There had been a short silence after Julia’s somewhat ungracious refusal of Stephen’s invitation. Retta saved the situation by asking Mr. Brett to tell her ‘all about Africa.’
‘That’s rather a tall order, Mrs. Harburn,’ said Stephen, smiling cheerfully.
‘Tell us about the place where you live. You said it was a coal mine.’
‘No, a diamond mine.’
‘Diamonds!’ exclaimed Retta. ‘How marvellous! I never knew you found diamonds down a mine. Do you find them yourself, Mr. Brett?’
‘My work is mostly administrative.’
‘What is the mine like? Does it glitter like Aladdin’s Cave?’
‘It’s quite blinding,’ declared Stephen with well-feigned gravity. ‘Everyone who goes down the mine has to wear dark glasses.’
‘I believe you’re teasing me!’ Retta exclaimed. ‘Yes, I’m sure you are. Well, never mind, I can take a joke as well as most people . . . and just to show that I forgive you for being so naughty I shall call you Stephen.’
‘That will be delightful.’
‘And you must call me Retta, of course . . . unless you think I’m too old and ugly. Am I too old and ugly, Stephen?’
Stephen laughed. ‘What am I to say to that except, “Please, Retta, may I have another cup of tea?”’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Retta in a disappointed voice . . . and then she laughed and added: ‘Oh, I see what you mean. That’s rather clever of you, Stephen.’
‘I’m a very clever man,’ Stephen told her.
Julia was listening to all this in dismay. Of course it was Retta’s usual manner, it was the nonsensical way she carried on with her own particular friends, but obviously Stephen Brett was not enjoying it. Why couldn’t Retta see that Stephen Brett was different?
The conversation continued and Julia became more and more ashamed and uncomfortable; she tried to think of something to say, but her embarrassment made her dumb.
Presently Retta got up and said she must go, she had promised to meet some friends and take them to the new film at the Plaza.
‘But you’ll come and see us again soon, won’t you?’ she added.
Stephen replied that he would like nothing better. He rose politely and opened the door for Retta to go out.
Retta paused at the door and looked up at him, ‘Don’t go away and forget all about me, Stephen.’
‘Oh no, I shan’t forget you,’ replied Stephen seriously.
‘I’m not too busy to go out in the evening, Stephen, so if you’re feeling lonely . . .’
‘Thank you, Retta,’ said Stephen.
*
2
When Retta had gone there was a short silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Julia at last. She could find nothing else to say.
‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’
There was another short silence.
‘I’m afraid you’re annoyed with me,’ said Stephen. ‘I mean you’re annoyed with me for ringing up and wangling an invitation to tea.’
‘You put me in a false position.’
‘I’m terribly sorry about it, but what else could I do?’
‘Why did you say you had met me at the Claytons’ cocktail party?’
‘I didn’t—honestly. Mrs. Harburn said she supposed I had met you there and I didn’t contradict her. It’s very rude to contradict a lady,’ he added with a smile.
Julia made no comment.
‘There was no other way,’ he pointed out. ‘There was no other way of seeing you again—or at least none that I could think of. If I had known anyone in London I might have managed to get a proper introduction to you, but I don’t know anyone at all. What could I do, Julia?’
He was so much in earnest that Julia’s heart was melted. ‘What did you do?’ she asked.
‘What did I do? Oh, I see what you mean! I just got hold of the telephone directory at my club.’
‘You mean you rang up all the Harburns in London?’
Stephen smiled. ‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. There aren’t very many and your father’s name is Andrew.’
‘What if his name had been Zebediah Smith?’
‘It would have taken longer,’ admitted Stephen.
Julia giggled; it was a charming little giggle, and it displayed her dimples, which were quite delightful.
‘Hurrah, you aren’t really cross with me!’ exclaimed Stephen joyfully.
‘Not as cross as I ought to be.’
‘You ought not to be cross. I’ve explained, haven’t I? You understand everything now . . . so perhaps you will come with me and see a play. Do say yes, Julia. Please say yes.’
‘No,’ said Julia firmly. ‘I can’t possibly; I’m engaged to be married. I told you that yesterday.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t mind, would he?’
‘Of course he would mind.’
‘Oh, Julia! Do you really mean that you can’t come out with me? I just want to be friends with you, that’s all.’
He looked so crestfallen that she almost relented. She certainly could not go out with him in the evening, because her evenings belonged to Morland, but perhaps she could meet Stephen somewhere and have lunch with him. . . . But no, that would be frightfully wrong, it would be deceitful, thought Julia, quite horrified for allowing such an idea to enter her mind.
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ said Julia firmly. ‘Besides, you’re going to Devonshire, aren’t you?’
‘I’m going on Tuesday. What about having lunch with me on Monday? You could manage that, couldn’t you? I just want to be friends,’ he repeated earnestly.
Julia shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t do; I’m engaged to Morland. He was very angry with me for talking to you.’
‘Good heavens, he sounds like an Indian Rajah!’
‘An Indian Rajah?’
‘Yes, they keep their womenfolk in purdah and never allow them to talk to another man.’
Julia could not help laughing.
‘Besides, it was his own fault,’ continued Stephen. ‘He shouldn’t have been late. If I hadn’t sat down on the seat and spoken to you someone else would have done so—probably one of those ghastly types with the patent-leather shoes. He should be very grateful to me.’
It was no good talking about it, so Julia changed the conversation; she began to tell him about her plans to leave home and find a job. They discussed the matter for some time. Stephen had all sorts of wild suggestions as to what she could do, but eventually decided that she should pose for advertisements of perfume or cosmetics; he had seen pictures in illustrated papers—dozens of them—and he was sure the advertisers would be only too pleased to engage Julia as a model. Julia laughed and said she thought of going out as a cook.
‘But you don’t mean it, do you?’ asked Stephen. ‘It’s just a joke. You don’t really want a job.’
‘Of course I mean it.’
‘I thought you were going to marry the Rajah.’
‘Oh, Stephen! I’m afraid you’ll have to go!’ exclaimed Julia, glancing at the clock in sudden alarm. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but you must. I had no idea it was so late.’
‘It’s only twenty-past six.’
‘Yes, but Morland is coming. He often comes in on a Friday evening.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Stephen cheerfully. ‘As a matter of fact I’d rather like to meet the Rajah.’
Julia rose to her feet. ‘Please go, Stephen.’
‘But why? Why do you banish me whenever he appears?’
‘I’ve told you. He was angry with me for talking to you; he doesn’t like you.’
‘Doesn’t like me? But he only saw me for a split second!’
‘Do please go quickly,’ said Julia earnestly.
Stephen rose with reluctance. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to go down the back stairs in case I meet the Rajah in the hall?’ he suggested with elaborate sarcasm.
‘Well perhaps . . . but no, it wouldn’t do. Ellen might think it queer.’
Stephen looked at her and saw to his surprise that she was perfectly serious. ‘Your life must be very difficult, Julia!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, it is. And you aren’t making it any easier.’
There was no more to be said. He went as quickly as he could, running down the stairs and out of the front door into the street. He saw the Rajah approaching in the distance, so deliberately turned and walked in the opposite direction.
‘I wonder,’ said Stephen as he walked along. ‘I wonder . . .’
A girl who happened to be passing at the time looked at him with interest and wondered what the tall, good-looking young man was wondering about.
Chapter Four
The room was fairly large, but it was full of furniture, so there was not much space in it. The fitted carpet was decorated with an all-over pattern of pink roses and blue bows; there were lace curtains at the three windows, looped back with sashes of pink plush; the chairs and the sofa were upholstered in pink plush and had curly yellow wooden legs. Along the mantelshelf was a runner of pink plush with dangling yellow balls; there were photographs everywhere in plush and silver-filigree frames. In one corner of the room stood a round pedestal table with a pink plush cloth, and on the table was a dish of wax fruit with a glass cover. The walls were hung with pictures of dogs and children and a number of painted plates.
Julia had never seen a room like this before, but she was aware that there was nothing funny about it; the room was merely out of date; it had been left behind in the march of time. She wondered whether it had always been like this, unchanged since the young womanhood of Queen Victoria, or whether it had been artificially produced. . . . But how difficult it would be to produce it! Where in all the world could you buy things like these? Chairs with curly yellow legs and a sofa with hard plush cushions decorated with yellow woollen tassels!
A young girl in a clean white apron had opened the door to Julia and conducted her upstairs. ‘You better wait ’ere,’ she had said. ‘Miss Martineau’ll be down in a minit.’ But a good many ‘minits’ had passed and the owner of the room had not yet appeared. Julia had had time to look round and wonder about it and take it all in; she had had time to peep out of one of the windows between the lace curtains to assure herself that she really was here and now, actually living in the middle of the twentieth century—for the room had such a strong atmosphere of the past that it was the sound of traffic which seemed unreal: the screech of brakes, the grinding of engines, and the sudden hoots of motor horns.
What would Miss Martineau be like, that was the question. It was even more important to have a pleasant landlady than a pleasant room. This was Julia’s third day of hunting here, there and everywhere for a reasonably comfortable room and a reasonably pleasant landlady, and she was so discouraged by her fruitless search that she almost regretted her decision to leave home. But perhaps this would do. Perhaps Miss Martineau would be nice and the bedroom which she had advertised as being vacant would be nice too. Julia hoped so. She hoped so all the more because this house was in a street quite near Kensington High Street; it was a district which was conveniently central and it was not far from the gardens.
By this time Julia was tired of waiting for Miss Martineau to appear, so she sat down cautiously in one of the chairs. She had not done so before because they looked like museum pieces, not intended to be sat on, but to her surprise the chair was comfortable; the padded back, though hard, fitted her shoulders and the yellow wooden arms were in exactly the right place for her elbows to rest upon. She had sat in many a modern chair much less comfortable than this. (They liked comfort of course, thought Julia.)
Now that she was becoming used to the unfamiliar aspect of the room she realised that the whole room was comfortable . . . and cosy. Julia’s eyes strayed up to the ceiling, in the centre of which there hung a brass chandelier decorated with clusters of crystal drops. It was a pretty thing; the drops flashed and glittered like diamonds. Yes, it was a very pretty thing and absolutely right for the room; and then she noticed that inside the chandelier there was an electric bulb. The discovery gave her quite a shock. Dreadful, thought Julia. Absolutely wrong . . . there ought to be candles!
Julia was still gazing in horror at the anachronism when the door opened and a woman came in. She was short and plump with a pink-and-white complexion and a head of unnaturally golden curls. Her light-blue eyes were bright and sparkling, best of all they were friendly.
‘You wanted to see me,’ she said. ‘It’s about the room, of course. Well, it’s a nice room and it’s on the top floor at the back, so it’s quiet—if you don’t mind the stairs. The ceiling slopes a bit but you can’t have everything in this world, can you?’
Julia agreed that you could not.
‘Miss May Martineau is what I call myself. It isn’t my real name, of course, any more than yours is Julia Harburn.’
‘But it is!’ exclaimed Julia in astonishment.
‘Well, you’re lucky, I must say,’ declared Miss Martineau. ‘If your name was Eliza Potts you couldn’t use it could you? Are you resting?’
‘Did you say “resting”?’ asked Julia in bewildered tones.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss Martineau, smiling. ‘My mistake. I usually get stage people. We call it resting when we’re out of a job.’
‘I’m looking for a job of some sort.’
‘It was silly of me,’ declared Miss Martineau, gazing at her. ‘If I’d looked at you properly I’d have seen that you’ve never been on the boards in your life.’
‘Are you on the stage?’
‘I used to be. Started as a fairy in a Christmas pantomime and went on from there. I once played Michael in Peter Pan . . . flying!’ said Miss Martineau, standing on tiptoe and waving her arms. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you? There’s too much solid flesh about me nowadays, it would take a crane to get me into the air!’ She laughed merrily.
Julia laughed too. She could not help it.
‘You’ve got a nice figure, dear,’ said Miss Martineau. ‘And you know how to wear your clothes. I always say it’s half the battle if a girl knows how to wear her clothes.’
She smoothed her rounded hips and continued, ‘Well, dear, when I started to put on weight I got the job of wardrobe-mistress with a touring company—looking after the costumes, you know. I’m clever with my needle, Mother taught me that. It was a hard job, packing and unpacking, darning tights and ironing dresses, but all the same I was happy. Sometimes I long for those days back again—it’s a kind of homesickness, you know—but there isn’t any future in it. You go on till you drop and you can’t save a penny, so when you drop you might as well be dead. . . . But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, dear; you didn’t come to listen to my life story. You better see the room, and if you like it we can talk about terms.’
They went upstairs together. Miss Martineau continued to talk, though breathlessly, for the stairs were very steep. Her monologue was broken with little puffs.
‘It’s a good—puff, puff—bed,’ said Miss Martineau. ‘I like to have—puff, puff—good beds. I always say you spend—puff, puff—a lot of time in bed, so you may as well—puff, puff—be comfortable.’
‘What about meals?’ asked Julia.
‘You can have—puff, puff—breakfast if you like—and supper, but I don’t—puff, puff—do lunches. I wouldn’t do lunches—puff, puff—for the Queen!’
They had reached the top landing by this time. It was a wide landing with a fitted cupboard which stretched along the length of one wall. There were two doors. Overhead was a skylight through which streamed the rays of the noon-day sun.
Miss Martineau hesitated with her hand on the knob of the door. ‘What about boy-friends, dear? I see you’re wearing a ring.’
‘Yes, I’m engaged.’
‘Well, I have to be a bit particular—you couldn’t have him to tea in your room or anything—but I’m sure he’s a very nice respectable young man so if you wanted to have him along in the eveni
ng now and then I’d let you sit in the parlour.’
‘That would be very nice,’ said Julia, trying to stifle an involuntary giggle at the mere idea of entertaining Morland in her bedroom.
Miss Martineau threw open the door. ‘There’s the room,’ she said. ‘I dare say it isn’t what you’re accustomed to, but you might do worse.’
Julia went in. She saw at once that she might do a lot worse. The room was certainly not what she was accustomed to, but it was a good size and well-shaped, and although the ceiling sloped down at one end it did not offend her sense of proportion. The window was square and looked out onto huddled roofs; the furniture was reasonably good; best of all, everything was clean.
*
2
Miss Martineau’s terms were higher than Julia had expected, or at least they were higher than she had intended to pay, but she had looked at so many horrible rooms and encountered so many disagreeable landladies that she decided to clinch the bargain. The place was clean, the bed was comfortable, and Miss Martineau was a pet. Julia had never met anyone like Miss Martineau before. Hitherto all the people with whom she had come in contact were silent people: her father was wrapped up in his brown blanket; Retta had little to say—or at least said very little to Julia; even Morland was not what one could call a conversationalist. The house at Manor Gardens was the sort of house where people spoke in low voices, footsteps were muffled by thick carpets, and the tick of clocks sounded loudly in the stillness.
Miss Martineau was a revelation—there was no other word for it. Julia had known her for about an hour, but already she felt she knew her intimately, already they were friends. So the terms were settled amicably and it was arranged that Julia should move into the room on Monday, which was the day Mr. and Mrs. Harburn were flying to Rome. Miss Martineau showed Julia where she could hang her frocks, in the capacious cupboard on the landing, and explained that although it really belonged to Peter there would be plenty of room for Julia’s things and lots of spare hangers.
The Blue Sapphire Page 3