by Angus Wilson
Mark said, “Any more news about the Inquiry Commission on Goodchild’s meadow, Dad?”
“Oh, so the machinations of the N.A.T.O. war machine haven’t entirely blinded you to local affairs,” Harold answered, but he was smiling.
Sylvia felt a flush spreading up her neck. Perhaps it was only the effort of suppressing tears. Then she felt a hand on her arm.
“We had a lovely new design in today, Gran. Just made for you. You know, dowager’s stuff. The full purple. But just right with your hair.”
Ray spoke to her now in an almost intimate whisper, steadying her in no time. She felt quite happy as he told her about the new long tweed evening skirts that they were all wearing now. Upstairs in their room, Arthur said, “I told young master Harold off, all right.” Sylvia, rubbing cream into her face before the dressing-table mirror, decided that it would be wiser not to respond; then an anxious look in his reflected eyes made her feel that she ought to support him. She smiled “Oh, Arthur.” But her tone was admiring.
He came over and kissed her; he put his hand on her bare thigh where the dressing gown had fallen apart. It seemed years since he had made such a gesture. In her imagination it took her back to their early days of marriage, to their first boarding house in Bognor—it must have been 1920. Of course there had been times since .... She returned his kiss and the pressure of his hand.
“Well,” he said comfortably as he got into bed, “don’t say I never stand up for you, Sylvie.”
At breakfast the next morning, Harold stood up as though he was going to offer a prayer. “With the Christmas holidays about to begin, I want the family opinion on whether this isn’t a good moment to revive a lapsed custom—one of Beth’s most cherished. ] mean the family roster. Ray?”
“Whatever you think, Dad.”
“Mark?”
Mark scowled, but nodded his agreement.
“All right then, Judy?”
“Yes, of course, Daddy.”
“Very well. Now this is just a rough draft that I typed out in the witching hours. It needs the family approval.” He passed a typewritten sheet around to his three children. Sylvia could see that they were more resigned to whatever it was than delighted by it. But they all, even Mark, smiled as in turn they agreed. She thought that, whatever Harold’s faults, he must be a good father to command such affection.
It was Judy who said, “You’ve seen it, Gran, I suppose.”
“No dear. Should I?”
All three of her grandchildren seemed to blush at once, but it was Mark who pushed the paper towards her. “You should have seen it first,” he mumbled. It was a difficult list to follow. It was headed:
ROSTER FOR HOUSEHOLD DUTIES, FOR JANUARY, FEBRUARY, AND MARCH
Then across the top were a list of duties: Breakfast, Washing Up, Housework, Shopping, Dinner, Supper, W.U., Laundry. And at the side were the days. In each column were initials for the person responsible for duty.
“You’re ‘G’, Gran,” Judy said.
“That’s for gorgeous,” Ray told her.
“G” appeared only as often as the other letters, and not at all under shopping.
“I’ve left you out of shopping for the moment, Mother. On the other hand, as you see, dinner’s a blank except at weekends because the boys are at work. I thought you’d get whatever you wanted for yourself and the old man. Now the school holidays are here, Judy and I can take on when we’re in. Laundry falls to you in the third week of every month. Supper washing up I’ve kept as a dual act. I think it’s a necessary concession to human gregariousness. As Beth used to say, solitary confinement ought to be a thing of the past.”
“But surely the housework . . .” Sylvia began.
“I think you’ll find it works out best as it is, Mother. Oh, and please notice, everyone, the highly coloured addenda.”
Indeed, there at the bottom of the page in large red type was: Temperature Control 1st Jan, 1st March only—Harold; and in smaller green type: Car and motorcycle washing 1st of each month R, 15th each month M; Garden duties: Jan, Feb: none. March: Prune the roses—Judy.
“You don’t know anything about roses, do you, Mother? Beth’s aunt gave us three bushes. A fearful nuisance they are. However Judy’s an adherent of gracious living . . . .”
Sylvia couldn’t believe that he’d done it. After promising! She had only three meals a week to cook, including breakfast; that and her share with the others in the washing up. She tried to tell herself that she’d been selfish in overpersuading him; after all an Englishman’s home is his casde. But the weeks, the years ahead, stretched out in front of her in empty uselessness. All that day she kept feeling herself too big; she seemed to have to squeeze between coffee tables, she knocked a tobacco jar off the hall windowsill, her body filled the rooms she entered so that she revolted herself— a superfluous, fat old woman. Oh, it was mean of him!
During that day she rejected the idea of a direct appeal to Harold from pride mixed with fear. At last, when the evening came, she asked Ray for his help. He was quite put out by her story. His full red lips pouted and he closed his long eyelashes over his big eyes like, yes, almost like some embarrassed beautiful girl, except that, with his square, chunky build and his sailor’s roll, no one could be less girlish.
“Oh dear!” he said at last in a mock horrified voice, “oh dear! This is a nice little caper.” He looked at her for a moment, then flashed a smile, “What do you want to cook for anyway, Lovey? When you’ve had a basinful of it like I have ... I know what it is. Modem’s blasée. Weary of the round of pleasures, she wants to go on a new jag—housework. You idle butterflies!”
Sylvia didn’t know what to make of it. “I wasn’t exactly idle at the Palmeira, Ray dear. If you’d seen my day’s work . . .”
He kissed her cheek. “I know, Gran. I was only having you on. As the salesman . . . Well perhaps what the salesman said isn’t quite for the ladies’ ears. God bless ‘em! I’ll see what I can do. Trust your beautiful blue-eyed grandson.”
But he couldn’t do much, it seemed, for in the end it was Mark who came to her. He mumbled so low that she had difficulty in hearing him.
“Look, Gran. What I’d do is agree with Dad. I mean it’s . . . Well, the roster means a lot to him. I mean, we don’t want it either. But now Mother’s gone and so on. Well . . . Would you come and look at something, please?”
He took her up to his bedroom and pulled out an old typewritten sheet from a drawer.
“That was the last one Mother had to cope with. In fact she didn’t keep going to the end of it. Then Dad stopped them. But you see everywhere he put B then, he’s put G now.”
So there wasn’t anything she could do but accept. Nevertheless she still remembered that he had agreed to her wishes and then gone back on her promise because of a petty grievance. It was mean of him, she couldn’t help thinking it; even though, of course, she should never have forced him into the position of behaving badly by fussing him with her troubles. And at least the roster gave her the courage to insist on her own diet so that now she and Arthur shared supper of a grill which she cooked. This separation of diet seemed to restore them to their original apartness from the family.
There were times when Harold tried to make it up to her. With the revival of the family duty roster, he had also brought back a sheet headed “Comments” which was stuck to the Forest Green kitchen wall with sellotape. Here he and the children exchanged remarks on each other’s cooking. Harold’s tribute to her was long and personal. “How that treacle tart took me back, Mother, to ‘Seaview’ at Littlehampton. ‘Mrs. Calvert’s wonderful treacle tarts.’ How Len used to wolf his down so that he got three helpings to my two. And your hand hasn’t lost one inch of its skill.” Perhaps it was the effect of his fulsomeness, but none of her three grandchildren made any comment but, “Excellent, thank you, Gran.”
On Monday Harold took “Comments” away. He said shortly, “It would be absurd to pretend that, without Beth, we’re up to this sor
t of thing.”
Sylvia cursed the new manageress who’d written from the Palmeira to say that there’d been some muddle in the despatch of their furntiure. But it was on its way now, and she longed intensely for its arrival so that if there was to be this division it might be made complete. “The best of friends are best apart.” It sounded hard but that was how life was.
In fact she felt more embarrassed than hurt by Harold’s snub; it was like when Mr. Hooper of Ritson Hotels had asked all the manageresses to Head Office for an interview and then announced that he’d decided to select the Catering Supervisor from outside. You felt stripped in public. Everyone knew.
Even Arthur had noticed. “Don’t look so down in the dumps, for God’s sake, Sylvie. Because young master Harold’s turned out to be the little twister he always was, we don’t have to worry. You cook for me and I can’t want anything better. If they prefer a lot of greasy Eytie mess, let them get on with it.” He’d patted her on the back. But, of course, that didn’t really help.
One evening that week, however, a chance to please Harold did come.
“Do you still enjoy dolling yourself up, Mother?” Harold asked. “Because if so we might accept the Hartley’s invitation for cocktails. Carshall’s very hospitable at Christmas time. As a matter of fact if I liked to accept all the invitations I’m sent ... As it is, as you see, I’m out almost every evening in the ten days before Christmas .... I haven’t suggested asking you and Dad, though you’d be welcome at any of our friends’ houses. But I thought that you’d prefer to settle in first. And anyway the weather . . . But the Bartleys happened to know you’ve arrived and they’ve specially asked for you to come. They’re extraordinary people really. Quite a young couple. He owns all Carshall’s greengrocers’ stores. No education, but, in my opinion, a very high I.Q. indeed. Their boy Derek’s one of my brightest sparks. I’m putting him in for G.C.E. next year. She looks like a mannequin, but she’s most public-spirited. Beth admired her enormously, they were on many committees together. Beth always said you could forgive anyone looking like a doll who could do the hard day’s work that Muriel Hartley did. Theirs was the only house she would dress up for. She hated that sort of thing, as you know. Would you care to go there?”
Arthur laughed, “Care to go? Of course she would. Have you ever known a proper woman refuse an opportunity to wear her glad rags.”
Harold frowned, “Don’t consider going, Mother, if you don’t want to. As to the weather, there’s no sign of a thaw. But you’d only have the distance from the door to the car and back again. I shan’t disguise that I’d be pleased if you would come. Apart from anything else Muriel Bartley’s my right hand among the school governors. Oh, and by the way, Dad, the Cranstons will be there. Jack’s ashamed of not having fixed any bridge up for you yet, but what with the weather and the Christmas rush . . .”
There was no doubt it could be a new beginning all round. When Harold took Sylvia aside and said, “You’ll see the old man smartens himself up a bit for the Bartley’s, won’t you, Mother?” she promised that she would and she did.
As for herself, Sylvia really did her best. She was worried about whether she should take a taxi down to Madame Greta the hairdresser for a blue rinse and set (she’d got the salon’s name by subterfuge from Judy), but later the same morning Judy said almost casually, “Isn’t it lucky your hair is just right for the Bartleys, Granny? Caroline Ogilvie’s grandmother’s got lovely white hair like yours. She was saying that she dreads having it done down here. It seems you only have to nod off for a minute and they send you out all terrible perms and purple.” So that was a helpful warning. She wore her mulberry twinset and her beaver lamb, but, for this frozen weather, she was pleased to feel that she had just the right hat—an ocelot high crowned cap in Russian style. Of course, it wasn’t real fur, she hadn’t been able to afford more than nylon, but it did look quite good. As they assembled in the hall, Ray said, “There’s my lovely. All you need’s a sledge.”
“A damned big one,” Arthur laughed. He’d been given a red carnation by Judy for his buttonhole and he was as pleased as Punch.
“You go away,” Ray said, “Gran’ll make old Muriel greener than all her groceries. It only wants a touch.” And before Sylvia could protest, he’d draped a piece of some silk material round the neck of her dress—an odd silvery pink it was, patterned with an acid green. At first she thought it would clash horribly with the mulberry, but at a second glance in the hall mirror she could see he was right. She was about to thank him with a kiss but he quickly clicked his tongue in protest. “You’ll spoil your lipstick. Well, I must say, the girls are doing us proud.” And certainly Judy looked charming with her long fair hair swept down to the shoulders of her scarlet mohair coat. Even those hideous old black stockings they’d revived looked nice on her shapely legs.
“You look sweet, dear,” Sylvia told her. And Harold, who hardly ever noticed such things, said,
“Very nice, Judy.”
Judy smiled. “Thank you, Daddy. I’m afraid it’s only copy-cat from something Caroline Ogilvie’s aunt bought for her.”
Harold said, “Hm!”
It was glorious to be outside again, even though the frosty air bit one’s cheeks. Harold offered Sylvia an arm down the path, but she evaded it and he went on ahead to start the car. She wanted to feel her freedom to the full. She took two steps and thought— yes, really, it was a pretty district; she could see that many of the houses down Higgleton Road had those holly wreaths that people liked so much nowadays on their highly-coloured doors, and in every window she glimpsed the silver frosting and coloured witchballs of Christmas trees. She took two steps more and her heel seemed to slide from under her on the glassy stone. She tried desperately to steady herself. Ray and Mark both ran towards her but too late. She had fallen, cutting her outstretched hand, and grazing her left knee, and bruising her bottom most agonisingly.
The pain and the shock were not enough to drive from her a dreadful picture of herself—a fat useless old woman dolled up to no purpose, a sprawling ugly furry mess on the pathway. She could sense that the cheap imitation hat had fallen rakishly to one side, and that the white hair straggling down her face was spattered with blood from her hand. Ray’s lovely gift lay on the gravel, torn and bloody.
Despite all Mark’s and Ray’s gentleness she felt herself to be a huge sack of coals as they lifted her up from the ground and supported her back into the house. Pain and shame apart, she was too shaken and giddy to take in much of what was happening, but she guessed the ridiculous little procession behind her—Arthur muttering random blasphemies, Judy holding disdainfully the pink and green scarf, Harold with she dreaded to think what expression on his face, but certainly there because she could no longer hear the car engine. In fact when she looked up from the sitting-room sofa where they had laid her, she was right as to the procession, for they stood in a row before her, but quite wrong as to their expressions, there was nothing in any of their faces except concern for her. She felt so ashamed.
Mark cleaned her hand and leg with Dettol and bandaged them as gently and professionally as any nurse. It seemed that as part of his pacifism or C.N.D. or whatever it was, he believed that everyone should be equipped in First Aid. He looked so solemn as he bent over her and his doing it at all so much surprised her that, despite her pains, she tried to thank him with a little joke. She smiled, and putting on Mrs. Marker’s voice said, “Mark, the nurse of the family! Well, I don’t know. I really don’t know.” But he’d never seen “Down Our Way”, and, when she began to explain, he told her to hush and rest.
As soon as it became clear that no bones were broken, that the doctor was not needed, that all she required was rest, Harold said loudly, as though the remark might not otherwise penetrate a fading consciousness, “Well, I’d better telephone Geoff Bartley and say we can’t get there.” After that it was Sylvia’s task to persuade him that they should go; and to do so as quickly as she could so that they should miss as li
ttle of the party as possible. The more it became clear that they could go, indeed would go, the more did Harold seem to need persuading, so that, at one point, Sylvia found herself with some agony rising from the sofa. “I’m perfectly all right, perfectly all right to come.” She only hoped that she could keep up the performance long enough to persuade Harold that he ought to go at once to prevent her insisting on joining them. Her fear was of fainting so that he would once more be delayed, and this time for long enough to miss the party altogether. But luckily Arthur was not one to be “all dressed up and nowhere to go”.
“Your Mother’ll be perfectly all right here. Of course we must go, Harold. We can’t be rude to these friends of yours. Besides, my little Judy’s got to show herself off.”
Finally Harold agreed that, if only not to worry his mother, they should go. “We needn’t stay for more than a courtesy visit.” On some sacrifice, however, he did insist; Judy must stay behind to look after her grandmother. “She’s not exactly a ministering angel yet, but the sooner she learns to be one the better.”
Sylvia lay on her bed to which Ray and Mark had helped her, and tried to think what to say to Judy to make up to her for her disappointment.
“I expect your father seems a bit strict to you sometimes. But I dare say that he forgets that he’s your Dad and not your Head. It’s more his manner. And then he’s only strict because he’s so fond of you.” She thought suddenly of her own father who had been so strict because he wasn’t.
Judy looked her right in the eyes for one second, but without any expression, as though she were looking at nothing; then, “Are vou all right with just the eiderdown over you, or would you like me to help you get right into bed?”
Sylvia realised she’d said it all wrong; but really her bones ached so and she felt so shaky that it was difficult to concentrate.
Judy began to minister by tucking the eiderdown all round Sylvia so that she was confined in one cramped, painful position. “There! That’s more like it, Gran. I’m only too glad not to go to those awful Bartleys. Mrs. Moore-Duncan, that’s Caroline Ogilvie’s grandmother I was telling you about who has such lovely white hair, says it doesn’t matter what kind of people people are as long as they’re genuine and don’t pretend to be something better. Do you agree, Gran?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The Bartleys are terrible show-offs.” Picking up Sylvia’s hairbrushes and scent bottles, she examined each in turn. “Granddad’s frightfully genuine, isn’t he?” she observed. “How did you come to meet?” Sylvia explained that she’d been working at the great country house where Arthur was convalescing. “Lady Pembroke had given it for a hospital. Your grandfather was badly gassed, you know. He wanted nursing all the time.”