Tea & Antipathy

by Miller, Anita

  WE ATE OUR USUAL BREAKFAST of delicious croissants and instant coffee, surrounded by debris. The street outside looked even gloomier and more gray than usual. About ten-thirty, the phone rang. It was Maud Tweak, sounding impatient. “Look,” she said, “those friends of yours, the Watchucallits. Yes. Well, are they coming round today or not? They said something about wanting me to show them the city.”

  “I haven’t heard from them,” I croaked.

  “We took them round last night after we left you,” she said, “and showed them Fleet Street at night. I think they liked it; it’s the sort of thing tourists love. In any case, I’m going to the hairdresser’s; I shan’t be back until about two. Have them call me, will you?”

  I hung up and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen again. Jordan was just finishing his second cup of Nescafé.

  “That was Maud Tweak,” I said. “I hate her.”

  The phone rang again. After a moment I crept painfully back up the stairs. This time it was Nini.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m awful,” I said.”How are you?”

  “We’re fine. A little tired. You know your friend Maud Tweak drove us all around after we left you.”

  “How was it?”

  “Well, it was boring because everything was shut. But why are you awful?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Oh?” she said, with a rising inflection. “Why?” She was a speech therapist with a strong interest in psychiatry. I knew her wheels were turning.

  “Because I got to bed at five. Because there are dishes everywhere. It’s raining….”

  “Do you want us to help you with the dishes?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll manage. I’ve got to go now because Jordan is leaving. Oh—Maud Tweak will be at home after two this afternoon. She wants you to call her.”

  Jordan was now upstairs, combing his hair in the mildewed back bathroom with the hole in the ceiling. “I’ll come back early and help you finish up,” he said. “I must just get some stuff out of the way. I’m pretty sure Basil is going to buy in.”

  “He didn’t say anything last night?”

  “I could tell he was having a good time,” Jordan said. “Anyway, if he doesn’t buy in …”

  The phone rang again, worsening my headache.

  Suddenly we were very popular.

  It was Walter this time. He sounded concerned. “Anita!” he cried. “Are you all right?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “Well, Nini is worried. She said you sounded really desperate. We want you to let us hop in a cab and come over and do the dishes for you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Nini is worried about you.”

  “All I have is a headache.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you come out with us? We’re going to the Portobello Road. Have you been there yet?”

  “No,” I said, sounding pathetic. “I mostly go to Harrods.”

  “Then you must come with us. Mark can look after the children.” I decided to go and arranged to meet them there. I told Jordan I would be at his office by two o’clock.

  It was raining in the Portobello Road on that Saturday morning. It was cold too, and dark, more like November than July. Stalls had been set up in the street and there were a good many people bartering and discussing antiques of all kinds. Most of them seemed to be late Victorian or more recent—the antiques, not the people. On every side we heard, “Now in dollars that would be …”

  “It’s fascinating here, isn’t it?” Walter said. “So quaint.” Appraising furniture, china and jewelry was his avocation; his father had had an antiques shop.

  “Ur,” I said, vaguely. My head still ached; I was cold and depressed.

  “They expect you to bargain,” Nini said. She stopped at a stall and picked up a broken doll with staring china eyes. “How much?” she said, to a tall youth with one gold earring and a sort of sheepskin slung over his shoulder.

  “Two pounds.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nini said. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Make an offer,” the youth said reasonably.

  “What do you want it for?” I asked.

  “Seven shillings,” Nini said. The youth smiled sarcastically. “It’s broken anyway,” Nini said.

  We drifted away into a shop with rugs.

  “Oh, look,” I said, trying to perk up a little, “Oriental rugs.” I pointed at one.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Nini said, and darted away.

  “I don’t want it,” I said to Walter, who shrugged.

  Nini became involved in a heated discussion with a fat man at the rear of the shop. He looked Victorian: I expected to see a pile of bones and rags in a corner. She darted back.”I can get that for you for sixty dollars,” she said, pointing to a large torn item. “It’s a steal.”

  “How would I get it back in the plane?’’ I asked nastily. “Carry it on my head? Anyway I haven’t got sixty dollars. Anyway I don’t want it.”

  The fat man came near, hovering. “Well?” he said, as we left.

  “Too much money,” Nini snapped at him.

  We began to walk through the outdoor stalls again. Walter picked up a horn glass, one of a set of six, all cracked.

  “My goodness,” he said. “Horn glasses.”

  “What would you do with them?” I asked. I had decided to be difficult. I felt like it.

  “Well, you see,” he explained, “they’re made out of horn. That’s interesting. Of course,” he added regretfully, “they’re chipped somewhat.”

  “Would you drink out of them?” I asked. The sky was very dark and low; drifts of water blew across our faces.

  “My goodness,” Walter said. He set them down gently.

  A moment later Nini cried out in delight. She had come upon a green velvet bellows; it was small and heart-shaped. The velvet was faded and rotting in spots. When she squeezed it a weak puff of dust wheezed out.

  “It’s charming,” Nini said.

  All down the street, people were pawing over these broken remains. We heard music and looked up: a very small, fragile old man was pushing a wicker baby carriage down the sidewalk, or pavement. He was wearing a sort of nineteenth-century ball costume: a black stovepipe hat, a long, swallow-tailed black coat, very narrow black trousers and little black pumps on his tiny feet. An ancient gramophone, perched on the foot of the baby carriage, was grinding out a dim tune. In the carriage, with only his head protruding from a tattered blanket, was a small brown and white dog.

  “Oh, Walter!” Nini cried. “If only we had our camera!”

  “Oh, we forgot it,” Walter said.

  “That’s always the way,” I said, looking at my watch. “Gracious, it’s after one. I told Jordan I’d meet him at the office.”

  “But you don’t want to leave now,” Nini said. “We haven’t seen anything yet.”

  I could spot another baby carriage coming toward us: this one was being pushed by a hugely fat woman and was emitting scratchy music; I could hear it already. I made my escape and arrived at Jordan’s office, where I found the children, without shoes. They had gone out into the street to look at something, and Eric had shut the door, which locked behind them. So they had taken a cab to the office. We all took another cab back to Baldridge Place, where the older boys leaped over puddles in their socks, and Jordan carried Eric into the house. He didn’t weigh much.

  We cleaned up the rest of the mess and then sat drearily watching television while the rain dribbled outside, and no one came down the street. Every Saturday afternoon half of a movie was shown on the TV, usually a Western. Today, the announcer said, it was “Barbara Stennick in Kettle Queen of Colorado.”

  29

  At the Bilkingtons’

  THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, we were scheduled to take a train to the countryside again to be entertained by the citizenry. This time it was Dampton, Bucks, to spend the afternoon with the Bilkingtons, friends of the Foyles.
The houses in Dampton were larger than those in Cramley where Rose Emily lived, although constructed, like Rose Emily’s, of orange brick and set on narrow lots, each house the same distance from the street. The Bilkingtons had three children: a girl, Stephanie, who was Mark’s age, and two little boys, Rodney and William.

  Mrs. Bilkington met us at the door; she was attired in smart tweeds. I had used my head for once and was wearing what in Chicago we always referred to as “a fall suit.”

  “I see you know what to wear,” Mrs. Bilkington said approvingly.

  The house was much bigger than poor Rose Emily’s. We stepped into a spacious entrance hall, decorated with a large framed photograph of the Queen in voluminous blue robes, walking somewhat in advance of the Duke of Edinburgh, similarly robed. She was glancing at him over her shoulder, evidently saying something and looking rather annoyed.

  “We took that photograph last month,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “You can see we were very close to her.” The Bilkingtons drove us about the area, showing us William Penn’s tomb, which we were surprised to find was in England, and people playing cricket.

  “It’s a boring game,” Mr. Bilkington said sadly. “They just stand around in those white clothes and then change positions every time someone hits the ball. There’s really nothing to see.”

  After that we all went back to the house for tea: little sandwiches and tea with milk, and then little cakes and tea with milk. I had discovered to my disappointment that taking tea at four or five o’clock, a custom that I had always admired as particularly civilized when I read about it or saw it in English movies, made me feel odd and spoiled my appetite for dinner at eight, or even ten, or in fact at any hour. The Bilkingtons poured a lot of sugar in their tea and spread jam on everything. I had a considerable sweet tooth myself, and had noted with approval the many appealing candy bar commercials on television in the late evening, and the fact that candy and cakes were sold in the legitimate theaters.

  On our previous trip to England as tourists, we sat at the theater in front of a couple who ordered pastry during the intermission, or interval. This couple, a man and woman in their middle fifties, shared their plate of cakes with a rapture that we found charming. “Oh ooh,” the lady cried, “oh, halve this one, it’s too good!” “Oh yes,” her companion cried, “but do halve this one—look, it’s full of cream!” “Oh, it’s so terribly good,” she responded, “oh, do halve this one, mind the chocolate.” “Ooh, mm,” he said.

  We were entranced with this little episode, and afterward told each other and anyone else who would listen, that it demonstrated the impressive ability of the English to derive enjoyment from the simplest things in life: English men, in particular, since we could not imagine an American male gasping and cooing over a plate of cakes. ‘They enjoy things,” we said. “They know how to draw the last drop of pleasure from their experiences.”

  I thought of this as we shared tea with the Bilkington family. Stephanie Bilkington was fifteen, Mark’s age. She was a shy, slender, very pretty child in a severe suit and heavy brown oxfords. Her hair was parted on the side; she wore it the way Princess Elizabeth had worn her hair at the age of ten, and tried unsuccessfully to hide behind it.

  “Oh, Mummy,” she said, “today the Geography Mistress was talking about the yacht Brittania. One of the girls said it was expensive to run it just to take the Queen to Scotland. The mistress said it wasn’t such a great expense; after all, it is the Queen.”

  Mrs. Bilkington set her cup down with a majestic gesture and turned partway in her chair to face Stephanie, who tried to shrink back behind her hair.

  “What your mistress should have told you,” Mrs. Bilkington said, addressing us all, “what your Geography Mistress should have told you, Stephanie, is that the Brittania is a hospital ship. It must be maintained in any case because it is a hospital ship, vital in time of war. The Queen’s taking it to Scotland is incidental; it costs nothing extra.”

  “Oh, Mummy,” Stephanie said faintly, “I wish I’d known.”

  “You should have known,” Mrs. Bilkington said kindly, “but you may tell your little friend.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mummy,” Stephanie said.

  “I have a friend,” Mrs. Bilkington said to us, “who travelled with the Queen and the Duke at one time on their ship. She travelled with them on the same ship. She told me that Philip likes to call her Betty.” She paused. “Yes,” she said,” he calls her Betty. I know it’s true because I happened to be sitting quite near them at a polo match and I heard him call her Betty. I think he said, ‘Oh, Betty, hand me my sweater,’ or something like that.”

  “Oh, Mummy,” Stephanie said.

  Rodney and William sat side by side in little gray wool shorts with matching jackets. Rodney was nine, only a year younger than Bruce, but about half his size. He had enormous frightened eyes in a thin face; his little legs stuck out of his shorts like matchsticks. William, six, was also rather under-sized, but he had a rosy complexion and seemed fairly outgoing. “It’s time for Stingray,” he said.

  “Oh, Stingray,” Mr. Bilkington said. He had been quietly dozing on a fat red sofa that matched the two fat red armchairs. “Oh, I never miss Stingray.” He looked at his wife. “I suppose it’s all right if I just watch it,” he said.

  “Yes, go along,” she said indulgently. “Rodney,” Rodney shot up, a look of terror on his face. “Just take your guests into the playroom,” his mother told him. He herded Eric and Bruce off with him and Mr. Bilkington and William.

  “I don’t like it,” Stephanie said. “It’s all fighting, you know. For boys.”

  “I don’t know what to do about Rodney,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “He seems rather unsure of himself.”

  “He seems shy,” Jordan said.

  “Well, he is rather shy. So we are going to try sending him off to boarding school in the autumn. Perhaps that will bring him out of himself.”

  “Oh, Rodney’s awful,” Stephanie said, giggling and looking at Mark from behind her hair. “He teases me.”

  “I’ve spoken to the doctor about it,” Mrs. Bilkington went on, “but there doesn’t seem to be a detectable reason for his hesitant attitude.”

  “Oh, Doctor Killman,” Stephanie said shyly.

  “Stephanie loves Doctor Killman,” Mrs. Bilkington explained. “He’s our doctor.”

  “We could use a good doctor,” Jordan said, obviously thinking of Dr. Bott. “We don’t have one at the moment.”

  “Oh, Doctor Killman is excellent,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “We have used him for years, he couldn’t be better. Of course,” she added, “he’s Jewish.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “Now I realize,” she went on, “that many people will not use a Jewish doctor because they feel he will refer them to other Jewish doctors if they need special treatment or anything of that kind. We were hesitant ourselves about it. But I may say with confidence that Doctor Killman will not recommend another doctor unless it’s necessary and not unless he is a good one, Jewish or otherwise.”

  “That’s good,” Jordan said.

  “Yes, many people hesitate to use Jewish doctors,” Mrs. Bilkington said.

  “I love Doctor Killman,” Stephanie remarked.

  “I’ll give you his name,” Mrs. Bilkington said to Jordan. “You can feel absolutely confident about him.”

  “I wish you could come up with something for the children to do every day,” I said, whining as usual. “We have an awful time, especially in bad weather.”

  “Children love Madame Tussaud’s,” she said. “Have you taken them there?”

  “Well, actually,” I said, “Eric was frightened to death by it. He was frightened of the Hamlet diorama, and he was terrified of the Queen Mother.”

  “The Queen Mum!”

  “Yes, it’s weird, isn’t it? The thing’s got a funny look in its eyes.”

  “Frightened of the Queen Mum!” Mrs. Bilkington couldn’t get over it. “That’s really amusing, you know, and the Queen Mum
would be the first to laugh at it, because she has an absolutely marvelous sense of humor. And she has a twinkle in her eye. I suppose they tried to catch that in the wax figure….”

  “It sort of leers,” I said.

  “Yes, they tried to catch that twinkle. Everyone knows, you see, that the Queen Mum has a twinkle in her eye. She’s known for it. She goes about everywhere, you see, and everyone loves to see her, because she cheers them up. She’s such a happy person. And she would laugh at Eric, you know, because she’s the first to get a joke. Everyone always says that. Actually, I’ve seen her, and she really is a very jolly person. She really does have a twinkle in her eye.” Mrs. Bilkington laughed reminiscently. “The Queen Mum,” she said, subsiding.

  I didn’t have to look at Jordan, who sat beside me in a wing chair; I could tell from his gentle breathing that he was asleep.

  “Speaking of the Royal Family,” Mrs. Bilkington said.

  “I and my husband,” Stephanie remarked, laughing. Mark looked at her.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bilkington said, “she always used to say, ‘I and my husband’ and of course her voice is rather high. Now she’s changed it a little to avoid being laughed at. She says, ‘My husband and I.’”

  “I and my husband,” Stephanie said, in a high voice.

  “Now she says, ‘My husband and I.’ She tries to vary it,” Mrs. Bilkington explained. “Speaking of the Royal Family, I must just show you the rest of the photographs I took last month. I was standing quite close to everything, I had a wonderful place, really. I wrote away for it a year ago.”

  She rose and went to rummage in a drawer.

  “What do you think of the Beatles?” Mark asked Stephanie, tensely.

  “Oh, I really prefer Bing Crosby,” Stephanie replied. “Don’t you?”

  “Here they are,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “Now here’s the first. His name probably won’t mean anything to you, but this man is the Queen’s Secretary. I caught him standing in this window, he was right above us. I just happened to look up.”

  “My goodness,” I said loudly, clearing my throat. “Look at this.” I handed the photograph to Jordan, poking him with my elbow to wake him up. Mrs. Bilkington had taken quite a lot of photographs. I looked at them and passed them to Jordan who looked at them and passed them on to Mark.