Heavy Clay

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Philippa's error is to give of herself too generously. The man she gives herself to as wife proves disastrously unequal to the passion she lavishes on him. He feels stifled by it, and after only three years of marriage his thoughts tun to the idea of escape - and his eyes elsewhere. 'Elsewhere' means an attractively self-possessed young woman who is Philippa's 'best friend'. Philippa's odyssey is long and painful before she can finally come to terms with her abundant nature...

Release date: December 18, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 249

Sample

PUNCH HESLOP left his club where he had been lunching; strolled down Piccadilly to aid his digestion; and ran straight into Philippa Gayford, whom he had not seen for a year.

She did not see him. She was walking quickly, with that vague, preoccupied expression on her face which was so familiar to him and so completely Philippa. She was apt to wander mentally in a world of her own. Heslop had known her since childhood, and was fonder of her than of most women, in an entirely platonic way.

“You can’t pass me by, my pretty,” he said.

She looked up, startled from her thoughts, then gave a little cry of pleasure.

“Punch! You old darling! If it isn’t you!”

“Old be blowed! Consider your own grey hairs, woman.”

“I haven’t any.” She laughed delightedly and took his right arm with both her hands. “Honestly, Punch, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, Phil. I’ve been wondering how you were. We haven’t met since the christening of my god-child. How is she, by the way? And how’s Gayford?”

“Jimmy’s very fit and Tessa’s bursting with health. You know, we called her Tessa because we adored The Constant Nymph; but she isn’t growing in the least what I intended – I mean there’s nothing sensitive or fanciful or adorably pathetic about my Tessa. She’s the most prosaic little brute; hates being kissed. Not like me, eh, Punch?”

Her wide charming mouth smiled at him, but her eyes were wistful, almost troubled. Punch Heslop, knowing her, made up his mind then and there that her marriage was not a success. He had never imagined it would be. Phil might be a born lover; might even make a good mother. But she could never be a success as a wife. In any case, James Gayford was the wrong man for her. Punch had told her that when she had first introduced him to her fiancé, three years ago. Punch remembered how she had dragged him to watch Jimmy play polo at Ranelagh. Phil full of enthusiasms; bursting with pride in her hero. And Gayford, a handsome, sulky-looking brute, who sat his pony superbly, and accepted Phil’s attentions as though he had had a right to them, and more. Punch hadn’t liked him much.

But of course she had married him. Having begged for Punch’s advice, she hadn’t taken it. Well, he bore her no malice for that. He had lived for forty-five years; made more friends, both men and women, than most people, and had never yet found a soul who took advice when it was given them. Punch tolerated this fact because he was much the same himself.

But he was sorry to see that look in Philippa’s eyes. It was unhappy, perplexed. The expression of one who has been unexpectedly hurt and is facing a problem.

“I’m so glad we bumped into each other, Punch,” she said. “I must talk to you. I’ve been meaning to ring you up for ages.”

“You’ve neglected me shamefully,” he said.

“I’ve neglected all my pals since I married Jimmy. I know it. I seem to have been living in a world apart. Apart from everything. A world with just Jimmy and me in it. Even Tessa is outside it.”

“Tut, tut! That’s not what a fond mother should say.”

“I love Tessa, Punch. She’s fat and round and mine. But I can’t pretend I’m a born mother. Babies exasperate me. I know I shall like Tessa better when she’s grown up.”

“And how does Gayford get on as proud father?”

“Proudly I suppose …” she laughed. “Tessa is supposed to be a real Gayford. Jimmy says she is very like his mother. I can’t say. Mrs. Gayford died before I entered the family, but I don’t think Tessa is a bit like me. Just as well, eh, Punch?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he laughed. “But it will be all to the good if my god-child behaves herself nicely and sensibly. Hasn’t marriage quietened you down at all, Phil? I hoped it would. You were such a queer child. Always getting fancies and infatuations and disappearing from everyone you know … drowning yourself in dramas – then turning up again looking more dead than alive.”

“Do I look dead today?” She dropped his arm and they began to walk down Piccadilly together; slowly, for it was a close afternoon and the pavements seemed to throw up an uncomfortable heat.

Heslop pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and examined her critically.

“Not too bad,” he said. “But not so alive as when we last met.”

“Ah, but that was a year ago – at Tessa’s christening – and a lot of water has rolled under the bridge since then.”

Her voice had a cynical note, which decided him that she was unhappy. “As you, who know me, put it – I drown myself in fancies and infatuations and then reappear the worse for wear. Well, I suppose that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, old thing. It hasn’t been a success, eh?”

“My marriage? No.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Phil stared at the Park, the flash of sunshine through the trees and on buses and cars as they passed up and down the wide road. Punch looked at her. “The worse for wear” she called it. That only meant a white face and shadows under her eyes and some loss of flesh. But he had often seen her like that. In between these periods when she immersed herself in crazes for people and things. He knew all the symptoms: Phil not eating properly; sleeping badly; plunging into feverish gaiety; announcing that she was “trying to forget.” She always did forget. Her powers of concentration were terrific while they lasted, but short-lived. The tragic, desperate moods passed. Some fresh interest claimed her, and the next time they met she was herself again; gay, intensely happy and cheerful; getting every ounce out of life. She was not the modern type, slender and boyish; nothing like that about Phil. She was essentially a woman.

At twenty-nine she was in her prime; a little taller than the average; well-proportioned, with a beautiful curve of hips and swelling breast; small ankles and long narrow feet. In a few years perhaps, if she did not take care, she might run to fat. But she was perfect at the moment.

A passionate, dynamic creature, Heslop thought with pity and affection. Might have been a genius if she had possessed any particular talent. And she had nothing much but the capacity for caring for a man damnably, and letting herself go. She, who could be so strong, so resolute, so courageous about life, could also become incredibly weak and stubborn and foolish. Flawed beauty; flawed character. Poor, loving, lovable Phil!

He thought of her as he had seen her on her wedding-day three years ago, a bride in all her glory of shimmering creamy satin, pearl-embroidered train, and Russian head-dress with veil sweeping back from her brow. No blushing bride with downcast head and hidden face, but a glorious creature, head flung back and pale, rapt face; her eyes glowing with a kind of inner fire. And all that glowing fervour of body and spirit, that frank delight of the senses for the man who stood beside her and who seemed to Punch not worth any of it.

But Phil had been madly in love with Gayford. She would have married him if the whole world had opposed her. Of course she had given him everything. To her he was a god, and he would give her little in return because he knew that in her eyes he was a god. That was Phil’s stupidity. She lacked reserves, and had no subtlety. She carried honesty to the pitch of folly. To show James Gayford how much she adored him was fatal. Punch had expected catastrophe.

Today Phil was very quiet; her mind was shadowed by doubts and fears, so her beauty, too, was dimmed. In a moment she could look pretty, and in a moment plain.

He liked her well-cut flannel suit and soft grey hat. She had good taste in clothes and wore them with unconscious grace. Her thick, red-brown hair, he noticed was cut very short. She wore pearl earrings. She had very small ears and the pearls suited her. She was a gracelessly untidy person in the house. She had a bad memory. She left parcels in shops and trains; she forgot dates and appointments; she had little sense of time. But she was careful – even meticulous – about her personal appearance. Punch liked her for that. It was a woman’s job, in his opinion, to take care of herself. It was astonishing, too, how this active interest in. her personal appearance had asserted itself once she left school. As a small girl he remembered her being rather untidy, with masses of tangled chestnut hair, ink-stained fingers, and torn frocks.

He smiled down at her affectionately.

“You haven’t changed much, Phil.”

“Haven’t I? Jimmy says I’ve put on weight since Tessa was born.”

Punch pursed his lips and ran his shrewd gaze over her figure.

“I dunno. You never were a featherweight.”

“Brute,” she said. “I hate you. I’ve tried exercise, given up starchy foods and drinks with my meals, and it hasn’t done a ha’porth of good. It’s most depressing. Jimmy does so admire these wisps of girls you see about today.”

“My dear, I can’t answer for Gayford, but personally I hate the wisps. I like a woman to be a woman, and you’re all right, Phil. Just right, in fact.”

“My little comforter … you have a knack of saying the right thing,” she said.

“Let’s turn into the Park,” he suggested. “Or have you anything to do? Where were you going when I met you?”

“To order a lighter for Jimmy’s birthday,” she said a trifle wistfully. “He lost the last one I gave him. He’s thirty-three on Monday.”

“Is he, by gad!” said Punch. “What babies you both are.”

“Babies! I’m twenty-nine, and Jimmy’s much older than most men of thirty-three – he’s been round the world, and the life he led in India … well, there you are,” she finished.

“My dear, I’m years older than you or your Jimmy. You’re only a child to me, and Gayford, when I saw him last, looked a boy.”

“He looks young, yes, because he’s so very fair. And he is a spoiled baby in many ways.” She smiled and sighed. “Ah, well. I can go on to Asprey’s later. I don’t have to meet Jimmy till six. He’s shopping, too. We motored up from Mallion Heath this morning, parked the car, and sailed off on our own. He was going to his tailors and then taking Carolyn out to lunch.”

“Carolyn!” said Punch, raising his brows.

They crossed the road and wandered into the Park; walked a little way through the bright sunshine and found a seat. Phil sat down, took off her gloves and her hat, and put a comb through her hair, which was a habit of hers. She hated wearing a hat. Punch noticed, now that she was bare-headed, she really looked her twenty-nine years today; she was quite haggard.

‘Yes, Carolyn,” she said. “I can’t say Jimmy doesn’t like my particular pals. He never loses an opportunity for taking Caro out.”

She laughed, but it was a metallic sound, without humour. Punch handed her his cigarette case. She took a cigarette. He lit it for her, then one for himself. He smoked in silence an instant. Then, with a puckered face, he said:

“Oh! So Jimmy likes Carolyn, does he?”

“Who doesn’t?” said Phil. Her voice was defiant. “She’s one of my best friends. I admire her tremendously.”

“She is attractive, I suppose,” said Punch. “I never found her so. Too hard for me. Damned hard.”

“I think that. Jimmy says she isn’t; that it’s only her manner. He says she’s quite tender-hearted underneath, only she doesn’t show her feelings. He admires that.”

“So that’s the trouble, is it?” said Punch to himself. “Poor old Phil! Three years with her … tumbling over him … loading him with her gifts … and he’s sick of it, escapes to the arms of Carolyn, who gives nothing. So very natural. We’re all the same. Poor Phil!”

Aloud: “Where are you living now?”

“We’ve got a marvellous seventeenth-century house in Mallion Heath. A priceles old place, Punch, with genuine beams and a duck of an old-fashioned garden. It’s five miles from Lindfield, and we’re one from the village. I adore it. I’ve taken to gardening. And Jimmy likes horses. He rides every morning. You know how marvellous he is at polo. He looks splendid on a horse … we bought the house … West Mallion, it’s called … we run it with two servants and a gardener who grooms Jimmy’s mare. We can’t afford it and we’re frightfully in debt. You must come down and see us. I would have written before, but you’ve been at Aix, haven’t you? How are you, Punch?”

She was alive again, rattling on with her news, questioning him. Everything of vital importance. He let her talk, and put in an answer now and then. She seemed to be in love with her home; West Mallion was the most beautiful house in Sussex. The subject of Jimmy and her friend, Carolyn Moore, was temporarily dropped. He waited, quietly, for her to bring it up again. Of course she did.

“Carolyn came to stay with us over Christmas. She can ride, which is one up over me, and Jimmy likes that. And you know what a sensible, hard little nut she is. Jimmy thinks she’s most efficient. She can talk about stocks and shares as intelligently as she can play bridge. And you know how Jimmy adores good bridge. He won’t let me play. He says my mind is all over the place and that I don’t concentrate, and he used to be livid when I didn’t follow his suit. I can’t take cards seriously, Punch. They bore me. So I don’t play. …”

She paused to take a swift breath of her cigarette. Hazel eyes clouded, perplexed again under the thick lashes and brows which were a shade darker than her hair.

“I never dreamed Caro would interest Jimmy so. He used to say I was his ideal woman … that he hated the masculine type; you know Caro is boyish, with her thin little figure and that abrupt husky voice of hers. But I suppose I’m too feminine for him and he finds Carolyn a change. Have I got such an overpowering effect on men, Punch? Carolyn said last night that I was a hundred per cent. woman … had an aura of sex all round me. It made me feel sick. I hope to God it isn’t true. If it is, no wonder Jimmy is sick of me.”

It was out now … the brutal truth. Punch, who had known and loved Phil for years as a brother loves a very irresponsible but charming sister, felt his heart sink as he heard it. He took the cigarette from his lips and examined the end of it.

“Is Jimmy sick of you, Phil?” he asked.

“He hasn’t said so,” she answered. “But I know it. He’s quite different, anyhow, from the Jimmy I married. He – isn’t my lover any more. He’s irritable, impatient … rather contemptuous of what I say or do.”

“That sounds like any normal husband, old thing,” said Heslop.

“Does it? Then I think marriage is ghastly … beastly … disappointing.” There was a throb of pain in her voice now. “And I can’t believe all husbands are like that with their wives. Jimmy adored me when we married … just as I adored him. I still do adore. That’s the hell of it, Punch. I wouldn’t mind him being irritable or sulky … but it’s the way he looks at Carolyn … Carolyn, my best friend, Punch! When she’s staying at West Mallion, he’s different; charming; amusing, like he used to be. As soon as he’s alone with me he’s despondent; almost indifferent. He doesn’t seem to take much notice even of our kid. That’s dreadful. It would be better if he hated me. I can’t stand being just tolerated!”

Phil turned to him; held out her hands. He took them and squeezed them fast; cigarette between his lips, eyes screwed up from the smoke.

“Look here, Punch,” she said. “You know me. We’ve been pals for fourteen years. What’s wrong with me?”

He looked at her and wished he could say “Nothing.” He hated to hurt her. But he had always been sincere with her and he had to be sincere now, when she was already hurt.

“Dear old idiot,” he said. “Nothing but the old, old story. What did I tell you, years ago … even when you were a kid?”

“That I go too mad over things … give out too much … make people sick of me?”

“Not sick of you, Phil. Afraid of you. You offer both hands full … full of generous, charming gifts. Metaphorically speaking, you overload … sink the ship you want to sail. D’you see? I’ve told you that before, my dear. If only you’d be a little more reserved … a little less kind. Men are queer perverse beasts. They like what they can’t get. You’ve given Gayford too much, I suppose.”

“But we are married … lovers! He wanted my gifts, Punch … and I adore him. I couldn’t refuse him anything. I gave him my love, my companionship; my few talents, such as they are. I played to him, sang for him. You know my funny folk-songs. You like them. Jimmy did, at first. Now they don’t interest him. Why should I have been reserved, kept back things, from Jimmy?”

“Because, my child, he would have appreciated them then. Why is a bottle of Verve Cliquot or a pot of caviare so damn good? Because one can’t get ’em often. They’re too damned expensive.”

She sat silent, brooding. Then she nodded.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ve always been the same, though. When I love, I love so absolutely.”

“It doesn’t pay, dear. It’s never appreciated. Give sparingly … it’s the better way. The old story of veils, you know … always leaving one on.”

Phil laughed. A tired laugh.

“I strip off all the veils … yes, I know. I wanted to … to give the last ounce to Jimmy. I’m built like that, Punch. But damn few people give the last ounce to me!”

“Because you’re there first with your gifts, old thing. That checks the other person. They say: ‘Hello, here she comes with everything. Well, all right, I won’t need to give so much myself.’”

‘It sounds mean to me,” said Phil.

“It is. But the mean, careful folk get on, my dear. In business or love. It’s rotten, but whichever way you look – you see it. You’ve surfeited Gayford, I suppose, you absurd and overgenerous person.”

He squeezed her hands harder and was horrified to see tears in her eyes. Phil, nearly crying … Phil who was so plucky about bearing pain, mental or physical. She must be pretty badly hit at the moment, thought Punch. He hoped to God there was no serious trouble at the back of this. Phil had had several love-affairs before her marriage, but she had never been as sincerely in love with any man in her life as with Gayford. And marriage meant something to Phil. If he let her down it would be a devilish bad show for her.

Everybody took advantage of Philippa. In her happiest moods she would have given away her last farthing if it hadn’t been in trust; tied up so that she could only draw her £350 a year. Her woman friends borrowed from her; money, clothes, car, anything she had to lend. Men knew they would find help, sympathy, anything they asked in friendship’s name. In the intervening periods, when she emerged from one of her dramas to find herself exhausted and bereft, she gave up the wholesale distribution of her affection and her possessions for a time; shut up like a clam and vowed never to love or give again. All of which she forgot as soon as she found another sun to draw her out and dazzle her vision.

Philippa’s “suns” had been many and varied since she left school. Heslop had grown to look upon them with amusement rather than concern. But sometimes he was afraid for her. When she fastened upon an object of devotion, she never swerved. She got so hurt, with her loving, impetuous temperament. There were many objects, and her desperate moods in between the affairs were passing. But to her, anyhow, these love-affairs were sincere and never false or fugitive things. He wished that she would love more lightly – be less extreme.

“Damn it, girl!” he had said to her on more than one occasion. “You never know where you’ll end. You can’t – you mustn’t steep yourself in emotions and let ’em run away with you. You’ll only land yourself in the soup one day.”

Heslop had known Phil as a child. She was living in Cornwall with her widowed mother. Heslop was then thirty-one, and had been spending a holiday in Newquay with his own mother. One wild, stormy evening he had gone for a trudge along the cliffs, and had discovered a little girl, in oilskins and sou’-wester, lying face downwards on the wet turf, sobbing her heart out.

Phil … the same as she was today. Over-impulsive, too intense. Heart-broken because a small youth, a year younger than herself, who had been spending the holidays in Newquay and become her playmate, had turned her down.

Punch never forgot his first sight of her. He had bent down and touched her gently on the shoulder.

“What’s up, little girl?” he had asked.

She had raised a flushed, streaming face and hazel eyes so full of tragedy that he would have smiled if he hadn’t felt sorry for her. She had poured out her tale of woe, sitting on the dark cliff beside him, shouting to make her small, dramatic voice heard above the shriek of the wind. He could hear it now.

“And I liked him so much. I gave him my pocket-money to help buy a penknife he wanted. I went crabbing with him and let him use my iron hook. I did everything he wanted and this morning he laughed at me. He won’t play with me any more. He’s found someone else – a beast of a girl, ’cos I know her, and she’s mean and selfish and she won’t do anything he wants!”

Just what was happening to her now, when she was grown up and married. Punch, with rare insight, had listened and understood the little girl. That was his métier in life. To listen and understand. He had gone on doing that ever since. As a young man he had been prosaic and sensible, with a sane, balanced grips of things. His comfort to the broken-hearted little girl whom he had thought very pretty and interesting had been a friendly hug. His opinion was tinged with cynicism.

“My dear, that’s why you’ve lost your young hero, I expect. You gave him too much. You shouldn’t be so generous. You see what’s happened. He’s gone to play with a young woman whom you say is selfish and hard. You try being a bit selfish and hard. It’ll work. Just a bit, y’know. It never pays to fling yourself at anybody.”

That had been the beginning of their friendship. And it was one that had never broken with the ensuing years.

Punch Heslop went out to Mesopotamia and Philippa to a boarding-school at Eastbourne. But she wrote to him regularly. Long untidy screeds in her own inimitable, dramatic style; full of exaggerations and affections which amu. . .