Westwood

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Hullo, Daddy,’ said Barnabas, ‘come and give me a ride.’ Emma, whose face was red with excitement and pleasure, looked up at her father and laughed as she waved her legs above her head.

  He glanced at Margaret, who was standing awkwardly by the window, but without curiosity; he seemed to take her for granted. In fact he supposed that she was some friend of Grantey’s who was spending the afternoon there, but Margaret, flustered at being in the presence of a genius and anxious to do the right thing, at once came forward and said in a voice which nervousness made overemphatic – ‘How do you do?’ (She hesitated for a second, too nervous to say his name.) ‘I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Margaret Steggles and Grantey – I’m afraid I don’t know her other name’ (with a little laugh) ‘asked me to stay to tea. I found your wife’s ration book’ (oh Lord, that sounds all wrong) ‘on the Heath and I only brought it back this afternoon. I expect you’ll think I’m awful, keeping it nearly a month like that, only it was in the pocket of a coat I hadn’t worn since I got back to Lukeborough, and I only found it when we came back to London. I do hope it didn’t put you out awfully, my keeping it so long, I mean,’ and she stopped abruptly and laughed again.

  She had not intended to ramble on so incoherently, but when once she began to talk she had found it impossible, from embarrassment, to bring her remarks to an end. He listened with a slight smile, but without much attention or interest.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said at last, sitting down and beginning to pull Emma backwards and forwards by her legs while she squealed with delight, ‘I think Grantey saw to it, she does all that sort of thing for us. Don’t worry about it, really,’ he added, as Margaret once more started eagerly to say something, and she checked herself and stood looking down at him as he played with the children, while her cheeks burned with self-consciousness and annoyance. She hardly knew herself what she had expected him to say or how she had wanted him to behave, but his casualness irritated her in the same way that Mrs Niland’s had done, and in his case she was not charmed by his appearance, and she was also angry with herself for having talked so much and so disconnectedly.

  Yet, as she watched him holding the laughing Emma above his head, and swinging Barnabas round and round, she began to feel that charm which the sight of a man playing with little children always exercises over a woman, and her irritation gradually subsided. Once, when the children’s shrieks grew very loud, he glanced across at her and laughed, and she thought how much more impressive his face became when it was animated and how like his large, slightly dim violet-grey eyes were to those of Barnabas, although the child’s were so clear.

  ‘That’s enough, that’s enough,’ he said presently, standing up and letting Barnabas slide all the considerable way down from his chest to his feet. ‘And you’d better calm down, too, Emma, or I shall have Grantey after me.’

  ‘Is your wound hurting?’ demanded Barnabas.

  ‘It is rather,’ said his father, smiling again at Margaret. She smiled in return and wondered what the child meant.

  ‘Is it bad? Is that why you can’t play with me and Emma any more?’

  ‘It isn’t very bad, but I want to go and read the evening paper.’

  ‘Why do you?’

  ‘Because I do.’

  ‘It’s an awful, silly, lousy old paper. Gosh, it is lousy,’ said Barnabas.

  ‘Yes, well, all right. Don’t say lousy. Good-bye,’ and he waved to them all and made for the door.

  ‘Will you come and see me in the bath?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And see Emma in her bath?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promise honour bright?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ll see.’

  He went out of the room, and Margaret heard him stop to speak to Grantey as he passed her on the stairs, Well, she thought, sighing, I’ve seen him and spoken to him, which is more than I thought I’d have the luck to do when I started out this afternoon, but I can’t help it; I am disappointed. He’s so ordinary.

  ‘There we are, all clean and paid for,’ said Grantey, bustling in. ‘Now, how about that game before bedtime? Miss Steggles, do you know any nice games?’

  Margaret recalled her wandering thoughts with difficulty. To tell the truth, she was beginning to be a little tired of the children’s company, and to feel need of adult society. Young children are the most exhausting creatures in the world, even to those who find them interesting as well as lovable; and Margaret, although her youthful energies were well fitted to sustain the pressure of ceaseless noise and demands for attention, was not sufficiently happy or at ease in her own heart to be able to give that calm and undivided application of herself to the children’s needs which the successful nurse or mother gives. She felt a sudden irritation. How long before they’ll be in bed? she wondered, but the thought was immediately followed by the sobering one, And then I shall have to go home.

  As she helped to draw up chairs to the table upon which Grantey had placed a large bright box filled with counters and games, she was thinking how strange it was that Mr Niland should want to read the evening paper, just like all the ordinary men who were not geniuses who travelled in the Tube every day. How could he paint beautiful pictures if he were not always thinking beautiful thoughts? And how could he think beautiful thoughts if he liked – as he presumably did – reading the tediousnesses and the horrors in the evening paper? She abandoned the problem, and gave her attention to the game.

  A little later she was still more tired of the children’s company, for Barnabas turned extremely naughty just before being put into the bath, and began to scream, and Emma joined in. Side by side they sat in the bath, with tears rolling down their crimson, distorted faces, while the flannel manipulated by Grantey travelled swiftly but thoroughly over every inch of them, and Grantey herself kept up a low sarcastic commentary upon their behaviour, rhetorically demanding of them at intervals what Miss Steggles would think of them. Margaret handed warm towels and was kept busy between the bathroom and the night nursery, where a rosy lamp was dimly burning and the stove was alight and the two white beds stood side by side. She was charmed by the room, which looked like a night nursery out of Peter Pan or Now We Are Six, but as she remembered Barnabas’s contorted countenance and the shrieks of Emma, she felt that she understood those mothers who go out at night and leave their children locked alone in the house.

  Grantey jerked the last button of Barnabas’s dressing-gown into its buttonhole with such vigour that he stopped crying.

  ‘There!’ said his mother’s voice and her head came round the bathroom door. ‘Just cheered up in time for me.’

  She did not ask what had been the matter; indeed, no one knew.

  ‘Hullo, Mummy,’ said Barnabas in a faint and heartbroken voice.

  Emma stopped crying too, and began to push her arms into the nightgown which Margaret, upon whose lap she was sitting, had been manoeuvring over her head. She stared at her mother, while her sobs gradually died away.

  ‘Hullo – still here?’ said Mrs Niland, looking across at Margaret. ‘Aren’t you nearly dead? Come down when they’re in bed and have some sherry.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Margaret eagerly.

  ‘Miss Steggles and me are going to catch the bus from Jack Straw’s,’ said Grantey, in a warning and important voice. ‘I’ve got to be back at seven, Miss Hebe.’

  ‘I know, but it won’t take her five minutes,’ said Hebe soothingly. ‘You come down,’ she murmured to Margaret, and retreated. Margaret heard her voice as she went along the passage. ‘Earl will bring their supper up, Grantey; he’s getting it now.’

  The curtains, which Margaret noticed as she went between bathroom and night nursery, were of rich red or green or yellow velvet, and every lamp was shaded in amber, and the glowing, jewel-like impression of the cottage which she had received in the afternoon was strengthened, now that the darkness had come, by th
e emerald-green or carnation-red carpets which covered all the floors and the staircase. She was enjoying every moment (apart from those spent in listening to the yells of Barnabas and his sister), but as she carried Emma into the nursery she was wondering nervously how she would get on downstairs while she was drinking the sherry; who would be there, and what she should say, and what they would think of her.

  Emma was now calm, and felt warm and soft inside her miniature dressing-gown. Her feet were still bright pink from the bath and she wore slippers shaped like rabbits. Her sweet-smelling hair tickled Margaret’s nose.

  ‘There!’ said Margaret, setting her down in the cot and covering her up, having first removed the slippers. Emma looked up at her but said nothing.

  ‘Hullo, therr!’ said a soft voice at the door, with a slur on the ‘r,’ and Margaret looked up. A fair young man of medium height, wearing the uniform of an American private, stood looking into the room through his glasses.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said pleasantly. She was not afraid of him, because he looked so young and probably was not a genius.

  ‘I’ve brought their rations,’ he said, coming forward with a tray. ‘Hullo, Barnabas,’ to the little boy, who had scrambled into his bed, kicking off his slippers as he went. The soldier put the tray down on the table.

  ‘Hullo, Earl,’ said Barnabas, and tried to stand on his head, suddenly overcome with self-consciousness.

  ‘Barnabas, darling, I don’t think Grantey would like you to do that,’ said Margaret gently.

  ‘Don’t care.’

  ‘Now that won’t do,’ said the soldier, taking him by the slack of his pyjamas. His touch was not expert but Barnabas allowed himself to be put right way up and given his bowl, and began to eat his supper.

  ‘Mrs Grant’ll feed Sister,’ said Earl, going over to Emma’s cot and putting her bowl on the table. ‘You can’t quite be trusted yet, can you, Sister?’ and he stood gazing down at Emma with his hands on the rail of the cot, while she gazed steadily up at him.

  He suddenly glanced across at Margaret.

  ‘Aren’t they swell?’ he said simply. ‘It’s a great privilege – coming into an English home like this, and I can tell you it means a whole heap to me.’ His grey eyes were youthful and clear behind his glasses.

  Margaret was moved. The pretty room, the rosy children eating their supper in the peaceful hush, seemed suddenly to typify all that was still safe and happy in England, while the boy’s words seemed to go out and away, across the dark dangerous Atlantic, to the home that he had left behind him when he came to fight for freedom. So touching were her thoughts that she was both astonished and indignant when another American voice said mockingly:

  ‘The hell it does.’

  A second soldier, tall and dark and flashy, stood at the door looking into the room. He took no notice of her. ‘Will you come on down, Earl,’ he said, and turned away.

  Earl looked hurt, but made no comment. He turned to Margaret, ‘I’m Earl Swinger, late of Swordsville, Kansas, and now of the United States Army. I’m pleased to know you.’

  He held out his hand and Margaret took it. He gave it a firm shake.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, too,’ she said, and feeling that more was demanded of her, she added, ‘I’m Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’ She felt foolish as she said it, but then she wondered why. This was a sensible social custom which established a stranger’s name and locality firmly in one’s mind.

  ‘Mrs Margaret Steggles?’

  ‘Oh, no – Miss Margaret Steggles,’ she laughed.

  ‘And your profession? (Shall I lead the way downstairs?)’ he went on, going ahead of her down the passage.

  ‘I’m a schoolteacher.’

  ‘Why, that’s vurry interesting,’ said Earl, turning to look at her. ‘I was a professor myself at Swordsville Carllage before I volunteered. May I ask where you were educated? Excuse me, this way.’ He preceded her down the stairs.

  Margaret thought that he seemed very young to be a professor but had no time to say anything more, because he was leading the way into the sitting-room.

  Hebe was on a couch with her feet up, and the room was dim in amber light and full of the scent of dying violets. The dark soldier and Alexander Niland were standing talking by a tray of drinks.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Hebe, smiling. ‘Lev, bring some sherry over. She’s got to fly off with Grantey.’

  ‘Light or dark?’ asked the soldier, turning to Margaret with a decanter in each hand. He had a big nose and dark bloodshot eyes and she disliked his expression.

  ‘Oh – er – light, please.’

  ‘This is Arnold Levinsky,’ said Earl, as the soldier came over to her with the drink. ‘Lev, meet Miss Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’

  Margaret muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ which seemed to be the formula, and Lev made a vague flip of his unoccupied hand and looked down at her with a casual smile, but he did not speak and at once went back to Alexander Niland. Margaret sat on the edge of her chair, nervously sipping her sherry. No one took any notice of her and she tried to make the most of her last few minutes in Lamb Cottage, for very soon the enchanted afternoon would be over. She longed to say something that would startle and impress them all and make them want to see her again, but it was of no use; she could not think of even the most ordinary remark, not even a comment upon the baby’s jacket which Hebe was placidly knitting, and she sat there in silence, feeling a growing resentment against them which mingled uncomfortably with her fascinated interest.

  She began to listen to what Alexander Niland and Lev were talking about, but was disappointed to find that it concerned the difficulty of obtaining matches. The painter was holding up a box to the light, which fell slantingly upon his slightly podgy cheeks, and saying:

  ‘Well, I got these from that little man in Holly Square. He let me have them because he knows us, but he told me he has two or three hundred boxes in every Thursday, and they’re gone in a couple of hours.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Lev.

  ‘I once knew a man who collected match-boxes,’ put in Hebe. ‘Alex, would your stew be burning?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes, excuse me,’ he said and hurried out of the room. No one said anything. Hebe continued to knit, and Earl, who was standing near the head of the couch, watched her flying fingers, while Lev had picked up the evening paper and was glancing over it. How rude they are, thought Margaret; the Wilsons have much nicer manners. Not that these people say anything worth listening to when they do talk. I wouldn’t have believed a genius, and anyone so fascinating as Mrs Niland, could have been so dull.

  ‘Is your home far from here, Miss Steggles?’ suddenly inquired Earl earnestly, crossing the room and sitting down at her side. She turned to him gratefully, thinking how kind and perceptive he was, and that he at least had nice manners.

  ‘About three miles. I live on the other side of Highgate Hill,’ she answered.

  ‘Highgate Hill? Then I expect you know the beautiful home of Mrs Niland’s parents,’ said Earl. ‘Lev and I hope to have the pleasure of visiting therr soon.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ put in Hebe, ‘but she does live quite near my mamma and papa.’ Margaret was surprised, but then reflected that Grantey must have been talking to Mrs Niland.

  ‘Oh, it’s a swell place,’ went on Earl, ‘the sort of house we think of at home as typically English.’

  ‘There are some typically English ones in the back streets round Euston depot, too – what’s left of them,’ put in Lev.

  Hebe, who had been knitting with her amused eyes fixed on Earl’s solemn young face, now laughed outright, and Earl looked pained.

  The door opened and Alexander came back, and behind him the face – most unwelcome to Margaret – of Grantey.

  ‘It’s all right. Tastes superb,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s nearly ready, and Mary’s in.’ (Mary was the maid, obtained with much difficulty and filling up of forms, from Eire.)

 
‘Thank heaven; I’m ravenous,’ said Hebe, putting away her work.

  ‘Miss Steggles, we ought to be going; we’ve just got nice time if we go at once,’ put in Grantey, beckoning. Margaret put down her glass and stood up. Earl stood up too, but Lev stayed where he was.

  ‘Good-bye, Mrs Niland. Thank you very much. I have enjoyed it so,’ said Margaret; instinct told her not to put out her hand.

  ‘I’m so glad. You’ve been an angel with the brats,’ smiled Hebe. ‘Good-bye.’

  Earl was holding the door open for her. Lev and Alexander Niland glanced up from the conversation which they had resumed, and Lev nodded, while Alexander gave her his radiant smile. Earl held out his hand, which she took.

  ‘Good-bye, Miss Steggles,’ he said warmly. ‘I am glad to have had the pleasurr of meeting you and I certainly hope we shall meet again.’

  ‘Oh … thank you; so do I. Good-bye, Mr Swinger.’

  She was relieved that she had been able to remember his name. In another moment she was alone with Grantey in the blackout, turning up her collar against the cold wind and noticing the searchlights wandering over the dark cloudy sky. It was ridiculous to have tears in her eyes over the casualness of those people, she knew, but the afternoon had meant so much to her, and nothing to them, and she had never said good-bye to the children!

  Grantey was saying importantly: ‘Better let me hold your arm; I know my way down here better than you do, I expect. Now there’s no need to rush; we’ve plenty of time. That sitting-room clock’s ten minutes fast.’

  This information rendered Margaret silent for some time.

  ‘Who is that?’ demanded Alexander of his wife, as soon as Margaret had gone. ‘She was in the nursery when I got home this afternoon.’

  ‘Her name is Stubbles or something. She brought back my ration book. She’s been nursing it for weeks.’

  ‘Oh yes, she did say something about it, but you know I never hear what anyone says,’ said Alexander. ‘She has a rather striking head.’

  Hebe made a face.

  ‘Do you want to paint her? I should think she’d faint with joy. She never took her eyes off you.’