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A Short Story - Gin and Tonic

"Another gin and tonic?" "Please, Michael." She handed him the glass. He began to walk quite slowly to the other end of the room where the drinks were laid out on a cabinet.

"The celling is far too low in here."

"Yes, it makes it so hot, you can see the smoke clawing to get out!"

A large good-natured woman burst into laughter as he passed her group.

"Why! There's Michael. How are you, my dear?" This was addressed to him by another lady, sitting on the edge of a chair. "You do look well," she continued, "I haven' seen you since my operation last May."

Before he could smile or utter acknowledgement, she had turned to her admirer and was telling him all about the grimness of a hernia.

"... a seering pain in the abdomen; I couldn't move and thought my end had come, but Dr. Scott—do you know him? . . ."

He had moved on and the words were lost to him.

One gin and tonic for madam; and for you, sir? Well, let me see —I'll have another rum and coke? A what? Better make it a scotch

He had reached the cabinet and the drinks but had not lifted a bottle, trying to decide upon his own drink.

"Faltering, old chap? Go on. Have all you like 'cause this is a real good party!"

Obnoxious person that, my host

He poured the drinks, at the same time overhearing:

"... realism no longer seems the order of the day. It's all this expressionistic stuff ..."

"Impressionistic, you mean."

"No, Expressionistic, that's what I mean! It's the sort of painting Buffet and Season do . . . "

"Cezanne," interrupted the same detestable man.

"Melvyn, you're too quick to correct. Now don't he so sure of yourself or you'll look stupid one day," said a soft-voiced maiden (for that was how he, Michael, visualised her).

"Oh, let him be. He's not always right, and I know he was wrong about expressionistic."

Pride is thy folly, man, pride and blustering ignorance

He picked up the glasses and started across the room.

"... Edward, I tell you the brim of her hat was as large and as black as the ..."

" . . . it is the most ridiculous thing I've heard. You can't call that policy . . . "

" . . . . damned if the old chap didn't nip it in the bud ..."

" . . . and her, a lady of some breeding ..."

Talk, talk, abortive talk! Words are meant to be the grace enlightening mankind, but these people will finish up with nothing but punctured tongues

"Michael, there you are; you rushed off just as I was saying how well you look."

"Thank you. I can't stop ..."

"Oh, but do tell me what you've been up to, Michael? Discovering any more vases and relies lately?"

"Ha, ha. No, nothing really, just pottering. But you must excuse me."

"Michael! Don't rush away like that, it's so . . ."

Why must family friends try to seem interested in me. They're not. Nor I in them—Damn!

"Sorry." He had bumped unavoidably into a stout lady.

"Just missed my new dress, the clumsy . . . !"

You're too broad, woman

Now a little annoyed, he stopped by the group he had left a few minutes ago and considered the babbling around him.

"My drink, Michael. How sweet of you, thank you "

She smiled fleetingly at him as she look her glass and turned to hear her friends talking. Her name was Elizabeth, but he didn't yet know if he cared about that. He leaned toward her, touching her arm lightly, and asked what they were talking about. The reply was sharp, a little irritated.

"Sh! Mrs Thornton. Now be quiet."

Elizabeth is her name is it? No, I don't care

He edged forward where he could hear the conversation clearly.

"Her last journey to Italy was fascinating; she told me all about it," said an admirably dressed older woman whose name he learnt was Mrs Westoby. "She visited all those marvellous classical ruins and spent a lot of time with the ambassador and his friends. There is quite a gathering of English people in Italy, you know, posted in Naples and Rome as military attaches, government officials and civil servants. Mrs Thornton made many new friends and saw all the different places."

"She has been there so many times. I doubt if there is anything new for her to see," observed Colonel Masters.

"Oh, I know, but she has such fun."

Mrs Westoby! This woman under consideration I know only too well. Let me assure you that she is incapable of enjoying herself. Italy, after all, is a place of monuments — beautiful, grand monuments that boast haughtily of a magnificent civilisation; whose emperors bowed to nothing but the beauty and the grandeur of its literature and art. Italy is a country of sensuous pleasures, pizza and monuments, and these should be enjoyed, not the English people gathered like flies around dung

"She travels so much, I think she must have visited every European capital," said Mr Goring lifting a cigar to his mouth and inhaling.

"Oh. to go to Paris and see and buy some of those glorious dresses and smell its perfumes!" Elizabeth's face lit up eagerly with her own words.

Elizabeth? I don't care

"I wonder why she travels so much; it's like a mania like a disease. You can hardly ever see her at home for more than two months before she is off again," announced Mr Goring.

"She's terribly interested in where she goes, you know; she brings back souvenirs galore," chimed in Mrs Westoby.

and is that to be commended? Souvenirs should not be trinkets bought from pedlars. They should be memories of smells, tastes, sights and feelings. In France, they are the memories of braised snails, old streets and sweet white wines; in Spain, they are the bull-fights and cheap hotels; they are the smell of snowy mountains and the aroma of soft-pine woods in Austria. These are souvenirs, souvenirs of life, which compose all memory; these are worth bringing back, and it is these that draw us back to a country again. But She is no more interested in them than the bee in honeyless flowers

"But Goring is right. Travel is a mania for her and it is difficult to justify, you know," said Colonel Masters, whose military training demanded every act's justification. "I believe she is running away."

"From what? From herself?" ashed Elizabeth. "No, I can't believe it; she is such a sparkling person, always cheerful and full of praise. Take her parties. Aren't they always the most enjoyable?"

Are there so few people who can distinguish between the affected and the sincere? Do we ail go around deceiving and being deceived without anyone finding out? Of course not. Only Elizabeth and her kind will go on seeing her as she pretends to be. Her every movement is calculated escape

"Yes, I believe it is from herself she is trying to run away," asserted the colonel.

This is the first suggestion of truth you have yet spoken. But continue, Colonel. What is she afraid of? What does she run from? Tell them. Tell them how empty her existence is. Tell them how each party she gives is an attempt to fill her emptiness, how she hopes each journey will give her an ounce of substance to which she can cling so that she can say she has lived

"Some say, I'm afraid, that she gets on very badly with her husband," apologised Mr Goring.

"Do you blame her? He is almost twice her age and, because he has always been rich, he has given her very little else beside money," said Mrs Westoby with a hint of pity in her voice. "To a woman like Mrs Thornton, money isn't everything."

If that remark were an arrow aimed at a bull's eye, how badly you would have missed, Mrs Westoby!

"And there are some nasty rumours going around about her, you know," continued Mrs Westoby.

"Oh, I know," said Mr Goring, "quite scandalous. Such things shouldn't be allowed rampant; they damage anyone's character."

"What are they?" inquired Elizabeth, "what are they?"

"Well, they're not at all nice." Mr Goring lowered his voice "They say she has a lover in every port."

"What! How do they know?" cried Elizabeth.

"Hush, my dear, you're attracting attention," warned Colonel Masters.

"What are these people, Goring, that say this sort of thing?"

"Gossip spreaders. . ."

"Do you mean to say she has been unfaithful?" interrupted Elizabeth.

"Yes. Elizabeth, that's what I meant."

"How terrible. But, Mr Goring, tell me more. Oh not because I will spread this around, but because I'm interested you understand."

Vulture, Elizabeth, you vulture

"Mrs Thornton is supposed to have several lovers in all the countries she goes to," explained Mrs Westoby. "and they are all students or young men starting off in life."

"Men younger than herself? But this is intolerable."

Colonel Masters, you are surprised? What would you do had you married a person your senior by 25 years? The little passion there was wimpered nut soon after they married. A woman childless and unloved, how else could she live but adulterously? She is disappointed; her idea of home, family and marriage was destroyed long ago. And what fullness can there be in life if it is not based on ideas?

"Is she running away from her husband too?" asked Elizabeth. "Do you think so. Colonel Masters?"

"I don't really know. I suppose she must be."

"Or does something flow deeper than all this?" reflected Mr Goring.

"What do you mean?" inquired Elizabeth.

"Her travel and her lovers may only be symptoms of a principle responsible for her behaviour, causing her to act as she does," theorised Mr Goring.

"Now you're dabbling in psychology, old boy," said Colonel Masters, sipping his whisky.

"I know, but it is the only way to explain escapism."

"If you would like to know what I think I think Mrs Thornton has never got what she wanted," said Mrs Westoby. "I mean, if I go into a shop I know what sort of thing I want; if they don't have it, it's too bad, but I can well imagine how someone who does not get what they want would feel."

"Oh yes, especially if it is as important as marriage," said Elizabeth enthusiastically.

Shut up, Elizabeth

Surprised at this thought, he looked at his glass and saw that it was empty; he wondered if the six drinks that he had had were not making him a little drunk and abusive.

"You think, Mrs Westoby that we can say Mrs Thornton is disillusioned?" enquired Mr Goring.

"Very much so," the other replied. She is indeed disillusioned, and by travelling, and, eh, that other thing, she is making up for what she missed in her early life. And I think she is succeeding."

My god, Mrs Westoby, do you really believe that Shelagh who is disillusioned can convince herself by pretending as she does? Disillusionment is not dispelled by further illusion. It can only be dispelled when it is recognised for what it is; acceptance is the first phase of reconstruction, and She page 12lagh hasn't learnt this yet. I should know, she loved me once

He stepped into the midst of the group.

"You're blind and stupid. All of you!" Michael burst into words. It was too late to recoil; the insult had done its damage and he must go on to explain. "Mrs Thornton never understood what she wanted, don't you see that? She wished to live a woman's life, married, caring for a home and children, with money in her possession. But her ideas of this life were no better than abstractions. She never saw herself giving love as mother and wife, nursing sick children and looking after her tired husband. Children beaming with joy at the coin, the delight of a man's hand on her body—these images had no place in her mind. Her life became no more than that of a lone wanderer and a walking shadow. It was based upon nothing; it found no pattern in the unrealities of thought that could make it real. It is insensitive and irresponsible, for she possesses no standards of behaviour and happiness by which to live. And if you don't possess these things how will you appreciate doing and receiving kindness? How will you know the meaning of experience—the affection when two people talk on intimate terms, of the sweetness of purple heather? Will you ever know any moment of time as a moment of eternity? No, you won't . . . And that is the way Shelagh Thornton lives ... Her soul is dead, dried up, dehydrated . . . crinkled . . . life's gifts are many . . . She wants . . . wants . . . "

The faces around him were shocked. They were indistinguishable, but he knew they were shocked. They looked at him with scrutiny and amazement. Was he distraught? Was he well? Each asked these questions and it was only a minute of delayed silence before the mouths opened and cried confusedly:

"The man is drunk . . . "

"I have never been so insulted. Who is he ... ?"

"Is he mad?"

"Must be a psychologist ..."

"Drunk you know, absolutely drunk ..."

"How strange! Would you believe it? But some people are peculiar, aren't they. Oh, your glass is empty. What will you have?"

"Gin and tonic, please."