As Mrs Hale entered, Clem hid the sketchbook under some embroidery patterns on her knee, pretended to be scrutinising one. Mrs Hale looked at it curiously and then meaningfully towards Clem’s abdomen; it was a layette for a newborn. Of course they would all be wondering when the next would make its appearance. She flicked to a tray set, examining the ridiculously intricate border.
‘Another letter for you,’ Mrs Hale said. ‘Got mixed up with the doctor’s post. Are you quite all right, madam? Ready for your coffee, I dare say?’
Clem took the envelope. Thin and cheap; the writing bold, sloping and unfamiliar.
‘And perhaps a biscuit?’
Clem nodded and smiled in a hard and possibly quite demented way until Mrs Hale had taken her leave.
The Wild Man,
Gipswick Road
Dear Mrs Everett,
It was nice of you to visit me on Sunday afternoon after the accident and very nice to make your acquaintance.
You might remember that you offered to cover the expense of repairing my motorcycle. In case you are still of this mind, I enclose the bill for repairs. You can send it to me c/o above address.
It occurred to me only after you’d gone that I failed to enquire about your health. I hope you weren’t too upset by the experience. I apologise for my bad manners. I was not at my best.
Thank you again for visiting me, and your kind offer to pay for repairs.
Yours truly,
Mr V. S. Fortune (Esquire)
She read the letter thrice. Esquire indeed! The Wild Man, Gipswick Road. The landlord perhaps? But ‘care of’? Perhaps he was merely passing through? The bill came to £8 10s 6d. Of course she’d pay. Though it would mean asking Dennis, who was sure to be disagreeable, he could hardly deny her. During her indisposition, he’d paid the housekeeping directly to Mrs Hale and that arrangement had not yet been changed. If she needed a dress or hat, naturally she had only to ask. But it would be useful to have a fund of her own to use in whichever way she chose. Her father, who, with his new American wife, had moved to California before the war, might help if she reminded him of her existence . . . There was a trust fund, her mother’s money, due to her at twenty-five but that was more than two years away.
Mrs Hale returned with the coffee and a plate of fresh ginger snaps. Clem sugared her tea and, since no one was looking, dipped the biscuit, sucking the sweet, melting crumbs into her mouth. She re-read the letter before folding and hiding it in the base of her sewing box.
*
Chewing the woody end of a pencil, she studied the lemons in their green lustre bowl. How to capture the skin, with its slight sheen and porousness? When to ask Dennis? Over dinner perhaps? The end of the lemons, little snouts, the gleam of the bowl, shadows and reflections and borrowed light. Ask him breezily: oh, darling, by the way . . . Perhaps she should slice one and attempt those wet, packed-in filaments of juice?
Dinah was in the hall, chattering to Edgar – there was his giggle. Perhaps she was tickling him. One step, two steps, tickly under there. Why not get up and wave them off on their walk? Why not accompany them? She listened to Dinah’s heels, the creak of the pram, the sounds of the door till it was too late. But later she’d play with Edgar – Round and round the garden, yes. And she’d sketch him as he played and as he slept.
The telephone rang and was answered. From the surgery below voices carried – Dennis had a particularly loud jocular tone with which he greeted his patients, settling into the low grumble of the consultation. And there came the ding of the bell summoning the next patient, sometimes a cough or a baby’s cry, and the intermittent banging of the door. Stop listening and concentrate on the lemons. The carriage clock began its tinkle, followed by the slow doi-ing of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Mrs Hale came in. ‘There’s a person on the telephone for you, madam.’
‘For me?’ Clem stood. She rarely used the telephone; it seemed the official property of ‘the Doctor’ and Mrs Hale, as his agent and gatekeeper.
She grasped the receiver from its tall stand.
‘Clementine?’ Through a crackle came a gruff female voice.
‘Gwen!’ In the hallstand mirror, Clem witnessed her own surprise. ‘It’s been so long.’
‘Well, whose fault is that?’
Clem closed her eyes against herself. It was true. There had been more than one letter in Gwen’s huge bold hand since the war but they’d gone unanswered. Perhaps she’d even flung them on the fire – but that was back in the vague time when she was ill and not responsible. The letters had seemed too dangerous a connection with all she’d been through in France. And hadn’t she also feared Gwen’s scorn that, after everything, she’d fled straight back to Dennis?
‘Thought we might call on you tomorrow,’ Gwen was saying. ‘Will you be at home?’
Clem opened her eyes, smiled at the mirror. ‘Of course! You must come to tea.’
‘Rightio.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Avis, friend, and Captain, dog, but he needn’t come in.’
‘Of course he can come in! We usually have tea at four, but come whenever you like.’
‘Toodle-oo then,’ Gwen said, and her voice cut off.
‘Hello, caller?’ said the operator after a stretch of crackle.
‘Thank you. That will be all.’ Clem replaced the receiver, intrigued by the thought of seeing Gwen again, though a shadow dragged itself after the pleasure because of the last time she’d seen Gwen and because she couldn’t recall what had been said, how they’d left each other. And if Gwen were to mention Powell in front of Dennis? Surely she’d have the tact, the decency, not to do so? One never did quite know what Gwen might do or say.
She returned to her drawing to find her composition disturbed, one of the lemons gone. She slapped shut her drawing pad and stood by the piano, pressing and pressing Middle C. The leaves of the aspidistra, which lived upon it, shivered.
Mrs Hale came in. ‘Everything all right, madam,’ she said. ‘Not bad news?’
‘Did you take a lemon?’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Hale’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘For the Dover sole,’ she said. ‘You know how the doctor likes his fish of a Friday.’
‘Please don’t interfere with my still lifes in future.’
‘Oh, I do apologise, madam,’ said Mrs Hale. Her forehead crimped but she didn’t quite lose her smile. ‘I hadn’t realised it was a still life.’ Her emphasis was surely teetering on the edge of mockery. ‘I’ll fetch it back, shall I?’
‘It’s no good. Once something’s moved, it’s ruined. I can’t go back to it. Do you see?’
‘Won’t happen again, madam, I assure you.’
‘Well then, tomorrow a friend will be joining us for tea,’ Clem said. ‘Two friends in fact and possibly a dog.’ It was so rare for Clem to be offering such a direct instruction that the two of them had to pause to adjust.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hale. ‘Will you be wanting anything particular?’
‘Anchovy toast,’ said Clem, remembering Gwen’s preference for savoury over sweet.
‘And how about a nice seed cake?’
‘Do you know, Mrs Hale?’ Clem struck B-flat and let it ring before she spoke. ‘I’m really not all that partial to seed cake. Perhaps something else for a change?’
Mrs Hale’s expression suggested she was sucking the absent lemon.
‘Now, that will be all.’
Once the door had clicked shut behind the housekeeper, Clem hugged herself and snorted. It was time she asserted herself, and it was satisfying to do so. Hard sometimes to grasp that she was the lady of the house. A lady with visitors coming. Flowers. Tulips. Oh, Gwen. She knitted her fingers together. Gwen would have the tact, wouldn’t she? Why not speak to her first, telephone perhaps? But Mrs Hale might hear. A letter, then, or telegram – but wouldn’t that be most fearfully crass?
Too fidgety now for drawing, she was filled with sudden resolve. Hale must drive her into town whe
re she’d walk about the shops, stretch her legs, select the most perfect tulips for tomorrow.
12
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, she changed into a straight, slim dress, pale silk stockings, left off her stays. Her hair she unbraided and brushed, bored with the sheer burden of the heavy stuff. It made her arms ache. Perhaps she would have it cut, despite the ructions Dennis created whenever she broached the notion. Make it a fait accompli rather than discuss. For now, she rebraided and wound it round her head, a thick crown.
At three, she tapped on the nursery door. Dinah opened it, finger to her lips. ‘His nibs has just dropped off,’ she said. ‘He’s a proper grumpy-grogs today so I thought it best. Come and see, madam. Isn’t he a picture?’
Together they gazed into the cot at the sleeping child who lay sprawled on his back, rosy and gleaming, palms open like padded satin shells. Clem looked sideways at Dinah’s adoring face. She loves him, she thought, and it was a little shock to remember that other people’s feelings were going on around her all the time.
‘He does look a picture,’ she agreed. ‘Bring him down as soon as he wakes, won’t you?’
She gazed round the nursery, where she felt rather like an intruder. But it’s my house, she reminded herself, he’s my child. Wooden blocks were scattered on the floor alongside painted animals from the new Noah’s Ark, beached on the hearthrug. On the dresser waited a pile of small, ironed clothes. A tidy fire burned behind a fortress of a fireguard. Dinah’s knitting, a scarf, lay on the floor.
‘Is it safe? The needles?’ Clem asked.
‘I only get that out when he’s asleep.’ Dinah sounded dented.
‘Of course.’ Clem put her hand on Dinah’s sleeve. ‘You do so well with him. Where would we be without you?’ She indicated the knitting – clearly a man’s scarf in the making, thick brown wool. ‘Who’s it for?
‘Dad,’ said Dinah. ‘His birthday’s coming up.’
‘How kind,’ Clem said.
When Dinah smiled her plain face shone. Or was it really plain? She was a sallow, foxy little thing, but her eyes were unexpectedly blue and there was a deep dimple in one cheek. Clem remembered her mentioning going out to meet a chap last Sunday.
‘I never asked you how you got on with . . . I’m afraid I can’t recall his name?’
Dinah wrinkled her nose. ‘Not my cup of tea as it turned out.’
Clem went downstairs to wait for Gwen. Far too restless to sketch or read, she opened the piano stool, unearthed some dog-eared Chopin studies, and had a go. Years since she’d tried to play, she kept her foot on the soft pedal. She played so stumblingly it must have maddened any musical patient downstairs. In the glossy wood of the piano lid hung the ghost of her face, framed by its ridge of plaited hair.
I love Edgar too, she thought, and felt it like a stab.
Her eyes went to her sewing box, at the bottom of which were concealed the letter and the bill. She simply must present the bill to Dennis once Gwen’s visit was over. You’ve been corresponding with the blighter! Oh yes, he’d be sure to make a fuss but he would pay.
Oh, soon Gwen would be here, and how queer to see her. Last time . . . Clem paced around the room, a dampness growing under her arms, a little staleness. Her suspenders felt twisted. She would go upstairs for some Eau de Cologne, refresh, untwist and redo her hair perhaps out of this stupid tight plait. Perhaps a different frock?
The doorbell rang and she jumped up, heart pounding. The palms of her hands were wet. She held her breath – but there came Mrs Hale’s voice, pitched to address a tradesman.
Oh, please, let Dennis be called out. Lately he’d been busy, a plethora of spring colds and fevers lodging in a plethora of chests. Let there be an emergency. Please. She didn’t want him there, didn’t really wanting him meeting Gwen at all. She’d told him only that an old friend was coming to tea . . . Oh, let there be a heart attack, a car crash, a sudden birth.
From the stairs Edgar’s voice came loud and clear. ‘Babababaa!’ he cried. Clem jumped up, met Dinah in the hall. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the child from her arms, sensing a reluctance in his body to be transferred. ‘You’ve made him look smart.’
Dinah flushed. ‘I do my best.’
‘You do beautifully,’ Clem said.
She carried Edgar, in his white knitted suit, into the sitting room, where the afternoon sunshine flowed through the window onto the vase of pink tulips, primly pursed when she’d bought them, beginning to yawn open in the heat. She bent her face to breathe their hothouse smell. This was the first time since she’d been in the house that she’d had a visitor of her own. Edgar made a grab for a bloom.
She put him down and he tottered to the toys on the hearthrug, reached for the kaleidoscope – an old one of Dennis and Harri’s. He was far too young to understand how to look into it, of course, but he liked to shake it and listen to the silky sifting of the particles.
Dennis came in looking expectant, moustache freshly waxed. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘not here yet?’
‘Rather obviously.’ Clem’s voice grated with disappointment. One would feel a proper booby if they didn’t turn up – but wouldn’t that be just like Gwen? There would be a telephone call or note later, an excuse without apology.
‘Shall I bring in the tea?’ Mrs Hale asked from the doorway.
‘Must we wait?’ Dennis adopted his little boy face and rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m famished.’
‘Yes, we must,’ Clem said firmly.
Dennis bent down to scoop up Edgar, to throw him into the air and make him shriek.
Mrs Hale left the room and Dennis flopped down on his chair with Edgar, who stood on his lap and tugged his moustache. ‘Ouch! Steady on!’ The doorbell drilled out its sound and Dennis rose to his feet, Edgar on his hip. ‘Here we are at last,’ he said.
Clem smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath. Ridiculous to be so nervous! Her eyes darted round the room, cosy with the fire, the tulips, the rug scattered in a homely way with toys. Voices in the hall – oh yes, the rough timbre of Gwen. The door opened, and in she strode dressed in a costume of thick green tweed as if she was off shooting, shoes stout, stockings thick cocoa-coloured lisle, hair cropped short as a man’s.
A massive dog, a deerhound perhaps, loped in and stood beside Gwen, head as high as her waist. Edgar shrieked with excitement and craned towards it.
‘Doggy,’ Clem said, eyeing the huge creature warily. ‘Is he good with children?’
‘Haven’t the faintest,’ said Gwen. ‘Hello, there.’
Clem approached and kissed her cheek. ‘Feels like an age,’ she said.
‘Because it is.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Dennis shifted Edgar onto his other hip and stepped towards her, extending his hand.
‘Likewise.’ She shook it, looking speculatively between him and the child. ‘Spitting images, aren’t they?’ she remarked to Clem. Edgar hid his face in Dennis’s shoulder.
‘Avis?’ Clem asked.
‘Washing her hands,’ Gwen said and mimed someone primping her hair.
Clem was aware that Dennis was trying to give her a meaningful look, but she would not play.
‘Hello.’ Avis entered, extending a long white hand. She was younger than Gwen, with red hair cut into a bob; a sharp red fish hook curled on one cheek like a streak of blood. She was tall, as tall as Dennis, strongly perfumed, with harsh vermilion lips.
‘Charmed,’ Dennis said, taking the extended fingers. Edgar shrank against him.
‘Do come in and sit down. How lovely to meet you,’ Clem said. Stiff and false, acting the hostess in front of Dennis, sensing his amusement. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
Avis sank elegantly onto the pale sofa. Gwen was standing with her back to the fireplace. The dog sighed and stretched out before the hearth as if terminally bored. Dennis sat down with Edgar, who wriggled and yearned towards the creature.
‘At bally last!’ Dennis released Edgar as Mrs Hale arrived with the tea trolley, foll
owed by a blushing Linda with the hot water. Clem poured the tea and offered anchovy toast; Mrs Hale had taken notice of her request, it seemed – the cake was not seed but coconut. The talk turned to the weather, the countryside, the touring plans of Gwen and Avis, and was abruptly broken by a snarl and snap, and then a huge gape of silence from Edgar who, too shocked to scream, had gone rigid, his mouth a huge O. Clem jumped up and snatched him away from the dog.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Gwen mildly. ‘Bad boy, Captain.’
Edgar was turning blue with his stuck scream, but there was no blood, no puncture, Dennis ascertained, just a little pink indentation from the teeth on the back of his hand. The scream emerged at last, and Mrs Hale was there like a genie, reaching out her arms to spirit the boy away.
Once his cries had trailed off up the stairs, they settled back to their tea, trying to catch the threads of the almost successful conversation – all but Avis, who found it unnecessary to participate much bar the odd flick of her foot. Gwen sat beside Avis on the sofa now, tweed knees beside silky blue ones.
‘Do you work, Gwen?’ Dennis asked, munching a piece of toast.
Captain rose and padded over to sink his great head on Gwen’s lap.
‘I’ve got a place in an old folks’ home,’ she said. ‘Never was a qualified nurse. All that experience counts for nothing, it seems. Auxiliary,’ she added.
‘All what experience?’ asked Dennis, looking towards the cake. Clem jumped up to cut it and to hide her face.
Gwen drew her head back in surprise. ‘Didn’t Clem say? She didn’t say? Really, Clem! Red Cross. We were at the Front together.’
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