“There’s a book for you to read someday, Katie! Look at the condition: not a mark anywhere, plates all complete — and some of the pages haven’t even been cut. Look at it: published at eighteen shillings. And what do you think I paid for it? Three bob!”
I’ve read very gravely, missing no sentence and pausing frequently to digest what he read. Reading, to George, was a rite rather than a pleasure; it was education — and every man’s duty is to educate himself. He had never opened a modern novel in his life, but his mind was surprisingly stored with geographical platitudes, with small, pointless anecdotes, and with the trivia of second-rate authors whom his perception did not allow him to differentiate from the classics, which he sometimes picked up “for a change.”
“Well, Katie.” He bent, as was his custom, to kiss her. Kay was almost as taken aback as he to find herself dodging aside; the action was unpremeditated. It had come to her in a flash that she could not endure George’s large, flat lips, almost indistinguishable in color from the general ruddiness of his face, against her own cheek. There was an uncomfortable pause while he straightened himself, and Kay, for the first time in her life, had the shock of seeing a man blush. The deep, painful purple — like stewed raspberries, she found herself thinking — mounted to his blinking eyes.
“Kay!” Jo’s shocked exclamation shocked her to her senses.
“I’m sorry, Katie ...”
“I’m sorry — it’s only — I think I’m getting too old — perhaps — to be kissed,” she stammered.
“I’m not, George — I’m not!” Jo flung herself into another distracted embrace; her tender heart could not support the idea of George’s being hurt by Kay’s unkind behavior.
“That’s all right, Katie. Not yet awhile, eh, Jo? Not yet!”
George had recovered himself; he swung open the gate, with an upward glance at the house which, in spite of Bell’s strictures, stood to George for his emblem of success in his career. It was grand to have been able to bring Ma to a place like this to finish her days!
“Here we are — and welcome to the old baronial hall!”.
“I do love your house, George!” Jo swung rapturously on his arm. “It’s so different from all other houses ...”
Kay followed them silently. I’ve been beastly to George, but I couldn’t help it. If any man kisses me now it’s got to be Dick. I’ll never kiss anybody else in my life. I don’t care about his wife. She must have left him, anyhow, for he never mentions her, and she doesn’t live at the flat — I know, because I’ve been all over it. I belong to Dick; and perhaps when I’m grown-up he’ll get a divorce and we’ll get married. If only he would ask me to marry him! “You won’t mind waiting, will you, darling?” Of course I won’t! I’ll wait — forever.
The parlor was stuffy and smelled of old Mrs. Glaize and a very unpleasant, mangy fox terrier with revolting habits. None of this seemed to worry George, however, who went to the kitchen to tell “the girl” to bring tea. Jo, who was the least fastidious child in the world, promptly went to sit on Mrs. Glaize’s knee and be fussed over, while Kay crouched as near as she could to the tightly closed window (which was further blocked by a collection of wilting ferns) and wondered how she would survive this penance forced on her by her mother’s friendship with George: a penance with which, to Kay’s surprise, Bell sympathized. “But we can’t hurt George’s feelings, deary, he thinks the earth of you and Jo.”
When, at last, tea was over she remembered a well-known subterfuge of her mother’s for escaping from the company — and odor — of Mrs. Glaize.
“Can we see the garden? Will you show us what you’ve been planting since we went away?” She knew this was a safe gambit and would please George.
“I’ve got something besides plants to show you!” He looked shyly proud, pulled down his waistcoat, shooting the crumbs that had gathered in its folds onto the carpet, and winked at Jo, who let out a shriek as she stepped through the window that led to the garden at the back of the house.
“A swing! Oh, George, why’ve you got a swing?”
“I got it for you youngsters. It was wet last time you came down, so I didn’t show it you. There’s something, I said, for the summer evenings — a bit of a change from rounders, and that sort of stuff, on the grass. I got something else too.” He turned to Kay with a look of humbleness and uncertainty which, she could not tell why, made her feel ashamed. “I don’t know if you’ll like it, Katie — but I got a set of clock golf too. It seemed the right sort of game for young ladies. You know, Kozy Kot’s as much your home as Plymouth Street, and now I’ve fixed you up a bit of entertainment, you’ll be able to come down here and get the fresh air, and well see a bit more of you.”
She felt an agony in her throat and turned her head quickly toward Jo, racing to the swing.
“Wait for me, Jo!”
Oh, swing, carry me away from it all: Georges kindness and the way he looked when I wouldn’t kiss him — and Mrs. Glaize — and that nasty little dog — and this awful house! Carry me where people sit on terraces in the sunlight and drink wine, and everything one sees and smells and hears has a sort of beauty of its own ...
The swing swooped through the air, propelled by the bend and thrust of their knees. “Go on — higher, Kay!” screamed Jo. She laughed and urged it forward. Straightening, she flung her breast against the current of the air, her short hair flew out like a flag. Fiercely she curtsied and thrust again, possessed by the sheer thrill of movement — of the gravity which dragged her down from the heights and flung her upward again: no longer a tormented, amorous schoolgirl but an excited, thoughtless child. George, filling his pipe, smiled contentedly at their enjoyment. What a pity Bell was not here to share the fun! It was more of this kind of thing they wanted — not walking in the parks.
That night she wrote in her diary — the one Richard was to read:
We went to George’s and swung in the new swing. What a foolish occupation for a person of my age!
Chapter VII
BELL TIMSON THOUGHT, I can’t be such a fool as to be crying. Cautiously she felt for her handbag, opened it, drew out the handkerchief which liberated its clean, sharp scent of lavender into an air clogged with other women’s perfumes, dabbed furtively at the comer of her eye, and lowered her hand quickly. The mist formed again, and she blinked it fiercely away, glancing sidelong to see if anybody noticed. Rows of bodies, amorphous in darkness, with here and there the flash of a jewel or a man’s white shirt bringing some form into the dark mass; and rows of pinkish faces taking their illumination from the stage — pleasant, non-critical, Speech Day faces of parents, worn like polite masks over a variety of emotions. Impossible to tell what havoc of pride, jealousy, mortification was wrought under décolleté bosoms and behind porcelain masculine frontals; Towers parents were, in whatever circumstances, well bred. Her hand hot and tight inside the kid glove, clutching her handkerchief, Bell found herself cursing them for their breeding. What right had they to sit there like mummies, unmoved, while she burned and was agonized?
I’m the only one crying. What fools they are, not all to be crying! Can’t they see how touching she is? My Katie. Who would ever have believed she had it in her? Why, she’s beautiful — my Katie! It’s not the dress either; it’s something in the child herself — the way she looks, the way she moves: as if she was moving in another world.
That’s my very own child. Mine and Harry’s. Yes, you must have your due, Harry; she didn’t get that from Lambtons. What a fool you are, Harry! If only you’d behaved yourself we might be sitting here together, sharing our pride. You would understand this better than I, because of your books I used to make fun of and the way you went on about Shakespeare — especially when you were a bit drunk. This is you, Harry: what you might have been if you’d only conquered your selfishness and your lust and used the good instead of the bad in you. Think what you could have given her ... Yes, you’d have understood all this, and I bet you’d have been crying too. You’d have t
aken all the credit, I suppose? Well, here’s what you threw away when you let us down.
Who taught her to use her voice like that? It’s enough to break your heart. Don’t, Katie — don’t, deary; I can’t bear it. Why, Katie, don’t you know Mother loves you? I’d do anything to make you happy, my darling — don’t you know that? Sometimes I’m impatient, I haven’t got enough imagination, perhaps — I’m not that sort of person. You see, a person who has lived my sort of life — almost a man’s life, since we were left by ourselves — hasn’t got much time for cultivating imagination, particularly if it isn’t born in her. You see, Katie, I’m made of hard, workaday stuff that’s useful and long-lasting; but you’re fine, like silk. You’ve got a stupid old mother, but she understands that much! And someday, perhaps, when we’re all safe and settled, I’ll have time to be wiser. I’ll teach myself to appreciate the things you enjoy, and it will be your turn to get mad with me. You know, Katie, when I’ve lost my temper, it’s not been with you, so much, as with myself. I’ve felt I ought to know you better ... Well, now I do. Just fancy; it’s taken this play (What’s it called? Oh, bother, now I can’t find my glasses) to show me my own girl ... Why, darling, you’re beautiful ... you’re beautiful ...
“Well, Mrs. Timson, you must be very proud!”
“You’re Prunella’s’ mother, aren’t you? The child’s quite lovely.” “It’s the best show they’ve ever done at the Towers; but ol course they’ve never had a Kay Timson before!”
“Who is that child? Extraordinary, don’t you think, the wav they teach them to act nowadays.”
“Moving.” “Exquisite.” “Such a touching performance.”
She stood glowing, a little dazed, feeling her face was red, needed powdering, receiving the congratulations of strangers, gorged with them yet avid for more; not too confused, either, to notice the averted heads of the envious few who, resenting the eclipse of their own offspring, somewhat ostentatiously held themselves aloof from the chorus of praise. One high-pitched and disgruntled voice raised itself above the rest:
“Of course I don’t call that acting. It’s so easy for a girl of that age to think herself into a part like Prunella.”
A broad grin spread itself over Bell’s face; it only needed this — jealousy — to complete the tribute.
Jo, in the tinsel and tatters of her minor part, had forced her way through the crowd to fling her arms about her mother’s waist.
“Mummy! Wasn’t it lovely? Wasn’t Kay good? Mummy, come up to the bedroom and help me get my make-up off. Mummy, where’s Mr. Dick?”
“Gently, deary — you’re pushing people.” But her own laughter was almost hysterical. It’s all been too much — my hair’s untidy — my face is shining — I’ve dropped a glove — I’m as excited as the children ...
“Where’s Mr. Dick, Mummy?” Jo was insisting.
“He couldn’t come — he got a call-up from his ministry at the last minute. Jo, for pity’s sake, you’re dragging my sleeve off. ]ol Stand still, you little torment! Where’;: Kay?”
“Upstairs. Do come along, Mummy — oh, crumbs! Here’s Miss Banks — now I’ll get in a row,” said Jo resignedly.
“Mrs. Timson!” Was everyone excited tonight? The girl’s face — she hardly looked to be more than twenty — shone into Bell’s; something kindled between them. “Oh, Mrs. Timson, I’m so glad you are here. We’d all have been so disappointed if you hadn’t seen Kay!”
Bell was disconcerted to find herself blinded by a sudden gush of tears; there was nothing for it but to grope for her handkerchief. While she performed this humiliating necessity the young mistress tactfully turned her attention to Jo, trying unsuccessfully to evade notice behind her mother’s back.
“Jo, you know you’re not allowed to come down and talk to people until you’ve changed. Up you go at once — I’ll bring your mother upstairs in a moment.” As Jo fled up the staircase she added gently, “I know how you feel, Mrs. Timson. She made me cry-even at rehearsals.”
“Silly nonsense.” Bell blew her nose vigorously. “It’s a gloomy sort of ending, isn’t it?” she ventured in extenuation of her own weakness. The girl smiled; some gust of sympathy and understanding blew her toward this woman, so different from the majority of the Towers parents.
“I can’t think what we’ll do without Kay next year.”
Bell paused, gripping her nose between finger and thumb; her blue eyes stared fixedly over the top of the handkerchief.
“Next year? ... Well ... there’s no knowing what may happen — next year.”
The spring term dragged itself on its snaillike course, brightened only for Kay by her mother’s unexpected decision to allow her to stay on until the end of the year, instead of leaving at midsummer, and to take School Certificate. It was not the hoped-for extra year, but in her relief an added twelve weeks seemed to Kay like eternity. Working for “School Certif” brought a stimulus into the languid tempo of the term — notoriously the drabbest, the most tantalizing of the school year, its first half shrouded in the miseries of winter, its second half rendered all but unendurable by sweet, impatient intimations of spring, by restlessness felt in the blood, for which the routine of the schoolroom makes no provision.
The summer term passed quickly — the term which was to end in a miracle for Kay. She came home with a little more color in her face, a little heavier, with an excellent report and a letter from the headmistress to Bell, saying that, thanks to the good standard of work Kay had maintained since coming to the Towers, and to her steady progress during the last twelve months, her success in the School Certificate was to be taken for granted provided she did not overwork and ‘was not allowed to overdo things in the holidays’: at which Bell snorted and observed ironically to Susan that parents would soon be expected to consult the schools on what they were allowed to do with their children when they got them home at the end of the term.
Secretly she was proud of Kays report, with its succession of “Very goods” and “Excellents” (in notable contrast to Jo’s, which showed its invariable mediocrity, varied by an occasional “Very weak in this subject” — a matter of indifference to Jo, who had a medal for swimming and the highest batting average of her house: these much more important than a dull, scholastic proficiency): and she was happy to see the child looking so well and contented, with more animation and what Bell called “liveliness” than she had shown a year ago.
“And what’s the play going to be next term?” For once there was something that Bell could discuss with knowledge and confidence; she smiled as she served Kay with her second helping of a favorite sweet.
“They’re talking about Land of Heart’s Desire.” The answer came almost indifferently. “There aren’t so many people, and you see, all the School Certifs will be out of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we couldn’t be in the play and take the exam, could we?” asked Kay innocently.
“What do you mean? Aren’t they putting you in it?”
“Me? Why, no, Mummy!” she laughed. “I’m doing the Certif — aren’t I?”
“Well ... I don’t know!” The meaningless exclamation was left to express the bitter depths of Bell’s disappointment. She who had possessed her soul in patience, for the sake of the renewal of her pride in Kay’s fresh achievement, felt like a child cheated of a promised treat. There was a pause before she made what, for her, amounted to an appeal.
“But wouldn’t you sooner be in the play than take the exam?”
Kay knitted her soft brows, puzzled and a little uneasy at the hurt note in Bell’s voice.
“But there couldn’t be any question of it now,” she answered slowly. “And if I was in the play I could only have a tiny little bit to do, because we aren’t allowed to have the leading part two years running. No, I’d rather not be in the play this time; it would be awfully dull, after Prunella.”
With which Bell had to be content, although feeling in her heart that she had been deceiv
ed: that Kay had won her extra term through misrepresentation — although not the child’s own; had not that teacher said, at the last Speech Day, “We don’t know what we will do without Kay next year”?
They were leaving for Frinton in a week’s time, and the days which followed were filled with a frenzy of packing, of laundering and mending sports clothes and buying new ones, of preparing the paraphernalia of a month at the seaside. Two nights before they were due to depart Jo developed a rash on her chest.
Richard Somervell, walking into the cocktail bar of the restaurant where he was meeting a friend for lunch, was surprised to see his cousin Emily, also alone, at one of the small tables. They greeted one another with the controlled pleasure of persons who, although very fond of each other, have had a serious difference. He had actually not been to her house since that wet August evening, all but a year ago, although they had encountered several times in house parties and during the social give-and-take of spring and summer. Emily was cool and perfect, as usual, in a dust-colored chiffon, with a broad lime-green hat that threw its curious reflection on her transparent face.
“Dry martinis,” he told the waiter. “I take it your host is late, like mine, Emily. People have no sense of responsibility about time in these days.”
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