A Tale of Two Families

by Dodie Smith

  All the new furniture had already been delivered so the bedrooms, as well as the Long Room, were in good order. The removal van would mainly be bringing June’s belongings – and, of course, Baggy’s mammoth bedroom suite.

  The van did not arrive until May was cutting sandwiches for lunch. She fed the removal men before breaking the news to them that all the furniture for the cottage would have to be carried there, as there was no road and the van could not be driven across the waterlogged grass of the park. The rain had stopped, but there was every indication that it would shortly start again, so there was a rush to do the job quickly. Luckily Sarah arrived and worked quite as hard as the men, and May and June carried what they could.

  It was gruelling work but it was finished eventually, just as the rain began again. May then went back to the Dower House with the men and Sarah stayed to help June get straight.

  June did not particularly want to get straight. She would have preferred to sit down and do a little quiet gloating – about the bliss of leaving Baggy’s house and coming to this jewel, about Robert’s happiness at moving to the country, about the joy of being so close to May. All this plus the glory of the fact that she would be seeing George at dinner. However, she acquiesced in Sarah’s determination to get the beds made up and put the kitchen in some kind of working order. They then went back to the Dower House.

  May, having tipped the men nobly, was just seeing them off.

  ‘And now I must telephone George,’ she said. ‘I want to be sure he makes an early start. There’ll be a lot of City traffic to drive through.’

  But George, when she eventually got him, had decided against driving – ‘Not in all this rain.’

  ‘It’s not too bad here,’ said May. ‘It actually stopped for a while, and it’s thinner now.’

  ‘It isn’t here. It’s very, very thick and looks determined. We’ll come down on the 6.36 and eat on the train. That’ll save you cooking dinner.’

  ‘But I’ve got steaks.’

  ‘Steaks will keep,’ said George firmly.

  Well, they would. And if she didn’t have to cook a full meal she could unpack her clothes and all George’s things. Also she was determined, from now on, never to nag George about what time he got home or what meals he missed. So she agreed cheerfully, and assured George the move had gone splendidly. Then she rang off and said brightly, ‘Tea now, and I could eat an egg. I could eat two eggs, possibly three. Sarah, stay and eat three eggs with us.’

  ‘I didn’t know anyone ever ate three eggs,’ said Sarah, ‘but I could certainly eat some. I can’t tell you what lunch was like. Well, our poor old cook’s nearly eighty.’

  ‘I could teach you to cook,’ said May.

  ‘But if I did the cooking, our poor old dear couldn’t do the housework I do. And anyway, she’d be terribly upset if I cooked.’

  As far as May knew, the only other help at the Hall was an elderly man who combined the offices of butler, valet and male nurse. She had a great desire to cope with Sarah – ask about her circumstances, advise her, help her. But Sarah, in spite of her frightful old clothes, her friendliness, and her habit of deferring to May and June, retained a touch of aristocratic aloofness. ‘Or am I being class-conscious?’ May asked herself, starting to get tea. ‘I only know I’d as soon offer advice to royalty.’

  Sarah, after her eggy tea – never before had she handled an electric toaster – said she must go, in time to have sherry with her grandfather. The rain had now definitely stopped and there was a hint of watery late-afternoon sunshine beyond the Hall. May, gazing at it through the bow window, said, ‘I never realised this window faces west. Then the others must face south.’

  She opened the French window, to let Sarah out, and let in a gust of cool, damp air.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said June.

  ‘Heavens, no. Everything’s sopping wet.’ May hastily closed the window behind Sarah. ‘And I’ve lots to do. Come and see what you think of Baggy’s room. That awful wardrobe and dressing table have wrecked everything.’

  ‘They won’t look as bad to me as they do to you. I’ve seen them every day for ten years.’

  But they looked worse than June had expected. Baggy’s Edwardian house had been their spiritual home. This austere room wasn’t. But at least she could praise the curtains. ‘They must have cost you a fortune – for those enormous windows.’

  ‘Yes, they’re good ones, but I’d have liked something more modern. George didn’t think I could risk it. I wanted to get some good rugs but when Baggy heard about the parquet he said he didn’t want it covered.’

  ‘He sets a lot of store by parquet. That’s the old house agent coming out.’

  ‘Let’s make the divan up. I’ve got the blankets and linen out. I wonder how soon I can find some domestic help.’

  ‘Sarah says there isn’t any,’ said June.

  ‘There will be. It’s just a matter of hunting efficiently and paying enough.’

  May’s efficiency and ability to pay enough had really staggered June during the month since the move had been decided on. Builders, plumbers, house furnishers… all had been invincibly driven to work at enormous speed – and at enormous cost. Even the expenditure on the cottage must, June knew, have been considerable. May had insisted on supplying new curtains and new carpets, not to mention the bath and all sorts of improvements June would never have thought of making. For May’s generosity kept pace with her extravagance. Actually, June never thought of May as extravagant. There was a shrewdness about her expenditure which made the word unsuitable. But money certainly poured out. And if June protested May invariably said, ‘George can afford it.’

  Darling May… and darling George… and of course darling Robert. June, when Baggy’s room was in readiness, said, ‘What time will the boys be back?’

  To May and June, their husbands were still ‘the boys’, just as to George and Robert their wives were still ‘the girls’.

  ‘Let’s see…’ May worked it out. The hour’s journey from London, then the taxi drive… ‘They should be here by eight. We’ll unpack our clothes and then have baths. Is your immersion heater on?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you can have a bath here. And we’ll dress up a bit. I only hope they don’t miss the train.’

  Owing to Baggy’s opinion that any train journey was a serious undertaking, he and George arrived at Liverpool Street Station before they were allowed on their departure platform. They had to stand in a patiently waiting queue.

  ‘Ridiculous, when the train’s actually in,’ said George.

  ‘They probably have to tidy it up,’ said Baggy pacifically. He’d had a wonderfully pleasant afternoon sitting in George’s office, marvelling at George’s business capacity and feeling that he, Baggy, was basically responsible for George’s success. As a very young man George had said he fancied some business which was connected with money and Baggy had given him an introduction to an old friend who was an investment consultant. George had made himself invaluable and, on his employer’s retirement, taken over the business with extreme success. This was mainly because he combined flair with caution and had a talent for both stimulating and reassuring his clients. It was Baggy’s opinion that George would end up as a millionaire. George said this was laughable… but did not consider it inconceivable.

  Robert, who had never wanted to do anything but write, arrived now holding a copy of the Onlooker – a most distinguished paper, Baggy considered, and he always read Robert’s book reviews with pride, but he never had any desire to read the books Robert reviewed. But Baggy wasn’t much of a reader nowadays. He had been once, oh yes, he had been, when Mabel was alive. They’d often read aloud to each other. But books weren’t what they used to be.

  Robert had not before made the journey by train and at first found the crowd confusing. But once he had got into the right queue, some yards behind George and Baggy, he surveyed the scene with great pleasure. So many lives, so much to
stir the imagination! Now that he was leaving London he wondered why he had never wanted to write about it. But the country would be even better. That gloomy Hall, home of the Stranges, was beckoning. Ideas had been crowding his mind.

  The queue moved. Robert caused a delay by not having his ticket ready. George, waiting for him inside the gates, said, ‘Sometimes I think you give a performance of the absent-minded literary man.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m afraid it comes naturally,’ said Robert, who was always trying to give a performance of the non-absent-minded, non-literary man.

  Baggy said anxiously, ‘We must hurry or we shan’t get seats.’

  But there was plenty of room in the diner and still quite a long wait before the train started. George decided he would in future arrive two minutes before the train was due to start – though of course he would come by an earlier train and have dinner at home. He did not favour meals on trains.

  But he was glad to see how much his father enjoyed this one. Baggy had soup, steak and kidney pie with vegetables overflowing on to the tablecloth, and apple pie with ice cream – the latter a mixture new to him. Robert had bacon and eggs, his favourite meal. George, himself, had a chop and rather wished he hadn’t.

  Still, he found the journey pleasant. Baggy and Robert were so obviously happy (what dull lives they must lead if dinner on a train with a bottle of wine was such a novelty; well, things would be better for them from now on). He also enjoyed watching some of his fellow-diners. There were two very pretty girls, with an almost equally pretty mother, just across the gangway. Probably one often saw the same people when commuting. And perhaps this attractive trio would get off when he did. But they did not – and just as well, he reflected as he helped Baggy down on to the platform. Interest in local femininity was out.

  Once in the taxi, Baggy had a sudden attack of nerves. Suppose he hated his new home? He had refused to inspect it, feeling that having welcomed the idea of living with George he didn’t want to be put off. Perhaps it would turn out to be a mistake. But if so, he must hide it from George and May. And in the country one could always go for long walks. He peered out at the twilit countryside. Yes, he’d go for long, long walks and get his weight down, as his doctor was always advising him to.

  Robert was concentrating on seeing the Hall. There was a place where you could catch a glimpse of it in the distance – but you had to watch out for it. Yes, there it was and behind it one last flush of afterglow, most dramatic, ‘Look, look quickly,’ he implored George and Baggy. But by the time they looked, trees had cut off the view.

  George was feeling slightly tired. He’d found it irritating to have Baggy at his elbow all afternoon and since then he’d had to play the host – not that one ought to grumble at that. And the girls would be pretty exhausted and need bucking up. He mentally shook himself – and was rewarded by sudden exhilaration as the taxi drew up at the Dower House and the front door was flung open revealing the lighted hall. May was in a blue dinner-dress, June in dark red – bless them, they’d dressed up to celebrate. With any luck, May would have chilled some champagne. He wished Hugh and Corinna were already here – well, they’d be down for the weekend.

  Having hurriedly paid the taxi he dashed in to kiss May and June, then turned to Baggy. ‘Welcome home, Father.’

  As a rule, Baggy liked to be called by his nickname, but tonight he found the word ‘Father’ valuable. And how like George to have thought of using it.

  But George had not thought about it at all; his use of the word had been purely instinctive – as his words and his acts so very often were when he did the absolutely right thing.

  4

  Corinna, returning from a late class at her Drama School, expected that Hugh would be outside the flat waiting to be let in. She was relieved to find he wasn’t. With luck she could now get time to change her clothes, which she greatly disliked.

  She was wearing a sloppy tweed coat, a black sweater, a plaid mini-skirt, thick black tights and heavy shoes. Her own tastes were for the pretty clothes that suited her prettiness but whenever she wore these her fellow-students greeted her with cries of ‘Dainty Doris’ and ‘Corinna’s going a maying’. All the really talented girls at the school dressed hideously and sloppily and seemed to do it without effort. She had to work hard at it.

  The flat looked slightly denuded but her bedroom was intact. She hastily put on a short, fluttery nightgown and negligée; never before had she had the chance to wear these for Hugh. It flashed through her mind that he might not think the outfit respectable, but it was a sight more respectable than some of her day clothes. There were layers and layers of nylon net between herself and the outer world. And this was the kind of thing that suited her.

  Sometimes she wondered if her eternal battle to be with-it was worthwhile. Only today Sir Henry Tremayne, who sometimes amused himself by taking classes at her school, had said to her, ‘Dear child, you are invincibly a sweet, old-fashioned girl who will make a devoted wife and mother, but I more and more doubt if you will ever make an actress.’ And she did so desperately want to make an actress; she’d grown keener and keener, ever since she’d begun training.

  Sir Harry (he liked to be called that) when talking to her after the class, had said that her work might benefit by a fuller experience of life and hinted that he’d be willing to supply it. Of course he’d only been joking – he was old enough to be her father, older than her father, actually, just a few years. (But Sir Harry looked younger and he really was a marvellous actor.) Still, there might be something in what he said. And there were several of her fellow students who were more than willing to provide her with experience – and they weren’t joking. Their offers had been expressed far more crudely than Sir Harry’s. (And she wasn’t quite sure he had been joking.)

  Not one word of this did she intend to tell Hugh. It would be like asking him to do something about it. And she was sure he wouldn’t want to, at present. Nor did she want him to… really. Only if there ever came a time when she felt something had to be done, then it obviously had to be done by Hugh. Anything else was unthinkable.

  The doorbell rang. She delayed only long enough to run a comb through her short, fair hair, trying to soften its rigid cut. Hugh still pined for the days when it had reached halfway down her back.

  When she opened the door to him he said, ‘Darling, how sweet you look!’

  Then they kissed, as they had kissed at every meeting of their lives. Even as babes in arms (born in the same week) they had been held out to each other.

  Hugh then said, ‘Now let me look at you properly. Oh, you’re not going to a party, are you?’

  ‘In a nightgown?’

  ‘Is it a nightgown? It’s not like the kind my mother wears.’

  ‘Surely you’ve seen them on television?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Hugh vaguely. ‘But I didn’t realise women actually slept in such things.’

  ‘Well, it’s a negligée, too, of course. I just thought you’d like it better than any of my dresses.’

  ‘I do – I like it madly. Am I sleeping in Dickon’s room?’

  ‘Yes, just dump your case in and then we’ll have dinner. We’ve been left a kind of casserole thing, to warm up. I’ll put it in the oven.’

  Hugh, having deposited his suitcase, looked round his cousin’s bedroom with interest, not having been in it for some time. It struck him as very luxurious for a schoolboy’s bedroom; when he sat down on the bed it seemed to him almost funnily soft. But the decorations reflected an austere personality. The only picture, quite a good abstract, was positively bleak. It was signed ‘Dickon’. Hugh would have greatly disliked to own such a name but his young cousin thrived on it. Any attempt to shorten either Dickon or Corinna had always been heavily frowned on by their mother.

  Corinna came in and sat watching Hugh unpack. He asked if Dickon was pleased about the move to the country.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t mind,’ said Corinna, ‘which is the nearest he gets to being ple
ased, these days. Which reminds me, I had a postcard from him this morning saying he’d ring up tonight to find out if he and Prue can sleep here tomorrow and Saturday. Brian’s bringing up a party to the National Theatre.’

  Brian was the headmaster of the co-educational school at which Hugh and Corinna had been, and Dickon and Prudence now were. George was paying Prudence’s fees, as he had once paid Hugh’s.

  ‘Well, that’ll be all right, won’t it? As we’re going to the country.’

  ‘I did mean to wait until Saturday morning – Sir Harry’s taking an evening class tomorrow. But we can go by a late train. Brian’s letting Prue and Dickon spend the whole weekend here. There’s a lot they want to do.’

  ‘We used to come up for that kind of jaunt.’

  ‘I know. I wonder if they’re getting dependent on each other, as we did. If poor Mother has them to worry about as well as us, she’ll go out of her mind. She’s terrified that she’ll end up with two-headed grandchildren. I suppose there is nothing in her ideas?’

  Hugh said equably, ‘Darling, we’ve talked this out again and again. Of course there’s something. But our families on both sides are so very sane and healthy; I can’t see any harm in duplicating that. Nobody’s deaf or dumb or demented.’

  ‘Great-aunt Mildred’s quite a bit demented.’

  ‘She’s not. She’s just maddening without the excuse of being mad. I think she’s the one person in the world that I dislike.’

  ‘You’ve never forgiven her for calling you “Little St Hugh”.’

  ‘Well, who would?’ And the damn name had stuck. He never did anything halfway decent without someone digging it up. ‘Anyway, she’s sane enough and outstandingly healthy, looks years younger than she is, just as darling Fran does.’