Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Julia, no longer ill, felt a faint sense of superiority at the memory of this infantile delusion.

  Another thing she knew without having been told about it, was that grandmama thoroughly disapproved of Petah. She never mentioned her at all and the first time that Julia did so, grandmama had become quite stiff and rigid and had turned down the corners of her mouth and made no answer. And two seconds later she had asked a question about something quite different — to change the subject, as Julia saw at once.

  Julia wondered whether grandmama would be equally unwilling to mention uncle Tom, and she couldn’t resist trying the experiment. Grandmama made exactly the same face, and there was the same pause, and then she again talked about something else.

  So then Julia knew that one would have to remember not to speak either about Petah or uncle Tom so long as one was at the Plás.

  From time to time she forgot.

  “It’s pretty difficult,” she complained to Terry, “having to be so blooming careful.”

  “And you’d better be blooming careful about saying things like blooming careful too,” Terry wittily remarked.

  For Julia’s slang was deeply disapproved of by grandmama. It was, she said, natural enough in a schoolboy, but not at all nice in a little girl. Grandmama was very kind, but fearfully old-fashioned. She liked boys much better than girls, and thought they ought to have many more privileges than girls, just because they were boys. This seemed, both to Terry and Julia, quite unjust and ridiculous. And what made it more ridiculous still was that Terry never wanted to do anything or go anywhere unless Julia was there as well.

  Still, no one tormented him as uncle Tom had done, or was impatient like daddy, or downright horrible like Mrs. Capper. Julia felt with relief that Terry was, for the moment, comparatively safe from being hurt.

  It was a most restful feeling.

  Life at the Plás was quite unlike life at “Rosslyn” or at daddy’s flat. Every day was just like every other day, and all the meals were absolutely regular, and very nice, except that There was too much stewed fruit and milk pudding.

  Grandpapa, in the private phraseology of Julia, gave no trouble. He liked one to speak distinctly, and if he saw one reading a book was apt to say: Haven’t you got anything to do, my dear? and then send one out into the garden. But he was always kind, always the same, and had a number of familiar little jokes that Terry and Julia always enjoyed. On Sundays he showed them his curiosities, and amongst them was a little gold box out of which a tiny coloured bird appeared and sang a tune.

  One day, when they seemed to have been at the Plás quite a long time — but it was still only August, so the holidays weren’t nearly over — grandmama said that mummie was coming down for the weekend.

  “Oh, good!” cried Terry, and his face became pink all over.

  Julia, before she could stop herself, asked if uncle Tom was coming too — and then, too late, clapped her hand over her mouth and wanted to laugh.

  “Mummie is coming by herself,” grandmama answered, “and don’t put your hand in front of your mouth like that, Julia; it’s a very unladylike trick.”

  “Sorry.”

  “‘I’m sorry, grandmama.’”

  “I’m sorry, grandmama,” Julia repeated obediently.

  “Very well, darling. Now run into the garden while I finish my letters. And at about eleven I’m going to walk to the village and you can come with me.”

  “Chang, Chang, Chang! Come along, Chang. Darling little woolly dog!”

  It was lovely, playing in the garden with Chang. Terry and Julia had a great many secret games of their own, and one special one about an imaginary kingdom and all the people in it. Julia loved the game, and knew all the people intimately, but it was Terry who was really responsible for it all. He went on pretending for days at a time, and Julia knew that he did it at school too, and that it made him not mind being there so much.

  Julia herself scarcely ever thought about the secret Kingdom when she was away at school — there were too many other things to which one was obliged to give one’s whole mind — but with Terry she played whole-heartedly, following his lead.

  Although Terry was so silent at other times, and practically never spoke unless somebody first spoke to him, when he was alone with Julia and they were pretending things he talked far more than she did.

  Walking up to the village with grandmama was quite pleasant, although theoretically Julia objected to going for walks.

  Grandmama asked her questions about school, and about what she wanted to do when she was grown-up. Neither mummie nor daddy was ever mentioned in these conversations.

  Julia felt rather curious to see how grandmama would behave when mummie was actually there. Was she angry with her, or not?

  “Can we go to the forge, grandmama?”

  “Certainly. You can wait for me there, while I speak to Mrs. William Williams about the laundry.”

  Terry and Julia stood and watched the blacksmith, and the glowing red sparks, and the good horse lifting up first one hoof and then the other. Julia was entranced, and talked nearly all the time, asking questions.

  Terry didn’t say very much, or seem to notice what was happening, but Julia knew perfectly well that he was happy and enjoying himself.

  When grandmama reappeared from a small whitewashed cottage with pink flowers in its garden, Julia felt so cheerful that she hopped on one foot all the way across the village square to meet her.

  “Indeed to goodness, that’s a beautiful young lady indeed,” said Mrs. William Williams, and Julia felt more cheerful than ever.

  “We’ve been at the forge,” she said, indicating Terry with a gesture, and the tactful Mrs. William Williams seemed at once to understand, and threw both her hands up in the air and said:

  “Dear to goodness! is not the young gentleman tall, I am astonish!”

  Altogether it was a nice morning.

  The afternoon was less successful.

  Some people came to tea. A lady in brown, and a lady in a yellow flowery frock with an amber necklace.

  Grandmama showed them the garden and they all walked about and talked in a rather dull way about the different plants and how they either could grow them, or couldn’t grow them, in their own gardens.

  Julia didn’t listen much.

  Then grandmama stopped in front of a long herbaceous border and talked about Lilium candidum, and the lady with the amber necklace exclaimed:

  “I think madonna lilies are so lovely. I remember seeing an avenue of madonna lilies once, and it was a perfect dream.”

  Julia, who was tired of being ignored, remembered that she had once heard something said on those lines, at which everybody else had laughed. Without stopping for a moment to think, she asked in a loud, clear voice:

  “Do madonnas eat their young?”

  The moment she’d said it, she knew it was a most frightful mistake.

  There was a second’s silence. The lady with the amber said in an uncertain way:

  “What did you say, dear?”

  Grandmama looked once at Julia, and then said to the visitor in brown: “I’m afraid my little granddaughter has been in the way of picking up a good deal of very silly nonsense just lately. Do you know this new climbing pillar-rose, I wonder?”

  And they moved on.

  Terry gave Julia his kind, troubled smile as he followed them, and she knew that he felt sorry for her.

  Julia felt very angry with herself. She brazened it out for the rest of the afternoon, because she didn’t want anyone to see that she felt ashamed of herself, and was also rather frightened at the scolding that grandmama was bound to give her. If only it had been grandpapa, who either didn’t hear what one said or else paid no attention to it!

  After the visitors had gone Julia clung obstinately to the neighbourhood of grandpapa, and even asked to play chess with him, although she couldn’t play at all well and never enjoyed it much. Grandmama was never really vexed with one in front of grandpapa.<
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  She has no real expectation, though, of escaping her scolding — nor did she.

  “Before Julia plays chess, I want her in the morning-room for a little while,” said grandmama in a very calm voice. “Let Terry have a game with you first.”

  “Certainly,” said grandpapa, folding up his newspaper and taking out a different pair of spectacles.

  So Julia saw there was no help for it, and stuck her chin up in the air to show she didn’t mind, and marched out behind grandmama to the morning-room.

  Chang was in there, which gave her a moment’s hope, but grandmama at once turned him out — though quite kindly — and shut the door.

  “I’m sure, darling, that you know what I want to talk to you about,” grandmama said — with, Julia felt, only too much truth.

  “I heard you say something so vulgar and so silly to my visitors this afternoon that I could hardly believe it was my little Julia speaking. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, grandmama.”

  “Where did you hear such a disgusting and irreverent expression?”

  “Is it irreverent?” asked Julia.

  “Certainly. The madonna is only another way of describing the holy Virgin Mary.”

  So it was, of course. One remembered it the moment grandmama said that, but one really and truly hadn’t ever thought of its meaning that.

  “I didn’t know,” said Julia.

  “Darling, you must have known. Tell me who taught you that horrible phrase.”

  “Nobody,” Julia muttered rather sullenly.

  “You must have heard it said by someone.”

  Julia had a feeling that grandmama had already guessed exactly where she’d heard the dreadful phrase said, and she resolved not to tell her.

  It wasn’t that she cared about Petah, but it seemed, somehow, rather like giving daddy away, especially when one knew that grandmama thought Petah too awful even to be talked about — which must mean that she thought daddy wrong for having married her.

  “I’m waiting, Julia.”

  “Some of the girls at school say it. I’ve heard them,” Julia said at last, looking very straight at grandmama.

  She held her breath until grandmama, after gazing hard at her for some seconds, at last looked away.

  “I see.”

  Julia breathed a sigh.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, feeling able to say this in her relief at having escaped further questioning.

  “I’m sure you’re sorry,” grandmama said in a kind voice, and she gave Julia a kiss. “You know, darling, you’re getting older now and you must learn to be a little lady always, even if you’re with people who don’t always know quite how to behave themselves.”

  “Yes,” said Julia solemnly.

  She felt afraid that grandmama hadn’t by any means finished with her, even though apparently she wasn’t going to say anything more about Julia’s unfortunate mistake.

  Sure enough, grandmama told Julia to sit down, and she sat down herself.

  “Things have been very unsettled for you and Terry just lately and I’ve been most anxious about you both, poor little things. Do you know where you’re going to spend the Christmas holidays?”

  “We haven’t been told,” Julia answered cautiously.

  She was divided between her slight desire to sound as pathetic and forlorn as grandmama evidently thought her, and her natural cheerful conviction that something or other would probably be arranged for the holidays so that she and Terry could have fun, just as they always had.

  “I suppose we shan’t be coming here?” she suggested hopefully.

  “I’m afraid not, my precious. You know that grandpapa always has to go abroad in the winter, because of his poor chest, and we shall be in Madeira.”

  “What’ll happen to Chang?”

  “I expect the servants will look after him. They’re very fond of him, and he likes Tucker.”

  “They’ll give him some special treat for Christmas, won’t they?” Julia said anxiously. “And I shall tell Tucker that Chang simply hates crackers. Daddy always shuts him up when we pull crackers.”

  “Very well, you can talk to Tucker about it. Tell me — I suppose daddy hasn’t got room for you in that tiny flat?”

  “Not really. Terry slept on a divan in the studio, and I had to go to Mrs. Capper and Annie.”

  “Annie?”

  “She was a person who came in every day. She was frightfully nice.”

  “I see. But you don’t want to go there again, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you rather be with mummie at Wimbledon?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  She hesitated.

  Grandmama, seeming to know that she had something else to say, waited, looking at Julia in a kind, interested sort of way.

  “I don’t think Terry likes it much there,” at last said Julia. “It’s all rather a muddle, you see. We don’t have anything special to do, and mummie never has any time and—”

  She stopped.

  Would it, or wouldn’t it, be all right to say something about uncle Tom?

  “Perhaps Terry doesn’t very much care about Captain Prettyman,” grandmama suggested in a quiet, careful voice.

  That made it much easier for Julia.

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said boldly. “And uncle Tom isn’t a bit nice to him. I’m bound to say that he’s quite nice to me,” she added, anxious to be fair. “He took me to his barracks once, and showed me a gun, and sometimes he gives me sweets. But he hates poor Terry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Terry can’t do things with his hands, and doesn’t care about motor-cars and things,” Julia answered readily. “And of course, the more uncle Tom shouts at him, the worse he gets.”

  “Oh dear!” said grandmama, and she sighed heavily.

  Julia sat and looked at her expectantly. She supposed that grandmama, who was so old and lived in such a great big house, and owned so many fine things, would be able to think of something wonderful and undreamed-of that would put everything right again.

  But grandmama, rather disappointingly, only said:

  “Poor little things!”

  “We had quite a lot of fun when we were all by ourselves,” Julia pointed out. “And once Peggy Foster came and took us out in her tiny car, and we had ices.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, we must see what mummie has to suggest when she comes. Perhaps Terry could pay a visit or two at Christmas, if he doesn’t very much care about being at Wimbledon.”

  “Not without me, he couldn’t,” Julia said quickly. “We’ve got to be together.”

  “Julia dear, it’s quite right that you should be so fond of one another, and that you should like to be with Terry. At the same time we can’t, any of us, have things just as we want them always. And I know you’ll understand that it’s particularly difficult, as things are now, for your father and mother to — to make plans for you and Terry. I’m sure you’ll be good, and do everything you can to make things easier.”

  “I don’t see what I can do,” Julia said, meaning to convey to grandmama that she was completely mistaken if she supposed that Julia was going to submit, without making a fuss, to having her Christmas and Terry’s entirely ruined.

  Grandmama gave no sign of being vexed. She said:

  “There’s another thing too, my pet. Terry is older than you are; he’ll be going to his Public School quite soon, and we all want him — I’m sure you do too — to be happy there and make a great success of it. He must make friends of his own age. He can’t spend his whole time playing with a little girl, and never learning to enjoy the things that a boy of his age ought to enjoy.”

  Julia felt unusually disconcerted and at a loss.

  In a confused way, she wanted to explain that Terry didn’t like doing the things that most boys liked. He didn’t understand them, and he did them badly and then got unhappy and upset. But one couldn’t say that about Terry — it would sound as if he wasn’t as
clever and brave as other boys — as if he were somehow stupid and babyish — when of course he wasn’t. She wanted, too, to say that she could generally help Terry to keep out of trouble, or get him out of it once he was in it — but that sounded conceited, so she couldn’t say that either.

  So Julia, clenching her teeth very firmly and looking very straight at grandmama, sat on the tapestry stool that had a hound worked on it in yellow wool, and just said nothing at all. She had a dim feeling that grandmama, somehow, did more or less know what was in her mind, even though she hadn’t been able to put it into words.

  But though grandmama might know, she didn’t much sympathize, Julia was certain.

  She felt more sure of that than ever when grandmama spoke.

  “We’ll hear what mummie has to say about it all, and I know my little Julia will do her best to be cheerful and obedient, and make things as easy as possible, whatever happens. Remember that what you say or do will help to influence Terry too.”

  Julia, at this, was sincerely shocked.

  “Oh no, grandmama,” she protested. “It isn’t me that influences Terry at all. I think I’m completely influenced by him. Why, I haven’t hardly got any mind of my own at all!”

  VIII

  IT was one of grandmama’s old-fashioned ideas that it must be a great treat to meet other people of one’s own age. She called it “Having other children to play with.”

  Neither Julia nor Terry would have dreamed of telling her that they didn’t really enjoy this at all. They saw plenty of people of their own ages at school, and it was more fun to play their own private games, by themselves, than the real games that came out of boxes.

  Julia wouldn’t really have minded going out to tea, but for knowing that Terry hated it. There was always a fair chance of meeting with interesting food, and whenever she was actually playing any game, whatever it was, she became interested and tried very hard to play better than anybody else.

  But poor Terry loathed meeting new people and didn’t enjoy playing games — except chess, which other people never seemed to want.