Westwood (Vintage Classics) Page 9

  Hebe made a face.

  ‘Do you want to paint her? I should think she’d faint with joy. She never took her eyes off you.’

  ‘Not while I’m still doing raids. Do you think there’ll be one to-night?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ laughed Hebe, and she glanced at Lev, who was also laughing. Earl looked argumentative.

  ‘Would you say,’ he began, ‘that while you are making your mental colour-notes (if you will permit a layman to use the expression) in an air-raid, the danger and the loss of lives mean nothing to you?’

  Alexander shook his head.

  ‘I’m so interested in what I’m looking at that I forget to be afraid, and I don’t think about the poor devils who’re being killed.’

  ‘That shows a vurry high degree of artistic detachment,’ said Earl. ‘I am afraid that I should never be capable of that.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Lev.

  Alexander looked a little bewildered and offered Earl another drink, which was accepted, and in a few moments they went in to supper in the studio.

  Alexander had recently become interested in the colours of winter, and had taken to spending hours on the roof of his studio wrapped in airman’s kit which belonged to a friend who would fly no more, and studying the light and size of the winter stars, and the varying shades of black and brown and blue that make up the winter night sky. On one of these occasions a raid had occurred, and the effect was so awesome and fine that he had been excited by it, and had afterwards made some sketches which he now thought of expanding into a picture. The noise was unpleasant and he did not like it when large pieces of shrapnel fell on the roof, but it was not possible to make satisfactory sketches of the night sky during an air-raid without such events. Hebe, who had never been afraid of anything in her life, found his new experiment as amusing as it was natural.

  ‘I have often wondered about something in connection with your arrt, Alexander,’ pursued Earl as they sat at supper, ‘and if it will not give offence I should be glad to state my difficulty and get the matter cleared up.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Alexander. ‘Isn’t this salad good?’

  ‘Yes, vurry; thank you, I will take a little more. My difficulty is this,’ went on Earl, steadily dealing with the salad as he talked, ‘why do you not consider it your dooty to paint contemporary subjects? How do you reconcile your natooral urge towards escapism with your obligations as a citizen and a member of the United Nations?’

  Alexander thought for a moment or two, while he ate celery, but from his expression it did not appear that he was thinking very deeply. At last he said, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Earl, taking another roll and turning his glasses upon Alexander, ‘you have, if you will permit me speaking frankly, a definite Pollyana complex. You look on the bright side. All around us we see death, danger, despair and the collapse of civilizations (more than one civilization), and this world-sitooation is reflected in the work of such of your contemporaries as Henry Moore and Salvador Dali –’

  ‘Can’t he draw!’ exclaimed Alexander, looking up quickly with a smile of pleasure.

  ‘To name only two,’ continued Earl, ‘among the sculptors and painters, while among the black-and-white artists it is possible to detect the same sense of insecoority and the disintegration of the capitalist system. Of course,’ he added more tolerantly, ‘we all have our private worlds, but surely there was never such a difficult time for the artist as to-day, when he must choose between retreating into his private world and thereby losing touch with reality and hence his prospects of healthy artistic growth, or else paint the chaos and horror he sees about him and do violence to his own vision; in your case, Alexander, what our Dr William James would have called a once-born, or optimistic, outlook on life,’ ended Earl, not without a note of triumph at having coiled up his sentence at last.

  There was a silence. Hebe was serving a cold sweet while Lev wheeled a trolley packed with plates over to the door, where Mary silently received it into the kitchen. Alexander appeared to be thinking over what had been said, while gazing at a bowl filled with red and dark-blue anemones. Some of the fringed green sepals were already hidden beneath open curved petals, dusted with black pollen and flushed at their base with deeper colour, while others were buds, still bloomy and closed on thick stems. Earl waited patiently.

  ‘I don’t think Alex does only paint cheerful things,’ said Hebe suddenly, putting a plate of something pink down in front of Earl so quickly that she made him start. ‘Look at that one called Old Man Asleep. My mamma can’t look at it without dissolving. Of course I know she belongs to a weepy generation; she actually is an Edwardian, you know; she was born in 1901, but it even gets me and Beefy and Auberon down, and we aren’t Edwardians.’

  This was a long speech for Hebe. She took up her fork and began to eat pink stuff in silence. Earl looked slightly dazed.

  Alexander suddenly looked up. ‘I’ve never thought much about what you’ve been saying, Earl; and I’m not quite sure that I see what you mean. But look here. Renoir was painting all through the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. People still looked paintable and enjoyed things, and Renoir enjoyed painting them. It’s like that with me. That’s really all there is to it.’

  ‘Don’t you mind him, ducky,’ said Hebe, and Lev suddenly laughed.

  ‘It all sounds too simple to be convincing,’ said Earl, shaking his head. ‘When I am faced by a simple Aesthetic statement, I suspect it. That was what my Professor of Modern Aesthetic Trends used to say to us at Swordsville Carllage. You quote the example of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. But surely that cannot be compared with the struggle which confronts us to-day. You must have some theory behind your work.’

  Alexander shook his head, and congratulated his wife on having obtained some brown sugar, which he preferred in coffee; he did not seem to want to talk any more.

  ‘You,’ said Hebe, suddenly turning her beautiful eyes upon Earl, ‘ought to have a long talk with my papa.’

  ‘I should greatly appreciate the honourr,’ he said, paling slightly under her look.

  Hebe made a face, and began to talk about the film which she and the Americans had seen that afternoon.

  6

  The next day was Sunday. Margaret had been so strongly impressed by all she had seen at Lamb Cottage that she would have been very willing to spend the day thinking over the events of the afternoon and the further facts concerning the Nilands and the Challises which she had gathered from Grantey on their way back to Highgate. She now knew that Alexander had been so seriously wounded at Dunkirk that he had been invalided out of the Army, and the disappointment she had felt in his unhealthy appearance and his uninteresting conversation was modified by respect for him as a man. He must have looked more ordinary than ever in uniform, she thought, especially as he wasn’t even an officer, only a lance-corporal. She had been recalling those of his pictures that she had seen, with a feeling of surprise at the residue of beauty which they had left in her memory.

  But on Sunday there was no opportunity for even that daydreaming which can be indulged in while one is doing housework, for Mrs Steggles insisted upon preparing an unusually elaborate lunch for some relatives who were passing through London, and who were going to look in upon the Steggleses about twelve o’clock. Margaret had to spend the morning chopping, peeling, straining, rolling, basting and spreading, and listening to her mother’s irritable conversation in the hot little kitchen. The afternoon could not be looked to for much relief, as the relatives would be there at least for the earlier part, and afterwards she would have to make sure that her clothes and books were in order for her first day at the new school.

  Her reveries on Lamb Cottage were not entirely bright; disappointment and disapproval were both mingled with them. However, the fascination exercised by the Cottage and its inhabitants over her imagination was stronger than her memories of Alexander’s baldness, Hebe’s casualness, Lev’s disagreeable expression and Barnabas�
�s rudeness, and against the disadvantages she could set the courtesy of Earl and the friendliness of Grantey.

  But the thought which returned to her again and again during the morning was that there had been no hint of further intercourse with the Nilands, much less with the Challises. That could not be got over. The afternoon was ended; as Hilda’s boys would say, ‘You’ve had it,’ and there was nothing she could do, except perhaps to send Grantey a merry card at Christmas with ‘How’s the ration book?’ on it. She thought, however, that that would look forced and pert, and could only make Grantey disapprove of her.

  It was true that as they had parted outside the iron gates of Westwood, the big house itself being invisible in the darkness, Grantey had said something about ‘come and have a cup of tea with me one of these days,’ but Margaret had known that she had not meant it as an invitation. Grantey must know that most people – even nowadays, when everyone was so busy and had so little time for social life – would have been pleased with an opportunity to get to know the Nilands of Lamb Cottage and the Challises of Westwood, and Grantey was the typical old servant who would be jealous of the privacy and exclusiveness of the family she served; she would not easily issue an invitation, even to tea in the kitchen.

  But Margaret’s dissatisfaction was increased by the feeling that she herself had had an excellent opportunity to make the families’ acquaintance, based upon a solid excuse, and that she had not made the best of it. She felt that she had nothing to offer Mrs Niland and her husband and the soldier they called Lev; she could not talk lightly and amusingly (not that they had done so, for that matter); she had no poise; she cared too much about Art, about Love, about the World and the War, and everything. Earl was the only one of them all with whom she felt she had anything in common (and she suspected him of being attracted to Mrs Niland, who probably encouraged him). Even Grantey had a managing, sensible way with her which, although comforting, was also damping, and made Margaret feel that she herself was making a fuss about nothing.

  As she dished up the lunch she was thinking how absurd it was of her to suppose that she might be asked again to the house by Mrs Niland, for she must now be looked upon as Grantey’s friend. Grantey had asked her to stay to tea, Grantey had accompanied her home, and of course she would be relegated to Grantey’s social standing. All the same, she thought, pushing a lock of hair off her hot forehead as she wheeled the dumbwaiter into the dining-room, Mrs Niland did ask me to have that sherry with them and if I’d been interesting I don’t believe they would have cared a hoot if I was Grantey’s friend. Whatever else they may be, they aren’t snobs.

  Her mother had of course wanted to know why she was so late home, and she had had to admit that she had been returning a lost ration book which she had forgotten for nearly a month. She made the household at Lamb Cottage sound much less interesting than it had appeared to her, and as soon as Mrs Steggles heard that Mr Niland was an artist, it became a point of honour with her to dismiss the incident with a few jokes about Margaret’s tastes.

  Margaret had suppressed the fact that two young men had been present, as this might have roused an unwelcome train of thought in her mother’s mind, and in half an hour, in the bustle of preparing supper, Mrs Steggles had forgotten the matter.

  The remainder of Sunday passed uneventfully but busily, and Margaret’s obsession with the Nilands became less as she grew absorbed in her preparations for the next day. An item which she happened to see in the Sunday paper turned the current of her thoughts towards her own good fortune in being a teacher, with some control over her own life, and some leisure in which to indulge her own tastes. Had she been in one of the unreserved professions for women, she would have been called up and directed into an aircraft factory or a Government office, as Hilda had been (not that Hilda minded being in the Food Office, for her fear of ‘being shoved into the A.T.S., and bossed around by a lot of old trouts,’ was the only one that ever darkened her existence, and to her the Food Office was pleasant by contrast with the A.T.S.). But Margaret went to bed that night with gratitude in her heart that she was still comparatively a free woman, and even felt a little shame that she was discontented.

  One afternoon some weeks later, Hilda was seated at her desk in the Food Office dealing with a timid little woman who suggested, rather than proposed, that she should go away for a week to Cheam, and had come to get emergency ration cards for herself and her little boy.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s two of you, then,’ said Hilda, bestowing upon the little woman her dazzlingly cheerful smile. ‘Now how long are you going for?’

  ‘A week, we thought,’ said the little woman, nervously fixing Hilda with her large pale eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be going at all, see, only my Derek he’s got this bad cold and it does pull them down so, and the food isn’t what it used to be, say what you like (not that I’m blaming you, my dear) and my sister says she can have us just for a week.’

  ‘And when do you think of going?’ inquired Hilda patiently, leaning an arm, rounded as a vase in the tight sleeve of her pale-blue jumper, upon the desk, and gazing at the little woman with her head on one side. A stifled giggle came from Miss Potts, busy over the Extra Milk applicants; it was near the end of the day and the temporary servants of H.M. Government felt that they might relax.

  ‘Next Thursday,’ said the little woman, brightening and nodding as if she had just made up her mind.

  ‘The 21st,’ said Hilda encouragingly. ‘And when did you think of coming home?’

  ‘On Thursday week,’ smiled the little woman, nodding again.

  ‘Then I’ll make you out cards for the 21st to the 28th,’ said Hilda. ‘Got your books?’

  The little woman reluctantly handed them over. ‘I’m afraid they’re rather grubby,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Hilda cheerfully, busily scribbling and stamping. ‘You ought to see some we get.’

  The little woman watched for a moment or two, then suddenly said, ‘I s’pose I oughtn’t to be going at all, really – they do ask you is your journey really necessary.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry; a break does you good,’ said Hilda soothingly, handing back the books. ‘It’s your duty to keep your strength up, you know. Bye-bye.’

  ‘Bye-bye, dear, and thanks ever so,’ said the little woman, and hurried out. She was the last of a queue, and for the moment there were no more.

  ‘Lady Woolton, that’s me,’ said Hilda, leaning back with a yawn. ‘What’s the time? Oh, goody.’

  The Food Department was accommodated in the large Assembly Room of the Town Hall. The spacious windows were permanently blacked-out and the officials worked by electric light, while the central heating made the place very warm. Behind the girls and women seated at the counters was the spectacle (reassuring or depressing according to the beholder’s views on bureaucracy) of tier upon tier of files mounting the walls in ridges; files stuffed with applications and information, and correspondence extending over the war years; records of changed addresses, and pints of milk consumed by then-expectant mothers whose children were now four years old; details about orange juice, and Short Leave emergency cards, and balancer meal for backyard poultry-keepers, and all the paper framework of that vast, cumbersome, yet astonishingly successful organization called Rationing.

  Twenty minutes later Hilda was standing in a tightly packed Underground carriage on her way home. There was no question of any gentleman getting up to offer his seat to a lady; the gentlemen were too tightly wedged to move, and the ladies could not have accepted the offer if it had been made because they were wedged too. Everyone looked good-tempered, though tired, and when the train stopped at a station and people struggled off but more people struggled on, everyone laughed. Was it because the air was stiflingly warm and the lights brilliant that people bore the discomfort cheerfully? Overhead in the raw foggy December night the people on the buses were abusing each other and occasionally even scuffling.

  Hilda stood squeezed between an American s
oldier and an old man who smelled of beer. Fortunately both for Hilda and the soldier, they were standing face to face, and every time the train lurched, up swept Hilda’s eyelashes and her blue eyes met the soldier’s, and they both smiled. All the old man saw was the back view of slim shoulders in a grey coat, and an orderly arrangement of fair curls which smelled of shampoo, but the old man smelled so strongly of beer himself that this delicate scent was wasted upon him, and he was not interested in fair curls, anyway, only desiring to get home and take his boots off.

  All this smelling and squeezing was peculiarly distasteful to one member of the homeward-bound crowd. An unusually tall man wearing a black diplomatic hat was standing just behind Hilda’s soldier, with a resigned expression of suffering upon his handsome pale face. This gentleman disliked the human race, and was only travelling home by Underground from Whitehall because his Daimler was temporarily out of order, and he had been unable to persuade a taxi-driver to drive him out to Highgate in the increasing fog.

  But suddenly he saw a face at which he could bear to look; nay, could even look at with pleasure. It was a face of delicate aquiline beauty, with brilliant eyes of sea-blue. The pale curls and grey coat made a sober setting for its liveliness, and there was also – for the gentleman was fastidious in these matters – a neatness in the well-fitting gloves and the large handbag which attracted him.

  He had long been hoping against hope to have an affair with someone which did not become irritating and hot and untidy as soon as the poor human affections unfolded and had their way. He was always hoping to find a woman (or a girl; he was not particular) who would conduct an affair with him gracefully, as if they were dancing a minuet or playing in a string quartette together; a girl who should appreciate diminuendo and largo, so to speak, as well as presto and appassionata. So far his search had been in vain, and of course only a boy of twenty would romance about a girl seen in the Underground. But what nymph-like eyes! What joy to wake their coolness to warmth (but not too much warmth or else everything would get complicated and annoying).