Miss Tredennick was under no illusions about Hugo’s parentage. Though she had never been told the story directly, she was convinced she had gathered the gist of it, if only because Mrs Muller had shown such clumsiness in evading her more searching questions.
Ingrid Gwendolen Muller, whom Miss Tredennick called Gwen, was the daughter of Amos Ambler, who had been coachman and afterwards chauffeur (though as such he was no great success), to Miss Tredennick’s father. Gwen’s mother had been a Swede. It was whispered that she was a girl of good family and that Amos had seduced her before marriage. But this was going back to a distant past which was vague even in Miss Tredennick’s memory. Still, when she thought of that signal lapse from virtue in one who was in latter days so stiff and prim, she felt she had a clue to Gwen’s inner life. Like mother, like daughter. Beneath that dull marble there was a latent fire, which could blaze up once, though probably once only. It had never really blazed for Friedrich Müller, who had entered her life a year or two after the Tredennicks had moved from Warwickshire to Cornwall, bringing Amos Ambler and his daughter with them. Mrs Ambler had been dead for a number of years.
Friedrich Müller was an agent in Camborne for a German firm that dealt in Cornish china-clay. Later, of course, people said he was there to spy. He was a dull-looking man, though not unhandsome, with formal manners and always well turned out. He spoke excellent English, if rather too precisely, and was said to have some university degree. One couldn’t imagine him falling in love, but he courted Gwen, whom he met at a local dance, with an assiduous correctness that flattered both her and her father. The marriage took place in 1934, and Gwen ceased to belong to the staff of Polvannion and became a lady—or very nearly one. Her father remained a chauffeur, though by now it was an act of charity to keep him on. Magda was born in 1935. The next year, Friedrich Müller was suddenly recalled to Germany. He went there alone, but three months later he wrote to say that he was settled in a very good post and wanted his wife and baby daughter to join him. All those who saw the shape of things to come did their best to dissuade her, but Gwen’s Scandinavian sense of duty triumphed, and after a tearful farewell to her ailing father, and another, hardly less tearful to the Tredennicks, she obeyed the call.
What happened next was more conjectural. Amos Ambler died in 1937, and contact with the Mullers was almost lost, except for a few short letters written by Gwen to Miss Tredennick. ‘She was very happy, but a little worried.’ As time passed, the worries loomed larger than the happiness. Well, what could the foolish woman expect? She had been well warned. Then in the autumn of 1939 war came and the letters ceased, and Miss Tredennick, whose father died in 1942 aged eighty-eight, almost forgot her old maid, till in the autumn of 1945 she had the surprise of another letter from her. ‘We are still alive, I, Magda and Hugo, my poor crippled boy who was born four years ago. Just before he was born, my husband disappeared. They say he is dead. He was suspected of being a Communist, but I know nothing of that. He treated me badly after the war began and I am not sorry to be rid of him. Now all I long for is to come home again. Please help us, oh, please do help us, dear Miss Tredennick. . . .’
So she came back, with her two children,—a colourless creature, yet more capable than ever of earning her keep. Those accustomed to the lamentations of refugees and their exciting or horrifying tales found Gwen a great disappointment; for she never spoke of her experiences save in the most general terms. ‘Yes, bread was short. . . . At that time, one worked three hours to buy a cabbage. . . . We slept in the air-raid shelter every night.’ Once, Miss Tredennick caught her off her guard and gathered that she laid Hugo’s deformity at her husband’s door. From this it was an easy step to imagine a kick in the belly, such as Nero is said to have given the pregnant Poppaea, and in the background a handsome and blond storm-trooper, who was Hugo’s real father and loved Gwen sufficiently to find Friedrich Müller very much in the way. Magda must have been six when Hugo was born and ten when the Mullers—dropping the two dots over the u in their name—came back from Germany. Did she know that Hugo was only her half-brother? Once or twice Miss Tredennick had been tempted to try to find out, but a feeling of loyalty towards Gwen deterred her.
Magda was still going in and out of the bedroom, industriously busy with little elegances,—changing the water in a vase of flowers, folding the newspapers, washing the tea-things in the kitchen and putting them away. In fact, she put away the two iced cakes Miss Tredennick had destined for Hugo.
‘No, leave those here—on this table. They’re the ones I shall give to Hugo. I’m quite ready for him now. Will you send him up, please?’
Again the same glance, submissive but resentful.
‘Certainly, Madam.’
She put the two cakes by the bed and went downstairs. Three minutes later Hugo’s shuffling steps sounded on the stairs, despite the thickness of the carpet. Then he came in, looking sweet and meek and clean and gave a little bow.
‘Good evening, Madam. I do hope you are much better.’
‘Thank you, Hugo, I am. I had a very bad night,—a kind of nightmare. Do you know what nightmares are, Hugo?’
(One spoke to him always as if he were under ten.)
‘Oh yes, I have nightmares,—very dreadful nightmares. I had one last night too.’
‘Last night? You must tell me about it.’
‘It was very late, and there was a terrible noise in the street and someone shouted, “That’s the house—Number Ten.” I didn’t know what they meant,—and yet I did, and was very frightened. Then someone I know’—he couldn’t resist bringing the dustman into his story—‘bent down to my window and said, “You needn’t worry. It isn’t coming for you,” and I felt much better. Then I woke up and got up and went to the window, but there was nothing there except a nasty, cheap car, playing awful music, and a man and woman dancing on the pavement. She was one of the women who live opposite. I don’t think I’d ever seen the man before, but I didn’t like the look of him.’
Miss Tredennick, who had been reluctant to confess to Gwen, Magda and even Dr Jamieson into what a paroxysm of rage the episode had plunged her, found it a relief to confide up to a point in Hugo.
‘Yes, there was a car. I heard it too—and saw it. It distressed me very much. The others aren’t as sensitive as we are. Besides, it’s only you and I who sleep facing the street.’
Hugo nodded gravely, as if he appreciated the compliment of such an intimacy, and Miss Tredennick went on, ‘Now, Hugo, will you do something for me? I want you to put this letter in the box of Number Seven. But I’d rather nobody knew except you. So don’t let yourself be seen, if you can help it.’
The boy nodded again. ‘That’s all right. I may have to wait a little, till Magda comes up to get your dinner ready and Mother starts preparing our supper. But you can rely on me.’
‘I know I can. Now, Hugo, here’s the letter, and here are two cakes. They’re quite fresh, but I don’t feel like eating them myself.’
With some affection she watched his brightening eyes and his smile of pleasure. He put the letter carefully in his pocket and was about to take the two cakes in his fingers, when Miss Tredennick said, ‘No, carry them down on the plate. I’m sure you won’t drop it. Magda can bring it up when she comes to cook my dinner. It’s quite all right. I told her I was going to give you the cakes.’
She smiled at him and he smiled back at her like a fellow-conspirator and said, ‘Oh, Miss Tredennick, thank you so very much.’ Then as her silence seemed a signal for him to go, he gave her another formal little bow and wished her good night.
‘Good night, Hugo dear.’
When he got downstairs, he found his mother and Magda in the sitting-room, the former knitting and the latter mending some linen. His mother looked with approval at the cakes but said, ‘I shouldn’t eat them now, Hugo. Keep them for supper.’
‘But that won’t be for two hours. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea in my room, to drink while I eat them.’
Magda raised her eyes from her work and said severely, ‘You had some tea only an hour ago.’ This made his mother come at once to his defence.
‘Another cup of tea can’t do him any harm, Magda. Would you like me to make it for you, Hugo?’
‘No, Mutti, I should like to make it myself.’
He went into his room, brought out an electric kettle, filled it at the sink in the kitchen, laid a tray with cup, saucer, spoon, a jug of milk and a sugar-bowl and carried it, with Miss Tredennick’s plate of cakes, carefully into his room and shut the door.
As soon as he had switched on the kettle, he looked at the envelope Miss Tredennick had given him. It was addressed to ‘The Occupier, 7, Pollitt Place, S.W.’
When the kettle boiled he steamed the envelope open and read the letter inside.
‘Madam,—Last night between two and three in the small hours, I was roused by a motor-car which noisily deposited a young woman at your front door. Not content with thus disturbing the sleep of the whole neighbourhood, she and her male companion (both of whom I fear were the worse for drink), turned on the wireless in the car and danced together on the pavement to a vulgar and barbaric tune. When at last they tired of these activities, the woman went upstairs, only to reappear a few moments later at what, I presume, is her bedroom window, where she exhibited herself in a state of nudity to her friend below—and incidentally to all those who might have been drawn by the unseemly commotion to their own windows.
Before the war, this street was inhabited by gentlepeople, and it still retains a little of its former good repute. But it will soon degenerate into a slum, if antics such as I witnessed last night are permitted to continue.
As a lessee, you are morally and up to a point legally responsible for the conduct of your lodgers. I trust therefore that you will take all possible steps to ensure that there shall be no repetition of this disgusting incident.
Yours faithfully,
Theresa Tredennick (Miss)’
[4]
The reply was delivered by hand three days later. It was flamboyantly written in green ink on pink paper with an elaborate Y embossed in the left-hand corner.
‘Madam,—Mrs O’Blahoney has shown me your note. I’m frightfully sorry we disturbed your beauty-sleep! All the same, times have changed and the sooner old people get used to that the better. As a matter of fact though, I hadn’t any idea it was so late. But as for the car being noisy, we can’t all have Rolls-Royces.
As for what you say about me making an exhibition of myself at the window, all I can say is I’ve never had much respect for Peeping Toms—or peeping she-cats either. They’re always either filthy-minded or jealous.
Yours faithfully,
Yvonne Varioli (Miss)’
III
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF SEPTEMBER
Justin Bray was entertaining three ladies of title to tea. It gave him a very faint glow of snobbish satisfaction, such as he himself had ridiculed in one or two of his novels. But can anyone satirise a foible without in some degree sharing it? One can denounce, one can express indignation or contempt, but one cannot parody without a fellow-feeling.
The Lady Victoria, the oldest of his three guests, was gazing meditatively round the room, while the other two women talked together and their host busied himself with preparations for tea. Her eyes passed over the thick, crimson velvet curtains, their pelmets fringed with gold tassels, the ivory panelled walls broken by oil-paintings of the Italian school—a Marieschi, a Tiepolo, a Magnasco—a big break-front secretaire-bookcase the shelves of which were filled with beautiful bindings, a flat-topped knee-hole desk covered in red leather and littered, but not untidily, with books and papers, an exquisite little cabinet lit up to display a few china figures,—Bow, Chelsea, Longton Hall—some fine Persian rugs almost hiding the parquet, a pair of damask-covered wing-chairs, a sofa covered with chintz, a pembroke table supporting a silver-gilt tray—Paul Storr, perhaps?—a Chamberlain-Worcester tea-set, and last of all, her host stooping over the hearth for a dish of hot currant tea-cakes,—tall, rather stout, round-shouldered and grey-haired. His thick neck seemed hardly strong enough to support his large oblong face, with its bushy grey eye-brows and moustache, wide-set liverish eyes, full nose and fleshy jaw. He had long legs, long arms and long nervy fingers with very white nails.
‘Oh, Justin, I can’t say how I envy you! It carries me back,—it’s really almost painful. All the same, it’s nice to think that in a few privileged spots the flag of our civilisation is still flying.’
Justin gave a deprecating smile of embarrassment; for he found the implied comparison between his own affluence and Lady Victoria’s extreme poverty a little painful. He said, ‘You mustn’t judge my life by the few bits and pieces I’ve managed to save from the wreck.’
Lady Beatrice shook her head provocatively and said, ‘Come, come, Mr Bray, you can’t deny it. You really are disgracefully comfortable. I know bachelors, although they’re so helpless, always seem to get along better than spinsters, but I don’t know anyone nowadays who lives in quite such a luxurious lap as you do.’
She tittered, as though she had said something not only clever but a little naughty.
Lady Farless on her right exclaimed, ‘The cleaning! How is it done?’
Lady Beatrice nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, Mr Bray, the cleaning. I don’t believe you even know how to use a Hoover. Do you ever do any dusting? Do you wash those adorable pieces of china? Do you polish your furniture? Do you clean the grate? (By the way, what a glorious chimney-piece. Your Miss Tredennick certainly had good taste, if she put it in.) Do you ever furbish up those handsome books of yours? Even in the good old days, my brother used to polish the leather bindings himself, and he had an enormous library. Who does it all for you?’
‘The daughter of the house. Her name is Magda.’
‘What—Miss Tredennick’s daughter?’ Lady Beatrice gave a little scream. Justin thought, ‘What a very silly woman she is.’ (Phrase for a novel,—one of those women whom only a fool would know, if they hadn’t a title.)
Lady Farless, though her acquaintance with Justin was slighter than that of the other two women, was better informed and enlightened her. ‘Miss Tredennick isn’t Mr Bray’s landlady,—at least not ostensibly. She’s let the whole house, or made it over, to an old servant of hers who married a German called Müller. The invaluable Magda is her daughter.’
Lady Beatrice, who did not relish being corrected by Lady Farless, sought another subject for conversation. As soon as tea was well under way, she said, ‘Now, Mr Bray, we want to know all about your last book. Seven Silent Sinners. Such a wonderful title. However did you come to think of it?’
Justin smiled mysteriously. ‘Well, you see—there are seven people living in this house.’
‘That gives you the number,’ said Lady Victoria, rousing herself from her memories of the past. ‘But are you sure you all sin?’
Justin answered, ‘I think we do, you know.’
Lady Farless, who, unlike the other two, had read the book, said, ‘But, Mr Bray, there’s no——’ Before she reached the word similarity, Lady Beatrice gave another of her shrill cries and asked, ‘Do you all sin in the same way, or have you allotted a different sin to each character? I’ve got your book, of course, but I’ve so very little time for reading nowadays. However, I promise I’ll make a start on it to-night. I’m dying to find out what your particular sin is.’
Lady Victoria said, ‘I think you’ll find it a very innocent one. Being a little too fond of pretty things, perhaps, instead of practising self-denial and doing what we used to call good works.’
‘But the Welfare State has abolished charity, like so many other old virtues. No, it must be something else. Still, perhaps it isn’t very tactful to cross-examine poor Mr Bray about it. I hear the book is selling very well. I do hope it is.’
‘No, not very well,’ said Justin. ‘In fact, you’ll hardly find it in a shop-window.’
Lady Farless announced, ‘I saw a pile of five in Garrows yesterday. Not the main table,—the small one on the left as you go in from the lift. I think the jacket might have been a little brighter, don’t you?’
Before Justin could agree or disagree, Lady Beatrice said, ‘At any rate, the notices have been wonderful.’
‘Do you think they have?’ Justin asked rather acidly. He was always irritated when he heard people call reviews notices, a word which, however aptly it described the criticism of trivial productions, such as ballets and musical comedies, struck a jarring note when used with reference to anything really sacred like a book. Besides, he was convinced that Lady Beatrice had never read a book review in her life and wouldn’t know one if she saw it.
He went on, with a deliberate touch of pomposity, ‘Perhaps I’ve reached the age when one is more hurt by an unkind review than pleased by a kind one. Did you see what Fanny France wrote about me in The Striking Hour? She began by saying how incredible it was that in the twenties I was considered to be dangerously advanced, a highbrowish enfant terrible, whereas now I am only fit to be read by elderly ladies wearing lavender-scented gloves. She did at least allow me the merit of a cultivated style, but James Lorry, in The Sunday Beholder, ripped even that to shreds. I think I know the nastier passages by heart. Let me see if I can recite them to you. “Still fettered by the rusty chains of an obsolete educational system, Mr Bray gives us the mixture as before. It is a mixture of stale platitudes unhealthily sweetened with a pinch of saccharine, that to our taste is almost nauseous. His inspiration seems to come exclusively from writers of his own calibre, who were discredited thirty years ago. His style is as laboured as theirs, but thirty years staler. His values are also theirs, but even less vital, since they hark back to a past which, for those writers, still had a kind of dim, egocentric life, but now appeals only to antiquaries. Beneath a thin show of objectivity, we discern the festering ulcer of self-pity, and at times the petulance of a tiresome child that sulks because it isn’t understood.”’
Ten Pollitt Place Page 3