by Dodie Smith
He was asking if I wasn’t tired of vegetating. What was it all about, really, this shutting myself away in an isolated cottage? I said I didn’t quite know – ‘I thought I did, when it started. I’d saved enough money to live on for a few years without taking a job, and I wanted to do something worth while, just for once. I never have, you know: just messed about at acting, writing, dress-designing, God knows whatall. I’d an idea that, granted perfect peace, I could write a decent novel.’
‘And have you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, it’s not finished – one reason for which is that I haven’t been granted perfect peace. I’ve too many friends. There’s the vicar, who doesn’t mind that I never go to church; and the doctor, who doesn’t mind that I’m never ill – touch wood – and a young nuclear disarmer who doesn’t mind that I agree with him, blast my elderly impertinence.’
‘Are you having an affair with any of them?’
‘What a shocking question to ask a respectable old lady! Though I do sometimes wonder if the nuclear disarmer had a fixation on his grandmother.’
‘You could pass for forty.’
‘That wouldn’t help as he’s only twenty-six. Still, thanks.’
‘You must have been there two years. Haven’t you spent all your savings yet?’
I was within sight of it but I said airily, ‘Oh, I can manage even when I have. Quite a bit of income dribbles in. Amateurs still do my one play, which you so kindly lost money on. And the shares my dear aunt left me have gone up so much that she must be dancing in heaven. And anyway, there’s plenty of secretarial work to be had locally. But what I really want now is to have a shot at painting.’ I described my recent ambition very fully.
After listening patiently he said: ‘Utter nonsense, of course – except that, in your case, it just might not be. I’d never put it past you to turn into a Granny Moses. But you could paint in London. Why not come back? Take a little flat.’
‘Even little flats are ruinously expensive.’
‘Well, I can always give you work. Would you like to adapt a German farce for me?’
‘You would never produce my adaptation of a German farce. When I want you to support me I’ll demand it – for past services.’
‘You wouldn’t have to demand, as you’ve always known. I’ll find you a flat, if you like or …’ his tone became histrionically casual, ‘you could share mine. You know how large it is.’
I did indeed. He now occupied one of London’s earliest mansion flats, so archaic that one felt there ought to be a preservation order on it. All its front rooms had bay windows, all its back rooms looked on to a well; it was as inconvenient as it was hideous and his only reason for living in it was that, in the eighteen-nineties, it had been lived in by Sir Roy Crossway – not that, even to me, Brice had ever admitted he had any feelings about that. I thanked him for the suggestion but said people would think it very funny if we set up house together.
‘Well, if you minded that, we could marry.’
So he could still astonish me. I hastened to explain I hadn’t meant that kind of funny. ‘I just meant comic. And our getting married would be even more comic. Still, I’m grateful for the offer, belated though it is.’
‘You’ve always known I was ready to marry you.’ He grinned. ‘That is, whenever we were on speaking terms; and even when we weren’t, really.’
‘Still, you never mentioned it. Nor did anyone else. I can’t remember having one respectable proposal.’
‘You discouraged them in advance.’
‘Could be. But it’s nice to have one to chalk up, even at my age. Was it a sudden impulse?’
He said he supposed so. ‘It was so pleasant, sitting here talking together. And I’m fonder of you than anyone in the world.’
‘You take the words out of my thoughts. Well, I can’t turn respectable now but I will consider the loan of part of your almost historic flat. It depends on how Granny Moses progresses. I may want to go on and on painting the view from my window.’
‘Is there nothing in London you fancy painting?’
‘Teenagers, perhaps – the scruffier the better. They strike me as gloriously paintable. Can I see a bit of the show?’
He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost the end of Act II.’
‘I’ll watch through the spy-hole.’
I slid open the panel and looked down over the dark, crowded gallery to the bright oblong of the stage. In a composite set showing attics, garishly decorated with Pop Art, a group of teenagers were coming as near to raping each other as a broad-minded censorship permitted. The show was really a bedroom farce in which no one shut the bedroom doors. I liked it much better than the first play I had seen through the spy-hole.
‘Lovely,’ I said to Brice, when the curtain had descended. ‘Especially your leading lady. She’s no taller than I am. Her head, like mine, is too large for her height. And she’s overacting to high heaven. Was I simply in advance of my time?’
‘No, love,’ said Brice affectionately. ‘If you were young now you’d still be all wrong, somehow.’
‘I see. Just a freak, at any period. Brice dear, how very well you’ve directed this show. I must see the whole of it again.’
‘It’s slipping. And I’m losing control of the kids. The trouble is, I’ve grown to like them. They quite approved of me when I bullied them, but if one softens towards them they think one’s trying to get in on their act, hand oneself a second helping of youth. They resent that.’
‘Well, God knows I long to get in on their act – I’d love to be a teenager now. But the few I know don’t seem to resent me.’
‘Even the ruthless young are sometimes tolerant to freaks,’ said Brice. ‘Besides, in some odd way, you’re still stuck in your own teens.’
It was something I often felt myself. I could look in the glass and note the signs of age with calm disinterest, as though they had nothing to do with me. Frequently I reminded myself not to ‘act young’ when people were present. When quite alone I was liable to dance. Oh, yes, I was a freak all right. Absurdly, I had not really felt complimented when Brice said I could pass for forty. I had never felt anything like as old as forty.
I said I knew what he meant. ‘I’m not merely a freak. I’m a mentally arrested freak.’
‘Still, you’re old enough for a drink and I’ve forgotten to offer you one. What’ll you have?’
I told him I’d had more wine at dinner than I care for.
‘Shall I send down for some coffee?’
‘No, thanks. Do you remember Eve’s black brew?’
He smiled. ‘I wonder the office isn’t haunted by the smell of it – which was much better than the taste. Poor old Eve.’ He always combined affectionate admiration for her with intense disapproval of her life. ‘Sixty years devoted to Rex.’
‘I was thinking of that this evening.’
‘And also thinking, “But for the grace of God there went I”?’
‘It might have been by the grace of God.’ Why had I said that? Surely I didn’t mean it?
Brice obviously didn’t think so. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it. I’ll have to leave you now, for a few minutes. I told my stage manager I’d see him in this interval.’
‘Is he anything like you were?’
‘Much fiercer. Will you wait? Then we’ll go out to supper.’
I said it would make me too late. ‘I ought to leave now. I’ve someone else to see before I start for home.’
‘Oh?’ Brice sounded curious.
‘A woman. I don’t think you ever met her. Come on, or the interval will be over.’
We went down together. There were a good many people in the foyer, most of them in day clothes. ‘Unglamorous audiences, nowadays,’ said Brice. ‘Still, they do cough less.’
He sent the commissionaire for a taxi, repeated his offer to share his flat, adding, ‘Just try it – even if you hang on to your bloody cottage as a bolt hole,’ then hurried off towards the pass d
oor. I went outside to wait for my taxi. Leaning against one of the pillars of the portico, I wondered how long he could keep the Crossway from demolition. He had satisfied a lifetime’s ambition by getting control of it but he never admitted to any strong feeling for it; instead, he insisted it meant much to Rex and must be kept standing as long as Rex lived. I did not think it mattered to Rex now and I even doubted if he had ever felt emotional about it or about the Crossway family. Basically, Brice was a far more emotional man than Rex had ever been.
Once in the taxi, I wished I did not feel I must try to see Zelle. I dreaded it, rather; also I wanted to think about my own affairs. Should I share Brice’s flat? Should I even marry him? (No, I should not. But I was complimented to have the chance, particularly as, of recent years, he’d had some very attractive young women in tow; I doubted if any of them had had him in tow.) Also, a puzzling thought had stirred in my mind while I talked to him and I wanted to investigate it. Well, that must wait.
Soon I was at the block of tenement flats where Zelle lived. Could I really knock on all the doors and enquire for her?
I didn’t have to. As I walked towards the entrance to the block I looked down at a basement room where the curtains had not been drawn. It was lit only by a gas fire, in front of which, stiffly stuck out, were two pony-straight legs. My sight line was such that I could not see the rest of their owner, but they were unmistakable legs. I was glad to see they wore good stockings and that the slender feet were well shod.
I went down dimly lit stairs and rang the basement flat’s bell. Zelle opened the door. My first impression was of greyness, grey hair, pale skin, grey sweater and skirt. She was no crone; just an elderly, neatly dressed woman, rather too thin.
She smiled and said: ‘Oh, hello! I’m glad you’ve come. I was terrified you would, this afternoon – you followed me, didn’t you? I saw you jump in the taxi. But when you didn’t turn up, I was disappointed. Come on in.’
She took me into the gas-fire-lit room and switched on a lamp. It was red-shaded, kind both to her and to the drab little sitting-room with its dull, inexpensive furniture. I told her I had recognised her legs. She laughed and said they were getting very skinny, then told me she’d just come back from baby-sitting and had been too lazy to draw the curtains – ‘I was wondering if I’d go to bed at once.’
I asked if she did much baby-sitting and she said she had four regular nights a week. She preferred it to day work, though she still did that occasionally – ‘I don’t mind sewing or silver polishing but they will try to edge in cleaning and cooking. Cleaning tires me now and I’ve never been much of a cook. But I quite enjoy baby-sitting and my nicest job of all is sitting with a dog. Anyway, it’s all very well paid so I do quite well. Did you think I was down and out? I borrowed those clothes from an old actress who has the flat opposite – they’re from what she calls her “character wardrobe”. Of course I never expected you to recognise me.’
‘Why didn’t you join us? Oh, I know you hardly could, in that get-up, but why didn’t you come as yourself?’
‘Well, I did think of it. And then I felt I’d rather just have a look at you all. Not that I’d have disgraced you – I’ve some quite nice clothes. The woman whose dog I sit with often gives me things. It was her copy of The Times I read the advertisement in. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’
‘Did you never see any of the earlier ones?’
‘Were there some? No, I never saw them. Funny, I’ve kept the name Zelle – always tell people I’m called that, though I’d almost forgotten where it came from. And I’d quite forgotten Lilian’s idea of having reunion lunches – though I remembered it after I’d read the advertisement, and lots of other things too. That was a nice room I had at the Club.’
I asked if she still had her picture of the baby faun, and at first she couldn’t even remember it. Then it came back to her. ‘Now what happened to that? I probably left it behind somewhere. For years and years I was moving around; I used to do resident jobs, mother’s help and housekeeping; and I was in a factory during the war. Not long after that I got this flat and I’ve stayed put. It’s central and I like the church in the square. What’s been happening to you? I saw your name in the papers once or twice. You had a play on, didn’t you? But I haven’t seen anything about you for years.’
‘There hasn’t been anything to see.’ I found I could give her a résumé of my life as briefly as she had told me about hers. She said mine sounded exciting – ‘Anyway, you’ve had lots of change. Tell me about Molly and Lilian.’
I told her, and said how anxious Lilian was to see her. This astonished her so much that I tried to explain. She looked amused and said, ‘Fancy old Lily de Luxe with a conscience – and after all these years! Actually, I thought she did the right thing. Oh, I was bitter for a while, but it was only fair he should be warned; otherwise he might have got out on a limb over me, poor man, because he was on the way to being smitten. I suppose you’ll laugh when I tell you I really was converted.’
‘Religiously converted?’
‘Well, don’t look so horrified. I remember now, you didn’t believe in religion. I always did in a way, but I hated it until I met Adrian Crossway. That changed my whole life. You’d be surprised how moral I’ve been, not that I take much credit for it; that year with poor old Bill sort of put me off anything else – well, for quite a long time. Later, I did meet a few men I liked. I could have married one of them. But it’d have spoilt what I felt about Adrian Crossway. That wonderful man! Well, let’s have a drink. I think I’ve some gin.’
‘Couldn’t we have some tea – as we used to, in the old days?’
She went to get it. I had asked for it only because I wanted a few minutes alone, to think. In my handbag was a letter from Adrian Crossway to Zelle. As instructed in her farewell note I had hung on to it, awaiting the forwarding address that never came. I had brought it to all the reunion lunches, in case she turned up. And now … should I hand it over? It might well be disillusioning. If so, could it not – even after all these years – do real harm? She had built her life round something she had got from Adrian; might not the letter damage more than just her idealised memory of him? But it was a letter intended for her and she had asked me to take care of it, if it came, and let her have it if she gave me the chance to.
Perhaps I ought to take it away and steam it open. I loathed the idea – and how could I judge if the contents would hurt her? I no longer felt I knew her. Once or twice a note in her voice had reminded me of the Zelle I remembered, but most of the time she had seemed just a thin, grey, elderly woman, very matter of fact – except about Adrian Crossway. I looked round the dull little basement room, trying to learn more about her from it. There were no books; just a pile of women’s weeklies and parish magazines. The few pictures were framed colour prints of bluebell woods and the like. What a setting for the princesse lointaine who had poured out money on us all! But perhaps I had never really known her. Was she not basically a poor girl from a Welsh village, used to hard work – and with religion, probably, in her bones? Her year with a rich elderly man, culminating in a few months with us, represented only an odd little quirk in the mainstream of her life.
I was still undecided what to do about the letter when she came back with the tea and made the decision for me by saying, ‘I suppose – I’ve often wondered – I suppose no letter came for me after I left the Club? I mean, from Adrian Crossway. But it’s silly to ask, really. You wouldn’t remember.’
That settled it; she must have her letter. I took it out of my bag and handed it over.
She sat staring at the envelope. ‘Such beautiful writing … goodness, it does feel extraordinary, after all these years. It’s a George V stamp. Well, here goes.’
After a couple of minutes she looked up and said, ‘It’s a marvellous letter. I’d like you to read it.’
In my opinion it was a swine of a letter, pompous, sententious and oh, so guarded! Adrian wrote of unexpected parish work which
would debar him from an immediate visit to London. Also he had decided that the work in the East End he had suggested for her would not be suitable – ‘We must think again, and forgive me if this takes a little while.’ He regretted that he could not get her accommodation in the village for the weekend of his Harvest Festival and mentioned some churches in London she might like to attend – ‘Remember, God is the same God both in town and country.’ Finally, there was a paragraph of obviously valedictory good wishes concluding with: ‘You were kind enough to say that coming to my church had meant much to you. I trust that any little help I may, by God’s grace, have given you will be of lasting value. I shall pray for you.’ And he was hers ‘with deepest sincerity, Adrian Crossway.’
I did not believe the writer of that letter was anyone’s with deepest sincerity. The exquisitely inscribed words (‘written’ was too ordinary a word for that elegant script) merely amounted to a brush-off – and of all brush-offs, deliver me from the pious brush-off. But this one, for Zelle, would become a relic. Well, just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, the holiness of a relic is undoubtedly in the mind of the worshipper.
I said, ‘Oh, Zelle, I’m so glad.’ It got me by. I handed the letter back and she read it again, then said how grateful she was to me for taking care of it. After that, she put it back in its envelope and poured out tea, which we drank while talking casually about the past, sometimes saying how long ago it seemed and sometimes that it only seemed like yesterday; and both were true.
Eventually I asked if she would see Lilian. She agreed at once, saying she’d like to – ‘And perhaps Lilian can put some work in my way. I was glad when I read that Mr Crossway got knighted.’
‘After a good long wait. I think straightforward divorce passes for respectability these days. Yes, I’m sure Lilian can find you some kind of work.’ I looked at my watch. It was only a little after eleven. ‘I’d like to ring her up now.’
I expected to do so from a call box but it turned out that Zelle had a telephone; she said she needed it as she often got last-minute jobs. We went into her bedroom and she left me alone.