“Wizard lot of cleaning up you’ve done. If the A.T.S. had known about you they would have made you kitchen staff.”
Jenny laughed a little. She was back at the sink. It had seemed so fearsome a few minutes ago. She had hated having her back to the room. She had felt movement and heard whispers. Now it was a golden kitchen, gay, full of comfort. Jack just being in the room made all the difference.
“I mightn’t have hated that so much. I would certainly have been less of an ass at it.”
Jack did not know anything about inferiority complexes, but he did know it didn’t do Jenny any good wondering why she mucked herself up in the A.T.S.
“That queen A.T. of yours must have been a holy terror.”
Jenny washed a plate and considered.
“Not really. She adored efficiency. Nobody could say I was efficient.”
Jack wondered if this was the sort of moment when he could ask her if his leg had mattered terribly. She had talked him into their getting married. It would release her from the A.T.S. where she was miserable. She could make a home for him. He had about had it as far as living in a mess was concerned. Never ought to have done it, though. Poor little Jenny, marrying a whole husband and six months later landed with one with a leg missing.
Jenny said:
“Isn’t it marvellous having our own china and things.”
He was stacking some of the washed plates in the cupboard. He looked at Jenny’s back over his shoulder and grinned. Wizard having their own things! He’d say it was. Wizard having a home at last. Most of all, it was wizard having got his wife to himself. Gosh! He had almost given up hope. He had thought she had settled in with her mother for good. He was not critical but he thought Jenny’s mother was not too hot. He hated her bloody little flat and her bloody little dogs and those super bloody friends of hers, Dougie and Freddie. Funny Jenny had stood it. Couldn’t be helped to start with. She wasn’t fit to cope with London, and he had to work there. Chronic how it had gone on though. Would still be there if it had not been for Lady Nettel. He said:
“Pretty decent of Lady Nettel to pick on us. Aren’t her sort. Must have been hundreds after this flat.”
Jenny let the water out of the sink.
“That’s the lot. I shan’t have to speak to her, shall I?”
She had come across to him drying her hands. He put his arms round her.
“Not likely to meet her, as we use different stairs. But if you do it might be the civil thing to say good morning.”
Jenny rested against him. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.
“Silly. I meant talk.”
He gently lifted her chin and looked into her eyes.
“Have we done enough, Mrs. Willis? I’m still a growing boy and can do with a nice slice of sleep.”
Jenny thought happily of their bedroom. She found it difficult to get comfortable in bed; it was the only time at the moment that she got any discomfort from the baby. To-night if she woke Jack would be there. She would not wake him if she could help it, but she could if things were very bad. If she got that worst cold, damp, frightened feeling. Mumsie had been wonderful, but she was frightened too. Jack did not seem frightened; he never had been frightened of anything, but this time he must be. He must be. If only she could speak about it. Ask him. But she couldn’t. Even thinking about it made her heart jump and that queer, cold, sickish feeling creep over her.
“Yes, let’s go to bed.” She clung to him. “Let’s put out the lights as we go. Then it’s done. Nobody need leave the other one alone in the bedroom.”
He kissed her.
“Very well, Mrs. Willis. Arm in arm and what could be nicer.”
* * * * *
Paula Bettelheim sat by the window. She was darning. She liked darning. She darned exquisitely, taking pleasure in her craftsmanship. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Heinrich. He was lying back in his chair reading and smoking. Paula was glad to see him so relaxed. For once he was not being angry with his newspaper. Many things gave Paula anxiety but none more than newspapers, so apt first to annoy and then to inflame. She was happy, too, about his chair. Heinrich had always had a special chair. When they had first married and lived in Munich that was a thing Heinrich’s mother had given him. A beautiful chair, voluptuous yet dignified. She had explained exactly where it should stand, both as regards the light from the window and the lamp. That chair, like so much else, had been left behind in Munich, but Heinrich’s right and need for a chair came with her to England, carried in her heart. It had been wunderschön . . . Paula raised shocked eyes from her darning. She gave a furtive look at Heinrich. So fortunate he could not see inside her head; how angry he would be; how rightly angry, if he knew how often, in spite of her efforts, she thought in German. So shameful that she alone remained not British. Heinrich spoke such wonderful English. Hans had, of course, spoken nothing else; so admirable that he had not been old enough to speak when they left Munich. Irma was born British. Fortunate Irma! No waiting about to be naturalised. No getting furious with the British Government because they naturalised Poles before they naturalised you. No wonder Irma was always gay; for her life was easy, so easy that she could not see it was unkind to make her jokes. Worse than unkind, it was cruel. Naughty Irma! A smile curved Paula’s lips. She could see Irma as though she were sitting beside her bed. Irma’s blue-black curls spraying across her pillow, her colour lovelier than ever because she was flushed with sleep. Those gay, twinkling eyes would be closed. Irma would be looking, what she never was, good as the lieber G . . . Paula caught her breath. There she went again. How weak a creature she was! Heinrich was wonderfully patient, but it was no wonder he so often looked regretful, and sometimes said it was regretful, that he had married a fool. She switched on the lamp and bent her head lower over her darning. It had not always been so. When they were first married, in spite of the fear, and the uncertainty, they had been as foolishly happy as any young couple. Heinrich had been quite German then. He spoke English but in those days he had laughed at the English. He was German in everything; in the way he worked and lived, and particularly in the way he made love, saying all those sentimental things which sounded so right and sensible in German in Munich, and so very out of place in English in England. How queer that Heinrich had practically only to put a foot on British soil to become English. But that was how it had been. The way he had gone up to Sir John and thanked him in perfect English for having been responsible for their coming to England. He had not been dismayed when Sir John had scarcely seemed to listen, and had answered casually, “That’s all right. My wife fixed it, really,” but had gone through to the end with his beautiful speech. He had never been awed by his surroundings or the manner of the Nettels, both of which had terrified her. She had thought it would be better to sell some of the good things they had brought over and offer a little rent, but Heinrich would not hear of it. He would start in business soon and then the question of rent would naturally be discussed. She had tried not to wear her jewellery and furs; it seemed queer somehow to have jewellery and furs, and yet be living on charity, but Heinrich had insisted she wore everything she had, and evidently he had been right, for the Nettels had not noticed, for nothing was said. To see her in furs and jewels had perhaps helped Heinrich. It had been hard for him. Always he had been wealthy. It was good of the Nettels to lend them that cottage. She had thought it beautiful, but it was not what Heinrich was accustomed to. Each time he stooped to avoid the low ceilings and doorways it hurt his pride afresh. It was a pity that Heinrich had been in the law. Of course his father and his friends had to have someone to handle that side of their businesses. In each generation a brilliant son was chosen, and who more suitable than Heinrich? But if life worked out so that you were a refugee then the law was an unfortunate choice. To know the law of one country was of no service in another. Heinrich had been wonderful. It had not been a month before he had his first sn
ack bar, and in six months there were a chain of them. Not bringing in a great profit but a growing one. “Even in England stomachs can be trained,” Heinrich said. “They can learn that beauty is better understood when hunger is satisfied.” And the British had been trained. Where there was a view they came to expect Heinrich’s white snack bars. They even came to expect and like good leberwurst sandwiches. They should have enjoyed beer too, but in England there were difficulties about beer. Heinrich thought that had he been British he would have been given a licence to sell beer, but Paula knew that was not so. Nobody could sell beer in England, however much people wanted beer, unless everybody else in the neighbourhood who sold beer agreed that they should have a licence, which, naturally, they seldom did. Paula had talked to people in Peasefield and learned about these things, but she had not been able to convince Heinrich. In fact, the day when she tried to convince him was the first time when he wondered out loud if he had married a fool. Still, those had been two happy years. Hans was a lovely baby, and Irma was born, and everybody so kind. Then came the war. Listening to the announcement of war Paula had felt she must do something. Peasefield looked so beautiful, so unlike a war, and, though Heinrich did not think so, people had been very good. How she had dared she did not know. Of course Heinrich was away seeing after his snack bars, for Sunday was a busy day. That made it easier. She had gone to Peasefield House. Up that long so beautiful drive, pushing Irma in her perambulator, and with Hans toddling beside her. Summer it had been. There were beautiful roses in the beds in front of the house. Lady Nettel was cutting some. She had waved and joined Paula. She was carrying a flat basket and scissors. Her hands were in loose leather gloves. She looked so as usual, dressed in one of her tweed coats and skirts with every blued hair beautifully arranged, that Paula had been shy to speak. Perhaps they did not dread a war these strange British. Then she saw something which gave her courage. Lady Nettel had been crying. She had re-powdered but there was a little redness round the eyelids. Paula had explained in English so bad that remembering it made her blush that they had come to say they were sorry. Lady Nettel had nodded and not spoken for a moment, then she had put a hand on Paula’s where it lay on the handle of the perambulator. “That was very nice of you. Things may not be easy for you, as Germans, but try not to mind too much, and remember us as you have known us these last two years.” It had been a help to Paula, that little talk. She had wondered sometimes if she should repeat it to Heinrich so that he, too, might be helped and perhaps be less angry. That dreadful day in the next year when they were rounded up and put into a hostel and from there taken to the Isle of Man and interned. Even Irma, who was British. It was very wrong of her, but Paula had not minded the Isle of Man. Heinrich seethed and raged, becoming more inflamed every day, but for her there was her family round her, the beautiful sea and a queer sense of peace coming from an inability, even if they were interned, to do anything about it. When at last they were released there was further trouble. Their cottage was full of British refugees. Their furniture had been carefully stored, and Paula had not found herself able to complain, seeing it was German bombs which had turned so many British into refugees. No cottage, no snack bars, no permit for food to run a snack bar. Everything together had seemed to make something go snap in Heinrich’s head. It was then he began to study Hebrew and talk about Palestine as his country. Lady Nettel had given them rooms in Peasefield House. Two rooms and the use of a bathroom, and an oil stove to cook on. She had been nice about it. “I know it’s not up to much, but it was fixed up for some evacuees who have now gone, and I can’t turn the families out of the cottage, even if I would.” Paula had said that for herself and the children she was content. She had not said Heinrich was the trouble, but, even unmentioned, there was Heinrich hanging in the air before them both as clear as a toy on a Christmas tree, so clear that Lady Nettel had answered, “I know. It seems more difficult for men. But you manage for the time being, and presently I think the evacuees will go home. Evacuees, when their mothers are with them, always do. And then you can have the cottage.” Lady Nettel had been right. It was sad it took so long for the evacuees to go for every day that Heinrich had to pass the cottage and not live in it made him angrier. He had to pass the cottage a lot, for he had work in London. Somehow he had money put away; nothing seemed ever to prevent clever Heinrich having money put away. He had very good friends he had met in the Isle of Man and they formed a syndicate. Paula did not understand Heinrich’s work except that he had seen ahead. Just as he had seen ahead that those who looked at views would pay to eat, so he saw that some day, when the war was over, those whose homes were destroyed, and those who had married and those who had fought, would need homes, and the syndicate who had been clever enough to buy the homes would then get rich. Heinrich had not admitted to being rich while they lived at Peasefield. He had only paid ten shillings for the cottage, and had made Paula ask that Hans might continue to go to the big house to practise his piano, as he had done when they lived there, because he could not afford to buy a piano. Paula raised her head from her darning, her eyes rested in admiration on the grand piano. Beautiful it was. A Bechstein. No expense spared. She had been glad that Sir John and Lady Nettel had not seen the piano arrive. Of course Heinrich was right, with children it was necessary to save, it was foolish to rush into expenses before you need. But it was a big jump from ten shillings a week and no money for a piano to a big rent and a Bechstein grand.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Heinrich laid down his paper.
“Ten o’clock. We will go to bed.”
Paula rolled up her mending. She walked out of the room rather hurriedly. There was no point in lingering by those front stairs. Those stairs which made Heinrich more inflammable than straw. As they passed through the arch to the other side of the flat they heard the distant cry of a child. Heinrich frowned.
“That child is still crying.”
Paula felt herself responsible for all who lived in the house. Those who lived under one roof and shared one staircase must be friendly. That they should not dislike herself, Heinrich and the children was of especial importance. They were some day to be British. Heinrich and Hans already spoke as if British, and Irma was British, but strangers made mistakes; too well she knew that expression of guardedness mixed with dislike which came over the face of the British-born on meeting herself and her family. It would be better if Heinrich, who did not notice expressions, should not speak to their fellow tenants more than could be helped.
“It is only to-day. She has a cat. It must live in the basement with Mrs. Parks.”
They had reached the back stairs. It took Heinrich’s mind off the child upstairs but turned it to an equally unfortunate subject.
“That carpet is dangerous. I will not have Hans or Irma use it until it is properly fixed. I will speak to Sir John Nettel myself.”
“It is done. To-morrow a man comes to relay it.”
Heinrich made a guttural growl. With it he expressed all he felt and daily said about the back stairs. That strangers should use them, yes, but for themselves, old friends of the Nettels, it was an insult.
Paula did not want him to go to bed angry. It disturbed his sleep. There was one way to help him. She took his arm.
“Come, we will look at the children.”
* * * * *
Freda Duke lay on the sofa. Beside her on a stool was her glass of whisky and soda, and an ashtray filled with the stubs of her cigarettes. She scowled at the door through which came the sound of crying.
“Blast Jane! I’ll give her something that really makes her cry if she doesn’t shut up.”
Jeremy was by the window staring into the dimly lit square. He liked this time of night. Every figure hazy. The square garden. The distant roar of traffic passing up Piccadilly. There was something about Mayfair. The last place he had expected to find himself. Damn good friend Penny. A flat in Mayfair, a good flat for seventy-five pounds a year! In
nineteen forty-six when people paid anything just for a roof and a place to rest their bones. Dear Penny, bless her. Unwillingly he turned from the window to Freda.
“Couldn’t she have kept Trinity? He was no trouble at mother’s.”
“She could not. This is going to be one hell of a house to keep tidy; all those bloody stairs. Your mother had a garden. I can see myself marching a cat up and down all day.”
“But Trinity doesn’t need to go out. He uses the john.”
“I’m sick of that blasted cat, anyway. Your mother spoilt Jane. Time she had a bit of discipline.”
“Poor little devil. She’s only a baby.”
“Damn nearly five. As soon as I can fix it she’s going to a boarding school. It’s all very well for you. You’ve got a study now, and you’ll shut the door and write all day. I’ve had nearly five years hell living with your family. Now, though it’s damned inconvenient, we’ve got a central flat, and when I get someone to clean and cook I’m going to get a job.”
Jeremy looked at her as dispassionately as if she was a character he was inventing for a book. She was still lovely. She was a little fatter than when they had married, but it suited her. She was the sort who should curve a bit. If one of those parts cropped up like she used to play, which required maximum glamour with minimum acting talent, she might get it. He did not like the thought of Jane being pushed off to a boarding school, otherwise it would make for pleasantness all round if Freda got a job. She would be out every evening and two matinées. Even thinking of such peace made him feel relaxed.
“Until Jane’s old enough for school my mother would have her; you know she offered . . .”
Freda sat up, her mouth ugly, her eyes narrowed.
“She bloody well won’t go to your mother. This flat is her home. We’ve had all this out dozens of times.”
They had. Jeremy’s parents adored Jane, and Jane adored them. Freda was not the mother type. She found Jane a tie and a bore and showed it, which was bad for the child. Why she had not accepted an offer to get the kid looked after he could not imagine. His mother made it a rule never to admit there was a thing wrong with her sons and daughters-in-law. She had three daughters-in-law and two sons-in-law, of which she possibly fairly liked one daughter-in-law and one son-in-law, but she never breathed such an idea. They were all “perfect dears” and she was “so lucky in my big family.” The drawback to this wholehearted acceptance of her big family was that it was impossible for any of her children, such as Jeremy whose marriage was an obvious mess, to get help or advice. His mother knew perfectly well he only married Freda because he had to. She never could have swallowed their story that they had been secretly married on his last leave. There was no reason why he should not have married Freda; anybody he married was O.K. at home. Anyway, just off to sea again as he was then, he was especially the golden-haired son who could do no wrong. He had often mentally worked out a scene in which Freda had visited his mother, enormous as she must have been just before Jane arrived, and said bluntly, “This is going to be your son’s bastard.” He had various reactions for his mother which he fancied, but his favourite and the one he believed would have happened, was that she refused to hear what Freda said, took her in and, in imagination, gave her the necessary marriage lines, and insisted on everyone else accepting that she had them. She would have taken it for granted that the moment he got home he would put the matter right and that she would never have to hear about it. Near thing for poor Jane. It was only a fluke really, that he had written to Freda about marrying somebody else. He and Freda had always had a grand time. Heaven knows she was bed-worthy, but he had never thought of marrying her, and never supposed she had thought of marrying him. He had never supposed she would even be interested to hear he loved someone else. Proper startler her letter had been. “Sorry about it, and all that, but it’s me you’ll have to take to the registrar’s office. I’m having our baby.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 4