by Angus Wilson
“Oh, you were a nurse, Gran? Daddy never said anything about it. You’d think he would have done when he and Mummy were so keen on me going in for nursing. Not that I’m against nursing. Lots of the girls at school are going to be nurses. Some of the nicest ones too. But of course it’s a vocation, isn’t it?”
Lying on the bed, trying to suppress her shivering, Sylvia had a sudden intense memory of the awe with which she used to look up from scrubbing the floor to see the starch of the matron’s or a V.A.D.’s uniform. She would not lie to little Judy, but, seeing her smart, trim little figure, she could not tell her the truth. She need not have worried. Judy was in a mood to talk rather than to listen.
“Would you like me to cook you something? A boiled egg? Or some soup? Shall I refill those hot-water bottles? You must be longing to have your own things around you, Gran. Of course, in a way Mummy was right to have this modern décor in a house like this. If one’s got to live in awful Carshall. I do look forward to your furniture coming. I love old things. It will be exciting.”
“I’m afraid you know our old sticks all too well already, Judy. You’ve seen them nearly every Christmas at Eastsea.”
“Oh! Have I? I thought that was hotel stuff.” Judy’s face clouded. “All the same I’ll bet they’ll be nicer than all this. I mean they will have character. Mrs. Ogilvie has some absolutely lovely old pieces that have been with the family for generations. Wasn’t it awful some American or something, at any rate some terrible show-off who was brought there to tea, offered to buy them? Caroline said you should have seen her mother’s face. Of course, she said at once that he must have made a mistake, because they weren’t showpieces or anything, just family things that they’d always had. Wasn’t it a super-snub, Gran? Am I tiring you? You must say.”
Sylvia longed to say exactly that, but she had had so little chance to talk with her granddaughter; and for all the girl’s assurance she couldn’t help believing that Harold’s manner had hurt her. A phrase came back to her from something she had read last summer —could it have been in one of Denise Robbins’s—”The absurd little subterfuges of sophistication with which we try to ward off life’s first hurts.” Yes, that was it. She had thought then how true it was of many young people today like Pat Reynolds. She liked young girls. She had always been so much closer to Iris than to the boys. She mustn’t be put off just because the girl was clever like her mother—book learning could only be a small part of a girl’s life. She must try again, only less directly this time.
Shifting her great weight as best she could beneath the tightly tucked in eiderdown, she eased the pain in her buttocks. She said: “What subjects are you taking for your exam, Judy?”
“Oh, Botany, Geography, French, German, and ghastly Latin.”
“Don’t you like Latin then, dear?”
“Oh, I would. But Miss Mackie, who teaches it, is so awful! Everybody hates her. She’s so old.”
“Well, I’m old, dear.”
“Oh, I know, but not like you. I mean she’s never been married or anything. Honestly I think when she has to stop teaching irregular verbs she’ll just crack up or something. I mean she’s never been anything. Just taught Latin all her life. Isn’t it awful?”
The subject of Miss Mackie made Sylvia more conscious of her aching limbs. She sought in her mind for a change of subject; but Judy made the change for her.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could do like Caroline and go for a year to a finishing school in Switzerland and then come back and just live in the country and ride?”
“I think that would be a pity, dear, with your brains. Your father’s so proud of you. He’s sure you’ll get all sorts of A’s and O’s.”
“A’s, Gran darling. Did he really say that? I wish he’d say it to me.”
“And then it’ll be nice to follow in your mother’s footsteps.”
“Oh, Mummy didn’t do a proper University degree. She was only doing some sort of Social Science Certificate when Daddy met her. All the same it would be nice to live in the country. Oh, I know Daddy thinks he has to stay in awful Carshall. But look at Chantry Farm, Mrs. Moore-Duncan’s house! After all, that’s only eight miles away.”
“You wouldn’t have the same comforts in the country, dear. I know. I used to live there as a girl.”
“Comforts? Oh, you mean central heating and all that. But most houses have that now, don’t they? Chantry Farm has. But Mrs. Moore-Duncan only has it on at the very last moment in winter. She has lovely log fires all the year round. She says England doesn’t have a real summer. And, of course, it’s the open fires we all crowd round when we come in from riding. Were you really on a farm when you were a girl, Gran? Did you have those wonderful great coppers for washing?”
Sylvia desperately sought to recover her girlhood washdays from beneath decades of soiled hotel linen. “Yes, I think we did, dear.”
“Well, there you are! Mrs. Cartland, Caroline’s great-aunt, Mrs. Moore-Duncan’s sister, has coppers for washing and she bakes all her own bread. She says that it’s the only way to make sure that it’s really crusty. I think that that’s what’s so marvellous abput your generation. You still had contact with shapes and forms through your fingers and hands. People say we’ve all gone dead now. But surely that’s bound to be so when we let machines do everything for us.”
Sylvia’s bruises hurt her so much that she gave an involuntary scream but she managed to disguise it as a yawn.
“I think I’ll have a little snooze now, if you don’t mind, dear.”
After Judy had gone, it took her a long time to find a position that did not cause her pain; but at last she fell asleep. She awoke to the lively return of Harold and Arthur. They had been on to the Cranstons, it seemed, and Arthur had won twelve bob at bridge.
“Well, Mother, how are you? You missed a good party. Dad’s the social success of Carshall. He kept them all in fits of laughter.”
“I simply told them a few chestnuts that were already old when Noah took his little cruise in the ark. But they seemed amused by them.”
“I’ve never seen Jack Cranston laugh like that in my life, Dad.”
Sylvia tried to sit up to express her pleasure at their successful evening, but her muscles ached too much. Her movements drew Harold’s attention.
“Muriel Bartley was most disappointed that you weren’t there, Mother.”
Sylvia could think of no answer to this, so she closed her eyes.
“I think the old lady’s sleeping,” Harold whispered. “What about you and me having a nightcap downstairs, Dad?”
CHAPTER THREE
Settling In
“NOW MOTHER, how do you feel?” Harold asked a few mornings later. He had brought in the breakfast tray, for a late breakfast in bed was a panacea for all ills at “The Sycamores”.
She smiled in answer, wondering if the morning mail had brought her any news from the outside world.
“Truly?” And again a little sharply, “Is that really the truth, Mother?” for she had not yet answered. She had seen a letter balanced against her teapot, and the thought of it held her enchanted. She came to at his brusque tone.
“Yes, Harold dear, truly.” Then to convince him, “I don’t say I could do the twist, but short of that...”
“Splendid I Then I think I can let you into a little secret. I haven’t said anything up to now ...” He paused, for his mother had begun opening her letter.
“Yes, Harold dear?”
“No, no, read-your letter, of course.”
“It’s only a bill, I think. You were saying . . .”
“I was going to show you this.” He produced a card from his pocket. Sylvia looked at it vaguely.
“It looks like the railway at last,” then catching his puzzled look, she quickly added, “What a pretty card, dear. Who sent it?”
“I did, of course.”
“Oh!” Sylvia was bewildered. She found her glasses on the side table. “ ‘A Nip and a Nibble’“, she read
aloud. “The picture of the roast chicken and the bottle of wine or whatever it is quite makes one’s mouth water, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, Mother, read on.”
“THE CALVERT FAMILY INVITE YOU
TO MEET THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME”
“Oh!” she said, “Oh!” and then, “Oh! That is sweet of you, Harold dear. I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid your friends’ll be most disappointed. I’ll do my best to entertain them. But what about catering? Do you have someone in Carshall? Or should I go up to London and see what Barker’s could do for us? Mrs. King in the catering department knows me so well. I could easily manage the journey.”
Harold laughed. “Caterers, Mother! You’ll have to forget your grand hotel banquets now. Calvert and Company are giving their services free for this occasion. But you’d better look at the date on the invitation ...”
“Thursday 19th. But, Harold, that’s tonight. Oh dear . . .”
“Now don’t fuss, Mother. Everything’s under control. It’s only a small party anyway. The boys did their stint of baking in the witching hours. Judy and I are at the good work now. When you’re down, we shan’t refuse a helping hand. . . .”
Sylvia wondered how a small party could need so much preparation, but then she really knew nothing about private entertaining. And anyway she wanted so much to see what was in her letter. She fingered it lovingly.
Harold said, “Well, I’ll leave you to your correspondence.”
He sounded a little hurt. She called after him, “I am looking forward to the party.”
Her voice sounded light and happy, for she knew that the Railway Delivery note had come at last to announce the arrival of their furniture. As she looked round at the yellow walls and white hangings (now a bit Arthur-stained and crumpled) she had a moment’s fear about how their few old-fashioned sticks would fit into such bright, exotic surroundings. But the main thing was that at last they would have their own room, a bit of their old life as they were used to living it. And then . . . she stared in horror: the furniture was due for delivery that morning. She only knew one thing: that she must stop it coming lest it upset all Harold’s preparations for his kind party. To the familiar rhythm of Arthur’s snoring, she dressed as quickly as she would have done in the freezing draughts of their Palmeira bedroom—here, with the central heating she had become as slow and torpid as a giant tortoise. To descend the stairs without a creak seemed an impossible task—she saw herself as one of those hippopotamuses dancing ballet steps in that Disney cartoon and almost broke the silence with a fit of giggles. But at last it was done. She was in Harold’s little study and on the telephone without anyone knowing. As she gave the station number, she had one awful panic thought that, if she refused the furniture today they might postpone for weeks, for months, for ever. Dismissing the superstition, she made her request; only at last, after much delay, to be told that it was too late, the delivery van was on its way.
As she came out of the study, Harold emerged from the kitchen, a pair of steps under one arm, a black portfolio under the other. “Ah! There you are, Mother”, then he frowned in double take as he saw where she was coming from; she could see him take a breath in order to put all questions aside, and she spurred herself to speak before he recovered.
“Harold, dear, I’m afraid” . . . But she got no further.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever seen these caricatures that Beth did of the family. She was too modest about her gift. But I thought I’d pin them up the stairs. People can see them when they leave their coats.” He put down the steps and produced a drawing of Mark, all fringe and jeans, standing in the pouring rain, above him loomed a gigantic column. The caption read, “England expects . . .”. “That was where Beth was so good for him. ‘If he really cares,’ she used to say, ‘then a bit of healthy laughter won’t destroy his faith.’“
“Well, that is clever. I’d no idea . . . Harold, I’m afraid . . .” Judy’s head appeared round the kitchen door.
“Oh, Gran. There you are! Could you come for a minute and watch the milk for elevenses. I’ve got to take out the meringues.”
Harold turned away towards his reverent task. There seemed no choice. And, of course, when among the ivy and polydendron Sylvia broke the news as they sat down before their earthenware coffee mugs it was too late—the doorbell chimed; the furniture had arrived.
Sylvia’s first thought was for waking Arthur and getting him out of bed, which she did to a cannonade of curses that resounded through “The Sycamores”. “You must go and have your bath, Arthur . . . and you must manage it yourself this morning.”
“But I don’t understand these damned water heaters . . . .”
“You don’t have to. Just turn on the taps.”
Downstairs she found Harold already in furious argument with a square broken-nosed boxer-like man in a turtle-necked sweater. A very pale, fishfaced young man stood looking on, swaying alarmingly as though he were about to have an epileptic fit.
“It’s perfectly unnecessary for you to telephone. You have my orders to return with the delivery tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! You’ve got a hope, sir, if I may say so. With Christmas deliveries!”
“Well, the day after tomorrow then. There’s no immediate hurry.”
“My orders are to deliver. And unless they countermand those orders when I get on to depot, which I should be very surprised, deliver I shall.”
“You’re not bringing anything in here today.”
“Then the stuff’ll stay in the garden, if that’s where you want it.”
Sylvia told herself that she musn’t be selfish and intervene; she must let Harold manage it in his own way. The young man said to her confidentially, “It’s a pity their rowing about it, isn’t it? It’s not as if it was anything much. Just a few old bits and pieces. They’ll take no time to move.”
“You happen to be talking to my mother about her furniture. Kindly mind your manners.”
The broken-nosed man intervened, “Don’t you talk to my mate like that.”
But the young man’s pallor was suffused with blushes. “I’m ever so sorry, they’re very nice bits and pieces.”
Throughout the next hour as they clattered and struggled up and down the stairs Sylvia could hear the young man’s adenoidal voice saying, “They’re ever such nice pieces, really, aren’t they?” and “You’ve got some lovely pieces, here, haven’t you?” He hissed on all his s’s.
“Oh, so it’s your stuff, is it, lady?” the boxer said, “Well, what’s it to be?”
“I do really think, Harold, now that it has come ... I’m sure these gentlemen could bring it in without getting in your way. My son’s busy. You see, we’re giving a party.”
“Oh, a party’s nice,” the young man said.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t lend a hand. I shall be too busy,” Harold was firm.
“Lend a hand? Oh, that’s the trouble is it? You don’t have to worry. We don’t need any help with this little lot. In any casr, you’re not exactly the health and strength type, are you? I shouldn’t like to take the responsibility of your lifting anything.”
The young man said, “He’s a nice gentleman, though.”
Harold glared at them both, “Well, I wash my hands of it, Mother.”
He continued to sellotape Beth’s caricatures to the walls above the stairs. As each piece of furniture was brought in, the men had to wait while he came down the steps, folded them up and either descended or ascended the stairs. At least twice he was almost squashed to death as he stood majestically on the landing to let the men pass. Sylvia could also hear him shouting testy orders now and again to Judy in the kitchen.
Upstairs in the disordered bedroom, Sylvia had no time at all either to clear away the little black tubular chairs and the mustard leather pouffe, or to decide where each piece of furniture should go. And then as each piece was carried in, one emotion succeeded another of recollection, of affection, of pride, of doubt, sometimes of shame
as the stains or chips or tears showed in the strong sunlight of a frosty morning that glared in through the picture window. The two armchairs in their pretty powder blue rep seemed so faded beside the mustard, and the sagging sofa in its chintz cover looked more like the sort of thing rag-and-bone dealers leave outside their shops in all weathers. She had never noticed before the chipped varnish on their old sideboard—it was French, and looked quite an antique. That Colonel Chamberlain at Bay View in Scarborough, who knew all about furniture, had said that although the lion’s heads on the drawers were beautifully carved it wasn’t worth a lot of money. One of the feet shaped like claws had broken off coming up the stairs, but far worse (or was it?) the stair wall’s kingfisher blue had been badly scratched (she had heard Harold’s voice raised in anger).
All the while she was thinking where each piece should go and trying to forget what Harold might be feeling. Arthur’s voice came bawling out from the bathroom in one of his favourites, “What was it the colonel told the adjutant? What was it the adjutant said to Sergeant Brown?”
“I don’t know cock!” the boxer man commented. The young man said, “Don’t he sing nice, Leslie?” and later to Sylvia, “One of the old numbers, isn’t it?”
When she dusted over the sketches of Ilfracombe mat Miss Priest had given her she found they’d broken the glass of her favourite one of the High Street. Leslie (that must be the boxer’s name) put her sewing machine down so heavily on a tubular chair that one of the thin metal legs fell off and the whole thing clattered to the ground. Then came a parcel of cushions—some square, some round, some sausage-shaped—all in shot-silk they were, gold and orange, green and red, blue and violet; she’d always been fond of bright cushions. But now the mustard walls killed everything.