Chapter 6
England, the lush green land which would come to mean so much to me, did not at first seem much of a haven. It was a temporary sanctuary, a small island nation to which we fled for a time, and would probably leave before long to seek another refuge. We sought the sense of safety given by a narrow channel of water as a substitute, because Mrs. Beaufort's fears prevented us from putting an entire ocean between ourselves and danger.
Thus it was with a somewhat disgruntled state of mind that I saw the city of London for the first time and realised that though I had resented being hustled onto a boat to get there I could not dislike it. It lacked the grandeur of Rome and the warm glow of Florence, and it did not possess the careless beauty of Paris, but it had a certain magic of its own.
There the pattern of our travels changed, for after a short sojourn at a small hotel in North London, we received, in answer to letters from the Beauforts and myself informing her of our situation, a note from my grandmother. In it she expressed her sympathy for the plight in which we found ourselves, and enclosed a check for a rather substantial sum of money to be used for my maintenance during our extended stay, with a promise of more should it be needed. It was a very correct letter, very polite and even kind, but I, knowing my grandmother as I did, could see her pursed lips and the lines of disapproval crossing her forehead as she wrote of our "regrettable circumstances". In a separate letter addressed to me she gave greater vent to her feelings and expressed extreme disapproval at our decision to remain in Europe as well as her disgust at Mrs. Beaufort's irrational fears.
"Of course I don't blame you for that foolish woman's actions, Anna," she wrote. "However, if the opportunity does come at any time when you could persuade her to set foot on a boat, I urge you to take full advantage of it. If Mr. Beaufort had more backbone he would have insisted on her going and you would all be on your way home now. Even England may not be safe for long."
She then went on to tell me that an old acquaintance from her younger days, a widowed Mrs. Creeley, might still be living in London.
"It has been a few years since I heard from her, but we used to keep up a fairly steady correspondence. The last letter came shortly after her husband died. He left her with a fairly substantial income and a large empty house. If her situation is the same as it was then she may be willing to take you in for a while. Of course you will pay your own expenses. I do not ask you to live on her charity, but that sort of arrangement has the potential to be more comfortable than a hotel, and more economical."
At the bottom of the letter she had written Mrs. Creeley’s address.
I communicated the greater part of this letter to Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort and it was agreed that we should seek out Mrs. Creeley's house the next afternoon in an attempt to discover if she still lived there and was in a position to welcome our temporary residence. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort wanted to read the letter for themselves, and were rather offended for a time that I persisted in my denial. It did not seem to occur to them that I might wish to keep at least some of the contents of a private letter from my grandmother to myself. I might have yielded simply to avoid an argument if not for a few choice phrases which kept echoing in my head. In the end "that foolish woman's actions" and "if Mr. Beaufort had more backbone", as well as several other less-than-flattering statements, kept me firm in my resolve, and at last the Beauforts gave up their attacks, satisfying themselves instead with visiting the British Museum, jotting down many notes, buying several new notebooks and little gold pens with British flags on them, and eating a substantial lunch at a pub near our hotel.
I, feeling much better than I'm sure I was intended to feel at being left behind, sought out Gloria in our room and we dedicated the rest of the day to our own enjoyment. The Whildons were taking a boat to Greenwich for the afternoon, and we agreed that Gloria and I would walk them to the pier and continue our own adventures from there with the intention of meeting their boat again when it returned. A space of three hours was ours to enjoy as we chose, and for two healthy, energetic young women central London is an ideal place to spend one or many long afternoons. We first satisfied our taste for art with a visit to the National Gallery, and paid our tribute of awe with suitable deference to the lions in Trafalgar Square, which looked down on us with solemn dignity in spite of several parties of visitors who clambered about on their backs in flagrant disrespect.
In the last hour we wandered down to St. Paul's Cathedral. A service was just ending, and strains of music came down to us from the open doors as the choir finished. We mounted the steps and entered as those who had attended the service were leaving. Many were young men in crisp new uniforms, looking like toy soldiers just brought out of the box -- shiny little playthings ready to be lined up in neat rows and then knocked down again for the entertainment of some merciless child.
Silence descended as we entered. A few lingering groups stood here and there in the nave, but if they spoke at all it was only in whispers. Gloria and I did not speak, but moved as one to stand beneath the centre of the dome and look about us. It was a place for whispers or song, not for common jargon.
"Oh, Beaufort! Look at the dome! Do you think they sell miniatures?" Familiar laughter followed this remark, and Gloria and I did not need to turn our heads to know who had just entered the cathedral.
Exchanging pained looks, we looked around for some way of escape. The mood of reverent awe we had been enjoying was gone. The last thing I wanted was to be seen by the Beauforts at that moment, yet I was angry with myself. It did not seem right that reverence should be so easily replaced by annoyance, just because of a few silly words and a laugh.
To our right was an open doorway, and beyond a stairway going up. I touched Gloria's shoulder and pointed to it. She nodded and we ducked through the arch and began climbing. The stone steps curved up and up, higher and higher, until we emerged into a circular gallery which ran around the inside of the dome. Looking down, we could see to the floor of the cathedral -- a new and different view which almost made me dizzy with awe. From that height we found ourselves looking down at the tops of the Beauforts' heads. We could hear their voices coming up to us, echoing around the sides of the dome -- incoherent exclamations accompanied by hand gestures and nods of the head. Mr. Beaufort's bald spot shone with a truly amazing sheen from such a distance. They were gradually making their way toward the doorway which led to the stair we had taken, and we began looking about for somewhere else to go should they decide to visit the upper regions.
It was not long before we discovered another, smaller stairway, curving up as if to ascend the side of the dome itself. We set our feet to climbing, and before long came out into a smaller, outer gallery set at the top of the dome, with a splendid view over the city. Another stair led even higher, and so it went on, the steps always getting narrower and steeper, until we came to the last gallery of all, at the very top, and could go no further. This gallery was so small that no more than five people could have fit around inside it comfortably. A gilded railing encircled us. Below was the city of London, spread out like the most detailed map ever made. The broad, winding line of the Thames, the streets and squares, as well as the tiniest back streets and alleyways -- all were open to our view. In the years to come, I carried that view of London in my head, folded up and tucked away in a back corner, ready to be taken out and referred to at any time, growing more beautiful in memory until every rooftop appeared to my mind's eye as gilded as the dome of St. Paul's itself.
We lingered there until a clock, tolling the hour in another part of the city, reminded us that it was time to meet the Whildons. We had been there nearly an hour, yet I descended the stairs with regret, feeling as if I had stepped, just for an instant, on the threshold of heaven, only to turn back at the last moment.
Chapter 7
Mrs. Creeley proved to be a wizened old lady, no higher than my shoulder, with unusually large eyes and a very sharp nose. She looked suspiciously at us over her eyeglasses when her shy littl
e granddaughter led us into her sitting room the next day, as if she suspected that we were in league with the Nazis.
"So this is what happens to lifelong friendships," she sniffed. "I haven't heard from dear Eleanor in years, and now she sends me three strangers to maintain, at a time when we shall probably all be Germans within a year, if we’re not blown to bits by a bomb first."
I found myself wondering how this small, soured person could ever have been a friend of my tall, straight, dignified grandmother.
"We would do our very best not to inconvenience you, Ma'am," said Mr. Beaufort, with a reddening of the face which spread from his bald spot to the tip of his nose. "Financially we will be entirely responsible for ourselves. We might even be able to ease your burdens a little...help about the house..."
Mrs. Creeley stared at Mr. Beaufort as if his scarlet head were a personal affront to her.
"I am not in the habit of making guests work for their keep. Violet does well enough for me. Young people ought to be kept busy, otherwise who knows what kind of trouble they would get into." She looked at the girl with an expression of condescending affection, as if she were a pack pony which must be kept employed lest it start cribbing.
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort looked offended. I could see them making motions to each other as if they meant to get up and leave immediately. Then I looked at Mrs. Creeley out of the corner of my eye and saw with surprise a strange look of amusement on her face, as if she were getting a great deal of quiet entertainment out of the Beauforts’ discomfort. Seeing her battle-axe countenance relax was rather startling, but it also gave me a little hope. I did not care much for the prospect of living in this woman's house, where even the furniture seemed to take on the hollowed, pinched contours of its mistress' face, but neither did I want to see more of my grandmother's savings get swallowed by our hotel expenses.
"Perhaps I could help Violet with her work." I said it humbly, but I could not keep my mouth from twitching slightly, for the situation as a whole struck me as being oddly funny. "I am young, and will be quite idle if I'm not given something to do."
Mrs. Beaufort said, "Anna!" in a tone of shock, and, looking at her, I could hear what she was thinking almost as clearly as if she had spoken it. We shall NOT debase ourselves before THIS WOMAN! "This woman" was definitely being thought in capital letters. I could see them in her eyes.
Mrs. Creeley looked as if she knew perfectly well that she was being thought about in capitals, and seemed enormously pleased. Turning away from the Beauforts as if they and their opinions were of no consequence whatsoever, she turned to me, and in a very businesslike manner began describing my possible duties.
"You will help Violet with the shopping, of course," she said. "She has trouble with those thin arms carrying the things home. Also a bit of cooking and cleaning -- a few other things. I assume you can cook. I will have a list for you when you come. Will tomorrow be soon enough? You can afford to pay the bill at your hotel for one more night I suppose?"
She was looking at me, not at the Beauforts. I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak. I had won my point, embarrassed and annoyed the Beauforts, and secured us lodging, all in ten minutes or less, and I wasn't quite sure how I had done it. I only knew that thanks to Mrs. Creeley I now felt like a beggar who had sold herself into slavery to escape being thrown into prison by an angry hotel manager.
"She sounds like an absolute beast of an old lady," was Gloria's emphatic remark when I described the scene to her that afternoon.
We had joined Gloria and the Whildons for lunch at a pub near the hotel, and during that meal our morning visit had been glossed over in a somewhat uncomfortable manner by Mrs. Beaufort in between bites of shepherd's pie. Gloria and I had left the table as soon as we could. I had been suffering through the meal, certain that some tragedy would occur before we got our chance to leave -- that Mrs. Creeley would arrive carrying a red-hot poker to brand me into her service; that the hotel manager would arrive with a policeman to lock me up; or that Mrs. Beaufort would choke on the gravy in her shepherd's pie. Somehow, the last possibility struck me as being less tragic than the first two, so long as it did not prove fatal. My patience with Mrs. Beaufort was wearing thin enough that even the action of her jaws as she ate -- a small, quick, circular motion -- was enough to aggravate me.
At last we were able to make our escape, and the afternoon found us in Kensington Gardens.
"She can't be a complete beast," I said, wondering as I spoke why I was defending her.
"Yes, she can," said Gloria. "Giving people the benefit of the doubt is one thing and being ridiculous is another."
Did she really think me ridiculous?
We walked in silence for a while, enjoying the summer perfection of the park. It was a grey day, but not chilly, though I could smell rain in the air, as if it intended to fall at any moment and was only waiting for some signal. At least I imagined that it was waiting for something -- some particular person to reach the safety of their front door -- some event to reach its conclusion -- or perhaps even that it waited with malicious amusement to catch someone out in the open.
It was my fascination with this train of thought which distracted me to such a degree that I forgot to look where I was going. I was just giving the rain a sort of face in my mind (it had to be a special kind of face, I decided, one that could be kind or cruel or mischievous) when I heard Gloria say my name, and looked up just in time to get a close-up view of the front of a man's tweed jacket before it came into contact with my nose. Hands raised me up by my elbows and a man's voice said, "Excuse me." I apologised for my lack of attention and stepped back, intending to make a hasty retreat behind a convenient hedge, but first I looked up -- and my eyes met those of Perry Bertram, my acquaintance from the train to Florence.
Astonished to see him there so unexpectedly, I stopped where I was, and, I am afraid, stared rather longer than was strictly polite. I was certain that he would not remember me. So much had happened since we had met on the train. A war had begun. Who thought of chance meetings on trains when there was a war to think of? Finally I collected myself and turned to follow Gloria, who had stopped a little way ahead to look back at me in surprise. I had barely turned to go, however, when I heard my name.
"Did you enjoy Florence?" he asked when I turned around. His voice sounded amused. "Strange that we should run into each other like this, isn't it? I hope you were not hurt in our collision."
He had surprised me again. I had not expected him to recall our meeting on the train at all, yet he had, and even seemed glad to meet me again. I was astounded, but pleased as well, and to such a genuine expression of friendliness and concern I could only reply in the same spirit.
"Nothing is damaged except my dignity." I said, laughing.
"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I was lost in my thoughts and didn't look where I was going."
"That's all right." I said. "I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been either." Paying no attention at all would be more accurate, I thought. I had been giving the rain a face and personality, but I didn't care to admit it.
A brief silence ensued, and I remembered Gloria. Cursing myself for my lack of manners, I called her over and introduced my acquaintance to her as, "Mr. Bertram. We met in the train on the way to Florence."
They shook hands.
"Perry will do," he said. "Your friend and I met under unique circumstances. She assisted me in the tedious work of trying to read an Italian newspaper. Formality is hardly necessary for such an acquaintance, and anyway, being called 'Mr. Bertram' makes me feel like my grandfather." He looked at me again then. "I have thought of you and your chaperones since then and wondered how you enjoyed your time on the continent, but I admit I expected that you would return to America when war was declared, if not before."
Fumblingly, because I feared appearing disloyal to Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort even if I wasn't feeling very charitable towards them, I said, "We are going to be staying in London with an old friend
of my grandmother's. We understood that there was some doubt as to the safety of taking a boat home when a war was going on."
"Hm."
Gloria smoothly cut through the discomfort by inviting Perry back to the hotel for tea, but he excused himself.
"I'm afraid I'm already late," he said, looking at his watch. "My great-aunt is expecting me. She's a sharp old lady -- very keen on punctuality."
We both apologised for keeping him, and then we parted.
"You never told me about meeting him on the train," said Gloria, somewhat reproachfully, when we had begun walking again.
"I didn't know you would find it interesting," I replied, a little defensively, for the truth was I had held that memory sacred as the first time on our journey when I had felt truly free to be myself.
Gloria was not satisfied, however, until I had told her every detail of our meeting and conversation. I had never, since I had first known her, been reluctant to tell her anything, but when I had finished my story the memory seemed different since it had been shared, like opening a window on a sunny day shows up the dust on the furniture.
Chapter 8
We moved ourselves into Mrs. Creeley's house the following day. The Whildons, to my regret but not my surprise, began to discuss travel plans as soon as they heard we were leaving the hotel. They had only stayed out of kindness, and now that we had somewhere to go they considered their duty fulfilled. I could not blame them, but at the same time I bitterly regretted that they were to go, and that I would lose Gloria's companionship. With my friend gone, I could not look forward with much pleasure to life in Mrs. Creeley's house with the Beauforts. I had a sense that I would be spending a considerable amount of time keeping my chaperones and our hostess from each other's throats.
I was to share a room with Violet, and though she said nothing about it -- indeed she rarely spoke at all -- I got the impression that I was not a welcome addition to her life. She was a wispy little thing, a year or two younger than I was, with large blue eyes which were usually focused on something in the vicinity of the floorboards. I was fascinated by the relationship between Violet and Mrs. Creeley -- so different yet so similar to mine with my grandmother. Both women were strong-willed and somewhat controlling, but Mrs. Creeley's attitude toward Violet seemed to me like my grandmother's to me with the humanity taken out of it. It was the relationship between dog and master -- a curious mixture of affection and subjection.
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