A Pin to See the Peepshow

by F. Tennyson Jesse

  At the touch of his hands Julia lost her fear. She stared at him icily.

  “Oh yes, you’d keep me like a general servant, because that’s what it would be. No, thank you. And take your hands off me.”

  Herbert, who had been borne along by the strength of his own anger, dropped his hands sheepishly.

  “As to not being able to get away from you,” went on Julia, “you’ve said enough about that, and I’m going to get away from you for my holiday, if I can’t get away from you for good. You can make what arrangements you like; I shall go away alone.”

  “Oh, you will, will you?” said Herbert. “And where will you go?”

  “That’s my business,” said Julia.

  She sat down and wrote that night to a Mrs. Rainbird, who owned a farm-house in Essex. At one time, in his drifting career as a house-agent’s clerk, Mr. Almond had worked for nearly a year with a Colchester firm who had been responsible for the selling of “Brown’s Farm” to Mr. and Mrs. Rainbird; and several times during the summer that followed, Mrs. Almond and Julia had visited the pleasant, low, white house. They had even spent a week’s holiday there, and Julia had always remembered the place with joy. It had been one of the few enchanted weeks of her childhood. Most of it had been spent in such dreary places. A letter of condolence, and one of acknowledgment, had passed at the time of Mr. Almond’s death. Mrs. Almond was too colourless to have made many friends in her passage through life, but the robust farmer’s wife had always kept a pitying remembrance of her, and of the eager child that had been Julia.

  It would give Herbert such a fright, reflected Julia, if she took Bobby and went away without him. Of course, there was always Leo. It might mean not seeing him; still, she needn’t commit herself definitely to Mrs. Rainbird’s as yet; but if she did go, and if Leo couldn’t see her, well, then, it was fate.

  Three days later she was able to announce casually to Herbert that Mrs. Rainbird had asked her to spend the holiday as a paying guest at Brown’s Farm. Herbert stared at her. He didn’t expect her to carry out her threat.

  “You can’t,” he said, “I’ve taken rooms.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have done it without consulting me.”

  “You weren’t here. As a matter of fact, your Uncle George rang me up at business. They’re all going to Torquay, and it was a question of making up my mind on the spot. You’ve got to book your rooms beforehand at these boarding-houses.”

  “When did you take the rooms from?”

  “From the 11th of July.” He was watching her carefully as he spoke.

  Julia stared at him in honest bewilderment. “What on earth do you all want your holidays then for? Anyway, that settles it as far as I’m concerned. Mrs. Danvers has asked me to take the first half of August, and I have to fit in with other people in my business just as you have. I shall go to Brown’s Farm, and you can all manage quite well without me. I’d rather be alone with Bobby. It’ll be much more of a rest.”

  But something happened to make Julia change her mind. The next day she came out of l’Etrangère, in the glow of a summer evening. Thanks to the Daylight Saving Bill there had been no ghost buses for a long time now, and she was going back to the rather dreary prospect of a daylight supper, and a walk with Bobby. She came out this evening, blinking a little in the soft evening radiance, the last, as usual, to leave the shop. The staff, of course, got off as soon as they could. Even that tower of strength, Gipsy, since the acquisition of the gentleman known behind her back as “the boy friend,” had other interests than the shop. She no longer devoted long stretches of time, after work-hours were over, to the interests of l’Etrangère, although she was as capable as ever between ten in the morning and six in the evening, interviewing customers, choosing models, and generally keeping the reins of government in her hands. Still, the fact remained that it was Julia alone who looked upon the shop as an essential part of her life; and Gipsy had long known and recognised this fact, not only in the latch-key that she had given her, but in the complete confidence she reposed in her as well.

  There are times in the lives of two human beings whose ways converge, when either may become suddenly aware, with an awareness not in the ordinary course of everyday life, of the nearness of the other.

  Julia had that sense, as she stepped out into George Street, on this summer evening. She knew that Leo was far nearer to her than he had been, that there would be a letter waiting for her at Wigmore Street. She knew it with some strange knowledge of the nerves, and she was right.

  The letter began in the ordinary way. It thanked her for her last one, and asked her whether any more orange-pip-spitting competitions had taken place. Julia read the beginning quickly. He very seldom said anything that mattered at the beginning of his letters. It was as though the exercise of words was something alien in his experience.

  There are a pretty good-looking lot of girls in Scotland, read Julia, with a sudden leaping of the heart that almost hurt her, and yet no one has interested me. I wonder if you know why? I don’t quite know myself; just because they weren’t you, I suppose. Julia’s heart settled down again, and she glowed and dimpled as she read. We are on our way south now, bound for Torbay for the regatta. I’ve had a letter from Elsa. It seems your Uncle George is fixing up for a joint holiday with my people to go to Torquay. Did you know this? I don’t think so, or you would have mentioned it, wouldn’t you, Julia? Anyway, the family party is bound to include you, and though I would rather have you alone, we ought to have a good time, and be able to arrange something. You would enjoy the regatta. The Air Force puts up a very good show. We have our own boat crews from the Carrier, and we are all very keen. I get ten days’ leave after the regatta, so if we can have ten days as a family-party first, it ought not to be too bad. What do you think? We’ll have to talk it over when we meet.

  The rest of the letter was unimportant, and Julia folded it up and put it in her bag. Nobody at Two Beresford had mentioned the regatta to her, or the plans for a holiday, and neither had Herbert. Yet Herbert must know, that was obvious. That was why he had made his plans to join the family party, for Herbert hated doing anything peculiar, and he would tell himself that he was quite able to look after his own wife. He would, in fact, do anything sooner than let either Leo’s family or the family at Two Beresford think that he was in the least jealous of Leonard. All that was understandable. Julia followed the processes of Herbert’s mind very quickly. What annoyed her was that she had already agreed with Gipsy to take her holiday at the beginning of August. Would Gipsy consent to an alteration? While she was still at the post-office, Julia went to a call-box and telephoned Gipsy.

  “Would it be possible,” she asked, “without throwing everything out at the shop, for me to alter the date of my holiday? I find my husband has already taken rooms at Torquay with the rest of the family from the 11th of July.”

  “The 11th of July!” came in Gipsy’s soft, rich voice, somewhat sharpened by surprise. “Oh, but Julia, that’s impossible. Why, it’s one of the heaviest months.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Julia, quickly, “I wasn’t asking for that. I thought if I could get off by about the 16th or 17th.” There was a silence, during which Julia pictured to herself Gipsy rapidly making calculations.

  “Well, I think that might be managed, Julia, a fortnight from then. You know it’s the last half of August I want to get away, and we both can’t be away at once. If you can take over from me by the tenth, I think that will be all right.”

  “It’s awfully good of you, Mrs. Danvers. I’m frightfully grateful. I’d no idea all these arrangements had been made.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Gipsy.

  Julia boarded the bus in a state of mingled excitement and anger. Herbert had evidently thought to catch her out. He had expected her to know about the regatta. Well, she hadn’t known, but she knew now and she would announce that Mrs. Danvers had allowed her
to change her dates, with the most innocent air in the world. For, after all, there was no reason why Herbert should suspect that she had heard from Leo to-day, since she obviously had not heard yesterday. How pleased Herbert must have been, thought Julia, when she said she couldn’t go. He must have realised that while he had saved his face with the family, yet Julia had committed herself to being alone in Essex. Julia smiled to herself. She was going to enjoy watching Herbert’s face while she told him of her change of plans. She did tell him that evening.

  “Oh, by the way, Herbert,” she said airily, “I’ve managed to change my plans—about the holidays, I mean.”

  “Oh,” said Herbert, looking at her suspiciously. “Been seeing Elsa?”

  “Seeing Elsa?” Julia stared at him innocently. “No, why should I? I don’t see Elsa any more than I can help—you ought to know that.”

  “I thought she might have told you the reason they are going to Torquay is that young Carr will be there for the yearly regatta and, of course, he and Elsa want to see as much as they can of each other.”

  “Oh, that’s why, is it?” said Julia. “Well, the regatta will be rather fun. When does it begin?”

  “The 11th of July, and it lasts for ten days,” said Herbert.

  “Then I shall miss most of it. I can’t get down until the end of the first week. I expect Elsa is getting all excited again. I wish I could persuade her not to wear pale blue. She’d have a much better chance of getting a young man, and of keeping him.”

  “I suppose that’s one of your clever remarks,” said Herbert. “I don’t know what’s wrong with pale blue, myself. It was my mother’s favourite colour, and there’s nothing like a nice pale blue for shirts.”

  Herbert was not a sensitive or observant man, and yet during the days that followed it was impossible, even for him, to ignore the fact that Julia had changed. The old glow came back to her, that quality she had carried when first he knew her, that had attracted him while the first pale dyspeptic Mrs. Starling sat at his table. But in those days it had been a glow that shed its light upon everyone. He himself had had his snatched kisses in the hall, but now this self-same quality enwrapped Julia like a burning bush; and though she was less irritable with him than she had been for some time, it was simply because she hardly knew he was there. The glassy and unmoved front she presented was a better protection for her than all her physical shrinking and her frantic refusals of him. Many a night Herbert told himself, as he sat sulking over his whisky and soda, that this time he would stand no nonsense; that this time he was going into her room; but those bright unseeing eyes kept him out more effectually than anything else had been able to do.

  Julia arrived at the boarding-house at Torquay after the others had already been there a week. She arrived confident, and armoured all about with what Leo had written her. Elsa was nothing, merely an excuse for him to see her. It was worth not coming down for the first part of the regatta, if they could arrange to meet for part of his ten days’ leave afterwards.

  Julia did not flatter herself that it would be easy. She had a fortnight’s holiday. This would see them beyond the end of the regatta, and Herbert would expect her to spend the rest of the time at Torquay. She and Leo would have the greatest difficulty in seeing each other alone, but Julia’s blood rose to the challenge. She felt the same excitement, only intensified, that she felt when she smuggled dutiable goods in from France. That little act of smuggling was always as good as a cocktail to Julia. Once she had decided upon her course, something happened to her mind that made everything she said seem true to her. When the Customs official at Dover or Folkestone asked if she had anything to declare, she would gaze at him with limpid eyes and, handing over her keys, say, “Nothing, here are my keys …” and would remain calm and unworried while the official opened her suitcase to be confronted with a very limp, innocent and spinsterish-looking hot-water-bottle lying on a rather faded dressing-gown.

  Julia fell in love with Torquay at first sight. There were palm-trees just as she had seen them in photographs of the Riviera. The bay itself had a lovely curve. The water was brilliantly blue to someone accustomed only to the waters off the south-eastern shores. The boarding-house didn’t seem too bad either—full of stuffy old things, of course, as boarding-houses always were, but there was a certain excitement in meeting even her family and Herbert; an excitement engendered by the fact that she knew she was carrying a secret which made her feel very much cleverer, and more alive, than any of them.

  It was fun to be kind to Mrs. Carr, whose bright eyes studied her distrustfully, and who seemed frightened by the imitation elegance of the boarding-house. It was fun to be politely rude to Bertha, grimmer and more inarticulate than ever. It was not fun to have to share a room with Herbert, but she went drearily through the performance that might keep him quiet for the rest of the holidays; and drearily went through the accustomed routine of making that performance safe as far as results went. This was still part of her life. It had to occur occasionally, or else Herbert’s quarrels would become unbearable. But as she lay in sick disgust, she told herself that something must happen, something would be bound to happen which would free her of this tyranny for ever.

  The four remaining days of the regatta passed in a dream for her. There were boats rowed quickly across the water, the blades of the oars flashing in the sun; but with her short sight she could not, even with binoculars, be quite sure which of the rowers was Leo. The little white sails leaned over to the wind, fluttering, leaned over again on the other side—or as Leo had tried to teach her to say “on the other tack.” Guns went off, and she never knew the result of anything until she had been told.

  The ships lay grey and imposing upon the blue waters, but Julia had not, on the whole, enjoyed the regatta, except for an afternoon spent on the aircraft-carrier, being shown over it by Leo. Of course all the family was there too, and Elsa, who had been over H.M.S. Thunderous before, was insufferably superior; but the afternoon was worth while for the quick little pressure of Leo’s hand as he helped her about the ship. She longed to take back with her a more accurate picture of where he lived, and ate and slept, but that was impossible. She could not wear her spectacles when with Leo; and a blur of polished brass, grey paint, scrubbed decks, shining mahogany and cast erections of steel were all that Julia could have told about the aircraft-carrier—save for the amazing fact of one big deck, built like a lift, which rose up at, apparently, great expense to the Admiralty; with the aeroplanes, ready for taking off, drawn up upon it.

  Leo managed to tell her, in an undertone, that he would be free the day after the regatta, in the afternoon. He was not telling anybody but her, and could she say she wanted to go for a walk alone, and meet him at Babbacombe for tea?

  It was easy to make excuses to walk alone. Elsa was a lazy little thing, and preferred wearing high-heeled shoes, and dawdling about looking in the Torquay shops, to taking a country walk. Julia knew, with knowledge obtained at l’Etrangère’s, what to wear and what to do in the country. She had neat brogues and heavy stockings, a smart little tweed suit and a pull-on hat in which she could have passed for any one of the Darlings. She paused on her way out to ask Herbert whether he would not come with her. This moment gave her the same little exquisite fear that smuggling was wont to do. She knew there was no real danger of Herbert coming too. He would be much better if only he took more exercise, as Dr. Ackroyd always told him, but he did not seem to mind putting on fat, and feeling livery—although, directly anything was the matter, there was no one more frightened than Herbert. However, Julia had always heard that men were like that, and she accepted it as normal.

  Her gambler’s gesture was justified. Herbert, replete with a heavy midday meal of the boarding-house, stared at her stonily from his wicker-chair at the front door.

  “If only you had given me warning,” he grumbled.

  “I did,” said Julia. “We talked about my walk this morning;
if only you’d listen to me, but you never do. Try and get out before tea, Herbert, because you really ought to take more exercise, you know.”

  She nodded as though she had been a complete stranger, he told himself angrily, took up her stick and was off, leaving him without any ground for complaint, and yet feeling vaguely angry.

  Leo overtook Julia as she was walking down the steep, winding road to Babbacombe. He glanced quickly in both directions—there was no one to be seen. He caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but did not speak at all. Julia hung in his arms. She felt more than excited, she felt actually happy, wildly happy, for the first time in her life. They still did not speak, except to stammer out each other’s name when he released her, but, hand-in-hand like children, went on down the road to the edge of the sea. There they sat down on the sand and talked.

  Julia hated the first thing she heard her voice say:

  “You must have seen lots of pretty women: you told me so in your letter. I expected you to have forgotten me.”

  “They weren’t you,” he said, repeating what he had written. “They weren’t you; that’s all that matters.”

  Julia glanced up at him, and again felt happiness flooding her whole being. Each was a little shy of the other, and each had built up an entirely different personality out of the letters, and now, with that curious feeling that everyone knows on waking from a dream, they had to adjust the world of spun fancy to the world as it lay about them. Julia, of course, was quicker at this fusion than Leo, because there was only one Julia for him; the Julia who sat opposite to him in London, who had written him the letters, and who was lying pressed against him on the sands at Babbacombe now.

  They did not kiss again. It was curious really, thought Julia, as she felt the rough cloth of his coat up against her cheek. You couldn’t even call their parting kiss in London “making love.” It was such an isolated act in their relationship; and yet now that they met again, after months of being apart, they knew that they would be lovers.