by Angus Wilson
“Only a few more pieces,” Leslie announced as he and his mate shoved Arthur’s card table out of the way against the wall. It had once been such a fine piece of walnut, but the wood was deeply marked with cigarette burns and in some places it was swollen and cracked. When Sylvia went to move it away from the wall she found that by mischance the back edge was covered in tar which had come off on the yellow wall.
“And the sergeant told the private and the private told his girl.”
“Oh, Arthur,” she shouted in protest.
But the answer came bawling back, “And they’re looking for Mademoiselle from Armentieres.”
But now she could hear angry voices on the stairs. As she looked down, Harold held up a paper covered in footprints and torn by a boot. “Beth’s drawing of me as Napoleon, that’s what your damned men have done, Mother.”
“Oh dear! I am sorry, Harold. This is the last piece to come up, dear.”
“I very much hope so.”
She was too excited to do more than smile vaguely in answer. It was the old dresser from the farm, the only thing she had from her girlhood. It really did look nice. There was something for Judy to see.
“Judy! Judy!” she called. “You’d like to see the old dresser, dear.”
“Later, Mother. She’s busy with the cheese straws.”
But Judy, if only to prove careless of her father’s continual orders, was upstairs in a minute.
“Oh, it is charming, Gran! A real farmhouse piece! Won’t it be lovely when all the old pewter pots and pans are set out on it.”
Sylvia avoided any comment. The two removal men stood by admiring the dresser too, as she signed the receipt book.
“What was it the colonel told the adjutant? What was it the adjutant said to Sergeant Brown?” As though in answer to his own questions, Arthur’s voice came in a loud yell. “Bugger and bloody damn!”
The boxing man gave a whistle and he and his mate began to pack up.
Sylvia shouted, “Arthur!” in reproof.
In reply, he burst out of the bathroom stark naked and shouting curses.
“Now then!” the boxing man said, “there’s ladies present.”
“I don’t care who’s bloody present. I got a shock from that damned hot rail that might have finished me off.”
“Well, it hasn’t, Dad,” Sylvia said.
Judy turned away to look out of the window.
“Now, Arthur, get in there at once,” Sylvia pushed him by his scrawny old buttocks into Harold’s bedroom. She looked at the hand he held out. “There’s nothing wrong,” she said. “Don’t be such a fusspot.” She went to the bathroom and got his towel. “Dry yourself, and don’t come out of there until you’re decent.” When she returned to her room, the men were going.
“That wasn’t very nice for the young lady, was it?” the young man observed.
“Oh, she won’t fuss about that, will you, Judy?”
But she was fussing. She was standing quite tense, her face white. “Oh, Gran, wasn’t it awful? And I had thought of asking Caroline to come in to see your antiques. She might have been there.”
“Well, dear, I don’t think she’d have seen much to hurt her if she had been.”
And really, she thought, with Arthur’s pot belly and the way his Jimmy Jones seemed to have shrunk now he’d got old, there wasn’t much to see. “Oh, said the petticoat, you make me laugh, you don’t cover your rumtum up not by half.” It was an old saying of cook’s in the days when she worked at the rectory, though what could have made her think of it now, let alone say it aloud. . . . The effect on Judy was instant; she gave a whimper and ran downstairs. The boxing man looked fiercely at Sylvia.
“Well, I must say. This is a nice set-up and all.”
As they went away his mate looked back. “Wasn’t it a shame?” he said.
About a quarter of an hour later, when Arthur at last was dressing, Harold came up to their room.
“What’s upset Judy?”
Sylvia was determined that Arthur should deal with it. She busied herself trying so to combine the shot-silk cushions on the divan beds that their colours would not fight with the mustard walls. After a short silence Arthur said, “I’m afraid she saw me in the buff, old boy.”
“Try to be careful about that sort of thing, Dad.” When Arthur made no protest, Harold softened. “All the same, there’s no need for our Victorian miss to have the vapours.”
“Well, I’m a pretty fearful sight, you know, without my clothes, Harold. But it was your bloody electricity that did it. I got a damned great electric shock.”
“Oh, Arthur, don’t exaggerate.”
“That thing does give a slight shock occasionally,” Harold said judiciously. He laughed, “I did say leave the gadgets alone, Dad.”
To Sylvia’s surprise, Arthur once more accepted the reproof. “Your mother, of course, was too bloody busy with this furniture lark,” he ended with a deflated grumble.
Harold smiled kindly at his father in recompense. Then he looked round the room. “All the old pieces, eh? It’s like two worlds really. Not that your things don’t go well with the mustard walls, Mother. Or they will when you’ve got them all in place. Beth always said it was one of those clean colours that make a good background for almost anything. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m due back on the kitchen front.” As he went out he walked over to the tar stain and touched it lightly with his finger. “Pity,” he said.
When he had gone, Sylvia sat on the sofa, looking so dejected that even Arthur noticed it. “What the hell’s the matter now?”
“It’ll never be right. Everything looks so shabby and awful.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong. I’m very fond of this comfortable old chair of mine.”
“It all looks awful against this bright yellow.”
“Well, for God’s sake, we can’t ask Harold to repaint the walls. He said himself Beth chose the bloody colour.”
“No. We’ll have to get rid of some of our furniture. Look how awful that old sideboard looks! It doesn’t even fit into this room at all.”
“Don’t you criticise that sideboard. It’s worth a lot of money.”
“Oh, Arthur, you said that before and Colonel Chamberlain told us it wasn’t.”
“I don’t care what Colonel Chamberlain, whoever he may have been, said. It belonged to my old aunt Lucy Tamberlin. It’s French.”
“Belonged to fiddlesticks, Arthur. I remember when we bought it at that sale in Clovelly.”
“My dear girl, I suppose I know the bits and pieces that came from my own family. That sideboard came from Charlie Tamberlin’s family. He was half French.”
“You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“Never mentioned Charlie Tamberlin! Of course I have. He was a real bastard to poor Aunt Lucie. Used to kick her under the table as soon as the pudding came on.”
Sylvia began to laugh, “You’re making it up, Arthur.”
“What do you mean, making it up? Old Charlie Tamberlin! He was only a little fellow, but he made a packet out of selling plover’s eggs up at Leadenhall Market. Started with a stall, ended with his own business. But he never learned manners. ...”
“So it would seem! Kicking his wife when the pudding came on.” Sylvia laughed until she had to wipe away the tears. “But it’s no good, Arthur. None of your talking’ll make the room look like our own.”
“All right. Sell the bloody stuff, then. But don’t touch my armchair. That’s all.” He was silent for a moment, then, “You know what, Sylvie. You want to let yourself enjoy life for a bit. Before you kick the bucket.”
Later that evening when Sylvia, finally ready for the party in a gold lamé blouse and long black evening skirt, was coming out of her room, she heard her grandsons’ voices down below.
“Well, why ever didn’t you tell us their stuff had come, Dad?” It was Ray. She didn’t hear the answer, but Mark said, “That doesn’t matter. Of course, we must go up and see it. Gran’ll
be terribly hurt otherwise.”
She tried to ward them off. “It’s all a mess yet.”
But Ray wouldn’t have it. “What’s the use of having a grandson with an eye for design?”
As the boys looked round the room, she could see that they shared her feelings.
“It’s awful, Ray, isn’t it?”
“No, not awful, Gran lovey. Just a bit of a mess.”
“But Ray, there’s a castor off that table and the sideboard leg is broken. And look at all the chips and stains.”
“Chips with everything,” said Mark, then he added, “Sorry, Gran. There isn’t any there here that I can’t repair in a couple of days.”
“It’s quite true. He’s a busy boyo with his fingers. But it’s the colours really. Mum’s mustard does fight with everything. But honestly, lovey, I do think you’ll have to stay with it. It’ll upset Dad so, if you don’t.” He looked around gloomily; then seeing her depressed expression, he brightened up. “Oh, don’t worry. Now look, how much do you want to keep that chintz? I mean, it’s seen better days, hasn’t it? . . .” And in a few minutes he had sketched out a programme of cheap but good new fabrics he could get for her, so that she went downstairs for the party, shy, but more lighthearted than she’d felt for weeks.
“Your grandmother’s furniture looks very nice, doesn’t it?”
His sons didn’t answer. Harold, as though to apologise to her for this, said:
“With your permission I’ll show one or two old friends your bed-sitting-room, Mother. I don’t believe they’ve any idea how these rooms can be adapted.”
“Her permission’s not granted,” Mark said.
“What’s it got to do with you?”
“TFFTST,” Ray said. There might have been a row if the door chime had not sounded.
At first Sylvia did not know how she was going to bear it, she felt so shy. How could she stand around and talk with all these people? She knew nothing about them, and they knew nothing about her. After they’d said how glad they were to see her there, two or three of them said, “Of course you must be a great student of human nature, Mrs. Calvert.” She couldn’t think what they meant at first, but then she discovered that it was because of all the hotels and residents and so on. They didn’t seem to know that running a hotel was a job. And then, at the end, there was nothing left to say but which of the boys took after her or whether Judy featured her, or was she at all like Harold? After a bit she wanted to giggle. All these total strangers! As if she were a baby in a pram. Up they came to her, one after another, saying, “Now you’re Harold’s mother! I’d have known it at once!” or “Well, you’re not like the rest of the family, are you?” She was proud, of course, to be part of the family, but it made her feel a bit of a cheat. She could hear Arthur’s voice across the room—”I don’t know whether it was because they wanted to get rid of me, but they didn’t leave me long in that cushy job. No, yours truly was earmarked for what the blighters called a position of greater danger and responsibility. I didn’t mind the danger but . . .” She thought, like fun you didn’t, my boy. But they didn’t know Arthur and as far as they were concerned he might be King Kong himself. But she . . . Well, she was Harold’s mother and no saying she wasn’t, yet if that meant they thought she would be or say anything special, it was “nothing doing”.
Then suddenly Judy came up, her face quite pink and flushed against her white dress.
“Oh, Gran, can you give me a hand? Mrs. Burrows who’s come in to help really isn’t at all bright, and my friend Caroline Ogilvie might arrive at any moment. She’s never been able to accept before, but this time she said she’d be sure to come. Oh it is so important that she and Daddy should get on. Daddy’s prejudiced against her. But I know they’ll adore each other if they meet in the right way. Quietly on their own. Caroline’s so shy.”
“Don’t you worry, dear. Off you go and enjoy yourself.”
From that moment the whole party seemed to come alive. True. Mrs. Burrows wasn’t very bright—with those rabbit teeth and that flycatcher mouth, Sylvia would never have taken her on—but getting good work out of people like that is part of the game. Luckily the poor creature was very willing, and there was one rule Sylvia always made—never turn off anyone who shows willing. Not only was there the serving up of the soup and the risotto to organise, there was all the waiting to be arranged, for Harold seemed to have big ideas of what a small party meant. So Sylvia got as many of the young people together as she could and kept them on the move passing food round. She had them circulating like professional waiters in no time. When Judy brought up a tall, rather ambling sort of girl in a green jumper with long awkward arms and said breathlessly, “Gran, this is Caroline Ogilvie, my friend,” Sylvia just answered, “Nice to see you. Have a good rime,” and immediately gave the girl a tray of risottos to take round. “Be sure to say there’s plenty for second helps,” she added.
Judy cried, “Oh Gran!” But you could see the girl was glad to have something to do with her hands. After the hot dishes to warm up with, there were plates of cold turkey and ham, and of cold sausages, and of salads; and of course cheese straws and lemon meringue pie and mince pies and home made coffee layer cake. And then there was the drink: mulled Spanish red wine and pineapple punch and beer. “Help yourself, everyone,” Harold had said, “for if you don’t nobody else will do it for you.” But Sylvia had known that it wouldn’t work without supervision—the greedy guts got everything and the shy went hungry. She’d seen it again and again with buffets where there was no wary eye to keep watch.
But even then, with waiters and organisation, you still need one thing more: a really good assistant who knows the company. And Sylvia was lucky, for by chance she found just that. A funny sandy-haired, long-faced little man he was; with red blotches on his cheeks and long hands that were all blue and purple from bad circulation. Ray brought him up. “This is Wilf Corney, Gran. Give him something to do to keep him out of mischief.” But there wasn’t any need, or rather you couldn’t. He worked like a beaver, and knew exactly what everybody wanted before they were asked, and who took sugar, and who shouldn’t have another drink. And all the time he kept up a whispered commentary that held Sylvia in fits. He made fun of everyone and was a marvellous mimic. As she circulated round the rooms with food or drink, she would meet him coming the other way and you couldn’t tell what he’d say. “Pardon me, duchess, shall we sit this one out?” or “Please to come quick, Mum, Master’s took bad in the pantry.”
Harold saw her laughing, “Enjoying yourself, Mother?”
“It’s that Mr. Corney, dear.”
“Oh, Wilf Corney from the Bank. Not a bad little chap at all. Quite a clown.” Mr. Corney must have heard, for the next time round Sylvia saw he’d made a clown’s paper hat for himself and was walking round with a string of raw sausages over his arm (Heaven knew where he’d got them from). “The Headmastah wants me to learn biologah, but I want to go on believing in the stork.” And he burst into mock crying, “Boo hoo! Boo hoo!” It was funny enough for tele—the Billy Cotton Band Show or that.
And so she went from group to group laughing, for everybody likes to see a cheery face. And after all, if you’ve got nothing to say for yourself, you can’t say better than, “let me get you some more”—they all want to hear that.
In this way she came to know quite a lot of people; there appeared to be more of Harold’s friends than the kids’, a nice cheery crowd on the whole, not at all school-teacherish. Yet more than once she was glad to have an excuse for moving on to another group. People get so worked up these days—it’s the pace of living —and then, if you don’t know what they’re arguing about, you feel a bit silly.
Harold seized upon her early on. “This is my right hand, Mother, Chris Milton. I’m headmaster. He runs the school. I find it most convenient.” He stroked his moustache. Sylvia was about to say something to this tall broad-shouldered youngish man who was squeezing her hand so painfully and laughing so loudly, w
hen a stout greying-haired woman with a sweaty red face pushed herself forward. “Be careful, Harold. The truth will out, you know. There’s many a jest . . .” Sylvia thought how silly not to get the quotation straight. But Harold said, “Oh, sorry, Lorna. This is Chris’s right hand—Lorna Milton.”
“Glad to know you, Mrs. Calvert. Of course, I run the school really . . .”
“Especially now that Beth’s . . .” Chris Milton began, and then drowned the words in embarrassed laughter. His wife laughed loudly too. “We must have a get together, Mrs. Calvert. These men need keeping in order.”
A tall dark woman with a lot of costume jewellery and jade green eye shadow intervened. “Introduce me to the guest of honour, Harold. Geoff!” she called across the room to a young pale-faced man in a very expensive looking dark suit. “Here’s Harold’s mother. They don’t feature each other a bit, do they?” The man approached and looked round the room in general.
“Like as two peas, Muriel. Which is she?”
They all laughed.
“Don’t take any notice of Geoff, Mrs. Calvert,” the woman called Muriel said, “he’s Cockney. He doesn’t know any better.”
“As you will have gathered, Mother, these are the Bartleys— Muriel and Geoff.”
“No less!” Muriel agreed.
Sylvia hadn’t really gathered. Looking at the lines round Muriel Hartley’s mouth, she thought, they’ve all married women old enough to be their mothers. But then as she got older she found herself thinking that other women looked old.
“The Bartleys, eh?” Geoff said, “so there’s been talk already. What’s he been saying about us? There might be money in it. I’ve got a good lawyer.”