Something Light

by Margery Sharp

  2

  “I told you you’d get on together,” said Freddy complacently. “Enid was always full of chat.”

  Chat didn’t seem to Louisa quite the right word, for Mrs. Anstruther’s purposeful theorizing; perhaps her converse with Freddy was on slighter topics. For the moment, indeed, he seemed rather noticeably ready to forego it, at least for any stretch of time.

  “After eighteen years, I should have thought you’d want to be chatting to her yourself,” observed Louisa.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Freddy self-sacrificingly. “There’ll be plenty of opportunities. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

  3

  About mid-week Louisa telephoned Mr. Ross. She had left unposted, in the hurry of departure, a set of proofs of My Handsome of York—sired by My Lucky out of My Winsome, possibly apt to follow in My Lucky’s victorious tracks, and therefore by no means (now that Louisa’s prospects had changed again) to be treated with any casualness.

  “Listen, Rossy,” called Louisa, “those proofs of My Hansome—”

  “Now, that’s what I like,” said Mr. Ross warmly. “Not giving a client the go-by just because you’re in the money. I’ve sent ’em.—All going well?”

  “Fine,” said Louisa, “and thanks a lot. What was the postage?”

  “Sevenpence ha’penny,” said Mr. Ross. “It can wait. I just thought there was no sense your leaving an unintended poor impression.”

  Even over a telephone, the kindness and knowledgeableness of his personality were wonderfully marked.

  “Listen, Rossy,” said Louisa again, “when your sister married—”

  “Which one?” asked Mr. Ross. “I’ve got three.”

  “The one who married into a chain store.—Did she get a settlement?”

  “You bet your sweet life she did,” said Mr. Ross. “Has that come up on the tapis?”

  “In a way,” said Louisa.

  “Have your own solicitor,” advised Mr. Ross, “and congratulations again …”

  Too late, Louisa once more recognized a lack of discretion.

  4

  Naturally Louisa’s conversations with Mrs. Anstruther didn’t deal solely with her, Louisa’s, matrimonial prospects; Enid Anstruther had her own matrimonial prospects—which indeed formed a far more cheerful topic.

  “Poor Archy would be so happy too!” mused Mrs. Anstruther, emerging from a pleasant daydream. “He and Freddy thought the world of each other. I feel that makes it so nice!”

  “I can see it must,” said Louisa. “Has he any idea when it’s to be?”

  Mrs. Anstruther looked candid.

  “One should, I know, wait a year; or if one’s superstitious, a year and a day; and I’m sure I’m the last woman in the world to flout convention! But in such rather special circumstances—”

  Louisa took this to indicate that Freddy’s hours as a bachelor were numbered. She wondered whether Freddy knew. But whether he did or he didn’t, she now hadn’t the slightest doubt of Enid’s ability to get him to the church on time.

  “And it’s not as though I needed to collect a trousseau—all that,” said Mrs. Anstruther simply, “can wait till later. Poor Archy left us in April … do you think July?”

  “As he and Freddy thought so much of each other,” agreed Louisa.

  “And of course very, very quietly.”

  “In church?”

  “My dear, naturally,” said Mrs. Anstruther. “Always get married in church—if you can,” she added delicately. (Louisa took this to indicate that men at the top were sometimes also divorcés.) “I believe some of the registrars, in London, do it really very nicely!—But of course I shan’t wear white; probably a very pale hyacinth blue.”

  Trousseauless though she would be (until later), Enid was already giving her wedding garments serious thought. The very pale hyacinth blue (possibly wild silk?) was to be topped by a very small toque of hyacinths. With some surprise Louisa found herself taking quite a keen interest in these details, and of her own accord suggested a very small eye veil.

  “With perhaps a sequin or two?” reflected Mrs. Anstruther. “Just to give a tiny sparkle?”

  More than surprised, absolutely dismayed, Louisa discovered that she was envisaging herself as a bridesmaid in pale green.—So en rapport were they at this moment, Mrs. Anstruther almost apologized.

  “If I were having any bridesmaids at all, naturally I should think of you at once,” said Mrs. Anstruther. “Though your coloring would set quite a problem! You couldn’t wear green; green, even a very pale green, would be out of the question, with my blue.”

  “What about coffee?” suggested Louisa—surrendering herself to fantasy. “I’ve a coffee-colored linen—”

  “No. I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Anstruther firmly. “Not coffee. It would be a flat note. Perhaps a very pale amber—My dear, we’re as bad as a couple of girls,” cried Mrs. Anstruther, laughing, “sitting up in bed after a dance planning our weddings! How Freddy would laugh, to hear us!”

  Maybe Archie’d laugh too, thought Louisa; but was chiefly appalled, as she came to her senses, by her vulnerability to the appeal of bridal millinery. It was something quite new; hitherto, as has been said, Louisa’s reaction to a church wedding was purely professional, she just wondered who’d get the job of photographing it. In any bridal party, only a Pekingese in a white bow really caught her eye. Now, she felt that if Mrs. Anstruther came across with an amber shantung, she, Louisa, would jump straight into it. (Possibly a very small toque of tea roses …?) Promoting herself to lead, she envisaged the full glory of white from top to toe. Of if (as Mrs. Anstruther tactfully warned) she had to pick up her settlement at a registrar’s, why not, thought Louisa, that very pale green after all?—Even while appalled by them, such thoughts ran uncontrollably through Louisa’s mind; as though some essence of femininity had been rubbed off, from Enid’s mothlike wings, upon her own hard-wearing lurcher’s coat …

  “I’ll tell you another thing,” said Mrs. Anstruther abruptly. “Marry the life, not the man. I did, with poor Archy—though heaven knows where I found the sense! Even at our very poorest, in Argentina I never had to wash a cup.”

  “It’s lucky Freddy can give you the same sort of life over here,” said Louisa absently.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” smiled Enid—gay and heedless again as a bird, or a moth, or a butterfly. “Isn’t it lucky, that I answered his letters?”

  5

  Undoubtedly Louisa learned a lot, from intimacy with Mrs. Anstruther. Sometimes she felt like a tenderfoot sitting over a campfire with an experienced trapper. And Mrs. Anstruther enjoyed instructing her; it might almost be said that they enjoyed—as Freddy had prophesied they would!—each other’s company. By the sixth day, the Sunday, however, the fact that Louisa was leaving on Tuesday by no means damaged their relations.

  “How I shall miss you!” exclaimed Mrs. Anstruther—with the sudden vivacity of one who sees a guest look at the clock. “Of course I quite understand you must be off, but my dear, how I shall miss you!”

  She might be going to miss Louisa, but she wasn’t going to let her have the car. On Tuesday—really too tiresome, when she knew Freddy wanted to send Louisa up by car!—some very very old friends had invited them to lunch at Poole. Louisa had learned so much, she didn’t even wonder where those friends had been all week; but recognized that a man’s car is so much a man’s appanage, any prospective wife is naturally jealous of its loan.

  “I’d much rather go by train,” said Louisa.

  “In this heat, how sensible! Karen shall pack you a nice lunch.”

  But if Louisa had been staying much longer, it was doubtful whether she’d have got a sandwich.

  She had stayed long enough. Whether as buffer or chaperone—and it was remarkable how completely the point of chaperonage had been dropped—Louisa had stayed long enough. She’d learned all Mrs. Anstruther had to teach; moreover, she was getting soft—and not only physically. (To Louisa, indeed, the dis
covery that she was susceptible to white tulle was almost as alarming as a discovery that she was susceptible to asthma.) Since there was no sense, as Rossy said, in leaving a poor impression, she wasn’t going to beat it; but—“Roll on Tuesday!” thought Louisa.

  She had stayed long enough. With Freddy, discussing her departure, she almost quarreled.

  “Naturally you want to be off,” said Freddy sulkily, “but you needn’t go like a bat out of hell. Ain’t you comfortable here?”

  “Of course I am!” cried Louisa impatiently. “I’m on velvet! I’m so on velvet it’s making me soft—like the Romans at Capri.”

  “Capua,” corrected Freddy disagreeably.

  “I bet they got soft at Capri too,” snapped Louisa.—How absurd it was! It reminded her of the day of Enid’s arrival, when they’d quarreled over mumps and pinkeye. As then, she pulled herself up. “I’ve never been so comfortable in my life,” said Louisa formally. “I’m very glad you persuaded me to come, and thank you for asking me.”

  “And when you’ve nothing to do in town,” said Freddy, “you might read a bit of Roman history.”

  Chapter Seven

  1

  The Monday was extremely hot. Bournemouth had already lived up to, and even beyond, its brochures: to the slight constraint that attends all interruptions was now added a heat positively oppressive. Freddy was crosser, Mrs. Anstruther wan, and Louisa so restive she early declared her intention of catching the 8:20 next morning.

  “No one need get up,” added Louisa. “I’ll have breakfast on the train.”

  “I shall get up of course,” said Freddy irritably, “but it’s an ungodly hour.”

  “Louisa wants to avoid the heat,” said Mrs. Anstruther.

  “Then she’d much better let me send her by car.”

  Both Louisa and Mrs. Anstruther ignored this.

  “And of course I’ll be down too!” promised Enid kindly.

  This was about ten: there were still twelve or so hours to be got through, and their usual program had mistakenly been abandoned—because it was Louisa’s last day.

  “I’m going for a swim,” said Louisa, “if it kills me.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Freddy. “It’ll probably give me rheumatism.”

  After some discussion, it was agreed that they should all drive to the beach together, where Freddy and Mrs. Anstruther would watch Louisa from the shore. Even this mild scheme, however, failed; Louisa had scarcely entered the water before Freddy was calling urgently from the edge of the surf.

  “What’s up now?” called back Louisa.

  “Too hot,” called Freddy. “Enid’s got a headache.”

  “Give her an aspirin!” called Louisa.

  “She’s had one. She wants to go home.”

  “All right, take her!” called Louisa. “I’ll walk.”

  He mouthed something more, but Louisa swam further out.—Actually it was all she could do to stay in until the car moved off again; the sea was colder than it looked. Louisa emerged goose-pimpled and blue, with no other consolation than that she’d killed the morning.

  Luncheon equally lacked entrain. Mrs. Anstruther, determined to make amends—for she really wouldn’t be a wet blanket, on Louisa’s last day!—chatted with resolute vivacity; but the effort it cost her was obvious, and their whole conversation as a consequence highly artificial.

  “I believe they use ’em for smoke signals,” offered Freddy.

  “Use what?” asked Louisa glumly.

  “Wet blankets. Red Indians. Dip ’em up and down over a fire …”

  “What a boy he is still!” cried Mrs. Anstruther.

  The siesta killed the afternoon. Tacitly, they all agreed not to omit the siesta. Karen, sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, brought up cups of tea all round, as in a hospital or nursing home; even this attention was distressing to Louisa. “I suppose I’ll have to give her something,” thought Louisa uneasily.—She had never before stayed in a private house, and though pretty confident that a vail would be acceptable, and indeed expected, had no idea of any appropriate sum. “I wonder what’s the least?” thought Louisa—heaven knew she wasn’t mean, but Karen was undoubtedly the better fixed; and there was a ticket to buy in the morning. As she sipped her tea Louisa’s calculations ranged from five bob up to a pound; then they ranged down again. It was a last minor irritation—not indeed unknown to many another parting guest, but in Louisa’s case particularly poignant. She hadn’t worried about money for a week …

  “I’d better get back into the habit,” thought Louisa bleakly.

  There were other habits she’d have to get back into: the habit of working, the habit of stretching meals. Whether at Capua or Capri, she’d stayed long enough to make the prospect bleak.

  “I suppose it’s got to be at least ten bob,” thought Louisa, and piled four half-crowns on the dressing table before she weakened. Paper would have looked better, but no doubt Karen could add.

  Cocktails before dinner produced a slight fictitious cheerfulness, though only Freddy and Louisa partook of them. Dinner at least killed the next hour. Mrs. Anstruther made another effort. She was really looking ill, her headache was evidently genuine; gallant, fragile and animated, she nonetheless chatted on—displaying a touch of the professional entertainer Louisa was forced to admire. In her own way Enid was a good trouper: give her a dinner table and she’d animate it, even though her head split. “It’s still lucky she’s got Freddy,” thought Louisa. “There still has to be a dinner table …”

  Freddy too was watching Enid solicitously. As they at last rose—

  “Enid, my dear,” said Freddy, “go straight to bed.”

  She looked at him uncertainly.

  “I feel so dreadful about Louisa—!”

  “Louisa will understand.”

  “Of course I do!” cried Louisa, with genuine compassion.

  Mrs. Anstruther still looked towards Freddy, but the quality of her gaze changed. It was now a wifely look—frank in submission to a husband’s better judgment.

  “If you really think so—” she began—and only then turned to Louisa. “Freddy always knows what’s best for me!” confessed Mrs. Anstruther. “Wise old Freddy, and lucky me!—You can still give him,” she permitted, “a last game of chess …”

  2

  So after dinner Freddy and Louisa adjourned to the chessboard in the drawing room. The heat had scarcely abated, but like two old campaigners they made themselves comfortable: by leaving open all windows, and the door to the hall, achieved a good through draft, and saw there was plenty of ice. Freddy removed his dinner jacket; Louisa kicked off her shoes. Without Enid there, the atmosphere wasn’t exactly public bar, but it was definitely smoking room.

  “Give you queen and move,” said Freddy.

  “Too much,” objected Louisa.

  “It’s your last night.”

  “Okay,” said Louisa.

  They played two games, and Louisa won both. She didn’t suspect Freddy of deliberately letting her, but he wasn’t concentrating. Louisa found it fairly hard to concentrate herself—there is a melancholy about anything final, even a final game of chess; she nonetheless won.

  “What about another?” suggested Louisa. “As it’s my last night?”

  “Too hot,” said Freddy restlessly.

  He pushed aside the board and got up. He was restless. Though the tray of drinks stood convenient to his elbow, he got up and walked about the room a bit before refilling their glasses. (They were drinking brandy on the rocks.)

  “Steady on,” said Louisa. “Remember I’ve a train at 8:20.”

  “I’ll get you there.—You’re quite sure you won’t stay a bit longer?” asked Freddy abruptly.

  “Of course I’d love to,” said Louisa, “but I’ve put off a kennel of dachshunds already.” (She wasn’t going to be led into the Capua-Capri argument again.) “Otherwise I honestly couldn’t be enjoying myself more. I don’t know where you get your brandy—”


  “I’ll give you a couple of bottles to take back with you.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Louisa warmly. “And if I’m too busy to come to the wedding, I’ll drink your healths in it.”

  There was a brief pause. Freddy walked once or twice again about the room before coming back to his seat.—The chessboard, between them, recording the last moves of an endgame …

  “It’s not actually settled, y’know.”

  “The date? I don’t suppose it is,” said Louisa. “But as Enid won’t have to collect a trousseau—”

  “I mean the whole thing,” said Freddy. “I haven’t actually … popped, yet.”

  “It’s taken for granted,” said Louisa.

  “I don’t even know Enid’ll have me.”

  “You can take that for granted too,” said Louisa encouragingly. “My dear Freddy,” she added (it really seemed time to say something of the sort), “I hope you’ll be very, very happy!”

  “So do I,” said Freddy.

  Louisa looked at him. There was a note in his voice she could only define as—unsuitable; not exactly a note of doubt, but rather of resignation. The expression on F. Pennon’s face was also unsuitable; not exactly sulky, but certainly not as joyous as one would expect, on the face of a man at last about to wed the woman he’d worshiped for twenty years.

  “We’re going to miss you,” stated Freddy.

  “Nonsense,” said Louisa.

  “I know I am. At meals,” said Freddy. “It’s been a real pleasure, Louisa, to see you eat.”

  “That’s because I’ve no chat,” said Louisa. “Give me a dinner table, and you’d hear nothing but munching.”

  “We could always bring books,” suggested Freddy. “I know chaps say it’s an insult, to decent food and wine, but we needn’t bring anything heavy. With a couple of detective stories—”

  He broke off, as well he might. The picture he had been painting was in the circumstances uncommonly odd. Where, for example, was Mrs. Anstruther in it? Evidently he realized this himself; though too old to blush, he looked uncommonly embarrassed.