I looked at Lalage, and against all logic and reason, blamed myself for encouraging the subject.
She had turned very white and her eyes were clouded and apprehensive.
‘What do you think, Lalage?’ It was Claude asking that, so my kick upon James’s instep went for nothing.
‘I – hope – it – will – never – be,’ she stammered, and began clutching the table cloth.
‘But … my dear! Think what we’re missing!’
‘And – think – what – we – might – hear,’ the thick, toneless voice went on.
‘Yes! And we might learn, in time, to see.’
I think that, at this point, Claude began to sense trouble, and at a loss, started to make hasty, general remarks.
‘D’you mean to tell me that Tower Hill isn’t still clamouring with the voices of the beheaded … and Tyburn … or that the steps of Canterbury Cathedral don’t still possess the cry of à Becket where he fell?’
I don’t know if there are many people who would have grasped Lalage’s dis-ease through that sentence and her reception of it; I know that I failed to, at the time, though the indication was, possibly, clear enough. For Lalage gave a tiny, thin cry like a wild creature’s and slid sideways against James’s tunic. His arms were round her in a flash.
CHAPTER XXI
I
WE took her home in a taxi, and mother, paper-white herself at sight of Lalage, was told by Claude that the heat of the restaurant – Lalage seemed not quite herself all the evening – rather silent – and was silently disbelieved, and presently he went.
James and I had been able to prepare no story, thanks to the presence of a third party, and I don’t know of how much knowledge or curiosity mother suspected us. We three stood there unable to start any sentence at all, and it was I who rescued us temporarily by the bluff-and-hearty method. They were both badly run-down – must go to Vallant at once. And I really think that if mother had hesitated or deprecated her own popularity with the uncles, or been obstructionist in her own Vallant manner, I should have screamed. My own nerves evidently needed watching. …
Two things prevented that: one, that the statement of her health and Lalage’s was self-evident, the other that next morning a daylight raid took place, and when the anti-aircraft gun began roaring on Campden Hill, Lalage became worse and fell into fits of trembling which nothing seemed to stop. And I was grateful even for this as happening to be a fairly commonplace contemporary symptom.
James would accompany them to Hampshire and send the telegram to the uncles; I wrote to Hugh Lyne telling him where Lalage had gone and praying that a non-fatal wound might bring him back to England, and then began the business of overcoming mother’s reluctance of leaving me alone. The fact that we had two servants in the house made no difference to her, she seemed to believe that her ‘desertion’ of myself would immediately loose the entire German army into our road; she even stated that ‘the uncles would love to have you’, which reduced me to just looking her in the eye. I had an answer, actual as well as merely plausible, to everything. My work, James and Claude who must be seen off at Victoria, three Buchans too much for Vallant hospitality. …
‘But, what will you do with yourself in the evenings, darling?’
I tried not to look grim. ‘Oh, I’m going to Vallant House.’ It occurred to me, a split second too late, that I had made my announcement with a shade too much of cheerfulness and decision. Even in my own ears the words rang with a preconcerted effect, also, the state visits to our grandmother were not hallowed by any precedent of lightheartedness. Luckily, again, I had long ago told her of Lady Vallant’s wish that I should be at hand if the air-raids became worse. The antick notion gave one scope for facetiousness.
‘One can’t live with her but one can die together.’ And James, later, had said, ‘Always die from a good address if you can’.
‘I only pray you’ll get enough to eat,’ said mother, a little unguardedly, forgetting these perverse feasts with which the old lady plied us. She meant that, once sure of me, Lady Vallant might revert to type and return to the old regime. But as, officially, I knew nothing about that, I was reduced to replying that I hoped so, too … I went on, determinedly: ‘It’s quite my turn, anyway, to take over. I’m afraid the old creature’s been rather a flail to you all this time.’
‘She – can be awful.’
‘She’s been more than that,’ I snarled, then, keeping my face as empty as is ever possible between two members of a family who know all each other’s range of expression far too thoroughly, ‘She seems to have been rather extra, of late’.
Mother began drifting about the room, a signal of uncertainty. I tried to brace myself against what she might say, and prayed that it mightn’t be something about the old woman’s mental brutality to herself which would haunt one. I felt crowded, couldn’t admit any more material for hate and fury and futile compassion. …
Mother was in her own difficulties, obviously selecting and grading, just as, no doubt, I should have to do in my answering comment. She had swung round, one hand (it irritated me) flapping the blind tassel up and down.
‘Look here, old darling, I didn’t mean to say anything about it, but granny’s really been worrying me sick, for ages now. She’s got it into her head that I’ve been letting her down to you three. I haven’t, have I?’
Mother’s voice was wistful as a child’s; it was the measure of the strain Lady Vallant had been putting upon her, on and off, for years now, that she should look to me for assurance and comfort.
‘You wouldn’t need to,’ I said, ‘we dislike her quite on our own. Besides, everybody gossips about Vallant, you should hear Dolly and Barbara Verdune!’ That was misleading, but technically true enough, and mother took it the way I meant her to, as being that ancestor-dissection, ribald and joyfully inaccurate, which goes on in schoolrooms. I had said the right thing, so far, but mother, frail and obstinate, hadn’t finished, was goading herself to keep the subject alive.
‘Yes. I’m afraid she’s not very loved. It’s very lamentable.’
‘And anyway,’ I cut in, ‘why does she mind us being put off her? She doesn’t care a toot for any of us.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I think, in her way, she’s got a sneaking admiration for all of you, and I really believe she’s genuinely devoted to James.’
‘God,’ I said cheerfully. Mother smiled apologetically.
‘Anyway, she’s stood him treats her own sons never got … poor wretches … but what I wanted to say was: as you’ll be seeing rather a lot of grannyma soon, better keep off’ – she floundered – ‘I mean, if I were you, I wouldn’t mention the old days in the Square.’
What mother expected me to make of that I don’t know. I was commonplace and brisk.
‘No. All right. I see.’
‘She – she’s got it into her head that – my dear, did I ever mention Miss Chilcot to you? She was one of the govs, you know.’
Now we were getting somewhere.
‘No, you didn’t, but Hutchins did, once.’
‘But, how did she crop up?’
‘I think we were talking about family photographs. I rather liked the sound of La Chilcot.’ I went on being casual. ‘There were a crew of govs, weren’t there? No wonder they upped and left.’
‘And,’ mother was being elaborate and casual, too, ‘what did Hutchins say about her?’
‘That he liked her.’
‘Oh yes, we all did. She was a rattling good sort.’
Interesting, but I had no time for side-issues if we were to get out of this in safety.
‘And that she fell rather foul of Vallant … Hutchins was vague about the reason … I suppose he was too used to that sort of thing!’
‘There weren’t any more changes after we got Miss Chilcot’s successor. She was a beastly woman.’
I caught my breath. But one mustn’t head towards that. Somehow, in all one’s scourging inventions, groupings and imaginings, one
had overlooked that situation – the governess, upon whose harsh, bleak methods Lady Vallant could count … Faugh!
I went on, ‘And then James spoke of Miss Chilcot in the drawing-room and Vallant was “not amused”.’
That was over, and the chronologic juggling was undetectable.
Mother’s face had cleared. ‘I wish I’d known before.’
‘Well, I’m awfully sorry, darling, but one treads on Vallant’s corns so often that once more didn’t seem to be worth telling about.’ Half-liar though I had been, I felt half shriven.
One more thing occurred to me.
‘Don’t let her know that Hutchins mentioned the gov. to us.’
‘What d’you take me for?’ responded mother.
It was evident that the old woman had concentrated her ire solely upon James’s mention of Miss Chilcot’s name, and that she had dismissed as a piece of vulgar practical joking the possibility of her nephew having seen the governess in her own drawing-room.
II
It is apparently impossible not to extract laughter from our family, and we all succumbed as we helped or watched mother pack for Hampshire. Here, it was a question of leaving out for all the social events which would not take place. ‘What is the correct wear for the days that Masters doesn’t want the trap used?’ ‘Semi-evening for bridge? No, but a High Street coatee for a good rousing evening of solitaire.’ ‘Pass the moth-balls, if I’m not robbing you.’
It was James who bought mother and me each a service flask and filled it with whisky. For rather different reasons, we were both to empty them before we had done with our relations. Lalage – her disappointment at what she believed to be the clashing of gifts was keen – gave me a thermos flask.
‘Keep it filled at night, Vere, and Hutchins’ll smuggle you up some biscuits.’
On thinking it over, I’m bound to admit that Lalage had been present when mother made the remark about hoping I should get enough to eat – and yet there was a quiet, special quality of urgency about Lalage’s apparent fears for my material welfare in subtle contrast to mother’s semi-humorous tone. It was as though, to Lalage, I owned no longer that self-reliance she, at least, knew so well: as if, suddenly, my age and experience were non-existent, and I was beginning life once more with all the vulnerability of youth.
If this was an elder-sisterly attitude, it was one that I had never thought of expecting from her, or she of extending.
III
And so I saw everyone off and divided my days between work, Lowndes Square and Campden Hill, and knew what loneliness could be. Difficult though families can be, I can imagine no much greater woe than that absolute freedom which enables one to live for oneself alone. For, somehow, even friends are not the same, their praise or sympathy, however genuine, is eternally once-removed, their knowledge of one too intermittent and gappy to make of their encouragement anything very much deeper than the compliment.
At all times prolonged absence from James gave me a sensation of instability and lack that was distinct from the pang of a mere parting.
Hard work in the daytime and the impact on one’s nerves of settlement into a strange house, though wearing, helped me over the first few days; that, and letters from Hampshire.
‘… last night, with the soup, sherry was handed round in a medicine bottle. We tilted in each a drop, like perfect ladies. There was whisky on the sideboard and nary a hollow toothful offered. My tongue was hanging out, and at almost the end of dinner, uncle Stuart said “What do you care to drink?” so of course I made stockish noises, like Kipps, and it ended with some quite decent burgundy, but I foresee the day when I shall fly to me trunk and quaff James’s whisky, bless him!
‘We had a leg of mutton and not a solitary dem of mint sauce, though the kitchen garden is still rocking with it.
‘We are still on lamps and candles here, and I take mine at ten o’clock and with a Lud Love You, Gentlemen, disappear to my enormous bedroom. I do trust it isn’t boged! It never used to be, but if an elemental of the Elliott O’Donnell type appears with its “eyes of hellish malignance” I shall pack me box! Lalage’s room is smaller but really charming, and overlooks the park, and there’s a bookshelf with Ministering Children, and Jessica’s First Prayer and Mrs. Edgeworth – our old tomes. I read two off at one blow, last night, and they are one long unmitigated scream. Find some more of ours at Lowndes Square. (Top back room.)
‘Lalage is much better already, and I think we shall make out, though to-morrow I must tabor into the village and buy a spirit lamp and kettle. The hot-water bottles here are tepid, and no early tea. Lor!
‘Wrap up warmly, pet, and if you feel low, let me know at once and I’ll come home ventre absolument à terre.
‘Bless you,
‘Mother.’
In the first of my answering letters it occurred to me that it might well be distinctly necessary for mother and Lalage to send me ‘Vallant despatches’, separate from the real letter, as James and I had done to each other, and mother’s reply, ‘it won’t be the least necessary, Grannyma is never tiresome about letters’, surprised me, until I reflected that this accommodating normality about her daughter’s correspondence was all a part of the Vallant indifference to its children.
IV
Hutchins had welcomed me warmly; even Lady Vallant had seemed grateful for my arrival.
I was put into the spare room on the third floor, and found it to be an awkward, L-shaped affair with a brass bed far too large and the dark, flocculent wallpaper hung with an assortment of Empire mirrors, all valuable and all spotted, and which had apparently drifted there from somewhere else. The toilet set was rotund and cumberous and one spent one’s time sidling when not actually in bed.
I wondered what mother’s version of the room would be, and wrote off to find out. Here, at least, one should be on safe ground. … Her reply was, ‘Yes, it is rather a beast. We never went into it, though I suppose it was kept aired. I believe one of the uncles was turned in there, in the holidays’.
And so the room had nothing for me, for good or ill, or I for it. We were mutually pointless. It was at the end of a thickly carpeted passage running parallel with the stairs, and was a flight above Lady Vallant’s bedroom. By means of lifting the weighty jug and basin on to the floor, I was able to type at the marble washstand, secure that I was disturbing nobody. The only table in the room was a small bedside one of mahogany, with a drawer and twisted legs. At the moment, I was engaged upon the parts of a play about Gladstone; I had asked my chief at the office as a favour that I might be allotted as much work as possible which could be done at home in view of my grandmother’s apprehensions. I would give Lady Vallant her money’s worth, and if my presence ‘comforted’ her she should have it. I could wait. …
Once, already, when the maroons went off, I had joined the antick procession down all those stairs and installed the old lady in the subterranean wine-cellars, labyrinthine and coldly fusty, kindly refraining from pointing out that if the house was struck, we all stood a sporting chance of getting the dining-room table on our heads plus the bomb. When the skyward droning was over, my grandmother led us upstairs and prayed with us in the dining-room. She then proceeded to the drawing-room and was herself again.
For one thing I admired her: the fear of domestic mockery did not seem to exist for her. Eccentric, she yet contrived consistence and dignity. I saw very soon that the staff all detested her, but their manner was invariably immaculate. An impertinence shrivelled in her presence, and suspected deficiencies were laid bare and trounced then and there with dismaying publicity. And even here was fineness, of that kind which lays all its cards on the table.
When I told mother about the cellars, she wrote that she never knew there were any, and asked for a full description.
V
Sometimes, in the afternoons, Lady Vallant and I entered the little brougham and were driven stuffily to the park. It did not occur to my companion that an airing with closed windows was an outing o
f which horse and coachman alone received the benefit. I once let down one of the windows, and the grey pleasantness of the winter day seemed to surprise her. I did not ask permission, I simply let down the window. If there was a scrap, all right; if not, it would be as I had discovered with other members of our family; that any argument was futile and direct action the only means of getting anything done.
Sometimes, we clopped our way to the elder of the Sloane Street and Knightsbridge shops where – whether it was a relic of more spacious days or tribute to personality I don’t know – assistants trickled out to the carriage and the pavement became a bazaar of flicked lace and gros point squares for Lady Vallant’s fancywork. And once I was taken to pay calls. The call, I found, persists in the big London squares, and butlers still loom in Adams doorways to receive The Card, and on the railings of one of our destinations was the link-boy’s extinguisher.
I tried not to let myself become enchanted overmuch, though that episode in my life has given me a taste for space and beauty which I have never lost; and even now James and I will walk the squares of south and west at all times of the year to catch up on the life within them. We have loitered in high summer to savour a party in Grosvenor Square and followed the putting up of the awning and the putting down of the red carpet; have marked the delivery of palms and gilt chairs earlier in the day, thanks to announcement in the social columns of The Times and Post (read by us at breakfast). In autumn we have sauntered to Belgrave Square to follow up the reported arrival ‘from Scotland’ of the earl and countess of so-and-so (James looking up the trains), and seen the quiet, unremarkable couple unremarkably arrive and safely installed. In winter, Berkeley Square has given us the secrets of neighbourhood amenity, and we have watched at all hours the emergence from pillar’d doorway of The Companion airing the dog, and – oh pleasure undiluted! – the departure of footmen bearing ‘floral offerings’ and ‘seasonable greetings’ of fruit for the Christmas sideboard to numbers farther up and down the square; and vans arrive from Fortnum and Mason, as is meet and right, and deliver (so we have arranged) that green satin and sequined casket filled with ‘bonbons’, gift from old flame to old flame (who married very prudently, thanks to mamma, but of course the wrong man). And it is in these quiet backwaters that, quite perfectly, one finds the forgotten Italian and his monkey and the family of love-birds who peck one up a fortune from a drawer of cards. And once we held our breath at a revolving ring of puppets who danced their legs jiggishly to the lost music of the harlequinade (and followed the show for an hour). And so home, bursting with it all, and talking about it for the rest of the evening.
A Harp in Lowndes Square Page 19