Westwood

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Do I look all right?’ she whispered to Margaret, smoothing her dress and patting her hair.

  ‘Very nice, Mother.’

  ‘I wish you’d put on something a bit lighter,’ with a discontented glance at her daughter’s dark dress, unrelieved except for a gilt necklace and the brilliant handbag slung from her shoulder. ‘It looks so funny our both being in dark things.’

  Margaret did not reply and they went downstairs. She had become discontented with her bright clothes since seeing Mrs Challis’s dark ones, and her attire this evening was the nearest she could get to an imitation of Mrs Challis’s style.

  Indeed, as they crossed the hall she felt discontented with her presence at the party, the prospect of the evening’s noisy fun, and all the people whom she would meet there. There had been a time, three months ago, when a party at Hilda’s home had provided material for anxious consideration; she used to dream of meeting interesting people there, and brood afterwards over the uninteresting ones whom she did meet, feeling the impact of their personalities too strongly upon her own, as socially inexperienced people often do. But since her meeting with the Nilands and the Challises she felt nothing but impatience and boredom with Hilda’s parties and her friends; it was all so insipid, so hopelessly inelegant, compared with what went on and who was entertained at Westwood!

  She opened the door into a small, brightly lit, crowded room in which the heat was too great to be pleasant, where two groups of people, seated at either end, were excitedly racing to beat each other at a game of ‘Subject and Object.’

  ‘Margaret! We want you!’ shouted the young soldier who was in charge of one group. ‘We need the best brains; you have them!’

  A groan went up from the other party as Margaret went across and joined the circle. Mrs Steggles stood by the door, glancing about her with a smile which she tried to make pleasant, and in a moment Mrs Wilson came in and took her arm and drew her away, laughingly explaining that Margaret had brought her into the wrong department and that there was whist going on for the quieter guests in another room (as though I didn’t know it’s the dining-room, thought Mrs Steggles, such nonsense). Mrs Wilson said ‘quieter,’ but she meant ‘older,’ and although she referred to her daughter’s friends as Noisy Monkeys, it was clear where her own tastes and sympathy lay.

  ‘Will Mr Steggles be able to come?’ asked Mrs Wilson, as she settled Mrs Steggles at a table with three elderly pleasant people. ‘Mr Wilson is so looking forward to a little chat with him about the war; there’s nothing he likes better than getting hold of a newspaperman; down at The Woodcutter, you know –’

  ‘Oh yes, he hopes to, but it may not be till about ten,’ interrupted Mrs Steggles, who did not want to hear what went on at The Woodcutter, ‘and he said he hoped you wouldn’t mind, he might bring a friend. I did tell him it was only one more mouth to feed, but you know what men are!’

  Mrs Wilson assured her the more the merrier, and having seen her settled and comparatively content, went away to make sure there was still plenty of beer.

  The evening rolled on – ‘but oh! how heavily it rolls for some!’ as Mrs Hungerford points out so truly in her novel Doris; and Margaret found it increasingly tiring to laugh, to glance with smiling interest from one face to another, to make suggestions and jokes and to laugh at other people’s suggestions and jokes, while the heat grew steadily greater, and the beer in the thick glasses grew lukewarm, and the cigarette smoke made her eyes smart; while all the time, beneath the noise and heat and laughter, her thoughts dwelt upon the mansion standing on the hill less than a quarter of a mile away; its windows gleaming darkly in the winter starlight, and within it the elegance, the peace, the flower-filled silence, and above all the blue eyes that were like the eyes of the Roman Augustus. Perhaps he was writing in his study, his beautiful profile outlined against the radiance of the lamp on his desk, while his long hand moved steadily across the paper, and behind him in shadow was the gleam of gold lettering upon brown, ancient books, the noble sightless eyes of some marble bust, the play of firelight over the rich folds of velvet curtains (velvet curtains she knew there were, because Zita had told her which was his study, and she had caught a gleam of crimson at the long windows). How warmly, how deeply from her heart, did she wish him a Happy New Year! – but perhaps he did not want one; his plays were all so sad.

  While she was huddled up against Hilda in the warm darkness of the linen cupboard waiting to be joined by the other Sardines, her feelings found expression in a long, deep sigh.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Hilda, who was so exhausted with heat, laughter and beer that she was quite glad to be silent for a little while. ‘You’ll blow the door open if you sigh like that.’

  ‘I was thinking about a poem by Mrs Norton.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have. Never mind.

  ‘I do not love thee! no! I do not love thee!

  And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

  And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,

  Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.’

  – and I can’t remember the next two verses, but it goes on:

  ‘I do not love thee! yet thy speaking eyes,

  With their deep, bright and most expressive blue,

  Between me and the midnight heaven arise,

  Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.’

  ‘It’s rather nice,’ said Hilda sleepily. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I know I do not love thee! yet alas!

  Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;

  And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,

  Because they see me gazing where thou art.’

  ‘I don’t see why that should make you sigh like a grampus – whatever a grampus may be.’

  Margaret did not reply, and Hilda was too sleepy to be very curious; she leant her faintly scented head against Margaret’s shoulder and said drowsily:

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ A pause. ‘Oh, Hilda, Westwood is such a wonderful place!’

  ‘Wherever is everybody?’ demanded Hilda sleepily. ‘Have we got to sit here all night? I’m slowly roasting. Why is it so wonderful?’

  ‘Because it’s beautiful and the people who live in it are exciting and different. And Gerard Challis, the dramatist, you know, oh, he’s marvellous!’

  ‘So that’s it. I thought you were very wrapped-up in Finkelsfink or whatever her name is.’

  ‘Zita Mandelbaum. She’s nice, truly, Hilda.’

  ‘She’d better be, with a name like that. Well, I’ve got a new boy friend.’

  ‘You always have.’

  ‘Ah, but this one isn’t a boy, he’s rather old really, and ever so rich. I dined with him last week and my dear, where do you think we went? I’d never heard of it, but it’s called Jones’s Hotel and it’s miles away at the back of nowhere near Hyde Park, and the bill came to five pounds; I couldn’t help seeing – I ask you.’

  ‘That’s a new departure for you, isn’t it – rich old men.’ Margaret spoke dreamily, gazing out at the darkened landing, where the only illumination came up dimly from the hall.

  ‘He isn’t really old and he’s quite harmless and rather boring.’

  ‘Why go out with him, then?’ asked Margaret.

  Hilda did not like to admit that she was sorry for her admirer, so she said vaguely:

  ‘Oh, I’ll try anything once.’

  ‘Was the food marvellous?’

  ‘Not particularly. It was all bits of things.’

  ‘And I suppose you had champagne?’

  ‘No, we had some Italian stuff. Muck, I thought it was, but he fairly lapped it up.’

  ‘Did he kiss you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Margaret smiled at the picture of a gross elderly stockbroker being kept at arm’s-length by Hilda, but she was also a little repelled, and her sense of estrangement from her friend increased. She said, no more tha
n civilly and pretending to an interest she certainly did not feel:

  ‘What’s his name, Hilda?’

  ‘Marcus.’

  Margaret was about to say, ‘Oh, a Jew,’ when a man’s figure came quickly and stealthily up the stairs, glanced round the dim landing, and darted over to the linen cupboard and opened the door.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he exclaimed, and sat down next to Hilda.

  ‘Hey-hey!’ she protested. ‘Who are you? I don’t seem to know your face.’

  ‘Dick Fletcher – friend of Jack Steggles,’ he said, still in a whisper. ‘It’s all right, lady, I’m not gate-crashing.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Hilda Wilson,’ whispered Hilda, ‘and this thing here,’ nudging Margaret, ‘is Mr Steggles’s only daughter, Margaret Mabel.’

  ‘How do you do, Margaret Mabel,’ he whispered, and put a hand out in the darkness which Margaret (who disliked characterless handshakes) firmly pressed, whispering, ‘How do you do.’ She had never met him, in spite of her father’s friendship with him, and now glanced curiously towards him. She could make out a high forehead faintly reflecting the light, and the dim outlines of a clean-shaven face, and he seemed to be of slight build and medium height. His presence was accompanied by an odour of tobacco and beer which she found offensive.

  ‘I’m going to stand up,’ announced Hilda, ‘or there won’t be room in here for any more. What ages they’re taking to come up.’

  ‘They’re still eating,’ said Dick Fletcher, but even as he spoke another form came noiselessly up the stairs and was soon pressed up against the group in the cupboard, and after this the numbers increased rapidly until the final moment when they were discovered, and the hot, giggling, closely com pressed mass burst into a simultaneous shout of laughter and someone turned on the lights, revealing flushed faces and laughing eyes bewildered by the sudden brilliance.

  ‘Thank heaven, another minute and I should have melted,’ sighed Hilda, pushing back her hair. ‘Now, who’s for more beer? Come on, folks,’ and she led the way downstairs.

  Margaret stood a little to one side to let the others precede, and glanced up to find that Dick Fletcher was regarding her with friendly curiosity. He smiled.

  ‘This seems rather a good party, don’t you think?’ he said.

  Her nerves were irritated by the boredom which she had endured throughout the evening, and she had found her recent close bodily contact with strangers very distasteful. His question proved too much for her self-control, and it was with a full curl of her lip that she answered:

  ‘Do you think so?’

  His pleasant expression changed to one of impatient gloom, but he only said:

  ‘I’m enjoying it, anyway. Shall we go down?’ and stood aside to let her pass.

  He made no further attempt to talk to her, and moved away among the crowd where she soon saw him laughing with two girls. She found a seat in an alcove and sat down with a drink and a sandwich, realizing thankfully that the time was now nearly ten minutes to twelve and that in a short while the ordeal would be over.

  For lack of more interesting occupation she studied Dick Fletcher as he stood laughing and talking with the two young women. She disliked him because she had betrayed her ill-temper to him, but she admitted that her dislike was unreasonable; all that she actually had against him was his appearance, which suggested the typical journalist of an earlier day, with shiny, shabby clothes exhaling an odour of beer and tobacco, and the touch of his hand, which was disagreeably moist. The fine skin of his face was deeply lined; more, she thought, by worry than by time, for he appeared to be only in the late thirties and the remnant of a brilliant youthful colouring lingered in his cheeks and hair, the latter being of a peculiarly bright brown and growing thickly at the sides of his head, but tending to baldness above the forehead. His large grey eyes were liquidly bright, his mouth long and thin and his nose pointed, with wide nostrils. She found his air of eagerness and ill-health unattractive, and turned away.

  Shortly afterwards the company linked hands to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and after the darkest young man present had been made to step over the threshold to bring in the New Year’s luck, the party broke up.

  Margaret and her mother came down into the hall in their outdoor clothes to find Mr Steggles and Dick Fletcher standing with their hosts.

  ‘I shall be all right,’ Dick Fletcher was assuring them, turning up the collar of his overcoat. He had no hat and his forehead looked damp. ‘No, really, old man, I don’t want to put you out.’ Mrs Steggles glanced sharply from her husband to his friend; what had Jack been suggesting?

  ‘Mabel, Dick must come back with us, mustn’t he?’ demanded Mr Steggles. ‘He’s lost the last bus and it’s a beastly night, we can’t let him – nonsense,’ putting his hand on Fletcher’s arm, ‘of course you’re coming.’

  ‘I can get a taxi, Jack. You know me; taxis run when I whistle,’ said Fletcher.

  The Wilsons laughed, and then Mrs Steggles said, ‘If Mr Fletcher doesn’t mind waiting while the sheets for the spare room are aired – and there’s no blackout, I’m afraid – but if you’re sure you don’t mind –’

  Her husband gave her one glance of fury, then immediately looked down at the floor and was silent. It was as if he could not trust himself to speak lest he should break into abuse. Margaret keenly felt her mother’s lack of hospitality, and suddenly moved forward and broke the awkward silence: ‘Do come, please, Mr Fletcher. You must have some of my special after-midnight coffee. It’s good, isn’t it, Dad?’ She put all the warmth of which she was capable into the words, and her voice rang richly with it.

  ‘It’s grand,’ said her father heartily, giving her a grateful glance. ‘Now come on, Dick, that’s settled,’ and he took his friend by the arm and moved towards the door, followed by the Wilsons, to whom everybody began to express their thanks for a delightful evening.

  Dick Fletcher, who now looked both tired and ill, said to Mrs Steggles: ‘It’s awfully nice of you; I’m afraid I’m giving you a lot of trouble,’ and she answered:

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing, we’ll soon fix you up, Mr Fletcher, if you’re sure you don’t mind about the blackout,’ in a tone which she managed to make sufficiently pleasant; and the party, having waved good-bye to the Wilsons as they stood in the lighted hall with Hilda leaning smiling upon her mother’s arm, set off down the damp, silent road. They were all tired, and Mrs Steggles’s thoughts were running upon pillow-slips.

  ‘That’s a pretty girl,’ said Dick Fletcher suddenly.

  ‘Isn’t she!’ said Margaret eagerly, pleased with the praise of her friend, and turning to him as they walked side by side. She hoped that he would continue to talk of Hilda, but he said no more, and the conversation was carried on by Mr Steggles, who asked Margaret what were the names and pre-war occupations of all the young men who had been at the party, while Mrs Steggles commented upon the attire of the young women.

  ‘Since you were so ready to ask him here, you can make his bed,’ whispered Mrs Steggles in a low angry tone, as soon as she and Margaret were upstairs, the men having gone into the dining-room. ‘Shouting out like that – I never heard anything like it. Whose house is it, I should like to know?’ She jerked open a cupboard and began to collect bed linen.

  ‘Well, Mother, we do owe him Dad’s job,’ said Margaret in the same tone, taking the sheets. ‘If it wasn’t for him we shouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Steggles grudgingly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten that. But what I’m complaining about is you taking it on yourself to ask him here.’

  Margaret suddenly put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a quick kiss.

  ‘You know you don’t really mind!’ she said.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ grumbled Mrs Steggles. ‘There, you’ve upset my hair.’ But her tone was softer, and when Margaret fixed an improvised blackout at the spare-room window she expressed approval. (I believe if I kissed Mother more ofte
n we should get on better, thought Margaret, as she made the bed, but the trouble is that I cannot kiss people unless I really feel like it. Poor Mother, she doesn’t get many kisses.)

  ‘You surely won’t make coffee at this hour?’ said Mrs Steggles as they went downstairs.

  ‘Depends if they want it,’ said Margaret, almost as blithely as Hilda would have done, and went into the dining-room. Both men looked up as she entered.

  ‘Now how about that coffee?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘That’s a very good idea,’ said her father cheerfully, stirring the fire. ‘Dick, you’ll have some?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d like some very much.’

  ‘It doesn’t keep you awake?’ she asked.

  ‘Keep him awake? You should see him in the Reporters’ Room, swilling it down in bucketfuls, black as your hat and no sugar,’ laughed her father.

  She smiled and went into the kitchen to begin her preparations.

  ‘Oh dear, I am so tired,’ said her mother, leaning against the dresser and yawning. ‘Do you think I need stay up?’

  ‘Of course not, you go up to bed, I’ll look after them,’ said Margaret. ‘We needn’t be up very early tomorrow.’ (This was one of the privileges of the Christmas holidays which she much appreciated.)

  ‘Poor Mr Fletcher, it’s so sad for him, that awful woman,’ said Mrs Steggles, beginning to go up to bed but lingering, as some people do.

  ‘What awful woman? Oh yes, of course, he’s divorced, isn’t he? He divorced her, I mean.’ Margaret was putting the milk on to heat.

  ‘Yes. Oh well … I’m going up. Good night, dear. Don’t be too late coming up.’