The Flowering Thorn

by Margery Sharp

  However, there was no sense in lingering. Returning to the bookstall, where Pat was already in conversation with some of the unattached, she said cheerfully,

  “Well, Pat, it’s nearly time. Shall you be all right, if I leave you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Pat simply.

  (‘If I don’t go now,’ thought Lesley, ‘I’ll be an Importunate Female to him too.’)

  “Good-bye, then, Pat. Write as soon as you can.”

  They shook hands, and with a considerable effort she turned on her heel and walked straight down the platform.

  Under cover of a luggage-lift, however, she halted and looked back: they were still all over the place, seething round the tall master like a new entry of hounds. Just where she had left him stood young Craigie, still in converse with one or two others; and seeing him thus surrounded by his peers, Lesley stood still a minute and surveyed the fruit of her four years’ labour. A boy here and there looked quicker, more lively, perhaps, but for sheer sturdy health, and above all for sheer composure, not one could compare. Pat stood squarely on both feet, did not fidget, and was not to be jostled out of his chosen position. When someone knocked somebody else’s cap off, he took no part in the scuffle, but merely seemed to stand a little more squarely than before, in case anyone should be going to knock his. No one did. He listened more than he talked, watched more than he listened, and all with a mingled expression of wariness and excitement.

  The fruit was good.

  Lesley looked, sighed, and gave him her blessing; then she left the station and took a ’bus to Elissa’s.

  Part V

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the matter of the party for Lesley Frewen, Elissa really did her best. She found a four-year-old engagement-book, and went through every man mentioned in it, trying hard to remember which, if any of them, had been Lesley’s lovers. In this way she revived a good many sentimental memories of her own, but achieved no other result; and was just about to discard the book altogether when her eye was caught by a sprawling entry at the beginning of August. It covered three days, and it said: ‘Lesley week-end: Toby’s car.’

  Toby’s car! And in it, in the back, Bryan Collingwood! Well, Toby at least—dear Toby! had transferred his allegiance; but hadn’t Bryan been very badly hit indeed? In any case, those two would do to start with: and moving to the telephone Elissa began alphabetically with Toby Ashton.

  It was so long since she had last ’phoned him that she had to look up the number: Mayfair 001. It seemed vaguely unexpected: surely he used to be 110? With deliberately cultivated trustfulness, however—she was trying to rely more and more on the Unseen—Elissa repeated it to Exchange and hoped for the best.

  Her faith was justified.

  “Hello?”

  Nice deep voice—dear Toby!

  “Hello, Toby darling!”

  “This is Mr. Ashton’s valet speaking.…”

  “Oh! Well, can I speak to Mr. Ashton, please?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ashton is not—”

  He broke off, and in the short pause that followed she could hear him speak to someone else: then the ’phone evidently changed hands, for a new voice took up the thread.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello, Toby darling. This is Elissa.”

  “Elis—? Oh! Elissa!” exclaimed the ’phone resourcefully. “How are you, darling?”

  “Oh, still alive. Toby, you remember Lesley Frewen?”

  “No,” said Toby.

  “My dear, of course you do. We went down and stayed with her. At a cottage in the country, about three or four years ago. It was rather a flop.”

  “Then I’m sure I don’t remember. I always put flops straight out of my mind.”

  “Well, anyway, Toby, she’s coming back to Town for a few days, and I’ve got to give a party. To-day week. Could you come early, say about nine o’clock, and have a preliminary cocktail?”

  But Toby had not heard. He was just remembering something.

  “Lesley Frewen—hadn’t she a small boy? I mean, wasn’t that why she went into the country in the first place?”

  “Darling, how clever of you! That’s the woman. But it wasn’t her own infant. At least, I don’t think it was,” said Elissa doubtfully. “Anyway—nine o’clock?”

  “If I possibly can, darling. But there is just a chance,” said Toby Ashton, “that I may have to fly over to Paris.…”

  So that was no good. Without nurturing any false hopes, Elissa went back to the telephone book and turned up the C’s. Collingwood, Bryan L., Flat K.16, Beverley Court: she gave the number, trusted as before, and was presently aware of a voice at her ear.

  “That you, Bryan, darling?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said the voice. “This is Mrs. Collingwood.”

  ‘Of course, how stupid of me!’ exclaimed Elissa, with considerable sang-froid. “I couldn’t remember the surname.… Listen, can you come to a party here, to-day week, and bring Bryan with you? I shall have Lesley Frewen staying here, and I’m sure they’d enjoy seeing each other. Oh, by the way, this is Elissa speaking.”

  “Thank you,” said the voice tartly, “I haven’t the least idea—”

  “Wait!” cried Elissa, suddenly inspired. “Natasha!”

  “— What you’re talking about,” concluded the voice.

  “Well, Bryan will tell you,” said Elissa sweetly; and with extreme deliberation hung up the receiver.

  So that was no good either, and the party would have to remain just as she had originally designed it—art, stage, and literature (all three, naturally, of recognised and amusing brands) with for high light Andrew Bentall. And remembering that name, Elissa smiled. He had been difficult to pin down, for architects, as soon as they became famous, always had a secretary; and secretaries (or so Elissa was convinced) lie without scruple or remorse. But she had prevailed at last, and that distinguished presence was now a certainty. For the rest, to fill up all gaps, there would be one or two thirsty young men, because the older women liked them, and just a sprinkling of the rich, because they were so comforting to have about. And if in all that Lesley couldn’t find someone to mate with—well, it would just be a pity.

  ‘Anyway—I’ve done my best,’ thought Elissa complacently; and that being so, felt completely justified in accepting, for the day her guest was to appear, a rather fascinating invitation to spend the afternoon on a houseboat and the evening at a riverside club. She left Pont Street, therefore, exactly ten minutes after Lesley arrived, and returned about three a.m.: which meant (since the latter retired at eleven) no further interview until the early following morning, when Lesley, awaking as usual, at a quarter past seven, out of sheer heedless bonhomie, slipped down the passage and knocked on Elissa’s door.

  “I thought you were the orange-juice,” said Elissa, sitting up and reaching for a bed-jacket. Her expression, though still a good deal blurred by the remains of some skin-food, was almost certainly not one of happy surprise. “Couldn’t you sleep, darling, or have the maids been making a racket?”

  “Oh, no, I slept beautifully,” said Lesley. “I—I just wanted to know where the bathroom was.”

  “Darling! Didn’t that fool Parker tell you? You’re having the little green one at the end of the passage.” She picked up a hand-mirror and stared thoughtfully at her chin: jerked it first to the left, then to the right. “And if you see anyone along the way, darling, just send them straight along to me.”

  The congé was unmistakable, but for a moment longer an uneasy sense of guilt made Lesley stand her ground.

  “It wasn’t really Parker’s fault, darling. She showed me everything last night, only I couldn’t remember the doors. They—they all look so alike.”

  “Well, next time you come, darling,” said Elissa irritably, “I’ll get some W.C. labels.”

  Unhappily conscious that she had made a fool of herself, Lesley opened the door and retired to her own room. An obscure melancholy was burdening her heart, so sudden and unexpected tha
t she instinctively looked up to see if the day were clouding over. But no, the sun still climbed in a cloudless sky, the flowers at the window were still transparent with light. If a note had jarred, one must try to forget it: and standing barefoot on a patch of sun Lesley did her best to eliminate from memory Elissa’s morning face.

  2

  It was soon eliminated at any rate from view, for when they met again, at about eleven o’clock, Elissa advanced with her usual radiant countenance. She was dressed for driving, and at once made it clear that Lesley was not going too.

  “My dear—dinner at seven,” she announced briskly, “an ungodly hour, because of the mob afterwards. And there’ll be lunch here at one, though I probably shan’t be back. What are your plans, darling?”

  ‘She feels she ought to send me to Saint Paul’s!’ thought Lesley; and indeed almost before she had time to answer Elissa added hastily,

  “If ever you feel like going to the Zoo, darling, do tell me in time, and I’ll ring up Cyril Poullett. I met him at the Ballet Circle—a perfectly fascinating little man who looks after the snakes. He takes them out and waves them about.…” She sketched a vaguely sinuous gesture, as though of a waved snake, and picked up her bag. “Or what about the Park? It’s a perfect day.”

  Lesley made haste to relieve her friend’s mind. She had lots to do—shopping and hair to begin with: would doubtless be out to lunch herself; and was in fact away from the house while the Buick still waited. Elissa caught her up at the corner, waved and flashed on; and Lesley, after taking a leisurely look at the Park, caught a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner. Her destination was Kensington High Street, where for reasons of economy (and of course keeping its provenance from Elissa) she hoped to purchase a new evening-dress; but the sight of Piccadilly drew her off her course, and turning left instead of right she started to walk slowly towards the Circus.

  And now, as never in her life before, she savoured the multiple and exquisite sensations that together made up a stroll down Piccadilly. Pleasure of eye and of ear: the smooth clean pavement underfoot: the full river of traffic so evenly flowing: the infinite variety of face, figure, clothing and scent that on every side caught and fed her attention. A brilliant and settled sky had brought out all the women in their lightest clothes: they walked with light, buoyant steps, happily conscious of giving pleasure, and sideways-glancing into the windows of the motor-shops, where the ample space between Rolls and Rolls could mirror, Lesley noted, at least three slim silhouettes at one and the same time. From a hundred vermilion ’buses, many of them in full career, prehensile conductors leaned out to look at the ladies: or with one hand curved about the mouth (the other as it were their sole link with life) shouted flavour-some pleasantries to men working on the road. For the road was up, as usual, opposite the Ritz, where a homely little encampment struck a contrasting note of simple comfort. Along the adjacent barrier a dozen or more flaneurs formed an oasis of quiet and contemplation; the men with the pneumatic drills, though they answered readily enough to the ’bus conductors, took no more notice than a row of sparrows.

  ‘I’d quite forgotten!’ thought Lesley, looking about her, as in a foreign land, with interest and enjoyment; and as in a foreign land she tried to store up every detail and incident—a chance grouping of roadmenders, a repartee from a ’bus—to take back to the Pomfrets. For she had indeed the advantage of most travellers in being certain of her audience; the Pomfrets would want to know everything, and so would the Brookes. So Lesley walked slowly, taking it all in, and being struck more than once by the particularly good-humoured expressions on the faces of the people she passed. Everyone she looked at seemed on the point of smiling, especially the pukka or pre-war sahibs then arriving at their clubs; and one at least of them almost stood still in her path. Lesley looked again; it was Graham Whittal.

  “Uncle Graham!” she cried accusingly.

  “My dear Lesley!”

  “You told me you were going to be in Scotland! If this had been yesterday you could have seen Pat!” She half turned, and made a despairing motion towards Victoria. “When did you come back?”

  “Last night,” said Mr. Whittal unhesitatingly. “If you’re going shopping, may I come and carry for you?”

  She accepted with pleasure, and directing his steps towards Piccadilly Circus began at once to describe with what flying colours Pat had passed the Doctor. As far as could be judged, he had absolutely nothing wrong with him; and though at lessons he might be a trifle slower than some children, good health, at that age, was obviously far more important. Didn’t Uncle Graham think so?

  ‘Devonshire cream!’ thought old Whittal.

  It was the phrase that had come into his mind on first seeing her, before he realised who she was: an involuntary tribute to something charming and unusual on the Piccadilly pavements. There was a freshness about her, and an air of enjoyment—nothing like it, for setting off a pretty woman. ‘Devonshire cream!’ had thought old Whittal. ‘Very refreshing!’

  And even after the shock of recognition, the impression remained. The creamy-sunburned complexion, that look about the eyes that comes only from eight hours’ sleep: the soft lower lip, and slight fullness under the chin; she had developed a kind, easy beauty that was extraordinarily grateful to the jaded eye.…

  “But you’ll see him at Christmas,” Lesley was saying. “I do hope it’ll freeze! Let’s cross over, Uncle Graham, and look in Fortnums’.”

  He took her arm and piloted her through the traffic, Lesley entrusting herself to his guidance in a manner which he at once felt to be charming, womanly, and entirely new. In the old days, as far as he could remember, it had always been she who showed a tendency to guide him: yes, she used to grip him by the elbow and nearly land him under a bus.…

  “Ah!” said Lesley, as they achieved the opposite pavement. And she glanced at him admiringly: he knew she did.

  “When you’ve looked your fill,” he said, “we’ll go in and have some coffee.” Her face under the curve of hat-brim—it was delightful! And his glance moving downwards, he noted with pleasure that in spite of nearly five years in the country she hadn’t at all let herself go. On the contrary! She had lost her slouch, carried her head up and her shoulders back; as though no longer ashamed, thought old Whittal, of having a chest.

  Lesley drew a deep breath.

  “Do you know,” she said, “that when first I had the cottage I used to shop here?” She turned to watch the effect, so obviously expecting him to look shocked that he at once did so.

  “Good God!” cried Mr. Whittal.

  Lesley nodded.

  “I did. I used to have things down all ready in dishes: I ate the things out and sent the dishes back again. It nearly ruined me.”

  “But you stopped in time?” pleaded Mr. Whittal.

  “Only just. And I know all the dishes didn’t get back, because Florrie told me afterwards that Mrs. Sprigg used to lend them out all over the village.” She took a last look, and accompanied him inside. But the recollection of Mrs. Sprigg’s perfidy appeared to have sobered her; and after ordering chocolate and a brioche, and drinking the best part of the former in silence, she asked suddenly,

  “Why did you say you were going to be in Scotland, Uncle Graham? Didn’t you want to see me?”

  “No,” said old Whittal, with equal frankness; and to his extreme surprise saw her look neither annoyed nor astonished but merely a trifle more earnest.

  “I should have thought you’d have wanted to see Pat,” she said simply.

  “Pat? I never thought of him. All I knew was that I didn’t want to see you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the last time we met you had struck me as an extremely unpleasant young woman. My dear Lesley, you can’t think how I disliked you. You no doubt disliked me too: you thought me an Early Victorian relic. But I can tell you one thing, my dear: if I hadn’t been Early Victorian I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help you. What I did I did simply and solely because we were
blood relations: which is a tie I believe your detached young modern doesn’t recognise. Afterwards, on the other hand, I became quite advanced: I never wanted to set eyes on you again, and I determined that I wouldn’t.”

  There was a short pause.

  “And yet here you are,” murmured Lesley at length, “giving me chocolate at Fortnums’.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s because I have the strength of mind to acknowledge my errors. Not that it was an error, at the time. But now that I’ve confessed and repented—would it amuse you to come to the theatre to-night?”

  “I’d love to,” said Lesley, “but not to-night, because Elissa’s giving a party. And that reminds me—I’ve got to get a frock.”

  Old Whittal looked at her.

  “Get one like Devonshire cream,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the end it was a shade nearer ivory; but it had the right smooth creaminess and the right golden tinge where a fold curved under: and old Graham Whittal not only chose it, unaided, out of a shop in Bruton Street, but paid for it as well. (The other thing he paid for that afternoon was a Nelson’s Column in Goss to take back to Mrs. Sprigg.) Lesley accepted his bounty with unfeigned pleasure, and did her best to make him come and see it at Elissa’s party; but he said he would wait until the night after, having encountered Elissa once previously, and feeling no desire to renew the acquaintance.

  Dressing that evening after early dinner, Lesley was aware of a strange yet familiar sensation that was making the blood beat in her cheek. It was the feeling—how exactly she recognised it!—of the last half-hour before a party, and it always improved her looks. Well, that was fortunate, with Elissa and all Elissa’s beauties set out in their array; but as Lesley looked in the glass, she did not feel dissatisfied. Her skin was sunburnt, but smoothly and agreeably so, just a shade or two deeper (save where the pearls at her ear made cheek and throat golden) than her Devonshire cream gown. The dark smooth waves, though still looser than five years ago, lay close and glossy after the visit to the hairdresser; and though her new scarlet lipstick was so good a match as to be almost imperceptible, it could not really mar (decided Lesley) the whole effect.