Absent in the Spring

He seemed amused.

‘Motor car? Where would you get motor car? Track to Mosul very bad, everything stuck other side of wadi.’

‘Can’t you telephone down the line?’

‘Telephone where? Turkish line. Turks very difficult people—not do anything. They just run train.’

Joan thought, rallying with what she hoped was amusement, This really is being cut off from civilization! No telephones or telegraphs, no cars.

The Indian said comfortingly:

‘Very nice weather, plenty food, all very comfortable.’

Well, Joan thought, it’s certainly nice weather. That’s lucky. Awful if I had to sit inside this place all day.

As though reading her thoughts, the man said:

‘Weather good here, very seldom rain. Rain nearer Mosul, rain down the line.’

Joan sat down at the laid place at the table and waited for her breakfast to be brought. She had got over her momentary dismay. No good making a fuss—she had much too much sense for that. These things couldn’t be helped. But it was rather an annoying waste of time.

She thought with a half smile: It looks as though what I said to Blanche was a wish that has come true. I said I should be glad of an interval to rest my nerves. Well, I’ve got it! Nothing whatever to do here. Not even anything to read. Really it ought to do me a lot of good. Rest cure in the desert.

The thought of Blanche brought some slightly unpleasant association—something that, quite definitely, she didn’t want to remember. In fact, why think of Blanche at all?

She went out after breakfast. As before, she walked a reasonable distance from the rest house and then sat down on the ground. For some time she sat quite still, her eyes half closed.

Wonderful, she thought, to feel this peace and quiet oozing into her. She could simply feel the good it was doing her. The healing air, the lovely warm sun—the peace of it all.

She remained so for a little longer. Then she glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes past ten.

She thought: The morning is passing quite quickly …

Supposing she were to write a line to Barbara? Really it was extraordinary that she hadn’t thought of writing to Barbara yesterday instead of those silly letters to friends in England.

She got out the pad and her pen.

‘Darling Barbara,’ she wrote. ‘I’m not having a very lucky journey. Missed Monday night’s train and now I’m held up here for days apparently. It’s very peaceful and lovely sunshine so I’m quite happy.’

She paused. What to say next. Something about the baby—or William? What on earth could Blanche have meant—‘don’t worry about Barbara’. Of course! That was why Joan hadn’t wanted to think about Blanche. Blanche had been so peculiar in the things she had said about Barbara.

As though she, Barbara’s mother, wouldn’t know anything there was to know about her own child.

‘I’m sure she’ll be all right now.’ Did that mean that things hadn’t been all right?

But in what way? Blanche had hinted that Barbara was too young to have married.

Joan stirred uneasily. At the time, she remembered, Rodney had said something of the kind. He had said, quite suddenly, and in an unusually peremptory way:

‘I’m not happy about this marriage, Joan.’

‘Oh, Rodney, but why? He’s so nice and they seem so well suited.’

‘He’s a nice enough young fellow—but she doesn’t love him, Joan.’

She’d been astonished—absolutely astonished.

‘Rodney—really—how ridiculous! Of course she’s in love with him! Why on earth would she want to marry him otherwise?’

He had answered—rather obscurely: ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘But, darling—really—aren’t you being a little ridiculous?’

He had said, paying no attention to her purposely light tone, ‘If she doesn’t love him, she mustn’t marry him. She’s too young for that—and she’s got too much temperament.’

‘Well, really, Rodney, what do you know about temperament?’

She couldn’t help being amused.

But Rodney didn’t even smile. He said, ‘Girls do marry sometimes—just to get away from home.’

At that she had laughed outright.

‘Not homes like Barbara’s! Why, no girl ever had a happier home life.’

‘Do you really think that’s true, Joan?’

‘Why, of course. Everything’s always been perfect for the children here.’

He said slowly, ‘They don’t seem to bring their friends to the house much.’

‘Why, darling, I’m always giving parties and asking young people! I make a point of it. It’s Barbara herself who’s always saying she doesn’t want parties and not to ask people.’

Rodney had shaken his head in a puzzled, unsatisfied way.

And later, that evening, she had come into the room just as Barbara was crying out impatiently:

‘It’s no good, Daddy, I’ve got to get away. I can’t stand it any longer—and don’t tell me to go and take a job somewhere, because I should hate that.’

‘What’s all this?’ Joan said.

After a pause, a very slight pause, Barbara had explained, a mutinous flush on her cheek.

‘Just Daddy thinking he knows best! He wants me to be engaged for years. I’ve told him I can’t stand that and I want to marry William and go away to Baghdad. I think it will be wonderful out there.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Joan anxiously. ‘I wish it wasn’t so far away. I’d like to have you under my eye as it were.’

‘Oh, Mother!’