The Bachelor

by Stella Gibbons

  Miss Fielding had now passed on to Richard and was wondering how much longer he intended to stay at Sunglades; the thirty shillings a week that he paid her did not cover his food, let alone his lighting and heating and laundry and baths and besides she disliked him personally. He was rude and had no ideals. The guns continued to bang at intervals, and Miss Burton continued to drop stitches, and the evening wore on.

  Kenneth was coming back from a Home Guard meeting through the raid, whistling Roll out the Barrel as he walked along the moonlit road with his martial shadow trailing behind him. Occasionally he heard the noise of engines high up in the cloudless sky as night-fighters went over after the raiders in the direction of St. Alberics, and stopped to stare up into the purple air among the tiny remote stars, trying to make out the machines in the moonlight; then he walked on again. Just as he came to the old stone bridge that was half a mile from home he saw something moving between the black and silver hedges on the road ahead of him. It was a cyclist, pedalling slowly along and apparently admiring the view. He gave a closer look, then called out:

  “Vartouhi! Is that you?”

  She stopped the bicycle and jumped off and turned to meet him as he came up with her. She was smiling, and as she curtsied her hair glittered in the moonlight.

  “Good night, Mr. Fielding,” she said.

  “What on earth are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at home? Does Miss Fielding know you’re out?” he demanded (a comic echo sounded in his mind but he would not let himself smile).

  “Is my evening away, Mr. Fielding. I say to Miss Burton that I go to the pictures but I have no money so I go to the station to see if my hat is find.” She sounded quite undisturbed.

  “You ought to have waited in a shelter. You might get hit by shrapnel or machine-gunned—cycling along as if to-morrow would do!”

  “I am in Portsbourne when they come all night, every night in a week. I am in a house when a house near is hit with a bomb. Is only a small raid, Mr. Fielding,” and she glanced up at the sky with a nose wrinkled in criticism.

  “That’s not the point. You oughtn’t to be out in it at all. I’ll take that thing. Come along now, and let’s get home, they’ll be worrying about you.”

  He wheeled the bicycle for her and they went on together, through the still cold air. It was about nine o’clock. Presently Vartouhi stated:

  “You have angry at me, Mr. Fielding.”

  “No, I’m not, but what would your father and mother say, a little girl like you out all alone in a raid?”

  “They would be please because I am enjoy the raid. And I am not knowing there is to be a raid when I am go to find my hat, too also.”

  “Well, no, of course not. But you oughtn’t to be out alone at night at all,” he said firmly.

  “Because of wicked soldiers.”

  “Er—yes. Lots of rough customers about in the country since the War, you know.”

  “I can bite and kick. And in my stocking I have my little knife too also.”

  “Good Go—have you? By Jove, that’s the spirit,” and he glanced admiringly at the small creature, with the little cap that looked so foreign perched on top of her braids. “Not that you’d ever have to use it over here, of course. We’ve got the police to tackle that sort of thing in England.”

  But she went on, in a pensive tone and gazing at the ground—“In Portsbourne I am sticking it into a sailor’s lag. I am telling Mrs. Mason who keeps the café but she is taking nothing notice and laughing. So I tell the police at the corner but he is laughing too also. The next time that sailor comes and touches me here”—she spread her hand for an instant upon her breast—“I am sticking it into his lag.”

  Kenneth glanced at her quickly, but this time he was silent, for the story had shocked his kind heart.

  “He is not an English sailor,” she went on.

  “I’m glad of that, anyway,” he muttered.

  “I am glad too also, because in Bairamia we all are liking English sailors, my father and my mother and my sisters and me too also.”

  “Did you? Good.”

  “It is the nuns who halp my sister Yania to go to America,” she said, after a pause.

  “Oh, you’ve got a sister in America, have you?”

  “Yas. She is work in a flower shop with an American lady who halp her. She is vary pratty, my sister Yania.”

  “Too also?” said Kenneth, turning to smile down at her.

  She laughed delightedly.

  “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Fielding! You mean I am pratty!”

  Kenneth nodded, relieved at the turn the conversation had taken. Flower shops and compliments seemed to him more suitable subjects for discussion with a girl of twenty than knives in sailors’ legs.

  “Are all your people safe?” he went on.

  “Oh, yas. They are all live in our fruit farm until the English come and kill the Italians,” she said cheerfully. “My nice Medora is in Turkey with many old nuns, and my father and mother and my other sisters stay in the Khar-el-Nadoon.”

  “Oh—er—what’s that? I’m afraid I’m very ignorant about your part of the world.”

  “Is the Valley of Apricots, the Khar-el-Nadoon,” she answered.

  It was the first time that he had ever heard the name. Soft as a breath of air scented with fruit blossom, it echoed strangely under the English winter sky, and yet he liked the sound, in the same way that he liked the old greenhouse in his kitchen garden and the peach trellis along the south wall.

  “Khar-el-Nadoon,” he murmured to himself, trying to imitate the way she said the words; just then the Raiders Passed began to sound far away, and an exhausted voice called:

  “Is that you, Kenneth?” and they both turned to see Betty coming slowly towards them down the road.

  “Hallo, my dear—are you all right?” he called anxiously, going towards her. She was carrying the small suit-case in which she always brought home her work from the Ministry and looked very tired.

  “Perfectly, thanks,” she said, giving him the case and taking his arm and beginning to laugh. “Except that like a certain famous gentleman I missed the bus—only he didn’t have to walk all the way home from St. Alberics. I haven’t got any feet left—and I’m frozen. Hallo, Vartouhi, my child, whatever are you doing here? For heaven’s sake, Ken, you don’t think we shall have to go a-Little-Frimdling to-night, do you? I don’t believe I could.”

  “We’ll get you both indoors and then you must both have a hot drink,” he said, shepherding them across the frosty lawn and Betty suddenly realized how good he had always been at looking after women. Dick was wonderful at it too, she thought. It’s part of his generation’s charm. Now Richard is no use at all at taking off your shoes and mixing you a drink, though he’ll let you talk, if you want to, until further orders. But then, his young women all seem able to take off their own shoes.

  Vartouhi was reluctant to leave the exciting night, where the noise of battle still seemed to be thundering through the frosty silence. She lingered at the front door, and had to be shouted at, albeit kindly, by Kenneth. He had gone straight into the drawing-room with his arm round Betty, who pulled off her hat and dropped it on her son’s face.

  “—purely nervous reaction,” he said earnestly, removing it and finishing the sentence he was uttering to Alicia. “Hallo, Betty, are you all right?”

  “All the same, I still think it’s better than a double whisky,” Alicia said, meaning the Raiders Passed. “Hallo, Mrs. Marten—are you all right?”

  “No feet left. Missed the bus,” smiled Betty, and sank down on the hearthrug in front of the fire. “But I’m quite all right, thanks.”

  Without a glance at anyone Kenneth knelt beside her and pulled off her shoes and began to rub her feet in their beautiful but darned silk stockings.

  “Oh that is nice, you are an angel,” purred the woman of 1914, while Alicia looked on with an impassive face, and at that moment Miss Fielding stalked into the room, carrying rugs and pulling
Miss Burton in her wake.

  “Oh, I am so glad you’ve all got back safely!” cried the latter. “Constance,” piteously, “do you think we could have some tea? I know you don’t approve of it at night, but——”

  “Vartouhi!” cried Kenneth, looking up from his task.

  “Here!” cried a voice from the kitchen.

  “Make some tea, will you? and get the whisky out, and then come and get warm. Here——” he got up from his kneeling position—“better now?” to Betty, who nodded with a grateful smile—“I’ll come and help you,” and he strode off to the kitchen, whence laughter and the Bacchic clashing of cups could shortly be heard.

  Miss Fielding slowly seated herself in her favourite chair and put out her feet to the fire. She was much disturbed and annoyed by what she had just seen. A man, mused Miss Fielding, did not rub a woman’s feet unless he was very much attracted to her. And Betty’s feet were small; too small, Miss Fielding had always considered, for her height, and they had looked even smaller than they were when nursed—yes, he had been nursing them—in Kenneth’s big hand. It was the sort of contrast, reflected Miss Fielding as she absent-mindedly fumbled for a Malteser where no Maltesers were, that appealed to men, silly middle-aged men like Kenneth. Something would have to be done, thought Miss Fielding.

  “Tea for the troops!” said Kenneth, wheeling in the dumbwaiter.

  “What a really admirable idea,” said Richard, raising himself on his elbow, and then, as he saw Vartouhi, he realized that for two hours she had been out in an air raid and he had not once thought of her danger. But that is only to be expected, he thought, considering that I don’t love her as a person at all, only as an enchanting face—“to love is a bad fate like that in the fairy stories, against which nothing avails until the enchantment has ceased,” as Proust says. All the same, I’m glad she’s all right.

  “Hallo,” he said, smiling at her, but to his dismay she put her tongue out at him with a malicious smile and carried a cup of tea right past his nose and bestowed it upon Miss Burton.

  “Oh, how delicious—you kind girl,” said Miss Burton gratefully.

  “It will keep you awake, Frances,” warned Miss Fielding.

  “Anybody fire-watching to-night? “suddenly demanded Kenneth.

  “I am,” said Betty. “I should have been home just in time to go on duty if I hadn’t missed the bus.”

  “Father was asleep when I left, he’ll carry on from midnight,” put in Alicia. “He’s crazy about it, Mrs. Marten. He looks forward to it all the week.”

  Betty laughed and said it was comforting to hear of somebody liking it.

  “Great nonsense women having to do it at all,” said Kenneth, gulping hot tea. “Plenty of able-bodied men in the neighbourhood. You need never bother about it when I’m at home, Betty.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Ken; I’ll remember.”

  Miss Fielding, having refused tea from principle rather than from disinclination, was jealous of everybody else sitting weakly sipping with oohs and ahs of satisfaction, and heard this exchange between Kenneth and Betty with deepening alarm. Fire-watching provided excuses for wandering about the house in the small hours wearing scanty clothing; fire-watching took place when everyone else was asleep, and morale and resistance were at their lowest ebb. What might not happen if Kenneth and Betty got together at four in the morning? To do her justice, Miss Fielding’s mind did not usually run upon this track, for it was what is curiously known as “healthy,” but she was ever on the watch for nonsense where Kenneth was concerned, and she could feel it in the air at this moment. He’s going to make a fool of himself again, she thought.

  “Did you enjoy the pictures, Vartouhi?” inquired Miss Burton; when Vartouhi had sat down next to her with a cup of tea.

  “I am not going, Miss Burton. I have no money.”

  “Oh, my dear, what a shame.” Miss Burton was slightly embarrassed.

  “So I am go to find my hat, instead.”

  “Oh, really—to the station? And had they found it?”

  “That old man has stolen it,” pronounced Vartouhi.

  Everybody laughed, but Miss Fielding said reprovingly, “Now, Vartouhi, that is not kind or true.”

  “He hide it in the porter’s room. I am seeing it—I think,” said Vartouhi.

  “Now, now!” Miss Fielding wagged a finger.

  “What’s the time?” Kenneth looked at the clock. “Just on ten. Too late for any rehearsal to-night, Con.”

  “Nonsense, Kenneth. Everybody must be wide awake after all that tea and ready for work.”

  But everybody was so stimulated by the raid and their various adventures that there were stout cries of “No!” and “Have a heart!” and “Pack it up!”—this last uttered in an experimental tone by Richard. “That’s right,” said Alicia, nodding at him kindly, and was pleased to see him look conscious.

  “Well, you must all come in for a reading to-morrow night, or we shall never have it ready by the 26th,” warned Miss Fielding.

  “So what?” muttered Alicia, heard only by Richard. No one else said anything.

  “I think I shall go to bed,” said Miss Burton, getting up. “I’m tired.” She paused by Vartouhi’s chair, and instantly Vartouhi’s eyes were lifted in respectful inquiry above the rim of her cup. “Vartouhi, if you will come up to my room to-morrow morning, I think I can find you a hat, if you would like one?”

  “What colour will be, Miss Burton, please?”

  “Well, there are several. A beige one and blue one and a white one.”

  “Thank you, Miss Burton. I will come. That hat the porter steal is a rad.”

  “Good!” said Kenneth. “I like a girl in a red hat. More tea, anybody?”

  Richard and Betty passed their cups, while Miss Fielding shut her eyes. What a foolish and undignified thing to say! Yes, Kenneth was certainly ripe for trouble. However, she dismissed the subject from her mind while forcing out of her victims a solemn promise to attend another rehearsal on the following evening. Miss Burton and Vartouhi then went upstairs to bed.

  Alicia watched Vartouhi with a new interest, for she had surprised an unguarded expression on Richard’s face when Vartouhi first came into the room. The discovery was rather the last straw, and she almost decided to throw in the towel; she did not fancy competing for Richard’s favours with a refugee in a ropey little cap. After all, there were plenty of men in England just now, more men than there had been for years, and some of them were more or less hers and seemed to like it. Why should she bother about Richard Marten? But she liked him. She admitted the fact, and she wanted more of his interest and attention. I’ll hang on for a bit and see what happens, she decided. It will be something to do in the long winter evenings, anyway. He can’t have fallen seriously for that little number; she looks like an early Myrna Loy produced by Capra.

  She was used to competing with tall, perfectly groomed, sophisticated young women like herself, and could not realize that a man could be attracted by a girl with none of the conventional attractions. To her, Vartouhi was a joke, and not a very good joke at that; and she did not see that Richard was attracted to Vartouhi by exactly the same quality that she, Alicia, found attractive in Richard himself: differentness. The thoughts and feelings that lit up Vartouhi’s face were not those of an ordinary girl, any more than the thoughts and feelings that lit up Richard’s face were those of an ordinary young man. But in both cases the result was very attractive to some people.

  After Alicia had said good night and declined Kenneth’s offer of an escort, and gone home, the others lingered on over a last cigarette. Miss Fielding, who did not smoke, did her best to spoil the peace of the evening’s end by starting vigorously on Alicia; how hard and bitter she was, how old for her age, in spite of being a very young soul.

  “I thought she seemed more cheerful this evening,” said Betty, as neither of the men would be drawn.

  “What precisely is the matter with her?” demanded Richard. “Obviously
something is, but I supposed it was the usual unconscious guilt felt by a rich and useless young woman.”

  “She does work in a factory all day, dear,” said his mother mildly.

  “From choice—from choice,” he said impatiently. “I don’t regard that as a virtue, when freedom of choice exists. If she didn’t like working there she could leave.”

  “She is doing her bit,” said Betty.

  “The contemporary version is ‘doing a grand job of work,’” said Richard. “Well, what is the matter with her?”

  “She was mixed up in a divorce case with someone who let her down,” said Betty.

  “Oh. Quite an ordinary story.”

  “Did you expect something more original?”

  “Something less conventional, certainly. She isn’t quite an ordinary person.”

  “It was bad luck.”

  “Or bad management,” said Richard, but nevertheless silently registered it as a point in Alicia’s favour that she had not told him her sad story.

  Young men, on hearing that a young woman has been betrayed, do not clench their fists and call the betrayer a villain. If they are good young men they make a note to avoid the young woman as a possible bore and if they are bad young men they make a note of her telephone number. While we are on this painful subject it may be added that a recitative on her sufferings from the young woman’s own lips to a new young man is about as favourable to her hopes as if she had proffered him arsenic.

  Kenneth had been staring into the fire and had not, heard a word of all this. He now roused himself, and said abruptly:

  “Con, did you know Vartouhi was a waitress in a low-class café in Portsbourne before she came to us?”

  “No!” exclaimed Miss Fielding. “Well! Frances suggested as much but I didn’t agree with her. Did she tell you?”

  “Not directly. I gathered it from something she said this evening.”

  “Poor little thing,” said Betty. Richard said nothing.

  “Yes, she must have hated it,” said Kenneth, turning eagerly to Betty. “She had a pretty beastly time.”