I was hurrying along Curzon Street one afternoon when I met Mr. Somervell. I had not seen him since the day at Lady Emily’s, and I wondered if he would recognize me; but I smiled, and he whipped off his hat at once and crossed the street to join me. “How are you? I’ve been wondering what had happened to you.” For a moment I had almost that wild, gay feeling that came over me on the morning I got my divorce.
“I don’t look the sort of woman things ‘happen’ to, do I?”
“You look very blooming,” he told me.
“It’s my profession to look blooming!”
“You’re certainly as good as a tonic. In fact” — he pretended to examine me closely — “I believe you’re on the spree. What is it this time? Cocktails — or a party?”
“If you want to know, I’m rushing between two appointments, and I’m nearly ten minutes late.”
“You’re not going to my cousin by any chance?”
“I’m never late for Lady Emily.”
“How odd that you should say that. She has the same effect on me. Emily is a splendid person ... Well, we both seem to be going the same way; may I walk with you?”
“Certainly — if you don’t mind walking fast.”
“If I walked fast you’d have to run,” he told me gravely: a challenge I accepted, and found he was right. For, quick as I was on my feet, his long legs carried him over the ground as if he was in seven-league boots, and presently I suffered the indignity of having to break into a trot, and then I was panting and laughing and begging him to slow down: by which time we were at the bottom of Hay Hill.
From then on our conversation was as easy as it had been on the night at the theater, and I found myself telling him all about the house in Plymouth Street, and my excitement in making the first real home for the girls they had ever known since they were born. Goodness knows why I expected him to be interested — men do not care about houses, and I had not even mentioned it to Mrs. Carpenter or any of her friends, except to give them the new address and telephone number. It seemed wonderful to have someone to talk to like this; I had not realized how lonely and isolated a life — apart from my work — I was living, or that I had had to bottle it all up, until here it was, bursting out of me like a fountain!
You may think it odd that I had not discussed it with all these women I was supposed to be on “friendly” terms with, but you must remember that most of them paid me as much for listening as for my professional services, and I soon found that all they wanted was to talk about their own affairs, not to hear about mine.
“I think it sounds grand,” said Mr. Somervell in one of the rare opportunities I gave him of opening his mouth; and he spoke as if he meant it. “I hope you’ll show it to me one day.”
“Why don’t you come to tea on Sunday?” The words were out before I had time to think. I believe I blushed, although blushing was never in my line; but I did not want him to think I was presuming on the one occasion we had met as equals, at Mrs. Thesiger’s party.
“Do you mean it?” He actually sounded delighted.
“Naturally I mean it. But —” I began to flounder — “it is quite a long way from the West End, and it’s not at all the sort of place you are used to!”
“How do you know what I’m used to? No, Mrs. Timson, I’m not going to let you shuffle out of your invitation! Next Sunday — at what time?”
When I got home I sat by the “drawing-room” fire, lit a cigarette, and tried to see the room through Mr. Somervell’s eyes. At least there was nothing vulgar — except a pair of cushions Mrs. Carpenter had given me: one round and one heart-shaped, of emerald-green ruched silk with gold fringe. I would have got rid of them but for their being really good quality cushions with down filling. I made a mental note I would have plain square ones as soon as I could afford, covered in stuff to go with the couch.
I had bought a plain carpet, printed linen curtains of a William and Mary design, and a big chesterfield with two armchairs to match, covered with a darkish mushroom-colored woven material. Not much else, except an oval walnut table, with leaves that folded down, and a little piecrust one, for glasses. Perhaps Mr. Somervell would not notice the cushions if I drew the curtains a little and used the floor standard instead of the top lights. I wished I had not had to put in a gas fire, but while I was “doing” for myself it was the only practical thing.
By the time I went to bed I had swung from one extreme to another and back again: first feeling satisfied with the place, which was unpretentious and simple, and then thinking how cheap and crude it must appear to a man like Mr. Somervell, moving in circles where good taste was unhampered by lack of money. I felt I had been mad to invite him, then glad and excited as a girl at the thought of his coming. George was to have been my “first foot,” and it seemed as if some instinct had lain behind my reluctance to send him the invitation for which he was waiting. Hetty had given me a broad enough hint when she came up, the night before, with a parcel George had sent me from the shop. Standing at the door and looking round, she said:
“You’ll soon have it ready for Mr. Glaize, won’t you?”
I felt quite angry, as if, for the first time, Hetty had stepped out of her place, and I said shortly that he would hear from me, all in good time; which made Hetty flush up and hurry away. I should not have spoken like that, for of course she was thinking of old George, waiting patiently and not letting anyone see he was hurt because, for the first time in years, I had done something without consulting him or asking his help. I could have made him as happy as a sandboy if I had sent for him to knock in a few nails or help straighten out the linoleum, but I could not bring myself to do it. It would have been to give him a share in the house which I did not want anyone to have. At least, not George.
So on Sunday afternoon there was I, with the new tea service I had rushed to buy on Saturday before the shops closed, and a Buzzard’s cake, and some hot scones, and buttered toast with Gentleman’s Relish — a last-minute inspiration. I wished the teapot was silver instead of brown pottery, and that I had a handsome tray of Sheffield plate, with a pierced gallery, like Mother had at Crowle; but I consoled myself with the thought that these would come later, and that my table, if not elegant, at least looked cozy and welcoming.
“I’ve brought you a housewarming present,” he said, almost before he was across the doorstep. “Soapstone is supposed to be very lucky; they say it keeps poverty away from the door.”
It was a little, greenish figure of a Chinese girl, bent over a lotos she carried in her arms: a pretty, tender thing it was — I had never seen anything like it before. It reminded me, in a way, of Kathleen. I put it on the mantelpiece, feeling glad I had not spent any money yet on ornaments, for when I saw it standing there by itself I remembered the things I had learned from Lady Emily’s, and I knew it was right it should be by itself.
We chatted about unimportant things over tea, and it was time to draw the curtains when Mr. Somervell rose.
“Am I keeping you?”
“Me? I don’t go anywhere on Sundays.”
“You work very hard, don’t you?”
“Yes. One has to, when one has one’s living to earn.”
“How long ago did you divorce your husband?” I liked the way he took it for granted I did the divorcing — although he might, of course, have got it from Mrs. Thesiger. But, from the little I knew of Mr. Somervell, he was not the kind to pry into people’s affairs behind their backs.
“Getting on for five years,” I told him, wondering, as I did so, if he were married. He must have read the question in my face, for he answered quite coolly:
“Yes, I’m married.” Which surprised me, because the way he spoke told me there was a story behind it, and I thought I knew most of the gossip in Mrs. Thesiger’s set. “Have you ever thought about marrying again?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’ve got the girls, and that’s a full-time job for me. Besides, I have my own ideas about bringing them up, and I shouldn’t like a
ny interference.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” This seemed to amuse him. “I’d be rather sorry for anybody who tried to interfere with you.”
“I suppose I strike you as a hard case?” I was not sure whether to be pleased or a little put out.
I knew that with most people it paid to give an impression of toughness; both men and women, I had discovered, are only too ready to slip a quick one across a woman who has not got a man at the back of her. But I had not wanted to give this impression to Mr. Somervell. Shall I confess that, all the time we were sitting together, chatting on this and that, I had been pretending to myself that I was one of the soft, protected women of his own class: women who give men tea in their drawing rooms and go up afterward to change, with the help of their maids: women like Lady Emily and her friends, who talk a gentle, rather puzzling language of their own, full of references to the people they know, but not scandalous — not telling smoking-room stories or putting in bits of slang picked up from the Flying Corps boys. It sounds as if I had been on my best behavior, but all I had done, actually, was to relax: the thing I was always telling my patients to do and not having time for myself. Mr. Somervell was so simple and sincere that he made other people be the same; I never saw anybody “put on an act” with him, although his gift for getting the best out of them sometimes made them seem better than they were in their ordinary dealings — which, of course, supported his rather easygoing contention that most people arc “good sorts,” if you take the trouble to know them. Not that I ever knew him to take trouble; his method was simply to lie back and take people in, like you take in light, through his pores; and he expected them to be easy and effortless in the same way.
To talk about work and life, after our quiet conversation about the English country — he knew my part of the world quite well — and the changes that were coming over it with the improvement in transport, and how postwar innovations would affect the life of the countryside, broke up my pretense, and I heard the rather hard, short note come into my voice — the note that belonged to my business.
“I suppose I’m the kind of woman who can look after herself and doesn’t like the people who get in her way.”
Mr. Somervell looked at me for some time before answering.
“I don’t think you’ve got yourself quite right, Bell,” It was only afterward that I realized he had called me by my Christian name. “The hard case is the person who has no doubts and no regrets; I believe you have both, sometimes. But you have set yourself a certain task, and neither man nor the devil is going to prevent your carrying it out.”
“What about God?” I said it flippantly, not caring if he were shocked; for something inside me was hurting, and I did not know what it was.
“I wouldn’t presume to answer for God; we aren’t on those terms.” His eyes twinkled, although he spoke seriously. “As for your self-sufficiency — I suppose we all have it, up to a point. In your case, when the point is reached, I should think you are far too sensible a woman to snub your friends, if they mean well by you.”
I thought of George.
“To tell you the truth” — I spoke impulsively — “I haven’t got many friends.”
“Ambitious people seldom have. It’s the chief mistake they make, as a rule.” He made a joke of it, yet for some reason I had to explain, to justify myself.
“You don’t know it all, you see. After I got married I didn’t meet many people — my kind of people. And the friends I had made before — well, they didn’t care much for my husband. That always makes it awkward, doesn’t it?”
“What kind of a man was your husband, Bell?” He had sat down again, and it made me happy now to see him settling back in his chair as if he meant to stay.
“Harry? Why — I don’t know.” To my amazement I found I didn’t. I had not liked him, and that meant I had tried not to notice him more than I could help. I felt, however, that I ought to be able to find some sort of an answer to Mr. Somervell’s question. “Well, I suppose you would call him quite a nice sort of a follow. He war. very well educated — a great reader!” I was glad to remember something about him that might appeal to Mr. Somervell.
Mr. Somervell smiled again, as if I amused him.
“All right, Bell; we’ll leave it at that for the present. Go on about your friends.”
“Well, I’m a sociable sort of person, really, but sociability costs money; I didn’t have that for a long while. And now things arewell, a little easier, I haven’t got time. It will be better, now I have got the house straight and can have a few people in now and again ...”
As I said it I wondered who I would have in. I certainly did not want Stanley, Alfred, Ozzy, and their wives, although I knew I must face up to a family tea party sooner or later. Alice was still in Yorkshire, I would have to have Hetty once or twice, and George-poor old George! He was on my back like the Old Man of the Sea. I felt that to have George there, regularly, even if it were only once a week, would be to set up a permanent link with a part of my life I wanted to forget. I would gladly have taken him to Gatti’s or the Trocadero, bought seats for a show, given him a rattling good evening: but I knew this would not be what he wanted. To sit with me over the fire, smoking his pipe, admiring everything, and perhaps being allowed to fix a washer or ease a drawer — that was George’s idea of the blissful resumption of our old habit of friendship: which gave me the creeps when I thought how dull and good it was.
“Well, I hope you’ll have me again,” Mr. Somervell was saying.
“Please! Whenever you can come. I do want you to know the girls; I hope you will like them.”
“I’m very much disposed to like little girls. What will you do in the holidays? Give up your work?”
“That’s just what’s worrying me. I can’t give it up — and they have a whole month at Christmas. I’ve got to find someone who will look after the house and them while I’m out.”
“I might be able to help you. What time are you in, if I give you a ring?”
“I’m always in by seven, unless Lady Emily sends for me. Do you mean you know somebody?”
“I might, but it’s no use saying anything at present. And I must go now, because I have to meet someone at the club.”
“If you really had me someone to look after Kathleen and Jo, I’ll bless you for the rest of my life,” I told him as we shook hands on the doorstep.
“I’ll hope to earn the blessing! I’m glad I’ve seen your home; it gives one a feeling of being friends.”
After he went the house looked different. It wasn’t anything he said; I believe his only comment — on the curtains — was that they were “very nice”; I had certainly spent a great deal (for me) on the material. I knew that, in his kind of houses, furniture was covered with satin, not crash, and the windows would be draped with heavy velvet, and lamps shaded with painted silk or brocade. Yet his very way of accepting my little cheap parlor had made me satisfied with it. He had lolled in one of the armchairs as if he was at home there; the green cushion, crumpled by his body, had lost its vulgarity. I was silly enough to want to leave it like that — not to shake it out and plump it up and dismiss Mr. Somervell from my room. The butt of his cigar lay in the ash tray, and its scent lingered in the curtains. Oh — after all, I was only thirty-nine, and it is natural for a woman of that age to have a man about her.
I felt that in some way Mr. Somervell was to be my sheet anchor through the difficult time ahead. I could not expect him to see much of us — even if he happened to take a fancy to Jo, as I imagined he would; everybody liked that child, probably because she was such a lively, funny little cuss! (She had got over her crying fits, thank goodness.) But I thought he might advise me about the things they ought to do in their holidays: the museums and art galleries they should see, which I knew nothing about and cared less, but I had learned from the girls’ chatter and from casual remarks dropped by Miss Cleveland the kind of things the children at the Lodge and at the Towers (the school I had foun
d, with Miss Cleveland’s help, for Kathleen) went to and saw with their parents.
It was several nights before the telephone bell rang, just as I was finishing my supper, and, as I expected, it was Mr. Somervell. “You’re not in bed yet?”
“Good gracious, it’s only half past nine!”
“I wondered if I might come along for ten minutes. I think I’ve found what you wanted, but I’d like to have a few words with you before settling things up.”
While I rushed into a better dress and did my hair I was thinking how pleasant it was to have the privacy of one’s own home. “The street,” of course, had talked its head off about George; they had me properly taped as a town woman. In my lodgings I would have been out on the pavement with my bag if I had taken a man to my room. Here, for the first time, I was receiving a gentleman visitor at an hour Nora would certainly have considered damning, and by good luck I even had a drink to offer him. Mrs. Carpenter, who was as generous as ever, although we had almost ceased to pretend my visits were professional, apart from the fee, had given me a bottle of Haig only that day, and I always had soda in the house. I was just deciding that I would keep a few good cigars as well when the bell rang, and I ran down to open the door for Mr. Somervell.
I never dreamed a man could look, or be, so tired. His face was as white as paper. When he smiled it was only a matter of showing his teeth, and he let himself down into the armchair as if his own weight was too much for him to carry any longer. I said nothing but mixed him a stiff drink, which I put in his hand.
“I mustn’t stay for more than a few minutes, but — her names Susan Clayborne,” he told me presently.
“It’s all right as a name.” I smiled at him.
“She’s all right as a person. I swear that’s the truth, although she hasn’t got a ‘character’ to show you.”
Bell Timson Page 14