by Emily Hahn
“Girls are so independent nowadays,” added Jennifer’s father. “A good thing too, in my estimation. Our parents overdid the coddling act, I always think.”
“Of course they did,” said Mrs. Tennison. “But this part of the country’s perfectly safe,” she said emphatically to Pop. As if she feared that she had frightened him. “Perfectly safe.”
“How do you feel about tennis?” asked Jennifer, putting her head in Francie’s door at three-thirty. “Just a game or two to warm up, before the others get here?”
“What others?” asked Francie drowsily. She had dropped off to sleep, after all, in the welcome warmth of the quilt.
“Mummy asked some people.”
Imagine calling your mother “Mummy” at Jennifer’s age, thought Francie. But a lot of the other girls at school did, as well as Jennifer. It was another proof of their incurable childishness, she decided. She replied with manufactured enthusiasm, “Sa-well! Meet you on the court in two minutes.”
If Jennifer can be decent so can I, she said to herself as she tied her tennis-shoe laces. But the fact was, she didn’t look forward to playing Jennifer, who was school champion. Tennis hadn’t ever been Francie’s best game; she wasn’t bad at it, but she wasn’t terribly good either. However, one must be a good sport, she reminded herself as she ran downstairs to the court, where Jennifer was tightening the net.
“Wizard court!” she said in surprised pleasure, jumping on it. “How lucky you are to have it right here.”
Jennifer was gratified. “It’s not just luck; Daddy and Mummy are frightfully keen as well as me,” she said. “They keep it in shape and we’re giving tennis parties all the time. We’ll have to get your father out for a game or two.”
“Oh, Pop won’t play tennis,” said Francie, swinging her racket. “He only fishes, and goes in for workouts in the gym in New York when he thinks he’s putting on weight.”
“How odd. Typically American.” Jennifer’s tone had taken on the old school tinge, that familiar, unpleasant intonation. I’ve done it again, thought Francie; just talking about New York must have done it. “Which side do you want?” Jennifer asked, changing the subject, and so they started the game.
It’s never much fun playing somebody who is bound to win, unless your opponent plays with good humor. Jennifer didn’t. The devil was in her; first she made Francie run all over the court, and when she tired of that she pretended she couldn’t be bothered to play a decent game. She could beat Francie, she implied silently, with a hand and a foot tied behind her back. Demonstrating this, she grew careless and nearly lost a game. Then all of a sudden she snapped out of it and began playing sensibly. Francie guessed one of the parents had come out of the house to watch, but her back was to the door and she couldn’t look around.
However, Jennifer’s good behavior didn’t hold up. She began sending over her serves with vicious force. Francie missed. Once, twice, once, twice—
“Hold on, there,” called a protesting voice she didn’t recognize. “What is this? A private fight?”
Two strange young men in light trousers stood beyond the wire, laughing at them. One was tall, dark, and thin, and the other was medium-sized and very fair—he was rather cute, Francie decided. They were both nice but he was the cuter. “It’s war,” she replied pertly, “but Jennifer attacked without any declaration.”
“D’you want the court?” demanded Jennifer of the youth who had spoken, preparing to walk off. “I’ve got to give Mummy a hand now, anyway.”
“Do take it,” urged Francie as the young men hesitated. “I couldn’t possibly play any more, not till I’ve puffed a bit.”
Without more ado they accepted. She saw them hard at it as she carried tea cloth and plates in Jennifer’s footsteps, out to the table on the lawn. They had completely dismissed the girls from their minds, she was interested to observe. For a moment when they first talked to her she thought she had seen a gleam of admiration in their eyes, especially in those of the blond boy, but she must have been mistaken. Never in her life, at any rate in her adolescent life, had she met boys who behaved like that, who didn’t seem to care a bit whether or not she was there.
Nobody seemed to think of making introductions, but from a conversation she deliberately overheard between Pop and Mrs. Tennison, sitting on the lawn, she learned that the boys were named Peter and Mark, that Peter lived in the village where Mark, his friend (the cute one) was visiting him, and that both of them were constantly dropping in here to play tennis. Pop said casually how nice it was for Jennifer to have other young people around, an innocent remark that surprised and amused Mrs. Tennison.
“Oh, they’ve no time for Jennifer, Mr. Nelson! They’re far too grand for such an unimportant little girl. They’re grown up, you know—quite young men. They were both called up for the last year of the war, and now they’re at Oxford.”
“No time for girls, eh?” Pop’s eyes twinkled.
“I don’t know about that, but certainly they’ve no time for children like our chicks, who are still in the nursery. Or ought to be.”
“I wouldn’t say the nursery, exactly,” said Francie’s father. “After what I’ve seen going on among young folks, I doubt they’re as indifferent as you seem to think.”
Francie stole a glance at Jennifer as they carried plates of cake and sandwiches out to the tea table. Had she heard this exchange? Would she consider it in bad taste? But Jennifer’s eyes were fixed on the sandwiches with what looked like genuine indifference to anything her elders might be saying.
“Shall I bring the brown sugar, Mummy?” she asked.
“No, my love, this will do nicely. You’d better go and tell the boys tea’s ready.”
From her stiff little chair near the teapot Francie watched the three crossing the lawn toward the table. The dark boy, Peter, idly reached out as he walked and tugged Jennifer’s hair, whereupon she struck at him and he caught her fist and held it off. Then Mark pretended to trip her up. Both boys teased her as if she were a large baby or a good-natured pet dog, and like a baby or a dog Jennifer reacted to it, half-laughing, yet nearly angry. It was strange altogether, thought Francie. Nobody behaved like that in her crowd at home; in fact she couldn’t remember indulging in any play in the same roughhouse spirit since she was twelve years old. Again she was astonished, as she so often was at Fairfields, by the simplicity of Young England’s pleasures.
“Yet Jennifer’s not quite as childish as she looks,” she thought with a touch of spite. “She’s liking it.” Jennifer sat down next to her mother and began dispensing bread and butter like a little lady. Her healthy color was higher than usual, and as Mark swallowed sandwiches she kept glancing furtively at him. Evidently Francie was not the only one who thought he was cute.
An instinct stirred in Francie which had been long asleep. Ruth would have recognized the danger signals in her eyes. Francie Nelson was on the warpath.
“If you want to put yourself across with somebody,” she had often said to Ruth, during long cozy chats in Jefferson over double chocolate malteds, “you’ve got to mean it. Be aware of the man. Concentrate. I can’t tell you how to do it, exactly, but it works.”
Now Francie concentrated on Mark. She worked hard at it, without showing any effort. All afternoon she stalked him like an accomplished hunter; she watched him, laughed when he spoke, dropped her eyes if he happened to look at her, and then when he looked again met his gaze squarely. She would have described the process to Ruth as “Treatment A.” The first task, she knew, was to get past that ghastly indifference he seemed to wear like a coat of mail.
“I’ve done it,” she thought at last, with a thrill of satisfaction.
She had done it, as a matter of fact, too thoroughly. Not only Mark but Peter as well suddenly began to pay her attention. And as a special triumph, it wasn’t the rather contemptuous attention they bestowed on Jennifer. Neither of them tweaked Francie’s hair or took other liberties of that sort. Instead they talked to her as to an
equal. They asked her if she had visited Oxford. They requested her opinion on the latest movie showing in London.
It was a true victory, not the less so because it was invisible to the older people. Neither Mr. Tennison nor Mr. Nelson seemed to notice anything wrong. Pop was used to his daughter exerting influence over young men, whereas Mr. Tennison never took the slightest interest in what the younger generation did. Mrs. Tennison was determined to consider the younger generation humorous, and only humorous, in any manifestation whatever; she merely laughed at whatever Mark or Peter said, without listening.
As for Jennifer, her thoughts, if any, were her own. Her expression didn’t change. After the tea things had been piled on a tray and carried indoors, with the young men eagerly helping, she said abruptly, “Well, come on. Who’s for tennis?”
Nobody replied. Francie dropped her eyes and the boys waited. Mrs. Tennison said at last, “You children needn’t hold back on our account. We can play later.”
Still there was a pause. Francie said, “I don’t believe I’ll play, Jennifer. It’s not a bit of good; I’m not up to your standard.”
“Nonsense,” said Jennifer. “You play perfectly well for a social game. Come on, let’s have mixed doubles.”
“No, really, I’m not good enough. Go ahead, the rest of you, and I’ll watch.”
“But—” Jennifer began.
“Go on, Peter; you can play Jenny. I’ve really had enough for the afternoon,” said Mark. “Too much tea, that’s my trouble.”
In the end, it was Jennifer’s parents who played.
Francie had expected to savor to the last drop her cup of triumph, but somehow it didn’t work out that way. Jennifer showed no signs of dismay or disgruntlement. She continued behaving just as she had done before, dry, abrupt, and distant.
“I thought she’d seem younger and less of a threat,” thought Francie ruefully, “but she doesn’t. She can still get me down, just the same as always.”
Francie even felt forced to respect her enemy, on a day when Mrs. Tennison’s firm good humor failed her, and she had to go to bed with a sudden attack of arthritis.
“It’s most inconvenient, I know,” Francie heard her saying to Jennifer from her pillow, “but the grim fact is I can’t straighten my back out, poppet. It is inconvenient, today of all days, because there’s the joint to prepare and I had meant to do you a gooseberry tart. I know these attacks. I’ll be better tomorrow, but for the afternoon I’m afraid you’ll have to carry on without me.”
“That’s quite all right, Mummy,” said Jennifer. “I have Francie, and we’ll manage.”
Her competent voice surprised Francie. “She must be mad,” she thought. “How can she manage a joint and a tart? I know I couldn’t, anyway.”
But Jennifer did manage. She quietly took over the kitchen and proceeded to give a very good imitation of her mother. She prepared the joint, gave her orders to Francie with pleasant efficiency, cycled—accompanied by her respectful guest—into town to the baker’s for a forgotten order of tea cake, and behaved in general as if housekeeping was the one thing she had always been trained to do.
“I do think you’re a marvel, Jennifer,” Francie burst out as they prepared a tea tray for the invalid. “I’m perfectly certain I couldn’t do all this, I can tell you that much.”
“Do all what?” asked Jennifer in honest surprise. “You mean the cooking? But I thought American girls were good cooks.”
“Some may be, but I’ve never picked it up myself. My aunt did all that. And you seem to know exactly how to go about it.”
“Cooking’s something we’ve had to do all these years since the war began,” said Jennifer casually, mixing the piecrust. “There wasn’t anyone to help out, you see. It was different before; the Mater had to learn late in life. She’ll tell you herself, she couldn’t boil an egg before the war, but as it was she had to learn, and so did I—we struggled through together, as it were. We had to get down to it, I can tell you, when all the domestic help went into the factories. It’s just as well I did.” Her voice was cheerful. “I don’t see any signs that we’ll ever get more help, as things are going, but I don’t mind cooking. I rather like it, as a matter of fact. If every study at school were as easily picked up, I’d be all right!”
Francie looked at her in wonder. Jennifer did not seem ill-pleased by the compliment, but she was confused, and broke off in relief when the little dog limped into the kitchen and gave her an excuse to change the subject.
“Bonzo, whatever is the matter with your paw? Let me look at it,” she said. She knelt down and picked up the dog’s foot. “Oh, the poor beastie!” she cried. “Look at this, Francie; his poor claw is simply mangled. He must have cut it, or got caught in a snare.”
Francie tried to look, but a familiar weakness assailed her. “I’m awfully sorry, Jennifer, honestly, but I can’t bear the sight of blood. I get nauseated. Do you mind if I don’t come close?”
“No, of course, not at all, but you might fetch the surgical gauze from the cabinet over the bath—that is if your legs haven’t given way.”
Francie bit her lip. She had told the truth; she had always been silly about blood, but there was no help for it. Under the lash of Jennifer’s scorn she meekly fetched and carried, while the English girl, still showing a surprising capability that Francie had never suspected, washed and bandaged the dog’s paw midst a resentful silence: Hostility reigned again.
“Yet for a while there,” reflected Francie, “she was quite decent. I must admit she is a good housekeeper. Just like a grown woman, really. Maybe these kids aren’t as babyish as I thought.”
Lately Francie had found no time to write her customary long letter to Ruth. It wasn’t that the days were crowded with dates; to her disgusted surprise Mark didn’t ask for a date at all, though she had fully expected him to do so when he took his leave after the tennis party. He had merely lingered a little saying good-bye, as if he wanted to do something about the matter but didn’t quite know what. Now if he’d lived in Jefferson, thought Francie, he’d merely have said, “Are you busy Saturday night?” or at least, “I’ll give you a ring in the morning.”
Maybe he was afraid of the Tennisons. But what was wrong about dating? She never thought about the fact that dates are costly. American boys always managed.
So, unfortunately, it wasn’t Mark or Peter who was keeping her busy; it was the weather. This remained determinedly fine, so that when she and Jennifer weren’t cycling into town on errands for the household, or helping Mrs. Tennison with the cooking like good little girls, they were expected to be out of doors. They played tennis—Jennifer displayed better manners nowadays on the court, observed Francie, or perhaps her own game was really improving—and they went on picnics or walks, en famille. The Tennisons were determined to do their duty as hosts, and to show off the English countryside. Ordinarily they had to be very careful with their rationed petrol, but Mr. Tennison had saved some up for the occasion and on one day they even drove a long way out for picnic tea in a little wood. Not once, however, did they go to the movies.
As long as it was only for a few days, Francie told herself she didn’t mind. But it would have been much better if Mark or even Peter had been along on the walks and the picnic. She wondered if she could have been mistaken, too confident, too conceited. Perhaps Mark hadn’t really noticed her at all, she thought. These months in the strange country of England had made Francie begin to look at herself from the outside, wondering a little what the other girls at school thought of her. In Jefferson it had never occurred to her to wonder; they all felt the same way about things. But here—
“They’d think I was bats if they knew how often I think about Mark,” she admitted to herself. “They’re never keen on boys. Anyway, am I really keen on him? Or is it just that I like to have something going on?”
She pondered this difficult question, during the long dull hours. It might even be, she felt, that Mark’s only attraction was that Jennifer in h
er immature way liked him too.
On the fourth day in walked Mark himself, at last, carrying his tennis racket. After thinking about him so much Francie was surprised to see him. He wasn’t quite so attractive as she had thought. Or was he?
She and Jennifer took turns playing him or each other, but it was a dull day and before tea it began to rain. The girls had to give him tea by themselves, for Pop and Mr. Tennison had gone up to town on a business matter and Mrs. Tennison was out interviewing a new charlady. Poor Mrs. Tennison, thought Francie, always working, standing in line to buy fish, or trying to locate a good dressmaker to alter her old clothes, or hunting high and low for curtain material. Aunt Norah never had to put in half so much time on her house. And with all Jennifer’s mother’s work, the food wasn’t easy to manage anyway. Having to be careful with sugar, having to plan so many meals without meat—really, “the Mater” was wonderful. Francie, happy that Mark had come to tea, began feeling very kindly toward the Tennison family.
At last Jennifer muttered something about getting hot water and went into the kitchen. Francie was just thinking that it was significant how Jennifer had given up the school uniform, and blossomed out in regular frocks, when Mark said, hastily, “You know, Peter’s most awfully smitten with you.”
“Is he?” Francie felt slightly astonished. After all, it was Mark she had put in all that work on—not Peter.
“Yes. Awfully.” He turned bright red with the effort of making such a personal remark. “I’ve never seen old Peter so smitten. He never looks at girls, in the ordinary way. It must be your being American. You American girls are different, you know.”
“I guess we must be,” said Francie. “Well, I mean, it’s only natural in a way. We’re brought up so differently.”
“So I should imagine,” said Mark. “English girls are jolly, of course, and all that, but you’re—well, different. I don’t know if you understand what I mean. The point I’m trying to make is, do you think your father might bring you to Oxford one of these days? Americans tend rather to like Oxford, I’ve noticed.”