He would not be repulsed, however, and carefully stowing his two parcels within the crook of one arm, he insisted on taking Joan’s hand, and walking with her and the governess, while Mrs. Winterbourne followed, busily engaged in cheering the small sister, who quickly forgot her lack of a certificate, and chattered with increasing sang-froid as she gradually discovered that she could impose on a willing listener. Mary meanwhile began to suspect that it was the younger of the doctor’s children who possessed a precocious temperament. Jeannette was full of confidences, and Mary learned much about the family and its internal politics. Adrian was not ignored in this prospectus; but the odd thing was that Jeannette made no allusion whatever to his musical ability. A conspiracy of silence obviously engaged the whole household on this delicate and seemingly embarrassing matter.
Colonel Batten opened the door to them. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and wore a pair of vivid-green carpet slippers, the kind that are loaded in piles outside the big stores, for people to buy on the pavement. Some paper-chains lay draped over one shoulder, which he held hitched up for the purpose. Even so disguised, or half-disguised, he looked British, and military.
“Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said, quietly, significantly quietly, while looking with admiration. She had the sensation that his hands were itching to take her coat, to smooth her down, to groom her so that she might shine like a cavalryman’s mount. A corresponding warmth of feeling touched her. After all, it was comforting to be assured at her age. All was not lost. She was glad that the new coat and skirt fitted so superbly. Her parcels were surrendered graciously. He took them from her, making a major operation of the process. Then her coat was taken off her, and one paper-chain became attached to her sleeve, requiring the combined attention of both of them. They laughed gently, looking at each other indistinctly under the artificial light.
Joan meanwhile had to submit to the attention of both children, who almost fought over her. Young Adrian would allow no trespassing, and Jeannette had finally to give way, standing there contemplating the situation gravely, while her brother took Joan’s remaining parcels, and led her by the hand into the drawing-room where the Christmas tree stood waiting, heavily loaded. She was again conscious of a touch of shyness as she felt the small, hard and cool hand in hers, grasping her fingers with the tenacity of a bird’s claw. “Strong little brute,” she said to herself, and her heart turned over.
The sunshine flooded through the three french windows of the room, making the interior almost unseasonable, and the decorations garish. Joan stood alone with Adrian for a few moments, while he demonstrated the riches of the heap round the bole of the tree. He was determined to make her share his excitement, and there was nothing to do but submit to that violent little personality; violent, yet quiet, like that of the father.
Fortunately, as she told herself instantly, almost with a sigh as though being rescued from an unknown peril, Mrs. Batten came in, sailing blandly from the middle room, her face warm and smiling. Her broken English greeted the young woman, veiling the French dignity with a touch of comic relief.
The room filled up, Dr. Batten having followed his wife. He wore a velvet coat of nut-brown, and rich blue trousers. This lively costume emphasised the cool grey eyes, and the serene character of his face, indeed his whole bearing. He greeted his guests without a word, taking each by the hand and contriving to give the impression that they were being drawn into the bosom of the family. It was most reassuring to two women out of their home setting at this disturbing time of year.
Joan had hitherto ignored the colonel. She did not know why. Perhaps her attention had been wholly occupied by the emphatic overtures from the small boy. Then the doctor had made his silent demand. In return, the colonel made no effort to pronounce himself toward her. He too was otherwise concerned, and with some profit, for Mary Winterbourne found herself being swept along, happily bewildered by her own acquiescence.
Guests began to arrive, all of them English. The occasion caused most of them to adopt a desert-island bonhomie toward each other, as though they were the sole survivors of the English-speaking race, brought together for a festival whose secrets and ritual were limited to the religious faith which, like their language, was also practically extinct.
The Ambassador sent his regrets and a suave third secretary with an exquisite young wife and two children, scruffy little ruffians who attached themselves instantly to the buffet. The commercial minister came in person, a gentle but permanently disillusioned man of some bulk, his eyes hidden behind heavy spectacles, which he sometimes replaced by a monocle. He was extremely popular, went the rounds, engaging all comers, and prodding the children, with touches of horseplay that delighted them, and set the party fermenting nicely. Mary, of course, was quickly attractive to him, and during the conversation she learned that he was also a writer whose novels she knew and had appreciated for their gracious ironic style. Her pleasure in meeting so distinguished a man warmed him, and he paid her attentions for the rest of the day; a gesture which was observed by Colonel Batten with some distaste.
Young women from the Embassy, and one or two private persons, male and female, completed the party, with two more children whose affiliation Joan and her mother never ascertained. They might have been either boy or girl, so rampagious did they become in the course of the excitement. They wore trousers; but that did not signify. No doubt their parents allowed them to appear in this guise for fear that they might be mistaken for French children.
The uproar grew, and the aperitifs went round. Then, just as the great meal was announced, a belated guest arrived. He was American. He came blindly into the room, an elderly man, portly and genial. Staring round almost shyly, he spotted the colonel, and approached him. Mary, standing with the commercial minister, sipping a glass of sherry, saw the colonel take him by the arm and introduce him to his brother. Obviously he was a stranger, unknown to the host and hostess, for Mrs. Batten was also introduced. The American bowed over her hand, apeing the cosmopolitan, and Mary heard him speaking, his voice carrying over the din.
“This gives me great pleasure, ma’am, I can assure you. And you, Dr. Batten, it is an honour to meet you. I have formed a very good opinion of all this household, I may say, from my friend the colonel. Is that not so, Colonel? Wherever I go in Paris I hear of your good work, and you may be sure that …”
The surge of human voices rolled in and drowned the rest of the compliments.
“Take a look at that,” whispered the minister to Mrs. Winterbourne. “I wonder what he’s doing here. It’s like the story of Red Riding Hood. Whom does he want to eat, I wonder?”
“You know him, then? He looks benevolent enough.”
“He’s a very active business man, an impresario who is always worrying us for licences to import and export professionals of one kind and another, usually musicians. Sometimes it will be a juggler or a prize-fighter. You realise that currency is involved in all these transactions.”
“I had not realised it. I am woefully insular.”
The minister looked at her pleadingly.
“Please remain so, dear lady. You are perfect that way.”
Then he became serious.
“I hope he has no sinister motive in gate-crashing like this.”
“But surely the doctor’s brother has invited him. That is what it looks like.”
“Maybe. But that would not hamper him in any way.”
“Really, you quite frighten me.…”
This conversation was interrupted by the call to dinner. The guests began to flow through to the dining-room, carrying their laughter and chatter with them like martial music in a procession. It was discovered, to the relief of most people, that the six children were seated at a separate table headed by the governess-factotum, whose obvious talent was a gift for imperturbability.
Mary found herself placed on the right of the host. On her right sat the minister, and opposite him the colonel. Face to face with her was the lovely young wife of the secre
tary from the Embassy, the Honourable Millicent Somebody, whose name never quite came through, but whose two boys nobody could overlook. She had no need to do anything but sit, eat and drink. From time to time she looked frankly into Mary’s eyes, and Mary saw a stupid but socially adroit woman. Nobody, she thought, would ever get past that; and I don’t propose to try.
A place had been found for the American, Mr. Aloysius Sturm. Some re-disposition of plates, glasses and cutlery had been made, by Mrs. Batten’s own hands, with a minimum of notice. He was placed at her right hand, the eleventh-hour guest. From that position of advantage, he began to shine like a warm September sun, beaming good-humour and the Christmas spirit. A load of parcels which he had left in the hall was carried by mistake into the dining-room.
“Now I call that a great embarrassment for me, Dr. Batten,” he cried along the table to his host. “I had hoped that this modest contribution could be dropped alongside the rest without observation. The stranger within thy gates would not want …” He waved a fat hand, turned and bowed in miniature to Mrs. Batten, and whispered loudly, to the maid, “Now be a good soul and take those parcels to the Christmas tree.”
The meal was now in progress, both the doctor and his brother having left the table and got to work carving two turkeys. This division of labour ensured that the guests were quickly served with everything English; the turkey, the roast and mashed potatoes, the sprouts and creamed swedes, the chestnut and sausage stuffing, the bread sauce and gravy. The only un-English addition to the feast was the excellent 1928 Chambertin, appreciated by the commercial minister who rolled his eyes as he sipped his first glass. Mary thought it rather heavy, but did not dare to say so to so emphatic a connoisseur.
“Only two years old!” he exclaimed, reverently. “Wonderful!”
The colonel was watching him, a dangerous glint in his blue eyes. The exertions of carving had not ruffled the military figure: but the sight of this diplomat hovering like a full-bodied moth over Mrs. Winterbourne was disturbing.
The minister had observed it. A mischievous gleam shone in his eyes. He took off his heavy-rimmed spectacles, and assumed his monocle, thereby shedding ten years of his age. Peering at his handsome neighbour, he whispered:
“Ah! I see I have a rival, dear lady. I am expecting a challenge later in the day!”
“Too late in the day, I fear,” said Mary, who for the second time in Paris was warmed by wine. “I shall have to remain in the company of my married daughter, if I am to be safe, and to do no harm.”
“A marked contrast, if I may say so without being rude.”
Mary felt that this was a little too gallant.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. Then she had to look up over her shoulder at the colonel, who had come round behind her and asked if he could refill her plate with turkey. He stood between her and the minister. His firm hand touched hers as he reached for her plate, ignoring her refusal. The gesture was possessive, but she did not resent it.
The feast lasted until well into the afternoon, the company gradually sinking into the rising débris from crackers, and all the odds and ends that accumulate round a meal-table when the diners are many and the pleasure prolonged. The children withdrew first, to be prepared for the coming distribution. Colonel Batten also had drifted away; but the cross-table talk and laughter, toasting and replies, had made all strict observation impossible. Mary Winterbourne floated along on the full tide of sheer physical well-being, all the more appreciated after her recent indisposition. She had not felt so young for years. She was not sure that she could distinguish her own daughter somewhere down the table. But that did not matter. Even Joan must be enjoying herself. Nobody could do otherwise.
Then little Adrian entered alone, looking about him anxiously, so adult indeed that someone chaffed him about it. But he took no notice. He was intent on one thing, and that could be instantly observed, for he made straight for Joan Boys, pushing his way between her and her neighbour, and taking her arm.
“Come along,” he said, almost tearfully, “we can’t wait any longer.”
This broke the assembly, amid laughter and much brushing away of crumbs and creases from clothes sat in overlong. Napkins were thrown down, chairs pushed in, and people began to move back to the sitting-room.
Mary found herself accompanied still by the minister.
“What has become of the gallant colonel?” he whispered playfully, as they passed through the middle room. “I have not been challenged for at least ten minutes.”
Then they were parted, to join again after the minister had been round the group of adults waiting before the Christmas tree.
“I was foolish to expect anything more enchanting, Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said.
She found this excessive, but was content to let it go, having no experience in dealing with such gallantry.
“You have adopted the manners of the country,” she said, trying to be severe, but feeling that it was impossible to snub a man whose admiration was candid.
“Only because I am gratified to meet a fellow-countrywoman who does England so much credit. I can assure you that it is of no small diplomatic advantage to have such a visitor to Paris.”
Before she could reply, the door burst open and the children poured in, leaping and dancing, wild with anticipation. They were shepherded to front places; or rather, they thrust the elders aside and stationed themselves in a half-circle as close to the heap of parcels as possible, without treading on it. Cries of delight, impatience, competition, “Hurry up! Hurry up, Father Christmas!”
His appearance accounted for the disappearance of Colonel Batten. Mary recognised the trouser-ends beneath the red cloak. A lane was cleared for the bearded demigod, who, after bowing to the assembly, strode forward stiffly to take his place beside the tree. There he made a pretty little speech to the children, then, switching on the lights of the tree, began the ceremony of distribution of presents. From that moment, paper wrappings flew about the room, to cries of ecstasy, wonder, exhortations to “Look here! And look here! Oh, just what I wanted!” and all the rest of the familiar but ever-endearing chorus of childhood delight.
Nor were the adults forgotten, with their token gifts of handkerchiefs, gloves, slippers, cakes of soap, books, boxes of chocolates and cigarettes. Mary found herself with two gifts; the first was from the colonel, which he must have vamped up that day, and at some expense, for it was a black handbag. She was so embarrassed by this, that the second gift, from Dr. Batten, did not instantly command her attention. But after a few moments, she opened it, and found a bottle of scent that puzzled her senses. Then, almost painfully, she realised that it was the same perfume as the doctor had given her on her wedding day a quarter of a century ago. Surely it was impossible, she told herself, that this choice was consciously made? But she realised that the doctor was capable of that. She knew it, and looked across the room at him now, where he stood beside his wife, quietly contemplating the scene, as though withdrawn by half his attention being alert for a call from the outside world; perhaps a professional habit of mind.
Mary lifted the bottle to her nose, and drew in her breath. She saw the doctor watching her, and she knew instantly that the choice of perfume had been made by a man who forgot nothing, and missed nothing, in the matter of human observances, evidences, and values. He gave a little nod of his head, and smiled at her. The gesture said, quite plainly, “Yes, dear lady, and I am still your friend.”
After so many years of forced emotional reserve, to which she had subjected herself under the persuasion of grief, and the sense of responsibility toward her orphaned daughter, Mary felt that this kindness was likely to be disastrous. It threatened to break down the character which she had built up over the years of widowhood, that public self devoted to good works, and a relinquishing of all self-searching emotions, all intimacies, and certainly all passions.
She tried to keep herself equable now, bowing gravely to the doctor across the crowded room, and the roar of exc
itement, while the voice of Father Christmas, in concise military tones, pursued its duty.
At last all the gifts were distributed, and the exclamations of surprise and congratulation had subsided. The children settled down, either in the room or scattered around the flat, to play with their new treasures, while the grown-ups collapsed into chairs, grateful for cups of tea after the dining and wining, the heat and vociferation. The guests began to be somewhat more normal, more personal, content to chat, smoke, one or two of the elders even dozing without disguising the fact.
“Where do we go from here?” said Joan, suddenly appearing at her mother’s side. Mary was sitting, resting her feet, and wondering if there was any danger of her falling asleep. She had lost the gallant minister, but while Joan was speaking, he reappeared with the doctor, both of them seating themselves with her, and drawing up a chair for Joan. The little group had not had time to open a conversation, however, before the American guest approached. He appeared to have grown larger, perhaps because he was wearing a grotesque paper hat of vivid magenta. Under it his face shone, reflecting the mineral dye, so that his capacious jowls gleamed as though carved in bronze. This metallic effect was heightened by the glint of a gold tooth in his lower jaw.
“This gives me an opportunity, Doctor, to let you know how very, very much I appreciate this Christmas hospitality. I am an American in a strange land …” The minister’s monocle flashed a signal of derision … “… and you know how we feel about this time of year in my country. I call that most considerate, most considerate. If it had not been for my friend the colonel, I might have been sitting in the lounge of the Hôtel Meurice, lost and home-sick. Well, well …” He shook his great head, and drew up a chair, to fill the space which the doctor and the minister had been forced to make for him.
The small circle was increased by the appearance of Colonel Batten, somewhat over-heated by his recent task. He moved a chair forward, and sat himself between Mary and the minister. She was conscious of a slight grimace of amusement on the lips of that urbane person, as he looked at her behind the back of the colonel, who was leaning forward to take a cup of tea.
The Dangerous Years Page 8