George sauntered home. He felt slightly smug, as was his right, since that morning he had not only had his hair cut, and ordered a new, much-needed, dinner jacket from his tailor, but also bought a hat. He detested new hats and only Felicity’s distracted “What a terrible hat, George” each time she chanced to notice what he was wearing had driven him to his hatters. He whistled under his breath as he walked. He had a deep love of London, especially for that part in which he lived—Mayfair. “Not looking at all bad this morning, either,” he told himself. As he turned into his own street unconsciously his speed quickened. He looked at the windows of his house as if they could tell him what he wanted to know. Felicity seldom hung out of a window but such a day would bring on the daffodils in the window-boxes, she might have a look at those. Fond of flowers, she was; inherited that from her mother no doubt. George, with his anxious-to-please eyes, and ears cocked to hear the faintest whistle or half-defined wish, had much in common with spaniels. As he put his latchkey in his front door, had he been a spaniel, he would have quivered and slobbered; George merely looked slightly more alert. In his hall he stood still for a moment listening. There were sounds from the dining-room of lunch being laid. In the basement someone was stoking the boiler. Felicity was not in, he was sure of that. It was queer, and not a thing he ever thought about for in his opinion no good came of thinking of what was queer, but he could swear he knew the moment he was inside a door if Felicity were in a house or not.
As George hung up his hat Constance came out of the dining-room. Although he knew the answer, George asked his question because it was his custom to ask it.
“Mrs. Wilson in?”
“No, sir. I’ve packed your case.”
“Thanks. Lunch usual time?”
“Nothing’s been said, sir.” Telling George news about his wife was a ticklish business. Everybody in the house knew he longed to know if she was expected in, but did not care to show he was interested. In the kitchen, George was pitied. Not that the kitchen blamed Felicity. They were proud of her, but he was pitied as they would pity any rather dull, inarticulate man who loved in vain. Constance was experienced in giving George news without seeming to do so. She pointed up the hall. “A big basket of fruit has arrived.”
George brightened.
“That’ll be Mrs. Wilson’s present for Mrs. Caldwell.”
“That’s what I thought when I took it in, sir.”
There was a sound as if dead leaves were blowing up a street and Slipper, waggling as if he were a fish on a line, flung himself on George, uttering little pleased staccato barks. George took him in his arms. He looked up the stairs. Virginia hung over the banisters and slid to the hall.
“Hallo, Daddie, you’ve had your hair cut.”
“And I’ve bought a hat. That thing’s a basket of fruit. Did you know it was ordered?”
“Good. I’ve reminded Mummie for days to buy something. I thought it was going to be handkerchiefs. She hadn’t ordered fruit yesterday so she must have ordered it this morning.” The full import of what the basket of fruit meant sank slowly into them both. Silently they walked up to it and stared at its paper covering. Virginia said: “I am glad. A family party won’t be fun for Grannie if Mummie isn’t there.”
George did not believe in laying himself open to disappointment, but the basket of fruit did seem to allow for reserved optimism.
“Might bring the car round. Always put it back.”
“Slipper needs to go out. I’ll walk with you. It’s such a simply gorgeous day I shan’t need a coat.”
The car was in a mews at the back of the house. Virginia waited until Slipper was in the comparative safety of the mews before she spoke.
“I’m coming, too.”
George never answered in a hurry. He gave Virginia one surprised glance, then walked several steps.
“Why?”
She put an arm through his to reduce his pace.
“I’ve absolutely got to see Grannie.”
There was another silence while George meditated.
“Why choose the day all the family are going?”
“Because I don’t think she wants to see anybody, but as everybody’s going, whether she likes it or not, I don’t think she’ll mind me as much as she would if I went on my own. I’ve wanted and wanted to go down; sometimes I’ve nearly gone, but I was afraid to. I’ve never seen Grannie not wanting me. I couldn’t bear it.”
George turned this over.
“Think she’ll be upset at everybody barging in?”
“She won’t show it, at least I don’t think so; that’s why it’s so important Mummie goes; her being there will please Grannie so awfully she won’t mind so much about everybody else.”
“Never exactly shut the door, you know. Just said it wasn’t convenient to have you to stay. Nothing queer in that.”
Virginia shook her father’s arm.
“Daddie! You know as well as I do that isn’t true. It is queer. It’s very queer indeed. Everything’s queer. Mrs. Conrad being sent away when she had green fingers and so was clever with plants, and Grannie, who hardly ever went out, going out all day . . .”
“Kitchen gossip.”
“It comes from the Robinsons. They love Grannie, they wouldn’t say what isn’t true.”
They were nearing the garage. George paused to find the key.
“No doubt she’s got her reasons for wishing to be alone.”
“I’m certain she has, poor darling. Daddie, if I tell you what Lucia and I think will you try and help.”
“What d’you think?”
“That she’s ill. A skin disease or something like that.”
“That woman Doe would have let your Aunt Margaret know.”
“Not if Grannie didn’t want her to. She adores Grannie.”
George was so deep in his thoughts that he stared at the key without putting it into the lock.
“Won’t want us barging in without warning, you mean?”
“That’s it. I don’t know anything about skin diseases, but I expect she could do something. She doesn’t make her face up, but perhaps she could for once, or she could wear a veil. I thought, or really Lucia and I thought, that somehow I’d manage to get there just before everybody else. Just to give her time. Perhaps you could take me nearly to Grannie’s in the car and I could run the last bit. I mustn’t get there so early she has time to go out; that would be awful after Aunt Jane’s planned her surprise party, but just to give her warning.”
“May not be a skin disease.”
“Whatever it is she doesn’t want to see people so she ought to be warned she’s got to.”
George ruminated. Then he shook his head.
“Won’t do, old girl. Bad enough you barging in on the family gathering. But if you beetle off and warn your grandmother, you’ll never hear the last of it.” He opened the garage door. “Pick up Slipper. Don’t want him under the wheels.”
Virginia’s feet skipped in time to her eager thinking.
“Somebody’s got to warn her, Daddie.”
“Hold on. No need to take that fence yet. First we’ve got to get your mother off, then there’s a sticky time coming when your Aunt Jane sees you, and more’n likely the hotel won’t like dogs . . .”
Virginia picked up Slipper.
“Shall we go by train? Nannie says there’s one about four o’clock, or shall we come in the car with you?”
George did not answer that until he had backed the car into the mews. He opened the door so that Virginia and Slipper might sit beside him.
“Haven’t got your mother yet, but if she’s a starter, you come with us.”
TONY
Dusk was creeping over Anna’s garden. She could, though the last flare of sunset was fading, still see the outline of her trees. She went quickly from room to room pulling the curtai
ns together; only in her drawing-room did she linger, leaning against her French windows. It seemed a pity to shut out the last of so delicately beautiful a day. She was tired and it relaxed her to watch the grey tones of the evening dropping slowly. She never allowed her body to sag; her mother’s training and, even more, Miss Macintosh’s scorn in her schoolroom days of any form of flabbiness held her upright. The feeling of spring in the air was tiring, and her afternoon had of itself been exceptionally exhausting. The motor bus route she had planned had seemed simple enough in the time-table, but she had come to realise a country bus could not be governed by a time-table. The motor bus, or at least regular travel by the motor bus, was new to Anna, and she was filled with admiration that they arrived as near to the times stated in the time-tables as they did. People were so slow climbing on to them; she often was herself, especially when, as to-day, on the homeward route she had a heavy shopping bag to lift. In a period when she was much alone and had a great deal to worry her she found her spirit constantly refreshed by the kindness of bus conductors. “Come on, Ma, give us that bag.” “What you up to? This is ’eavy, this is. Black marketin’?” They were so patient and understanding with those passengers who sat down only to bob up again immediately. “Just a moment, conductor. I left me downstairs window open,” or “Drat that dog, he’s followed me. One moment while I run and fasten him up.” Anna was often very tired waiting in bus queues, but never out of patience, for she knew any bodily fatigue she suffered would be more than outweighed when the bus arrived by common human warmth and kindness, which was better for tiredness than a glass of wine and far more lasting.
It was not only late buses, a heavy shopping basket and spring in the air which had tired Anna. “Doe” had been most aggravating. Anna knew it was good-heartedness which had made her hang about long after she should have gone to her old Mr. Cord. The kind creature had thought she needed consoling because she had not received her Mothering Sunday parcels, but in Anna’s experience the fact that you knew somebody was being kind-hearted did not, if their good-heartedness happened to be the exasperating sort, make that person less exasperating. It had been a strain to keep on smiling and saying, “No, really there is nothing more I want.” “No thank you, I can manage perfectly. You have done everything,” and even more of a strain not to say “Do run away, my dear, good woman. I have a bus to catch.”
Leaning against her french windows watching the night drop on to her garden Anna puzzled, as she had puzzled at intervals all day, on the non-arrival of those parcels. Felicity might easily have forgotten what this Sunday would be, and so just possibly might Jane, but Margaret’s daffodils were a certainty, and Carol was incapable of overlooking a family occasion. Since the war the postal service had been unreliable, but even the parcel post of to-day could have hardly failed to deliver certainly two, and possibly four, parcels. No, without doubt the non-arrival of the parcels was because they had not been sent, and that pointed to concerted family action. Concerted action amongst the children must have been planned by Jane. The probability was that one of the children had been deputed to come in person carrying everybody’s gifts; one of the types of organising Jane was so good at; she would have no difficulty in arranging that everybody’s gifts were deposited on time in the home of whoever had been selected to bring them to her. The question that worried Anna was which of the children she might expect. It could not be “Sir” Henry because he had told her himself on the telephone that he would spend the week-end in his constituency. In any case “Sir” Henry would not agree to come. The idea of dropping in uninvited and unwanted would be shocking to him. It would not, alas, be Felicity, the only one of the children she would not mind seeing. Felicity would not question or pry; she would not notice anything however unusual. That left Jane or Margaret. If only she could decide which, she could plan what to say and how to behave. All the children knew that she wished to rearrange her life. That would suggest Jane rather than Margaret. Margaret, unless she conceived it to be a duty, would be the last one to force herself in where she was not wanted. But did she conceive it to be a duty? In a plan organised by Jane, making somebody see a distasteful job as a duty would be nothing. She hoped it was Margaret. She did not want Margaret’s trained professional eyes on her, but Margaret would probably agree to take her for a drive and they would have lunch or tea out. Such a mercy to-morrow was a Sunday and there was no Doe to bother about. There would be no drive or meal out about a visit from Jane. Jane coming down to rearrange things would start suggesting rearrangements as she got inside the door, and would keep on stating her case as long as her visit lasted. Her sharp eyes would be everywhere and since she had come to talk about the house, its lonely position and the necessity of some staff sleeping in the house—in the house Jane would stay. She doubted if she would even get her out into the garden. The thing to do would be to expect Jane. It would mean taking all sorts of precautions which would be unnecessary if Margaret arrived, but it would be the wise thing to do.
Night had fallen. The garden was blotted out, but still Anna did not move. Her day was not over, and, for what was left to do, she needed strength. She was not a religious woman in the accepted meaning, though until recently she had attended matins every Sunday and made her communion two or three times a year, apart from Christmas and Easter Day; but she attended these services from habit, belief that her parish priest should be supported, and to set a good example. She never thought about her churchgoing, for she had attended services on Sundays all her life; but had she searched her mind she would have learned that the support which definitely came to her from prayer seldom came while she was attending a service; it came when she was alone. Wherever she was, on her knees by her bed, or at her daily doings, she would close her eyes, attempt to empty her mind of thought and then repeat a prayer or part of a psalm either of thanksgiving or applicable to the need of the moment, often repeating a line which stated best what she herself had not the gift of words to say. When particularly in need of patience with Miss Doe it was often, “Though I have all faith—and have not charity, I am nothing.” “Have not charity—have not charity.” On a day of peculiar beauty, “Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out—may flow out.” Presently a feeling of peace and well-being would steal through her; it was almost as if an arm had been put round her so that she could, if she had so wished, lean. Now, peering out into her dark garden, she closed her eyes and after a moment murmured, “Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle: or who shall rest upon thy holy hill? Even he, that leadeth an uncorrupt life: and doeth the thing which is right, and speaketh the truth from his heart.” “And speaketh the truth from his heart—speaketh the truth from his heart—the truth—the truth . . .” The support came. Her body was less tired, her courage more firm. She still knew herself without much gift for what she must do but she no longer felt alone. She opened her eyes. With the utmost care she drew the curtains so that they completely covered the windows. She switched on the lights. Once more she carefully scrutinised the curtains, then she opened a drawer and took out a cowbell that one of her family had on some occasion brought home from Switzerland, carried it into the hall, rang it several times, came back into the drawing-room and composedly picked up a sock she was making for Andrew. In a few moments she heard the stairs creak. Her voice, when she spoke, was warm with love.
“I’m in the drawing-room, Tony dear. There’s a lovely fire.”
Tony was startlingly like his father. Friends or relations had at one time or another remarked on family likenesses—Felicity took after her paternal grandmother—Henry resembled Anna’s side of the family—but though at the time Anna saw what was meant, the likeness passed from her mind. With Tony it never faded but grew stronger as he grew older. As a little boy it had been his ways and mannerisms which were so reminiscent of his father that however resolutely Anna put Harry out of her mind Tony brought him back. As he grew up the facial likeness to Harry be
came stronger year by year, until now, when he was within only a few years of the age Harry had been at the time of his death, it seemed sometimes as if Harry had returned. Anna knew the likeness was mainly noticeable to herself; others never saw it as she saw it. Harry had been a robust type with the complexion of a man who spent his days out of doors. Tony looked what he was, highly-strung, (which was the last description which would have been true of Harry,) and had never, even when he could choose how he spent his time, been fond of fresh air. Now, shut up all day, he looked painfully pale and the pullover and tweed coat she had managed to buy for him, though they had more or less fitted at the time of purchase, hung on him increasingly loosely. Anna, looking up at him as he stooped to kiss her, felt weak with the intensity of her love. She must not be weak. She must speak the truth as her heart knew it. She gently pushed him from her.
“Here’s a packet of cigarettes. I want you to be particularly careful about ash to-night. Just use the one ash-tray.”
“What did you get to-day?”
“A rabbit. It’s cooking now. I could have got a guinea fowl but decided against it; we’ve got to be particularly careful to-morrow.” She saw fear start into his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with you. Light your cigarette and I’ll tell you.” She watched him light the cigarette and stretch himself out in the arm-chair facing her. “To-morrow is Mothering Sunday.”
Tony was surprised.
“Is it? I’ve lost all track of time. I shall be like Felicity soon and say, ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’”
Anna gave a faint smile at the family joke.
“Apparently nobody told her to-morrow was Mothering Sunday, but the others forgot too.”
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