Martha in Paris

by Margery Sharp

  Thus it was an enormous relief when Eric brought home Martha. Martha found a built-in welcome.

  3

  She arrived carrying a small paper packet. Eric at first glance assumed it to contain some little gift, of bonbons perhaps, directed towards her hostess. But it dangled too limply to contain dragées or marrons. The idea that she’d possibly found time to embroider a few table-mats put an extra warmth into his introduction.

  “This is Martha, Mother, I’ve told you about!” announced Eric happily.

  “And I’m sure I’m very glad to meet her!” said Mrs. Taylor.

  Indeed she was. Martha’s appearance (for that of a young person picked up in the Tuileries) came as a delightful surprise. In particular, a complete absence of make-up predisposed Mrs. Taylor in her favour at once, while an equally complete absence of social manner did no harm, Eric having warned his mother that Martha was very shy.

  “I’m told you want to be shown our flat—though goodness knows why!” said Mrs. Taylor, with kindly, helpful humour. “We’ll just peep round before supper.—Where do you live at Home, dear?”

  Martha replied shortly, with her aunt and uncle. She always disliked being questioned. Fortunately Mrs. Taylor, apt as her son to project the suitable emotion, took Martha’s sulky pachydermous look for one of subdued grief.

  “Your parents—?” prompted Mrs. Taylor sympathetically.

  “Dead,” said Martha.

  The word fell with a certain harshness. It would have been nicer if she’d said “passed on.” But at least Martha’s parents weren’t divorced. “She’s had to conceal her feelings,” thought Mrs. Taylor, “poor child! One day I must get her to talk to me …”

  “Here’s the sitting room.—And where do your aunt and uncle live?” asked Mrs. Taylor, still very kindly.

  Martha said in Birmingham.

  Why she told the lie she didn’t know herself. Partly it was because she disliked answering questions; more deeply, knew by instinct that an artist’s work is ever best favoured by personal anonymity. (The cleverest journalist, in the years to come, never got an interview out of Martha.) At the moment, the name Birmingham simply happened to be the first that sprang to her mind that wasn’t Richmond.

  Mrs. Taylor however looked rather pleased, for she had a great opinion of the rugged Midland virtues; also by a peculiar quirk in the situation Martha’s lack of any Midland accent assured her that for all her gaucheness Martha had been nicely brought up.

  “I expect you went to boarding-school?” suggested Mrs. Taylor—leading Martha on to see the bathroom.

  It absolutely exceeded Eric’s description. Not only the full-length bath gleamed vitreous and pale green, but the walls as well; and the entire floor was covered with cork. A pair of beautiful big English towels hung rough and rich from a heated towel-rail (Martha put her hand on it). The soap, two beautiful big tablets, one for the bath, one for the wash-basin, was Wright’s Coal Tar.

  “It’s the best bathroom I’ve ever seen,” stated Martha formally.

  “Well, I do think a bathroom’s important,” said Mrs. Taylor. “Do you know what my bad boy calls it? Mother’s Ruin!”

  “Mother spent a fortune on it,” explained Eric, from a modest position in the doorway. “I rag her about it no end.”

  “Your friend will think you very disrespectful,” said Mrs. Taylor, with mock severity. “I’m sure she doesn’t ‘rag’ her aunt!—Now for the dining-room, and supper!”

  But Martha stood firm.

  “I haven’t had a proper bath since I’ve been here,” she observed thoughtfully.

  “You poor thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Taylor—pausing beside Eric in the door. “But surely, where you’re staying …?”

  Martha could employ tact when she needed to.

  “Yes; but only the French sort.”

  Eric’s mother paused again. In a month or two’s time, she thought, and if we really get to know each other, why not? With a mingling of present pride and future, potential, if-Martha-deserved-it kindness, she said something about there always being hot water …

  “Is there now?” asked Martha rather pointedly.

  “Well, of course,” said Mrs. Taylor, attempting a rearward movement into the passage. But Martha’s eye nailed her.—Mr. Punshon in Paddington could have warned the poor woman of the danger of being nailed by Martha’s eye. He hadn’t wanted Martha scowling customers from his shop—the Young Pachyderm!

  “If you’d like a bath to-night—” began Mrs. Taylor weakly.

  “Thank you very much,” said Martha. “After supper or first?”

  Just for Martha’s own good (because, really, having been offered an inch it was scarcely polite to demand so promptly an ell), Mrs. Taylor attempted to retract.

  “Though as I’m cooking something a little special—”

  “How long will it take?” interrupted Martha practically.

  “Not more than ten minutes.—Liver and bacon!” said Mrs. Taylor, with an affectionate glance at her son. It was Eric’s favourite dish. “And as one shouldn’t take a bath immediately after a full meal—”

  Martha thought fast. The bit about after a full meal didn’t bother her, it was a theory she had long demonstrated to be false; but she did want to get home fairly early, because if she hadn’t nine hours sleep she wouldn’t be properly fresh next morning. Ten minutes, if not time for a proper soak, was at least time for a lie-down …

  “I’ll have it now,” said Martha, swiftly opening her packet, which in fact contained one clean vest and a pair of clean knickers.

  4

  Why Mrs. Taylor tolerated such behaviour—why she actually and even warmly invited Martha to come again, and let her use the bath again, must be obvious. She was terrified; not of plain, stocky Martha, but of blondes and midinettes.

  She never succeeded in getting Martha to talk to her. For one thing, curiously enough, there never seemed to be an opportunity. Naturally Martha couldn’t be expected to open her heart while in the bath; and at table listened with such polite attention (also with her mouth full) to Mrs. Taylor’s retailed anecdotes of the Royal family, Mrs. Taylor’s own pleasure in a captive audience led her to gossip happily on until it was time for Eric to escort Martha back to the ’bus stop. Mrs. Taylor, the following morning, often rebuked herself on the point; but so it always seemed to happen.

  On the other hand Martha (looking forward each week with steady anticipation to a Friday night bath) was not unalive, as she’d not been unalive in the studio, to the desirability of some quid pro quo. Along with her clean underwear she carried a nosegay bought off a street stall. The rigid concentric circles of varicoloured short-stemmed flowers, no less than the paper frill concealing this last inadequacy, reflected with surprising accurateness the formality of Martha’s sentiments; but Mrs. Taylor managed to think it very sweet of her.

  So did Eric manage to continue to think of Martha as sweet; also lonesome and defenceless. To be in love at last (in Paris) made Eric so happy—a club-tie, so to speak, at last awarded—he instinctively protected himself against disillusion by translating Martha’s every inappropriate characteristic into an appropriate virtue. Was she doggedly mute?—She was shy. Was she glum?—She was sad. Even the way she wolfed her food roused Eric’s protective tenderness: she obviously didn’t (the poor little thing) get enough to eat …

  “I don’t know what Martha’s people are paying for her,” said Eric worriedly, “but I’ve seen myself, Mother, she has nothing for lunch but a sandwich!”

  So he could translate even half a long French loaf over-stuffed with charcuterie. He was in love all right.

  Why Martha, to whom any possessive affection was peculiarly repellent, didn’t for her part nip his passion in the bud (even at the price of foregoing a weekly bath), was because she remained ignorant of it. Eric Taylor, in love, still wasn’t ready to make love. He felt himself he hadn’t yet quite got the hang. (By another neat piece of translation, feared to alarm Martha’s virgin
al timidity.) A parting pressure of the hand was the most he attempted; which upon Martha, who had a grip like a navvy’s, left no impression at all.

  Yet with what gay, offhand debonaireness did Eric now cash the pretty debs’ cheques at the City of London (Paris branch) Bank! How easily, now, met their long-lashed glances! Martha’s stolid regard meant far more to him.—How many a svelte gazelle-like form was obliterated, in that resolutely devoted eye, by Martha’s stocky figure! Eric had never been so happy in his life; and put on at least a couple of pounds.

  Chapter Six

  Though Friday evening at the Taylors’ thus became a feature of Martha’s routine equally agreeable to all parties—Mrs. Taylor’s fears allayed, Madame Dubois and Angèle making up for lost time by rowing once a week, Martha herself, once a week, clean as a pink—there arose certain complications which Martha had not foreseen.

  She was definitely undesirous of any further involvement with her nice friends. One family evening a week was as much as she could stomach. She certainly didn’t want the Taylors cluttering up the rue de Vaugirard. But she had considerable difficulty in preventing it. As Madame Dubois pointed out, such regular hospitality entitled Mrs. Taylor to a little luncheon at least, if not a little dinner. (Also might not Angèle too, thought Madame Dubois practically, find in Mrs. Taylor a nice friend? Their circle was so narrow!) Madame Dubois dispatched by Martha several pressing invitations at first verbal, then by note. Nor would Mrs. Taylor have been surprised to receive such. Martha simply suppressed them; but then had to invent refusals. These were at first of the simple previous-engagement or cold-in-the-head type; but Martha soon grew bored with inventing even them.

  “Mrs. Taylor says thank you very much,” reported Martha finally, “but she never goes out anywhere at all because of her back.”

  “What is wrong with her back?” demanded Madame Dubois suspiciously.

  “Lumbago,” said Martha. (She knew about lumbago because Harry Gibson had it.)

  “It does not seem to prevent her accepting other engagements!” cried Madame Dubois. “No doubt of a more interesting nature!”

  She was only too ready to suspect Mrs. Taylor of pride. She took umbrage—just as Mrs. Taylor did; Martha was undoubtedly guilty of fomenting bad Anglo-French relations, but at least she kept the Taylors out of the rue de Vaugirard.

  Angèle proved a trickier proposition. Angèle, unlike her mother, soon discovered that besides a Taylor mère there existed a Taylor fils—by the simple expedient (which she felt no more than her duty) of following Martha one Friday and questioning the Taylor concierge. Scenting romance as the poor nomad of the desert scents the far rose-gardens of Damascus, Angèle aspired to be Martha’s confidante. “Not a syllable will I breathe!” hissed Angèle (making an extremely unwelcome appearance one night by Martha’s bed). “Maman is so old-fashioned, she might well object to your going where there is any young man at all!—How many opportunities has she not denied me,” hissed Angèle, her hair coming down all over Martha’s pillow, “by her old-fashioned notions! Even le Croix Rouge I am not allowed to join! But I promise you to keep your secret!”

  Martha no more wanted Angèle as a confidante than she wanted Mrs. Taylor as a luncheon-guest. But there was probably something in what Angèle said, and Martha paid, reluctantly, the price of her complicity by meeting her eye across the table whenever Madame Dubois animadverted on Mrs. Taylor’s morgue Britannique, also by allowing their evening promenade in the Luxembourg to take on the character of a Latin passeggiata.—“Do you see him? He isn’t here? Perhaps to-morrow!” consoled Angèle. “Oh, what fun if he should suddenly come up and address us!” Martha, who knew that Eric always went straight home as soon as the Bank shut, was sufficiently unperturbed; occasionally even pretended to start, as at a hoped-for figure, just to see Angèle jib too like a horse at a wind-trundled dustbin-lid. A better-educated heart might have been touched to pity by Angèle’s silly vicarious excitement; but only Martha’s eye had been educated, and she baited Angèle without remorse.

  Martha had the situation in hand. As the temperature dropped, she wasn’t even compelled to put up with Eric’s daily company in the Tuileries, because she now lunched at home in the rue de Vaugirard. She just turned up at the Taylor flat on Fridays.—The approaching end of Martha’s first term in Paris in fact found her very comfortably circumstanced: at the studio occupying a certain definite position, in the rue de Vaugirard with Madame Dubois and Angèle more or less under her thumb, and with a proper hot bath laid on once a week.

  2

  In the studio, the talk began to be of the Christmas vacation. Sally was flying back to Park Avenue regardless of expense, Nils formed the project of hitch-hiking home to a Stockholm suburb, and didn’t much mind whether he got there or not. Martha’s destination was of course Richmond. She was to make the journey alone, after Angèle put her on the boat-train—this last safeguard a concession to Dolores. “Martha has learnt to take a ’bus, she can learn to take a train,” argued Mr. Joyce. “But suppose she takes the wrong one?” pleaded Dolores—with some uneasy vision of Martha white-slave-trafficked to Istamboul. Her fears, however idiotic, were so obviously genuine, Mr. Joyce settled for Angèle and wrote Madame Dubois instructions on the point. “But wait and see!” grumbled, or promised, Mr. Joyce. “Soon Martha will be taking whatever trains necessary, alone!”

  Harry Gibson’s loyal but not entirely disinterested offer to nip over and fetch Martha himself was hardly considered. Both his wife and his friend unhesitatingly turned it down.

  3

  As Dolores would have been the first to acknowledge, Paris wasn’t Istamboul. Not even to please Mr. Joyce would she have allowed Martha to be consigned to spend two years in Istamboul. Paris was still Paris. On the second Friday in December, as Martha arrived at the Taylor flat, Eric stood waiting for her on the threshold wearing a harassed but nonetheless important air.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said at once, “but Mother isn’t here. She had a wire from London, her father’s terribly ill, and she left straight away. I’m terribly sorry, Martha—”

  “I am too,” said Martha. “Isn’t there anything to eat?”

  “Well, of course she left my breakfast,” said Eric, looking slightly hurt. He had expected Martha to be more sympathetic; at least more interested. In Taylor circles a serious illness rated as a highly interesting event. “She said—and I do think it was pretty wonderful, in the circumstances—that if you came, I’d better take you out somewhere.”

  Martha reflected. She had never in fact had a meal in a French restaurant; but the prospect, instead of pleasing and exciting, rather upset her. She was tired, also there was the question of her bath. Eric’s breakfast meant bacon and eggs; after a long day’s work she was perfectly willing to settle for eggs and bacon—or even if Eric wanted all the bacon for himself (a point of view with which Martha did sympathize), she could have an omelette …

  “Thank you very much, but can’t I just have an omelette?” suggested Martha. “You can get it ready while I’m in the bath.”

  To her surprise, Eric hesitated.—Martha knew he could make omelettes, Mrs. Taylor had often told her what a light hand he had with them; why then should he look so dubious? But it seemed as though there was something other than omelettes on Eric’s mind.

  “As Mother isn’t here, perhaps you’d better not have a bath at all,” offered Eric uncertainly, and keeping his position in the doorway. “I mean, as Mother isn’t here …”

  Martha was surprised again.

  “Did she say I couldn’t have a bath?”

  “With a father practically dying, I don’t suppose she thought about it,” said Eric reproachfully.

  “Then she might have said I could,” argued Martha.

  Eric, rightly trusting to his own instinct, was pretty certain his mother would have said nothing of the sort. He was indeed mentally at one with her on the point.—Yet how to present, to Martha’s lovable innocence, the idea that youn
g girls simply didn’t, shouldn’t, take baths alone in flats with young men? Eric couldn’t think. The situation was beyond him.

  “I don’t see anything wrong about it,” argued Martha.

  “Well, of course not wrong—” admitted Eric.

  “Then I’ll have it straight away,” said Martha—pushing past him with her nosegay in its paper frill and her customary packet of one clean vest and a pair of clean knickers.

  4

  Few sounds combine more reassuringly than those of running bathwater and eggs being beaten. Ten minutes later, Eric, in the kitchen, had begun thoroughly to enjoy the prospect of a domestic picnic. (Martha, in the bath, enjoying at last a proper lie-down-and-soak, was practically comatose.) Indeed, such was Eric’s enthusiasm he had everything ready far too soon; and such his impatience that when ten minutes more had elapsed he went and knocked at the bathroom door. “I’m out!” called back Martha automatically—just as she’d been used to call to her Aunt Dolores; but as soon as his footsteps retreated turned on the hot again. A hotter tide lapped her chin even as Eric heated the pan; curled absolutely around her ears as he tipped in the eggs.—Only a second, a more urgent, an almost desperate knocking got Martha truly out at last.

  5

  As her Aunt Dolores knew, Martha never looked so well as immediately after a hot bath. The French had a word for it: appetizing. Fresh from a hot bath Martha looked as rosy and solid and wholesome—and as appetizing—as a ripe apple. This was all the more apparent, as she cannoned off Eric in the corridor, since she’d just jumped out and rough-dried and thrust her head through a clean vest and for the rest merely toga’d herself in bath-towels. Above their strict British candour Martha’s cheeks glowed rosier than ever, and her throat apple-blossom pink …