17
Anyone for Tennis?
That night she lay in bed in her top-floor room, and for the first time in months she found herself drifting back in her mind to her home. She remembered that Daphne Morrison was her first English friend, although it quickly became apparent that she had precious little in common with a girl who introduced the phrase “cracking form” into every other sentence, irrespective of the context. Her mother had encouraged her to befriend the Morrison twins—Daphne and Roger—pointing out that the soon-to-be ten-year-olds were her age, and for reasons her mother failed to specify, they would undoubtedly be “a good influence.” Having arrived on the island, her parents had liberally scattered letters of introduction about the place and eventually declared that their intention was to establish a tennis and social club along the lines of the one they used to manage in Calcutta. Her mother told her that Mrs. Morrison was once judged to be the best lady tennis player in the west of England, but her mother had heard this from Mrs. Morrison herself and had no way of verifying if this really was the case. From the beginning her father disapproved of the new English family, especially when rumours began to circulate that since his arrival the astringent Mr. Morrison, with his wing collars and his hair greased down on either side of a severe centre parting, had developed a particular loathing for Negroes, whom he routinely referred to as “niggers.” According to her father, a number of people had witnessed him punishing an elderly servant in the privacy of his backyard with an unnecessarily brutal laying on of a stick. As she mixed the evening cocktail and prepared to hand it to her father on the veranda, she overheard him telling her mother that the problem with English people was that they were always acting a damn part of some kind.
A few months after the Morrisons had embarked on their purposeful quest to establish themselves, Mrs. Morrison organized a significantly lavish birthday party for the twins. It was during this party that Mr. Morrison invited her into his study, claiming that he wished to show her the family crest. “Now, my dear, do you know what a crest is, or what it is meant to represent?” She shook her head and, clutching a glass of lemonade in both hands, followed Mr. Morrison into his book-lined retreat. She stared at the beautifully polished floorboards, and then she raised her eyes and took in the deftly carved chairs of a heavy dark wood she had never before seen. Later that afternoon, when she returned home, her mother looked up from her embroidery and asked about the party, but she knew that she must never tell her mother that Mr. Morrison had scratched her. She knew that she had done nothing wrong, but she remained dreadfully confused. She remembered Mr. Morrison pointing towards the image of a rearing horse on the gaudy plaque that hung above the mantel, and then he smiled and leaned in close and pressed himself against her, and she winced as she felt the exfoliating scrape of his unshaven cheek against her face. Through the open jalousies she could hear the joyous laughter of the other children chasing one another around the parched lawn and playing a game that Daphne loved, which involved flapping one’s arms like a giant butterfly. They were, all of the children, very much enjoying the extravagant hospitality of the Morrison family.
18
A Weekly Bath
On Sundays she was accustomed to a routine of waking up late, long after the birds had sung every song in their repertoire, and then pulling on her dressing gown and padding her way down to the first floor, where the landlady drew a weekly bath for her at eleven sharp. The large spacious room had clearly once been a bedroom; the positioning of the bath in a far windowless corner suggested the clumsy haste with which the room had been converted. She was permitted to bring salts and oils, which she did, but the landlady reminded her that she was expected to lie there for no more than fifteen minutes, for there were other girls who also needed to use the bathroom. As she slipped into the water, she tried to imagine how Harry had passed his Saturday night. Every girl at the school seemed to have a keenly anticipated commitment of some description on this one night of the week, but Harry had never invited her to go anywhere with him on a Saturday evening. Before her skin began to soften and pucker, she hastily towelled herself dry and returned to her room, and soon after there was a gentle knock on the door and the maid entered carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes, which she placed on the bed. It was her own task to introduce each article to the right hanger, or lay it flat in the correct drawer, and having done so she slid back under the covers and drifted across the broad expanse of Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening, all the while trying to hold at bay the depressing suspicion that she had been abandoned.
19
The Letting Go
When he finally came to visit, she could smell scent on him. He handed her a gift-wrapped box of chocolates and then sat down on the wooden chair and loosened his tie and proceeded to sink into a posture of unbuttoned ease. For a brief moment she felt as though she might cry, but she quickly composed herself and listened to his rambling story about a cousin called Lucy, whom he had known as a child. As their eyes met, she could see that behind his bluster Harry was exhausted. “She’s like a sister to me, and she’s found herself tied up with an absolute cad!” When Harry went over the story a second time, all the details were the same, except this time he had felt obliged to offer Lucy a shoulder to cry on.
“Do you remember when we sometimes used to go for a walk, Harry? And then talk about the films.”
He seemed uncomfortable and laughed a little too loudly.
“A bit chilly for that today, isn’t it?”
“How are things in Devon? With your mother. Perhaps one day you’d consider taking me there?”
“I’m not sure that you’d care much for the place. But perhaps I’m mistaken?”
She looked closely at him as he began to smell the air.
“I’m sorry about the foul odour, Harry. The landlady says something must have perished beneath the floorboards.”
After Harry left, she put the gift-wrapped chocolates to one side. No doubt Harry would already be on his way to see his cousin Lucy. Once there he would explain to her that now wasn’t the right time to end it, but soon he would be tackling the matter. Of course, poor Lucy mustn’t concern herself, for he had everything under control, but he had to be careful not to hurt the foreign girl’s feelings, for she was touchy. But she had already made up her mind. When Harry next deigned to visit she would tell him that she was sorry but she could no longer continue with their arrangement. The following week, Harry sent word that he would stop by on Saturday afternoon, and so she braced herself and rehearsed her words. It was early evening before she accepted that Harry was not going to visit, and she stepped meekly out of her clothes and into the apricot satin nightdress. Harry had passed out of her life and travelled back in the direction of his Devon, where he was no doubt trying to impress Cousin Lucy with his knowledge of a discriminating private hotel. She burrowed down under the blanket in an attempt to keep warm, but as the rain grew heavier, she heard the landlady knock gently on the door. After a moment the woman knocked again, but by the time the landlady decided to crack open the door she had closed her eyes and was pretending to be asleep. Only when she heard the door close did she open her eyes, and she could now see that her small room was completely shrouded in the bleakness of early evening.
20
Are We Drinking or Are We Gawping?
The three of them had left the rehearsal room together, but now they were simply idling by the door that led out onto the street and she was waiting for either Mabel or Ethel to say something. Eventually it was her new flatmate Mabel who, as she buttoned up her coat, suggested that they all go back to the flat for a drink. Ethel shrugged her shoulders, for clearly she had nothing else planned. “What about you, Gwennie?” asked Mabel. “Do you mind a little drink-up at our place, just for a lark?” She smiled weakly and explained that she was feeling a little giddy and she needed to sleep, but she told Mabel that she was content to lie down in her bedroom out of the way. Mabel looked exasperated.
; “For heaven’s sake, kid. When are you going to learn to swank a bit and have some fun?”
Ethel admonished her friend. “Give it a rest, Mabel. You know that Gwennie’s not some happy-go-lucky flighty piece like yourself.”
“Maybe I’ll just sit with you both for one drink.” She looked at her two friends. “If that would be alright?”
Mabel pushed open the door to the street and a frigid blast of air took them all by surprise.
“Alright, just the one drink it is, Gwennie. Then you can catch up on your blessed beauty sleep.”
Mabel and Ethel were both from the north of England and they shared the same blunt vowels and slightly nasal enunciation. Attending drama school in London had brought them together, but they carried on as though they had known each other for years, frequently finishing each other’s sentences and then collapsing into peals of laughter. Ethel was the younger of the two, and the more physically striking, with cheeks that dimpled. She had about her a commonsense aspect which suggested that she should have known better than to try for a career on the stage. Mabel, on the other hand, was impulsive, and what she lacked in talent she made up for in determination. Her voice was always distinguishable in the chorus, rising high above the welter of competing voices, and she was consistently keen to volunteer herself for any part no matter how unsuitable. In the presence of Mabel and Ethel, she felt like a younger sister who knew that the price of being in their company would, from time to time, involve her submitting to some form of teasing. However, more often than not, nothing was demanded of her and she was simply expected to listen to conversations she knew she would not be invited to participate in.
As Mabel led the way into their small second-floor flat, Ethel coughed and covered her nose and mouth with her hand.
“Your Ronald’s been here, hasn’t he?”
Mabel laughed as she turned on the lights. “Well, he does help pay for the place, so I suppose he’s free to come and go as he pleases.”
“And take whatever he pleases,” said Ethel.
She looked on as the two friends began to giggle.
“He smokes like a bleeding chimney,” said Mabel as she picked up an overflowing ashtray. “I’ve told him it can affect me and Gwennie’s voices and make us hoarse, but it’s like he’s got cloth ears.”
Mabel emptied the ashtray into the bin, and then opened a cupboard and took out an unopened bottle of gin. She shooed the pair of them towards the sofa.
“Sit yourselves down, then. Gwennie will tell you, there’s no maid service here.”
She noticed that Ethel carefully dusted down the cushions on the sofa before lowering herself with a delicacy that couldn’t quite disguise her unease at the state of the flat.
“There we are,” said Mabel as she slopped the gin into three glasses. She passed them each a glass and then raised her own. “Cheers,” she said as she slumped onto the sofa next to Ethel. She then turned to her flatmate. “Well, Gwennie love, are we drinking or are we gawping?”
Under Mabel’s watchful gaze, she lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip.
“It’s a nice place, Mabel, but you and Gwennie really ought to get a maid.”
“Ronald’s not going to pay for that, too. He likes to think that he’s keeping me upmarket, but he comes over here and never tidies up after himself. Bleeding men are all the same.”
“Well, get shut of him, then. I don’t see no ring on your finger.”
“Then where am I gonna flaming well live? In a single room like you, I suppose.” Mabel paused, and poured herself a top-up. “I still don’t see why you got rid of your Wilbur, you daft lump. He had some money, didn’t he?”
“I’m a career girl. I’ve not got much in my grubby little room, but I’m glad that it don’t come with a bloke telling me what to do. Nothing against your Ronald, but it’s not the right time for me to be under some bugger’s thumb.”
“Well, you know it can be nice to have a bloke to buy you things, but old Ronald does get a bit carried away with the demands. And if you ask me, some of them’s a bit kinky. I expect you hear all sorts of things you don’t want to, don’t you, Gwennie?”
She smiled, but said nothing. Then she watched as Mabel kicked off first one shoe and then the other, and began to massage her toes. Mabel gestured towards Ethel with her head.
“Gwennie, I swear sometimes I don’t understand her. That Wilbur was a looker, and he had a bit of class. He was a notch above my Ronald, that’s for sure.”
She had met Ronald only once, and that was shortly after she had left Mr. Tree’s school and joined the company and Mabel had noticed that the new girl seemed terribly lonely. (“Don’t you have any chums?”) Mabel wasted no time in suggesting that she move out of her lodgings and move in with her as a flatmate, but having done so, she still wasn’t able to shake off her woebegone aspect, and so one Saturday night Mabel took pity on her and said she ought to come to dinner and meet her friend Ronald. Before the first course had even reached the table, however, she decided that Mabel had not, in fact, asked her along to the dinner out of pity, but had done so because she didn’t want to be alone with this rotter of a man whose appetite was clearly whetted by a glimpse of any trim ankle. Apparently his family owned a shoe-making business in Leicester, and although Ronald was earmarked to one day take over the family firm, he harboured ambitions to write musicals for the stage. As he ordered yet another bottle of Champagne, Mabel placed her hand lightly on Ronald’s arm in a gesture clearly meant to suggest moderation, but she saw this man violently brush Mabel’s hand away.
“I’m spoiling you, aren’t I?” He emptied his glass. “No, I’ve already spoiled you. You’ve gone off, Mabel. You’re rancid.”
Mabel laughed. “Really, Ronald, you’re not nearly as amusing as you think you are.”
He looked coldly at her, and then he tore his napkin from his neck, pushed back his chair, and strode silently away from the table.
“He’s gone to the bar to smoke with the men,” said Mabel by way of explanation. “I once met his family at their country house. They have deer on the grounds and little bunny rabbits who pop out from beneath the hedges at dawn and then again at dusk. I could see them from my bedroom window, but during the day the bunnies were nowhere to be seen. Imagine that. Along one side of Ronald’s family’s estate is the main London railway line, so you can hear the steam engines thundering by in the distance at all times of the day and night. It’s so different from my world, I can tell you that.”
She remembered looking closely at Mabel and seeing the tears that were now filling her friend’s eyes, and hoping that this Ronald would spend the remainder of the evening smoking cigars with the men and leave her friend alone.
Mabel suddenly sprang from the sofa and disappeared into the small kitchen. She returned with a large white bowl filled with grapes, which she offered to their guest, Ethel. Then she plonked herself back down and replenished her glass of gin.
“Sometimes I wonder if Ronald even remembers my name. He never asks me anything about myself. I once told him that I had a kid sister and he wanted to know if she was interested in the stage. When I told him no he just snorted and looked right through me.”
Ethel reached over and took Mabel’s hand.
“Mabel, you know my feelings about that pompous arse Ronald, so you’ll not be getting any sympathy from me. You should be looking for a new feller.”
She looked at a tipsy Mabel and a perplexed Ethel, and then she took another small sip of her drink and thought again of the letter from Aunt Clarice that she had received in the morning post. As she did, she realized that she needed to be by herself.
Mabel smiled, and then she got to her feet and fidgeted with the shoulder strap of her dress.
“Either of you girls up for a dance? I could put on some music.”
Ethel pulled her friend back down onto the sofa.
“You’re a lovely girl, Mabel, but you don’t need that Ronald. Things are going to work o
ut all fine and proper for you. You’ve got it on your face. My pa, he always used to say, ‘Some girls got good luck stamped on their faces. ’”
She watched as Ethel leaned in to give Mabel a hug, and then she stood up and stammered as she spoke. “I’m sorry, Mabel, but I’ve got to go out for a walk.”
“A walk? I thought you were going to go and lie down and get your beauty sleep. It’s dark out now. Where do you think that you’re going off to at this time of night?”
She didn’t reply. She quickly made her way towards the door and plucked her coat from the rack. As she did so, she became aware that she was still holding her glass of gin, so she set it down on the table beneath the looking glass, where a small pile of unpaid bills were neatly stacked.
“Gwennie, did you hear anything I just said? I said it’s dark and I’ve got a feeling it might start up raining.”
“I’ll be alright. Really, I’ll not be long.”
Out on the empty street she pulled her collar tight and began to walk rapidly away from the mansion block. She stopped at a broad junction and could hear footsteps approaching her from behind. As the man pulled level with her, he glanced across at her tear-stained face.
“Is everything alright, miss?”
She made a small dismissive gesture with her hand, and swallowed deeply as she did so. Then she blurted out the words.
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
So her father had unexpectedly died, and according to Aunt Clarice, her mother didn’t appear to mind whether she returned home to the West Indies or remained in England. Her father was dead and her mother didn’t care whether she returned home or not? A thin drizzle of cold rain began to fall from the sky, and she stared at the gas lamps that stretched in all directions, casting a series of pools of light onto the damp pavement at regular intervals. She knew that she would never be confident and brash like Mabel or Ethel, so why should she stay in England? She turned a corner where she noticed a gas lantern that was attached to a triangular wall bracket as opposed to a post, and then a man in a shop doorway hissed at her in an attempt to attract her attention, but she ignored him. With her head down and her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, she began now to walk rapidly, knowing that she would soon be thoroughly soaked, but she suspected that dawn might break before she felt calm enough to make her way back to the small untidy flat that she shared with her friend Mabel.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 9