Westwood

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Grantey has blacked-out,’ she went on, going over to the window and rearranging the folds of the curtains. ‘Now we will make ourselfs comfort.’

  Presently they were seated on a Victorian couch before the fire, eating cakes and sipping scalding tea. The change from cold and darkness to warmth and light was so pleasant that for a little while Margaret did not take much notice of her surroundings, while Zita sat upright with a cake held in one hand and her cup in the other, looking like a marmoset and gazing pensively into the fire.

  ‘You like dese?’ she asked suddenly, holding up a cake. ‘I make them. It iss a German way.’

  ‘Very much,’ nodded Margaret. ‘You have a nice room,’ she added shyly, glancing about her.

  Zita shrugged her shoulders. ‘Mrs Challis let me bring a lot of things from other rooms because ven first I come it iss so empty.’

  Margaret could believe this, for there were many draperies and cushioned chairs, and it was obvious that Zita’s oriental taste for luxury had overlain the austere, shabby elegance of the room’s original furnishings. Portraits of lively Jewish faces were on the mantelpiece; groups of smiling girls in white dresses and gentlemen in long coats and top-hats, and ripe little dark-eyed boys; and in spite of the fact that the room could have existed nowhere but in the house of well-bred English people, there was no incongruity between it and the photographs of a vivacious alien race, for there were a gilt dancing Buddha and Burmese swords and a Chinese cabinet already at home there, and they all looked like loot gathered in by English Empire-builders and set down carelessly yet harmoniously with the grey and white chintz and the worn red carpet and the red and gold Moorish curtains at the windows.

  ‘Is it at the back?’ asked Margaret. ‘I’m hopelessly lost.’

  ‘It look out at the garden’ said Zita, and just then the door opened and a voice said:

  ‘Zita? Are you having tea? May I join you? Oh no – I’m so sorry –’

  And the smiling lady who had opened the door was already withdrawing when Zita hurried across to her, exclaiming:

  ‘Oh, please do come, Mrs Challis! It iss my friendt Margaret, Miss Steggles; we haf been to a concert, and we should be so please if you haf tea with us.’

  ‘If you’re sure I’m not butting in,’ said Mrs Challis, and came over to the fire and knelt down and stretched her hands to the warmth.

  ‘Isn’t it a revolting evening?’ she said, turning her large amused eyes upon Margaret. ‘And now there’s a fog coming up, of all things.’

  Margaret murmured something. The mixture of admiration, envy and despair which she was experiencing made her forget her manners.

  ‘Don’t we have to thank you for finding our ration books and mending our fuses and all sorts of things?’ Mrs Challis went on, putting down her cup and slipping out of her coat. Margaret recognized the perfume of the previous evening, and to her extreme annoyance found herself tongue-tied at the moment when she most desired to make a favourable impression. Mrs Challis chatted on:

  ‘What heavenly tea! I was nearly dead with the cold. Is everybody out? There’s nobody in the kitchen.’

  ‘I think Mr Challis write in his study,’ said Zita solemnly. ‘Mrs Grant haf taken the children home und Cortway iss not yet come back.’

  ‘Not yet?’ said Mrs Challis, pausing with a cake half-way to her lips and staring. ‘Oh dear. Old Mrs Cortway must be ill.’

  ‘Or perhaps deadt,’ said Zita, dropping her voice.

  ‘Oh, come, we hope not,’ said Mrs Challis with one irrepressible glance at Margaret. ‘I expect he’ll be here by dinner-time. Well, was it a good concert? Was she in good voice – dear old thing. Are you a great concert-goer, Miss Steggles?’ she added, turning her sweet flushed face upon Margaret with such a kind interest that the latter received an impression of actual warmth like sunlight.

  ‘Not really, but Miss Mandelbaum – Zita – was kind enough to take me and I’ve never enjoyed anything so much in all my life,’ she answered; with too much vehemence, she felt.

  ‘What fun,’ said Mrs Challis. ‘Isn’t Madame an angel? I adore her bun; she never varies it, and it suits her too marvellously. Oh well, there are lots of lovely things to go to this month, and when you can’t get into town you must come in and listen with Zita in the Little Room; it’s quiet in there and you can imagine you’re having the concert all to yourselves.’

  She stood up and brushed crumbs from her dark wool dress, which was fitted closely to her figure by means of intricate seaming and had no ornaments except its own folds and cut. Margaret had seen photographs of such dresses in Vogue, but never before on a living woman.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Challis; it’s awfully kind of you and I should love to,’ she murmured, overjoyed but conscious that Zita’s dark eyes were glancing suspiciously, jealously from Mrs Challis to herself.

  ‘There’s Grantey now,’ said Mrs Challis. ‘I can hear her riddling the Esse. Thank you for my lovely tea. Good night, children,’ and she nodded radiantly at them both and went away, with her fur coat hanging over one shoulder.

  Margaret glanced inquiringly at Zita.

  ‘Riddling –?’

  ‘The Esse. It iss the cooking stove and ven you rake him out it is called riddling! I know not why,’ said Zita crossly, beginning to pack up the teacups.

  ‘Let me help,’ said Margaret, getting up.

  ‘No, no. I do it. I haf to begin work again soon, so why not now?’ cried Zita, whose mood seemed to be going rapidly downhill. But Margaret took the cups which she was ill-temperedly clashing about and neatly stacked them on the tray, whilst she, defeated, stood watching with her arms folded.

  ‘Now,’ said Margaret with determined brightness, ‘where do we wash them up?’

  Zita shook her head. ‘I shall not tell.’

  ‘Then I’ll take them down to Mrs Grant,’ and Margaret moved towards the door.

  ‘Do not – do not!’ hissed Zita, darting in front of her. ‘She does not like me to haf friends to tea!’

  ‘You should take no notice of that, if Mrs Challis doesn’t object. Mrs Grant is only the cook.’

  ‘It iss eassy to talk,’ retorted Zita gloomily, and Margaret (in spite of a triumph when the enemy suddenly rushed across the landing and showed her a housemaid’s cupboard and sink) had a fleeting suspicion that it was.

  ‘I am bad to you!’ announced Zita, when they had washed and dried two saucers and a knife.

  ‘Oh, no,’ soothingly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. You will want me no more.’

  ‘Don’t be so –’ (She was going to say silly, but substituted ‘sensitive, Zita,’ instead.) ‘I like you very much indeed and I hope we shall be real friends and have lots of good times together.’

  ‘You are so kindt!’ said Zita, weeping, and mopped her eyes with the teacloth; then exclaimed in disgust and flung it on the floor. ‘You forgive me when I am bad,’ she added, taking out a handkerchief.

  ‘Well, do be happy again,’ and Margaret rescued the teacloth. (‘Cheer up’ hardly seemed a phrase which Zita would comprehend, for ‘cheer’ was such an English word in all its implications.)

  ‘I will try,’ sniffed Zita, resuming the drying-up, and in five minutes was laughing over an arrangement to meet Margaret at the Old Vienna Café in Lyons Corner House one day next week.

  It was nearly seven o’clock when Margaret came out of the side entrance to Westwood. This was one of the rare occasions of her life when she felt extremely tired, but it was not bodily tiredness; it was the temporary exhaustion produced in the nervous system by dealing with a strong, capricious and moody human personality. In return, she had had two hours of a new and exquisite pleasure – a pleasure so rare that it could truthfully be called happiness – and she had secured, as easily as picking a flower, an invitation from Westwood’s mistress to drop in frequently to Westwood. But the continuance of such advantages depended upon her remaining friends with Zita, and she really was not sure if (as Hilda would s
ay) she could take it. How very, very tiring Zita was!

  As she turned into her own road, a disturbing idea struck her. ‘I wonder if I ever tire people like that?’ she thought.

  12

  The Wilsons had lately had an addition to their household; an Alsatian dog named Bobby. As was usual with the Wilsons’ pets, he had been given to Hilda by a young pilot – as a parting gift when the latter had been posted abroad – and on the afternoon that Zita and Margaret went to the concert, Hilda, wearing a scarlet Juliet cap and scarlet jacket, was exercising Bobby on the Heath. That wide path which runs along the edge of Kenwood and looks down upon London was one of Hilda’s and Margaret’s favourite walks, and Hilda (who had that pleasure in walking even on a dull day which has increased noticeably among Londoners during the last twenty years) was enjoying the keen wind, the slow sighing of the beech trees above her head, and the glimpses of Saint Paul’s dome through the mists in the valley, and whistling as she went.

  Another and very different procession was wending its dismal way through the wood itself while she was walking on the outskirts. This was none other than Grantey, Barnabas, Emma, their new brother Jeremy, and, of all things, their grandfather. A number of circumstances had conspired to produce this surprising (and so far as Mr Challis was concerned, undesirable) circumstance. The Nilands were staying the week-end at Westwood for the christening party, and after lunch Hebe and Seraphina had gone off with Beefy to spend the last hours of his leave at a film, leaving the children with Grantey. Mr Challis, encountering them as he crossed the hall on the way to his study and a quiet, fruitful afternoon of creative labour, had stopped to speak to them and, never knowing what to say to children, had commented upon the weak sunlight struggling through the grey clouds, falsely saying that he wished he could accompany them on their nice walk home to Hampstead.

  ‘Oh, do come, Grandpa; oh, do come!’ shouted Barnabas, seized with one of those illogical and maddening desires which frequently overtake children, and Emma also began to squeak and implore. The baby slept, small and warm in the deep shell of his pram.

  ‘Well, that would be very nice, I’m sure, if Grandpa would come with us,’ said Grantey, fixing Mr Challis with a severe, respectful eye.

  ‘Oh do – oh – do – oh – do!’ shrilled Barnabas and Emma in chorus, hopping up and down and clawing at the luckless man.

  ‘Hush, Barnabas and Emma, you’ll wake Jeremy,’ said Grantey. ‘It’s a nice day, sir,’ she added. It was plain that she would think badly of him if he did not come.

  If only Mr Challis had given a short incredulous laugh and bounded away up the stairs, patting his grandchildren upon the head as he fled, and saying firmly, ‘No, no, poor Grandpapa has work to do,’ all would have been well, but he did not. He hesitated, looking down at the two little figures in their bright coats. Emma had a hood edged with fur and looked like a child from some painting of the Whig Age; so well-bred, so confident and happy. They really are beautiful children, he thought, momentarily proud that they were of his blood.

  ‘Oh yes, Grandpa, oh yes!’ implored Barnabas, dragging at one hand, while Emma caught at the other.

  ‘Well, only a little way then,’ said Mr Challis weakly, but they instantly burst into a chorus of gratified squeaks:

  ‘Grandpa’s coming, Grandpa’s coming! Oh goody, oh goody, goody, goody!’

  ‘There, isn’t that nice,’ smiled Grantey approvingly, and Mr Challis, still adding warnings about his only coming a little way to which no one paid the faintest attention, went to put on his coat and hat. He felt a little flattered, not realizing that his grandchildren would have been just as delighted had Cortway proposed to accompany them: novelty was all.

  ‘The sun’s going, we’d better go straight down Hampstead Lane and into Kenwood for a little while, then along the Spaniards and home to our tea,’ said Grantey decidedly, as they began to mount the hill leading to the village.

  ‘Legs a’’ said Emma as if to herself.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Grantey, ‘we haven’t been out five minutes; they can’t ache. Grandpa will hold your hand if you ask him nicely, I expect.’

  Emma mutely lifted her eyes to Mr Challis, at the same time stretching up a hand in a tiny fur glove.

  ‘There, is that better?’ he said awkwardly, taking the little hand in his own. Emma did not reply.

  ‘Don’t go in the road, Barnabas, a motor will come along and cut you in half,’ said Grantey. ‘You take Grandpa’s other hand, there’s a good boy now.’

  It was a cold afternoon, but they made such a good pace up the hill that they were all warm when they reached the village.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better carry her across, sir, she sometimes lets go,’ said Grantey. Mr Challis lifted Emma with one hand and steered Barnabas across with the other. It was surprising that such a fairy could weigh so heavy and the fur of her hood tickled his nose. Barnabas tried to pull his hand away.

  ‘Don’t do that, Barnabas, you’ll make Grandpa drop Emma,’ observed Grantey in a detached, slightly melancholy tone. ‘Oh, dear, was that a drop of rain?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Challis, pausing on the pavement and endeavouring to set down Emma, who resisted. One or two ladies walking to half-past three evensong glanced with approving smiles at the tall, handsome gentleman carrying the quaint little girl.

  ‘I expect you’ll have a job making her get down now; she’ll want to be carried all the way,’ said Grantey in a low voice, gliding onwards with the pram and speaking over her shoulder: ‘Get down now, Emma, there’s a good girl, you’ll tire poor Grandpa out.’

  ‘Cawwy,’ said Emma, snuggling closer.

  ‘Come along, now, you’re quite big enough to walk,’ said Mr Challis, trying to speak playfully and only sounding irritable.

  ‘Yes, Emma, poor Grandpapa,’ warned Grantey, now some distance ahead with the pram. ‘Get down at once, now.’

  ‘You’ll have to carry her,’ remarked Barnabas. ‘If you don’t, she’ll scream.’

  Half an hour later the party had decided to walk through Kenwood to escape the keen wind, and as Grantey feared that she would disturb Jeremy if she were put into the pram, Mr Challis was still carrying Emma.

  Stalking along the dull paths between the rhododendron thickets where the melancholy odour of autumn lingered, chilled by the shade of the giant beeches and oaks, his arms aching and his nerves jangled and disturbed by shrill little voices and Grantey’s flat tones, Mr Challis had almost decided to take a high hand and declare that he had remembered important business and must return home at once, when between a gap in the trees he saw Hilda. He recognized her immediately, and his discomfort and irritation was complete. What! to be seen by Daphne, the sea-goddess’s daughter, while he was carrying one grandchild and accompanied by two others, one an infant in the least interesting stage of infancy, and their nurse? In his annoyance he halted rather suddenly, but even as he determinedly set Emma down upon the path, Grantey said:

  ‘I think we’d better go out at that entrance now, sir, and straight home. It isn’t far and there’s a good path for the pram.’

  ‘’Ank ’oo, Grandpa,’ said Emma cheerfully, running away to shuffle through the leaves. Whether her thanks were for the ride or her release, her grandfather was too irritated to decide.

  ‘Oh – very well,’ said Mr Challis. ‘I shall leave you here. Good afternoon. Good-bye, children,’ and he was turning thankfully away, raising his hat, when Grantey said:

  ‘Say good-bye to Grandpa nicely, Emma, Barnabas,’ and up they came, and Barnabas was encouraged to put out a limp hand. He kept his face turned away in a bored manner while saying his piece, and was reproved by Grantey and made to say it over again.

  ‘That’s right. Now Emma. A nice kiss for Grandpa. There’s a good girl.’

  The impatience with which Mr Challis touched Emma’s cold pink cheek with his lips was only just perceptible.

  ‘Good-bye, Grandpa,’ said Emma.

  ‘Good-b
ye, Grandpa,’ said Barnabas.

  ‘I like to be called “Gerard,” not “Grandpa,”’ exclaimed Mr Challis with a fleeting smile; his ears seemed to have heard nothing but that name, with its low comic associations, all the afternoon, and he resolved to put a stop to the children’s using it. ‘You may call me that if you like.’

  Barnabas and Emma stared up at him, and it was evident that they did not understand.

  ‘Gerard, not Grandpa; you may call me by my name,’ he repeated irritably.

  ‘But your name is Grandpa!’ shouted Barnabas, as though making a discovery.

  ‘Oh well, never mind now,’ he said, giving it up. ‘Mrs Grant, you might see that they learn to use my Christian name.’ He raised his hat again and hurried away.

  ‘What did Grandpa mean about?’ asked Barnabas, presently. ‘Doesn’t he like us to call him Grandpa?’

  ‘Of course he does; don’t be silly,’ said Grantey. ‘Hurry up now, I want my tea, and so do you.’

  ‘G’an’pa,’ said Emma softly to herself as she rustled through the leaves.

  Mr Challis’s search was unsuccessful for what seemed to him a long time. He began to fear that Hilda must have gone home, for the afternoon was now drawing in and a few drops of rain were beginning to fall. He was just sparing a thought for the party which he had left, and hoping that they would not get wet, when he turned round a large hollybush and there was Hilda, walking quickly just ahead of him. She was accompanied by a dog and an exclamation of annoyance actually escaped Mr Challis, who liked dogs no more than he liked children. He increased his pace almost to a run and dodged right round her and stood in her path.

  ‘Daphne!’ he said, taking off his hat.

  Hilda, not at all startled, looked at him.

  ‘The name is not Daphne,’ she said pleasantly after a pause, ‘and don’t say you’ve met me before somewhere because I was just going to say it to you. No – don’t tell me – I want to guess.’

  The peculiar charm which she had had for him was immediately reimposed by her sharp, sweet young voice.