Ten Pollitt Place

by C. H. B. Kitchin

  Miss Tredennick said quickly, ‘I shall see him, of course. Then the first thing I shall do will be to get rid of that nurse. After that I’ll ring up all the friends whom you had to put off from coming to tea with me this afternoon, and tell them I’m quite well again and expecting them. Please tell that to Mr Bray, as soon as you see him.’

  Mrs Muller breathed still more freely. She had been terrified that Miss Tredennick, in her blind loneliness, would summon Hugo to have tea with her, and though in the ordinary way she had no objection to his having as many meals with Miss Tredennick as he might be invited to share, he had announced with a quiet inflexibility that he would be out to tea that after­noon. Magda was there when he said so, and had given him a very odd look, but he took no notice and turning to his mother he had said, ‘I promise you I shan’t get into any harm—or mix with bad companions. I’ll be back for supper with you at home.’ And when he kissed her, he had looked so happy that she hadn’t the heart to ask him where he was going.

  ‘Quite so, Madam. It’ll make you forget this terrible time you’ve had. There’s the doctor. Magda’s downstairs and will let him in. And Nurse is back from the bathroom. I can hear her in the sitting-room. Shall I tell her—or would you rather——?’

  Miss Tredennick said simply, ‘Ask her to wait till she shows Dr Jamieson in.’

  ‘Good morning, Doctor. You’re looking rather hot. You shouldn’t scamper up the stairs like that. . . . No, I’m not bluffing. I’ve recovered my sight. Please God I keep it.’

  Dr Jamieson gave her a long and penetrating stare, nodded and said, ‘It’s very much as I thought—though of course I couldn’t be sure. I’m delighted—delighted. I needn’t tell you that. Well, now we shall have to think of what we are going to do about things. Your only appointment to-day was with Mr Faring.’

  Miss Tredennick said sarcastically, ‘I suppose at overtime rates! It would be rather fun to see him and not let him know what has happened. I should love to lead him just a little way up the garden-path.’

  Dr Jamieson shook his head. ‘These people aren’t such fools as they look.’

  ‘Does he look a fool? Remember, I never saw him. But I picture him as a young middle-aged man, with a slightly effeminate face and perhaps the suggestion of a lemon-coloured moustache.’

  ‘Quite right. And does Nurse here look just as you pictured her, too?’

  Miss Tredennick turned her gaze towards the nurse, who was standing near the door with an indignant expression. She answered wickedly and mendaciously, ‘No, not at all. When I tried to visualise her, I saw a tall, rather delicate, slender woman with a sad face and an artist’s tapering fingers.’

  Nurse spoke for the first time. ‘Come, come, Miss Treden­nick, it’s too bad of you to tease me like that. But I can’t say how pleased I am to find my patient so very much better this morning. Well, doctor——?’

  Before he could answer, Miss Tredennick said very firmly, ‘Let me make it quite clear that there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m in just as good health as I was before I had this ghastly attack. If I should have another, I’ll be most grateful for everybody’s assistance, though I hope I shouldn’t feel quite so worried about myself another time. But till and when that happens—and I’m not going to let the possibility of it bother me—I intend to live my ordinary life. I should like to start it now, and get up at once!’

  Ten minutes later, when the nurse had gone down to the hall with Dr Jamieson, she said, ‘Doctor, do you think she was shamming the whole time?’, and he replied, ‘That isn’t at all an easy question to answer. No—I don’t think she was shamming in the sense that she was putting on an act to deceive us. I’ve no doubt Faring could get to the bottom of it, if she’d co-operate with him, but clearly she wouldn’t. And why should she? She’s past the age when he could do her any real good. Well, Nurse, I’m sorry you’re being so bustled about at Christmas-time, but you’ll be able to give yourself a rest for the next six days, if you want one. No doubt you realised it was hopeless for me to suggest that you should stay your time out here as a kind of lady-companion.’

  Nurse tossed her shoulders, and said, ‘No, Doctor, of course I understand that. I’ve never been one to force myself on a house where I’m not welcome. I may think a good deal, but I can keep my thoughts to myself.’

  Dr Jamieson hid his mild dislike of her under a smile, shook hands, said goodbye and walked back to his home in the Crescent.

  Miss Tredennick was sitting in her usual chair by the window, gazing into the street. Every detail was visible to her keen eyes. They reviewed in turn every threshold, every door-knob, every knocker, every door, fanlight and window. The two windows on the top floor of Number Seven were open to their widest extent. Surely, it would have been more decent to draw the curtains, if she were lying there, dead on the bed. Or had they taken the body to the mortuary? But, of course, the room had been full of gas, and it would be some time before it was properly aired.

  Who would have the room next? Some dull, modest old woman, who’d sit behind the net curtains like a witch and spy through a narrow slit on Number Ten? Even now, no doubt, there were women keeping watch at most of those windows. Those on the north side of the street had heard of the sudden catastrophe at Number Seven, while those on the south side were hardly less agog over the catastrophe at Number Ten (not knowing that the excitement there was over), and were peeping out in the hope of seeing a nurse’s uniform or a doc­tor’s top hat—Dr Jamieson always wore a top hat when he visited Miss Tredennick—or better still, an oxygen-cylinder or some fantastic piece of medical apparatus brought to the door by Allen & Hanbury’s van.

  Like herself, they were waiting and watching. They could see everything that wasn’t hidden from them by blinds or curtains. But like herself, they could find nothing worth looking at. And in all probability, there’d never be anything worth looking at again.

  With a sigh, she brought out her Journal, read it through and began to tear it into very small pieces.

  [2]

  Of all those who lived at Number Ten, Magda alone had been really shocked by Miss Varioli’s death, the cause of which, though it might be a matter of conjecture to others, was to Magda quite clear. The wretched woman, whose wickedness had been only too openly revealed by her conduct, her face, her voice, and the way she walked, had committed suicide in a fit of remorse for her sins. But she was not the only sinner in Pollitt Place, and when Magda—though her creed set little store by prayers for the dead—said an impulsive prayer for the dead woman’s soul, she added a prayer that when her own turn should come, she might be given the leisure and the grace to make a sincere and adequate repentance.

  When Dorothy heard the news, she said, ‘Oh, how sad! But these things always happen to women of that sort in the end,’ while Robert said nothing, but thought the world the poorer for the loss of Miss Varioli’s fine body,—not of course that these days she meant anything to him. Justin said, ‘What a tragedy!’, and remembering how only a few weeks before he had compared himself with the gay hoyden who lived opposite, he found a grim satisfaction in the thought that his elderly feebleness should have outlived her youthful vitality.

  Mrs Muller was still in a radiant mood. So many good things seemed to have happened that day. Miss Tredennick was better—whatever schemes Mrs Muller might have had for the dis­position of Miss Tredennick’s money, she was too loyal to wish her anything but good health—they had got rid of the nurse, who in her short stay had already begun to make a nuisance of herself, and Hugo, though quiet, was happy and really pleased with his presents. And above all, there was no need to worry any longer about his terrifying prediction, which quite obviously had referred to Number Seven and not Number Ten. That’s what he had meant,—that’s what he must have meant.

  But she couldn’t bear not to have his own confirmation, so that the last of her niggling doubts might be set at rest, and when they had finished their midday meal in the kitchen—their Christmas dinner was to be in the e
vening,—she turned to Magda, who was starting to clear away, and said, ‘How right Hugo was, when he said that someone round here was going to die before the end of the year!’ As Magda shrugged her shoulders and didn’t reply, Mrs Muller appealed to Hugo, who had been very silent throughout the meal. ‘Did you hear me, dear? Aren’t you feeling proud of yourself?’ Hugo shook his head. ‘But why not, darling? Why not? You knew there would be a death in this street before the end of this year and told us so. Don’t you remember?’ Hugo almost whispered, ‘Did I say in this street?’ His mother trembled, but did her best not to show it. ‘Not actually, darling, but that’s what you must have meant. You did mean it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I only meant what I said.’

  Magda looked over her shoulder and said brusquely, ‘He said in this house—and he was completely wrong. I do wish, Mother, you wouldn’t encourage him to talk such non­sense.’ Mrs Muller sat down with her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. Then Hugo, with an unusual look of contrition, went up to her, put his hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘It’s all right, Mutti. Don’t worry about it. As Magda says, I was completely wrong.’

  Before his mother could look up at him, he walked to his room, so that she didn’t see the guilty colour suffusing his cheeks. The lie direct, even told in a good cause, never came easily to him.

  [3]

  Three hours to get through. He would go for a stroll in the park, but that wouldn’t fill the difficult afternoon. Had it been summer, he might have taken his easel and passed the time sketching, but it was far too cold to sit about, despite the burst of bright sunshine that cast its beam a few feet inside his window.

  He was now nervously regretting his boldness in accepting Bert’s invitation. What kind of figure would he cut at the party? He would be tongue-tied and awkward, all his natural good manners rendered boorish by shyness and the wish to please. And what kind of woman was this wife of Bert’s? If she was the sentimental, motherly type, all would be well. He could feel at home with such women. But if she thought of herself as ‘pretty and attractive’—a description given by Sunday newspapers to nine out of ten female witnesses at trials for rape—she wouldn’t like him at all. Nor would he like her.

  And the young people—all those nephews and nieces—would be still more of a peril. They wouldn’t be able to talk, but they’d know how to shout and to make amends for their lack of mental ability by crude displays of bodily vigour, rough-and-tumbles and practical jokes that might turn to horse-play. They would either chum up with him or reject him pointedly from their fellowship. In any event, they would be bound to feel that he didn’t want any of them to be there, and would have preferred to have tea alone with Bert and his wife—or better still, with Bert but without his wife. Yet, if he’d said to Bert, ‘No, I’m afraid my mother wouldn’t hear of my going out on Christmas Day,’ he could never have forgiven himself for his cowardice.

  In this mood of diffidence, which gained on him as he wasted the minutes, gazing idly through the area railings into the street, he had a sudden impulse to see Miss Tredennick, who, he felt, might in some strange way give him counsel or com­fort. How odd it was that the oldest female and the youngest male at Number Ten should have such a kinship. Why not put it to the test? At the worst, she would say, ‘You shouldn’t come here without my sending for you.’

  After making sure that both his mother and Magda had left the sitting-room, he slipped out into the passage, went quietly up the three flights of stairs and knocked on the door of Miss Tredennick’s bedroom.

  ‘Come in. Why, Hugo, it’s you!’

  ‘Oh, Madam, you must excuse me, but I felt I had to come up and tell you how glad I am to hear your good news,—and to thank you for the beautiful scarf and socks. Mother says I wear out my socks terribly quickly. I’ve such small heels. Are you really well now, Madam?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Hugo. As well as I ever shall be. I wonder if you can understand what a grim thing that is to say.’

  ‘Yes, Madam, I think I do. Sometimes when I’m in a hurry—you know, when I have to, I can get about far quicker than people think I can—I say to myself, “Hugo, you’ll never be able to walk more quickly than this.” ’

  She nodded, was about to make a sympathetic reply, then checked it. ‘Tell me, Hugo, what exactly did you hear about my recovery?’

  He looked puzzled and she went on, ‘What I mean is, have you heard it suggested that I’m nothing but a tiresome fraud?’

  ‘No, Madam, I heard nothing like that. The nearest that came to it was when the nurse was saying goodbye to Mother. She said, “Old people get all sorts of fancies in their heads, and you just have to humour them.” Mother didn’t like it and said that of all the people she had met, you were the last one to be fanciful.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  He looked down at the carpet before answering, and then said, avoiding her eyes, ‘I think you really hated the woman opposite.’

  ‘Well, if I did? She and her friends were noisy and vulgar and I’m sure she led what is called an immoral life. But it isn’t hatred, it’s love, that’s supposed to make people blind. And it’s a very long time since love has troubled me. Poor boy, I imagine you’re just reaching the age when you’ll have to go through it.’ Hugo raised his eyes and studied her, sitting very upright in her chair by the window. He remembered his mother saying to somebody, ‘She mayn’t have a title, but she looks every inch a lady.’ Her room was very much his idea of a lady’s. It wasn’t a museum of beautiful things like Mr Bray’s. Hugo’s acquaint­ance with the furniture-shops in Parkwell Road had familiarised him with the difference between the ‘antique’ and the ‘second­hand’. Quite a number of Miss Tredennick’s things were obviously the latter. Yet taken collectively, they gave an impression of gentility that was lacking in the slap-up prettiness of Mrs Fawley’s drawing-room.

  He said, ‘I’m going to a tea-party to-day with a lot of people I don’t know.’

  ‘Who invited you, Hugo?’

  ‘One of the dustmen who clears away our rubbish. His name is Bert.’

  ‘Oh,—do you mean the big, good-looking, red-headed one?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘Does your mother know where you’re going?’

  ‘She knows I’m going out, but she doesn’t know where. I somehow didn’t like to tell her that.’

  Miss Tredennick smiled ironically, then a trace of wistfulness came into her expression.

  ‘Well, Hugo, as we seem to have got on such confidential terms, I’m going to tell you a secret about myself. There was a time when I was madly in love with your grandfather,—I mean your mother’s father, of course. I expect you know he used to be our coachman, till we gave up carriages and took to motors. Then he stayed on as our chauffeur. But he was our head-groom when I was in love with him. I must have been about eight. He was very handsome—or I thought he was—and I adored him in a way I’ve never adored any other human being. I used to spend as much time as I dared in the stables, watching him at his work. Once, even, I gave him some cigarettes which I’d stolen from the silver box in the smoking-room. (In those days, you know, private houses had smoking-rooms.) I’m sure he must have found me a thorough nuisance. I was a very ugly child, strong-minded and much too talkative. This was long before he married your grandmother, but when he did, although I’d quite grown out of my silly passion—or thought I had—I couldn’t help feeling jealous. You look pale and worried. Take a walk in the park, but don’t over-tire yourself. Arrive just a little late. You may not enjoy this tea-party very much—and it’s no use my trying to give you any advice as to how you should behave or what you should say—but I’m sure that when you get home again, you’ll be glad you went. Now I’m expecting Magda in a few minutes, so you’d better go. I wish you a very happy afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam. I wish you the same.’

  She shook her head slightly, as if to indicate that such a wish was most unlikely to
be fulfilled.

  He went downstairs slowly, exaggerating his limp. I was a very ugly child. Miss Tredennick’s phrase haunted him not only on his way down to the basement, but in Kensington Gardens. And its force came home to him still more keenly when he reached the Round Pond and saw half a dozen children sailing their boats and scampering excitedly along the bank, to inter­cept them before the new paint got a bump against the stone­work. They were all younger than Hugo, but so full of animal spirits that he shrank from approaching too closely, in case one of them should jostle him into the water. Their faces glowed a bright pink in the rising north wind.

  He continued his walk and noticed at one of the corners of the pond—for the Round Pond has corners of a sort, despite its name—two very small boys kneeling close to one another and sobbing bitterly into a handkerchief which they shared between them. Hugo judged them to belong to a different class, both socially and physically, from the well-fed, prosper­ous group whose exuberance had dismayed him a few minutes before.

  He soon realised what the two children were crying about. Their streaming eyes kept turning to a small patch of green which bobbed up and down some twenty feet from the shore. It was evidently the keel of their little boat which had turned turtle, and was drifting away with tedious perversity towards the middle of the pond. He went up to them and said shyly, ‘Is that your boat?’ Hearing his grown-up voice they looked round hopefully, but when they saw it was an under-sized cripple who had addressed them, their spirits sank. One of them said ruefully, ‘Yes, that’s our boat, that was! And Mum only give it us this morning.’ Hugo was at a complete loss for words. He had no practical advice to offer—they had already tried throwing sticks and small stones without effect—and abstract commiseration seemed valueless. There was only one thing to do.