Return of the Gypsy

by Philippa Carr

  It was a massive figure, meant I supposed to display the might and grandeur of the masculine figure—a symbol of the power of the great Duke.

  I read the inscription which stated that it was dedicated to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and his brave companions in arms; it had been cast from cannon taken at the Duke’s victorious battles including that of Waterloo. It had been erected through subscriptions of the women of England to do honour to military glory.

  “There has been a lot of controversy about it,” said Peterkin. “Some think it vulgar. Others that it is a work of genius.”

  “Isn’t that always what happens to works of art?” I asked. “Most things are criticized before people know what they ought to think, and when they are proclaimed works of genius everyone agrees, and it is as though there had never been any other opinion. Lots of people have to be told what they should think.”

  “When I look at that,” said Peterkin, “I think of joining the army.”

  Helena said: “You were thinking of going into Parliament a little while ago.”

  Peterkin grimaced. “Fancy following our father! Everyone would say, He’s not what his father was!”

  “Perhaps you would be better,” I suggested.

  “That would be impossible.”

  It was just at this moment that two young men came strolling towards us and before I was told I knew, from Helena’s expression, that one of them was John Milward.

  “Well,” he said, “fancy meeting you.” And I could see, from the manner in which he looked at Helena, that their arrival was no surprise and I remembered that she had been rather insistent that I see the Achilles Statue, and it was she who had kept us lingering there.

  “Annora,” she said, “this is Lord John Milward.”

  He bowed over my hand. Yes, there was something very pleasant about him. What struck me most was his youth. He looked younger than Peterkin, and Peterkin was two years younger than Helena. He seemed a little weak to me; he had large brown eyes and a gentle expression. Perhaps I had looked too long at Achilles.

  He was smiling at Helena and I thought with pleasure: He is surely in love with her.

  I was being introduced to the other young man and as soon as I heard his name I remembered. He was Joe Cresswell and that meant he was the son of the man whom my father had laughingly called “the enemy.”

  We stood for a while talking. Peterkin explained that we were taking a walk through the Park to show Cousin Annora some of the sights. Joe Cresswell was interested and I told him I came from Cornwall; and we talked for a while about that county of which he knew a little.

  I walked ahead with Peterkin and Joe Cresswell; and Helena and John Milward fell in behind. We strolled along near the Row and Peterkin explained to me that this was once called the Ring and was a sort of parade for fashionable people to show off their fine clothes.

  Joe Cresswell said: “I’ve something to tell you, Peterkin. I think I may be standing at the next election. I’m one of the candidates up for selection anyway, and my father says he thinks I have a good chance.”

  “That’s excellent news,” said Peterkin.

  “If I get it. The general opinion is that the party will be out at the next election.”

  “Yes,” said Peterkin, “everyone seems to think that is very likely.”

  Joe Cresswell turned to me. “I’m sorry, Miss Cadorson. This must all be rather boring for you.”

  “No. Not in the least. I am very interested to hear about it. Being in London is like breathing different air. It is all so exciting. I’m afraid we are a little dull in the country.”

  “Some prefer it,” said Peterkin. “It depends so much on one’s personality.”

  “I think,” said Joe Cresswell, “that I should always want to be where things are happening.”

  We came to the Serpentine and walked along its banks. Joe Cresswell asked me how long I was staying. I told him I was not quite sure. My parents were visiting relatives in Kent. When they returned to London we should all go home together.

  “Annora will be coming out next year,” said Peterkin. “But she is going with her family to Australia before that, I believe.”

  “Those are the plans at the moment,” I explained. “But it is all a little uncertain.”

  We sat down on a seat and watched two children with their nurses throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks.

  Helena came up with John Milward. “We’re going to walk on a little way,” said John. “We’ll see you later.”

  Peterkin and Joe Cresswell exchanged smiles.

  I liked Joe Cresswell; he was very relaxed. He talked about his home and mostly of his father, to whom, it was obvious, he was very attached.

  “I hope he gets this job,” he said. “He’s set his heart on it. Sorry, Peterkin. If my Pater’s in, yours will be out.”

  “He can win some other time. You think this is more or less settled, do you?”

  “Between ourselves, Miss Cadorson, I am sure I can trust you … but Lord Melbourne has hinted …”

  “I suppose he would have a lot of say.”

  “Of course he’d rather it went to one of our party.”

  “It seems a very important matter,” I said.

  “These things are important in politics, Miss Cadorson. One thing leads to another. That is why it is such an exciting game.”

  “When will your by-election come up?”

  “In a few months.”

  “You’ve got a good chance if you’re nominated,” said Peterkin. “It’s a safe Whig seat and your father is a name.”

  Joe Cresswell smiled. “I don’t really want to get through on my father’s name.”

  “You can’t help it,” retorted Peterkin. “It’s even the same Christian name. Just Joe … instead of Joseph. You could hardly be nearer than that.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. And if you went in you’d have your father’s name.”

  “I should live in the shadow of it. That’s one of the reasons against politics. I wouldn’t mind going into his business but he doesn’t want that. He says I’m not cut out to be a businessman.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know. But I do rather fancy politics.”

  There was a silence for a while. Then Joe Cresswell turned to me. “I shall look forward to your season,” he said. “Next year is a long time to wait. I hope you are not going back to Cornwall just yet.”

  “I daresay I shall be here a few weeks longer.”

  He gave me a very pleasant smile.

  “Then I hope I shall see you again … soon.”

  Helena and John Milward came back and we decided it was time we returned.

  That had been a delightful morning. Helena was in the realms of bliss and I had to admit that I had enjoyed my encounter with Joe Cresswell, son of that other candidate for high office.

  That evening was one of the rare occasions when Uncle Peter dined with us, and during the course of the meal the meeting in the Park was mentioned.

  Uncle Peter beamed on us.

  “Didn’t you think Joe a very pleasant young man, Annora?” he asked.

  “Yes, Uncle. I did. I thought he was very interesting.”

  He turned to Aunt Amaryllis. “We should ask the Cresswells to dine,” he said.

  “Before … the decision?”

  “I think very soon, my dear. I don’t want people to think there is any ill-feeling between us … just because he has the better chance. We’re the best of friends really. That’s how it is in politics. You’re the bitterest enemies across the floor of the House, but outside all that enmity evaporates. Yes, let us have them to dine soon … Cresswell and his wife.” He glanced at me. “And you might ask young Joe, too.”

  Within three days they came. It was a very enjoyable evening. I very much liked Mr. and Mrs. Cresswell. He was rather serious—and very precise, I imagined; she was jolly, rather scatter-brained, just the opposite of her husband—but very domesticated, kindly, motherly, not
in the least clever. Yet they seemed ideally suited. I was pleased to meet Joe again and he was put next to me at dinner so that we had a good deal of conversation together, and I learned more about his hopes of following in his father’s footsteps.

  “Like the Pitts,” I said.

  “You’re flattering us … at least myself.”

  “You never know. People have to wait for chances. Then greatness emerges. We have to wait and see.”

  Uncle Peter looked on us benignly as though he was rather pleased that we were getting on so well together.

  We had a little music afterwards. Helena sang and I played a few pieces on the piano with Joe turning over the music for me.

  I thought how creditable it was of both Uncle Peter and Mr. Cresswell, with this important post coming up which was going to mean so much to the one who held it—to be so friendly with no sign of bitterness between them.

  There was some talk about the Cresswells’ country home in Surrey. Mrs. Cresswell said it was always full of young people at the week-end. The Cresswells had a large family—three girls and three boys. Joe was one of the younger ones.

  Mrs. Cresswell must have noticed how well I was getting along with Joe for she said: “You must visit us one week-end, Miss Cadorson. Do … before you go back to Cornwall.”

  “It would have to be soon,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “Sir Jake is a man who makes quick decisions. He could well arrive next week and declare they must all go back to Cornwall to prepare to go to Australia.”

  “Australia,” said Joe. “That’s interesting.”

  “My father has some property there. He was there once … a long time ago.”

  Aunt Amaryllis looked faintly uneasy and Uncle Peter amused.

  “It will be tremendously exciting,” said Joe.

  “Well, we must fix this visit soon,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “What about next week-end?”

  I looked at Aunt Amaryllis. “Why not?” she said. “If you would like that, Annora.”

  “I should very much,” I said.

  “Of course,” went on Mrs. Cresswell, “Helena and Peterkin must come with you.”

  So it was arranged.

  I saw Joe quite frequently, even before the week-end. There was another meeting in the Park when he appeared with John Milward. Helena was delighted. She felt she was a connoisseur of romance and she scented one between Joe and me.

  I did not want to go as far as that. I liked Joe. But I could not think of him without seeing Rolf. I compared them and, charming as Joe was, he did not stand up well to the comparison. I suppose it was because when I was young I had set Rolf up as an ideal. He had seemed incomparable; and in spite of everything he remained so. There was a certain power about him which, I supposed, was the essence of masculinity. My father had it; so had my grandfather to a great degree even in his old age. Joe lacked it. Joe seemed vulnerable as none of those others did. One felt about them that no matter what happened they would rise above it. The fact was Joe seemed boyish almost when I thought of him beside Rolf. There was no doubt in my mind that, but for the fears which had grown out of that terrible night, I would have been deeply in love with Rolf. Perhaps I still was. That was why I clung to my original image of him, deceiving myself, telling myself that there was some mistake. Yet I had never been able to bring myself to ask him outright; and the reason was that I feared the answer.

  Was I always going to think of Rolf? Would he always come between me and anyone else of whom I might grow fond?

  Joe was interested in me. At least that was what Helena thought; and, I believed, so did Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis. Aunt Amaryllis liked young people to be happy together and therefore she thought it was pleasant for them to fall in love, particularly if they were suitable in their parents’ eyes. I think Uncle Peter was pleased because he was anxious to show that in spite of the rivalry between himself and Joseph Cresswell, there was no rancour.

  So we came to that week-end which turned out to be one of the most pleasant I had enjoyed for a long time.

  The Cresswell home was in Surrey in the midst of the lusciously green Home Counties which are so different from Cornwall where the landscape is wild and a little fey. Here fields looked as though they might have been mowed and the trees as though they were pruned; they did not get battered by spring gales as ours did now and then. There was an atmosphere of prosperity which one even sensed in the lanes. Buttercups and daisies abounded in the fields and on the journey down we passed through several little villages with their greens, ancient churches and almshouses all so neat and orderly and very attractive. Our Cornish villages lacked the opulence and the well-planned architecture even of the small cottages.

  Rolf had once said that it was the difference between Anglo Saxon discipline and Celtic laisser faire.

  The Cresswell house was large and the rooms cosy. As soon as one entered it one had the impression that it was not meant as a show piece but to be lived in. In the big drawing room with its French windows opening on to a lawn, there were books everywhere; some on the floor; there was a great fireplace with a long stool in front of it. It was a room in which one immediately felt at ease for one knew there would be a complete lack of ceremony.

  Mrs. Cresswell was waiting to greet us. She embraced us warmly and said how glad she was that we had come.

  Did I mind sharing with Helena? She had a larger houseful than she had anticipated. Frances had come.

  “Dear Frances,” she said. “She is usually so busy. It’s lovely to have her here.”

  I was introduced to those members of the family who were present. Two of the girls were married—one living in Sussex, the other in the North. Flora, the daughter from the North, was staying in the house with her two children.

  “The house is bursting at the seams,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “but I admit to being not in the least displeased by that.”

  Flora was a charming young woman and her two children were delightful. Joe’s brother Edgar was a doctor with a practice not far off, and he just called in for dinner with his wife. I was most interested to meet Frances Cresswell.

  She was very serious and it was obvious to me, even on our first meeting, that she had a purpose in life. She was rather like Joe with a look of her father.

  “This is my sister Frances,” Joe told me and there was pride in his eyes.

  “I’m very glad to meet you,” I said.

  “And I you,” she replied. “Joe has told me a great deal about you.”

  Peterkin joined us.

  “Frances is doing very good work,” he said. “Frances, you are a wonder.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me sometimes,” she replied. “I can really be a shrew.”

  “I expect you have a lot to put up with. Frances runs a Mission in the East End of London, Annora.”

  “A Mission?” I asked.

  “That’s what they call it. We try to do what we can for people who are unable to help themselves. There’s a terrible amount of poverty in London, you know. The contrasts in big cities have to be seen to be believed.”

  “What sort of things do you do?”

  “We try to help people in trouble. We have kitchens where we dispense soup and bread to those who haven’t enough to eat. We have beds for those who are homeless. We try to sort out their difficulties and do what we can. Alas, there is little we can do … but we try.”

  “I’ve been to help,” said Joe. “It is very revealing. It can be upsetting but gratifying in a way just because one is doing something, however small.”

  I was ashamed of my ignorance. London had always seemed to me especially grand and opulent even. I had seen poverty in the two Doreys. I knew of bad harvests and bad weather which prevented people’s going fishing; I knew there were accidents in the mines which robbed a family of its breadwinner. But then there were squires like my father who would alleviate suffering. But in the vast city it would be different. There, there were no squires, no benevolent landowner who looked on his tenants as
his responsibility. There had to be people like Frances.

  I wanted to hear more.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Joe. “If you are interested you could come down one day and see for yourself.”

  “I should like that,” I said.

  “I’ve been,” Peterkin told me. “It’s depressing but it is something which people ought to know about. Don’t you agree, Frances?”

  “I certainly think people should know what is going on about them,” said Frances.

  “I’ll come with you when you go,” said Peterkin.

  Just before we were going in to dinner, John Milward arrived. It was moving to watch the joy in Helena’s face when she realized he was to stay for the week-end.

  It was a very merry meal—quite different from those in the house in the square. Everyone seemed to be talking at once; they were a vociferous family, these Cresswells, and they all seemed to have different points of view on every subject and were determined to make themselves heard.

  There was a great deal of argument and laughter.

  Mrs. Cresswell lifted her eyes and smiled at me. “I’m afraid this is how it always is when the family gets together,” she said.

  Afterwards we played guessing games and charades. Then we all trooped back to a large room which was called “the play room.”

  “This is where they played when they were children,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “They still play here, if you ask me.”

  There was a piano at one end of the room but no carpet on the floor, which was polished. Joe sat down and played the piano and we all danced. Mr. Cresswell was my partner for a time. Although he was considerably quieter than his sons and daughter he seemed to enjoy everything.

  “I hope you don’t find us too exuberant, Miss Cadorson,” he said.

  “I’m enjoying it so much. They all seem to have a capacity for getting a lot of fun out of life.”

  “They are a wonderful family in spite of their old sobersides of a father. Of course, it’s my wife they take after more than they do me, which is a good thing.”

  “I don’t think that is entirely true,” I told him. “They are all tremendously proud of you.”

  “And I of them. I expect I sound like a doting old man to you.”