by Helen Harris
The Department has a staff of twelve. Apart from the actual gallery attendants, Mary-Anne and I are at the bottom of the ladder. Because of freezes and cuts, for the past four years we have stayed there. Whereas I had visions of promotion away from the Enquiries Desk to my own poorly-lit cubbyhole and being given charge of some escritoires or occasional tables, say, instead time has stood still. This economic spell has added frustration to our cynicism. The days grow longer. Mary-Anne has the edge of a year’s seniority over me and last week she used it. A few days ago, she went to see Mr Charles and issued him with an ultimatum: if he didn’t move her off the Enquiries Desk and give her something more interesting to do, at least for part of the day, she was sorry but she was going to make a complaint through official civil service channels. Dear Mr Charles! Anything for a quiet life; in the same way that he diplomatically yields to the bureaucrats who govern us, on their petty points of principle, he let Mary-Anne have her way. But he sent her to help out Mrs Dennis in the library ‘on secondment’ and knowing Mary-Anne’s opinion of Mrs Dennis, he could not have chosen anything more calculated to disagree with her.
Mr Charles then felt obliged to call me in and say something kindly to show that I had not been passed over for promotion. He was half-hidden, as usual, by the enormous lamp on his desk. He had to lean right back in his chair or crane forward to see me.
‘Ah, thank you for coming so promptly, Alison. I shan’t keep you. Good Lord, sit down, sit down, no need to be on your best behaviour. It’s about Miss Craig of course; Mary-Anne. I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, single-handed at the Desk. But, oh dear, I must be right in thinking that Miss Craig is an exceptionally highly-strung person. I can’t help feeling it is really for the best to take her off the Desk and out of the public eye for a bit. At least she will have less scope for putting people’s backs up in the library.’
I giggled nervously. I was surprised that he should criticize Mary-Anne in front of me.
Mr Charles leaned right back in his chair to take a look at me. He is a thin, blondish man in his forties, with sharp lines radiating out from his eyes as a result of a career spent reading in the poor light of the museum. They remind me of the spidery rays of the sun on a child’s drawing.
‘The unfortunate part is that you are now left to cope alone with the madding crowds.’
‘Oh, that’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right. I would dearly like to be able to offer you something considerably more rewarding. However, as long as this benighted regime ….’ He clasped his hands on his blotter and bent forward in front of the lampshade. ‘You cope so magnificently, that’s the trouble,’ he said mischievously. ‘I heard the story about the American who claimed to recognize his ancestral furniture in the Morpeth Gallery. If only you were a bit more argumentative and abrasive, like your erstwhile colleague, then I would have no scruples about removing you from the Desk. But everyone keeps telling me how splendidly you manage – and this is your unjust reward.’ He grinned apologetically. ‘Hard times we live in.’
I went out with the picture of Mr Charles sitting right back in his chair again to watch me leave, a fine line drawing of a scholar in the yellow circle of his lamp.
He is such an anachronistic man, so unworldly and abstracted and allergic to bustle and hubbub. I derive great comfort sometimes just from knowing that he is sitting there in his cubbyhole, which is too small and antiquated to be taken seriously as an office, stylishly denying the passage of time.
I told Rob about what Mr Charles had said to me of course, and he was livid. He told me it was a classic paternalistic sop; a pat on the back instead of a rise or an improvement in conditions. I shouldn’t have taken it lying down, I should have stuck up for myself.
‘But Rob,’ I said, ‘what could I do? It’s not his fault if finances have been frozen and vacancies aren’t being filled.’
‘Alison, sometimes you annoy me,’ Rob said. ‘You are a willing collaborator in your own exploitation. If he could move Mary-Anne off the Desk because she kicked up a fuss, then why not you? There’s no logic to it. He’s just stringing you along because he knows you’re basically a docile employee.’
‘He’s not like that,’ I protested. ‘You’ve never met him. You shouldn’t pass judgement on him like that. He’s a very principled person. He’s a victim of the system just as much as I am.’
‘Should I have the privilege,’ Rob said sarcastically, ‘I shall do my best to keep an open mind.’
As the weeks go by, I find it harder and harder to keep Mrs Queripel a secret from Rob. Apart from the practical difficulties of disguising my absences and getting the smell of her sitting-room out of my clothes, I would quite like to talk to Rob about her sometimes. She has begun to tell me such fascinating stories. They go on stewing in my head after I come back from visiting her and it would be a relief to be able to talk them over. But the longer the secret goes on, of course, the more difficult it would be to reveal it. And I am afraid Rob would laugh, pour scorn on my cranky little enterprise the way he did over Mr Charles.
I know I thought she was a terrible old harridan at the beginning. My heart sank when I saw what I had let myself in for. The first two weeks I went there, we made little headway. She was so horribly suspicious. She was dreadfully inquisitive about my circumstances. But every time I tried to reciprocate and ask her a question about her life, she bit my head off. By the end of my second visit, I was almost ready to throw the whole thing in. Last week, I very nearly didn’t go back. But then, quite suddenly, she relented. I knew from hints she had dropped, from the theatrical mementoes in her sitting-room, that she must have an interesting past. But I thought she wasn’t going to share it with anybody, out of meanness. I’m still not sure what made her change her mind. But if she keeps it up we’re going to get on fine.
As soon as she started talking, I realized that all her nastiness had been distrust, all her suspicion had been self-defence. I must have passed some test. She began to tell me the ‘Romance of Leonard and Alicia Queripel’. It begins beautifully. She tells the story very theatrically, in a hushed voice, with stirring emotional climaxes and poignant pauses. If you resolutely ignore her wrecked face and the awfulness of her sitting-room, you could really get quite caught up in it.
A great coup for Rob the day before yesterday; he’s going to be on television! Somebody he knows in the BBC is producing a series about earning your living as a writer. There’s going to be a programme on each different area of writing – novels, poetry, theatre etc – and ending with one on the newest and most widely consumed one: writing for television. They’re going to feature Rob as an ‘up-and-coming’ young writer. We got terribly excited about it and, over dinner, we kept coming up with interesting new perspectives.
‘If I don’t spout too much crap,’ Rob said, ‘this might lead to some really useful contacts.’
I was extremely surprised when he said to me, ‘I don’t want you to tell anyone, OK, Alison? This is between ourselves.’
‘You’re not going to tell anyone?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘I’m telling you,’ Rob said, ‘but I’m not telling any of the gang. I don’t want a load of stupid jokes about selling out to the system.’
My joy at being the only one to share his secret was only slightly tempered by a personal dilemma. I had already decided I would tell Mrs Queripel, since she spends all her evenings stuck fast in front of her television. Then she could take a good look at my ‘Robert’ and tell me what she thought of him.
*
‘We spent our honeymoon in Eastbourne, of course. We stayed at the Queen’s Hotel. It must have cost poor dear Leonard a fortune, because everything had to be the best; we had cut flowers in the room and whatever took our fancy for dinner. We went on lovely outings and we didn’t deny ourselves anything. It was the most beautiful week of my life. Of the whole seven days, only two were rainy. And honeymoon couples don’t pay much attention to the weather.’ Alicia stopp
ed and gave Alison a searching look. ‘Of course, it’s not like that any more today, is it? You’ve all had your honeymoon ten times over before you get anywhere near the altar.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Alison.
‘Oh, don’t you? Don’t play the ingenue with me, dear. It won’t wash. You’re not going to tell me that you and your Robert have never so much as kissed on the mouth?’
Alison giggled. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘There you are! I feel sorry for you young ones sometimes, really I do. When I think of the mystery and the romance we had, and the magic of the moment – it’s not the same.’
‘But we have the mystery and the magic too, you know,’ said Alison. ‘We just don’t have to wait and wait for it the way you did.’
Alicia shook her head disparagingly. ‘It was the wait which gave the moment half its magic, child. Imagine you’d been passionately in love with one another for two long years, but forced to worship from afar, and then one day, in the most heavenly surroundings, you were granted your every wish. It was as though the gates had opened and we’d been let into Paradise. Why are you grinning? What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, nothing. I was just trying to imagine Rob, my friend, being romantic.’
‘Isn’t he that way inclined?’
‘Oh gosh, not in the least. Romantic is a dirty word as far as he’s concerned. He’s very much a realist, you see; he doesn’t believe in all that business.’
‘Well, that’s not very nice.’
‘No, no, you must see his point; it’s gift wrapping really, isn’t it? It’s not real. It makes the woman out to be just a prettily done-up package.’
‘Well, he’s certainly filled your head with a lot of nonsense. Package, whoever said anything about a package? Anyway, with Leonard and me, it was real. I wore my white with a conscience to match. My sister and my mother had made the dress, with fittings each time I was back in London between tours. I had my mother’s veil for something old, beautiful stockings from my sister for something borrowed and Clara Willoughby, that actress who had left the company in a huff, to show that all was forgiven, sent a lovely lawn hanky embroidered with forget-me-nots for something blue. My going-away outfit was the sweetest coral pink, with a hat my sister and I had decorated to match. Because my father had passed away and there was no brother to give me away, Leonard and I decided it should be someone from the company, since they had become my second family. We decided on Harry Levy, after a lot of discussion. There were people who’d been in the company for longer, who didn’t have his drawback. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest choice, but at least we knew he’d look the part. May the ninth, 1931.’
‘Where did you have the reception?’
‘We booked a room not too far from the church. We were over fifty for the wedding breakfast. Then, in the middle of the fun, Leonard and I made our farewells. We had a taxi waiting to take us to Victoria and we caught the train to Eastbourne. It was the 4.17, I remember.’
‘Oh, it does sound so beautiful,’ Alison agreed. ‘I mean, I know if I ever got married to anyone, it wouldn’t be anything like that.’
‘Anyone?’ Alicia said disapprovingly. ‘What do you mean: anyone? Isn’t it on the cards?’
Alison fidgeted. ‘It’s hard to explain without making him sound a … a cad. We’ve never really talked about it. You see, it’s not the kind of thing he’d do.’
‘Not the kind of thing he’d do?’ Alicia echoed indignantly. ‘Whatever’s that supposed to mean?’
She noticed that Alison was looking more and more uncomfortable, but she pressed on regardless. It was years since she had been in a position to make someone else feel worse off than herself. ‘He’s not a rover, is he?’
Alison giggled. ‘He is, in a way. But that’s not really the problem. The thing is, I’m not sure we have the sort of relationship which would make a very successful marriage. Oh dear, I don’t mean to be rude, you know, but times have changed.’
Alicia gave her a chilly stare. She folded her hands smugly on her lap and she tilted her chin in the air. ‘Men haven’t.
‘What Leonard and I had isn’t granted to everyone, of course. A meeting of minds, it was.’ She smiled coyly. ‘And much more than minds. Yes, it must be sad for you all nowadays with nothing special any more, nothing sacred. You want to taste the forbidden fruit far too soon and then you wonder why everything’s gone sour. You can’t have your cake and eat it, can you now?’
She thought she had said something terribly clever, but it was spoilt by a sudden vision of one of the fancies, the pink one, sitting in its pleated paper cup, mouldering in her biscuit box. Even though she knew they were all eaten, she had a frightful urge to go and check in the kitchen that it was not sitting there forgotten. It distracted her from what she was trying to say.
‘How old’s your Robert?’
‘He was just thirty-five a fortnight ago.’
‘That’s a very good age to settle down.’
‘Mrs Queripel, please, you must understand – things just aren’t like that between us. It’s not anyone’s fault, he’s not a … a bounder or anything, he’s not taking advantage of me; we’re just not on that sort of footing. I mean, I suppose it’s just possible that it might come to that one day, but I’m not counting on it.’
Alicia considered the curtains, as though Alison had not spoken. ‘It wasn’t a common or garden thing in our day. You’re all at it all the time now. I’ve seen on the television. For us, it was something really special, unique and wonderful. Our honeymoon –’ She broke off and gave Alison a penetrating look. ‘If it came to it, he would take you on a honeymoon at least, wouldn’t he?’
Alison wrung her hands. It was no use pretending that she hadn’t meant to upset the girl, Alicia told herself, when she knew perfectly well that she had. She wanted to show her what was what and she wanted to punish her for riding away every Sunday evening to her happy hearth. But she took pity on her when she saw how distressed she was getting. ‘One man’s meat, I suppose,’ she concluded coldly.
She didn’t like to ask when Alison got up to go, if she was going to come over Christmas. There was only one more Sunday left before Christmas, and then the one after that was Boxing Day. She didn’t like to ask because it might lead Alison to think that she had nothing on over Christmas and, if there was one thing worse than not having anything on over the two longest days of the year, it was having to pretend bravely that you did. So she let Alison get right to the front door before she said brightly, ‘All right, off you go then. Done all your Christmas shopping?’
‘I make most of my presents,’ Alison answered proudly.
‘Do you?’ Alicia said in disappointment. It was an answer which did not get her anywhere.
‘Yes, I do,’ Alison went on. ‘I love making things. I mean, it’s partly economy, I suppose, but mainly it’s just that I far prefer making things to all that sweaty tramping around crowded shops. Especially replicas of old things; you know, little painted tins and copies of old jewellery, that sort of thing. Still, I mustn’t say too much or you’ll guess what I’m making for you. You’ll have to wait two more weeks to find out, I’m afraid.’
Alicia was so delighted to hear news of this unexpected pleasure, falling as it would in the ideal middle of the four long days of public holiday, so that she could look forward to it on the first day and then dwell on it for the last two, that for a minute she couldn’t say a word. Then she pulled herself together. ‘Aha, just you wait and see what I’m giving you,’ she lied.
Watching Alison tie the tatty fur, she felt a moment’s retrospective guilt at the thought that she had been so unkind to her and here she was, bravely setting out back to that good-for-nothing. Alison turned to give Alicia her usual little wave from the gate.
‘Keep your pecker up,’ called Alicia.
She searched high and low for something she could give Alison for Christmas. It wasn’t that the house was bare, far from it, but everything
had some all-important association with which she could not bear to part. This way, she considered and rejected, there and then in the front room, three things which she had already carried downstairs: a hairbrush with a pattern of dried flowers set in its glazed back, a white porcelain figurine of a little lady flinging up her hands in ecstasy, and a mauve dish which had once held cachou violets. The hairbrush had belonged to her dear dead sister, who had loved to brush her beautiful hair, even in the days when it was only half a dozen sad white strands. The figurine had been a gift from an admirer who had sat in the best seats in the stalls all one season at Scarborough. And the dish for sweets came from the boarding-house. She would have to look further afield upstairs.
Over the past few weeks, she had got into the habit of restricting her daily trips up and down the stairs to two; one down in the morning and one up at night. This was feasible, though uncomfortable, if she used the make-do lavatory by the scullery out at the back. But it reminded her of the urgent need to install the downstairs of the house comfortably for the day when the stairs at last became too much for her. She ought to have been concentrating on this problem in recent weeks, since the stairs were clearly winning. But she had had other things on her mind of course: Alison, the changes brought about by her visits and the cloud of memories which her questions had stirred up. Also, how on earth could she contemplate bedding down in the front room when she now had a regular weekly visitor whom she entertained in there? Toiling up the stairs in the half-darkness reminded her how long it was since she had made an extra trip up and down. She had to pause after every step to draw breath and to think about rocking-chairs and hammocks.