The Feast

by Margaret Kennedy

  That girl, he thought, as he went downstairs, is in a fair way to go off her rocker.

  8. Feast and Fast

  The train from Paddington was crowded, and many people were obliged to stand in the corridor all the way to Penzance. But the four Gifford children had seats. They had neither waited in the queue outside the barrier nor struggled on the platform. Two heavily bribed porters got the seats for them, under the generalship of a secretary and a butler, in a third class carriage where the competition with other heavily-bribed porters is not so keen. A widow with three little girls, who tried to assert a prior claim, was pushed out into the corridor, and the Giffords were installed, supplied with luncheon tickets, sweets and magazines, and instructed to apply to the guard if they wanted anything.

  Sentiment among their travelling companions had been on the side of the widow, and nothing about the Giffords was likely to change it. They had an unusually well-nourished look, and no family could have been so faultlessly dressed on its legal clothing coupons. They belonged quite clearly to the kind of people who feed in the Black Market, who wear smuggled nylons and who, in an epoch of shortages, do not scruple to secure more than their share.

  But mankind is strangely tolerant, especially to children, and the sins of their parents would not have been visited upon the Giffords if they had not behaved as though they owned the train. They played a very noisy game of Animal Grab during the first part of the journey, and Hebe insisted upon letting her cat out of its basket. It was this careless arrogance which brought retribution upon her, and upon Caroline and Luke and Michael. For when they went down the train to luncheon their seats were re-occupied by the widow and her family, and nobody interfered to stop it.

  There was no aroma of the Black Market, or of clothing books purchased from needy charwomen, about the newcomers. They looked like an illustration in a ‘Save Europe’ pamphlet. Everything they had was meagre. The three girls were tall and pallid, like plants which have been grown in the dark. Their teeth were prominent but they wore no straightening braces; their pale blue eyes were myopic, but they wore no spectacles. Their hair was home cut, in a pudding basin bob, and their shabby cotton dresses barely covered their bony knees.

  The widow herself was a spare little woman, grim and competent. She whisked her family into the compartment as soon as the last Gifford had vanished down the corridor, thrust each docile child into its appointed seat, removed all the Gifford luggage from the rack and replaced it with her own. She did this with a speed and in a silence which might have daunted protest, if any had been offered.

  Having taken her own seat she produced, from a string bag, a packet of dry-looking pilchard sandwiches, dealt out three apiece, and handed round water in an enamel mug. At the end of this Spartan meal she provided the children with pieces of grey knitting. But not a single word did any of them say.

  A gloom settled upon the compartment and the pendulum of public sympathy swung back a little towards the handsome, noisy Giffords. It seemed that this woman was familiar. Everyone felt that they had met her before. She had appropriated something from each of them at one time or another, with the same speed and competence. She had got in front of them in the bus queue. She had snatched the last piece of fish off the slab under their noses. And her children, spiritlessly knitting, were her weapons.

  But the pendulum swung back again when the Giffords, flushed with food, came hallooing back along the corridor, pushing past the standing travellers and trampling on their feet. Such a set of young hooligans could be left to fend for themselves.

  There was a stupefied pause while the Giffords discovered their baggage in the corridor, and, peering through the window, identified the intruders.

  ‘It’s the orphanage,’ said Hebe. ‘They’ve pinched our seats.’

  For she had noticed these thin girls in the corridor and had decided that they must be orphans travelling in charge of a matron. And she had wondered if she would have looked as awful as they did if Lady Gifford had not adopted her to be a sister to Garoline.

  ‘What beastly cheek,’ said Luke.

  Caroline suggested that they should summon the guard. But Hebe had already opened the door and sailed in to do battle.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the Matron-in-Charge,’ but these are our seats.’

  The Matron glanced up. She scrutinized Hebe from her tawny curls to her sleek legs, and then she went on with her knitting.

  ‘We were sitting here,’ said Hebe. ‘We went to lunch, but we left our luggage. You had no right to put our luggage outside.’

  She looked round the compartment for support, with the confidence of a child nurtured in privilege. She encountered glances of indifference, of amusement, but not of sympathy.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let her,’ she told them angrily.

  At that a woman in the corner spoke up:

  ‘They paid for their seats, same as you ’ave.’

  ‘We got them first,’ said Hebe.

  She made a sudden pounce on the smallest orphan, jerked it up and was about to take its place when the Matron intervened. Smoothly and quietly she seized Hebe’s arm and thrust her back into the corridor. Her hand seemed to be made of iron; it did not feel as if it had any flesh on it at all. And just before she let go she gave Hebe a savage pinch. Then she shut the door on the Giffords, returned to her seat and took up her knitting.

  ‘I’ll go down and find the guard,’ said Caroline.

  ‘No,’ said Hebe, rubbing her pinched arm. ‘They got in without the guard. We must retake the fortress by our own strength. We must observe the rules of warfare.’

  ‘But Mathers tipped him ten shillings.’

  ‘I know. But Spartans would never call in the guard.’

  ‘I’ve got a water pistol,’ said Michael, trying to open his attaché case. ‘I can fill it in the lavatory.’

  ‘No. The local natives are unfriendly. We mustn’t use artillery. We must lay an ambush. We’ll wait. Sooner or later those orphans will have to go down the corridor. When they do, we’ll pop in and take our seats again.’

  ‘She’ll push us out.’

  ‘Not if we’re prepared. She took me by surprise. If she pinches, we’ll pinch back.’

  They waited and it was not long before one of the orphans, after a whispered colloquy with the Matron, rose and came into the corridor. Like lightning Hebe popped in and took the vacated seat. No notice was taken of her, and nothing was said until the absentee returned and stood timidly in the doorway. Then the woman leaned forward and addressed Hebe.

  ‘Will you kindly move from my daughter’s seat?’

  Daughter? thought Hebe. Then they aren’t orphans after all. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I shan’t move. It’s mine, for I had it first. If you try to put me out again I shall have you committed for assault. My father is a judge and I know all about the law. You’ve given me a bruise already that I could show in court.’

  She pulled up her sleeve and showed the mark of the pinch.

  After a short pause her antagonist sat back and said:

  ‘I’m afraid, Blanche, that you’ll have to stand for a while, as this child does not know how to behave. Try to sit on a suitcase in the corridor. I want you to rest that poor back all you can.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Blanche.

  The poor back was an unexpected thrust, and erased the impression made by Hebe’s bruise. ‘Been ill, has she?’ asked the woman in the corner.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Enemy. ‘Only just up from a bad illness.’

  A murmur of sympathy went round the compartment. Hebe, blushing but defiant, asked if they all had poor backs. Opinion hardened against her.

  ‘Pity about some children,’ said the woman in the corner. ‘Think they own the earth because their father is a judge. Working people’s children would be ashamed to behave like that.’

  Blanche in the corridor sat down upon a suitcase and returned the stares of Caroline, Luke and Michael. They, too, were impressed by the poor back. Car
oline offered her a sweet, which she refused with obvious reluctance.

  ‘Go on,’ said Luke. ‘We’ve got lots more. They’re marrons glacés. Off the ration.’

  Still she shook her head.

  ‘Don’t you like marrons glacés?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘I never had any,’ whispered Blanche.

  ‘Well … do try one.’ ‘N-no, thank you.’

  ‘Are you going for a holiday?’ Michael wanted to know.

  ‘Yeth,’ said Blanche, who lisped a little.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Pendizack Manor Hotel.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the three Giffords.

  Luke and Michael looked through the window to signal the news to Hebe. She gave them a warning scowl. One of Blanche’s sisters was just about to go down the corridor, and she wanted an ally to seize the second seat. But none of them felt inclined to join her. It was more fun in the corridor. They smiled and shook their heads. Hebe glared reproachfully. But she would not come out, though they beckoned to her.

  ‘That’s where we shall be staying,’ said Caroline to Blanche.

  ‘Where is your father?’ asked Michael.

  ‘He’th dead,’ said Blanche mournfully.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  What with her dead father and her poor back they were all beginning to feel very sorry for her. Caroline again pressed her to take a sweet. But she explained that she had none to give them back.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ said Caroline. ‘We have lots. We get parcels from America.’

  Blanche timidly took the sweet.

  ‘Do you get parcels from America?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yeth.’

  ‘What’s in them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mother keepth them.’

  ‘We have feasts with ours,’ said Luke.

  Blanche’s eyes widened. She stared at him in a kind of ecstasy.

  At this moment her sister returned up the corridor and was offered a sweet too, which she accepted with the same reluctance, explaining that she had none to give back. They seemed to think that all gifts must have some kind of exchange value. The newcomer told them that her name was Beatrix and that the third sister was called Maud. Their surname, they said, was Cove.

  ‘Why don’t you go back into the carriage and rest your back?’ said Caroline to Blanche. ‘Beatrix can stay here with us.’

  ‘I like it here,’ said Blanche, fervently.

  To her sister she murmured:

  ‘They have feasts.’

  ‘O-o-oh!’ breathed Beatrix.

  Both sisters fell into a reverie, sucking sweets and staring at these wonderful Giffords.

  The word feast had a magic significance for the little Coves. They had never been at a feast, but they had read about such doings. They had a book called The Madcap of St. Monica’s in which dormitory feasts were held at midnight. The word conveyed to them they knew not what of hospitality and convivial enjoyment. And their favourite game was to plan feasts which they would give if they were rich. A difficulty in collecting guests (for they knew very few people) had been overcome by Beatrix, who suggested that a notice might be put up on their house door saying: A GREAT FEAST IS TO BE HELD HERE. ALL ARE INVITED. And then everybody would come.

  Their ignorance of the world was fantastic, for their mother could never afford to let them do anything or have anything that they wanted. But day dreams cost nothing and in day dreams they lived, nourishing their starved imaginations upon any food that they could find. These Giffords, these madcap children who had stepped straight out of a fairy tale, were a banquet.

  ‘Do you have a pony?’ asked Blanche at last.

  Yes. The Giffords had a pony apiece. But these had been lent to their cousins when their country house was given up. Michael and Luke were only too pleased to describe the glories of this house and, though Caroline felt that they were boasting, she could not stop a recital which gave such obvious pleasure. Maud, in her turn, came out, was given sweets and included in the audience. The Giffords talked and the Coves listened, without rancour and without envy, feeling themselves enriched by such an adventure. They could have knelt and worshipped the Giffords for doing and having so much.

  ‘And we have a Secret Society,’ said Luke. ‘Hebe started it. It’s called the Noble Covenant of Spartans. When we all get to Pendizack I daresay she’ll let you join.’

  Poor Hebe, sitting alone in the carriage, too proud to leave her hard-won seat, a target for adult criticism, was tantalized by all this fraternization going on in the corridor. She felt that everybody was extremely disloyal. And she knew the bitterness experienced by all leaders. She had rushed in, she had been brave, she had got herself pinched, she had gained her point—only to find that her supporters had fled.

  She fished a small notebook and pencil out of her handbag. The notebook contained the rules of the Noble Covenant of Spartans. She had just decided to add a new one, although it could not become a law until the others had voted on it. After sucking her pencil for a while she wrote:

  Rule 13.—When a Spartan has done a daring thing for the benefit of all Spartans, even if he is not Leader that week, everyone else must back him up.

  9. The Importance of Being Somebody

  Mrs. Thomas was washing up the supper dishes. Nancibel came downstairs wearing a white dress with a red belt, red sandals and a red snood. She was still saving up for a red bag.

  ‘You going out?’ said her mother, turning round.

  ‘Yes. I’m going a walk with Alice. But I’ll help you with those first. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Don’t splash your dress. It looks nice. But I wish you’d wear your nylons.’

  ‘Oh Mum! Nobody does, not in the summer. I’m saving them for dances. Give me a cloth. I’ll wipe.’

  ‘Your legs is all bruises.’

  ‘They show through nylons. It’s those coke scoops banging against my shins.’

  ‘I meant to tell you that old Sour Puss, that Miss Ellis, came in to-day for the honey. Stuck here talking till I thought she’d taken root. I don’t know how you stand her, really I don’t.’

  Nancibel laughed.

  ‘She’s been having kittens all day because Mrs. Siddal says she’s got to empty slops.’

  ‘Having kittens? Whatever d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know … slang! What we used to say in the war. It’s R.A.F. slang really, means getting upset.’

  ‘Sounds common to me. I can’t understand half what you girls say these days. But this Miss Ellis? She strikes me as being a very nosey sort of person.’

  ‘Nosey as they come,’ agreed Nancibel. ‘here’s nothing she doesn’t know about the guests at Pendizack, believe me. She says that clergyman’s daughter that came this morning—you know, the one I told you about, supper … she says this girl sits in her room all the time grinding up a bit of broken glass with a nail file, and she’s got the powdered glass in a pill box; and Ellis makes out she means to murder somebody. You know … feed it to them.’

  ‘She would! She wanted to know every last thing about you. Wasn’t I worried about you? And how thankful she is she’s got no daughter because the girls don’t seem to care what they do these days. And we know what men are, she says. Only want one thing from us poor women. I felt like saying rubbish! There’s only one thing us poor women want from the men. But what’s she know about it, anyway? I bet there was never a queue outside her door.’

  ‘Oh, she knows more than you’d think,’ said Nancibel, hanging up the dish cloth. ‘She tells me the story of her life, sometimes, while she watches me do the work. It’s a different story every time, only for one thing. That everybody has given her a raw deal. That’s the same every time.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say she ever …’

  ‘She did? Or she says she did. And I was quite sorry for her the first time she told me because it seems the fellow ran off. But then it came out that he was her sister’s boy to start with, and she pinched him. And really, Mum,
I don’t want to be spiteful, but I hate to think what her sister must be like if she’s less attractive than Miss Ellis. Well … you’ve seen Miss Ellis!’

  ‘I have. And she put me in mind of nothing so much as a toad. But that’s nothing,’ declared Mrs. Thomas. ‘Any woman can get any man she wants, for once anyway, if she’s willing to lower herself enough.’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ sighed Nancibel.

  Something a little regretful about her sigh prompted her mother to add sharply:

  ‘I said for once, not for keeps. And it never comes to good.’

  ‘That’s right. I know. Well, this fellow did a vanishing act. But the sister was sore about it and all the family took her part, which is why Miss Ellis quarrelled with all her relations, and why she has to work when her family is wealthy. That’s what she says.’

  Nancibel crossed to the mirror by the door to take a last glance at herself before she went out.

  ‘I shan’t be late,’ she said. ‘We’re just going along the parade for a bit to listen to the band.’

  Mrs. Thomas came with her to the door and watched her go down the lane.

  If only she could meet Somebody, thought the mother. Some nice fellow that would appreciate her and look after her. Not too young. Somebody superior. So sweet and so pretty, my sweet Nancibel. And clever with it.

  Nobody’s good enough, and she’s well rid of that soppy Brian if she only knew it. But there’s nobody good enough round here.

  For Mrs. Thomas came from the Home Counties, and despised the rustic population of Porthmerryn.

  At the first little terrace at the top of the hill there was a cottage with a notice on the door:

  LEDDRA. CHIMNEY SWEEP.

  Here Nancibel stopped to pick up her old school friend, Alice Leddra. They went down the steep hill, through the narrow streets, to the Marine Parade, where a band was playing and half the population of Porthmerryn was strolling up and down. Alice was full of a new boy whom she had picked up at the Drill Hall dance on Wednesday. He had said that he was staying at the Marine Parade Hotel, and she hoped that she might meet him again.