The Nightingales Are Singing

by Monica Dickens

  "What price Piccadilly Circus now?" Vinson asked. "This is a bit brighter than the dear old Dilly, isn't it?" He some-

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  times used expressions which he thought were English slang.

  "All those secondhand cars." Christine could not get over them. "Why, in England it's almost as difficult to get a secondhand car as a new one. And all these look so shiny and new. Who buys them? And why do they leave them out in the open like that? Don't they get stolen? Perhaps they leave the lights on all night. But that would be awfully expensive. Do they have a man to watch them?"

  Vinson did not know. He was not interested in the problems of used-car dealers. They had passed two mammoth churches and were going down a hill now between huge blocks of flats with plate-glass entrance doors and flowering shrubs and evergreens artistically planted, and he was pointing them out as being swank apartment houses.

  "But this is the best address of all/' he said, as the hill steepened and they were among shops again. "This is Georgetown," he said reverently. "Each side of this avenue. Gee, I wish we could live here."

  "Well, why don't we?"

  "We couldn't get near it on my pay. It's mosdy diplomats and politicians who live in Georgetown."

  "Well, who wants to live among them?" she said, but he would not be consoled.

  "The best address in Washington," he said regretfully. "I sure would like to have it on my notepaper."

  Christine was about to say that she did not see that it mattered, but fortunately, before they could start another of those small dissensions that crept upon them sometimes out of their different points of view, Vinson turned down a side-street and said: "I'm going to take you past the church where we're going to be married tomorrow. That's why I brought you this way, though it's not the quickest route to the hotel." He was always much exercised about knowing the shortest way from place to place.

  "No, but it's a smart place to be married. All the best people come here."

  Christine thought that they should have been married in Vinson's parish church, but she was discovering that the secret of keeping a man happy was not to tell him the things he did not want to hear, so she said nothing.

  It was a dignified white church with pillars. Christine was pleased with it, and thought she might look quite well being photographed on the porch after the ceremony, with Vinson in all his gold braid.

  "Of course we can't be married actually in the church/' he said. "It will have to be in the rectory."

  "Why?" Her visions of walking down the aisle in her new dress faded.

  "Because it's a mixed wedding. They don't allow non-Catholics to be married in church in this diocese."

  "Well, I think that's pretty stuffy. Aren't I good enough for them?"

  "Look, honey," — Vinson moved the car on as a driver behind them sounded his horn an unnecessary number of times — "we haven't had a religious argument yet. Don't let's start one now. You don't mind my being a Catholic. You said so."

  "At least you go to church, which is more than most men I know do."

  "You see what I mean about Georgetown?" he said, as they drove down a street of pretty little houses, which were no two alike; some white, some coloured, some soft red brick snug with creepers, and some with painted shutters.

  The houses were charming, and there were trees everywhere, in the streets and in the gardens of the houses. Some of them were lit theatrically by street lamps where insects clustered, and she was reminded of the gilded leaves of London

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  plane trees on a summer night. When she leaned out of the window she smelled the familiar summer city smell, which at the same time endears you and makes you long for the country.

  "I think I like Washington/* she said.

  There were trees everywhere all over the city. Trees and broad avenues, and then they were driving between the great white State Department buildings, with their clean lines and bold carving.

  Christine was genuinely amazed at America now. She did not have to assume admiration to please Vinson. People had told her that Washington was the most beautiful city in America, but although she had lived all her life in London she did not like towns, and she had not believed that any city could be beautiful.

  But this was different. She had not expected the Washington Monument to be glowing with light and to rise up serenely from a sea of grass and although she had seen pictures of what the Capitol dome looked like she had not expected its floodlit, majestic beauty. It soared above the hill like a heavenly body, as if dissociating itself from the machinations and intrigues that went on below.

  Vinson drove her around the buildings on Capitol Hill. "Now, doesn't this make you proud to be an American?" he asked her, sitting very straight behind the wheel, as if someone had waved the Stars and Stripes at him.

  Christine pulled her head in through the window. "I'm not an American/'

  "You will be after tomorrow, darling, whatever your passport says. All this will be yours," Vinson said, waving his hand at the imposing steps of the Senate. "The government belongs to the people here, you know, not the people to the government/'

  "It's beautiful/' Christine said. "It's sort of depressing, though, to think of all the rubbish that must have been talked here since this building was put up/'

  He did not laugh. Perhaps she should not have said this. He could joke about American institutions when he was with his own countrymen, but with Christine, who was a foreigner, he took his country seriously. She could understand that, because that was how she felt about England. Perhaps after tomorrow, if he thought that marrying him made her an American, she could make jokes about the government.

  The hotel was a towering place, with most of the ground-floor walls made of plate glass, so that the people in the lounge and the cocktail bar were like goldfish in a bowl. If Christine had been a down-and-out, she would have come and flattened her nose against the glass to make the hotel guests feel embarrassed.

  Vinson's mother, who sounded like something of a hypochondriac, had felt unable to make the trip from Illinois for the wedding, but his sister and her husband had come from Wilmington to keep the family flag flying. Vinson had assured Christine that they were easy people to get on with, but she dreaded meeting them. What would they think of her? The sister would be sure to be smart. Even with her new clothes, Christine did not think she would ever be smart in the way Americans were. What would they think of Vinson marrying an English girl? Would they say, as she had heard one Wave say to another at a cocktail party Vinson had taken her to in England: "Isn't an American girl good enough for him?"

  The receptionist told them that Mr. and Mrs. Lamm were waiting for them in the bar. Christine followed Vinson, and a small woman with a monkey face and a mad hat with butterfly antennae stood up and smiled and waved.

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  She was nice. She went on smiling after she had been introduced to Christine. She told Vinson that she was cute as Christmas and a typical English girl, and when Christine called her Mrs. Lamm she said at once: "Oh, you must call me Edna. You and I are going to like each other/'

  Her husband, whose name was Milt and who had a head like a jumbo grade egg and trousers straining across stout thighs, was sold on Christine from the first moment he saw her. Christine conquered the suspicion that it was part of his act to be sold on every woman from the start, and enjoyed hearing him tell Vinson: "Where did you find her? Now just where ever did you find her? But, Vin boy, she's lovely. She's just the loveliest thing . . ."

  Christine did not feel very lovely after a six-hour drive with no chance to do her face or change her wrinkled skirt, but perhaps the light in the goldfish bowl was flattering. She sat back in the red-leather chair, which was shaped like a cutaway barrel, and sipped the strange new taste of bourbon, which she was told she would like and didn't, and wondered if people looking in from outside would envy her for being a frequenter of the Capitol-Carlton Hotel.

  Vinson and Edna did not seem to know each oth
er very well. He had told Christine that his family were not close, but she was surprised that he talked so politely to his sister, asking about her trip from Wilmington and whether she was satisfied with her room at the hotel. If Roger had talked to Christine like that, she would think he had gone mad, or had found some new form of humour to try on her.

  Everyone seemed to be very polite in America. When Edna suggested that she should take Christine up to her room, the two men immediately sprang to their feet and pulled back the women's chairs and handed them their pocket books. When they went into the lift a man who was in there took

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  off his hat and held it against his chest, and when they reached his floor he made quite a ceremony of excusing himself to step out past them.

  Christine's room was all windows on one side, which would have been nice if the glass had not been very dirty and covered on the outside by grimy screens, which kept out the air as well as the flies.

  When she spoke to Edna about this, Edna said: "Don't worry. The hotel has air conditioning/'

  "Well, but wouldn't it be much simpler if they just got air in through the windows?"

  "Listen, honey," Edna said, "you don't know Washington in summer. In about a month there'll be no air to come through the windows, and what there is is like a Turkish bath."

  "I shan't mind. I like the heat."

  "Not this sort you won't. It's frantic."

  'Well, don't put me off," Christine said. "I'm looking forward to being married and living here."

  "Sure you are, and I'm very glad you're marrying my brother." Edna took off her hat and prodded at the heavy coffee-coloured knot of hair that was lodged precariously in the nape of her neck. Although she wore a mad hat and an expensive-looking dress, Christine was relieved to find that she was not a smart kind of person at all. She wore the wrong shade of yellowish powder on her crinkled monkey face. Her hair was untidy and full of unconcealed pins. Her nails were square and unvarnished and looked as if she did all her own laundry, and she walked with an odd little sideways stoop, which made her clothes sag.

  "I've been glad about you and Vinson ever since he wrote us the news," she said, sitting on the bed and kicking off her shoes. "You'll excuse me, won't you, but I bought new shoes for your wedding and they kill me. Vinson needs a wife. He should have gotten married long ago, though I want to tell you

  I'm glad he didn't do it, because that girl was a tramp/'

  Christine did not ask: "What girl?" She was not going to admit that Vinson had never told her.

  "Why does he need a wife?" she asked, exploring the room, which had spindly modern furniture and a bed made up to look like an upholstered couch. "Oh, look what a lovely bathroom I've got."

  "Kinda small," said Edna, squinting towards the bathroom door. She screwed up her face a lot, working it about as she talked as if it was rubber. "Why does he need a wife? Well, honey, what man doesn't? But particularly in the navy. There's so much entertaining" — Christine's heart sank — "and then, you know, Vinson has been so much among other navy men that he's gotten to be — you'll forgive me if I say it — just a little narrow." She screwed up her face very tightly and looked at Christine from under the loose puckered skin of her eyelids. Sometimes she looked about thirty-five, sometimes she looked fifty. She might have been any age.

  "How do you mean?" Christine went to the window and rubbed on the glass, but the dirt was on the outside. Seven storeys below, a sprinkler had just gone by, and the endless cars were going swish, swish, swish along the wet black street.

  "I mean that he's a little given to thinking that life begins and ends with the United States Navy," Edna said. "He's lived nearly forty years, and he knows a lot about his job, but not too much about what goes on outside it. He needs someone like you from a completely different world to freshen up his ideas a bit. Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you like this when we've only just met, but we are practically sisters-in-law, and, anyway, I've never believed in two people wasting time walking around each other like a couple of dogs before they can get to know each other."

  "I'm glad. I like you, Edna," Christine said, not feeling as

  shy as she would have if she had said this to a comparative stranger in England, "It's a bit difficult, you know, getting married without any girl friends or anyone to back you up/'

  "You're telling me," Edna said. "I ran away from home to marry Milt. He was in Kansas City, Missouri, and I didn't know a soul there. I tell you, I never was so unhappy. I cried like a fool on my wedding day." She laughed. Her teeth were white, but prominent and badly spaced.

  "I shall be terrified on my wedding day," Christine said. "I shan't know anyone at my own wedding."

  "You'll know Vinson/' Edna said. "I guess that's about all that matters. You'll be all right, hon. He's a pretty nice guy. You love him, huh?"

  "Oh yes. I'm marrying him."

  "Swell. He and I have never known each other as well as we should. I guess he told you we were separated a lot after our parents were divorced, but I know enough about him to like him a whole lot, and I like him even better now that I see he was smart enough to pick someone like you."

  There was a knock at the door and Vinson came in. "Hi, girls," he said. "What are you yattering about?"

  "We're talking about you," Edna said, "and saying how smart you were to pick Christine."

  Vinson's face, which was more quick and tense in America than Christine remembered it in England, relaxed into one of its most loving smiles.

  "I think I was too," he said. He came over to Christine and put his arm round her shoulder and kissed her. "How do you like her, Edie? Don't you think she's marvellous?" He rocked her back and forth, and Christine hung her head and smiled foolishly, feeling like a child being shown off to visitors.

  "She's a honey," Edna said. "I've been telling her she's much too good for you."

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  "I know it." Vinson kissed Christine again, and Edna said: 'Well, I'll be going, kids." She struggled into her shoes and picked up her hat. "What do you say we eat in about half an hour, Vinson? Milt's on a new diet, and he has to space his calorie intake exactly, so don't be later than you can help."

  When she had gone Vinson turned Christine round and kissed her long and properly for the first time since she had come to America. When he kissed her like this she knew why she had come three thousand miles.

  After a while he said: "If you're going to change your dress, Christine, you'd better get around to it, or we'll be late."

  "I will in a minute. Edna won't mind. She's awfully nice, Vin."

  "You'd better get changed now." He went to the mirror and straightened his tie and smoothed his hair. "It will be impolite to them if we're late."

  Christine, brought up with Roger, did not see how you could be impolite to a sister. The word in its social sense had no place in her family vocabulary.

  "You've had your hair cut again, darling," she said. 'Why do you wear it so short?"

  "Of course I've had it cut for my wedding. A naval officer doesn't go around looking like a bear."

  "It could be a bit longer without looking like a bear. It's awfully short. You've got a nice shaped head, and you ought to make the most of it."

  He glanced sideways at the mirror to see the shape of his head. "This is regulation length," he said. "My goodness, I'd like to see the Admiral's face if I turned up at my wedding with it any longer than this."

  "Oh," Christine said. "Is the Admiral coming?"

  "I believe he might," said Vinson, with reverent hope.

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  At dinner he talked to Edna about the wedding plans. Milt talked to Christine, asking her how she liked America and applauding her unremarkable answers.

  When the food came he poured tomato sauce all over his steak and said: "This is a bit different to English austerity, isn't it? You ever see anything like this before?"

  "If we did, it would be the week's ration for two people/* Christine said. She had discovered
on the boat that this was always a sure-fire statement to interest Americans.

  "If they'd only pull their socks up over there they could eat like this any day of the week," Milt said. "Look at the Germans. The British could take a lesson from them in recovery."

  Vinson had been half listening to their conversation while he talked to Edna. He was conscious of Christine all the time when they were with other people. "Watch your step, Milt," he said. "Be careful what you say about England."

  "Don't worry," said Milt. "Christine and I are friends. I think she's just the most wonderful person IVe met in ages. You don't mind anything I say, do you, Christine? There — aren't you cute? Of course you don't. Let me tell you, I think Britain's just the finest country."

  He seemed only to have superlative adjectives in his vocabulary. Everything was the finest he had ever seen — the food, the wine Vinson had chosen, Christine's dress. She wondered if he was like this at home. Did he tell Edna all the time how wonderful she was? And, if so, did it sound more sincere than all the praise he was throwing around now?

  She also was conscious of Vinson all the time. Accepting the encomiums with which Milt sought to make up for his criticism of Britain's post-war effort, she was half listening to the conversation between Vinson and his sister.

  "Oh, not Aunt Felice," she heard him say. "She can't come to the wedding."

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  "She must, Vinson. She wants to come, and she'd come, anyway, whatever anyone said."

  "Oh no, I can't have Aunt Felice there/' Vinson frowned.

  "Why not?" Christine asked.

  'Well —" He spread his hands and laughed self-consciously. "Well, she — she's not quite the type of person one should ask one's guests to meet."

  "He means she's nuts," said Edna, biting crisply into cole slaw.

  Christine did not see that it mattered. Nearly every family had at least one odd relation. If she had been married in England there would have been Great Aunt Isobel, who would have had to be kept from the champagne, and probably that weird, hymn-singing housekeeper of Uncle Leonard's, who everyone thought was his wife, and should be, if she wasn't.