“I wouldn’t do it if I were you,” says Anne earnestly. “The house was built as a sun-trap—that was Lorna’s idea; it was built so that every room should get as much sunshine as possible. It would be interesting to know whether Miss Stroude has any right to tell you to pull down the blinds. You might ask a lawyer.”
I agree that I might, but add that it would be of little use for I am so frightened of Miss Stroude that I am bound to obey her behests.
Tuesday, 14th August
Hitherto has taken singularly little interest in clothes (she likes them to be comfortable and to give her complete freedom of movement and, if these ends are attained, she does not care how they look) so it is a surprise to me to find how thrilled and excited she is over her new party frock. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks even pinker than usual when the box arrives from Harrods and we carry it upstairs to my bedroom and unpack it on the bed. Harrods has done us proud. There is a pale green silk, trimmed with ruchings; there is a blue and pink in pretty pastel colours and there is one with a white satin bodice trimmed with rosebuds and a full skirt of white net.
Betty tries them on and regards her reflection in the mirror with delight. “I’m really very pretty,” she declares.
The surprised tone of her voice amuses me for it seems strange that my daughter has reached the age of sixteen without being aware of the fact.
“I like the green best,” she continues. “It’s more grown-up.”
My preference is for the white and I point out that white is recognised as the correct wear for the young.
“That’s an old-fashioned idea,” says Betty.
“The white one suits you better.”
“But I like the green one best.”
It is unfortunate that she should like the green one best because she looks adorable in the white, with the pink rosebuds, and I am determined that this is the one she shall have. I remind her that I am choosing the frock and, incidentally, paying for it.
Betty glances at me enquiringly and gives in at once. I can see she thinks it good policy to propitiate me. “Oh well,” she says. “Of course it’s lovely. If I hadn’t seen the green one I would have been absolutely thrilled with it. I like the green one because it is such a lovely colour; but if you like the white one . . .”
“It suits you best,” I explain. “People don’t wear clothes because they are attractive to look at or because they like the colour. They choose clothes to suit their personalities and to enhance their appearance. The white one is you.”
She puts on the white one again and again she examines her reflection. “Yes,” she says with a sigh. “Yes, it does enhance my appearance. I’m a babyish-looking person, that’s the trouble. I wish I were like Susan; the green one would suit her.”
The new dress is a secret between Betty and me. It is a feminine secret. Bryan and Perry have been kept in ignorance of our doings.
“They won’t care,” says Betty. “Men aren’t interested in clothes. I don’t suppose they’ll even notice I’ve got a new frock.”
My ideas upon the subject are different and when Betty is ready for the dance, arrayed in all her finery, I decide that only a blind man could fail to be impressed. Perhaps I am partial—mothers sometimes are—but to me Betty is a radiant vision, a personification of spring.
Bryan and Perry are ready first and are waiting for us in the drawing room when we appear . . . and it is obvious from their expressions that my ideas have been right and Betty’s wrong.
“Gosh!” exclaims Bryan looking at his young sister in amazement. “Gosh, you’ve got a new dress! My hat, you’re quite good-looking!”
These compliments from a brother are the height of admiration and I feel convinced that if Bryan is so impressed others will be stunned.
Perhaps Perry is stunned for he says nothing.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” says Betty, turning round slowly. “Mummy chose it for me.”
“It’s very pretty,” agrees Bryan. “It isn’t very serviceable, of course.”
“I don’t intend to climb trees in it,” declares Betty with a smile.
Bryan does not comment upon this statement. He is still looking at her with critical appreciation. “You really are quite pretty,” says Bryan. “It’s a pity you don’t take more trouble with your appearance on ordinary occasions, you know.”
“Betty always looks pretty,” says Perry.
This remark is the first Perry has made, but Bryan and Betty are too intent upon their argument to hear it.
“I do take trouble,” declares Betty indignantly. “Nobody can look nice in a gym tunic or a school coat. I don’t go about in baggy trousers, anyway.”
Bryan ignores this jibe, which, to be fair, is quite unmerited for Bryan is rather particular about his appearance. “You’ve got lipstick on,” he says. “I think you’d look a lot nicer without it.”
“Oh, I thought it looked rather nice!”
“You aren’t the type to wear lipstick,” says Bryan gravely.
“Susan wears it.”
“My dear girl, Susan is different. You’ll never look like Susan if you live to be a hundred.”
This curious statement seems to convince Betty. “Oh,” she says. “Oh well—I’ll lick it off. It’s got quite a nice taste.”
She licks it off and Bryan completes its removal with a corner of his handkerchief.
We are now ready and, as the taxi is waiting for us, we set off.
Charters Towers is ablaze with lights, there are lights in every window and the front facade of the palatial building is flood-lit. I look at it with interest as we drive up to the door for I have not been here for more years than I like to remember; in fact not since Tim and I spent an uncomfortable weekend here and Tim rode in a Point to Point. Let me hasten to add that in the matter of creature comforts the weekend was luxurious in the extreme, it was my self-consciousness which made me uncomfortable. The other guests all knew one another well; they were hunting people, rich and carefree. My hostess was alarming in the extreme, and Tony—who was then a major in the regiment—was in some ways even more alarming. Since then much water has flowed beneath the bridge; I have knocked about the world and overcome my shyness; since then I have come to appreciate Tony for what he is (a true friend in good or bad weather) and the flippant manner which he uses to disguise his benevolence has ceased to deceive me.
Tony is welcoming his guests in the hall and has a few words for everyone. Some he welcomes in a dignified manner, others with banter and ribaldry.
The drawing room has been cleared of furniture except at one end where there is a Persian carpet and a few comfortable chairs. Here Lady Morley sits enthroned and I realise we are expected to greet our hostess—or allow ourselves to be greeted—and move on. The room is very long, with six tall windows; at the other end it opens into a large conservatory full of brilliant flowers. One corner of the room has been roped off for the band, the members of which are settling themselves and starting to tune up. A number of guests have arrived before us and are standing about on the shining parquet floor talking and laughing gaily. The scene is set and to my mind it is a brilliant setting; Tony’s warning that it would be “a primitive affair” seems unwarranted.
Most of the other guests are complete strangers of course and I am looking about, somewhat at a loss, when I am addressed in honeyed accents by Mrs. Winthrop. She looks even older tonight, having chosen most unwisely to wear a gorgeous gown of gold brocade.
“Mrs. Christie, how delightful to see you!” she says. “I hope you were none the worse for that picnic.”
I am about to reply in suitable terms when I realise that Mrs. Winthrop requires no answer and that her enquiry as to my well-being is a mere formality.
“And Perry!” exclaims Mrs. Winthrop, looking over my left shoulder. “How nice to see you again! I’m so glad you were able to come. How is your grandfather?”
Perry replies that his grandfather is quite fit.
“Good!”
cries Mrs. Winthrop. “Splendid! I expect he’s looking forward to seeing you . . . here is Diana! I don’t know if she has any dances left—mothers aren’t supposed to ask—but you must have a little chat, mustn’t you?” Mrs. Winthrop laughs in an artificial manner and produces her daughter (in much the same manner as a conjuror produces a rabbit from a hat) and Perry has no alternative but to smile and ask Diana for a dance.
This explains the cordiality and at the same time reminds me of my duties. I ought to be finding partners for Betty of course; though, as I know nobody in the room, the task will not be easy.
I look round anxiously but Betty seems to have vanished.
“If you’re looking for Betty, she’s over there,” says Bryan pointing to a cluster of black-clad figures at the other side of the room. “She’s in the middle of that. It’s rather comic, really. I hope it won’t give her a swelled head to have all those chaps milling round wanting to dance with her . . . it’s just as well Perry and I booked our dances with the kid before we came in.”
The crowd is increasing every moment and the buzz of talk waxes louder and louder. The Alstons have arrived, so have the MacDougalls. Susan is here, looking very lovely and ethereal in jade green silk. She makes her way towards us through the crowd and is greeted with enthusiasm by Bryan and Perry.
Susan is accompanied by a tall handsome man with grey hair. “This is Daddy, Mrs. Christie,” says Susan. “He doesn’t dance but he wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Morven smiles. “You’ve been so kind to Susan,” he explains. “Perhaps we could have a chat later.”
The matter is arranged and Mr. Morven moves on.
Anne Carlyle has come; I can see her standing at the door looking slightly dazed as if she had been transported here by black magic and was wondering where on earth she had got to. Tony suddenly appears at my elbow and says he has welcomed all his guests and how many dances can he have.
“Three if you like,” I reply.
“Does that mean six?” he enquires.
I tell him it means three exactly and add that I am now too old to dance all the evening but intend to sit out and talk to the other chaperones.
“Don’t be so silly,” says Tony. “You’ve come here to dance, and dance you shall.” He produces several partners for me and then moves on to do more introducing as behoves a considerate host.
Soon after this the band begins to play and the company begins to dance.
Somewhat to my surprise I discover that all my young male friends want to dance with me: Bryan and Perry and Edmond Alston, who would be better employed dancing with their contemporaries, will not take “no” for an answer; when I point out that girls have been provided for them they reply to the effect that they are doing their duty by the girls.
It is fun to dance with Bryan and I am glad to find he dances extremely well. He seems surprised that I am a competent partner and when our waltz is over says regretfully that if he had known I could dance like that he would have booked another with me. It’s too late now because his programme is full . . . unless he cuts out that Winthrop girl who is the dullest, dreariest thing and the world’s worst dancer. I reply firmly that it is extremely bad form to cut dances and anyhow she is Tony’s niece.
After that I dance with Jack MacDougall, who spends his whole time talking about the twins, bewailing the expense of their education and the fact that, although this costs the earth, the twins seem to be unappreciative of their opportunities. I have not seen Jack for years but I remember he was always grumbling about something (if he was not grumbling about the regiment and the incompetence of his senior officers he was moaning about the rate of promotion or Grace’s inability to cope with domestic problems). The years have not changed Jack, he still must have some grievance or he would not be happy, but it seems a pity that his present grievance should be directed against his sons. I tell Jack that I liked his sons, and enquire whether Jack appreciated his educational opportunities when he was ten years old.
Jack says, “Oh!” in a rather surprised voice and then adds, “but in those days school fees were only about a third of what they are now.”
This answer confirms my opinion that men, not women, are the illogical sex.
Edmond is not a good performer and after we have circled the room twice he suggests we should sit out the remainder of the dance, so we find two chairs in the conservatory and light cigarettes. I have been looking forward to a chat with Edmond, for he and I got on very well before and found plenty to say to one another, but tonight he is not in good form and conversation is difficult. Edmond sits forward in his chair and gazes at the large red and white tiles which form the floor of the conservatory, and presently he breaks into my monologue to ask if I think dancing is important.
“Important?” I enquire.
“I mean,” says Edmond. “I mean I can’t dance. You noticed that, of course. You can’t expect girls to dance with you if you can’t dance well.”
This statement is so true that it is difficult to find a reassuring answer. It is all the more difficult when Perry and Susan sweep past the door of the conservatory amongst the throng of other dancers. Their steps seem to suit exactly and obviously they are enjoying themselves. I look at Edmond and realise from his face that he has seen them too.
“I suppose one could learn,” says Edmond miserably.
“Of course you could learn!”
“If I had time . . .” says Edmond.
“But you’ve got to work, and that’s much more important than dancing.”
“I know,” he agrees. “It’s just sometimes—one feels—but of course you’re right, Mrs. Christie.”
“How is the work going?”
Edmond is silent for a few moments and then says impulsively, “If only Mother would leave me alone it would be easier.”
“But I thought your mother—”
“Oh, I know!” he exclaims quickly. “Mother is awfully kind. I ought not to say anything . . .”
Edmond hesitates, and in the pause I remember the hippopotamus.
“Awfully kind,” repeats Edmond, “and of course I appreciate all she has done; but sometimes I wish she hadn’t given up all her visits to come here and be with me. It’s dull for her, you see.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“I really ought to have gone to Cornwall.”
“Why don’t you go now?”
“Oh,” says Edmond, twisting his thin hands together. “Oh yes—but—but things are difficult. I ought to, of course, but I can’t go away now. I know I ought to—but I can’t.”
There is no time to say more; another dance is starting and I have promised it to Susan’s father. I am sorry to leave Edmond for I have a feeling that if we had longer together he would confide in me.
“Come and talk to me some morning,” I tell him as I rise.
“Yes, I’d like to,” he says. “Only I usually read in the mornings. I usually go out early, before breakfast.”
“Come any time that suits you.”
Mr. Morven does not want to dance; he suggests refreshments, which he has discovered are to be had in the dining room, and as we have heard about one another (though not too much) and have a good deal in common we fall quite naturally into conversation.
Suddenly I realise that somebody is standing beside me and, looking up, I behold a friendly face wreathed in smiles.
“Symes!” I exclaim in delight.
“Yes, Mrs. Christie,” says Symes. “Yes, it’s me. I wondered if you’d remember me; it’s a long time since Donford, isn’t it? Yes, I’m still with the General. I’m with him in a private capacity now of course,” says Symes grandly.
I explain to Mr. Morven that Symes was Tony Morley’s batman and that Symes and I have shared various experiences, grave and gay.
“That’s right,” agrees Symes. “Making up those parcels of wool at the Depot and shooting on the moor—and that day when the Gerry plane came down; that was a bit of all right, wasn’t it?”
Although I have not thought of Symes for years the sight of his pleasant open face takes me back to those far-off days and I remember all about him. I remember the photograph he showed me—though not the name of the sitter—and I enquire somewhat tentatively if Symes is married.
Symes says he is and he isn’t, if I know what he means . . . and then, seeing that obviously I do not, he explains that he and “Miss Gertie Ebb” did get married but that it did not last long.
“She took up with another chap when I was in the desert,” says Symes cheerfully. “It was a bit of a blow at the time but it was just as well in the long run. Gertie was a smart girl; she’d always lived in London and she liked a gay life—shops and pictures and all that. She wouldn’t have liked it here, Gertie wouldn’t—too quiet—and I wouldn’t have left the General, not for nobody. So it was just as well we got it over when we did. Now, what are you going to have, Mrs. Christie? A nice bit of tongue and salad is what I would recommend.”
Mr. Morven and I accept the recommendation; we eat tongue and salad and drink hock-cup. I tell him how much I admire Susan and he tells me that Bryan is a fine lad and Betty quite adorable and, although we feign a proper modesty about the attractions of our offspring, it is obvious that we each think the other has excellent taste. We are getting on famously when Tony appears with thunder on his brow and says, there we are! and do I realise this is his dance?
“My dear fellow, I am sorry!” exclaims Mr. Morven. “It is entirely my fault. I had no idea another dance had started. Mrs. Christie and I have been discussing our children and the time passed like lightning.”
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