Forty is Beginning (Timeless Classics Collection)

by Ursula Bloom

  The news vendor came back, and on his advice she went round to the Haineses’ to see what they had to offer.

  Mr. Haines opened the door to her. He was a sandy-haired man, with skin like bran mash, but honest blue eyes and an ever-present smile. He was dressed in an Ensign’s uniform, having only just come home from a meeting in the square, where he had held forth with great poignancy. ‘Hello, Sister! God be with you!’ he said, but so heartily that she could not be offended. He smiled merrily and seemed to know her needs, for there is nothing like the Salvation Army for knowing people’s needs and coping with them. He escorted her upstairs, and there was the sitting-room as clean as the proverbial new pin. It was smaller than her present one, of course, and more ornate. It wasn’t only ‘God is Love’ in forget-me-nots, it had Blood and Fire everywhere. For the Haineses were ardent. There was no doubt about the fact that they adored their great religion and never spared themselves from any of the arduous duties that it demanded of them.

  ‘I’ll come on Saturday,’ said Miss Marvin.

  ‘God be praised!’ said Mr. Haines, ‘and my wife’ll have a first-class supper ready to welcome you. We’ll ask a blessing for it,’ and he led Miss Marvin downstairs in triumph.

  An idea was in her mind; supposing she could persuade Nancy Palmer to let her rent that other bedroom in her darling little Tudor cottage, it might be something of a proposition. She could make some tactful approach to that arrangement after she came here, for whatever else happened, she must move on Saturday. There was no going back on that.

  She walked home through the raw night, and she turned indoors. The smell of hot bloater hung distressingly about the place. She went upstairs, and wrote the letter to Mr. Swinnerton, settling with the offer, before the bloater arrived upstairs, with hunks of bread and butter and a cup of cocoa that had the skin on it. Mrs. Bunce knew quite well that she loathed skin, but always provided it when she was angry, to get her own back.

  Miss Marvin said nothing. She ate what she could telling herself that it would be very different in Cap Rabat, for now the idea of Cap Rabat was delightful; even the thought of the couchette with its awful significance did not put her off.

  She started to pack that night, for there was nothing like getting on with the good work, and that made her feel better; she knew that Mrs. Bunce realised what she was doing, though she said nothing.

  As Miss Marvin was going to bed she heard a voice in the garden below her window, for Mrs. Bunce’s last duty of the day was putting the cat out, and apparently the woman next door was occupied on the same mission.

  ‘Ever such a row!’ Mrs. Bunce was saying, ‘after all these years, and me always doing my best and never properly paid for a thing. Oh, what I’ve done for her, but there you are, of course it’s her age!’

  That was the crowning insult!

  On Saturday afternoon Miss Marvin moved to the Haineses’.

  He was very helpful, bringing a little handcart round the night before and wheeling her larger luggage there himself, so that she had only a small case to carry. When Mrs. Bunce found out where Miss Marvin was going, she did her best to warn her solemnly against the Salvation Army. Ever so noisy, she said, ever so violent. She had discovered all about it long before Mr. Haines came to call for the luggage and help it across, for Mrs. Bunce could be relied on to find out anything in the way of news; no ambitious young reporter smelling of Fleet Street could have been keener on his job.

  ‘You’ll never be able to put up with it; you’ll rue the day that you left me,’ she prophesied.

  Miss Marvin did not reply. She was at the moment occupied with trouble that had arisen at school. Miss Halifax, the headmistress ‒ a worthy woman who adopted an orthodox attitude towards life and permitted no laxity amongst the staff ‒ spoke to Miss Marvin. She had heard things, she said, and what did it mean? Was it true that Miss Marvin had won some money in a manner that was irregular, and had she now made arrangements to go to the south of France to spend Easter? Yes, said Miss Marvin. Ever since she had started on this job she had wondered what she would do if ever she was challenged. Privately she hated Miss Halifax, but worked dutifully for her and hoped that she did not show how she felt. Curiously, she did not wilt. So much had happened recently, a lifelong routine had changed with remarkable swiftness, so that she could not imagine what would come next.

  She steeled herself for the occasion; adopting a manner that was almost frigid she said, ‘I won a hundred pounds in the pools, and I do intend to go to Cap Rabat for Easter.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Halifax. She was used to humility in her staff, and had intended to lay down the law and forbid foolish jaunts and juggling with games of chance. She disliked staff troubles, and these days there were considerably more of them and considerably less staff, which she had to remember. She could only say ‘Oh!’

  ‘Is that all, Miss Halifax?’ asked Miss Marvin.

  It had to be all. In her heart Miss Marvin knew that Miss Halifax disapproved of it and that she would have to be careful what she did. It seemed highly probable that when the summer term ended she would find herself seeking a new job, and she had to remember that she was getting no younger. Panic seized her. She was now horrified that she should have saved that hundred pounds against a rainy day.

  She went back to her diggings feeling forlorn.

  The first night in the Haines ménage taught her that she had changed her abode for the better, because although it might be more hearty, it was very much better than Mrs. Bunce’s. Miss Marvin returned at lunch time, and Mrs. Haines had an excellent tray meal prepared. At five o’clock a good substantial tea with a relish turned up, and at nine o’clock at night the hot cocoa was accompanied by herring roes on toast and some solid sultana cake. ‘Very much better,’ she told herself. There was a hot water bottle in the bed. Although the Haineses were working like mad because they were planning a rally for tomorrow, they had not suggested that Miss Marvin should go too.

  During the evening the postman left a letter from ‘The World is Yours’ Travel Agency. Everything was already in train. She had burnt her boats behind her. She had left ‘God is Love’ in forget-me-nots and was looking brightly ahead to the most wonderful holiday of her life. Now the world was her oyster.

  ‘You won’t really go?’ asked the Minister, who had followed her to her new digs, and arrived to call officially during the next week-end.

  ‘Certainly I am going. Why not? I think travel broadens the mind.’ Miss Marvin had got that from the pamphlet, and she was very irritated that anyone should try to stop her.

  ‘Yes, but you are not a very sophisticated person. The world is a large place, and you may find it different from Brestonbury.’ He shook his head. Maria in Italy had not been at all like Brestonbury, he recalled, but travel was different for a man, he being supposed to be capable of looking after himself, whilst a woman couldn’t. He preened himself at the thought, because it gave him a certain dignity. Miss Marvin had considerable distaste in her eye; seeing it, he felt that the time had come to speak more plainly.

  ‘And, by the by,’ he said, ‘I think it regrettable that you should have left Mrs. Bunce and come to stay with people with an opposition faith.’

  ‘You know that Mrs. Bunce listens at doors, and read my letter; that is disgraceful in any faith.’

  ‘Yes, agreed.’ The Minister was becoming a trifle impatient. ‘But at the same time she has learnt her lesson from what has happened, and would not have continued along that unreasonable line. You should have given her a second chance.’

  ‘Six years,’ said Miss Marvin grimly, ‘and a whole lot of second chances, I should have said!’

  When he heard about it, Mr. Haines was on her side. ‘Go and have a good time,’ said he, returning from the meeting which always inspired him to noble confidence in humanity. He loved his religion, and would have been lost if it had not been for his navy blue uniform and the banner of blood and fire marching ahead. ‘Ours is the faith that goes to the
people,’ said he brightly when describing it. ‘Why let those chaps influence your life? Why not have fun whilst you can?’ and he went off to help with the washing up, whistling ‘Washed in the Blood of the Lamb’ as he did so.

  ‘There is certainly one thing about it,’ thought Miss Marvin, who was more than a little disturbed at this realisation, ‘he enjoys being a Salvationist, and I don’t think I have ever enjoyed being a Methodist.’ All the same, she could not see herself marching forth in all weathers under the banner, with the big drum beating a noble tattoo, and little boys scuttling in the gutter beside them. She admired them (‘Goodness, who wouldn’t?’ she told herself); they did a grand work and were the true example of the duty to the neighbour, giving everyone joy.

  Mr. Swinnerton sent the tickets for the trip. Miss Marvin went into Manchester for a last final check-up with the dentist (it would be a shocking thing if, when she got to Cap Rabat, her teeth started to go wrong on her). She dared not think what French dentists would be like; her vague knowledge of travel warned her that they would probably not even be qualified. She popped in on Mr. Swinnerton as she chanced to pass the agency, and she found him in the best humour, now busy fitting up Northern Capital cruises for the summer. Seeing the enticing posters that were sprawled on his desk, Miss Marvin was not at all sure that she should not have waited for the summer time, but then you couldn’t have everything, and if she hadn’t acted immediately, maybe she would never have gone anywhere at all.

  School broke up on the sixth.

  Miss Halifax had her formal speech day, with the girls in white frocks all sitting in the first four rows, whilst the parents looked nervous and apprehensive behind them. Along the side wall the staff squatted uncomfortably, all save the French mistress, an imported specimen who couldn’t sit still for a single moment. A short concert was held before the speeches; the entire school singing the school song, a piece of music that Miss Halifax had brought with her, for she came of a distressingly musical family, who were never short of silly ideas.

  Miss Halifax made her speech, addressing everybody as ‘Girls ‒ Or shall I say my friends?’ (‘MUST she?’ whispered the gym mistress, a stout article who wore too tight skirts, and manly jackets, and had three chins at thirty-five with the prospect of several more to come. ‘She only makes a fool of herself.’) But Miss Halifax would.

  After speech day was done, and the parents had lodged complaints, or had congratulated Miss Halifax on this and that, they took tea in the dining hall, and were walked round by their daughters, to be introduced to their particular silkworms, the caterpillars, the white mice, and the goats which were kept in the paddock.

  Miss Halifax gave a feast that night in her own room to the staff. This was one of the more formidable term efforts, which everyone dreaded. One could not refuse, for no excuse was permitted. If one was dying, one crawled to Miss Halifax to join in that end-of-term supper, and if one died at the table that was just too bad.

  There was always cold boiled fowl, very leathery, a little brisket under the name of York ham, and a stiff trifle that bore no relationship to that name. Cider was offered as the wine, coffee followed afterwards. It is curious how the Englishwoman believes that if she offers chicken, ham and trifle, it must be a good meal, whatever age the chicken, whatever meat the ham, and whatever bottle the coffee comes out of. It was a dim meal for when Miss Halifax had taken honours in maths, she had given up any hope of glamour and romance, and had relented into blue stocking routine. The conversation was conducted on the same lines as those used when one talks with royal ladies. Miss Halifax always chose the topics, and changed them as she would, allowing no one else to. They mutely followed the well-known signals.

  As the evening dully faded, one by one they made their adieux in the order of seniority. Miss Marvin being low down in the social scale of the school, was forced to stay to the bitter end. ‘I rather wanted a word with you, Miss Marvin,’ said Miss Halifax finally with no warmth at all. ‘You will not be leaving early, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes, I’m catching the first train.’

  ‘Precisely!’ said Miss Halifax, who herself intended to spend the holiday in Ripon with a cousin in holy orders; she did not suppose that she was going to enjoy herself very much, but hadn’t bothered. Like most spinster ladies who realise that the opportunity to marry will now never come to them, she had submerged ambition in her career. She would have been happier with a husband and some children of her own, but now she knew that there would be nothing like that. She regarded the school with some acidity. She hated the girls and their silly-looking parents, who had at least had the fun that she would never have.

  Never had she been more annoyed than when she discovered that Miss Marvin was going off to Cap Rabat to have the sort of holiday that Miss Halifax herself had always envied. She did not know how to bottle up her rage, magnified by the fact that although she could dictate to her staff on their term-time life, she could not do a thing about it when it came to their holidays. They could go where they liked, but Miss Halifax hadn’t finished.

  She was alone with Miss Marvin. The dining-table had been cleared, and the pot of hart’s-tongue fern put back in its place and Miss Halifax, adopting a supercilious smile, looked at Alice Marvin.

  ‘So you’re off tomorrow?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Some Empire type sherry had been produced, and there was about half a very small glass left. Miss Halifax lifted the decanter and held it up to the light, surveying it with disapproval and then dividing it between them with commendable fairness.

  ‘Why did you choose to visit Cap Rabat?’ she enquired.

  ‘It was chosen for me, I know nothing of the south of France. I thought that it would be very nice to have a change.’

  ‘Precisely!’ said the headmistress, and then, ‘I am going to Ripon.’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ was all that Miss Marvin could think to say.

  There was another awkward silence, then Miss Halifax said, ‘I know it is none of my business, but I should have considered it much more desirable if you had taken an English holiday. The south of France is for young persons, the type of whom neither of us approve ‒ I hope. I cannot imagine that you will enjoy yourself there.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Marvin, loathing Miss Halifax and wishing that she could tell her to mind her own business and let her go home and finish her packing, but of course she couldn’t do that.

  ‘What I am saying is only for your own good,’ remarked Miss Halifax, her acidity increasing.

  ‘I know that. I always know when people are saying things only for my own good, because the remarks are never pleasant.’ Perhaps she should not have said it, but she felt angry. She saw the swarthy colour rise into Miss Halifax’s cheeks, and ebb down into her wrinkled throat, which gave her the appearance of a toad intoxicated by Beaune.

  When she could speak, she said, ‘Indeed!’ finished her sherry with one fierce gulp, and rose majestically with a royal significance to end the interview.

  ‘Thank you so much for the pleasant evening,’ said Miss Marvin, who had hated every moment of it. Miss Halifax said not a word; she just looked, and how she looked! In her career she had become past mistress of the look, and could convey scornful contempt more adequately than anyone else whom Alice Marvin had ever met.

  With cold discouragement in her tone, Miss Halifax said, ‘We shall meet on the twenty-ninth of April, then?’

  ‘Certainly, and I hope you enjoy yourself at Ripon.’

  ‘I am sure I shall,’ said Miss Halifax, who knew quite well that she wouldn’t.

  When her guest had gone at last, the headmistress stood moodily staring at the overmantel group of herself at the University. She was one of the central figures, as becomes those who have taken honours. Underneath, the college crest was emblazoned, accompanied by the autographs of those who were in the picture. She stared at them, her soul rising in revolt.

  She stared at the girl who sat beside her, no
t looking quite so smug. She had been pretty, and a fortnight later she had eloped with a Moslem prince who had got two wives already, but said that neither of them really counted! Miss Halifax thought of little Maggie Brian who had sat on the other side of her, and who had ultimately married beneath her; he had been obliged to leave England to seek suitable employment elsewhere. Miss Halifax had privately smirked over it, but the smirk had died when he came back so rich and affluent that his wife had three mink coats. Those girls had flung their honours over the moon for love, and oh, how Miss Halifax would have liked to do the same thing!

  Tonight she had looked across her table at Alice Mavin, and had realised that she was only forty, a mere child to Miss Halifax now approaching forty-five.

  Miss Marvin was slight, and if only she did not wear such awfully ordinary clothes, she would be almost elegant. Her hair had no sign of grey in it, though it had faded to mouse, whilst her eyes were quite pretty, her skin good. She had not a trio of surplus chins like the gym mistress, who had been in a temper all the evening because somebody had said something rude about her. The unfortunate part was that she was not sure that it was about her, though it had come to her ears that one of the mistresses was known amongst the rank and file of the school under the appalling pet name of Miss Big Bot. She was convinced that it was herself.

  Miss Halifax felt wretched. If only she could have been going to Cap Rabat instead of this dismally dull jaunt to Ripon! It was getting very late, and tomorrow was end of term; she went upstairs to bed.

  Miss Marvin did not weep. She finished her packing. The new cashmere cardigan in case the wind was chilly; a couple of cotton frocks, neatly striped in a not too conspicuous colour; her semi-evening, kept for such occasions as today, and made of beige lace in spider web pattern, said to be suitable for any occasion, but really gracing none; and her one pseudo-silk frock, which creased abominably but which she hoped would see her through any festive occasion. Never had anyone packed a more unsuitable assortment of clothes for a gay Easter on the Riviera, but for the moment she thought them lovely.