A Harp in Lowndes Square

by Rachel Ferguson

  Or there was the story of Uncle Stuart, entrenched at Vallant in the country, upon whom a couple of neighbours incautiously called – an unpopular move in itself – all the Vallants fear the extempore. And of how at eleven o’clock the servant came in with one whisky ready mixed in the glass, and Uncle Stuart drank it and then growled.

  ‘Did you want something to drink? The cellar’s locked now for the night.’

  Mother flushed, fluttering to these handsome old boors she saw so seldom and who – I honestly believe they never realized it – shunned their own sister like the plague of very social terror.

  III

  It was at the wedding of the Seagrave who was kissed at her own dance (‘shall we tell The Parents?’) that on the steps outside the church I was collided with by a man. As he apologized I ruled him automatically out of the Vallant clan. He peered at me.

  ‘You’re Theodora, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. I’m not,’ I snapped, ‘and I’m not Beryl or Barbara or Lalage either.’ I was tired and rude and glad of it; if I’m half a Vallant why not take advantage of it. ‘I’m Vere Buchan.’

  ‘Oh … Anne’s girl?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Anne’s.’

  He put on spectacles, thick-lensed and disfiguring. And then I could have lashed myself. It was Uncle Julian, mother’s youngest brother. It was, suddenly, the Palace Green schoolroom, the postcards of Martin Harvey and Cosmo Furnival, the family of glass pigs and Barbara’s voice: ‘And Uncle Julian’s nearly blind. … Is he so old? No, I gather it was a piece of Vallantism … she wouldn’t consult an occulist … jeered at him for being a milksop when his eyes hurt him and he cried.’

  I put out my arm to him. ‘Will you help me down the steps?’ – a stupid piece of Quixotry. Of course he took me up on it – the Vallant brains at least are normal.

  ‘Eh? Nothing the matter with your sight, I hope?’

  I lied promptly. ‘No. My shoes hurt me.’

  He helped me – I steering him, and I nearly turned my ankle after all on a cracked flagstone I hadn’t seen because my eyes were brimming. Luckily he couldn’t see that. I urged him to come and call on us – gave him his own sister’s address – and he said he would. And the suggestion crystallized by mother in a letter, and he actually did come and visit us, and seemed pleased, and confused a little, and rather astonished at himself. By the time he had half emerged as a person he struggled up from his chair and left. I took the handsome old man to the gate and he gave me an uninterested hand in an absent sort of way, and partly because he was my new-found uncle, partly to ‘larn’ him, and mainly because my heart was sore for him, I kissed him.

  He started as though stung. Somehow that was more pathetic than his eyes.

  I would have done so much for him. Together we might have gone on those inexpensive, silly jaunts I love. I was immensely proud of my aquiline hawknosed old beau. I would have made him laugh, and he would have taken care of me, by wish and by kinship. We would have loved and liked each other, a mutual adoption of inclination, sinking the uncle-and-niece business. He would perhaps have advised me, taught me about men from the man’s point of view, directly and decisively, lent me his judgment and experience. Together, as man to man, I might have got the whole family story out of him. This ever-recurrent treading on eggshells was getting on my nerves. And yet, would he have told me anything, even supposing I had achieved our alliance? I had had, over the years, a fairly comprehensive insight into the Vallant powers of cast-iron reserve. And to get even half-way to that stage I know now would have taken the rest of his life; but who was I to complain, when he had jettisoned his own sister for over a quarter of a century?

  My disappointment was ridiculously great. ‘It’s no use. He won’t play,’ I said to mother.

  ‘They don’t, you know. They were never taught to. In our youth it was each man for himself and devil take the hindmost.’

  So, it was Lady Vallant, as usual. Because of her, one more individual had been warped and thrown away: because of her, no doubt, that Uncle Julian had never married, or Uncle Stuart either. Too grounded in diffidence, and enraging, even contemptible, in grown men. But – what a grounding it must have been!

  Mother had run from it, and Sophia and Emmeline had contrived, somehow, to keep on the right side of the old woman, if their manner, commonplace and indifferent when they spoke of her, was anything to go by. In any case women are tougher, more adaptable, than men.

  Yet, even in the aunts there were Vallant traces; in Mrs. Verdune a chilly reserve which had early caused her daughters to ‘make their own arrangements’. That did not sound like love. And even comfortable, absurd Aunt Sophia took it out in over-advertisement of her family, a shrill challenge to the world that may well have had its origins in self-doubt.

  The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

  Vallant traces which were to result in one bad Verdune mesalliance, impulsive and reckless, one loveless Seagrave match, and in Flora Seagrave, tardily exhibiting a little character and sickened with Aunt Sophia’s tactics, never marrying at all, the bride and spinster being solely blamed for the mesalliance and the single state by both our aunts. The Victorians – or was it only the Vallants? – seem unable to see straight or honestly about themselves, and have, in regard to others, a real genius for being blind to what it doesn’t suit them to see.

  CHAPTER XII

  I

  IT gave the family food for discussion for months, during which, very typically in that it had its roots in ruction, we all saw more of each other than commonly we did in years. During the time that I could spare from the tedium of typewriting lessons that I picked up cheap in Earl’s Court Road, for I saw that this knowledge would raise my market value, I took my share in family council.

  Indeed, it was Dolly herself who rang me up – I can’t think why. I had always believed that the Verdunes and Seagraves were the allies and that our humbler circumstances and juniority would rule us out of confidence, as it did out of nearly everything else.

  Dolly was in the old school-room now termed ‘Boodles’ in recognition of its present half-club half-boudoir status.

  The same Edwardian paper was on the walls but the postcards of Martin Harvey and Cosmo Furnival were gone from the mantelpiece, and two of the glass pigs were missing. Modern fiction had nudged the geographies and histories from the shelves, and Barbara’s athletic phase left over from her gymnasium period as represented by the comfortable litter of indian clubs and petersham chest-expander had been cleared up for good.

  ‘Well of course it’s about my disgrace,’ began Dolly. ‘It was most decent of you to come. The other two are fearfully bored with me about Arthur because they’re so fed up with mother for craping all over the house. And one can’t talk to the Seagrave gurls because they’re such dam fools. And somehow one can’t tell Lalage much. She’s so frightfully good, isn’t she? Now you aren’t a bit the same … I say! I didn’t mean that, quite.’

  ‘It’s all right, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Lalage always strikes me as being … not exactly not all there but sort of arrested … childlike; it’s deuced effective, but it always makes one feel rather … what? blatant. She isn’t a bit like any of us, is she? Mother says she’s awfully like the aunt who died. Myra, you know.’

  I sat up at that. Aunt Emmeline, again, alluding matter of factly to her daughters with whom she had never been friends, to that shadow of whose very existence our own mother had never told us. And mother must have foreseen that sooner or later somebody would mention her dead sister to us.

  It may have been disloyal, but in that moment I was exasperated. Also, complete silence was a distinct risk which mother all these years had run. It might all have come out in public before any of the Seagraves and Verdunes – surely mother had had better luck than she deserved!

  I was losing the thread of what Dolly was saying.

  ‘… well, I mean … mother is too trying. Is it reasonable? I know Arthur isn’t a gentleman
, but we are fond of each other.’

  ‘What kind of not a gentleman?’ I asked. ‘Half-sir or plumber’s mate?’

  ‘Three-quarters-sir. Perfectly presentable.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  Dolly gave a shout of semi-guilty laughter. ‘We picked each other up at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, the return bus was ages coming and he lent me his umbrella and we jawed about the programme. Why not?’

  ‘You mean that in any drawing-room a formal introduction isn’t a real guarantee of character either?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I thought. ‘Honestly you know, I’ve never been able to go as far as that. If you marry a man through a respectable introduction, then if he’s a complete fiasco, you can blame your hostess for harbouring stunners, but with pickups you’ve only yourself to blame.’

  ‘Well, I’m going on with it, and Vere, you don’t know how boring the house is; one can’t go to matinées more than twice a week and mother won’t give me a thing to do in the way of even arranging the flowers. She simple doesn’t realize we’re grown-up and talks to us as if we were still in the school-room. She’s getting awfully Susanish … Dammit! I’m twenty-eight … D’you remember old great-aunt Jane? No, of course you wouldn’t, she was before your time. We only saw her once or twice ourselves. She once said, “The Stonors make bad mothers.’ My hat! she was right!’

  ‘But Uncle Bertram … don’t you and he hit it?’

  ‘Oh yes, but father’s completely under mother’s thumb. There it is again. It was just the same with grandpa and Susan. Meanwhile, I’m simply loafing. Could you stand it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried.’ I didn’t mean to be ironic.

  ‘I said to mother when it all started, “Well, what have you got against Arthur?” and mother (it’s so like her) said, “Oh, you’ll go your own way, you always have”, which of course is true. Mother’s got a perfect genius for putting one in the wrong without being really right herself; she can always silence one and never convince.’ Dolly Verdune took a chocolate and hitched her ankle over an armchair. ‘What line does Aunt Anne take?’

  ‘Well … she doesn’t like it,’ I admitted, ‘but she’s come down to thinking that if it’s going to make you happy, even happier, you must have your own way.’

  ‘She is a dear, isn’t she? I always said she’s the only Vallant who isn’t cracked. What a crew! … I wish one of us could marry your nice James. I don’t mind telling you we’ve all had a smack at him, first cousin or no!’

  What a lot of things can go on in families unsuspected! But I did remember one telephone call I’d answered, and a Verdune voice ingenuously asking, ‘Could one have James to dinner to-night without any of you?’

  The passage bell rustled its wires and tinkled. The parlour maid on the drawing-room flight was summoning the youngest Miss Verdune to the tea table.

  CHAPTER XIII

  I

  I WENT home, found James and said, ‘I’ve been to the Verdunes’. Dolly says that Lalage always strikes her as being “arrested”, and it seems that she’s exactly like Myra. What about it?’

  The best of James is that he always gives one his instant attention without any abstracted just-one-minutes, forgetfulness or postponements by enquiry about preliminary details. He was packing for the midlands where he was due for two days on business, but switched off to me as a lever is pulled over.

  ‘Arrested … she means not up to sample? Too guileless for her age sort of thing?’

  ‘N-no … I believe Dolly’s hit on something I’ve always thought without knowing it. Jamesey, do you remember in the old days how we used to rather depend on Lalage and relied on her common sense and stolidity? We even made her be the one to welcome Lady Vallant at the gate!’

  ‘But, she was always the first to jack up … the delicate one.’

  ‘I know, but that needn’t count. Eldest children often are.’ I fell silent. Even for James I had something pretty far-fetched to express, and difficult in itself. We were too close to see Lalage clearly; it was the old story of the outsider, if not exactly seeing most of the game, at least by unrehearsed, slipshod comment setting one on the right track. I said,

  ‘Here was Lalage, just like us up to about ten years old … until, that is, she first saw Lady Vallant. Doesn’t it seem possible that Vallant’s arrival may have started up something latent in Lalage, something that if she were with mother and you and me might have kept in abeyance?’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  I shrugged helplessly. ‘Something … arresting, I suppose.’

  ‘Physical or mental?’

  ‘Personally, mental, I believe, but don’t let that put you off.’

  He was leaning against the mantelpiece and shook his head. ‘No, I know what you’re after, but if Vallant has such an influence as that, it must be hereditary, and Lalage would be in for it sooner or later in any case.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Shock starts things, physical and mental.’ I paused. ‘You screamed when you saw Vallant.’

  ‘Lor! What a young sawny! I’d forgotten that. Looks as if I’d minded the old woman more than Lalage did.’

  ‘I don’t agree. Your screaming could have been the healthy reaction of a healthy child to something – beastly. Lalage did nothing.’ – I stared at James – ‘because it hit her harder.’

  ‘Aren’t we being a bit wise after the event?’

  ‘Right-o. Let’s get back to Lalage. Well now, we’ve always known she wasn’t like us … openly, I mean. Can’t face things … fish out of water at dances, and so on (and Lord knows it isn’t from want of men!). It’s awfully difficult to see straight about Lalage because we shall never know what sort of person she’d have become if she’d never seen Vallant and never come to London … she was all right at school because it was an influence in itself, and a pretty strong one. But ever since she left school at eighteen and was open to any outside force that came along, her personality faded.’

  ‘But my dear, look at the Seagraves! They never had any!’

  ‘No, but they were always in the world; they’re gawky and eager and eager and elbow’d, but they’re real people. Enormously tangible.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Jamesey, would it be possible to stop living, at eighteen, and yet not be dead?’

  He was staring right through me. I went on, ‘People often say after some grief or shock, “my life is over”. That’s what I mean. That Lalage is alive, but her “continuity” is ended.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Ask me another.’ I made a wryish face. ‘I may have to cultivate Lady Vallant.’ It would be possible; we were once more on visiting terms in Lowndes Square.

  ‘Vere, once and for all, can’t we ask mother?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m as much scared that she’d tell us as that she wouldn’t … and, James, I can’t cope with things indefinitely.’ I turned my head away. His arm was round my shoulder.

  ‘My poor old dear, you aren’t having a very good time, are you?’

  ‘Oh I can manage, Jamesey.’

  II

  Indeed, I could have done with a little joy. It is when this realization comes that one flies to the concrete for reassurance: that one was missing the long annual holiday once taken as a matter of course and that two weeks at the sea was only enough to upset routine and liver: that I was working in an office (tiring for the back) and (if it happened to be the spring) that the spring was always very enervating.

  In such moods women fly to palmists, planchette or prayer. I refused, this time, to succumb – except to those stray, colloquial petitions which for some reason I have let off, anywhere and everywhere, since childhood. Why not? If God is in church He is equally in the grocer’s and the restaurant. Personally, I am invariably more conscious of Him in such non-professional places, and if I have often felt that He hasn’t ‘answered’ me, isn’t it fair to give Him the credit for that tongue of mine which has averted the impossible
situation, for that long-sight which, enabling me to see beyond the minute, has saved me on more than one occasion from stupidity, rashness and scandal?

  And as for palmists: I have the greatest belief in the best of them in spite of their tendency to seize both my hand and James’s and tell us both that ‘two children mark your hand’. Three times we have been told this, and as we get older, the polite incredulity of the seer, together with a tendency to actual indignation when refuted, becomes more marked.

  On the last occasion I had been to have my hand read I had resorted to the business through a need of some pointer, something which might give me a line on Lady Vallant, on Lalage; something which, meaningless to the palmist, might have much of significance for myself. And she made absent pronouncement that I had a singular capacity for loving and hate, and was ‘far too independent’. But what appeared to interest her the most was even more exasperating. It ranked in my mind with the large fortune, the long voyage and the dark woman. She asked:

  ‘You have lost your father?’ and I agreed.

  ‘And I think I am right in saying that your mother has recently married again, or is about to?’

  ‘Ye Gods!’ This was being about the limit, and, as palmists so invariably are before flippancy, mine seemed annoyed.

  ‘My mother isn’t dreaming of marrying again, or ever did,’ I answered; as usual going down before atmospherics. She bent her head.

  ‘That’s very extraordinary, it’s here quite unmistakably. It’s a man … not young, I think … who certainly stands close to you. And it isn’t a fiancé, he seems to be married already.’

  Damn the women! And for this I had parted with five precious shillings.

  ‘He is rather tall, dark hair going white, and I get the impression of a crowd round him, or near him. …’

  I left feeling like a scullerymaid with a Dream book.