“Don’t you think that your grannie might have said those things to make it easier for you? That she knew she needed to be alone for a bit, and that you would miss her because you’d been with her so much? I expect, if you think back, you’ll remember other things she said which hinted at different plans for this year.”
“No. When I saw Grannie before Christmas I absolutely swear she was as ordinary as ordinary. Mrs. Conrad wasn’t leaving; nothing was changing.” Virginia’s voice wobbled. “I didn’t think Grannie could ever change.”
Slipper was lying in a patch of sunlight. Margaret, anxious that Virginia should continue to talk to her, but afraid that if she seemed too interested it might close the child’s mouth, knelt beside him, rolled him on his back and tickled him.
“I love dachshunds . . . Of course, you must be right. You’ve been with your grannie so much.”
“It was more home than London. Not that it’s not nice in London, but none of us are very homey people. Nannie’s there, of course, and Miss Selby comes at lesson times and there’s Constance—I like her—but we aren’t the sort of family you read about in books where people do things together. Mummie’s always out somewhere, and so Daddie goes out too. At Grannie’s there was a sort of feeling things went on always and always and you could be sure they would . . .”
Margaret looked at luxuriously kept, well-dressed Virginia. She seemed to have so much that was denied the poorer girls she looked after, but that, of course, was nonsense. Security was what every young thing needed. There was something fundamentally wrong when a girl of Virginia’s age, with a home of her own, could get so upset because her grandmother’s house was closed to her. She must see if there was something she could do to help. Virginia was not, like Lily, a near N.S.P.C.C. case, but maybe needed as much help and careful handling. Felicity was difficult to talk to, but she might be able to do something with George. She got up and put an arm round Virginia.
“I must go and see the family. I wouldn’t worry about to-morrow if I were you. I promise you that you shall have a chance to talk to your grandmother alone. I’ll arrange it somehow. It’s never any good, I think, imagining things. Life’s got a lot in it that’s horrid anyway. You may be right and your grandmother has something the matter with her face. Myself I think the explanation is that she needs time to think—she’s had a lot to worry her, you know . . .”
“Uncle Tony.”
“Yes. But whatever the reason why she has changed, and whatever the reason why other things in your life change and go wrong, it’s no good making up reasons. If something really has to be faced then collect yourself together to face it; but what a lot of collecting ourselves together we should all do if we made ourselves do it every time we imagined something was wrong.”
Virginia leant for a second against Margaret.
“You’re a very cosy aunt. I wish I saw you more often.”
“I’d like to see more of you. We must try and manage it.”
Virginia, comforted, ran ahead down the corridor with Slipper. Margaret, following, thought “This isn’t going to be as much of a holiday week-end as I imagined. There’s that cot for Lily’s baby to get out of Mother. I must try and talk to George about Virginia, and I must be very observant to-morrow. Surely Mother would have told me if she was ill? But it is queer all those plans for this year. Virginia knew what she was talking about . . . Oh, well, we shall know everything in the morning.”
Henry and Carol arrived just before dark. Because they were the last to appear, and had turned up when it was getting chilly outside, and too early for a drink, and no one liked to settle down to read a book or otherwise amuse themselves on their own, because this was a family gathering and they ought to have such a lot to say to each other, they received a united and hearty welcome.
“My!” said Carol. “This is nice. Why, Felicity, it is a time since I saw you! Oh, Jane, you can’t think how nice it was with Helen and Paul. We just had the best time. Paul was telling me about little Andrew’s tooth. Was he all right after it? Why, Virginia, dear . . . !”
Jane determinedly hooked her arm through Carol’s and led her up the stairs.
“Everything’s planned. I’ve got the trains worked out. I was just waiting for you to arrive before telephoning. I wanted to ring Anthea up right away but Simon insisted we ought to wait for you.” She opened the door of Carol’s room. “Now look, if Helen could come by taxi and pick up the boys they could catch the 8.30 and that would get them to London in time to connect up with Anthea, Peter and Lucia and they can all come down together.”
Carol was tired after her long day, but she had the inexhaustible energy of her country. She took a deep, comforting Finkelstein breath.
“How was it Virginia came down?”
Jane shrugged her shoulders.
“Not only Virginia but she’s brought her dog. So tiresome in an hotel. I don’t know why she’s here. You know what Felicity is and George is just a moron. But they’re not going to get away with it. I said it was all the grandchildren or none, and I meant it.”
Carol studied Jane’s time-table with respect.
“I better get on to Helen’s school right away. They’ll have to fix that taxi which maybe won’t be so easy.”
“Will you ring about Andrew and Paul or shall I?”
“I will, if you like. You just can’t imagine, Jane, how cute Paul was to-day. Helen took her father for a walk, and Paul and I had a talk in the hotel lounge. Last holidays he seemed a mite reserved, but to-day he was a real mother’s boy; we were alone and he cuddled up to me. Such a lot of things those boys want. Henry’s so strict I was glad I’d little Paul to myself.”
Jane was disgusted. The vision of a cute boy cuddling up revolted her.
“Andrew was sick in a taxi, dirty little beast. I think he did it on purpose to try and get a night at home. It did him no good. Peter saw him back to school as planned this afternoon.”
The happiness that had come to Carol from the warm family welcome, and the knowledge that she was not only seeing her children again to-morrow, but that they were to be included in this family occasion, dimmed. Oh, dear, she must watch her tongue! She must be British this week-end and try not to say loving things about the children which would embarrass the family.
When Jane and Carol came down to use the telephone, Simon was at the bottom of the stairs. He managed successfully to look as if his being by the telephone was an accident. Because “operation grandchildren” had started, Jane’s tone was exceptionally authoritative.
“Oh, Simon, Carol’s ringing the two schools for, as she quite rightly says, they ought to order Helen’s taxi at once. I’ll ring Anthea afterwards.”
Simon answered with the cunningly disinterested air he used when dragging a seemingly unimportant, but actually vitally important, answer from a witness.
“If it will help I’ll go out and telephone Anthea.”
Jane was good at delegating tasks to others, but she deeply distrusted the people who answered telephones at schools, they were only too likely to take messages down wrongly and “operation grandchildren” did not leave room for mistakes. She intended to stand by Carol while she telephoned. If her mind had not been full of other things she would have noticed Simon’s tone, which she knew well and distrusted. But she was planning ahead. She must watch for loose ends which some member of the family might catch hold of to draw them from the Tony council, which she had timed to take place immediately after dinner, so she answered without thinking of Simon.
“A good idea. Here’s the list of the trains, and a note about clothes for Lucia. You can go in Margaret’s car. I’ve sent her to see if Miss Doe will come to Mother’s to help to-morrow. Better hurry or she’ll have started without you. Will there be enough food, Carol, for the children as well as for ourselves?”
“I guess we’ll manage. But if Margaret’s seeing Miss Doe s
he might ask if there’s anything extra that can be bought in the neighbourhood.”
Lucia answered her father’s telephone call.
“Anthea! She’s gone to the pictures with the Burys. Well, not quite gone, I expect I could catch her if I ran after her.”
Simon heard Lucia in the catching process. Heavy feet running down the hall. The front door opening and a shrill “Anthea, Anthea. It’s Dad. He wants you.” With relief he heard Anthea’s “Hallo, Dad.”
“Look, darling, the plans are changed. You’re all to come down for the day to-morrow.”
“Oh, Dad, but . . .”
“Virginia’s turned up and your Mother has decided, that being so, you are all to come and Helen and Paul. She and your Aunt Carol are ringing up Helen’s and the boys’ schools now.”
“Oh, no! But Andrew’s here.”
“The devil he is! Why?”
“He felt awfully sick again and Mary and Annie and I thought he better stay here. I rang the school.”
“How is he now?”
Anthea’s voice became an apologetic whisper.
“Peter gave him something and he was better at once. They’re out.”
Simon laughed.
“I’ll never worry about Andrew. Tell me, darling, what had you fixed for to-morrow?”
There was a pause.
“Nothing, exactly.”
“Well, look, when you’re out to-night tell young Jim where you are going to-morrow, perhaps he’d drive you down, only for goodness’ sake time your arrival at the same moment as the others or there’ll be a lot of explaining to do to your mother.”
“Oh, Dad—I wonder if he’d want to.”
“Leave that to him. Just give him the chance. I’ll fix something for him while we’re all at your grandmother’s.”
“Oh, Dad! Wouldn’t it be gorgeous! It must be so perfect in the country. If Virginia’s there ask her where somebody could wait. She knows everything at Grandmother’s. Oh, Dad, I do love you.”
“Bless you. Skip off and have a nice evening and forget all about that quick red fox. Put Lucia on the line, she can take down the times of the trains.”
Lucia sounded dutiful but depressed. When he was sure she had the arrangements for the morning down correctly he asked:
“Don’t you want to come? It’ll be nice. The country’s looking so lovely.”
“Did Mother say what I was to wear?”
“Thank goodness you mentioned that. I’ve got a message here.” He looked at Jane’s note. “‘Tell Lucia to wear Anthea’s brown.’” A faint groan reached him. “Wear what you like. We’ll say I forgot to give you the message about the brown.”
The surprise in Lucia’s voice shamed him.
“Really, Dad! That’s angelic of you.”
“Why should I want you to wear what you don’t want to?”
“Just so as not to be ashamed of me. I’ve got everything down all right. Good night, Dad.”
Simon got back into the car. He looked at what he could see of Margaret’s round, sensible, be-spectacled face.
“Margaret, you’re a doctor. You must meet all sorts of family muddles. How does a father who’s taken no trouble with his children, gain their confidence?”
Margaret was amazed at his question. As far as she knew, in the little thought she had given to them, Jane and Simon had the happiest family life. Clever, nice children, and Jane being the splendid manager that she was she kept the same good maids, but there was no mistaking the tone of Simon’s voice. He was asking for help.
“Are you sure that you haven’t their confidence? Couldn’t it be they are at the reserved age?”
“You’ve not seen much of us. I was busy when they were small. I left the children to Jane, except Alistair, who was old enough to be a companion. I didn’t realise that Jane had put all her eggs in one basket. Did you know that?”
Margaret considered his question. She gave herself to her patients and they took not only her working hours but most of her thoughts during her leisure, but like any trained observer, she had an absorbent mind. Impressions which she had no idea she had received were waiting in her subconscious for her attention. She turned up old impressions of the Betler family, and knew what Simon was worrying about.
“It happens, quite often, that a mother, though she has several children, gives her devotion to one. Sometimes it’s the weak one; I’ve often seen it given to the mentally defective and sometimes, as in Jane’s case, to the first child.”
“But if the child the mother particularly loves dies, isn’t it usual for the other children to fill the gap?”
“It depends on the reason for the undue affection. In Jane’s case perhaps Alistair was complete fulfilment. He was so brilliant; I expect everybody admired him and many women envied her having a son like that. I’m out of my depth, you know, you need a trick cyclist on this sort of thing. I can’t think why it should have happened in Jane’s case. She is clever herself. I don’t ever remember a time when she wasn’t the centre of things. Then she married you, a clever man.”
“Jane was the centre of things? That’s not what she’s told me.”
Once more Margaret turned her mind to what she had unconsciously absorbed.
“I suppose Felicity and Tony were Mother’s favourites, but that was only after Jane and I went to school. I don’t think she cared that they were, I know I didn’t.”
In the companionable dark of the small car, Simon felt he could talk. He knew with certainty that Margaret would not repeat anything he said.
“I’ve been thinking of Anthea all day. She’s been training as a secretary, you know. She’s no good at it apparently. She’s wasted months on training, poor child, because she could not bring herself to tell us she was in the wrong job.”
“What does she want to do?”
“Marry, I think, but Jane doesn’t know about that; in the meantime she’d like to become a good cook. Jane doesn’t know that either. She blames the typing school and, in a way, Anthea.”
“Jane was never tolerant of people who couldn’t do things.”
“I know that and Anthea knows it. She asked me to talk her into the idea of liking a cook for a daughter. She said it would be difficult because she expected her children to be clever—she didn’t say so, but I realised she meant that they were all being measured against Alistair.”
“Do the others feel that, too?”
“I’m ashamed to say I don’t know Peter. At one time I did. I didn’t like this business of keeping him at day schools, because of asthma, but then Alistair was killed and I let things slide. I suppose it’s right. God knows he’s been to enough specialists.”
“Does he seem happy?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
“His asthma’s better, isn’t it?”
“I think so, but he still gets attacks.”
“Would you like me to have a talk with him to-morrow? I dare say he’d talk to me, and if it isn’t a confidence I’ll pass what he says on to you.”
“I wish you would. Try and find out what he feels about things.”
“You think he isn’t happy at this school or something?”
“I don’t think anything. He’s like a stranger, but increasingly the children have been on my conscience. Anthea gave me a real jolt this morning and just now on the telephone I had another from Lucia.”
“What did she say?”
“It was something to do with a message from Jane about what she was to wear. I could hear she didn’t like putting on whatever it was, so I said she could forget she’d had the message. She sounded so damned grateful and surprised. I said I didn’t see why she should think I wanted her to wear something she didn’t fancy and she said something about supposing I wouldn’t want to be ashamed of her.”
“Poor little Lucia! We mu
st make a fuss of her to-morrow. How about Andrew?”
“As far as I know he’s all right, but he’s a self-contained little blighter.”
Margaret stopped the car.
“This is where Miss Doe lives. I shan’t be a minute.”
Miss Doe had her friend Emma from the Cottage Hospital spending the evening with her. They were sitting cosily on either side of the fire discussing the wretched behaviour of the Caldwell sons and daughters.
“You should have seen her old face, Emma; disappointed as a child she was, and she’d been looking so happy, too, just as I like her to look. Pottering round her garden picking flowers for that little vase she’s so fond of, just waiting for the postman I said to her, ‘No need to pick flowers to-day. I know somebody who’ll get a box of daffs.’”
“Somebody’s coming,” said Emma. “I heard a car stop.”
Miss Doe went to the window and pulled the curtain aside and peered out.
“Well! Who d’you think it is? Margaret! Oh, and there’s Jane’s husband, the K.C., you know. He’s just looked out of the car window. Something’s up.”
Margaret knew lots of Miss Does. They had many disguises. They appeared as daughters who looked after old parents, sisters who took in an illegitimate nephew or niece; they dressed themselves as nuns, worked with secular organisations or were the mainstay of their block of flats or street, but in whatever form they appeared, and however hidden were their hearts by layers of annoying ways, they all possessed unfathomable depths of goodness towards those whom they chose to serve. Miss Doe’s red, glazed face made Margaret give a genuine smile of pleasure. She knew exactly how to put her request. Miss Doe would not do anything to please her, or the others; why should she? But, however inconvenient, she would do what was asked for Anna, just as day or night she would wear herself out serving Mr. Cord, Mr. Clarence or bedridden old Mrs. Tomkins.
Mothering Sunday Page 18