Several days later Julia received another letter from Morland in which he said that his father’s health had benefited greatly from the change of air and the bracing climate so they had arranged to extend their holiday at Gleneagles for another week. In some ways this was delightful, but unfortunately it meant that another week must pass before he and Julia could meet. However, it could not be helped and the week would soon pass, especially if they had good weather.
Julia received this letter at breakfast and told May the news.
‘Oh dear!’ said May. ‘That’s a pity, isn’t it? And your other nice young man has gone home to Devonshire!’
‘Yes, it is rather a pity,’ agreed Julia thoughtfully as she gathered up her letter and hastened away to her work.
*
2
This was Saturday, a half holiday at Madame Claire’s. Julia wanted to be there early, because she had mislaid her scissors (the dear little gilt bird which May had given her) and intended to have a good hunt for them before the others arrived.
The scissors were a most important part of Julia’s equipment and she always kept them hanging round her waist on a ribbon. Not only were they useful to Julia herself, they had become extremely useful to Madame Claire, who frequently mislaid her own scissors and might require them at any moment.
Madame would cry, ‘Scissors, scissors!’ in urgent tones, or sometimes, ‘Julie, vite! Le petit oiseau d’or!’
When Julia went in, Madame was sitting reading the morning paper as usual, so Julia did not bother her but got on with her daily task of taking the hats from the shelves in the big glass-fronted cupboards and arranging them on the stands. Having done so she began her search.
‘What do you seek, Julie?’ inquired Madame.
‘My scissors, Madame. I don’t know where I can have put them.’
‘Le petit oiseau d’or?’
Julia nodded sadly. ‘Of course I can easily get another pair of scissors, but May gave me the little gilt bird; it’s very old and rather valuable. Perhaps it was silly of me to use a valuable pair of scissors, but May said the little gilt bird would bring me luck.’
‘Voici le petit oiseau d’or!’ exclaimed Madame, producing Julia’s treasure from her handbag.
‘Oh, Madame, how lovely! Where did you find it?’
‘Where do you think? No, Julie, you will never guess. I found it in the pocket of the pink overall.’
‘But the pink overall belongs to Fifi——’ began Julia in bewilderment.
‘You do not understand?’ asked Madame with a wicked little smile. ‘Me, I understand very easily.’
Julia stood and looked at her blankly. ‘Oh, Madame, you don’t mean she——’
‘Stole it,’ nodded Madame.
‘But it’s impossible! I can’t believe it!’
‘Oh, she is not really a thief, that one. The money is safe with her. It was just to cause annoyance to one who is attentive to my wishes, to one who is always ready with the little gold bird when I call for scissors in a hurry.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Julia sadly. ‘Of course I knew they hated me.’
‘They are jealous, Julie.’
‘I know, but what am I to do?’
‘You will do nothing,’ said Madame, picking up her paper. ‘They will get over it in time.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure of it. Meanwhile you will go on as usual, my child. You will hang the little gold bird round your waist with the little black ribbon and you will say nothing about it—nothing at all. That will puzzle Fifi and perhaps it will frighten her. It will do no harm to give Fifi a fright,’ added Madame, chuckling.
Julia did as she was told, but she was very unhappy about it. She would have liked to believe that it was an accident; and perhaps it was. For instance Fifi might have found the scissors lying about and put them in her pocket intending to give them to their rightful owner at the first opportunity—and forgotten. Yes, it might easily have happened like that. It must have happened like that, thought Julia.
Fifi was unusually late that morning (it was nearly half-past nine when she arrived), so she hurried in, disappeared into the cloakroom and emerged a few moments later fresh and smiling. She had expected a stern reproof from Madame for being so late, but she escaped her deserts, for already there were several clients in the establishment and everyone was busy.
Presently Madame called out, ‘Julie, your scissors! Where is the little gold bird?’
Of course Madame had done it on purpose; Julia knew that (it was the sort of joke Madame enjoyed). Julia did not like it at all but there was nothing to be done except to produce the scissors.
‘So nice,’ declared Madame as, quite unnecessarily, she snipped a tiny piece of ribbon from one of her creations. ‘Such a dear little gold bird! So useful! Always ready when I need him! You must take great care of him, Julie. It would be a thousand pities to lose him.’
Julia glanced at Fifi . . . and wished she had not done so. The girl’s natural colour had faded leaving two patches of pink rouge. With her round face and staring eyes she reminded Julia of an old-fashioned Dutch doll. Worst of all she put her hand into her overall pocket and brought it out empty.
Julia was afraid Fifi was about to faint, but she pulled herself together. Just for a few moments there was silence and then everything went on as before. Business as usual; the selling of little hats and big hats, hats of all colours and shapes, placed upon the clients’ heads and arranged in the most becoming manner; disapproved and discarded, quite often approved and bought.
*
3
Madame Claire’s establishment was so busy to-day that there was no proper eleven o’clock break. Julia and Ivonne happened to be disengaged at the same moment, so they rushed into the little cloakroom and made themselves some coffee from the tin of Nescafé which stood on the shelf. There was no time to chat even if they had wanted to; they drank their coffee hastily and went back to work. Perhaps Ivonne knew, or perhaps not. Julia could not tell.
Soon after that a middle-aged lady in a well-cut tweed suit came in. Obviously she was ‘a country lady’ (as Madame put it), and as a rule it was Julia’s task to deal with ‘country ladies’; but Julia was engaged with another client—a tiresome and extremely disagreeable client—so Madame went forward herself.
‘Can I help you, Madame?’ asked Madame sweetly.
‘I want a hat,’ said the ‘country lady’ bluntly.
Julia was interested in the lady, there was something vaguely familiar about her, but her own disagreeable client was demanding all her attention. It was not until the disagreeable client had tried on at least six hats, decided that none of them would do and swept out of the establishment saying that she could not think why her sister-in-law had recommended it to her, that Julia was free to watch what was going on at the other end of the room.
How clever Madame was! She was ‘just right’ with the country lady, showing her a selection of neat little felts exactly suited to her style, not pressing her nor hurrying her but giving her plenty of time to make the correct decision. Presently the lady decided upon a dark red felt, quite plain except for a very small silver buckle. Madame assured her it was very becoming . . . which indeed it was. The lady said she would wear it, and gave the address of her hotel, where the old hat was to be sent.
Whilst the bill was being made out she glanced at Julia and smiled a little shyly; then she paid the bill, and Madame showed her out.
Odd, thought Julia. I believe I’ve seen her before—somewhere—and it almost looked as if she had the same feeling about me.
‘She is a country lady,’ said Madame as Julia went to help her to put away the little felt hats. ‘Elle est gentille, n’est ce pas? Elle n’a pas de chic, mais elle a l’air d’une grande dame.’
Julia agreed that the newly departed client was all that Madame had said: nice, not chic, but with the air of a great lady. Then, remembering the shy little smile, she thought, no, not ‘great,’ exactly, that’s wro
ng.
Chapter Sixteen
On Saturdays it was Julia’s duty to put all the hats away in the cupboards for the week-end and to cover the furniture with dust-sheets. The other girls were supposed to help her but they never did . . . and Julia did not object. As a matter of fact she preferred to do it herself rather than to have reluctant assistants. The task took some time, so it was getting on for two o’clock before she was ready to go. She locked the door carefully and walked away.
‘Miss Harburn!’ said a voice behind her.
Julia turned and saw the lady in the red felt hat.
‘It is Miss Harburn, isn’t it?’ asked the lady.
‘Yes, Julia Harburn.’
‘I was sure it was. I hope you don’t mind my speaking to you like this?’
‘No, of course not! I had a sort of feeling that I knew you.’
‘No, we’ve never met. My son told me about you so I thought I’d like to speak to you, that’s all. . . . Oh, how silly of me! I should have told you I’m Mrs. Brett.’
‘Stephen’s mother!’
‘Yes,’ said Stephen’s mother, smiling.
By this time they were walking along the street together.
‘So that’s why I had a sort of feeling I’d seen you before!’
‘You mean he’s like me? I always think he’s more like his father.’
‘He’s like you—quite definitely,’ said Julia. She hesitated and then added, ‘I’m so glad you spoke to me, Mrs. Brett. I suppose Stephen told you I was working at Madame Claire’s?’
‘Yes, he told me. I came up to Town for a few days to do some shopping and I wanted a hat—and I thought I should like to see you, so I thought . . .’
‘You thought you would kill two birds with one stone,’ suggested Julia.
Mrs. Brett laughed. ‘Yes, something like that, but I wouldn’t have put it so rudely.’ She added, ‘Where are we going, Miss Harburn?’
This was quite a natural question, because Julia was striding along in a purposeful manner as if she were making for a definite goal. As a matter of fact she was making for Jacques’s, the little restaurant where she usually had lunch. By this time she and Jacques were fast friends; he reserved a special table for her and gave her special terms. She explained this to Mrs. Brett, adding that she had been detained shutting up the shop for Madame Claire so she was extremely hungry.
‘I’m simply ravenous,’ declared Mrs. Brett. ‘May I come there with you?’
‘Yes, of course! That would be lovely. The only thing is I don’t know whether . . .’
‘Wouldn’t there be room for me?’
‘It isn’t that,’ Julia explained. ‘It’s just . . . well it’s just that I don’t know whether you would like it. I mean it isn’t a very good place to go.’
‘But you often go there?’
‘Yes, but I don’t mind the queer people. I go because it’s very convenient. The place is clean and the food is good, so——’
‘Let’s go there,’ said Mrs. Brett. ‘I don’t mind queer people. What I want is good food—lots of good food—and I want it soon.’
(It was no wonder that Mrs. Brett felt like that, for she had been hanging about outside Madame Claire’s establishment for nearly an hour waiting for Miss Harburn to come out. She had walked up and down; she had peered into the neighbouring shop windows until she was tired of seeing the tastefully displayed merchandise. Several times she had decided she must have missed Miss Harburn, but on peeping in through the window she had seen her quarry was still there, putting away hats in cupboards and drawers and covering the stands with dust-sheets. Most people would have given up the exhausting business long before, but there are no limits to the endurance of a mother when the happiness and well-being of an adored son are at stake.)
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind having lunch in rather a queer little place—this is it,’ said Julia, pushing open the door and holding it for her companion.
It was a very small place but most of the regular customers had fed already so it was not overcrowded. Jacques received them himself with a beaming smile; conducted them to a table in the corner; took their order and hurried away. Soon the two hungry ladies were eating the Plat du Jour, which consisted of braised pigeons with mushrooms and sauté potatoes.
‘Exceedingly good,’ declared Mrs. Brett. ‘I’m so glad we came here. What do you say to a bottle of white wine, Miss Harburn?’
Julia laughed and said, ‘Yes.’
‘The sapphire is beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs. Brett.
‘It’s perfectly lovely,’ Julia replied. ‘Stephen put it down on the table and it lay there glowing like a red-hot coal . . . a blue red-hot coal if you know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. A blue red-hot coal describes it exactly . . . and such a gorgeous colour! It makes me think of the sea at Gemscoombe on a summer’s afternoon.’
‘The sea?’ asked Julia doubtfully.
Mrs. Brett nodded. ‘I’ve seen it just that colour—deep cornflower blue. You must come and stay with us when you get your holiday and then you’ll believe me.’
‘I’m afraid I shan’t be getting a holiday for ages. You see, I’ve just started work . . . and of course I’m engaged to be married. You know that, I expect.’
‘Yes, Stephen told me. Are you going to be married soon?’
‘Not for some time,’ replied Julia. ‘We’re waiting until my fiancé is given a junior partnership in his father’s firm. We don’t know when that will be.’
*
2
Mrs. Brett and Julia chatted agreeably of one thing and another as they enjoyed their belated meal. Not unnaturally they chatted about Stephen.
‘I should have liked to have several children,’ said Mrs. Brett. ‘I had three brothers and we had the greatest fun together, so I felt very sorry for Stephen being an only child. Fortunately he had Wodge.’
‘A dog?’ asked Julia with interest.
‘No, a boy.’ She laughed and added, ‘An imaginary boy. They used to play together for hours and hours quite happily. I was so grateful to Wodge. I believe he was almost as real to me as he was to Stephen . . . and he was absolutely real to Stephen.’
‘Tell me more about Wodge. Why was he called Wodge?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Brett, frowning thoughtfully. ‘He was always called Wodge. As a matter of fact—strictly in confidence—I believe Stephen still has Wodge. I believe Wodge was in Africa with Stephen and kept an eye on him and looked after him when he had that horrible adventure at Coribunda.’
‘A sort of guardian angel,’ suggested Julia.
‘Well—sort of,’ agreed Mrs. Brett. She laughed merrily and added, ‘But who ever heard of a guardian angel called Wodge?’
Julia laughed too, and admitted that it certainly was an odd name for a guardian angel.
‘Don’t tell Stephen I told you about him, will you?’ said Mrs. Brett. ‘I expect he would be very cross with me. He would think it silly. Perhaps it is rather silly.’
‘It isn’t silly at all,’ declared Julia emphatically. ‘I was an only child and I used to have an imaginary sister, but she wasn’t nearly as nice as Wodge.’
It was now Julia’s turn to talk, so she told Mrs. Brett about May Martineau and her Victorian parlour and the chandelier with the crystal drops.
‘How interesting! I wish I could see that room!’ exclaimed Mrs. Brett.
They had been talking without a pause and getting on splendidly, but when the coffee was brought Mrs. Brett suddenly became silent; and not only silent but deaf. It was evident that she did not hear a word Julia was saying. She had picked up a fork and was drawing little patterns on the cloth . . . just like Stephen, thought Julia, smiling to herself. Of course she could not prevent Mrs. Brett from doodling, and fortunately it did not matter here. Jacques’s table-cloths were very different from the beautiful white gleaming table-cloth in the restaurant where she and Stephen had celebrated their winnings i
n the Coribunda Stakes.
‘Julia,’ said Mrs. Brett at last. ‘I hope you don’t mind my calling you Julia? You see, Stephen has talked to me about you such a lot.’
‘Of course you must call me Julia.’
‘You see,’ said Mrs. Brett, raising her eyes and looking at Julia for a moment. ‘You see, Julia, the fact is I came to London on purpose to talk to you; the other things were just excuses. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to say what I wanted to say until I had seen you. When I saw you I thought I could.’
Julia was silent. She wondered what was coming.
‘It’s just this,’ said Mrs. Brett, drawing industriously. ‘Stephen said you weren’t very happy at home. He said rather a strange thing about your stepmother. He said she was “a fast worker,” and when I asked him what it meant he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘I’m afraid it means she’s rather—rather—I mean she makes friends—too quickly——’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Mrs. Brett, nodding. ‘I was afraid it meant something like that. I’ve been thinking about it a great deal and worrying about you.’
‘About me?’ asked Julia in surprise.
‘Was it very interfering of me? You see I had heard so much about you that I felt I knew you quite well . . . and you have no mother. I just thought, perhaps that girl needs a friend, so I thought the best thing to do was to come and see you and make sure. Because if you needed a friend, an older woman whom you could rely on if you weren’t very happy or anything, I might be some use.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Brett——’
‘You see what I mean, don’t you?’ said Mrs. Brett earnestly. ‘You see what I meant when I said that I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to say what I wanted to say until I had seen you? If I had found that you were an independent sort of girl, quite happy and contented, I wouldn’t have said a word; but it seemed to me that you looked—you looked rather forlorn. . . . No, no!’ exclaimed Mrs. Brett impatiently. ‘Forlorn isn’t quite the right word. Oh dear, I wish I were better at explaining things! When I saw you in that hat-shop I thought you looked as if you didn’t quite belong to your surroundings; I thought you looked as if something had happened that had distressed you.’
The Blue Sapphire Page 11