All the plants in my garden are tough. In years I had lost nothing but fritillaries—and they strangers to our parts with which I was foolish to experiment; big white daisies and pinks, clematis and mock orange, throve year after year in sturdy independence of temperature or mismanagement. My artichokes whether cut down or left to rot each year towered higher; the chunks of catmint I’d separated were already rooting. In fact the character of my garden was so to speak durability; and who more blessed than I enjoying both a durable garden and incalculable weather?
It had been an error to attempt the fritillaries. Not all plants transplant as easily as catmint; only the hardier, less uncommon sorts that have nothing special about them and need no especial care.
Incalculable indeed is our weather; even as I noted the temperature just about right (here I speak as my father’s daughter!) to chambrer a bottle of claret, a sudden cooler breath in the air suggested hock, and overhead a rising cloudbank rain. Nothing could be more welcome; we needed rain; and I felt myself more than ever blessed in the accident of my habitation. Re-entering the house—now properly tidy again, no danger of treading on a dead frog!—I indeed quite brimmed with satisfaction at my lot in general; yet still welcomed the distraction of dining at the Cockers’.
As I have said, I dined with the Cockers on about two occasions in the year, and that evening rather fortunately happened to be one of them. As usual they had offered to send their car for me; as usual I had refused, preferring the independence of Alfred’s taxi; and though for once it was late, having been to Ipswich to meet a train, I scarcely noticed. For once I had time. For once I had time to take a bath and make myself presentable.—Or even more than presentable, so I flattered myself, now having time also to brush my hair (which I can still sit on) into a proper pompadour, and to choose between the jet and amber necklaces inherited from my mother. I in fact wore the amber, as more lightening to my only dinner gown (grey). Actually it was so long since I’d made any sort of toilette, Alfred regarded me quite in surprise, but also with approval. “Nice change,” he remarked; and promised to be there waiting for me even if later than usual. I thanked him, but said strictly ten o’clock.
It seemed strange to go out and leave the house dark—no light in any window to show even Mrs. Brewer in charge. It was strange to lock the door behind me because the house was empty. But it also, as Alfred said, made a nice change.
I thought I might even learn Greek.
11
1
Owing to Alfred’s lateness, when I entered the Cocker drawing-room all the other guests were already assembled: the Admiral, our local M.P. and his wife, the American Colonel, and—Cecilia.
I was so astonished, I barely apologized to my hostess, and let myself be introduced to Mrs. M.P., before I asked, where was Antoinette?
“In bed, of course!” said Cecilia lightly.
“At Woolmers?” I asked foolishly.
“Where else?” returned Cecilia—very naturally with some slight impatience. “Not to worry, darling; I’ve bribed a chambermaid—Jane, or is it Jessie?—to keep an eye on her …”
Of course I knew it was Jessie, and a very nice, kind girl she was. But Antoinette didn’t know her. To Antoinette, perhaps waking in the night, the face of Jessie would be as strange as all the rest of her new, strange surroundings; and if Antoinette woke in the night what she needed above all was the reassurance of the familiar.
“One must begin as one means to go on,” added Cecilia. “I don’t suppose even you sat up all night by her pillow?”
In point of fact, during the first weeks Antoinette was with me, it was exactly what I had done. For a moment my impulse was to turn round and walk straight out again—walk if necessary, if my taxi had gone, the whole two miles back to Woolmers. Then I remembered Antoinette’s utter composure at our parting, and asked myself whether Cecilia’s method might not after all be the right one, and stayed.
It was really a most agreeable dinner-party. The food (as always at the Cockers), was both excellent and off-ration, so that one felt no guilt at enjoying it: green pea soup made from fresh green peas followed by salmon-trout with new potatoes and an equally fresh green salad, followed by mushrooms on toast. I will not say the conversation actually sparkled, but it was interesting: I had never known Sir David so entertaining; he and the American Colonel between them covered almost three generations of warfare by land and sea and air, and each had many anecdotes to relate—the Admiral of a last brush with pirates off Hong Kong, the Colonel of raids as deep into enemy territory as Berlin itself. I found these exchanges quite fascinating—as of an ironclad signaling to an aircraft carrier—but enjoyed even more the discovery that the M.P.’s wife, like myself, knew Henry James almost by heart. We had barely time to get down to Portrait of a Lady—(was or wasn’t the little daughter such an innocent as she seemed?)—before the mushrooms on toast.
Cecilia was of course enjoying the party too. However interested in each other’s conversation, both warriors were intensely aware of her. How should they not be, she lending such grace and animation to the feast? In fact it was actually during this evening that I first perceived the Admiral to have his eye—there was no other phrase for it—on Cecilia.
Of course they met daily and all day at Woolmers; but he could never before have seen her in a low-cut black velvet dinner dress with diamonds in her ears. (Black for mourning, diamonds equally a tribute to so good a husband.) Thus Sir David’s glances of extra admiration, so to speak, were easily explicable. What suddenly struck myself was that they had also a quality of speculation. I do not in the least mean to imply that his motives were mercenary—I am sure they were not; I guessed her money more of a stumbling block—but it forcibly occurred to me that during the watches of some night—about two bells—Sir David (still seaworthy) had hauled up to the notion of making Cecilia his wife.
Cecilia for her part was far more flirtatious with the American Colonel, which in the Admiral’s place I would have taken for a good sign, that is if he knew anything about women, which I doubted. And indeed, upon consideration (over the salad), why should not Cecilia, I thought be simply flirting with a more attractive male? Rich, beautiful and leader of New York Society as she was already, what had the Admiral to offer—except to make her My Lady? Then I remembered the incident of the bouquet stolen from Lady A.; and allowed Sir David a better chance …
Altogether it was a most interesting and enjoyable evening. I still left at ten, before the party settled down to cards. The Cockers made no attempt to detain me. They believed I couldn’t afford their stakes; which was true, but by no means the whole truth. I have always felt I possessed remarkable card sense, hitherto so unextended in the mild rubbers played with my parents and a curate, I contrived to be dummy whenever possible. I should have played at Crockford’s, at a guinea a point, or taken the bank at chemin-de-fer at Monte Carlo—and let the Greek syndicate beware! (“Mon dieu! Void l’Anglaise!” I heard them mutter!) The latter scene was so vivid before my mental eye, however high (in their own view) the Cockers and their friends might play, I personally saw them as staking no more than rabbit-droppings; and really couldn’t have been bothered.
2
Outside it was raining already (as I had suspected it would be), and Alfred putting me down at the gate congratulated me on having hired him, also advised a nice hot cup of cocoa before turning in. Actually the kind Crockers had given me a brandy, to follow up which with cocoa would have seemed to my dear father a blasphemy—if not a glass of Malvern water, then just plain tap. However I appreciated Alfred’s kind thought to the extent of tipping him a shilling, which I do not always do. I was in a pleasantly relaxed mood altogether. Then he drove off through the rain, and I got out my key and walked cheerfully up to my front door.
Where crouched against the step like a little animal—her hands like little paws clutching at the sill—huddled Antoinette.
She must have tried to get in, as well, by the cellar, for her nightg
own and bedroom slippers were grimed with coal dust. She had no coat or even dressing-gown; when I gathered her up I felt her damp to the skin. She didn’t speak to me, just clung. I doubt whether she was quite conscious.
I took her in, and when I had washed and warmed her, and put her into one of my own flannel nightdresses, followed Alfred’s advice and brewed a nice hot cup of cocoa; and then I took her back.
It was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. But consider: how might not such a disastrous beginning have affected the entire future? Cecilia was a person so used to success in all her schemes, the blatant, public failure of one so particularly near her heart I believed would arouse not only disappointment and chagrin, but resentment, and even anger. Though I might leave word at Woolmers, so that Cecilia, returning to an empty room, at least shouldn’t be thrown into alarm, the fact remained that Antoinette had run away. Somehow Antoinette had got out, and through the dark and the rain run away from her mother back to myself. Undoubtedly Cecilia would be angry—and even after her anger cooled, perhaps find the rebuff as hard to forget as to forgive; so I took Antoinette back.
I felt fairly sure no one had seen her. Our village keeps early hours, and even uphill, even for a child, from the guest-house to mine is no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Obviously no one had seen her, or she would have been stopped. It occurred to me that if I could get her back and into bed before Cecilia returned, Cecilia might be kept in ignorance altogether. So I took Antoinette back.
Again, as earlier in the day, she made no struggle; and fortunately I am stronger than I look: I had to carry her.—It was still before eleven, and Woolmers’ front door still unbolted, but I knew my way about well enough to use the back, and the back stairs as well, and the only person I met was Jessie. She had the grace to look thoroughly ashamed of herself, though protesting she’d left the child no more than two shakes and sleeping like a lamb. “And don’t all innocents wander a bit by night? ’Tis their nature, and never come to harm,” Jessie defended herself. I could have boxed her ears; but at least I knew she wouldn’t talk.
I put Antoinette into one of her own nightgowns, and back into her strange bed—not so strange as long as I sat by it—and half-unconscious as she still was she fell asleep immediately. I stayed watching however more than an hour, and was probably later awake than any other of the Cockers’ guests, since when I heard the Admiral and Cecilia come in well after midnight I had still to slip down a back stair, and through a back door, and walk the half-mile home, before going to bed myself.
3
As I’d known she wouldn’t, Jessie didn’t talk. When Cecilia met me in the High Street next morning—
“Tony never stirred!” triumphed Cecilia. “When I came in at twelve, there she was just as tight asleep as I’d left her!”
I could have said it was at least twelve-thirty, but of course did not. I was only too happy that my ploy had succeeded. (I suppose I was just as fond of success as Cecilia!) And as evidently as she hadn’t noticed Antoinette’s change of nightdress, no more had she noticed the absence of Antoinette’s bedroom slippers—actually still drying out in my kitchen, and which I smuggled back via Jessie next day.
12
1
So my ploy succeeded; but only partly. Each night (as though she’d learned her lesson), Antoinette slept at Woolmers; but each morning, as soon as she woke, struggled into a smock (often as not back-to-front), and made her uphill way to my garden.—Cecilia took sleeping pills; Antoinette habitually woke before six, and so could evade quite easily. She didn’t even need to wait till the hall door was opened. As she’d discovered the exit through my old coal cellar, so she discovered a run-out by way of Woolmers’ scullery.
An early riser myself, I was usually at breakfast when she appeared, so we shared it before I, again, took her back, always attempting to reach Woolmers before any guests were about. However the Admiral also got up early, and once or twice we met in the garden. He cocked a weather eye at the pair of us, but without comment. I do not think it was he who mentioned such encounters to Cecilia. I think it was more likely a new arrival, a Miss Ponsonby with a long nose who too enjoyed a stroll before breakfast. “But isn’t that child supposed to be staying here?” she exclaimed, at our second meeting. I replied, yes. “And does her mother know she’s out?” enquired Miss Ponsonby facetiously. The old music-hall gag, as out of place as at the moment her upper dentures, I must say offended me. I feel sure it was she who spoke to Cecilia, probably making some similarly vulgar joke. Cecilia—which I still felt a great point gained—never knew of her daughter’s first desperate flight, but she undoubtedly became aware of these early-morning escapades, and as in the matter of the cot took her own measures. As soon as she herself came up each night, she turned the key in the bedroom door. This I learned (via Mrs. Brewer) from Jessie, who complained bitterly of having to knock and knock before she could get in with the early morning tea. Sometimes she heard the child, she said, just the other side of the door—but Antoinette had never learned to turn a key, also I think it possible that Cecilia took it out.
I still saw Antoinette every day, however, for though Cecilia I have no doubt fully intended to be a wonderful mother, she had no idea how much time it took. In New York there had been first Bridget, then Miss Swanson, in attendance; now Cecilia had sole charge. Well, it was what she’d wanted; but not, I think, full-time. What was she to do with the child, for instance while sitting to Paul Amory? What Cecilia in fact did was to deposit her in my garden …
Another circumstance Cecilia hadn’t allowed for was Antoinette’s unsuitability to the whole milieu. Very few children are by nature what one might call hotel-children—that is, quiet at table, polite to strangers, creditable to parents by being seen but not heard (unless directly questioned), and avoiding undue intimacy with lift-boys. With such happily rare sophisticates Antoinette had absolutely nothing in common. Her very silence, undiversified by childish prattle, must have appeared less a quality than a lack; Miss Ponsonby for one, I understand (or to be frank, heard via Jessie), openly suspected the child of being dumb absolutely—which in a sense she was, but Cecilia couldn’t have been pleased to hear it said. I felt thoroughly sympathetic to Cecilia in her snubbing of Miss Ponsonby—actually to the extent of asking to move tables to avoid the clack of the Ponsonby dentures. (An undeserved irritation indeed, when one recalls how Major Cochran, under Cecilia’s influence, went all the way to Ipswich!) Of course it was Miss Ponsonby who was moved, and she soon moved on altogether, but Cecilia must still have been annoyed; and equally so perhaps by the sympathy of a better-natured fellow guest, who remarked that children of Antoinette’s age were very often sullen. (Jessie again, alas; overheard whilst waiting at tea.) Even a merely sullen little daughter did Cecilia no credit; and though she was careful to let everyone know how emotionally deprived the poor infant had been for years and years, there must have been at least embarrassment.
So gradually I had Antoinette with me not only most mornings, but every morning and all morning. It should have been quite like old times; alas, Antoinette was already altered. She had been, in her own way, a remarkably independent child; now, instead of stumping off to squat and brood without a by-your-leave, she waited for … permission. Unless I said, “Antoinette, don’t you want to go and see the artichokes?” she stayed exactly where Cecilia deposited her—as a rule on the lawn, but sometimes just inside the gate. In the latter event I of course always heard Cecilia’s gay signal—“Yoo-hoo, darling! Nous voila!”—and fetched Antoinette at least into the garden immediately; but then, as I say, it was only at my direct suggestion that she made off to her usual haunts.
It took me several days to realize that Antoinette also needed permission to come indoors, and more especially to go upstairs. (Then I saw why; no hotel, no guest-house even, encourages residents upstairs before lunch. Their rooms are being done.) Once, at mid-morning, I within and Antoinette in the garden, even under a quite heavy shower she waited for my bi
dding, before she came in.
“And go wherever you like!” I added—only a couple of weeks before how superfluously!
It is usually when it rains that I sit down at my desk to cast up my accounts and settle my bills, and after such a spell of fine weather as we’d just enjoyed I was more than a little in arrears. I still had an ear alert for Antoinette’s footfall overhead, and half expected the heavier sound of the coracle being pushed about; but in a few moments all was silence, and after a few moments more I paused in writing a cheque to the Gas Board and followed up after.
She was standing quite still in the bedroom we had so long shared, staring at her dismantled cot. For it hadn’t yet been collected; the Women’s Institute was in no hurry, and Kevin, their usual factotum, had apparently other fish to fry. So there it lay, still in its old corner, like a bundle of sticks; and there stood Antoinette, staring at it.
As I came in she turned, and with a sort of politeness, like a guest who fears having seemed overinquisitive, went and looked out of the window. In the embrasure behind my dressing-table was still propped the lid of the big leather trunk on the landing. From being housed there so long it had become like another piece of furniture; I was so used to it, I had forgotten to put it back in its proper place. Antoinette necessarily stood close beside, but neither looked at nor touched it. Perhaps she had done so already?
“Why, there’s your boat!” said I. “Don’t you want to go for a row in it?”
Permission thus granted, Antoinette immediately began tugging, and I to help her, the leather trunk-lid coracle being heavy enough. But before we got it properly out another gay hail from Cecilia interrupted, as she returned to fetch her daughter back to Woolmers for lunch—if a little late, at least not much later than Paul Amory for the lunch kept hot by Betty.
The Innocents Page 9