‘What’s her name?’ demanded Margaret.
‘Emma.’
‘Emma, don’t cry – here –’ Margaret picked up the tin and rattled it. ‘Has this got a name?’ she demanded of the unforthcoming Barnabas, holding up the tin.
‘It hasn’t got a name, really.’ For the first time he glanced across at her. ‘It were called Weeny.’
‘Emma – look, darling, here’s Weeny. It hates to see you crying. Love Weeny, then.’
Emma hiccoughed, and was suddenly silent. Her wet grey eyes gazed up solemnly and reproachfully at Margaret while two tears ran slowly, slowly down.
‘Oh, you darling –’ whispered Margaret, gazing into the tiny face, red as a japonica flower.
‘Her nose is running,’ remarked Barnabas, and scrambled to his feet and came across with the handkerchief. ‘It’s all right. She hasn’t got a cold. It’s crying.’ He wiped Emma’s nose, and she gave a loud short snarl and wriggled away from him. ‘She hates having her nose wiped,’ he added, and wiped his own. ‘It’s all right. I haven’t got a cold, really. It’s only a snuffle, Grantey says,’ and he returned to his coals.
Emma now scrambled briskly off the divan and crawled away across the floor. Barnabas watched her warily until she had shuffled past his house and established herself amid a pile of bricks in a far corner; then he returned to his building with a quiet sigh of relief.
‘Bick!’ crowed Emma, smiling radiantly and holding up a brick to Margaret.
‘Yes, darling. Lovely!’
Emma was silent for a little while, burrowing in the box, and Margaret, breathing more freely now, took her opportunity to look round the room.
A little indignation mingled with her dazed admiration for the surprising Mrs Niland. She would have liked to say to some imaginary listener: ‘The poor little mites; she just walked out and left them like that with a total stranger and the room hadn’t been dusted for days and the fire was nearly out’ – but in fact the few pieces of old furniture gleamed like satin, and the red carpet was well brushed. The panelled walls were painted a strange bluish-green, and instead of pictures there were vases of white Italian pottery hanging at intervals, filled with bouquets of violets and white hyacinths which deliciously scented the warm air. A low fire burnt in the basket-grate, but Margaret thought that the house was centrally heated. The one small window, at which hung curtains of yellow Chinese brocade, looked over a gravel yard with a fountain in the middle and some bushes of Portugal laurel in blue tubs, but beyond this, as is often the case in Hampstead, there was a dismal view of blank walls and ugly roofs. The red carpet, on which toys were scattered, fitted closely to the wainscoting, and there were no draughts; the children, the many books on their white shelves, and the luxurious flowers silently breathing forth their perfume seemed enclosed in a hushed, warm cavern hollowed from some deeply coloured jewel, while the chilly world of autumn sunlight outside seemed unreal. Margaret remained quite still, relaxing and forgetting her nervousness as she reclined among the cushions and gazed about her.
‘We went on the Heath this morning,’ suddenly remarked Barnabas. ‘With Stephen and Barbara.’
‘Oh. Er – was that nice? Don’t you go to school?’
‘I’m going when I’m six.’
‘Oh, that will be fun, won’t it? And when will you be six?’
‘Fourteenth of January. I’m going to have a trike, too.’ Then there was silence once more. Emma fortunately seemed contented with her bricks and Barnabas’s house now had three storeys. Margaret wondered if she ought to tell him not to make marks on the carpet, but decided not to say anything; Grantey would attend to that when she came. Margaret hoped that she would not come just yet, for she was enjoying the beauty about her, and impressing its details upon her mind so that she could recall them when she was alone. She could not get over the flowers; those large dark violets curving on their nacreous stems among broad green leaves; and, more amazing still, the delicate, pale double blossom of Parma violets! She had not seen Parma violets for years; she had not known that there were any still to be had in the whole of the British Isles! They must have cost a small fortune, she thought, and even with money they wouldn’t have been easy to get, but she looks as if she would always get everything she wanted. She could vividly recall every detail of Mrs Niland’s face; satiny hazel nuts and the white petals of wild flowers seemed to have been translated into her hair and cheeks. I never saw anybody like her, thought Margaret, and yet she isn’t all that striking. It’s just that you can’t help watching her.
Suddenly there was an agitated knocking at the front door.
‘That’s Grantey,’ said Barnabas, scrambling up. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Ar goo,’ repeated Emma instantly from her corner, scattering bricks in every direction and getting purposefully on to her feet and tottering towards the door.
‘No, Emma lovey – I don’t think –’ began Margaret, hastily going over to her and gently taking hold of her little arms.
‘Ar goo – ar goo!’ cried Emma, pulling herself away.
‘All right, then, let’s go together,’ said Margaret, holding out a hand instead; but Emma ignored it and hurried down the passage to the front door, which Barnabas had just opened.
A small severe-looking woman in a raincoat and felt hat stepped into the hall, exclaiming, ‘Well, Barnabas, and did you think Grantey was lost? The naughty old bus wouldn’t wait for me, so I had to wait for the next one. Come and give Grantey a kiss, then.’
Barnabas obediently held up an unenthusiastic face.
‘And where’s my Emma?’ cried Grantey, advancing down the passage and giving Margaret – who was lurking by the sitting-room door – a very keen glance. She caught up Emma and kissed her. ‘Where’s Mother, Barnabas?’ she demanded more quietly, still looking at Margaret.
‘She’s gone out to her party,’ piped up Barnabas, before Margaret, who was feeling awkward, could begin to explain. ‘You were awfully late, Grantey, and that lady came to the door with Mummy’s ration book. She found it on the Heath. So Mummy asked her to stay and be with us until you came.’
‘Yes, I – I – that’s about it,’ said Margaret, coming forward with an affected, nervous laugh, ‘Mrs Niland did ask me to. I was scared stiff; I’m not used to such small kiddies, but we managed all right, didn’t we, Barnabas?’
Barnabas gave her a long stare. ‘Don’t know,’ he said at last, humping his shoulders, and put his hands in his pockets and strolled back into the sitting-room. Margaret thought what an unpleasant little boy he was.
‘Oh, that was how it was, was it?’ said Grantey, and she gave a slight grim smile which indicated both pride in Mrs Niland’s odd ways and a refusal to comment upon them. ‘Well, I hope they were good.’
‘Oh, yes, they were both very good,’ said Margaret eagerly, hoping to delay the moment of her departure. ‘Emma did cry a little after her mother – Mrs Niland – had gone, but she soon cheered up and she’s been playing with her bricks as good as gold ever since.’
‘And what’s Barnabas been doing? Playing with the coal?’ playfully demanded Grantey as she moved towards the sitting-room, but in such a tone as to suggest that not for an instant did she believe such a breach of the conventions could have been taking place.
‘No,’ said Barnabas instantly, and Margaret’s quick glance towards the corner revealed only the neatly filled scuttle and an expanse of carpet from which every trace of black dust had been removed. Her respect and dislike for Barnabas increased.
‘Oh no, of course not,’ said Grantey ironically, also surveying this picture. ‘Believe it or not, as they say.’ And Margaret, like Barnabas, was left uneasily wondering whether she did or did not know the truth. ‘Well,’ she went on, addressing Margaret, ‘you’ll feel like a cup of tea after looking after these little beings for all that time; I’m going to have one and I’m sure you won’t say no.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ began Margaret, ‘but –’
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p; ‘Now come along, it won’t take a minute, and the children’ll be having theirs, too,’ said Grantey. ‘We always have it at half-past three or a quarter to four because they have their lunch at twelve.’
Her tone was not effusive, but Margaret received the impression that she would be welcome if she did stay. In fact, Mrs Grant was fond of society and a new face, and one of these long afternoons alone with the children at Hampstead (though they were a part of her work that was pleasant to her) would be all the pleasanter for a little company. Miss Hebe would not have asked this young woman to stay with the children if she had not liked the look of her, and Grantey herself approved of Margaret’s quiet clothes and obvious admiration for the Niland establishment.
‘Well, it’s very kind of you, if you’re sure I shan’t be eating up your rations,’ said Margaret, delighted at the invitation. Grantey took no notice of this remark, for she ignored the war as far as was possible, regarding it as a tiresome interruption of the activities of the two households which she served.
She made Margaret take off her scarf and gloves and leave them in the little hall, and soon they were getting tea in the kitchen, which was a mere large cupboard at the back of the cottage but painted white and equipped with every contemporary device for making housework harder because they will go wrong. Grantey took down a large tray and began to put cups and plates on it.
‘We’ll have tea in the nursery; it gets the last of the sun,’ she said. The children had already gone up, taking their toys with them. ‘That’s right; you cut some bread, and we’ll make them their dripping toast upstairs.’
Margaret had not been so happy for months. There is a soothing quality in the presence of a person who is absorbed in what they are doing at the moment; who does not ask questions of life or comment upon its more striking strangenesses, and Grantey possessed this quality in a high degree. She was without imagination and humour, those troublers of our peace here below, and to the passionate and self-conscious Margaret, already thrilled at being in the beautiful little house of a genius, her personality was both calming and pleasant. Margaret was not the only one who had been thus pacified by it. In the first night of the blitz on London, Alexander Niland had been steadied by overhearing Grantey admonishing the wakeful Barnabas – ‘Go to sleep now, like a good boy; it’s only bombs.’
Grantey did not talk much while they were preparing the tray; but when they were seated round the table in the unexpectedly large and sunny nursery, and Barnabas and Emma were silently eating their dripping toast with every appearance of enjoyment, she made it clear that she was going to hear all about that ration book. Margaret was more than willing to tell her, for a little sore feeling lingered in her heart at Mrs Niland’s casual acceptance of the situation. A lost ration book was very important in Margaret’s circle; indeed, she could not, upon careful reflection, think of any circle in which it would not be considered important. It must either be that Mrs Niland never bothered about anything, or else she had everything that was tiresome done for her by other people. But she needn’t have been quite so casual about it, thought Margaret.
Grantey wanted the story from the beginning, and she also asked interested but inoffensive questions as to why Margaret was on the Heath that evening, and seemed interested in the story of the Steggles’s move.
‘Stanley Gardens; why, that’s just down at the back of us,’ she said, wiping Emma’s fingers. ‘Mr and Mrs Challis, Mrs Niland’s parents, live in that big house I expect you can see from your back windows. Westwood, it’s called.
‘I can see it from my bedroom,’ said Margaret, and then, hardly believing her ears, she added, ‘Do excuse my asking, but it’s such an uncommon name; is Mr Challis any relation to Gerard Challis, the dramatist?’
‘That is Mr Challis; he is a play-writer,’ said Grantey, wiping Barnabas’s fingers in their turn. ‘I expect you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, yes!’ breathed Margaret. The circle was even more charmed than she had supposed.
Grantey said no more, but firmly put two wedges of cake, made by herself, first upon Emma’s plate and then upon Barnabas’s. No living soul had ever heard her express an opinion upon Mr Challis and his works.
Margaret felt this reticence in the air, but she naturally assumed that Grantey was silent because Mr Challis’s plays were immeasurably above her head. And she herself did not want to speak just at the moment. She was too moved; almost awed. Gerard Challis, the writer of those beautiful, beautiful plays, lived on the hill that overlooked her back garden! And she was sitting at the same table with his – yes, of course, they were his grandchildren; but he was still young, she had seen a photograph of him. That striking face; so intellectual! Oh, what a lucky, lucky chance had led her to the Heath that evening! Oh what a marvellous place was London, where famous painters dropped their ration books at one’s feet, and one’s bedroom windows were unconsciously viewed every morning by the spiritual eyes of famous dramatists! Why, there are people who would give a year of their lives to be sitting where I am now, thought Margaret.
‘Grandpa’s going to give me a trike for my birthday,’ observed Barnabas.
‘Ganpa?’ said Emma, looking questioningly at Grantey.
‘Granpa; yes, that’s right, dear. Eat your cake,’ said Grantey, and just then the telephone began to ring downstairs.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Grantey, going off to answer it. ‘Now you show Miss Steggles how nicely you can behave.’
5
‘Grantey? Oh, you are there, then; goody,’ said Mrs Niland’s voice. ‘Listen, is Mr Alex in?’
‘Not yet, Miss Hebe; at least I haven’t seen him.’
‘Well, I’ll be back about half-past six and I’m bringing Earl and Lev. You can stay and bath the children for me, can’t you?’
‘If I can be back by seven, Miss Hebe.’
‘Oh, ring up Mamma and explain. And Stubbles’ll help you; she’d adore to. Listen, don’t forget to tell Mr Alex I’m bringing Earl and Lev. Good-bye, Grantey dear.’
‘Good-bye, Miss Hebe.’ Grantey replaced the receiver and went upstairs.
There is a certain class of mother who cannot go out on an hour’s merry-making without finding upon her return that some disaster has befallen her children. If she goes out to stand in a fish queue or to hunt for long woollen stockings, all is well, and she returns to be greeted only by the customary remark, ‘Have you brought anything exciting?’ But should she dare to lunch with an old friend or go to the pictures, she invariably opens the front door to be met with the dreaded words, ‘Now don’t flap, but I’ve got a sore throat,’ or ‘I fell down at netball and my knee absolutely poured with blood,’ and even as she gobbles down the lunch or feverishly watches the picture with one eye on the clock, her revelling is darkened by forebodings which invariably turn out to be too well-founded.
But Mrs Niland did not belong in this category.
‘There!’ said Grantey, reseating herself at the table. ‘That was Mrs Niland. How’d you like to be nurse again after tea, Miss Steggles, and help me bath these two little beings?’
It was said with gracious condescension which a less infatuated person would have found intolerable, but Margaret felt only grateful pleasure.
‘I’d love to,’ she exclaimed, smiling affectionately at the children, who remained unmoved, ‘if I might just ’phone up Mother and say I may be a bit late.’
‘Oh, you’ll be back by seven; I’ve got to leave here myself sharp by half-past six and we’ll catch the bus outside Jack Straw’s Castle; it only takes about ten minutes,’ said Grantey decidedly. ‘We’ll go together; two’s better than one in the old blackout.’
‘I’ve been in the blackout,’ boasted Barnabas, ‘when I went to Robin Campbell’s party. It wasn’t over until seven o’clock, and me and Stephen were the very last. Robin had to push us out of the front door.’
‘You’ll be asked there again, I should think,’ observed Grantey. ‘Now, Miss Steggles, if yo
u’re sure you won’t have any more, I’ll just get these few washed up and then we’ll have a quiet game before bedtime. That’ll be nice, won’t it. No, thank you, I can manage; you just stay here and keep an eye on them.’ She had been packing the tray while she talked, and now went out of the room with it. Barnabas was pulling Emma along the floor on a rug, and both seemed to be enjoying it, so Margaret went over to a little window at the other end of the room. It overlooked the small paved garden. She felt peaceful as she stood there, gazing out at the roofs and chimneys whose dull colours were warmed by the red light of the winter sunset. The rays poured into the nursery and gave its miniature blue and white furniture the special, charmed look that belonged to this house, and the slightly uneven floor and ancient sash windows possessed the same glamour.
Suddenly a door opened in the wall and a hatless man came through into the garden, shutting it after him. She recognized him as one of the two she had seen on the Heath that evening; it was Alexander Niland himself! He was unusually tall, and had a high round forehead and his dark hair was thinning on the top. He looked up even as she was staring down at him, but immediately glanced away again, and she could see that his mouth was deeply dimpled at the corners. He crossed the garden and went through another door immediately under the window. He’s gone up to the studio, she thought, and slowly released the fold of the curtain which she had been grasping.
She was disappointed. His baldness was disconcerting enough, but an appearance of slight oddness and of deficient health, which was noticeable even at that distance, was more so. She had been unconsciously anticipating something like the disdainful leonine beauty of Augustus John, of whom she had seen photographs in Vogue, and she was still inexperienced enough to expect famous makers of beautiful works of art to be themselves physically attractive. But she had no time to think any more about what she had seen, because the door opened and he came into the room.
‘Hullo,’ he said, smiling and looking round on them all. His voice was pleasant but in no way striking.
Westwood Page 7