The Bachelor

by Stella Gibbons

  His relations were all very pleased at the engagement and at once began making arrangements to come to Hertfordshire for the wedding. The elderly uncles and aunts could arrange to leave their war-time activities in the Devon village for a day and a night, and they all agreed that this journey, to witness the first marriage among the young cousins, was really necessary; but many of the young cousins themselves were in the Services and their leaves did not coincide with the date of the wedding. However, Alicia’s friend Crys found that she had a seven-days due, and could be the only bridesmaid; the schoolboy brother would have started his Easter holidays, and it was hoped that Alicia’s sister would have a forty-eight hours about that time, and perhaps it could be arranged to include the date of Alicia’s wedding. The talk was all of possibilities and plans, and some of the pleasant excitement spread through Betty to Sunglades, which intended to go to the wedding in a body. Miss Fielding had never been accused of lacking the hospitable instinct and she offered to put up a great-uncle and aunt and an old friend. The offer was gratefully accepted and everyone was looking forward to the 30th of April.

  Ten days before the wedding Kenneth had to go to London on business.

  It was a very wet morning, not of the dramatic spring sort with sudden showers of rain and broad sheets of wet blue sky and then the clouds again, but a downpour, soaking and grey. The trees were almost fully out now, and as Kenneth was driven to the station the countryside looked rich yet delicate, with that dimming of brown among the dazzling new green that comes from bud-sheaths not yet cast to the ground and trunks and branches not yet completely veiled by leaves. Kenneth was distressed to realize that almost a month had passed since Vartouhi’s departure and decided that he would go to Tekla House and make some inquiries and thence on to the League of Free Bairamians in Great Britain, if Tekla House could supply the address. But his strongest feeling was sadness at losing her; he could not feel any real hope that he would find her. He was not yet resigned to his loss but he was half-way towards resignation. The three weeks’ delay had inevitably, at his age, made a difference to the intensity of his feelings. Vartouhi was in process of becoming a memory.

  London looked ruinously shabby and it was difficult getting about because of the crowds and the pouring rain. He transacted his affairs in the City, and then made his way back towards the West End, intending to lunch there and go on to Tekla House in Bloomsbury. While stepping into the taxi he had hailed, he paused to buy a paper from a man who had just received his supply of lunch-time copies, and then gave the direction to the driver; he would lunch as usual at an old-fashioned and expensive grill room in Piccadilly where passable food was still to be had.

  He thrust the paper into his pocket, and leant back, enjoying the comparative comfort and the solitude after the streaming rain and hurrying crowds in the streets. Poor old London, how hideous it looks, he reflected, as space after bombed space glided past, each one tidy and desolate and boarded off from the public. The livid grey ruins streamed with darker patches of running rain but in more than one place he saw green wild plants and seedling trees springing up.

  The waiter found him his usual table, recognizing him with a murmured “Good morning, sir; very wet to-day,” and he gave his order and settled himself to await its arrival. Although it was only twelve o’clock the handsomely furnished Edwardian dining-room, with its palms and heavily moulded ceiling and columns, was already full. A not unpleasant smell of former lunches and wine lingered on the warm air. Kenneth unfolded his newspaper.

  The first headline he saw was this:

  “R.A.F. BOMB SER”

  The name meant nothing to him at first. He read on.

  “Ser, capital of Bairamia, was the target of Middle-East based bombers last night. This is the first time the city has been attacked by the R.A.F. The airfield outside the city was heavily bombed and fires were started in the hangars. One of our aircraft is missing.”

  There followed a note:

  “Bairamia, tiny country of 700,000 inhabitants whose chief occupation is fruit-growing, was invaded by the Italians in 1938 and is the smallest of the occupied European countries. It is practically inaccessible except by air, as the mountains run down steeply into the sea along its only strip of coastline, which is not more than five miles long. Bairamia lies opposite the British island naval base of Santa Cipriano.”

  At the foot of the paragraph was another note:

  “Bairamians in London rejoice at the news. Story on page 3.”

  He turned with growing eagerness to page 3, and there, smiling at him from a good clear photograph with some other smiling girls in white aprons in the background, was Vartouhi.

  Kenneth’s first feeling was one of indignation. He had missed her painfully during the last month, and in the press of his legal responsibilities and his attendance on his ailing father, he had imagined her working in some depressing place and longing to be back at Sunglades, to which happy position he would restore her as soon as he should have the time. And here she was, apparently well and happy and grinning all over her face because the capital of her country had been strafed by the R.A.F. Just how she would take it, he thought, remembering various unchristian remarks she had made from time to time and her attack on the Italian prisoners. Little devil! He began to read:

  “Miss Vartou Anamatta (‘Peggy’ to you) is one of the happiest girls in London this morning.

  “She is one of the five or six Bairamians in Great Britain, and last night Ser, the capital of her country, was bombed by the R.A.F.

  “Miss Anamatta is employed at a London milk bar, and when I called on her this morning she was all smiles.

  “‘It is a very good thing,’ she said, when I asked her what she thought of the news. ‘I hope the Italians were frightened.’

  “Miss Anamatta has been in England nearly four years. Her father owns a large fruit farm in the famous Khar-el-Nadoon, or Vale of Apricots, which is Bairamia’s richest fruit-growing district. He sent her to England in 1938 just before the Italians invaded Bairamia.

  “‘I suppose he had a hunch something was going to happen,’ said Peggy, who speaks perfect English with a charming accent. ‘I’m very glad he did.’

  “‘I love England and everybody here has been very kind to me. I would like to go back to my own country for a visit after the war to see my family but I hope to make my home in Canada. My fiancé is a French-Canadian.’

  “Miss Anamatta’s Christian name is Vartou but her fellow-workers have christened her Peggy because it is easier to pronounce.”

  Kenneth read this three times in much confusion, while his soup cooled. The photograph was certainly Vartouhi; the braids of hair and long smiling eyes were unmistakable. But since when had she spoken perfect English? and why was her Christian name first truncated of its final syllable and then changed into Peggy? Who at Sunglades had ever heard Vartouhi say “hunch”? and, most startling of all, who was this French-Canadian fiancé with whom she hoped to make her home after the war? The account made her into the sort of jolly little refugee who does get interviewed by the newspapers, while the more natural kind only appears in those brief paragraphs recording that Mr. Woolsack refrained from inflicting a heavier penalty because the accused was a foreigner and did not yet understand English customs. The only faint echo of his Vartouhi in the report was in the remark, “It is a very good thing. I hope the Italians were frightened.” But his Vartouhi would have said, “Is a varry good thing. Will frighten the Italian dogs, I hope, too also.”

  Completely bewildered, he pushed the paper aside at last and turned to his tepid soup. But as he drank it he glanced more than once at the photograph and gradually his anger faded and all he wanted was to see her again and find out if she really were engaged to this fellow, and happy. It might be true. It probably was. A month was a long time in these rushing days of war and Vartouhi was attractive enough to make any man fall madly in love with her in a very short time.

  French-Canadian. H’m. He did not qu
ite like the sound of that. They were a wild lot who showed their finest qualities when they were fighting—and some of them, if the rumours were true, found continued inaction in England a trial to their fiery spirits.

  But this fellow of Vartouhi’s was all right, no doubt.

  All the same, while he was drinking his coffee he decided to go to the newspaper’s offices and get the address of the milk bar where she was working. There could be no harm in his seeing her and wishing her happiness—and it would give him so much happiness just to see her again, perhaps for the last time.

  He finished his coffee and paid the bill and went out into the rain. Keeping the newspaper carefully in his pocket, he went by taxi to its offices.

  The newspaper, of course, courteously but finally refused to give him Miss Annamatta’s address. It was a rule of the paper and could not be broken. The paper was regretful but adamant, and Kenneth stalked off its premises in a rage.

  He stood in the shelter of a doorway to escape the steadily falling rain, and glanced hopelessly up and down the street. It was about a quarter to two in the afternoon, a quiet time in this district of newspaper offices and cheap little cafés where linotype operators and reporters on space rates and the minor men of Fleet Street came for their hasty meals. There was a little sandwich bar immediately opposite the doorway where he was sheltering, and it occurred to him to go over and ask the girls who worked in it if they knew where this girl—showing them the photograph—worked. It was a very forlorn hope indeed, but he felt that he must do something.

  He went across the road and entered the little place, which was less stuffy than it might have been because it was open to the rainy air. There were two soldiers at the counter but otherwise it was empty and the blonde girl in charge was washing glasses as she joked with the men.

  All three glanced up as Kenneth came in.

  He raised his hat. As he did so it struck him that his inquiries might have a distinctly ribald flavour to low minds, and he became crosser than ever.

  “Good afternoon,” he began, “I am trying to trace a young lady—this young lady,” and he held out the photograph—“and I wondered if you might be able to help me.”

  The sentence was romantic, and it fell upon sympathetic ears. The respect for an appearance of wealth, and for good clothes, has dwindled almost to vanishing point in England since the Nazi War, but it has been replaced by a simple friendliness and an immediate interest in the human element of a story, which some people like much better. The blonde and the two soldiers both looked interested and the former said cheerfully:

  “Sure I will, if I can. Let’s have a look,” while the soldiers stealthily tried to get a glance at the paper, which Kenneth handed across the bar.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed at once, “you’re lucky to-day. I don’t know her myself, but I know where she works. The gentleman who wrote this was in here for a coffee this morning and he told me.”

  “Oh—thank you—I’m very much obliged.” Kenneth was unable to keep eagerness out of his voice.

  “It’s a milk bar in the West End,” said the girl and described a place not far from the restaurant where he had lunched.

  “He was ever so pleased they gave it such a good show,” she went on, glancing down with a proprietary air at the paper. “He’s a nice boy. He often comes in here.”

  “It’s extremely kind of you and I’m very much obliged,” said Kenneth hastily again. “Er—won’t you——” and he pushed a ten-shilling note across the bar at her and hurried away to escape any possible thanks, leaving the three in the bar well provided with material for discussion until the place began to fill up again for cups of tea at half-past three.

  He took a taxi back to Piccadilly.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE WEST END milk bar was large and prosperous, and it was crowded with Service people; Polish officers in their distinctive square caps, paratroopers with the breath-catching winged horse on their shoulder-flashes; handsome, sallow, full-faced American privates in the uniform that is so popular with our girls because it resembles that of a British Army officer and suggests the higher rank; the girls themselves with untidy curls on their shoulders and cheap bright clothes, put on anyhow; plump A.T.S. and W.A.A.F.s. with smooth pink cheeks and neat hair, and a few American sailors, whose sinister black pirate-like dress did not match their eager faces. The place was stiflingly hot in spite of the cold rain falling outside and the customers were all talking at the top of their voices. There was a smell of damp clothes and hot food. Between the shoulders of the people crowding along the white bar Kenneth could catch glimpses of the tired painted faces of the girls who did the serving, and see the glasses being filled with bright orange or yellow synthetic fruit drinks. He pushed his way to the bar, keeping a sharp look-out for Vartouhi among the figures in their white coats. But she was not there.

  He singled out a middle-aged woman less painted than the rest and succeeded in catching her eye. She jerked her head interrogatively at him as if to inquire what his order was, but he leaned across the counter and said:

  “Is a Miss Annamatta working here?”

  She stared at him as if she did not understand.

  “This young lady——” he held out the newspaper with Vartouhi’s photograph—“she is a friend——” he suddenly had an idea and continued almost without a pause—“of my sister’s and I’ve got a message for her. Does she work here?”

  The woman, who was not English and seemed unusually stupid, glanced at the paper and suddenly smiled and nodded.

  “Peggee! Yes, she works here. But she iss not here thiss afternoon. It iss her afternoon off.”

  Kenneth’s heart sank. He had hoped that in another moment he would see Vartouhi herself.

  “Oh. Er—will she be on duty again this evening?”

  The woman shook her head, staring at him so intently that he felt embarrassed.

  “I suppose you couldn’t tell me where she lives?”

  “I do not know where she lives.” She turned away for a few minutes to serve two girls, then once more gave her attention to Kenneth.

  “Do you think any of the other girls would know? or the manageress, perhaps?”

  She made a gesture as if she had not heard what he said, and indeed the noise of voices and laughter was deafening. The brilliant light struck back from the shiny white-tiled walls and seemed to increase the heat and uproar and smells. The food had the bright colours of an artificial paradise, and the ruby and pink soft drinks gushed from the silver taps like the liquids in a chemist’s giant carboys. Kenneth repeated his question in a louder tone and the woman looked doubtful. However, she said something to a younger woman, dark and pretty, who was in supervision of the coffee urn, and in a minute this girl came hurriedly to the counter and leant across it.

  “It’s 14 Ardley Street, Mornington Crescent,” she said smilingly. She looked more intelligent than the first woman and although she was also a foreigner she spoke much better English. “I don’t expect you know where that is, do you? You can get the tube from Leicester Square to Mornington Crescent station. It’s on the Northern line. Ardley Street’s near the big cinema on the corner of Crowndale Road. You from another of the papers?” she added, pushing her fingers among her black curls and looking at him with friendly interest.

  Kenneth was not one of the people who like the new lack of deference to a superior appearance in England. He had more than once said that he was too old a dog to learn new tricks. He replied politely but stiffly that Miss Annamatta was a friend of his sister’s, and that he had a message for her, raised his hat, and turned away. As he slowly pressed his way through the crowd he decided that it was as well that he had not rewarded this informant as he had the first one. He was getting a little tired of the immediate interest which his questions aroused, and if he went around scattering notes in return for fragments of information the interest would be livelier still. And working on the same theory he decided not to take a taxi to 14 Ardley Street.
r />   When he came out of Mornington Crescent tube station he found himself in another world.

  London is full of these sudden changes, although the rich streets and the poor ones are now united in a sisterly shabbiness that in some mysterious way only intensifies the London quality of them all. But in the streets where the rents are fabulously high there are still the signs of money and private enterprise struggling to free themselves from the nets in which the State has bound them down, while in the poor ones even the few humble signs of a decent poverty have vanished, and the very ruins are uglier. It was a long time since Kenneth had seen a place so desolate as Ardley Street and its environs in the sweeping rain of this bleak spring day. It was a row of tall brown brick houses which had once been the elegant residences of a cheerful yet chaste Bohemia on the edge of the town, a Chelsea of North London where artists and writers and engravers had settled with their families in the eighteen-forties to enjoy the squares planted with youthful trees and the lovely distant view of the unspoilt hills of Hampstead and Highgate.

  To-day, in the middle of the Nazi War, Ardley Street was half in ruins. A few families still lived behind the windows filled in with black paper, and cultivated the long dreary front gardens from which the protecting iron railings had been taken away for scrap, but most of the fifteen houses were uninhabitable. Three heavy bombs had fallen at the back of the row one night, and where once there had been a row of similar houses with back gardens abutting onto those of Ardley Street, there was now a wide expanse of waste land.