Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  There was a house not very far away from the Plás to which they were nearly always taken whenever they stayed there. It belonged to Mr and Lady Sybil Drummond, and they had a girl of twelve called Katherine and twin boys of seven — Fergus and David.

  They were Scotch.

  They didn’t go to school. The twins were going later on, but Katherine never was.

  She had a governess whose name was really Miss Ollerenshaw, but everyone called her Ollie.

  The house they lived in was very large — larger than the Plás — and Julia felt sure that they must be very rich indeed, although the things they had to eat were, as a matter of fact, disappointingly plain.

  On the other hand Katherine had a dog of her very own and the boys were allowed to keep rabbits and tumbler-pigeons, and they each had a pony to ride.

  On the very day that mummie was to arrive at the Plás grandmama said at breakfast, looking very pleased:

  “The Drummonds have very kindly asked you to go and spend the afternoon with them tomorrow. Do you remember the Drummonds?”

  Grandmama often asked if they “remembered” things or people that they couldn’t possibly have had time to forget.

  Julia, as usual, glanced at Terry to see how he was feeling about it.

  “But mummie’ll be here then,” he said.

  “Yes, I know, dear, but she’ll quite understand. She’d like you to go.”

  Julia saw Terry looking anxious.

  “Couldn’t we go one day next week, after mummie’s gone, as she’s only here for such a short visit?” she asked boldly.

  “Lady Sybil has invited you — very kindly — for tomorrow, not next week. And you must remember, Julia dear, that mummie, though I know she’s longing to see you both, isn’t only coming for you and Terry. I dare say she’ll want a little time with me too.”

  “She could be with you after we’ve gone to bed,” said Terry — rather surprisingly, Julia felt.

  Grandmama looked surprised too.

  “Don’t argue, Terry,” she said — though not crossly.

  Terry didn’t say anything more.

  Mummie was coming by train.

  In the old days, mummie and daddy had always gone everywhere in the car, and usually they’d taken Chang and Terry and Julia with them. What a shame, poor mummie having to go by train when uncle Tom had that marvellous car!

  “Why isn’t she coming in the new car?” demanded Julia.

  “Eh? What’s that?” grandpapa said. “A new car?”

  “Uncle Tom’s car,” Julia screamed, as it seemed before she could stop herself.

  Then she clapped her hand over her mouth and began to giggle, at having said the wrong thing.

  “Julia,” said grandmama, in the most annoyed voice that she’d used yet, “if you can’t behave like a little lady, leave the table.”

  Of all the unjust things! To be told to leave the table just because one had laughed!

  Julia gave grandmama one murderous look and flounced out of the room. She would have liked to bang the door, but didn’t quite dare. It was lucky that she’d had — practically — enough breakfast. Or did grandmama want her to starve?

  After that, there was no more discussion about going to the Drummonds. Julia, although officially forgiven after saying rather sulkily that she was very sorry, remained in tacit disgrace, and knew it.

  Terry was extra nice to her all day, to make up, so Julia didn’t mind a bit about grandmama’s being rather cross. Besides, as the day went on, everybody was thinking of mummie’s coming.

  “Do you know if we’re being taken to the station to meet her?” she asked Terry.

  He shook his head.

  “No. I asked grandpapa and he said only grandmama was going, in the car.”

  “I bet mummie’d much rather it was us.”

  “Yes,” said Terry. “Yes, I’m sure she would.” Julia thought that he said it rather doubtfully. She had a queer kind of feeling herself, as though she hadn’t seen mummie for ages and ages and had almost forgotten what she was like, and as the time drew near for the car to come round this feeling grew worse and worse.

  Terry, Julia felt certain, was suffering from it too. He grew more and more silent when they were out in the garden together, and at last Julia said:

  “Let’s go back to the house.”

  Without talking about it any more they went indoors.

  Grandmama was coming down the stairs. “There you are, children!” she exclaimed. “Julia, darling, run up and put on your blue tussore. Fanny has ironed it for you most beautifully. And brush your hair and wash your hands. Then you’ll be nice and tidy when mummie comes. I’m just off to meet her. And Terry — what about a clean shirt, darling? And don’t forget your hands, and I think your knees might be the better for a little wash. Goodbye, my darlings.”

  “Goodbye, grandmama,” they said, and stood at the hall door, politely waving as the car moved off. Julia turned to Terry.

  “All this washing,” she grumbled. “Anybody would think mummie was a visitor.”

  “I suppose, in a way, she is,” said Terry gravely. Julia couldn’t bear the way he said it. His voice sounded so sad, and his face was pale and dreadfully serious. Besides, she didn’t at all want to think that what he’d just said might be true.

  So she made her secret, special noise at Chang, and Chang, exactly as she’d known he would, sprang up on his hind legs and danced, barking violently, and throwing himself against Julia. Of course she laughed, and of course Terry laughed too. Nobody could help it. The more they laughed and shouted at him, the more Chang danced and barked.

  By the time they were all worn out Julia could say, very happily, to Terry:

  “Now we really shall have to wash and change.” She could tell, by the way Terry raced upstairs, that he wasn’t minding any more.

  When they met again, downstairs, it was still quite early. At least half an hour before the car could be back from the station. Julia suggested that they should look at the bound volumes of Punch that stood in the small bookcase in the hall. They loved the old Punches, especially the pictures by du Maurier, and the Diary of a Nobody. The jokes, to Julia’s mind, were quite as funny as the ones in the new Punches, but Terry always told her that they were, though good, old-fashioned.

  Today she was paying less attention to them than usual, because she was listening for the car. When at last the familiar horn sounded at the drive-gates Julia and Terry looked at one another and then stood up.

  Terry’s big red Punch fell on the floor, face downwards, but he took no notice.

  Grandpapa came into the hall from the library and said:

  “Is that the car, eh? Ring the bell for Tucker, my boy.”

  While Terry rang the bell, Julia quickly picked up his volume of Punch and put it, with her own, back into its proper place. Then both of them followed grandpapa out onto the steps.

  Chang was there too, moving about restlessly. Julia called him and held him tightly as the car swept up to the hall-door and then stopped. When she actually saw mummie getting out of the car she forgot all about Chang, and let him go, but she didn’t run down the steps until Terry had gone first. She meant him to be the first person to be kissed by mummie.

  It flashed through her mind, as it often did, that it was odd that Terry should never throw his arms round mummie’s neck, or cling tightly to her. But he never did. Only just kissed her once and then stood by her, quite silently, not even holding her hand.

  Julia had just time to think this before hurling herself vigorously down the steps and into mummie’s arms.

  “Darling! My precious infant — how are you?”

  Mummie kissed and hugged her, and seemed terribly pleased to see them both again.

  Julia felt pleased too. And grandmama would now forget all about having been rather annoyed with Julia.

  In order to confirm this, Julia glanced round carefully.

  Grandmama didn’t look nearly as cheerful as she’d expecte
d. On the contrary, she was watching them all with her mouth tightly shut and turned down at the corners.

  It was her disapproving face.

  Now why, thought Julia. For some unknown reason the thought brought uncle Tom into her head, and she asked:

  “Was Paris fun?”

  “It was grand,” mummie said, “though it wasn’t quite the right time of year, and it was terribly hot. Fancy, we were able to sit out on the boulevards after twelve o’clock at night in evening clothes, and I never once felt chilly.”

  “What did you do, just sitting there?”

  “Oh, drank coffee — and talked — and watched the people going by,” mummie said. “I’ve got some surprises for you, in my suitcase.”

  Julia had tried not to think too hard about the surprises beforehand. She felt it was rather horrid, to expect presents before one had been told about them. Terry, she was absolutely certain, would never do such a thing. Now, however, that mummie had spoken about them, it was all right.

  “When can we see them?” she asked excitedly.

  “As soon as I’ve unpacked.”

  “Fanny will unpack for you, Daphne,” said grandmama. “And you look tired. Won’t you wash your hands downstairs, and then have some tea, before you go up?”

  Grandmama always said “wash your hands” when she meant the other thing.

  Absurd, thought Julia, rather disappointed because the surprises from Paris would not now be produced until after tea.

  She looked up at mummie’s face to see if it really looked tired, and it seemed to her exactly the same as usual, except that mummie had got on a lot more lipstick, and a hat that was quite new to Julia.

  “I haven’t seen that hat before, have I?” she asked critically.

  “No. It’s a Paris one. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you very tired, mummie?” Terry asked.

  It was the first thing he’d said to her.

  The evening was very nice, though not as lovely as Julia had expected it to be. Why, she didn’t quite know. Mummie, if anything, listened more and talked less herself, than usual. Grandmama didn’t seem very cheerful. From time to time she sighed, and looked at grandpapa in rather an odd way. But grandpapa, Julia noticed, never seemed to look back at her.

  Uncle Tom wasn’t once mentioned by anybody, though mummie said “we” and “us” quite a lot.

  The surprises were good ones, and included a box each of marvellous French sweets.

  There was nothing to be disappointed about, thought Julia, and she was so much annoyed with herself for not feeling happier that she three times roused Chang to a frenzy of barking and jumping until grandmama sent them both out of the room.

  That, at last, gave Julia a good solid grievance. It was most unjust of grandmama to punish her for such a tiny little thing, especially on the very day mummie had arrived, and anyway, it wasn’t her job to do it, with mummie actually in the room. Oddly enough, after this Julia felt better.

  She went quite gaily down to the pantry and offered a French sweet to Tucker, and they had a long conversation about foreigners, of whom Tucker had a very poor opinion indeed. He also told Julia that if another war came, he felt pretty sure there’d be a revolution in England.

  Julia went up to bed with agreeable visions of finding herself imprisoned in a dungeon with all her relations and Chang, of escaping — with Chang — and rescuing them one by one and placing them in safety, and then saving the life of the King on the very steps of the guillotine and restoring him to the throne. Nor would she accept any reward for her valour. Well, except perhaps the Victoria Cross.

  Mummie came to tuck her up. She sat on the bed in a new, pale-yellow, evening frock.

  “What a lot of new clothes you’ve got!”

  “Uncle Tom bought me this in Paris. He sent you his love, Julia.”

  “Did he? Please send him mine,” said Julia politely.

  “Have you been having a nice time? Grandmama told me about your having that wretched earache in London.”

  “Oh, so I did!” said Julia, who had rather forgotten about that. “Anyway it wasn’t much fun in London.”

  “Was Petah kind to you? Did you like her?”

  “Pretty well. I didn’t like Mrs. Capper. I didn’t like her at all, and neither did Terry.”

  “How’s Terry been?”

  “Quite all right, since we’ve been here,” answered Julia, understanding exactly what mummie meant.

  “You don’t think he’ll mind being here a little while longer?”

  Julia was just going to say No, not a bit, when she suddenly felt suspicious.

  “You don’t mean for the whole of the rest of the holidays, do you?”

  “Well—” Mummie hesitated.

  So that was what she did mean.

  “I don’t know if he’ll like it very much, if you’re not going to be here,” she said doubtfully. “Why, we might just as well not have a home, if we’re never going to be in it all together.”

  As she said the words, it flashed into her mind for the very first time that of course they never would be all together in a home, any more, now that daddy and mummie had each got married to somebody else.

  It was funny that she’d never really seen that before.

  Probably Terry had.

  “How’s Peggy?” Julia asked with great abruptness, anxious to think about something quite different.

  So mummie told her about Peggy who was soon going to take a holiday in her tiny car, and would very likely be motoring in Wales and perhaps come and see them, if grandmama would be kind enough to let her.

  And that, thought Julia, means that it’s really settled already, about our staying here.

  On the whole, she was glad. There was Chang — and Tucker — and the lovely puddings on Sundays — and perhaps she’d get a ride on one of the Drummonds’ ponies. And after all, Terry was much safer here than with uncle Tom, or even Petah.

  IX

  THE weather — so much talked about by grown-up people — was of little interest to Julia, unless it was really something extraordinary or unless some treat depended upon it.

  But when, the day after mummie’s arrival, Julia and Terry went to spend the afternoon with the Drummonds, she did notice that it was very hot indeed.

  Since grandmama disapproved of shorts for little girls, Julia never wore hers at the Plás, and she was therefore obliged to put on a pair of clean cotton knickers under her yellow cotton frock, and they stuck to her body in the most uncomfortable way. When she pulled them away grandmama said: “Julia, you must not do that. It looks dreadful.”

  Julia started out feeling rather cross, and a side glance at Terry’s face showed her that he had on his most worried look.

  Probably it was partly because he didn’t want to go to the Drummonds. But it was partly because of mummie, Julia felt certain. Mummie wasn’t being much like her old self, that was certain. She didn’t seem to be properly attending to things, half the time, and she’d been shut up for ages talking to grandpapa and grandmama that very morning, and lunch had been rather awful, and nobody had laughed. Besides, Julia had caught the word “India” as she came down the stairs and had suddenly felt afraid that mummie and uncle Tom might be going to India sooner than they’d thought. Terry didn’t yet know about India — and it’d be pretty awful when he did.

  Or perhaps he’d been told, and that was why he looked so miserable?

  Julia dared not ask.

  She sat beside Terry in the car, silently.

  When they were nearly there Terry said apologetically:

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been unsociable, Julia.”

  “You haven’t a bit,” said Julia stoutly.

  “I’ve been thinking. Did you know that I might be going to my Public School next term?”

  “No, I didn’t. Shall you be glad or sorry?”

  “I shall be glad to leave St. Gregory’s,” Terry answered.

  She noticed tha
t he didn’t say he’d be glad to go to a Public School.

  “Which Public School will it be?”

  “That’s just it. Nobody seems to know. Daddy wants a real one — Marlborough, where he was, and where I’m down for — and mummie wants some kind of frightfully modern one that isn’t really a Public School at all, and apparently they both of them feel that wherever it is will be a most fearful expense, and they don’t know how to pay for it.”

  “Gosh! Are we much poorer than we used to be or anything like that? They’re always going on about expense, nowadays. I should have thought we were richer, if anything, from the size of ‘Rosslyn’ and the new car.”

  “Those are his” said Terry. “Don’t you see? Uncle Tom isn’t poor, I don’t think, at all, but we’re not his — thank heaven. He doesn’t pay anything for us, only for mummie. And mummie hasn’t any money of her own.”

  “Then who—”

  “Daddy, of course. We’re his children, and he’s got to pay for us. It’s the law. (Though of course he’d want to, anyway.) But he’s got to keep Petah as well, so of course he’s poorer than he used to be.”

  “Poor daddy! What a shame” said Julia. “It’s a pity we can’t pay for ourselves, isn’t it?”

  “One day we shall. If either of us got a scholarship it’d help. But of course I shan’t.”

  “I expect you could easily.”

  “No, I couldn’t. Even an ordinary term-end exam sends everything straight out of my head. Anyway they wouldn’t put me in for one. Mr. Hall said last term that I’ll never be any credit to myself or to anybody else until I get a few guts.”

  “He’s a bloody God-damned liar then,” said Julia, remembering — rather to her own surprise — this expressive phrase that had been current amongst Petah’s friends.

  Terry began to laugh, and Julia, delighted with herself, laughed too.

  “Fancy if grandmama had heard me then!” she exclaimed.

  “Good heavens, I should think it would have killed her outright,” Terry said, and they both laughed again.

  The car turned in at the lodge-gates and Julia became aware of a slight, but disagreeable, feeling that always overtook her when she had to go to a strange house, or to see people whom she hadn’t seen for a very long while.