Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Edward and Johnnie always had their dinner in the dining-room. No house-parlourmaid had ever consented to the indignity of carrying up the nursery meals, and no consideration would ever induce nurse to fetch her own meals from the kitchen.

  The Temples were not allowed by Laura to eat their meals in silence. She had long ago informed Alfred that such a course was uncivilised. Even the little boys were encouraged to talk, provided that they did not interrupt.

  To-day Laura wanted to tell her husband that Nellie had given notice, but the presence of Edward and Johnnie restrained her. She was obliged, instead, to give some of her attention to the subject of sugar-beet. It might have interested her more, but for her preoccupation about Nellie and the necessity of addressing the boys in frequent parentheses.

  “I’m glad they’re taking it up round here. (Edward, not with your mouth full.) Did you say the Home Farm had — (Never let me see you do that again!) — had decided to give it a trial?”

  Alfred made a reply which unfortunately Laura did not hear, owing to a mishap of Edward’s with a spoonful of cottage pie.

  “I see,” she replied interestedly, and looking almost unnaturally intelligent.

  “It’s a good idea, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” said Laura emphatically.

  “Mummie, do you know what Paris is the capital of?”

  “Do tell me, darling.”

  “Did you read what the Agricultural Journal said about sugar-beet last week?”

  “I haven’t read it yet, Alfred, but it’s on my table.”

  “I know it is. I put it there a week ago. It wouldn’t take you five minutes to read—”

  “Daddy, do you know what Paris is the capital of?”

  “Yes. Don’t interrupt.”

  Edward looked rather hurt, and Laura said hastily: “I must read it after lunch. I want to very much indeed. Well, darling, do tell me about Paris.”

  “Look! There’s a wasp!” said Edward, quite maddeningly.

  “I want to send the Agricultural Journal on to the Men’s Club this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I’ll read it before post time, darling.”

  Alfred turned to his son.

  “Now then, old man, what about Paris?” he said kindly. “You must learn not to interrupt when Daddy and Mummie are talking, you know.”

  Edward, who had obviously forgotten all about Paris, looked bored and made rambling and disconnected statements to which neither of his parents paid serious attention.

  “How’s the car getting on?” Laura asked, feeling that it was Alfred’s turn.

  “I haven’t started on her yet. I shall do that this afternoon.”

  “I hope — (Don’t fidget like that, darling) — I hope it won’t — (and do keep your feet still; you’re shaking the whole table) — be so very long before—”

  “Pancakes,” said Johnnie brightly.

  Laura dispensed the pancakes.

  Her hope concerning the car, never a very robust affair, died unuttered and unnoticed.

  The conversation continued to be prosaic, lacking in grace, continuity, or purpose.

  A vague recollection of a sentence, read somewhere, to the effect that it is always the wife and mother who is primarily responsible for the atmosphere of the home, depressed Laura’s spirits.

  CHAPTER III

  At Three o’clock in the afternoon of the following Saturday Laura temporarily ceased to be a wife and a mother, and became a human being. She put on a biscuit-coloured kasha frock and the fur-bordered coat that matched it, and brown, low-heeled crocodile shoes over biscuit-coloured stockings.

  When she had adjusted her small, soft velvet pull-on hat, Laura gazed earnestly at herself in the glass.

  She thought: “I look nice — but there’s no one to see it, really. Unless—”

  Unless was the unspoken tribute paid to romance, that lurking possibility to which Laura woke every morning of her life. She took out a tiny little rouge pad from under the handkerchiefs in the middle drawer of her dressing-table, used it very, very carefully, and then very, very carefully wiped the result off again.

  Alfred disliked rouge, but very seldom noticed when she had it on.

  From the nursery a loud wail came distinctly. Laura, catching up her gloves, hurried out of the room and along the passage.

  It would have been impossible for her to go out of the house with that wail uninvestigated, although she knew that it had no serious significance, that it was in the nature of an isolated, casual wail — not the kind likely to be succeeded by a hurricane of wails — and that her presence, especially in outdoor attire, would hold nothing soothing.

  She spent five minutes in the nursery, and found that Alfred, unusually, had brought the car round to the front door punctually, and was waiting for her.

  “I’m so sorry,” apologised Laura, energetically returning the frantic hand-waving of the children.

  Alfred did not say, “You’re not going to the North Pole. You’ll be home again in about two hours from now,” but it was Laura’s misfortune to attribute such definite meanings to his silences, and to clothe them in pungent and unsympathetic language. She often held wordless and impassioned conversations with Alfred, replying to many things that he had not said.

  To-day, as they drove, she tried not to think about the difficulty of finding a new house-parlourmaid, nor about Johnnie’s temper, nor about Edward’s loose front tooth, but when she had conscientiously banished these subjects, her mind seemed to become a blank.

  If only Alfred would talk about sugar-beet now, instead of at lunch-time, when she couldn’t possibly attend!

  There had been a time, however, when Laura would have regarded sugar-beet, viewed as a conversational topic between a man and a woman, as frankly impossible.

  “Who are these people we’re going to meet?”

  “The A. B. Onslows.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Did you say he wrote?”

  “Alfred, you know he does. I told you the other day — and you liked that last book of his.”

  “I daresay,” said Alfred indifferently.

  “Well, don’t talk about books, darling. That’ll be safest, perhaps.”

  Alfred made an acquiescent sound.

  They drove on in silence. Once Alfred said: “The oak’ll be out before the ash this year, by the look of things.” And once Laura, before she could stop herself, exclaimed: “I do hope Edward’s second teeth won’t be long coming through. Gaps are so dreadfully unbecoming.”

  Alfred made no reply, and she tried to hope that he hadn’t heard.

  The avenue of the Manor House was a long and winding drive, and the daffodils were in bloom under the trees.

  “Much further out than ours,” said Laura resentfully, and five minutes later she said the same thing to Lady Kingsley-Browne, this time in a tone of pleased admiration.

  Their hostess was in the morning-room, to which the butler conducted them.

  “My dear, how nice of you to come. How are you, Mr. Temple? Very busy, I suppose? The Onslows are so looking forward to meeting you both.”

  Laura murmured graceful disclaimers, and followed Lady Kingsley-Browne across the big square hall to the drawing-room.

  Introductions were effected.

  Mrs. Onslow, to Laura’s slight relief, was older than herself, less good-looking, and with a figure no longer slim. Her clothes, on the other hand, were expensively beautiful.

  A. B. Onslow was tall and attenuated, clean-shaven, and with a manner of rather elaborate geniality. His hair was brightly but unconvincingly dyed.

  Lady Kingsley-Browne’s only daughter was poised upon the window-seat, tall, slim, and rather strident, and with an air of almost phenomenal self-possession.

  In the opinion of Laura Temple, Bébée Kingsley-Browne was neither pretty, clever, well-behaved, nor virtuous. Nevertheless it was impossible to deny that in some mysterious manner she attracted the admiration, and even the devotion, of a great number of men.

/>   Even Alfred, loyal, unobservant, and non-susceptible, had admitted to Laura that there was something about Miss Kingsley-Browne.

  “But what?” Laura had coldly enquired. And Alfred hadn’t been able to say what — but there, he declared, it was.

  It was there, too, in the opinion of A. B. Onslow. Laura saw that in exactly five minutes, while she exchanged intelligent observations about bulbs with Lady Kingsley-Browne and Mrs. Onslow.

  “But, of course, living in London—”

  “Oh, but your lovely garden!” Lady Kingsley-Browne protested.

  The Onslows owned a large house at Highgate.

  “Mrs. Onslow has the most wonderful Dutch garden; and the rock-plant—”

  “One tries to pretend it’s like a garden in the country — but of course—”

  “I always think that Highgate — or Hampstead — give one the advantages of both town and country,” Lady Kingsley-Browne declared earnestly. “We do feel rather cut-off down here sometimes.”

  “One just can’t get up to London and back in the day,” Laura contributed.

  She hoped inwardly that A. B. Onslow was paying no attention to the conversation,

  “Shall we have some tea? I think it’s in the library.”

  Laura’s subconscious self, that exercised its powers of observation entirely independently of her wishes, and even her principles, rather resentfully noted the faint suggestion that Lady Kingsley-Browne hadn’t even ordered her tea in advance, and couldn’t be perfectly certain in which of her five sitting-rooms the servants might have placed it.

  The library was a panelled room, with a log-fire burning on an open hearth, and a number of very comfortable armchairs.

  Tea was on a gate-legged table by the fire, and neither the cakes, the bread-and-butter, nor the bowl of violets presented that amateurish appearance associated by Laura with her own tea-table.

  “Are you going to the Point-to-Point next week?” she heard Bébée enquire, and Alfred’s slow-spoken reply,

  “I daresay we shall. I’m afraid I hadn’t realised it was next week. The twenty-second?”

  “Do let’s go. I always love the Quinnerton Point-to-Point,” Laura exclaimed. She was partly genuine, and partly desirous of sounding ready to do anything that everybody else did.

  “This dreadful girl attends every race-meeting in England,” proudly declared Lady Kingsley-Browne. “Darling Bay-bay, who’s taking you to the Point-to-Point?”

  “I can’t remember, mummie, but whoever it is will turn up in time for lunch, I expect.”

  “Isn’t she terrible!”

  Everybody flatteringly agreed that Bébée was terrible, and Bébée ate sandwiches and looked blasée and contrived to make everybody understand that in a district where young women and men were in a proportion of about twelve to one, it was positively difficult for her to make a choice amongst the escorts that offered themselves to her on every possible occasion.

  It was not until tea was over that Onslow spoke to Laura, as he offered her a cigarette.

  “When are we to have the pleasure of reading another story of yours in the London Century?” he enquired.

  Laura flushed faintly, and smiled uncertainly.

  Now, if ever, was the moment to impress A. B. Onslow, his wife, Alfred, Lady Kingsley-Browne, and the insufferable Bébée, with the fact that one might live in the country all the year round and be a wife and a mother, and yet remain a woman of the world, and one in touch with the interests of modern literature.

  “I don’t know,” she heard herself reply, inanely.

  “Soon, I hope,” A. B. Onslow persisted gallantly.

  “I hope so, too,” said Laura feebly, and, overcome with self-consciousness, dashed into an irrelevant reference to a book of memoirs. Had Mr. Onslow read it?

  Yes, he had.

  After that they were able to talk, and Laura found it the easier because Bébée had disappeared, and Lady Kingsley-Browne was talking to Alfred and Mrs. Onslow about pageants — evidently a link between country life and the artistic interests of Highgate.

  It gave Laura acute pleasure to listen again to talk about books, although she would have preferred not to have had to say “I haven’t yet read that” quite so often.

  At last Mr. Onslow — evidently a man of infinite tact — again approached the subject of Laura’s own contributions to literature, with all the air of one whose suspense was urgent.

  “If I may say so, Mrs. Temple, that story of yours in the Century was a considerable advance in technique over anything that you’ve given us yet. I believe I’ve read everything of yours, and I’ve been wondering very much when another collected volume would appear. Soon, I hope?”

  Laura laughed, flushing.

  “I hope so, too. You can’t imagine how encouraging it is to hear that from you. It makes me feel that I must go on writing at all costs.”

  “You must, indeed,” Onslow assured her earnestly.

  “And may I say how much I loved your last book?”

  They talked about A. B. Onslow’s last book until they were interrupted by Bébée drifting in again, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jumper suit, a cigarette between her rouged lips.

  “Not that it doesn’t suit her,” Laura admitted to herself with reluctant honesty, gazing at that young, unnaturally-crimson mouth.

  It was at this point that Mr. Onslow’s attention to his conversation with Laura, although it did not waver, gave her an impression of being, as it were, nailed to the mast, by courtesy and kind-heartedness.

  Mrs. Temple, as an instant result, ceased to be either entertaining or responsively intelligent, and their duologue petered out.

  “I’m afraid,” said Laura, looking at her husband, “that we ought really to be thinking—”

  “Oh, must you really?” Lady Kingsley-Browne rose as she spoke. “How are the children? Mrs. Temple has two such perfectly delightful children.”

  “Have you really?” Mrs. Onslow asked — but Laura’s maternal instinct knew very well that she required no reply, and would not perceive the absence of one.

  The Temples were escorted to the door, their Morris-Oxford — looking strangely battered in the middle of the square, gravelled terrace, flanked by stone jars of geraniums — was politely extolled, and farewells were exchanged.

  “Remember! I shall look out for that volume of stories,” said Onslow.

  “Do come and see us when you’re in London,” Mrs. Onslow begged. “We’re in the telephone book.”

  “We’d love to,” Laura returned smiling.

  “Switch on,” directed Alfred, and cranked up the car. The Temples, in Laura’s opinion, were the only remaining couple in England whose car was not fitted with a self-starter.

  As they drove away, she saw Bébée, with a familiar and nonchalant gesture, thrust her hand through the arm of her parents’ distinguished guest.

  “That girl is, with no single exception, the worst-mannered and most conceited little fool that I’ve ever set eyes upon,” Laura remarked, in what she believed to be a detached tone of impartial scientific interest.

  Alfred, more indifferently, but with Shakesperian outspokenness, coldly applied one single, racy epithet to Miss Kingsley-Browne.

  “I daresay,” said Laura, her feelings relieved by a small laugh. “What did you think of the Onslows?”

  “Oh, all right. Did you notice her pearls?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “You ought to go and see them when you’re in London, Laura. I like to hear you talking about books,” said Alfred simply.

  Her heart glowed suddenly.

  “Do you, darling?”

  Occasionally Alfred said things like that, and invariably Laura sought to draw him on further, although seldom with success.

  “Why — ?”

  “Oh well, you do it very nicely, and I know it’s a pleasure to you. Did you notice those hyacinths in the hall?”

  “No — yes — yes, I think I did.”
/>   “They were very fine. That head-man of theirs is good. A Scotsman, of course. Did I tell you that I’d had a talk with him about sugar-beet growing the other day?”

  How odd it was, Laura reflected, that her desire to hear Alfred talk about sugar-beet — although a loyal and a genuine one, if not absolutely indigenous to her own mentality — should so seldom coincide with Alfred’s desire to talk about it!

  Well, at least she could attend to it now, which she couldn’t simply do at home.

  “Of course, the trouble with these farmers—” said Alfred.

  Laura listened very attentively, and hoped that Alfred wouldn’t remember to ask her if she’d yet read the article in the Agricultural Journal. It was on her writing-table still. She visualised it, and the small packet of letters that was just beside it…answered, thank goodness, but not quite finished with yet. Surely, surely, out of five addresses collected from the Quinnerton Registry Offices and one advertisement taken from the Morning Post, a house-parlourmaid would materialise. If one engaged them too long ahead they always seemed to fail at the last and most inconvenient minute, and if one left it too long, then there was no chance at all, and a terrible and expensive system of “tiding over” came into force. It entailed the presence of a woman from the village, at a cost of three shillings and several meals a day, and a great deal of uncongenial and personal hard work on the part of Laura herself. And Alfred didn’t like it. And one couldn’t have anybody to stay. And it made extra work for nurse, because the boys were on her hands at times when Laura habitually had them with her. Worst of all, a prolonged period of tiding over always caused the remaining servant to give notice. So that by the time one had a new one, the old one was just leaving, and the vicious circle went on.

  “In fact it’s actually a more profitable crop than wheat,” said Alfred conclusively.

  And Laura replied with great emphasis, “Yes, I see it must be. It’s wonderful.”

  As the Morris-Oxford turned in at the white gate, Laura forgot the existence of the A. B. Onslows, of the Kingsley-Brownes, and of sugar-beet. She glanced at her watch, and saw that there was still half an hour to elapse before the boys need go to bed.