by Dodie Smith
George was almost moved to tears, not only by Baggy’s generosity but also by the fact that the old man was celebrating having kept alive for seven years. ‘What can we give him?’ he asked May.
‘Oh, I’d leave him on the giving end for once,’ said Fran. Anyway, she was convinced Baggy had no material needs they didn’t supply. What he lacked was their need of him and she wasn’t going to put that burden on their consciences at the present pleasant moment. (And she doubted if it would ever do any good.) Then she added, ‘But there is one small thing might please him. Have you any green towels for his bathroom?’
‘Of course I have.’ May also had pink, blue and yellow towels and some printed with large red roses. ‘But he asked for white.’
‘Still, I’d like to try some green ones – to match the bath oil and soap I bought him.’
‘I’ll find you some after dinner.’
Baggy came in and received a hero’s welcome which obviously both pleased and embarrassed him. And he remained the centre of attention throughout dinner. But soon after he had drunk his coffee he went off to his room.
‘Let me have those towels, May,’ said Fran. ‘I want to see how they look before he goes to bed.’
Carrying them to his room she advised herself to go carefully. He had said he thought coloured towels fancy. Mustn’t force them on him. She tapped on his door, remembering her mother’s precept: ‘Never tap on a sitting room door. Always tap on a bedroom door.’ In spite of May’s efforts, Baggy’s room was ninety per cent bedroom.
He called ‘Come in.’ And, on entering, she felt sure he was pleased to see her. Still, she enquired if she was disturbing him.
‘Not doing anything,’ said Baggy, who had been sitting in his armchair staring at nothing whatever.
‘May and I thought you might like some bath towels to go with the bath oil.’
He looked at the towels with interest tinged by suspicion. ‘Green towels? Mabel was always worried about the green dye. Something to do with arsenic.’
‘I absolutely guarantee there’s no arsenic in these,’ said Fran. ‘And they’ll make the bathroom more cheerful. Come and see what you think.’
She found the bath oil and soap already set out, the soap already in use. Quickly she made a display with the towels. May had – trust May – included a bath mat.
‘Well, I must say…!’ Baggy’s pleasure was obvious, though he quickly added, ‘Are they really all right for a man?’
‘You’d be surprised, the things men use nowadays – aftershave lotions and toilet water and whatnot. Green towels are positively virile.’ She whisked the white towels and bath mat into the dirty-linen basket. ‘There! Transformation scene!’
Baggy began to chuckle, without explanation.
‘What is it?’ said Fran, a shade nervously.
‘Perhaps I ought to have got my bath toys,’ said Baggy, still chuckling.
‘Your what?’
‘I had a fancy for some the other day, when Prue and Dickon were in here. There used to be some bath toys at Rosehaven.’
She had a flash of intuition. That awful bathroom at Rosehaven, with its toothbrushes and mugs and all sorts of personal possessions – yes, she remembered the bath toys – for Baggy it had added up to companionship.
He had stifled his chuckles. ‘Sorry, Fran. You must think I’m in my second childhood, talking about bath toys.’
‘If you are, I am, too. I actually bought myself a toy today. I’ll show you.’
She hurried upstairs, got her frog, and came back brandishing it gaily. ‘Look, Baggy!’
‘Well, that is a fine frog. I never saw anything quite like it.’ She handed it to him and he examined it carefully. ‘How beautifully it’s made.’
She was instantly sure that he coveted it. With a faint pang of loss, she said, ‘Will you accept it – as a nonsense present? Of course it isn’t a bath toy. You couldn’t float it.’
‘I didn’t actually play with the bath toys,’ said Baggy, with a touch of hauteur. ‘No, of course I can’t accept it. You bought it for yourself!’
‘I only meant to enjoy it until I used it as a present for someone. I really bought it because it’s so well designed – funny and yet pretty.’
‘I’ve liked frogs ever since I was a child,’ said Baggy. ‘Never see them down here, though I walk past several ponds. They say all the spraying has killed them.’
‘We must think of this as the epitome of all frogs. It’s really more a work of art than a toy.’
‘So it is,’ said Baggy respectfully. ‘Well, thank you, Fran. It will remind me of our afternoon together. I did so enjoy it.’
‘So did I – except for my ridiculous fall. By the way, I’m not going to mention that to the others.’
‘Quite right. They fuss if one so much as trips.’
Fran, having suddenly thought of something she wanted to do, said, ‘Now I expect you like to get to bed early. Do you read in bed? I always look forward to that. I’ve a whole shelf of Agatha Christies – I can read them again and again. Funny how they can be both soothing and exciting at the same time.’
‘Mabel used to like them. We sometimes read them aloud to each other in bed. Not sure I could get interested on my own.’
‘I shall send you some – nice, light paperbacks, easy to hold.’ But he probably wouldn’t read them. He had to be with someone to enjoy himself. If only one could teach him the pleasures of independence! What a hope! Still, she’d try… later. She’d had enough of him for today.
‘Goodnight, Baggy, dear,’ she said briskly, and went off on a little private ploy.
She got her rubber boots from the hall cupboard. There was usually a heavy dew and, anyway, she couldn’t accomplish her ploy in high heels (though low heels might be cheating a bit). Quietly, she went out through the front door. Now where could she count on not being observed? The front lawn was no good; Baggy’s curtains were still undrawn against the late twilight. She made for the gate leading into the park.
Once through it, she said to herself, ‘It’s simply not true that you can no longer run. You were tired, heavily laden. It was a moment of panic. Of course you can run. Now off with you, full tilt!’
It wasn’t very full tilt but it was… well, a kind of running. Anyway, it wasn’t walking. And was it difficult! She seemed so heavy from the waist downwards. And how jarring it was!
She pulled up after a few yards. Well, one just had to accept it. How sneaky old age was, always springing surprises. She hadn’t had the faintest idea that she was past running.
Perhaps she’d try again in a few minutes. She strolled on through the park and reached the edge of the lilac grove. A faint, sharp scent was wafted towards her. She felt slightly aggrieved because it wasn’t as richly sweet as Le Temps de Lilas scent… She could see the little bottle she’d bought for herself, and the enormous bottle he had given her. His bottle had outlasted the affair; she’d kept just a little of the scent for years and years. She hadn’t been surprised when the affair ended; the miracle was that it had ever begun. Such a well-known man, famous really. How much had that counted with her? Quite a lot. She’d worn the affair like a feather in her cap – which didn’t make the ending any easier; one’s vanity as well as one’s feelings suffered. If he was still living he’d be, good God, nearly a hundred. She’d never moved him on beyond fifty – so she was now old enough to be his mother. Absurd thought…
Rather shattering, that experience in the flat over the tea-shop. Not her line, really; too like nostalgia, which she never encouraged. But if the past did still exist, somewhere… well, it did. And of course one would like to believe it did because, in a way, it implied some kind of everlasting life, which she hadn’t believed in since she was a child.
It was almost dark now, she’d better go back. But first she’d practise running again… After a couple of minutes she slowed down – jarred and panting. Oh, what the hell! With luck – and care – she’d probably never need to run again.
Standing still to regain her breath she heard a bird singing very sweetly. A late blackbird, probably – but surely no blackbird sang quite as late as this, or quite so sweetly? ‘I believe it’s a nightingale,’ she thought delightedly. Where was it? There was a little wood not far beyond the cottage, she remembered. Yes, the trill was coming from that direction.
She listened a moment longer, then hurried to the cottage; she could see its chimneys against the still faintly luminous sky. She must get confirmation that it was a nightingale; she’d never heard one before. And of course she wanted to share it, and take credit for it. She felt childishly proud to bring news of a nightingale.
The curtains at the cottage were undrawn and she could see that the tiny sitting room was lit only by the television screen, against which two heads were silhouetted. She felt guilty at breaking in on such peace but June and Robert wouldn’t want to miss a nightingale. Ah, the programme had ended; the credit titles were coming up. She hurried through the open front door and into the sitting room.
The creature, from her basket, gave a very feminine bark. June and – it proved to be George – turned from the screen.
‘Quick,’ said Fran. ‘There’s a nightingale – if it is one. Where’s Robert? He’s sure to know.’ Robert was knowledgeable about natural history.
June ran upstairs and appealed to Robert, who said he wasn’t sure one could hear nightingales in May, but he’d look it up.
Fran said, ‘Oh, heavens, while he’s looking it up it’ll go away.’ She hurried out of the cottage, followed by June and George. ‘Now listen!’
Dead silence from the nightingale.
‘It would do that,’ said Fran. ‘Wait! There it is.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that’s a nightingale,’ said June. ‘Wouldn’t a nightingale sing more sweetly?’
Fran said indignantly, ‘I don’t see how a bird could sing more sweetly. Do you expect it to whistle a tune?’
June laughed. ‘I really believe I did. Perhaps it’s because I’ve heard so many songs about nightingales. Yes, of course. That must be one. How lovely!’
Robert came out of the cottage with the information that nightingales could be heard between April 15th and June 15th. ‘So we’re fully entitled to one. Yes, that’s a nightingale all right.’
The now fully accredited nightingale continued to sing non-stop.
‘Let’s see if we can track it,’ said Fran.
Robert went in for torches. June called after him, ‘Be sure you shut the front door when you come out.’ She explained to Fran that Penny was very sensitive and restless. ‘I’ve an idea she’s coming into season.’
‘Such a ridiculous expression,’ said Fran. ‘Sounds as if she’s something to eat. My dogs, no doubt vulgarly, just came on heat.’
Robert returned with torches but said they must use them cautiously or they would scare the bird. ‘And we can do without them if we keep to the park. It’s level walking.’ He led the way with Fran.
Soon there was no doubt that the singing came from the little wood.
‘Let’s not go any closer,’ said Fran. ‘Well, this is something I shall always remember.’
June, standing with her arm through George’s, said, ‘Me, too.’
A clock struck. The nightingale, as if resenting competition, stopped singing.
‘That was the stable clock at the Hall,’ said Robert.
George said, ‘That place gives me the shivers. Look at it now, there’s only one room lit up – if you can call it lit up. What a hell of a life for that girl.’
Fran pricked up her ears. She had met Sarah at tea one Saturday afternoon and been astonished by her beauty, and even more astonished that George showed so little interest in her. Had he been merely disguising his interest from May?
Robert said, ‘We really ought to see more of her, June. She’s so nice and I’ve stopped minding her voice.’
Fran’s ears switched their interest to Robert. Then she accused herself of being ridiculous. If Robert ever showed even a flicker of real interest in any woman but June, that would be the day!
‘Hugh and Corinna see quite a lot of her,’ said June. ‘Oh, there it is again.’ The nightingale now surpassed itself. ‘I wish May could hear it.’
‘Where is May?’ said Fran.
‘Making jam,’ said George.
The nightingale now rested again. The party headed for the cottage. It was quite dark now and Robert and George shone their torches ahead. A light breeze wafted the scent of the lilac towards them.
‘Heavens, how lucky we are,’ said June. ‘Lilac and a nightingale! And there’s a marvellous laburnum coming out near the cottage – and a may tree.’
‘“The lilac, the laburnum and the may”,’ said Robert. ‘I’m sure that’s a quotation but I don’t know who wrote it. Funny how one likes to quote. It seems to crystallise things.’
They were back at the cottage now. Robert’s torch shone on a drift of cow parsley, left on the edge of the lawn.
‘“Where the cow parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge”,’ said Fran. ‘And I do know who wrote that: Rossetti, the most loved poet of my girlhood.’ She sighed, partly because it was so long since any poetry had given her pleasure and partly because a marvellously romantic setting was being wasted. Robert walked with his mother-in-law, George walked with his sister-in-law – though even if Robert had walked with June and George with May, Fran wouldn’t have considered it romantic. She never did consider marriage romantic; just, at best, reasonably comfortable, as her own marriage had been. She said now, ‘We must send Hugh and Corinna to hear the nightingale.’ Though she wasn’t sure that even Hugh and Corinna measured up to her idea of romance. The truth was that, for her, romance needed a touch of the illicit. She rebuked herself for such a disreputable idea but really felt quite unrepentant.
‘Come in,’ said Robert, opening the cottage door.
‘No, thanks, I’ll get back now,’ said Fran.
‘Me, too,’ said George. ‘Goodnight, June, darling.’
The light from the hall was shining full on June’s face. Fran stared incredulously. Surely there was no mistaking the look in June’s eyes as George stooped to kiss her? Oh, God, that was one bit of illicit romance Fran didn’t favour. Then she relaxed. June was now looking at Robert with exactly the same loving expression. It was simply that the dear girl had a loving nature.
‘Tell May about the nightingale,’ June called, as Fran and George made their way towards the lilac grove.
‘We will, darling,’ Fran called back. She must have been mad to think, even for a moment, that June would ever let herself fall in love with May’s husband, ever do anything to hurt May.
George was saying, ‘Funny how we used to think of this lilac grove as a maze. I could now find my way through it blindfold.’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Fran, hanging on to his arm. Dear George, just the kind of man she would have fallen for in her youth. Was he really a reformed character? She doubted it. But long might May go on believing it.
They found May in the still empty, brightly lit conservatory, with an illustrated catalogue and a yard stick. She now favoured painted bamboo furniture – ‘Might be better than wicker. Anyway, I’ve not seen any wicker I like. But I’m still not sure I’ve got the right line on this place.’
They left her to it.
11
On Thursday evening Corinna rang up to say that she didn’t think she and Hugh would come down for the weekend – ‘You see, we’ve got two seats for a first night – actually, Sir Harry gave them to me – and we rather fancied going out to supper afterwards, and I shan’t fancy getting up early on Saturday morning. So we thought we’d just spend a quiet weekend in London.’
‘But it’s Baggy’s feast on Sunday,’ said May. ‘Asparagus and strawberries.’ She explained at some length, adding, ‘Do make an effort, darling. I’m sure he’ll be hurt if you and Hugh aren’t here.’
‘Hang on a minute… I’ll
ask Hugh.’
‘Tell him Penny’s coming into season, will you?’
‘Oh, my goodness…’ Corinna shortly returned to say, ‘Hugh thinks we should come. Of course it is very sweet of old Baggy. And Mother, please listen: Will you ask Aunt June to be terrifically careful Penny doesn’t get out?’
‘I will, darling. Try to get here for Saturday lunch, will you? I’m having something nice.’
‘All right,’ said Corinna. Well, it would save cooking at the flat or going out for a meal.
May relayed the conversation to Fran, concluding, ‘Sir Harry, as she calls him, seems to be rather taken with her. He used to upset her by saying she’d never be any good.’
‘Is he making a pass at her – or whatever the latest expression for it is?’ Fran, at Corinna’s age would have been delighted to be made a pass at by a distinguished, middle-aged actor such as Henry Tremayne.
‘Not that I know of. I’d wish him the best of luck – I would, Mother; anything to stop her marrying Hugh. It’ll be just like brother and sister marrying. I suppose June is being careful not to let Penny out?’
‘It’s pretty tricky, seeing that they usually have the cottage door open. Why don’t we have the creature here?’
‘Of course! There’s that little bedroom I haven’t furnished yet. We’ll bring her basket over.’
‘And I’ll undertake to exercise her and keep her amused,’ said Fran, who was still dog-starved. ‘I’ll go and tell June now. She’ll be greatly relieved.’
Penny was duly installed, to her satisfaction. Next to Hugh, Fran was her favourite person. It was Fran’s belief that, with a little effort, she could make herself first favourite; but never, never would she make the effort.
On Saturday morning the arrival of the asparagus and the strawberries created something of a sensation. Even May, who always bought more than she needed, was staggered.
‘Why on earth did you let Baggy order so much?’ she asked Fran.
‘Well, there are so many of us – and he said you’d want to feed three women in the kitchen.’