by Dodie Smith
Having finished what he thought of as the solid spending he got flowers and chocolates, including some of each for the kitchen, also some books for himself. And on his way home in a taxi he decided Mr Severn had been right: spending money was certainly cheering. One was, in fact, just a little drunk on spending.
And his pleasure was increased by Miss Whitecliff’s pleasure – at having him back, at the history of his shopping, and his purchases in hand and to come. Before setting out he had merely told her they needed many things which Mr Severn said she could afford and ought to have, and they were all to be a lovely surprise. This had delighted her and she was even more delighted now. Told that a refrigerator was coming she confessed that, in spite of her mother’s views, she had often wished for one because it would make ice-cream. Drew doubted this but if she wanted ice-cream he would, of course, get her some. He gathered that she’d had none since she was a girl, when it had been made ‘for garden parties in a funny kind of bucket’. He’d neither seen nor heard of such a bucket; this must be a gap in his knowledge of Edwardiana.
Lizzie and Annie, too, were pleased about the refrigerator. He had already noticed that their outlook had been changed by the women’s magazines, which he had several times found them studying through steel-rimmed spectacles. (The advertisements interested them most; he guessed that their imaginations had not had enough practice to let them enjoy fiction.) And the general excitement rose higher in mid-afternoon, when the refrigerator, radiogram and electric fires were delivered. None of them could be used as yet and Drew felt it was just as well their potentialities should be considered before their actual performance. He was beginning to fear his three old ladles were a bit too excited.
Miss Whitecliff’s spirits suffered a set-back when the afternoon post came. Having read the only letter it brought, she turned to Drew with dismayed eyes. ‘It’s from my great-niece. She’s coming here – on Saturday. Oh, dear, she always makes me so nervous.’
‘Well, we won’t let her, this time,’ said Drew firmly. ‘And think what fun it’ll be to show her all your new possessions – including me.’
Miss Whitecliff regained her spirits and laughed her pretty laugh. ‘Oh, yes! And I shall tell her how much Cyril likes you, and then she won’t dare criticize. Rosalind is critical.’
Rosalind! It was a name he particularly liked. He had never been romantically attracted by any living girl but had often been half in love with girls in history and literature. Of these, Shakespeare’s Rosalind took pride of place. He instantly pictured Rosalind Whitecliff as tall, boyish yet essentially feminine, striding through the Forest of Arden in spring. He was strongly disposed to fall in love with her – if only for practice. One was confident Mr Severn was right in believing one would not become ‘willowy’; but it was high time one became something.
‘Does she usually have my room?’ he asked. ‘I could easily move out.’
‘Oh, she’s only coming for lunch, on her way somewhere else. She’ll drive; she always does. Imagine, a girl of nineteen, driving her own car! Though I remember now, at her age I longed for a bicycle. I suppose a car to her is only what a bicycle would have been to me.’
He was glad to hear her say this; it suggested a dawning acceptance of a changed world. He asked if she’d ever had the bicycle.
‘Good gracious, no! Though father was on my side – well, just a little, at first. How well one remembers! I still hanker for that bicycle.’
‘I’m afraid you’d find it …’ He broke off, interrupted by her charming laughter.
‘Oh, I only hanker for it then, not now. It’s strange, but “then” is often quite as real to me as “now”, sometimes realer.’
He wondered if that was the cause of her slight derangement, if her will-power was paralyzed because she was imprisoned in her youth, subservient to authority that no longer existed. But surely she was showing signs of independence? Unless, of course, in accepting new ideas, she was now merely subservient to his authority.
He was, anyway, certain she was acting independently when, the next morning, she asked him to take a letter to Mr Severn and did not tell him what it was about. He found himself faintly irritated, particularly as an electrician had just arrived and needed instructions.
‘Couldn’t I just post the letter?’ he asked.
‘I particularly want him to have it this morning.’
Independence, certainly even a touch of bossiness. Well, one ought to be pleased. And a little more shopping might be useful, to ensure a specially good lunch for Rosalind. So he swiftly instructed the electrician and then hurried out.
Having delivered the letter and made sure Mr Severn would soon be in to receive it, he did his shopping. This, on a sudden inspiration, included something he paid for with his own money. He had noticed that Miss Whitecliff sometimes wore a long chain to which small charms were attached. He had the good luck to find a charm in the form of a bicycle.
She received it with ecstasy. And when he had put it on her chain for her she repeatedly looked down on it and fingered it. What with this, and the fact that the radiogram was now working, she passed the rest of the day in a visible daze of bliss. The refrigerator, too, was in action and Drew saw that the midgets were going to be fondly possessive of it. When he suggested Miss Whitecliff should be invited to see it working, Lizzie said: ‘Not till we’ve had a little more practice, sir.’
Mr Severn’s reply came the following morning. Miss Whitecliff, having read it, looked pleased and important. ‘I have to see Cyril at once,’ she informed Drew. ‘He’s sending a car for me.’
Drew felt guilty at having failed to protect Mr Severn. And this was the morning of Rosalind’s visit. He asked Miss Whitecliff if she had forgotren that.
‘Oh, I shall be back in good time,’ she said, airily.
He offered to see Mr Severn for her but she smilingly refused. ‘It’s something I have to do myself. And you mustn’t ask me what it is. You’ll know later.’
She looked so happy that his slight annoyance faded. He said: ‘Well, anyway, I’d better come with you, hadn’t I?’ So far, he’d never known her to set foot out of the house alone.
But she said firmly: ‘No, you must stay here in case Rosalind should arrive before I get back. Oh, I do hope you’ll like her!’
‘Let’s hope she likes me,’ said Drew. He did not usually worry as to whether people would like him, perhaps because they usually did, just as he usually liked them. But he was very, very anxious that Rosalind should like him.
The car came and he saw Miss Whitecliff off. She was wearing a voluminous fur coat – squirrel, she told him; she’d had it for her twenty-first birthday and always taken great care of it. He imagined it must have gone in and out of fashion (well, never quite in) at least half a dozen times. At the moment, it was a foot or so too long.
Left alone, he was conscious of behaving like a houseproud young wife before her first luncheon party. He visited the kitchen, discussed with Annie the laying of the table and approved a lace-edged tablecloth. (The épergne was now filled with clove carnations.) He then turned his attention to the drawing-room, moved various vases of flowers and then moved them back again, placed a screen round the too modern radio-gramophone on which he put, in readiness, a recording of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, bought because Miss Whitecliff had played them in her girlhood. He would start the record, very softly, when Rosalind’s car drew up. She should enter a flower-filled, warm room (an electric fire was now augmenting the coal fire) which had become comfortable without any sacrifice of its own period charm.
He was fully ready by eleven and watching for her. She arrived at twelve-thirty.
Quickly he switched on the record-player, then turned again to the window. Rosalind was just coming through the gate, a tall girl, tall as Miss Whitecliff and of the same slim build though not, as her great-aunt was, painfully thin. Was there a facial resemblance? In the eyes, surely. And Miss Whitecliff’s faded hair must once have been the same b
right brown as Rosalind’s, now stirred by the wind. A scurry of leaves blew down on her and she flicked one from the white lamb collar of her russet leather jacket. His Arden in spring changed to Arden in autumn. And he was suddenly sure he would remember this moment all his life.
The front-door bell rang. Should he go out and welcome her? Better wait here; the hall would be cluttered by Annie. He heard the door opened, a murmur of voices. Then Annie, with strict formality, announced: ‘Miss Rosalind Whitecliff’, and withdrew.
He said: ‘I’m Drew Carrington. I believe Miss Whitecliff wrote to you about me.’
She failed to return his smile. ‘Yes, indeed. What’s been going on here?’ She was now looking around the room.
He thought her tone rude but hoped she was merely astonished. Still smilingly, he said: ‘I think you’ll find things a little more comfortable.’
‘Comfortable? Those flowers must have cost a fortune. Does Mr Severn know you’re here?’
There could now be no doubt about her rudeness but he could still make excuses for her. She had surely a right to be suspicious until she knew more about the situation. He said:
‘Oh, yes, I’ve met Mr Severn. He’s been most—’ She interrupted him. ‘Where’s my aunt?’
Before he could reply the front-door bell rang. Glancing quickly towards the window, he saw Mr Severn’s car and said, ‘This’ll be Miss Whitecliff, now.’
Rosalind was again staring around, now seeking the source of the music. Looking behind the screen she said, ‘My poor dear aunt must have gone quite out of her mind at last.’
‘She’s well and happy,’ said Drew, suddenly angry. ‘And please don’t say anything to distress her.’
Rosalind glared at him. ‘I shall say exactly what I like. It’s what I’ve come for.’
‘As you please. But I warn you, don’t upset her. If you do, I shall put you out of the house.’
The words astonished him as much as they astonished her; but he didn’t regret them. She had barely time for one scornful snort before Miss Whitecliff entered laden with carrier bags.
‘Oh, you’ve met!’ She kissed her great-niece affectionately, then disentangled the strings of the carrier bags. ‘I’ve been shopping. This is for you, dear Rosalind. And this is for you, dear Drew – Cyril thought it would be right for you. And this is for me. Cyril made me buy it, though I shan’t really need it now the house is so beautifully warm.’ She took a lacy shawl from her own bag.
Drew had taken an expensive cardigan from his. As he thanked her for it he caught sight of Rosalind’s expression and flushed deeply. She was now smiling but it wasn’t a pleasant smile; he felt assessed as a youth who cadged presents from old women. But she had, presumably, heeded his warning for she said nothing to distress Miss Whitecliff, merely thanked her for the silk scarf which was her own present and asked how she was.
At that moment Miss Whitecliff delightedly noticed the music. ‘Oh, Mendelssohn’s Spring Songs. You must see our marvellous machine – or does one call it an instrument? But first come upstairs and take your things off.’
Drew quickly recovered himself. It was only a question of time; Rosalind would soon see she’d made a mistake. But he blushed again, remembering her supercilious smile on seeing the cardigan – which was, incidentally, exactly what he would have chosen for himself; he gave Mr Severn full marks.
Nothing untoward appeared to have been said upstairs, judging by Miss Whitecliff’s unchanged cheerfulness when she and Rosalind came down to lunch. The meal was certainly a success as regards the food. But Rosalind never once spoke to him, nor he to her. However, he doubted if Miss Whitecliff noticed; she was too busy talking herself. Never before had he seen her so confident. She was still dominating the conversation when they returned to the drawing-room for coffee.
‘Dear Drew always pours it for me,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘And afterwards I want him to play to you, and sing some of your great-grandparents’ songs.’ She proceeded to chat proudly about Drew’s talents and his many improvements in the house, appearing not to notice that Rosalind showed no interest whatever. Embarrassed, Drew drank his coffee and tried to make plans for convincing Rosalind he wasn’t whatever she thought he was. Suddenly he was astounded to hear Miss Whitecliff say: ‘And I haven’t told you the most exciting thing of all. We’re going to have a motor car.’
He had never seriously considered getting a car, let alone mentioned it. He was about to ask if Mr Severn had, when Rosalind, ignoring the reference to a car, said: ‘Aunt Blanche, I have to leave quite early. And before that, I want to see you alone.’
He looked at Miss Whitecliff anxiously. She smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, Drew. I knew she would. Please take your time off as usual.’
He rose, but doubifully. She reassured him. ‘It’s quite all right – really. I’ll call you when dear Rosalind’s had her little say.’
She now sounded not only confident but as if rather enjoying herself. All the same, he left her unwillingly, knowing how quickly she could become distressed. Up in his room, he sat with the door open, prepared to go back if he heard Rosalind speaking angrily. But he heard nothing for five minutes or so. Then the drawing-room door opened and the front door slammed. Looking out of his window he saw Rosalind hurrying to her car. He dashed down to Miss Whitecliff.
She was sitting with her head held high, looking triumphant. ‘I’ve sent her to Cyril Severn. He said I could.’
‘But it’s Saturday. Won’t his office be closed?’
‘Oh, she’s gone to his home; it’s no distance. Cyril will settle her. I’m afraid I’ve let her bully me sometimes and she thought she could go on doing it, though she called it being sensible and wanting to protect me. As if I needed protecting from you!’ She gazed at Drew fondly. ‘And when I did need protecting, when I was frightened after Mother died and asked her to keep me company, she only stayed three days and she thought I ought to go into some kind of home for the elderly – though that was her mother’s idea, really; such a horrid woman, Cyril told her not to come here again. After all, she’s not related to me, as Rosalind is, and she did so upset me.’
‘Are you upset now?’ He had noted that her voice had begun to quaver.
‘Well, I wasn’t … but I do feel a little tired. Perhaps the wine at luncheon – though I liked it. We often drank wine when my father was alive.’
‘Why not lie down for a while?’
‘Yes, I think I will, though my dear mother never approved of afternoon naps.’
He had of late not heard so much about her mother’s prejudices and wanted to hear even less. ‘Off you go then,’ he said, and firmly piloted her up to her room, where he put on the electric fire and took off the bedspread. She removed her shoes and lay down under the quilt, then stopped him as he began to draw the curtains. ‘Just leave them, please, so that I can see the sky. I don’t suppose I shall sleep. Please play Songs Without Words again, and leave my door open. I told Rosalind to come back but now I’d rather not see her again. Just tell her she mustn’t forget my warning.’
‘I don’t think I’d like to do that,’ said Drew.
‘No, it might make for unpleasantness. And I can write, if necessary. Anyway, she’ll feel differently when she’s seen Cyril. I think both she and her mother are a little frightened of him. He can be frightening. But he was so kind this morning, doing everything I wanted and taking me shopping. And he seemed so pleased with me. He said I was a different woman. And he’s going to ask us both to dinner – it’s years since he asked me to visit him. And he thinks he can hurry our telephone.’
‘That’s splendid,’ said Drew. ‘And now you just rest a little.’ Her happiness seemed to him tinged by hysteria.
He went down and put on the Mendelssohn record; then visited the kitchen to congratulate the maids on lunch. They were only now eating their own, having asked him not to carve for them. (‘Not when we have company, sir,’ Annie had requested.) He was astonished to hear they had never before tasted
pheasant or any kind of game. ‘Oh, I’ve cooked it often enough,’ said Lizzie, ‘but we weren’t allowed the same food as was served in the dining-room. I suppose it is all right for us to have it, sir?’
He assured her it was and brought each of them a glass of wine. They confessed that they’d sometimes drunk what was left in glasses – ‘In the old days, when the master was alive.’ The fact that they told him this made him realize how at ease they had become with him.
Surely if he could win the good will of the midgets, Miss Whitecliff and Mr Severn, all of them so much older than he was, he could … well, at least lose the ill will of a girl his own age? And he’d start by making himself see her point of view – and before she returned.
Leaving the midgets to enjoy their meal, he went back to the drawing-room and sat seeing Rosalind’s point of view with such determination that he was soon wondering if he ought to apologize for threatening to put her out of the house. Really, that was outrageous of him …
The Mendelssohn record came to an end. Should he turn it over? He tiptoed upstairs and listened outside Miss Whitecliff’s room, then looked in through the open door. He had never before seen her with her eyes closed. Lacking their liveliness her pale, thin face was so utterly unanimated that for an instant he feared she was dead. Then he saw she was breathing gently, fast asleep.