Westwood (Vintage Classics) Page 5

  ‘Are you admiring our headdresses?’ asked Mrs Wilson cheerfully, catching her look. She was a kind and happy woman, but neither she nor Hilda let themselves be disapproved of without showing fight. ‘I expect you think I’m getting on a bit for this sort of thing!’ (As this was exactly what Mrs Steggles was thinking, she looked conscious.) ‘Hilda looked so nice in hers, I thought I’d try how I looked too!’ and she gave a gay little nod, smiling steadily at Mrs Steggles.

  ‘I think they’re lovely,’ said Margaret, too emphatically.

  ‘Rather cold, I should think,’ said Mrs Steggles, in whom old dreams and pains had been revived by the sight of the scarves. ‘But they are pretty,’ she added, and Mrs Wilson’s smile grew less steady. Poor thing, she thought.

  ‘How about a cup of tea, Hilda?’ said Margaret. ‘Mother? You’ll have one, won’t you? Mrs Wilson? I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

  ‘I’ll come and help you,’ and Hilda followed her out of the room, leaving their mothers to carry on a conversation about the neighbourhood’s amenities and disadvantages, which, considering their differing natures, was not too awkward; but Mrs Steggles’s manner was constrained, and as she talked she listened for the sound of her husband’s key in the lock.

  The first cups of tea had just been poured out when she heard it, and set her own down with an exclamation to Margaret – ‘There’s your father at last! I wonder whatever’s kept him’ – turning to Mrs Wilson, ‘I’ve been expecting him this last two hours.’

  Poor man, thought Mrs Wilson, but she said comfortably, ‘Oh, I expect he’s found the journey back took much longer than he expected; I always think you do, in a strange place,’ and turned her bright eyes towards the door. Her flirtatiousness did not extend to the husbands of her acquaintances, but she enjoyed masculine society, to which her daughter’s admirers had accustomed her, and saw no reason to subdue her smile because Mrs Steggles was a jealous wife.

  Mr Steggles came into the room with the litter of half-unpacked boxes and tea-drinking, and smiled with pleasure at the sight of two pretty faces. Mrs Wilson was too good a woman to make her a dangerous one to him, but he liked to look at her and make her laugh, and he suspected Hilda of being the type known in his youth as a little devil. Hilda was not; but the illusion gave zest to his exchanges with her.

  ‘Hullo, what’s all this, a party?’ he said, looking round and blinking his handsome eyes because they were still dazed from the blackout. ‘I’m very late, I’m afraid, Mabel,’ putting his hand for an instant on his wife’s shoulder, and feeling her shrink, without any change of expression: ‘I went in for a quick one with some of the boys afterwards, and we got talking.’

  ‘How did you get on, Father? Tea?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘Please.’ He moved some books from a chair next to Mrs Wilson, and sat down. ‘Well, I feel a bit as if I’d been running the quarter-mile all day, but I shall get used to it, I expect. The work is so much –’

  ‘Did you find somewhere nice for lunch?’ interrupted Mrs Steggles.

  ‘I went to a pub; quite good. A bit expensive, but I was –’

  ‘Well, I hope you had a good one, because there isn’t much for your supper,’ and Mrs Steggles glanced at Mrs Wilson with a little laugh. ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Steak and kidney (otherwise sausage and spam) pudding and –’

  ‘Isn’t it disgraceful the way they take people in?’ demanded Mrs Steggles, peering into Hilda’s cup. (‘More tea, Hilda? Really? Sure?) If everybody refused to pay the fancy prices they ask for the rubbish they give you, they’d soon change their tune. I expect Mr Wilson finds it the same, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, Herbert has been to the same comic little old place for about twenty years now. They know him there and don’t try any tricks on him,’ said Mrs Wilson.

  ‘They must have seen Mr Steggles coming,’ and Mrs Steggles laughed again. Her husband laughed too, and held out his cup for more tea. If I was Margaret’s dad I should sock her mother one, reflected Hilda, sipping her tea and looking like a pensive aquiline angel.

  ‘Is it a very big building, Dad?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘The Gazette offices were blitzed; I saw it in that list they gave of the newspapers that were bombed out,’ said Mrs Steggles. ‘More tea, Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘No, thank you. Have they got temporary offices, then?’ said Mrs Wilson, smiling and shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, in Thames Street. They aren’t very big by London standards, I should think, but they’re much bigger –’

  ‘Than he’s been used to,’ said Mrs Steggles. ‘Well, they say London always rubs the corners off people from the provinces, so we shall see what it does to Mr Steggles,’ laughing.

  Mr Steggles put his hand into his coat pocket for an instant. When it came out again it was holding an old pipe, and he glanced smilingly round at the ladies for permission to light it, which he received. But during that instant he had deliberately crushed in his hand a thick letter in a violet envelope scented with violets and signed, ‘Always – always your Bettie.’ The brief contact comforted him with the memory of a real woman as he sat among these four, who did not seem to him to be real women at all.

  ‘Oh, when Mr Steggles lights up that old pipe I know he’s really settled down, like a cat licking the butter off its paws!’ exclaimed his wife.

  ‘Yes, I don’t expect anyone does that to the cat when they move nowadays. When do you start at your new school, Margaret?’

  ‘Next Monday, Mrs Wilson. Mother,’ said Margaret abruptly, ‘I’m going to show Hilda my room – coming, Hilda?’ and with murmurs the two escaped.

  ‘Doesn’t it look nice!’ exclaimed Hilda, looking round Margaret’s domain.

  Margaret laughed. ‘Bless you, you know you don’t like it a bit,’ she said, and Hilda laughed too.

  ‘Well, it is rather sort-of-monk-like, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘The most highly bred Japanese, with the purest taste, never wear any colours, only shades of grey.’

  ‘Japanese!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Margaret, they’re awful!’

  Margaret shrugged her shoulders. ‘No worse than any other nation.’

  ‘You ought to go about with some Service boys,’ was all Hilda could say, examining her curls in the mirror.

  Margaret sat down on the bed, which had a coverlet of pale brown patterned with large brown leaves, and gazed about her with satisfaction. The only pictures were a pastel of some grazing deer in the same soft tint, and a large monochrome of the Mona Lisa, and the grey curtains were stencilled by herself with a conventional design in darker grey.

  ‘Then I s’pose you think my bedroom is lousy?’ said Hilda, turning away satisfied from the mirror.

  ‘All pink, and calendars, and photographs of boys. No I don’t; it’s just like you.’

  ‘Thanks. You know,’ stopping in front of the Mona Lisa and gazing up at her, ‘honestly, I don’t know how you can bear to have that fat pan looking at you when you wake up in the morning. It would brown me off for the day.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Margaret, but even as she spoke a faint doubt assailed her. Was it?

  ‘It’s a fat, awful pan,’ repeated Hilda vigorously. ‘Now, I’ll tell you a picture I saw once (by an Old Master too, so you see I’m not so low-brow) that I simply adored; it was the Virgin Mary in a blue cloak on a cloud, holding the Baby, and some old saint, and a sort of angel in one corner, and a cupid –’

  ‘A cherub.’

  ‘Cherub then – it’s all the same thing – leaning on his elbow at the foot of the picture looking up at them. It was lovely – she had such a beautiful face, and her hand coming right round the Baby, holding Him tight – it was so lifelike. Now that’s my idea of a picture. It was on a Christmas card Iris Morrison sent me. You wouldn’t think she’d have such good taste, would you, though?’

  ‘It sounds like the Sistine Madonna.’

  ‘I don’t know what it was, bu
t it was lovely. Do you really like all these Japanesy colours?’ she demanded suddenly, staring at her friend. ‘This room isn’t a bit like you, you know.’

  ‘Of course, or I shouldn’t have them,’ answered Margaret decidedly, but suddenly she thought of the flowers she loved best; rich old-fashioned pansies, wall-flowers like sombre velvet, crimson roses, and Sweet Williams of so dark a red that they were almost black; she seemed to breathe their summer scent in the chill of autumn, and the colours in her room seemed cold and pale.

  ‘Well, sooner you than me. Got any new clothes to show me?’

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘Eaten all your sweet ration?’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘Then I think I’ll be going. Walk down the road with me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got some letters to post.’

  She put on a coat which she had not worn since she had house-hunted in London, and as they went downstairs she slipped her hands, as was her habit, into the pockets.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘How awful! That ration book – I never sent it back!’

  ‘What ration book?’

  ‘The one I found on the Heath when I was staying with you.’

  ‘But that’s nearly a month ago!’

  ‘I know, that’s what makes it so awful.’

  ‘Wasn’t the address on it?’ asked Hilda. They had paused in the hall outside the drawing-room door and both had lowered their voices.

  ‘Of course.’ Margaret handed her the book. ‘I meant to send it back at once, only I didn’t wear this coat again and there were so many things to see to that I forgot.’

  ‘Hebe Niland,’ Hilda read aloud. ‘What an extraordinary name. Is it a girl or a man?’

  ‘A girl. Hebe was the cupbearer of the Gods in Ancient Greece.’

  ‘Sounds like a refugee,’ mused Hilda. ‘N. W. 3 – that’s Hampstead. Probably is a refugee, then; Hampstead’s alive with them. What’ll you do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t just send it back with a note after all this time; it looks so rude. I expect it’s given them a lot of trouble, too.’

  ‘Given me a lot, you mean,’ said Hilda, who worked in a Food Office. ‘Why don’t you ’phone her up?’

  ‘If she’s a refugee (but I don’t believe she is, somehow) she won’t be in the book.’ Margaret stopped and her eyes grew wider. ‘There’s a famous artist called Niland,’ she said. ‘I suppose she couldn’t be anything to do with him?’

  ‘Might be. It isn’t a common name. Why don’t you walk over to Hampstead and see?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to!’ Then she hesitated, and went on: ‘Only it might seem – it’s rather a queer thing to do – going to see someone you don’t know.’

  ‘Whereabouts did you find it?’

  ‘On the path down by the lower ponds – it was a man who dropped it, I’m almost sure. I noticed two men walking past, and then I saw it on the path.’

  ‘Perhaps it was him – the artist.’

  ‘It might have been. Alexander Niland,’ she repeated to herself, ‘the Modern Renoir, the papers call him. I don’t know, I’ve never seen a photograph of him.’

  ‘Well, if it is his wife it will make it more of a thrill for you,’ said Hilda, slightly bored. ‘I’d certainly walk over; you might get another peek at him.’

  ‘Perhaps I will.’ Margaret put the book carefully away in her bag. ‘Don’t say anything about it –’ she jerked her head towards the drawing-room door.

  ‘I get you,’ murmured Hilda, and opened the door and inquired dulcetly:

  ‘Mum? Are you staying the night? Pardon me, Mrs Steggles, if I collect my parent.’

  ‘I’m just going out to post these, Mother,’ said Margaret, holding up the letters. The three elders were sitting in silence with flushed faces, and Mrs Wilson looked slightly embarrassed and relieved when Hilda entered.

  ‘Yes, we must be going,’ she said, getting up quickly. ‘Well, good night, and thank you for that welcome cup of tea, and mind you give us a ring if we can be of any help in any way.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you, we won’t forget,’ said Mr Steggles heartily, following her out of the room. Mrs Steggles said clearly, ‘Good night, and thank you. You and Mr Wilson must come round to tea properly one Sunday after we’re straight,’ and knelt down once more in front of the box. Mr Steggles shut the door on the visitors and came back into the drawing-room. He stood by the mantelpiece looking down at the pipe he was refilling in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Well?’ said his wife, without looking up.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me how you think it looks?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I think it looks fine, old girl,’ glancing round the room. ‘Of course, it’s all a bit strange at first, but you’ve got it quite home-like already. I like the old ship over the mantelpiece; it shows her up.’ (The old ship was a reproduction of a painting of a vessel with very white sails on a very blue sea, which had been painted to please the thousands of people who think that a sailing-ship on a blue sea is one of the most beautiful sights to be seen in this world – as, Heaven knows, it is.)

  ‘Well, there’s a lot to be done still,’ sighed Mrs Steggles, carefully lifting some book-ends in the shape of Highland terriers from the box and putting them down beside a statuette of a girl tennis-player, ‘and it’s been the worst move we’ve had yet for losses and breakages. There’s the glass clean gone out of our wedding group, and that green vase with the red spots on smashed to atoms, and I can’t find Aunt Chrissie’s teaspoons anywhere and the green and yellow tea-cosy is missing too.’

  ‘Perhaps some of them will turn up to-morrow. Do you think you’re going to like it here, old girl; that’s the main thing?’

  ‘I can’t possibly tell yet, Jack. We haven’t been here twenty-four hours. The house seems all right. I wish we hadn’t got that great hill at the back, it makes me feel overlooked, but I expect I shall get used to that. It seems a nice quiet road.’

  He nodded. He had sat down in an arm-chair and was watching his wife as she slowly and carefully unwrapped each treasure, and thinking that now they were alone she was natural again; no longer talking him down and interrupting him and making the spiteful little jokes at his expense that had caused Mrs Wilson, at last, to look embarrassed, and an uneasy silence to fall. Now the devil of jealousy had gone, and his wife was Mabel again; complaining, not very happy, but giving the brighter side its due and enjoying in her own way the anxieties and adventures of the move. At this moment, she hasn’t a thought in her head except what’s happened to the tea-cosy, he thought, and made the best of that brief peaceful moment.

  At least he can’t go out anywhere this evening, Mrs Steggles was thinking as she worked. Thank God, that Bettie creature and that other wicked devil are left behind in Lukeborough.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, leaning back with a sigh and rubbing her hands on her overall, ‘I shan’t do any more to-night. I’m tired. I shall go up. What about you?’

  ‘Oh – I’ve got some letters to write,’ he said, taking the evening paper from his pocket and unfolding it without looking at her, ‘and I want to finish this; I didn’t get a seat in the train. I shan’t be long.’

  She went slowly out of the room without answering, and in a moment he was reading through the news-stories he had sub-edited that day, and had forgotten her. It did not seem strange to him that she had not asked him more about his first day’s work on a London daily, because he was used to the mixture of genuine indifference and conventional respect for ‘your dad’s job’ which she felt towards his work; and besides, he did not want any woman, let alone his wife, bothering him about his work. That was not what he wanted from women.

  ‘Whatever was the matter with you all? Sitting in a row exactly like Madame Tussaud’s,’ burst out Hilda the instant Margaret was out of ear-shot. ‘Had he been getting fresh with you or some
thing?’

  ‘That’s not a nice way to talk, Hilda,’ said Mrs Wilson firmly, but spoiling the reproof with a giggle. ‘Of course not, but she’s so dreadfully jealous, poor thing, she can’t bear him even to be polite.’

  ‘Poor thing! I like that.’

  ‘Oh, but she is, Hilda. Jealousy’s a real disease, you know; it’s wrecked many a marriage. You and Dad and I are so happy; we never think of homes where there isn’t any happiness.’

  ‘What would you do, Mum, if Dad was to get jealous of you?’

  ‘Laugh,’ said Mrs Wilson briefly.

  Mother and daughter, arm-in-arm in the starlight, laughed delightedly at the mere thought.

  ‘No, but it’s ever so sad,’ said Mrs Wilson, sobering. ‘It makes me feel quite bad to see them; I don’t think I shall go there much.’

  ‘It gets me down too. Never mind, we’ll have Margaret round to our place and find her a specially nice boy. Oh, there’s Dad.’

  As they approached the house a dim figure could be discerned in the porch, making shooing movements towards a smaller and motionless form.

  ‘He’s putting Geoffrey out,’ said Hilda. (Geoffrey was the cat, named after the rear-gunner who had given her to Hilda as a kitten three years ago.)

  ‘Hullo, Dad! Gorgeous night!’

  Mr Wilson, abandoning the attempt to get Geoffrey to move on, glanced up at the brilliant stars and observed that he thought it would freeze before morning.

  Margaret walked quickly homewards, absently noticing the beauty of the night while her excited thoughts played about the idea of going over to Hampstead on the following afternoon, and trying to recall everything she had ever heard or read about Alexander Niland. She had seen a reproduction in colour of his best-known picture: a soldier and a woman lying embraced in long grass full of clover, under a dark tree whose branches hung down against the evening sky. The popular press had called its greys and greens and purples daring, while praising it. She herself had thought it beautiful, but it had shocked her. She had felt while looking at it as if she were spying on the kisses of those closely embraced figures, and it had made her remember every pair of twilit lovers she had ever seen.