“The fact is,” said Mr. McAndrew, “I happen to be lunching in town; I thought you might join me.”
This was where old habit came in. Ninety per cent of Louisa’s mind might be fixed on her ready-made family, but the odd ten was still in a rut.
“Where?” asked Louisa uncontrollably.
“I had thought of Stack’s in the Strand.”
The mention of this world-famous chop-house settled it. Louisa had never fed at Stack’s before—though she’d often wanted to: Stack’s had the reputation, now almost historic, of providing second helpings gratis to any client capable of tackling one. However, she consulted her engagement book.
“Thank you, I believe I can,” said Louisa, surprised.
“Then that’s my car parked opposite,” said Mr. McAndrew.
2
He was undoubtedly competent. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, Louisa could almost have enjoyed being taken out by him; regarded merely as a meal ticket, he was a very good one. At Stack’s in the Strand he was recognized by both hat-check girl and head waiter; the latter immediately ushered them to a first-rate table. Seen at close quarters, moreover, across the starched white cloth, Mr. McAndrew proved better-looking than Louisa remembered him. (His sheer bulk was of course familiar: what she hadn’t before appreciated was the really excellent shape of his skull. Also his sandy eyebrows, like his sandy head, showed quite noticeable tinges of russet.) But during the car drive Louisa had once more become a prey to superstitious fears, and was more than ever determined not to let her thoughts stray. Thus while McAndrew talked about restoring stately homes, Louisa, though preserving every appearance of attention, concentrated on Mr. Clark. She was so used to men, she could do this quite easily; put in just sufficient words to keep the flow going—such as, “But where did you find the right stone?” or, “What about the staircase?”—and in fact gave Mr. McAndrew a very fair opinion of her intelligence. Only over the saddle of lamb did she fall really silent, because she wanted to empty her plate in good time.
“Apple tart?” suggested the waiter.
“Thank you, I’ll have a second helping,” said Louisa boldly.
His look was genuinely admiring—also regretful.
“I’m sorry, madam; but not since the last war …”
Louisa’s face fell.
“Are you quite certain?”
“The ’14 war, madam …”
“Then just serve madam again,” said Mr. McAndrew.
Louisa had to admit it was big of him. Not all men would have come up to scratch. Though she refused, she was appreciative. “Really it was just because I’d heard about it,” explained Louisa, “and besides I don’t often get the chance—” Here she broke off; what she’d been going to say was, “of a square meal,” but just in time recognized this as much a wrong note as six dustbins in an area. Also it was no longer true; she foresaw the table presided over by Mr. Clark spread regularly with square meals. “—Of carrying on a tradition,” finished Louisa. For the first time, however, she gave Mr. McAndrew a more than absent, indeed a grateful smile.
“I recall your appetite from the Court,” observed Mr. McAndrew reflectively.
The smile faded. Any reference to Broydon Court still acted on Louisa’s nerves like a dentist’s drill on a sentient tooth.
“You left very unexpectedly,” added Mr. McAndrew. “I was surprised.”
You weren’t the only one! thought Louisa—not bothering to examine his meaning. The recollection of how surprised she’d been herself, and how painfully, on that last evening spent in the company of Jimmy Brown, flooded back with almost unendurable poignancy. It didn’t matter, now that she had Mr. Clark in view; but Louisa’s affections, however easily rooted, were never just mustard and cress. During that week at Broydon she had become so truly fond of Jimmy, even the prospect of a ready-made family couldn’t quite obliterate all regrets …
Happier thoughts of Mr. Clark notwithstanding, her appetite was quite cut. All she wanted now was to get away as soon as possible.—Attacking apple tart (merely because it was placed before her), she became dumb altogether; so did Mr. McAndrew. From time to time he looked at her thoughtfully, as though he had something on his mind; but Louisa had too much on her own to pay attention …
Such a silence might have been companionable, even cordial. For all her preoccupation, Louisa vaguely acknowledged it. She hadn’t yet begun positively to dislike Mr. McAndrew again. There was indeed something in his quiet, trustable demeanor (as they scoffed down apple tart together) that made her almost forgive him his crime of having breathed the same air as Jimmy Brown, and if he’d had the wit to stay quiet they might have ended in amity. Unfortunately, a Scot with something on his mind is impervious to emotional climate.
“Who was yon old ruffian with the big car?” demanded Mr. McAndrew abruptly.
Louisa actually lowered a forkful untouched.
“If you mean Freddy—” she began indignantly.
“I mean he who drenched a decent hotel in champagne,” stated Mr. McAndrew—in less than grateful tones.
“Didn’t you have any yourself?” retorted Louisa.
“You mayn’t have noticed, but I did not,” said Mr. McAndrew. “What small amount of whiskey I consumed, in the course of the evening, I saw put down to my own bill.”
“How very silly,” said Louisa. “Will you tell me what we’re arguing about?”
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. McAndrew, “I hope. I merely inquired, in a perfectly friendly way, whether this Freddy—”
“F. Pennon.”
“—whether this F. Pennon, apart from being old enough for your grandfather, happened to be a special, well, crony. I see now it may have been a misplaced question.”
“Very,” agreed Louisa, unplacated.—The term “crony” offended her particularly: it suggested—her imagination was always vivid—a couple of old-age pensioners sharing yesterday’s newspaper on a park bench. How different indeed, what Freddy had offered! Louisa would have liked to go into this rather fully—beginning with the point that the car was a Rolls, sketching the villa at Bournemouth, referring back perhaps to junketings at Cannes; but she was even more anxious to disassociate herself from the first picture, even though it probably existed only in her own mind, and even though it meant rather jettisoning Freddy. (Her affection for him too no mere mustard and cress, but there are moments when pride prevails.) As it were putting the length of the bench between them—
“If you must know,” said Louisa, “he’s going to marry a friend of mine.”
“Ah!” said Mr. McAndrew.
“A middle-aged widow,” added Louisa—taking a swipe at Enid on the side. “Have you any more … misplaced … questions? Because if not, though I’ve enjoyed my lunch enormously, I’ve a rather important engagement for this afternoon.”
Naturally she got no reply. She didn’t expect one. Just as effectively as at Broydon Court, Mr. McAndrew was slammed down again. While he was checking the bill, moreover, Louisa managed to transmit, through her friend the waiter, so urgent a message to the doorman, there was a taxi waiting for her at the curb as they emerged. (Probably five shillings back to Paddington, but well worth it. “Cannot I drive you?” suggested Mr. McAndrew. “Thanks, I think this is mine,” said Louisa—slamming him down again.) For so large a man Mr. McAndrew looked almost disconsolate, as Louisa abandoned him on the pavement outside Stack’s in the Strand.
She wouldn’t have been able to abandon F. Pennon so, at Gladstone Mansions—Enid or no Enid. At Gladstone Mansions, if she hadn’t discovered the picking of Enid’s brains an excuse, she’d undoubtedly have discovered some other, for not abandoning old Freddy. Since then, she’d learned sense. Not only did she abandon Mr. McAndrew (on the pavement, outside Stack’s in the Strand), she immediately put him out of mind.
During what remained of the afternoon Louisa put Jimmy Brown out of mind too—along with Hugo Pym, Number Ten and even F. Pennon. It was a tour de force, but Louisa’
s subconscious achieved it, releasing her unhampered by past emotions to concentrate on Mr. Clark.
3
Their rendezvous was for five-thirty; Louisa was so afraid of being late, five-fifteen saw her lurking outside his office, weighed down by air-line giveaway bags, waiting for the nearest church clock to chime the half-hour. No less prompt was Mr. Clark however; as Louisa entered (on the dot), he emerged from the lift before she had time to summon it.
“My dear Miss Datchett,” exclaimed Mr. Clark warmly, “what admirable punctuality!—May we perceive,” he added shyly, “a good omen?”
Earnestly Louisa hoped so; but in fact recognized a good omen already, in his mere recollection of her. More than once, in the course of her career, had she been disconcerted by an overnight act of oblivion—had turned up for a film test, for example, to find all trace of the project washed by slumber from her sponsor’s mind; and it may now be admitted (it was the first time Louisa admitted it herself, so painful the possibilities) that half her day-long anxiousness had been centered on this very point. Mr. Clark plainly remembered not only who she was, but also, so to speak, why she was; and Louisa regarded him with such open gratitude and admiration, the modest man looked quite surprised—though by no means displeased.
“I only hope you’ll like the house,” said Mr. Clark.
“I’m sure I shall!” said Louisa.
“And the children,” added Mr. Clark. “I hope you’ll take to them …”
“I’m sure I shall!” repeated Louisa.
“That they’ll take to you I’ve no doubt,” said Mr. Clark, confidently. “If that’s all your baggage, shall we be on our way?”
Chapter Nineteen
1
The house was called Glenarvon.
It was a family house.—So estate agents, nine bedrooms on their hands, advertise a decaying vicarage; or failed private school; or any other interesting property needing repair. Glenarvon, though mid-Victorian, as kept up by Mr. Clark was so to speak the platonic ideal of their imaginings, and could probably have changed hands at seven thousand cash without a nail driven into a wall.
Mr. Clark led Louisa systematically over the entire ample accommodation. (None of the children were in, and however eager to meet them Louisa wasn’t altogether sorry; the house was quite enough for her as a start.) With every step, her enthusiasm grew. There was a dining room and a drawing room and a morning room. There was a study—though Mr. Clark refused to dignify it by the name. “Just where I do a little extra breadwinning at night!” explained the modest man. Louisa peeped over his shoulder respectfully. There was a kitchen slightly larger than the whole of Louisa’s flat—actually with a servant in it preparing dinner. Louisa was struck afresh; much more so than she’d been by anything at F. Pennon’s. The Pines, in essence, was a small-scale luxury hotel, where one expected to find staff; to find a staff of even one, in a family house like Glenarvon, was far more remarkable …
“Mrs. Temple,” introduced Mr. Clark casually. “Mrs. Temple, this is the Miss Datchett I mentioned to you at breakfast.”
Just like the old family servant Louisa cast her for, Mrs. Temple darted a suspicious glance. “We’ll see about that later!” thought Louisa, confidently.
Only at the doors of the children’s bedrooms did she hang back a moment. “You’re sure they wouldn’t mind—?” began Louisa. “Dear me, no!” said Mr. Clark. “It will fall to your lot, I’m afraid, to try and keep them a little tidy … This is Cathy’s.”
Thus encouraged, Louisa looked inside; and beheld flowery, rosy paper, flowery, rosy chintz, a dressing table petticoated like a dancer, a thick white sheepskin rug—the bedroom of a young girl’s dreams. That it was also indeed untidy gave her nothing but pleasure. How she would enjoy, if not making Catherine tidy, tidying for her!—The boys’ rooms offered equal scope; both, just as boys’ rooms should be, littered with fragments of ironmongery. Louisa wasn’t quite sure how one got out oil stains, but she’d have a damn good try …
“Mrs. Temple,” explained Mr. Clark fairly, “simply comes in to cook; also once a week performs what she calls a ‘going over.’ I’m told we’re fortunate—but you see how much such a person as yourself is needed, to make us pull our socks up! Now shall we take a look at the garden?”
The garden was as spacious as the house. The front part had only a gravel drive and laurel bushes, and didn’t count, but at the back there were practically grounds. First stretched a wide lawn, with beds of polyanthus roses; beyond, separated by a beechen hedge with a wicket in it, the rougher grass of a sizable orchard.—Mr. Clark and Louisa had quite a walk, before they reached the final boundary of a quiet, traffic-less road, upon which fronted, at the orchard’s end, a couple of small outbuildings. Like everything else about Glenarvon they were beautifully kept up; as Louisa approached, she could see the pointing between the bricks.
Pausing at the first—
“Where the boys keep their Vespas,” explained Mr. Clark. “They’re at an age—as you must have gathered from the state of their rooms!—when they’re mad about machinery. Of course both will eventually join me in publishing, but just at the moment they’re mad about machinery.”
“I suppose most boys are,” said Louisa. “But they don’t all get Vespas!”
Mr. Clark smiled, and led her on. Inside the second building, housed in a neat stall, stood what looked to Louisa a very superior pony.
Like the Queen of Sheba, she hadn’t seen the half!
“Cathy’s,” said Mr. Clark. “Cathy’s Tomboy. She takes care of him entirely herself. I should tell you,” added Mr. Clark, with a pleasant mixture of pride and resignation, “that my daughter Catherine is mad about horses.”
Louisa wasn’t entirely surprised. She’d read in more than one newspaper article of the rising generation’s passion for horses. But the kindness and understanding of Mr. Clark, in actually providing his daughter with a pony of her own, struck her with uncommon force, and she looked all the admiration she truly felt.
“One does one’s best,” said Mr. Clark simply.
“But lucky Catherine!” cried Louisa.
“I hope so,” admitted Mr. Clark. “Tomboy certainly takes up all her time … I wouldn’t wish it otherwise,” he added—as it were defending his daughter from any breath of criticism—though heaven knew Louisa wasn’t going to criticize—“isn’t youth the time for enjoying oneself? I’m afraid you won’t find Cathy as helpful in the house as she might be—but mayn’t we forgive her, while she’s young, and enjoying herself?”
Though he spoke no doubt unconsideredly, that word “we” fell like music on Louisa’s ear. (Or perhaps because he had spoken unconsideredly?) As Mr. Clark put his hand in his pocket and brought out two lumps of sugar, as he gave one to Louisa, as Tomboy blew, and then gobbled, first into Mr. Clark’s palm then into hers, Louisa felt herself already on the verge of acceptance as one of the family.
2
Everything still depended on the children. For all her quick optimism, Louisa remained thoroughly aware of this. If her three potential stepchildren didn’t accept her, from no mere self-indulgence would Mr. Clark allow his happy home to be disrupted. Thus it was with the most anxious expectation that Louisa, some half-hour later, observed from her new bedroom window the return of Catherine, Toby and Paul.
They all came back together.
It might have been by chance; nonetheless the impression Louisa immediately received was subsequently to prove correct: an impression of unitedness. Whatever they were discussing, so quietly and seriously, as they crossed first the orchard and then the lawn together, they were evidently in complete agreement. They looked as though they were always in agreement, as though they hadn’t quarreled since the nursery …
Catherine the eldest was tall, slim and blonde, and even in summer dress and jersey characterized by a horsewomanly neatness. Her long fair hair didn’t hang in the fashionable elf locks, but was combed back and plaited in a door-knocker behind—the very t
hing to go under a hard hat. Nor was her sweater the fashionably baggy sort; it fitted from beneath the turned-down points of a white collar to the ribbing at a trim waist. However disheveled she might leave counterpane and dressing table, Catherine’s personal neatness was indeed so striking, Louisa instantly resolved to let the room go hang, in case it was a kind of compensation.
Of the boys, Paul already reached towards his sister’s poise, Toby was still rough as a puppy. Paul appeared to use brilliantine, Toby had a double crown. (Louisa’s heart fell in two parts like a cleft apple—just the slightly larger half towards Toby.) Though stockier in build, both echoed Catherine’s coloring—as all three probably echoed their mother’s, Mr. Clark being so noticeably dark. As the trio of matching heads bent together they made a really delightful picture; which Louisa would have enjoyed still more if she hadn’t received a further impression: that Catherine and Toby and Paul, joined in such earnest conference, weren’t merely discussing, but plotting something …
3
On the surface at least, their reception of her at dinner was quite perfect.
“Catherine, Paul, Toby,” Mr. Clark introduced them cheerfully. “Children, this is Miss Datchett, who is going to see if she can put up with us, and keep us in order.”
The eyes of all three turned intelligently towards Louisa. What the deuce they were thinking she couldn’t guess.
“But how nice!” said Catherine warmly.
Had she or hadn’t she kicked Paul under the table? In any case, both boys were ready on their marks.
“You’ll find my underwear in absolute chaos,” offered Paul. “To anyone who cares for darning, I’m an absolute gift.”
“I haven’t had a clean vest for months,” offered Toby.
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