by Angus Wilson
“There were many hard times.”
Mandy gave them both a challenging look. “Hard times aren’t so bad when you’ve someone to share with.”
“God in Heaven! She’s gotten hold of a Shirley Temple script!” In fact, she didn’t stay with it long. The next day Sylvia came up to the farm, Mandy was friendly and more polite than usual, but she was busy all the afternoon with games of her own. Once or twice they heard her singing, “Hard times aren’t so bad when you’ve someone to share with,” to a wailing blues tune she’d invented for herself.
The incident, however, pricked Sylvia’s conscience. “You know, I didn’t have a very happy childhood,” she was sitting mending the hem of one of Mandy’s dresses. “In fact it wasn’t happy at all. I don’t know how it is that Mandy’s got that impression. I never thought ... I suppose I just didn’t want her not to like the stories I told her. But now I’m afraid she’s got such a false picture. You see we were very poor and Father’s was a very small farm and bad land and then he drank. They were both disappointed really, he and mother. Oh, it wasn’t anybody’s fault. But being the eldest I got the brunt of it. I couldn’t have told little Mandy what my childhood was really like. I suppose I should have said nothing. But you mustn’t think I lied to the child.” Sylvia talked on hoping Shirley was going to say something, but she didn’t. She came to an abrupt halt and there were minutes of silence.
“You see, people say that the old farm ways were better, but. . .”
“People say? Awful people!”
“Well, I suppose we lived nearer to the land but . . .”
“But it was kind of muddy.” Shirley stubbed out her cigarette.
“This is going to be hard for a kid of seven to understand. How about if we say nothing about it? I don’t think Mandy’s going to be the type to do a lot of research on British farming conditions in the days of good Queen Vic . . .”
“I’m not quite as old as that.”
“Well, whenever it was. Queen Mary or who.” After another silence she said, “It seems kind of Jesuitical doesn’t it. Not telling Mandy, I mean. But there you are, that’s wonderful Britain for you. But we ought to talk about you. Weren’t you ever happy as a kid?”
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as all that. Yes, it was pretty bad sometimes. I don’t think I really knew how bad. Except that once I spent a wonderful happy morning . . .” She told Shirley about that hot morning of 1911 and about Mrs. Longmore.
“What a b-i-t-c-h.”
“No, not really. I don’t think she knew what she’d done. We were the poor, you know.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, the poor in those days ...”
There was again some minutes’ silence before Shirley spoke.
“You frighten me, Mrs. Calvert. You’re so vulnerable.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t be hurt like that now. I know being old’s childish, but it’s not the same as being a child, is it? And a poor child too. People say the poor are tough. And, of course they put up a good front. But I think it’s very easy to hurt poor people. It’s not like that now though. I’d like to see our old rector’s wife trying to talk to the people in the New Town like she talked to my mother. Oh yes, it was bad to be poor in those days. Very bad. There was always the fear of being sold up. They were bound to be hard and quick-tempered. Mother and Father, I mean. I see that now. Mother could forgive you anything but trying to get away from it. Oh, she was wild when I left the Rectory and went to Lady Pembroke’s—it was a hospital and all that far off and for officers! Although of course I was only in service still. But she took the whole war like that—with land-girls on the farm. And then the last straw came when I married Arthur. She put it on to his swearing and gambling. But it wasn’t that really. It was my starting the boarding-house of my own. Poor Mother!”
“Oh, Lord! I don’t think people have the right to be that grouchy. Why, that way the world could never change. You had a right to happiness even if she couldn’t have it. I don’t know whether you found it?”
Sylvia answered quickly to that.
“Oh, I’ve been too busy to think about that. Of course there have been bad times. Terrible ones. When the police told me that Iris had been killed by that lorry, I thought I’d scream and shout the house down and I wouldn’t have cared if the world had tumbled with it. I always felt closer to her, you see. She liked things neat and then, although she was only fourteen, she looked after the house as though it were her own. She said she’d like to be a nurse. Of course she was too young to know really. But you’ve no idea the strangers that crowded into the house. I suppose they always do with accidents. I couldn’t care for appearances, I just cried and cried.”
“Good Lord! of course you did. What else would you do?”
“Well, nobody wants to give themselves away before strangers.”
“Oh, nuts! Who cares about strangers? Anyway what do you mean ‘give yourself away’? That’s how you feilt, isn’t it? What did you want them to think, that you didn’t care if your daughter was killed?”
“No, of course not. But making a scene never does any good.”
“Making a scene? I don’t think I understand. Oh, you mean letting yourself go. Well, for God’s sake, why not? If that’s how you felt.”
Sylvia tried to explain.
“You don’t want to make a fool of yourself, do you? As Arthur always says, ‘You’ve got to be one up on other people.’ And you can’t be that if you give yourself away.”
It was clear, however, that Shirley didn’t really understand. Not that she didn’t have clear views on many of Sylvia’s family problems when they came up in the course of conversation. For instance, she set Sylvia’s mind at rest about Mark’s leaving home; she was so certain that he was right—”Good for him!” And again she gave a reason at once for all the tension between Harold and Judy. “Well, of course she fights with him. She’s in love with him. Seventeen? I guess I was finally fixed on boys by then, but around fifteen I was completely overboard about Dad. She’s a little late, but after all this is Britain.”
On the whole though Sylvia kept off “The Sycamores” at Murrel Farm just as she said little about the Egans when at home. One of the happiest features of this new routine had proved to be the easing of life at “The Sycamores”. She no longer felt the guilt of her unhappiness, the strangeness of her long desperate walks coming between her and her family. She carried the shopping and the roster duties (now so increased by Mark’s absence and Harold’s preoccupation with Goodchild’s Meadow) without any sense of strain; she sat in the evenings reading or watching tele without any sense of melancholy. The pleasure that came from her afternoons at the farm lasted all that day and into the next. Of course there were tensions still but she was not their cause.
It was only to be expected that Judy would be keyed up with those vital examinations right on top of her. Harold, too, had so much to do, but he did seem exceptionally touchy. It was Arthur who worried her most. Yet she did not dare as yet to risk her newfound happiness in order to meet all his familiar troubles half way. She contented herself by doing as good a part by him as she could and laying up strength to face the inevitable rainy day.
There was certainly no inclination on the Egans’ part to obtrude upon “The Sycamores”; but Harold was more restive about Sylvia’s double life.
“Does Egan say what he thinks the Ministry’s decision is likely to be, Mother?” he asked once or twice, and when she answered, “I don’t see much of Mr. Egan, dear, and Mrs. Egan and I only talk a lot of women’s natter, you know,” he said, “I hope these Egans aren’t making use of you, Mother.”
The difference in approach was very clear when the question of her birthday came up. It had never occurred to her that anyone would mention this late July event. Sixty-five was nothing to rouse anyone’s interest; it’s not even a round number. And yet she found herself offered two celebrations.
“Have you got your Chinese kimono or whatev
er they call it back from the cleaners, Mother? You’ll need it on the 23rd.”
Sylvia had a special face that she’d perfected over the last months for Harold’s jokes when she couldn’t quite see their meaning.
“Foxed, eh? Well, it is a bit difficult. Because, of course, the 23rd isn’t your birthday. But it’s the nearest day to it that the Bartleys are free. Muriel wanted us to go ahead without them, but they’ve been so good at having Dad there for cards since the Cranstons became so impossible. In any case I thought you’d like another woman at the party.” His voice sank to a mumble, “Family occasions haven’t been ideal lately. We miss Beth.”
Then he brightened up again, “Ah, but of course, you want to know why Chinese. Well, I thought we’d go to Chen Fu’s. We’re all too busy at the moment to cook except you and it’s no fun to cook your own birthday dinner. Besides, I’ve told Ray to tell Mark he’ll be welcome. I suppose he won’t refuse to wish his grandmother many happy returns. I’m perfectly happy to see him, but as long as ‘The Sycamores’ is not good enough for him to sleep at, I’m afraid it’s too good for him to use as a casual restaurant. However, Chen Fu’s is very good. People are often surprised that the New Town’s only restaurant should be Chinese, but Beth didn’t agree at all. She always said it was quite logical, since Chinese cuisine is about the only decent thing you can’t prepare at home in the average modern kitchen. I would have left the whole thing as a complete surprise, but I thought you might like to invite your farming friends. Egan really ought to meet Muriel. After all, she’s the woman who’s trying to save his meadow for him.”
Sylvia said she would ask Shirley, but she doubted if they would leave Mandy at night. “I’ve been baby-sitter for them once or twice, but I can’t help out this time.”
Harold didn’t laugh. “You’d better not tell me any more about the way that child’s spoilt or I shall begin to regret that you saved it from the fires of heaven.”
She had guessed Shirley’s excuse correctly or nearly correctly.
“Isn’t that nice of Mr. Calvert, Timbo? But Mandy just hates being taken out at night, so I’m afraid we’ll have to say no. It would be kind of silly to come to your birthday party without her. How about if we give a birthday picnic the next day? Mandy would like that. You can take the day off, Timbo, and provide champagne.”
“I don’t know if ... That would be a Thursday, you see, and Mark and Ray at any rate wouldn’t be able ...”
“Oh, I had thought just you and us,” Shirley sounded stunned. She hesitated but more it would seem for Sylvia’s agreement than in any consideration of change of plan. Sylvia, though a little guilt-striken, was quick to accept.
“Oh, goody! We’ll go to what-you-may-call it, that olde worlde place by the river. Mandy likes that. It’ll be lots of fun.”
Sylvia’s pleasure was only marred by a certain shame that she looked forward so much more to Shirley’s improvised outing than to Harold’s carefully planned dinner.
There was such a muddle about the table when they arrived at Chen Fu’s that they stood for quite five minutes. Sylvia had plenty of time to look around her. It was rather a small room but this was made up for by the brightly coloured Chinese décor. The paint work was scarlet with thick gold Chinese squiggles embossed on it. The lighting was subdued and intimate except for the big central Chinese lantern which was emerald green with scarlet tassels and a pattern of some scarlet figures—fish or something—that moved slowly round the light. The hushed lighting made it difficult for Sylvia to see everything, but you could tell that the two pictures on the wall were Chinese because they were long and thin and without frames; they, too, were in bright emerald with some black marks, perhaps also fishes, or maybe birds. Clearer were two big coloured photographs of a town that looked like America-—all skyscrapers—but Ray said it was Hong Kong or Shanghai or Singapore or somewhere. There were also two big coloured photographs of girls, one in an emerald green dress with a purple flower, and the other in a strawberry pink bikini with an apricot-coloured carnation over one ear. Only when you looked the second time did you see that they were not ordinary pin-up girls but Chinese. It would all perhaps have seemed a bit too brightly coloured, if it hadn’t been for the subdued lighting. Even then it needed dressing quietly for, as poor Muriel Bartley must have soon felt. She was wearing a very tight purple sweater and a very tight daffodil yellow tweed skirt, and had put on her heaviest lilac eye shade. Really Sylvia could hardly bear to look at her in that setting of scarlet and emerald.
Arthur, on the other hand, had his old eyes riveted to Muriel’s breasts which seemed to Sylvia to dominate the restaurant like two huge plums. It was lucky Muriel was the sporty type, Sylvia thought, for when he was in a silly mood he had no sense of shame. But either Muriel was out of sorts or else she wasn’t such a sport when it came down to it—she loosened her sweater the little that she was able to and turned to Arthur.
“Do you mind, Captain Calvert? This isn’t the Windmill, you know.”
Her tone was quite sharp. She moved away from him and whispered in her husband’s ear as they waited for Harold to settle the question of their table.
There was no easy solution to seating. The dozen tables at Chen Fu’s were arranged six to each side of the roqm, in intimate dark recesses with back-to-back seats. They were ideal for parties of two or four, but difficult for the Calvert party of eight.
“Well,” Harold said to his waiting guests, “it seems we have to split up. I suggest Judy and Mother with me, Ray and Mark with Dad over tie way there. Then a Bartley apiece. Geoff, you’d better be at Mother’s table, and Dad’ll look after Muriel.”
“I’d rather Muriel sat with us, Harold. Park yourself here, Kid,” Geoff indicated to his wife the place where Judy was about to sit.
“Very well,” Harold was puzzled. “You go and sit with your Granddad then, Judy.”
“Yes, come here, Judykins. We’d rather have the rosebud, wouldn’t we, Ray? These tables are a bit small for the last rose of summer.”
“Please, Daddy, I’d rather stay at your table.”
“What do you mean? There’s no place . . .”
“Please, Daddy, please.” Judy’s voice was quite hysterical.
“Let her do what she wants, Dad. She’s just finished a week’s hellish exams.”
But if Ray was concerned for his sister, Sylvia had no thought for anyone but Arthur. She could see by the way his hand trembled as he appeared intent on the menu that he was feeling one of his rare shames.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed the honour of sitting next to Arthur even if he is my husband. I don’t often blow his trumpet for him. But in all my sixty-five years I’ve never met a better story-teller and I can’t think of better company for my birthday.” As she made her little speech she moved across and sat down beside him. She was quite out of breath with indignation. She took his hand under the table.
“Well?” she said, “Wotcher, cock?” It was one of his favourite expressions.
“Wotcher, Liza.”
Heads close together, they studied the menu and laughed at the names. Arthur was particularly pleased with the entry “Chou Sai Ho Fun (Fried Rice Sticks)”.
“Fun Sticks!” he whispered to Sylvia. “Those’ll just about suit Betty Big Bubs.” And when she managed through her laughter to hush him, he said, “I was just warning the missus off the bit of fun they offer here.”
Everybody looked so silent and solemn that Sylvia felt the devil raised in her. She giggled and whispered as she’d hardly done since they’d been courting.
“Carry on all and don’t mind us. Pity Arthur didn’t bring his pig-tails.”
But the party remained obstinately silent until Mark tried to help out.
“Some of the names are pretty grim certainly, Gran. Goo Yoo Luk!” He laughed, but even then the others only smiled faintly. After their earlier treatment of Arthur it made Sylvia feel wild. Very much the little ladies and gentlemen they all were with t
heir posh foreign restaurants! Well . . . the lot of them, even Mark, putting them at their ease; what business of his was it? She and Arthur weren’t ladies and gentlemen and never had been, but just because they were old didn’t mean they couldn’t get a kick out of life.
She said loudly, “Oh, it isn’t just any of the names, Mark. You want to look again. Fun sticks! We girls’ll have to be careful of them, won’t we, Mrs. Bartley?”
Ray started to giggle, but turned his laughter into a cough. Then when Arthur had joined her in a good wheezing laugh, they announced their intention of ordering from the side of the menu headed, “English Fare”.
Later, seeing Harold’s face, Sylvia felt a bit contrite because after all he’d gone to all this trouble and expense for her. But really that Soapy Sam stuff made her sick! However she did ask to taste his sweet and sour pork and pronounced it excellent. She also drank liberally of the vin rosé he ordered, although it was sour enough to give you the gripes.
“I’m awfully glad you were able to come along, Geoff,” Harold had given their orders and his voice was now loud, bright and formal: it seemed to Sylvia that he was officially opening the proceedings and placing all their earlier unsuitable talk as prologues off the record. “You’re not easy people to get hold of with all the social life you lead.”
“Don’t look at me, Harold, look at her ladyship. She’s the one who carts us out every night on these soup and fish larks. I told her the other day, ‘What we bought a house with two lounges for, I don’t know’. To keep her famous dolls in, I suppose. I’m a simple stay-at-home chap, you know, underneath the mask.”
“And what a mask! Did you ever see such pouches under the eyes, Harold! He could carry his loose cash in them.”
“What about all those poker nights, Geoff? You’re at home then. I look on ‘Sorbetts’ as a sort of do-it-yourself casino.”
“Oh, we haven’t had a poker game for over a month,” Muriel’s mouth snapped as she said it.
“But Dad’s been . . .” Harold was bewildered. He looked across the room towards Arthur, but the old man had begun a long story to his grandsons. “I must have misunderstood him. He will miss your poker games though, especially since the Cranstons have turned so funny.”