the child, she decided, if it slept through its first months without too many dinning reverberations from the life ahead, the life outside; better not to start its troubles before she had to. And there was a little farewell consideration to be had for Michael. If she vanished now, a couple of months pregnant, the village would mutter that she had run away to join a lover, some tea-dance gigolo or circus strongman. Whereas if she left with the child, or in late pregnancy, they wouldn’t know what to believe. Perhaps they’d think she had gone mad. Women often went mad, it was said, after giving birth; no doubt the probability was greater in a woman of her age.
Neighbours told her that a late child was a blessed child. The doctor warned her quietly about mongolism, and mentioned trains to London again. Michael watched her warily, moving between boyish self-congratulation and unfocussed fear. She sensed this fear, and did nothing to allay it; instead, she used it. She knew that pregnant women were meant to turn in on themselves, that mother and unborn child set up an autonomous republic, and that the old magic of the tribe taught men to behave differently as their wives swelled—taught them an awe which frequently expressed itself in soppiness.
So Jean allowed herself to appear more inward than she really felt. She began to behave capriciously as well, since this was halfexpected of her. Sometimes, indeed, she did feel capricious—the rich, mealy smell as she mixed the chicken feed made her want to put the bucket to her lips and take a swig; but she didn’t mention these normal oddities of her condition. Instead, on long afternoon walks beneath a dull grey sky, she practised a wider capriciousness. Deliberately, she behaved against her character and against her feelings. She found herself able to express anger and boredom with Michael, although she never displayed these emotions when she really felt them; she merely tried them out when they might have been appropriate.
Pregnancy seemed to nudge her into wider expectations, and her easy capriciousness whispered like a secret breeze that character need not be fixed. She did not particularly enjoy this phase of dishonesty, but thought it important; she was not yet brave enough to be completely honest. Perhaps that would come with her new life, her second life. She remembered Uncle Leslie’s disappointing hyacinths. Well, maybe a tee could sprout. After all, it was made of wood.
Under the flat, uncommitted sky of that autumn, with a soft wind parting her mackintosh and showing off her belly, she would sometimes think of Sergeant-Pilot Prosser. His posting had come through a few weeks before the wedding. He had stood by the creosoted gate with the sunrise motif, shifting from one foot to the other, occasionally jerking his head down to check that his case was
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