Too right, she might, thought Penny. She refilled the two glasses.
“Drink up, there’s still a drop left. What did you do with her?”
“I found a place. Jenny wasn’t certified or anything like that, but we all had a good talk with her and made her see it was for the best, and she went in at her own request. Oh, my goodness, that’s never the time, and I’ve got to get to Victoria for my train.”
Penny went with Mumsie to the front door. She threw a quick look up the square. Charlotte was not in sight. She directed Mumsie in the opposite direction. “Turn right at the end and then straight on down to Piccadilly. If you don’t see a taxi you can get a bus to the station.” She stood a moment on the doorstep. It was cold but she was not conscious of it. She was not conscious of the roar of the traffic or of a dog barking across the square; she was only conscious of Mumsie’s feet click-clacking out of earshot.
* * * * *
The milk cart came into the square. There was a bitter wind. The milkman wore mittens but, in spite of them, his fingers were stiff and blue. His spirits were so low they shamed him. He whistled defiantly through his teeth. Nobody should look at him and say, “There’s a man life’s getting down.” As the cart drew up outside the first call Charlotte passed by. She was carrying her shopping bag. Her mind was not on what she was doing. It was running round in a circle. “How were they to keep the pipes from freezing?” “How were they to keep even lukewarm?” And keeping pace with these thoughts. “It’s the end of January. In March Peter will be out.” In March! Her hands were cold; one handle of her shopping bag slipped free and half the contents were strewn on the pavement.
The milkman put down the bottles he was carrying and ran to help. He rescued some frost-bitten brussel sprouts from under his pony’s nose.
“Give over, Nellie.” He picked up a packet of sugar. “Not much upset, bad if that had gone. Lucky there was no eggs.”
Charlotte pushed the things back into her bag.
“Thank you so much. Very careless of me. To tell you the truth my mind was miles away. You must be our milkman. I’m Lady Nettel.” The milkman wondered if Lady Nettel knew of his private arrangement with her cook. He wondered if she knew they’d fixed it so that there was always an extra pint or two. He had an idea she did not. That old sauce-box of a cook sort of hinted it was on the Q.T. Charlotte patted Nellie. “Cold business for you both this weather.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you got good heating at home? Our house is terrible; you can’t keep it warm.”
The milkman picked up his bottles.
“Yes. If you call two rooms, sharing a kitchen and that a home.”
Charlotte had been about to move, but she could not hear bitterness and not at least show sympathy.”
“Two rooms. How many of you?”
Because the weather was wretched and everybody depressed and Charlotte’s misfortune made her approachable, for her fingers were muddy and the contents of her bag much the contents of Joany’s, the milkman told her his woes. Joany and the kid in the couple of rooms. The track his feet had worn to the Town Hall. How the Town Hall had said they were lucky to have two rooms, many people had only one. About Joany’s flash brother, who had got a house by squatting and kept it. Of how Joany had been ever so good waiting until he came out of the Air Force, working hard, not going with other men like many he could put a name to. Nothing had got her down until this house her flash brother got by squatting. As he spoke bitterness jostled against acquiescence, and acquiescence against fortitude.
“Of course I know, and so does Joany, we’re better off than some; they’re right when they say many’s only got one room. We haven’t two, not really, the second room’s no bigger than a cupboard. They say the birth rate’s falling and we oughter have more kids. Smashin’ lotter kids we’d have brought up in two rooms. Still, lucky to be alive, I suppose.”
Charlotte thought of their maisonette. Her bedroom, John’s dressing-room, the maids’ room, the study, the dining-room and the drawing-room. She had been grumbling, not outwardly, but inside. She thought the house inconvenient and herself making do under hard conditions. How well behaved people were. Why didn’t this milkman, who had been in the Air Force, turn on her and say, “And how many rooms have you got? You who did not spend years in the Air Force. You who don’t want space in which to have babies.”
“Was your wife in London all the war?”
“That’s right. On munitions. Living with her mother, until we got married. Shocking time they had. Blasted three times.”
Charlotte could not see Joany on munitions. She had not been in London during the war, and could not know what the girl’s struggle had been, but she could imagine Joany’s frustration, sharing a kitchen, no bathroom, only one room you could call a room. She felt humble. Who was she to grumble?”
The milkman had no idea he had impressed Charlotte. He would have been amazed if he could have known that as Charlotte walked home she was not only thinking of his words but aware that she would go on thinking of them for many days. The milkman felt better; he no longer whistled. He did not feel cheerful enough to whistle for pleasure, but the talk had done him good; he no longer had to whistle for show.
As the cart reached the Nettels’ house the front door opened. The milkman was not particularly interested, but this lady was an eyeful. A hat all over feathers, lovely red hair and her fur coat was a smashing job. He paused at the top of the area steps to watch her. Those warm boots were a bit of all right; he wished he could get a pair like that for Joany.
A man had been standing by his car. Now he got in and started the engine. At a snail’s pace the car moved up the square.
The milkman looked after the car and whistled. “Coo-er! A flat-foot! Now, what’s she been up to?”
* * * * *
The house was arctic, the pipes frozen; it was a dark morning; it was impossible to see during the hours in which electricity was prohibited except by candlelight, but none of those things filled the minds of the household. Gossip, like a flame, ran up and down the stairs, kept blazing by Gladys acting as the wind.
At breakfast Gladys had just helped herself and Alfred to fish. She did not care for fish and was chewing it with a gloomy eye on the dirty snow in the area when Alfred said, casually:
“Mr. Duke says the snow’s chronic up the line.”
Gladys forgot the snow, forgot that she did not like fish.
“Mr. Duke! Where did you see him?”
“Coming in at the front door when I was putting salt on our steps.”
Gladys had long known that Alfred, in all other ways an admirable husband, was depressingly dense when it came to putting two and two together, and worse, if he did put two and two together, he kept it to himself. Look at this morning; but for Mr. Duke’s chance remark about the weather she would never have heard that he was back.
“He wasn’t expected until to-night.”
Alfred filled his mouth with bread and margarine.
“Maybe it was colder where he was, though it’s hard to see how it could be. I get into shocking cold houses, but these flats got the mortuary beat. I hope Fred comes, but you never know with a plumber; you’ll be sure not to slip out, don’t want to miss him.”
Important as the plumber had been to Gladys a few minutes ago he was now of less interest then a speck of dust. Drama, first-class drama, was taking place under the roof. Gladys leant forward, her voice quivering with excitement.
“He wasn’t expected back until to-night. I’ll give you two guesses what he finds when he gets up. He’s come on purpose, that’s what he has.”
Alfred wished he had never mentioned Mr. Duke.
“If he has, it’s no concern of ours.”
“No concern! I like that. Didn’t I tell you what the milkman told me? She’s being followed. That’s what he said.”
>
“He didn’t say for certain who she was.”
Gladys’s voice rang with scorn.
“Who else has red hair in this house and a hat with green ostrich feathers? The moment he described her, ‘That’s Mrs. D.,’ I said, ‘from five.’”
Gladys went back to her fish. She ate more quickly and thought more quickly, her whole being glowing. It was not her custom to do the back stairs first, but it would be her custom this morning. Straight up to the fifth floor and, when there, give each step a careful polish. Funny if she didn’t hear anything.
Paula was hearing far too much. She knew far too much. She disliked knowing too much. When she was alone, busy over needlework, cooking or housework, she would turn over those things she knew and click her tongue against her teeth. It was ungeheuerlich how much people suffered. That poor Mr. Duke! He had indeed eyes that might have a scarf tied over them for all that he saw.
Paula had been cooking breakfast when Irma, who was holding on to the door bending her knees as taught at her dancing school, called out, “Good-morning, Mr. Duke. Jane’s having breakfast with Mrs. Dill.” Paula nearly dropped one of the eggs she was breaking into the pan to fry for Heinrich’s breakfast. Her fright at so nearly spoiling Heinrich’s breakfast made her attend to what she was doing. Two eggs and two slices of ham Heinrich liked, and there was one egg and a slice of ham for each of the children. For Paula there was toast. By eating frugally herself she hoped to bring the total food consumed in the home nearer the total of food consumed in the homes of the British. Though her attention was now on the eggs and ham her ears were on the flat above. Mr. Duke had been away three nights and on each night Paula had heard steps made by two and loud laughter. Heinrich, too, had heard steps and loud laughter. He had supposed such sounds came from Mr. Duke. Paula had been to great trouble to make Heinrich believe them to come from Mr. Duke, not easy with Hans and Irma present who knew very well Mr. Duke was away. Heinrich was upset. An upset Heinrich was a Heinrich wishful to stand upon his rights. Noise overhead was wrong in a tenant and, if continuing, would be complained of, but noise from one who was not a tenant . . . Only too well did Paula know what Heinrich would do. He would see Sir John and complain. Especially now would Heinrich complain for Heinrich was constantly inflamed. Frying his eggs, Paula thought sadly of how inflamed and for how long a while inflamed was Heinrich. It had been a continuing and growing inflammation since Christmas. At first Paula had thought it was what Mr. Moses had not said about the piano playing of Hans. That it could have been, for almost daily Heinrich scowled at the piano and spoke of money wasted. As the days went on she saw it was not an inflammation caused from inside the family, it went deeper. Every grievance he had came to the surface. Daily Heinrich spoke of the Home Office, who naturalised Poles instead of upright citizens like himself, and then added, almost in the same breath, he did not care if he were never naturalised, for where he wished to be was in the national home. If the children were not about such angry talk flowed by, gently encouraged by sighs and sympathetic “Achs!” from Paula. If Irma was about what had been a mere upset became a conflagration. The schlechte Mädel! Her eyes would twinkle and she would gaze at her father as if he were a clown at the circus. No respect she had and no fear. She would start what she had to say with, “For me, who am British . . .” Hans too, could be foolish. It was his seriousness and his habit of deep thought that made him say the things he did. “How can that be home which was left a thousand years ago?” No telling, no instruction influenced Hans. He had to ponder for himself. He had to understand. Paula, turning over the slices of ham, considered breakfast. It was to her a minor engagement in a battle; once fought and won the next engagement was easier. It was impossible to say to Irma she should not mention Mr. Duke’s return. She would, if ordered, not mention it, but she would instead hint until Heinrich must be curious. No, there was but one way—the hardest way. It was deliberately to turn the conversation to Mr. Shinwell. Paula did not understand politics. Much she heard of them; every evening as she sewed political talk was poured at her in a turbulent stream. It was through this talk that she had at last discovered what it was that had inflamed Heinrich. Heinrich, so clever, so resourceful at getting what he wished, had been beaten by this Mr. Shinwell. Even for Heinrich there was no warmth at his office. Now, worst of all, there was no light. In the house Sir John had ordered all electricity to be switched off at the main switches, which were in the basement, between the hours of nine and twelve and two and four. At Heinrich’s office electricity was switched off by the electricity company. It was inconvenient for all. To Heinrich it was as if he had a sore place continually rubbed. It was to him a personal affront. Paula feared, as far as the house was concerned, that might be true. No person in the house would turn on lights, fires or use an iron or electric carpet sweeper in hours when such things were prohibited, save Heinrich. Heinrich would have used everything to show he could not be dictated to. Sir John, much as he might dislike the government, and Paula knew from Mabel how deep was his dislike, would have no disobeying of the law. Paula, placing the sizzling ham on a plate and laying the fried eggs beside each slice, saw her strategy clearly. Mr. Shinwell was already a cause of inflammation. The Dukes would be new ones. It must be Mr. Shinwell. Like many another who has planned a campaign Paula was thwarted. She had no sooner placed the ham and eggs on the breakfast table than the trouble began. There were thumps on a door. Mr. Duke’s voice was raised. The words were indistinguishable but accompanied by loud bangs; that something was wrong could not be ignored. Heinrich had unfolded his napkin. He had propped The Daily Telegraph against a vase placed there for that purpose. He helped himself to ham and eggs.
“What is that?”
Paula said breathlessly:
“I think maybe a door is stuck. How is coal this morning? What is it that Mr. Shin well——?”
Irma bounced excitedly on her chair.
“Mr. Duke has come home.”
Hans leant across the table to Irma.
“Jane is down with Mrs. Dill?”
Irma despised foolish questions.
“But, of course. Maybe half an hour. Ach, but there will be ein kolossaler streit!”
Heinrich removed The Daily Telegraph from where it leant against the vase. He laid it flat and folded it. Paula’s heart missed a beat; there was something in that folding which looked as if no more reading was to take place.
“Why should there be a quarrel?”
Irma had no idea of the significance of her words.
“Because another gentleman sleeps in his bed.”
Gladys, carrying a carpet brush and polisher, was outside the Dukes’ flat when the door was flung open and, a light of triumph in his eyes, Jeremy came out. He stopped at sight of Gladys, overwhelmed by an idea.
“If you will stay here and see who comes out, and swear later to seeing him, I’ll give you five pounds.”
Gladys felt as if she had won a ticket in a sweepstake, or backed every winner at the dogs. Asked to stay! Asked to identify “the gentleman!” Unless she was very much mistaken, chief witness later in a divorce case. It just showed! If you waited long enough good luck came to everybody. She kept her head. She had not been to the pictures for nothing, she knew what an important witness ought to look like.
“Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll be here.”
Mabel and Hannah saw Jeremy return. They were having a cup of tea when he came past the open kitchen door. Hannah nearly dropped her cup.
“Mr. Duke!”
Mabel had been under the weather. She hated the cold and not being able to turn on switches when she wanted to. She was not well covered like Hannah; in spite of a thick jersey worn over her dress the cold ate into her bones. It was all right in the kitchen, there she had a gas stove and kept her oven door open, but the passages and bedrooms depended on electricity. She crept about, her fingers numb, her teeth chattering; she had lost her us
ual sharp interest in what was going on.
“What about him?”
Waves of colour flooded Hannah’s face. This was the sort of thing she had known would happen one day. A scandal in the house. Nothing could stop it. Mabel did not know what she knew.
“He mustn’t go up. How can we stop him?”
Mabel, for the first time for days, felt her blood circulating. Hannah was not looking like that for nothing. She jumped to the point.
“He’s up there?” Hannah nodded. Mabel had to celebrate in some way. She felt as if there were a thaw. She was warming through. She heaped up a spoon with sugar and put it in her already sweetened tea. She thought back over her own life. She had not had a husband to pop up when he was not wanted, but others could be awkward beside husbands. She giggled. “I bet somebody is rushing round trying to look as if he never had his trousers off.”
Gladys was still pretending to brush the top stair when Jeremy opened the flat door. It had been a disappointing quarter of an hour. Strain her ears as she would Gladys had heard nothing. There were voices, Mr. Duke’s, “the gentleman’s” and Freda’s, but muffled by closed doors. Once Freda had laughed. “You’ll be laughing the other side of your mouth soon, my girl,” thought Gladys. She had no sympathy for Freda; she despised women who did not know when they were well off. Freda, with that husband and that dear little girl, was well off.
Jeremy was very businesslike. “The gentleman,” Gladys noticed, looked angry and nervous. Jeremy said:
“You see this gentleman, Mrs. Parks? Would you know him again?”
Gladys got up. He was a very ordinary looking fellow, she thought. She wondered what on earth Mrs. Duke could see in him after Mr. Duke, who was handsome as a film star. He had greying hair and a rather red face, though that might be because he was upset. There was nothing much to catch hold of, but Gladys knew she would remember him.
“I’ll know him all right.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 20