Westwood

by Stella Gibbons

  Afterwards, she did not know why she had said that. Perhaps it was a desperate appeal to Hilda to stand by her, not to let her down, not to be angry with her, to comfort her in her bewilderment and pain. Whatever the reason, Hilda responded to the appeal. She could see that something was wrong. What, she simply could not imagine, but it was evident that Mutt knew Marcus, and knew him by another name too, the old deceiver. She felt her indignation growing as she smilingly acknowledged Earl’s ceremonious greeting and then turned to the children, while Margaret recited their ages and names. So these were his grandchildren, were they? And how was it that Mutt knew him, and she had never known that Mutt knew him, while poor old Mutt was obviously struck all of a heap at seeing them sitting together on the grass? Oh well, it was plain that Marcus had been lying like fun and pretending he wasn’t married when he was, and that was the sort of thing she, Hilda, was not going to stand for. The silly old fool, she thought, while asking Emma if she had seen the duck-ducks?

  ‘There’s the tea-basket,’ said Barnabas meaningly, in the midst of the pause following the introduction, while Earl glanced from the pale Mr Challis to the paler Margaret and wondered just what was going on here. Everybody laughed, glad enough of the opportunity to do so, though Mr Challis’s laugh was hollow.

  ‘I want my tea,’ said Barnabas, encouraged by this reception. ‘We all want our tea, don’t we, Emma?’ (‘Say yes,’ in a fierce whisper, and nudging her.) ‘We stood in a queue outside a place but when we got there it had all gone, so we didn’t get any.’

  ‘No teee!’ suddenly exclaimed Emma, smiling brilliantly and showing all her baby teeth.

  ‘No, poor Sister,’ said Earl. ‘We were just wondering what to do,’ he added, turning with pleasant respect to Mr Challis.

  Alas, for that famous and gifted man. The tea was fated to be eaten under circumstances very different from those of which he had dreamed; it was his painful task to invite his grandchildren and that dull girl and duller young man to partake of the paté sandwiches, the fresh rolls and home-made quince jam, the chocolate biscuits and the ginger biscuits and the flask of scalding delicately flavoured tea.

  But he set his teeth, and amid his disappointment and humiliation courteously invited the party to share the tea-basket, and they (the younger members, at least) accepted with offensive haste and were ready to begin at once. However, first they must be taken to make some necessary toilet arrangements, and accordingly Margaret and Hilda, taking a hand of each child, led them away in the direction of a small building half-concealed amidst the trees, promising to rejoin the gentlemen in ten minutes. (We will assume that the gentlemen, left to their own devices, smoked and exchanged comments upon the weather and the landscape, though Mr Challis’s only impulse was to bound away into the greenery like a stricken animal and never come out of it again.)

  ‘Mutt!’ burst forth Hilda the instant they were out of earshot. ‘What’s going on here, anyway? I didn’t know you knew Marcus!’

  ‘That isn’t Marcus; it’s Mr Challis.’

  ‘Your playwriter, who lives at that big house? Boloney! It’s my Mr Marcus; I’ve known him for ages.’

  ‘Well, he’s both of them, that’s all.’ Margaret had no desire to talk, or to hear any more; the shock was so great that she felt stunned.

  ‘And married,’ said Hilda, significantly. ‘He told me he wasn’t. (The old monkey!) Oh – p’raps he’s a widower?’

  ‘No, Mrs Challis is alive.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Lovely,’ answered Margaret, and her tone and look increased Hilda’s indignation.

  ‘Lovely, is she? Then what right has he to go on like that, when he’s got a “lovely” wife of his own?’

  ‘Like what?’ said Margaret faintly, shuddering.

  ‘Oh – carrying on,’ said Hilda vaguely, suddenly remembering that Mutt had a crush on this Mr Challis – Marcus – whatever he called himself. Poor old Mutt, she must be feeling awful; she took things so hard, and fancy having a crush on that phony old twister.

  ‘Did he make love to you?’ suddenly asked Margaret in a voice so full of anguish that Hilda instinctively bent down and urged Barnabas, who was holding her hand, to ‘go on with Emma, son, we’ll be there in a minute.’ Barnabas, who was not yet at the stage when he took an interest in grown-up conversations, obediently went ahead with his mind busy with thoughts of tea, and Hilda turned to Margaret.

  ‘Look here, Mutt, we must get this straight. I picked him up in the tube last autumn; he lent me a torch in that awful fog, and I’ve been going out with him ever since, off and on. And you say he’s Mr Challis the playwriter, who lives at that house where Finkelwink lives? What’s his other name?’

  ‘Gerard. Did he make love to you?’

  ‘He told me it was Marcus,’ muttered Hilda. ‘No, he didn’t get the chance; he used to kiss me now and then, nothing much. I wish you wouldn’t take it like this, ducky,’ she added, distressed.

  ‘I saw him holding your hand – he was – this afternoon – I did try to stop the children, but it was too late –’

  ‘Well, this afternoon he did get rather worked up,’ Hilda confessed. ‘Wanted me to go to South Africa or somewhere with him. I never heard of such a thing; you could have knocked me down with a thousand-pounder.’ She glanced at her friend. ‘Look here, are you in love with him?’ she demanded.

  Margaret wildly shook her head. ‘Oh no – it’s not that – truly it isn’t, but I looked up to him so – I thought he was so wonderful, and now –’

  Hilda muttered something very rude about Mr Challis, but they had now reached the little building, and further conversation was impossible.

  When they emerged again, some fifteen minutes later, the children went hurrying across the grass in the direction of the tea-basket, while the two girls approached more slowly. Margaret was still very pale, but she had bathed her face and combed her hair and looked more her usual self. Hilda was already inclined to laugh over the situation.

  ‘I can’t get over it,’ she repeated, ‘neither of us knowing it was him.’

  ‘I can understand him – caring – about you, of course, you’re so pretty –’ said Margaret in a low tone, but this was just what she could not understand. How could that lofty intellect, that rare spirit, chill yet fiery as the air that burns above a volcano, have stooped to Hilda? What intellectual companionship could possibly exist between them? What could that admirer of tragedy, that lover of integrity, have found in Hilda? Margaret felt as if she were going mad.

  ‘I’m not objecting to his “caring” about me,’ said Hilda. ‘What I do think awful is him being married and with two grandchildren. Such lovely kids, and you say his wife’s lovely, too. How many children has he got, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Three. Two sons and a daughter.’

  ‘Why, he’s nothing but a dirty old man!’ exclaimed Hilda indignantly, ‘and you say he’s always writing “beautiful” plays! I always did think there was something funny about him and so did Mum and Dad, but I never thought he was as bad as that. I shan’t half give him the works!’

  ‘Oh, Hilda, don’t do that!’

  ‘Why ever not? He deserves all he gets.’

  ‘But if he cares about you – I know he’s behaved badly – I can’t ever feel the same about him again – it will hurt him so.’

  ‘Good job, too. Teach him not to do it again. Two grandchildren! I can’t get over it!’ And she began to giggle. ‘Oh dear – wasn’t it a scream! Him holding my hand and going on about South Africa and then those two shrieking out “Grandpa!” I bet he felt like murdering them!’

  ‘He has three grandchildren, actually,’ said Margaret reluctantly. ‘There is a baby boy of about eight months.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ said Hilda, her cheerfulness now fully restored. ‘All the same, I’m going to give him the works, and then I’ve done with him for good.’

  Mr Challis, standing silently beside Earl and watching them come
across the grass, might well feel, as he saw their faces, that the worst part of the afternoon was yet to come. Margaret was pale and grave and had a wounded, reproachful look in her eyes, and Hilda was all mischievous laughter with a sparkle of annoyance. Earl looked at the young ladies with interest and felt some sympathy with the famous elderly man standing at his side. The brilliant spring light showed up his silver hair and his wrinkles, and his dignified expression was clearly, to Earl, only a cloak for very unpleasant feelings. He was trying to make a date with her, thought Earl, and his grandchildren muscled in. But it certainly is a pity that men of his age can’t keep to their own age-group in their affairs.

  For the next half-hour outward harmony prevailed. The children loudly praised what there was to eat, although regretting that there was not more, and the grown-ups made a meagre meal in order that the children should be nourished, which was biologically sound but gastronomically unsatisfying for the grown-ups. Margaret continued to exchange remarks with Mr Challis; to pass him things and smile at his elaborate jokes, and gradually her inward self-control was restored and she was able to view the afternoon’s events more calmly.

  Her strongest feeling was one of incredulous disappointment. He was not the noble, austere soul she had believed him; he was a soul that assumed a false name and sat on the grass with pretty girls inviting them to go to South Africa with him. It was as if she had been reverencing someone who did not exist. How could she even go on admiring his plays when they expressed a philosophy which he did not follow in his own life? It was not as if they expressed a despairing admiration for integrity and tragedy and strength, obviously written up by a weak but aspiring soul; no, they were written down, as if by a lofty soul that already possessed integrity and the tragic sense and strength, and believed that everyone else should possess them too. What was he doing sniffing (yes, sniffing was the word which Margaret used to herself) at people with commonplace longings for happiness? What could be more commonplace than to want to take a pretty girl to South Africa? Most ordinary men would jump at the chance. But few ordinary men had so lovely a wife, such handsome children, and so ancient and beautiful a home as Mr Challis.

  It seemed to her that he had been not only commonplace but extremely greedy.

  Her heart was very sore, and she did not dare to look at his grave, handsome face, but devoted herself to waiting on the children.

  As for Mr Challis, he hardly dared look at Hilda, but every time he did so he encountered a mischievous glance with a sparkle of anger in it, and he had no doubt that as soon as she was alone with him she would make a scene. As if this were not enough, there was Margaret’s solemn, reproachful expression, and the American fellow looking knowing and amused, damn his impudence! Well, Hilda would not get the opportunity to make her scene. He would at least keep what was left of his dignity.

  Accordingly, as the last crumbs were being wiped from Emma, he stood up and said, addressing the company at large but looking at Hilda:

  ‘I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, but I have just remembered that I have left some work at the Ministry which I must take home to study this week-end, and if I go now, I shall just get there before the building is closed. I am so very sorry,’ pleasantly to Hilda, ‘but I leave you in good hands, I know.’

  ‘G’anpa?’ said Emma, glancing inquiringly at Hilda, next to whom she was seated.

  ‘Yes, Grandpa, ducks,’ repeated Hilda, wiping Emma’s fingers. ‘Poor Grandpa’s got to go back to the office. Emma, say “Good-bye, Grandpa.” I shall be all right, really,’ she added, smiling at Margaret and Earl, ‘You run along, or you’ll miss the ’bus. Bye-bye,’ and – for the last time, he knew – she smiled at him.

  For a moment he stood looking at her, as she sat on the grass with her blue dress spread about her. Her beauty still struck his heart; he still desired her, but he would never see her again. I shall suffer, but it is by suffering that we live, he thought, and out of my suffering I shall create.

  ‘Good-bye,’ he answered, and then he walked away; across the grass, through the withered bluebells that marked the end of spring.

  Hilda watched him go. Some natural wounded vanity mingled with her other feelings. She had supposed him to be a wealthy and respectable bachelor whose offer of marriage she might one day have the satisfaction of refusing, and he had turned out to be a married celebrity who had tried to make her go wrong. But she was not deeply resentful; her strongest feeling was disapproval that a man with all those lovely grandchildren should have wanted to run after a girl half his age.

  The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly for everybody except Margaret. Earl and Hilda naturally got on well together, and nothing more was said about the oddness of her being alone at Kew with Mr Challis, while her suppressed laughter added to the gaiety of the party’s mood, and Margaret did her best not to let her own pain spoil everyone’s pleasure. It was a comfort at least to have Hilda’s affectionate sympathy. The one person she could not endure to find out the situation was Zita, although she knew that Zita would understand her own feelings for Mr Challis in a way that Hilda could never do. What she needed was not Zita’s eager comprehension of her hero-worship for a man whom she had thought a great artist; it was Hilda’s schoolgirlish squeeze of her arm and rueful giggles that would comfort her as they had comforted her when she took things hard at school.

  By the time they reached Highgate about half-past six, they were all very tired of bumping up and down on buses and pushing their way through crowded streets. Emma was asleep in Earl’s arms with her fair little cheek pillowed on his khaki shoulder, and Barnabas, pale and weary, held a hand of each of the girls as he dragged his feet along. Earl and Emma received many smiling glances and murmurs of ‘Sweet!’ and although the comments of such of his fellow G.I.s as they happened to pass were less idyllic, they were good-natured and good-naturedly received, and when he passed two Snowdrops (or Military Police) they looked the other way.

  He saw the party to the door of Westwood, and then, having thanked the girls for a delightful afternoon, he excused himself; he had a date, he said. Hilda told Margaret that she would probably come round and see her at her home after supper and hurried away. Margaret was left on the doorstep with Barnabas, who was almost weeping with tiredness, and the sleeping Emma, warm and heavy in her arms.

  ‘Ach!’ exclaimed Zita, flinging open the door with a beaming smile, ‘Willkommen! I haf some good broth for you, Barnabas, and into your bath you go. Margaret, I will take her – you must be tired.’

  ‘I am rather,’ confessed Margaret, thankfully handing over her burden. ‘But we’ve had a lovely time,’ she added. ‘I did wish you had been there.’

  This was the kind of thing one had to remember to say to Zita or she became hurt. In this case, it was even less accurate than usual.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ demanded Barnabas.

  ‘Here, here,’ observed Hebe soothingly, emerging from a doorway with ruffled head and a copy of Vogue in one hand. She was followed by Alex, eating something. ‘My poor son, are you nearly dead? Never mind, Mummy’ll soon have you in bed. (We won’t wash Emma; sling her in as she is.) Come along.’

  As she went upstairs hand-in-hand with Barnabas and followed by Zita carrying Emma, she smiled over her shoulder at Margaret and said:

  ‘You ought to have a medal. Have they worn you out?’

  ‘I loved it,’ answered the incurable Westwood worshipper eagerly. Hebe shook her head as if such devotion was beyond her.

  Left alone, Margaret lingered in the hall for a moment, looking wistfully about her. The marble staircase was illuminated by a ray of sunlight striking through the garden trees and making delicate reflections, like the dance of water, over the cool white stone. The fragile chairs shaped like harps or ladders, the dim colours of the Eastern carpets, the splendour of a flower painting which she now knew with some satisfaction to be by Matthew Smith, all breathed the same serenity and beauty. O Westwood, she thought, how could he betray you?

/>   ‘Can I make a drawing of your head some time?’ mumbled Alex pleasantly, coming out from behind a cabinet.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she answered mechanically, so surprised that she hardly realized what she was saying. ‘I work all day. Would the evening do?’ she went on, still hardly taking his question in.

  ‘Oh yes. Look here, I’ll tell you what, I can’t fix it up now because I’m going to be away all next week fixing up about my picture. I’m going to have a show.’

  ‘How exciting,’ she murmured.

  ‘At Mallock’s in Leicester Square. (Better than Bond Street; more people will see it.) Well, the week after that, on the day the show opens, there’s going to be a party here; I expect you’ll come, won’t you?’

  ‘I will if I’m asked, Mr Niland, but I don’t expect I shall be.’

  ‘Oh, yes you will, Hebe said so. She wants you to come.’

  ‘How lovely. Then I will,’ she answered, smiling too, but more faintly. To have had this invitation only a month – only a week – ago! And now it brought nothing but pain.

  ‘All right then. We’ll fix things up at the party. Have one?’ and he held out a bag of toffees.

  ‘Thank you. Is the picture The Shrapnel Hunters?’ she asked shyly, accepting a sweet. But she was wondering why he wanted to draw her.

  ‘Yes. Have you seen it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘That’s a pity. It isn’t here now or I’d have shown it to you. Why I want to do your head,’ he went on confidentially, ‘is because I’m going to see if the Government will let me do some murals on the walls of the Council Schools and places like that – in the Underground too, if they’ll let me – and they’re to be people. Rather the sort of thing Canaletto and Breughal did. Just ordinary people doing everyday things. I thought you would do for one. I’ve always wanted to draw you, from the first time I saw you.’