Caroline

by Richmal Crompton

  Caroline laid down her needlework and looked at her for some moments without speaking.

  “If you like,” she said at last in a jerky abrupt voice. “I’d just won a scholarship to Newnham when father died, and I gave it up to stay and look after the children. Nina had died when Fay was born, so I don’t really see how I could have left them in any case, but father had been keen on my going to College. It was impossible, of course, when he died.”

  “Couldn’t you have found someone to look after them?”

  “It wasn’t only that. It was a case of money. Father’s affairs were very—involved. He’d been changing his investments because so many of them weren’t paying and he’d mortgaged his life insurance and there was practically nothing. I got work—coaching and translations—and ran the house and looked after the children as well.”

  Philippa had gone pale. “My dear . . . why didn’t you let me know? I should have loved to help.”

  “I didn’t want any help,” said Caroline. Her voice was cool and detached, her head bent over her needlework again.

  To herself she was saying: Why do I feel like this to her? I meant to feel so different. I meant to look after her and help her, and—she doesn’t want it. I felt so sorry for her, but I needn’t have done. She’s worldly and hard and shallow. And she’s got that easy charm that worldly people have. I could feel it with Richard and Fay—even with Uncle Charles and Aunt Maggie. They meant nothing to her, but she had to charm them. She’d have no scruples in coming between them and—someone who was really fond of them. She’d have no scruples in undermining my influence with Fay. . . .

  “Tell me about the others, Caroline. What about Marcia?”

  “I don’t see very much of her. She went to live in London when she was married. Her husband has work there.”

  “Did she help you when things were so difficult?”

  “She offered to take Fay, but, of course, I couldn’t let Fay go.”

  “And what about Robert and Susan?”

  “Robert’s been married for about seven years—he has three children—and Susan married three months ago.” Caroline paused and added, “They’re neither of them very happy marriages, I’m afraid.”

  Philippa laid her hand impulsively on Caroline’s arm. “Caroline, it seems dreadful that you should have had all this to go through alone. I’m so sorry.”

  There was a deep tenderness in both voice and touch, and for a moment something in Caroline that was tired and rather lonely longed to yield to it, to accept its promise of comfort and comradeship. But she pulled herself together, building up hastily the breach that it had made in her defences.

  “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” she said in her quiet level voice. “It was just my job and I did it. It didn’t, after all, concern anyone but myself. . . . By the way, I’ve arranged to take you to see Robert and Susan tomorrow. They’re both very anxious to meet you, of course. I didn’t ask them here today because I thought that you’d probably be very tired and that Charles and Maggie and Richard would be enough. Richard’s such an old friend of the family that he almost counts as a member of it. He’s looked after our affairs for us ever since father died.”

  “I thought him charming.”

  Caroline ignored the comment.

  “We’ll go to Susan’s to tea and then on to Robert’s.”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance, my dear. You must just leave me to amuse myself. I’m quite good at doing that. . . . I want to start flat-hunting as soon as I’ve found my bearings.”

  Caroline’s needle stopped for a few moments. Then she said, “You’re welcome to make this your permanent home, you know. That was my idea when I asked you to come.”

  “It was sweet of you, Caroline. I shall never forget it. But I couldn’t think of it. It will be lovely, anyway, to have a pied-à-terre till I get settled. I thought I’d take a small flat in town.”

  Caroline was conscious of mingled relief and disappointment. Those vague fears that had haunted her all afternoon would never be realised, then. If her mother were not going to live here she couldn’t—change things, spoil things. She couldn’t take Fay from her, blur her relations with Richard. . . . And yet that dream of restoring a broken woman to sanity and self-respect had been so dear to her that it was rather hard to give it up.

  Caroline saw herself as essentially a giver, giving continually of help and strength and comfort to those around her—to Fay, Susan, Robert, to poor little Effie, even to Aunt Maggie. This picture of herself had always been a secret source of pleasure to her, and she had looked forward to her mother’s joining the circle of those who loved and admired her. Still—even now she might be able to help her. She mustn’t give up hope just because things were turning out more difficult than she had foreseen. She must just be patient. Patient—and on her guard against the alien standards that this woman brought with her. After all, it was cowardly to run away, to be afraid of evil, whatever form it took. One must go to meet it boldly, trusting that it had no real power against good.

  “Fay’s very pretty, isn’t she?” her mother was saying. “I suppose that the house is generally full of young people. It’s such a perfect age for friendship.”

  Caroline’s voice was rather cold as she answered, “Fay makes very few friends of her own age. She doesn’t care much for young people. She and I have always been great companions. . . . I’ve almost given up trying to get her to make friends of her own age. After all, if she’s happy . . .”

  “Of course,” said Philippa.

  She was looking at Caroline keenly, trying to disentangle the curious mixture of characteristics that her daughter had presented in the space of a few hours. She was thinking: She’s pathetically well-meaning. She’d sacrifice herself without stint for others, if she thought it was her duty. She’d work herself to the bone for them. She has worked herself to the bone for them. She’s starkly honest with everyone but herself. She’s no sense of humour, of course. Gordon had no sense of humour. . . .

  Caroline glanced at the clock. “We have dinner at eight,” she said. “That gives Fay time to finish her home-work and have a little relaxation before she goes to bed.”

  Philippa rose.

  “I’ll go and finish my unpacking, then.”

  She went into the hall. Fay was just coming out of the dining-room, and they went upstairs together. Fay smiled at her eagerly, shyly.

  “I’m so glad you’re you,” she said. “It’s lovely. I thought you’d be deaf and always losing your spectacles.”

  Philippa laughed. She felt an odd bond of kinship with this youngest daughter of Gordon’s.

  “Isn’t my room charming?” she said, throwing open the door and drawing Fay into the room, where a large trunk stood open and half unpacked. “I’m afraid I’m terribly lazy. I haven’t finished unpacking yet. I’ve got a present for you somewhere and one for Caroline. Come and help me burrow for them.”

  Fay went to the dressing-table, on which stood enamel toilet-jars and brushes with golden monograms.

  “Oh, what lovely things!” she said. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a scent-spray,” said Philippa. “A new kind. You press it here.”

  She pressed it, sending a spray of scent onto Fay’s neck.

  Fay laughed delightedly.

  “Fay!” called Caroline sharply from downstairs.

  Fay went reluctantly downstairs to the drawing-room.

  “Were you in Aunt Philippa’s bedroom, dear?”

  “Yes,” answered Fay, feeling guilty for no other reason than that Caroline’s eyes were very blue.

  “Darling, you mustn’t make a nuisance of yourself like that.”

  The colour crept into Fay’s pale cheeks.

  “But, Caroline, she asked me.”

  “She doesn’t really want you, dear. She naturally feels that as she’s a guest here she has to be nice to you, but I know she isn’t fond of children, and you mustn’t take advantage of her politeness. Don�
�t go into her bedroom again even if she asks you, because I’m quite sure that she doesn’t want to be bothered with a child of your age.”

  Fay went upstairs again, her face flaming, her heart beating quickly. She felt as if she had been badly snubbed—not by Caroline but by Philippa.

  Chapter Nine

  “THESE new estates are so depressing,” said Caroline, as she and Philippa made their way down the rough uneven road that led to Susan’s house.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Philippa. “There’s something rather gallant and plucky about them. They remind me of the youngest son of the fairy tales setting out into the world to seek his fortune. The beginnings of everything are exciting in a way. . . .”

  “I don’t think there’s anything exactly exciting about this estate,” said Caroline with her faint smile. “I’m afraid that most of its inmates are irresponsible and impecunious young people who don’t pay their bills or fulfil any of their social obligations.”

  “Ah, the youngest son!” said Philippa. “He turns out all right in the end. There’s generally a good fairy looking after him in the background.”

  Caroline frowned but said nothing. She disliked the note of flippancy that Philippa seemed to introduce into every conversation. Throwing her a sidelong glance, she was conscious again of an obscure resentment. It was altogether unseemly that one’s mother should give the thought and care to her appearance that this woman obviously gave. Worldliness, that was it. Worldliness and vanity. Things she’d always detested, things she’d always fought against. It’s simply a question of values, she said to herself. Hers are material, and mine are spiritual. We’ve nothing in common . . . nothing. We live in different worlds. . . . She became aware that she was wondering how one of those small hats, worn a little on the side of the head, would suit her (she never wore any other but a plain “sports” shape) and caught herself up quickly with a hot flush of shame. She mustn’t let herself become contaminated. She must cling to her own standards, keep her banners flying.

  “Am I walking too fast for you?” she said solicitously.

  Philippa shot her a glance of amusement.

  “No, thank you, my dear. I’m a very good walker.”

  “But I mustn’t let you overtire yourself,” said Caroline. “I must take care of you now, you know.”

  Her equanimity was restored. Kind, protective, forbearing, indulgent to an old woman’s foibles, that was what she must be. For Philippa was an old woman. Why, she might have been a grandmother now if she, Caroline, had married. . . . That thought gave her a vague sense of comfort. An old woman. One mustn’t be hard on her ridiculous little weaknesses and vanities.

  “Here’s the house,” said Caroline.

  Philippa stopped and looked at it.

  “How charming!” she said.

  “Inconvenient and badly built, I’m afraid, is a more accurate description,” said Caroline. “Susan’s being very plucky about it, but—well, it’s hardly the sort of home I’d hoped for her.”

  “Oh, but, Caroline, just for the two of them—while they’re young and beginning life—it’s perfect. It must be such fun! Why, it’s the sort of place she can run entirely by herself—isn’t it?—without the bother of maids and all the rest of it. I’d have given anything for it when I was newly married. I was terrified of the maids, and I felt so hopelessly bored all day with nothing to do.”

  “Susan would not be likely to be bored in any case,” said Caroline in her steady level voice. “She has plenty of resources in herself.”

  The front door opened, and Susan stood on the threshold. Philippa looked at her. . . . She was deeply interested in this second family of Gordon’s. There was nothing of Gordon in Fay, but Susan had his colouring—brown hair, brown eyes, and rosy cheeks. Her lips, however, were soft and full where Gordon’s had been hard and narrow, and her eyes were dreamy and gentle, with smouldering lights of passion in their depths.

  She greeted Philippa shyly, then laughed as Fay had done.

  “I don’t know why we were all prepared for someone terribly old.”

  “I am fairly old, you know,” smiled Philippa.

  “I suppose it’s because we think of Caroline as our mother, and you’re her mother, and somehow the conventional idea of a grandmother is someone in a shawl and a cap. I don’t know why it should be. You never see either in real life.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse the shawl and cap,” said Philippa, “I’d love you to look on me as a sort of grandmother.”

  “I’d adore to. I’ve always longed to have a grandmother.”

  “As a matter of fact,” put in Caroline, “there’s no relationship at all between you. . . . Darling, will it clutter up your hall too much if we leave our coats on the hat-stand, or shall I take them upstairs?”

  “It is meant for coats, you know,” smiled Susan. “It has three real hooks and a peg.”

  “I know, but it does rather crowd up the hall when it’s actually used.”

  “I think it’s delightful,” said Philippa. “Do show me the rest of it. I believe it’s the sort of house I’ve always longed to live in.”

  “It’s an ideal quite possible of realisation,” said Caroline dryly. “There are plenty of them about.”

  “No, I’m too old,” said Philippa. “It belongs to youth. Every married couple ought to start life in one. How I’d have loved it! You can literally make a home of it. I was presented with a mansion, a lot of Victorian furniture, and a couple of elderly Victorian servants, and I’d nothing to do all day but be bored by myself and bullied by the Victorian servants. Life would have been so different if I’d had a place like this. But when you reach my age the zest has gone out of life. It’s the service flat age. Deadly and unenterprising, without any of the thrill of the unexpected. It’s the unexpected that makes life worth living. Even a burst pipe or the baker forgetting to leave the loaf or a fall of soot down the dining-room chimney. They all help to give zest to life. . . .”

  Susan was laughing, and Caroline was watching them with eyes that were changing slowly from grey to blue. She felt ashamed of the trivial nonsense that this woman talked, and amazed that Susan could even pretend to be amused by it.

  “Oh, we get plenty of that kind of zest here,” Susan was saying. “The tradesmen are awful and the soot’s always coming down, it doesn’t matter how often you have the chimneys swept. . . . Do come into the lounge.”

  They entered the sunny little room where tea was laid on a low table in the window recess.

  “What a fascinating room!” cried Philippa. “I love the bay window. It’s so picturesque and means you get all the sun there is, doesn’t it?”

  “There isn’t much,” said Caroline. “And those picturesque bay windows are turned out by the thousand. None of them fit, do they, Susan?”

  “Just at present they’re all right,” said Susan. “Ken’s planed away the wood where they’d swollen.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Caroline. “That’s simple enough. The difficulty will be when they start shrinking again.” She turned to Philippa. “These houses are so badly built that they need constant tinkering to keep them up at all.”

  “Ken doesn’t mind,” said Susan. “He rather fancies himself at tinkering.” She turned to Philippa. “Would you like to see over the house?”

  “I’d love to,” said Philippa.

  They went upstairs, and Caroline stood by the window, frowning and tapping her foot as she listened to the sound of their voices in the room above.

  “I’ll just go and make the tea,” called Susan from the hall when they had come downstairs.

  Philippa entered alone. “I think it’s simply charming,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “Personally I should prefer a little less charm and a little more convenience, but it’s a matter of taste, of course.”

  Susan entered with the teapot.

  “Now do sit down,” she said. “Will you sit here——” she smiled at Philippa. “What
do I call you? I can’t address you as ‘Caroline’s Mother,’ can I? ‘Granny’ sounds too old and ‘Mrs. Meredith’ too formal.”

  “Won’t you call me just Philippa?”

  “Philippa . . . it’s a lovely name. . . . May I really?”

  “You’re looking very tired, Susan,” put in Caroline. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Nothing,” said Susan. “Just the usual chores. I did out the dining-room this morning.”

  “Why on earth couldn’t Mrs. Pollit do that?”

  “She doesn’t come on Wednesdays.”

  “What days does she come?”

  “Only on Mondays now to help with the washing. I can manage the rest of the work quite easily.”

  “It’s ridiculous. I’ll speak to Kenneth about it.”

  “No, don’t, Caroline. It was my suggestion. He was so worried the other night. . . .”

  Caroline’s lips were tight.

  “I do wish you hadn’t all this housework to do. It’s too much for you.” She turned to Philippa. “I don’t enjoy watching Susan being gradually turned into a household drudge. Some men seem to think that that’s all a woman’s meant for. It’s the early Victorian view, of course. Before Susan married Kenneth I thought that it was quite extinct.”

  Philippa said nothing. Susan flushed and murmured:

  “Caroline, it’s all right. I don’t mind a bit.”

  She didn’t mind a bit . . . and yet all the pride and elation that she had felt as she showed Philippa over the house was fading, and the self-pity that Caroline always seemed able to instil into her was slowly taking possession of her spirit. After all, it was rather rough luck . . . housework day after day after day. . . . As Caroline often said, she might as well be a charwoman . . . And Ken did seem to take it all as a matter of course. As Caroline said, he didn’t seem to realise that she’d given up a promising career in order to marry him. Of course, she hadn’t liked teaching as much as Caroline thought she had, but still . . .

  Caroline was telling Philippa about the “estate,” pointing out the drawbacks of the little houses, describing how in one of them the rain had come through the roof during the first winter, and in another dry-rot had been discovered only a few months after its owner had bought it. “Susan’s so plucky about it,” Caroline went on. “She just makes a joke of it all. . . . It’s the best thing to do, of course. We’d hoped that it would be only a very temporary arrangement, but unfortunately poor Kenneth doesn’t seem very successful as a business man.”