Diana

by R. F Delderfield

She might have welcomed the prospect of a reunion when I mooted the idea, but her high spirits began to ebb the moment we arrived outside “Marcelle’s” establishment about eleven A.M. the following morning. I could see she was overawed by the outward aspect of the shop and this put her at a disadvantage. I wondered briefly how a mother and daughter could have arrived at such an impasse. I knew how deeply Diana had resented her mother’s efforts to keep her in a social straitjacket all those years, and I was equally aware of how disappointing Diana had proved to a woman whose entire nervous energy was expended in establishing herself as a county hostess but there must have been far more to it than this; the antipathy must have reached back into Diana’s nursery days when the first attempts were made to halter a spirit as wild and reckless as Emerald Gayelorde-Sutton. Perhaps Diana’s joke had substance; perhaps Old Gramp, the ferryman, really did number a pirate among his ancestors.

  Diana gave the shop front a long, steady glance, then she pulled herself together and marched forward as though advancing up a strongly-defended glacis.

  It was just the kind of shop that a person like Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton would create, having once persuaded herself that there was nothing shameful in earning an honest living. I had always conceded her good taste, even while detesting her pretensions. Now I had to admit that she had shown a great deal of imagination in opening this kind of a salon in the shadow of Whinford Cathedral.

  Her premises were hemmed in by antique shops, bookshops and pseudo-sophisticated cafes, and were approached by a gate opening on a conservatory that was decorated á l’Espagnole, with a wrought-iron well-head and a group of Picasso-style pictures. On the far side of this court a short flight of stairs led to the salon proper, a long, low-ceilinged room, lit by skylights and softly-shaded lamps, and fitted with gilded Empire mirrors and a row of cubicles, each screened by peach-coloured curtains. There was a peach-coloured carpet and one or two Récamier couches dotted about. There was also a First Empire commode that must have cost her two hundred pounds and beside it an exquisitely carved stool that would have fetched half as much again in a London sale-room. The general atmosphere was one of cosy luxury and was probably designed to prepare customers for the prices they would be asked when they stepped inside.

  I entered on tiptoe—it was that kind of place—and Diana, after inspecting the furnishings and fittings, gave a low whistle of approval.

  “She was flat broke, wasn’t she?” she queried. “Where the blazes did she get this kind of money again? Was it a bank advance, or a sugar-daddy?”

  I said I had no idea, that the last time I had seen Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton she had been sitting at a sewing machine in a dreary flatlet at the top of a Holland Park boarding house. I was prepared to swear that she had told me the whole truth when she had confessed to having no money at all, but it was plain that she had found money somewhere and had used it to great advantage. The place oozed prosperity and bankers’ blessings.

  We were directed to a padded seat by one of the high priestesses of the establishment, a small-waisted young woman with a crown of carefully coiffeured curls and an accent that reminded me of Mrs. Gayelord-Sutton in her palmiest days.

  “Modom? Ai’ll see! Taike a seat, will yew?” and she hesitated a moment, as though assessing the depth of my pocket. “Who shall Ai say?” she added bleakly.

  Diana giggled and to cover her giggle I gave my name, adding “Captain” in the hope that the rank would give her confidence. It didn’t, I should have promoted myself to Brigadier. The girl gave a toss of her head and disappeared through a door marked “Private”, reappearing in a moment but ignoring us in favour of a mountainous, bluehaired customer, whose thighs rubbed together as she walked.

  “Well it was your idea, Jan,” crowed Diana, “she’s going to give us the velvet brush-off because we don’t look prosperous enough!”

  The chuckle died in her throat, killed by a gasp as the door marked “Private” opened and an old man emerged. He walked slowly, head bent, his eyes on a long, fat envelope he carried.

  “Great God!” she exclaimed, “it’s Gramp, collecting his remittance!”

  It was indeed and a sadly spruced-up Gramp in a suit of excellent broadcloth and sporting a fringe of well-washed whiskers. The only recognisable item about him were the toes of his rubber sea-boots peeping from under the turnups of his carefully-pressed trousers. He was so intent on his envelope that he did not notice us, although he passed close enough for us to inhale the odour of mothballs that had replaced the more familiar whiff of beer, tar and sweat. In spite of his finery he looked ill-at-ease, like Shaw’s Doolittle the day after he had inherited the fortune. Diana was still staring after him when a bell tinkled and the high priestess popped the fat woman into a cubicle, popped into the office, popped out again and ushered us into The Presence. The office was even more impressive than the salon. It was decorated in a severely utilitarian style, with streamlined filing cabinets and a cluster of anglepoise lamps. Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton sat behind a huge flat-topped desk, lined with lacquered trays, quill pens, a silver inkstand and other useless but expensive-looking objects. The thing that astonished me most was her youthful appearance. It was sixteen years since she had high-heeled it into my uncle’s quayside store, buttonholing me with—“Boy! Boy! Ai want to see some furniture!” and I knew that she was now well over fifty. In the pink glow of her desk lamp she could have passed for thirty-five. Her dark hair was tinted and she was very carefully made-up but she still possessed the trim elegant figure that had once made all the leery old longshoremen in Whinmouth gape after her as she drifted up and down Fish Street on her shopping expeditions.

  If she was surprised to see Diana she did not show it but remained seated and greeted her with a carefully articulated: “Well Air’m-alde! End how are you?” after which she looked calmly at me and said: “Keptin Leigh? Naice to see you again!”

  Her outrageous accent, which had taken a brief holiday when I had called on her in Holland Park, had returned to roost but with a difference, as though during its vacation it had undergone an intensive commercial course. In the old days it made you shudder. Diana was quite right, the vowels were stretched as upon a rack, and half the consonants were leap-frogged. Now both vowels and consonants had a reasonably square deal and the timbre of her voice was deeper having lost most of its aggressiveness. It was a successful business woman’s accent and no-one could quarrel with it, so long as it was used to dominate silly customers who came into the salon with preconceived ideas of what suited them. When Marcelle claimed that she “dressed” people, she meant it, she did everything but put the clothes on their backs.

  Diana was almost routed by her mother’s majestic seizure of the initiative but she made a valiant rally and bent over the little figure at the desk to bestow a swift kiss on the top of the head.

  “You look wonderful, mother, absolutely wonderful! Doesn’t she, Jan? And quite horribly successful in a world of dreary utility clothes and lets-all-pretend-we’re-in-uniform collections!”

  I thought we would come to the point. The interview had its amusing aspects but I was finding it embarrassing. I said, flatly: “Diana and I are getting married, Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, and we thought you ought to hear about it from us. We would like you to be there if you’d care to come. It will be at the Register Office here, on the third Saturday in August and we’d like you to be a witness!”

  She blinked once or twice and then grimaced. A nervous twitch of her small mouth had always done duty for a smile and I noticed that it still did. She picked up a red leather diary and flicked through the pages with exquisitely manicured finger tips.

  “August? The Fifteenth? Let me see! About what taime?”

  She might have been making an appointment for a fitting and Diana, who had by this time recovered her poise, came so close to laughter that I had to catch her eye and frown. “At eleven o’clock, Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton!”

  “Yes … yes, Ai ken do that! Ai’ll make a note! There!” and pick
ing up a gold pencil she wrote “Diana’s wedding” in the space reserved for the fifteenth of the month.

  Her methodical briskness was beginning to unnerve me and Diana, noticing this, came to my rescue.

  “Yves was killed in France,” she said, “he was working for the Germans!” Then, before Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton could comment, added: “I saw my grandfather here just now, the old ferryman at Castle Ferry. I’ve always known that he was my grandfather!” and waited.

  A flicker of emotion showed in Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton’s face but it was no more than a flush and a slight contraction of the jaw muscles. Then it was gone and she was calm and impersonal again.

  “Thet’s so, he was here. He comes to see me once a fortnight. He’s a partner, of a kaind!”

  “A partner?” Diana made no attempt to hide her amazement. “You mean you … actually acknowledge him, mother?”

  Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton toyed with her pencil. She had never possessed the smallest sense of humour but there was at least irony in the glance she gave me before looking back at Diana.

  “Ai daresay Mr. Leigh told you about mai circumstances thet time you ran off and married,” she said, quietly. “Ai had no money at all! At all! you understand? Ai had to get started somehow and when Ai opened down here before the war, Ai was sadly under kepitalised, you follow?”

  “Well, where does Gramp come in?” demanded Diana. “He never had two pennies to rub together and if he did it went on beer! I sent him money through Drip … Miss Rodgers!”

  “Thet’s so and he told me about it,” pursued Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton and I could see that she was enjoying herself. “As a matter of fact, your grandfather advanced me money to secure this lease! He had an allowance from me when your father was alive, you know!”

  “He had five pounds a week,” said Diana, bluntly. “I know that because I once looked in your handbag and saw the cheque stubbs!”

  Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton winced slightly, as though the confession was a personal affront.

  “At all events he was able to help me,” she went on, “to the extent of two thousand pounds!”

  “That was exactly the sum I sent him!” said Diana and I began to cough, for I could see that this interview promised to develop into one of their familiar free-for-alls and felt that should be avoided at all costs. The cough worked, both Diana and her mother taking the hint. Diana simmered down and Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton bit her lip, checking the sharp retort that she was on the point of making.

  “It was kaind of you to think of him,” she said, finally, “but as things turned out it was all for the best. Instead of wasting the money, he invested it. He left his kepital in the business and now he draws forty pounds a month. It suits us both very well, but of course, if you need thet money, if it was a loan and not a gift…”

  “It was a gift!” said Diana hastily, “so forget all about it, mother!”

  I could see that Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton was relieved but she covered up very well and came as near to smiling as I remember her doing.

  “Ai’m very glad you and Mr. Leigh are getting married,” she said, and she meant it. Then, turning to me, “Ai’m sorry that Ai failed to make it my business to get to know you properly a long time ago, Mr. Leigh!”

  For Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton this was an abject apology, but Diana burst out in protest.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mother! Don’t keep calling him ‘Mr. Leigh’! We aren’t living in Jane Austen’s time and he isn’t asking for my hand! He’s got it! We’ve already had a child and she’s aged eight! It’s 1944 now and there’s a hell of a war on, so why not relax and call him ‘John’? Help her, Jan darling, she’s obviously sold on you! Give her a kiss and then let’s all three have a drink on it!”

  It was remarkable to see how even Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton was unable to resist one of Diana’s attacks. For a moment or two she looked miserably embarrassed and her hands fluttered, just as Diana’s did under stress, but in the end she was won over and tilted her face so that I could plant a kiss on her cheek. It was a clumsy effort on my part but it must have touched her for she made a gesture that caught me by surprise, slipping her hand over my wrist and giving it a quick, nervous squeeze. It was so swift and gentle a movement that it was like the flutter of a small bird’s wing, yet it was reassurance of a kind and I was grateful for it.

  She touched first one bell and then another and an acolyte suddenly appeared from behind some curtains at the rear of the filing cabinets.

  “Modom?” sighed the young woman, arching a pair of mercilessly plucked brows.

  “We should laike some sherry, Doreen! Bring the decanter and three glasses! Amontillado, Ai think. Yes, Amontillado!”

  The young woman disappeared and Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton eyed Diana, this time professionally.

  “What will you be wearing?” she demanded.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” replied Diana, and her mother gave a little shudder.

  “You used to be very interested in clothes,” she said sadly, and Diana replied, “Oh, I still am! I had a book of twenty-six coupons issued to me when I got back but I haven’t one left. Why don’t I look at something while I’m here?”

  “We’ll have our sherry first!” said Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, taking command again as Doreen returned with glasses and decanter on a silver tray.

  We sipped our sherry and I took little part in the subsequent conversation which was mostly about clothes, and the effect of the German occupation of Paris upon styles and materials. I was content to listen for it was interesting to note how quickly their mutual suspicions disappeared once they found a common ground. Sitting there, as they conversed in a kind of Pidgin English, I reflected that clothes had been the one subject that they had been able to discuss without acrimony and it crossed my mind that if Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton had climbed off her county pedestal years ago, and opened a business with Diana as junior partner, they might even have grown to like one another.

  Presently Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton said: “Don’t bother about coupons, Ai’ve something heah that mate interest you! Why not slip it on?” and they drifted into the salon while I helped myself to a second glass of her excellent sherry, congratulating myself on the unexpected success of the expedition.

  The woman called Doreen came in—her attitude changed now that Diana had been hooked, and she flashed a professionally welcoming smile in my direction.

  “Do hev a cigarette while you are waiting!” she said and proferred a crystal box half-filled with gold-tipped Turkish. I thought then what a pitiful waste of talent Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton’s pre-war activities had been, just so much frantic pursuit of a will o’ the wisp called Social Prestige, together with an almost hysterical compulsion to impress people who did not care to be impressed, people like Whinmouth fishermen and Shepherdshey labourers. It had taken her husband’s suicide and a bankruptcy to launch her on a career for which she was superbly qualified, for here her natural fastidiousness and her outrageous accent were just part of her stock in trade, like the curtains, furniture and fitted carpet, and she was fulfilling herself in a way that she had never been able to do as Squireen of Heronslea.

  Through the open door that led to the Salon I could hear mother and daughter chattering away like neighbours over a fence and when Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton looked in again I saw that her carefully-arranged face was pink with pleasure.

  “Do come and look Mr. Leigh … er … John, Ai think we’ve hit on something, Ai really do!” and she bobbed back as I followed her into the salon.

  Diana was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a cubicle with the curtains drawn aside. She was wearing an extremely well-fitting suit of light wool in a rich turquoise blue and a hat I can only describe as a double handful of crushed petals, held in place by a broad band of ribbon that looped under her thick curls and fastened above the nape of the neck. She looked enchanting and Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton was hopping about like a painter who has just put the finishing touches to a masterpiece. Diana turned slowly toward
s me and let her left eyelid droop.

  “Like I said, it’s supposed to be terribly unlucky to let you see me, Jan, but Mummy insisted! I think it’s wizard and I’ll never let Paris give itself such airs again! What do you think?”

  I said humbly that she looked adorable and bowed acknowledgement to the impresario.

  “Of course, we wouldn’t give it a second look under normal conditions,” said Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, “but it stands out today because there’s almost nothing available. Ai’ll get one of the gels to run up a blouse from this,” she went on, flourishing a length of material that she was holding like a dipped standard. “The hat really is a little pet! A positive little pet! Don’t you think so, Mr. Leigh … er … John?”

  “The most outrageous hats look sober on Diana!” I said and a procession of Diana’s hats from her childhood onwards flashed before my memory like a reel of film, red Tam-o’-Shanters, grey Cossack caps, Bergère and Highland bonnets, crushed down and lopsided hussar shakoes, all manner of folkish and quasi-military creations.

  “Well, Ai’ll tell you both something,” said Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton, now sounding like a rich aunt about to bestow a blessing! “Ai’de laike to make Diana a wedding gift of thet suit and thet hat! It’s so much more precktical then giving a gel toast racks and suchlaike, don’t you think?”

  I murmured my thanks and Diana beamed.

  “Why yes, because it’s you, mother!” she said and she could hardly have put it more strongly for her mother blushed and said: “Well, Ai’ll … er … see Doreen about the blouse…” and she hurried away in a pathetic attempt to hide her embarrassment.

  Diana shook with silent laughter.

  “Oh Jan, you’ve got to hand it to her, haven’t you? She’s absolutely terrific against this backdrop and I’m so glad you talked me into coming!” She swept out of the cubicle, wound her arms round my neck and kissed me warmly on the mouth. We left feeling something substantial had been accomplished.

  During this period I was sleeping at the Cottage and Diana had a room at Heronslea. This was less of a concession to Drip’s sense of propriety than to an attempt on Diana’s part to win Yvonne’s confidence. Yvonne’s reserve when Diana was around was the only cloud in the sky at that time and it bothered me more than it bothered Diana. I had a suspicion that Yvonne resented sharing the Heronslea throne with her mother, but Diana was more discerning and declared that she was jealous of the attention I paid to mother. This was probably the truth. In my previous visits I had devoted myself almost exclusively to Yvonne. Diana was very understanding in this respect and did everything possible to counteract it but in the end she had to appeal to me for help so I took Yvonne up to Big Oak one afternoon and had a long talk with her, probing her feelings regarding our marriage and doing what I could to supplement the talk I had had with her shortly before I left for France.