by Ursula Bloom
‘I’ll run up and fetch my things,’ she said. She must go now, right away. She could not stay another five minutes. What with Cuthbert being pained, and Eleanor’s tears, and Gloria’s sniffings, it was unbearable. She actually ran upstairs.
When she came down again they were grouped together, and they eyed her reproachfully.
She was sure that in her absence they had been discussing it in whispers.
‘I will walk down the road with you,’ announced Cuthbert coldly.
She felt like a child about to be whipped.
V
‘It’s no good my not saying that I am surprised over all this,’ he said. ‘I do not understand you. Frankly, Ann, I do not understand you at all. You are behaving with no consideration for others at all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘There is our reputation to be considered. As the Rector of this parish, people will doubtless be very surprised that my sister should behave like this. A certain stigma will attach itself to us through you. We shall suffer. Oh yes, we shall all suffer.’
‘I am afraid it is my own life.’
‘Certainly. Haven’t you always lived your own life?’
‘Well, no, I don’t think I have.’
As if you could argue with a woman whose logic ran along those lines! Cuthbert tried hard not to lose his patience as he strutted along by her side. ‘And now to go tearing off home, not to stay to tea …’
‘I’ve got so many things to arrange.’
‘You should have stayed to tea.’
‘Well, I haven’t stayed to tea.’ She also was beginning to lose her temper.
It was queer that she had never lost it with Cuthbert before. She hadn’t dared. She now felt she might do anything. Cuthbert gave her only one look, but it was singularly expressive.
At the corner of the road they parted company. He went to the Sunday School, she went to her ’bus. She did not know what she would do for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Puddock’s house would be empty, for that worthy woman did not expect Ann back to tea. In fact there would be no tea for her. It was a fine afternoon, and, tempted by the sunshine, she went back to Kensington and walked into the gardens there.
It was green and lovely, and quite serene. She knew now that everything was settled. She was really going to the Mediterranean. Cuthbert by his very perversity had settled it for her. She sat down on a green bench under a chestnut thick with its sticky brown buds. She let her thoughts wander through the adventure of the next month. She dwelt lovingly on the beauty; she had known so little real beauty that this in itself would be wonderful. In the grass opposite, the first daffodils were flowering.
She saw them swaying in the wind, like little bells, she noticed them appreciatively because they were so essentially English. Most of the English flowers were pale, whereas the semi-tropical flowers of the Mediterranean would be richer and fuller. She tried to imagine them, but they were beyond her powers of conception.
A man came and sat down by her side. He was, she supposed, nearly forty, with amiable grey eyes and soft darkish hair thinning at the temples. He did not look rich, yet his clothes were not shabby; she knew that he was not poor. He sat there smoking a cigarette and looking at the daffodils in the wind, then he said, noticing that she was gazing at them too, ‘They look very pretty don’t they?’
Before she thought she replied. ‘Lovely. I’ve been watching them some time.’
‘England is rather beautiful at this time of the year. I don’t know of any country that can hold a candle to it.’
‘I’ve never been abroad,’ she admitted. ‘I’m going on a cruise on Thursday week. I want to see the Mediterranean. I’ve never seen anywhere,’ she added regretfully.
Then suddenly she realized that this man had quite deliberately picked her up. Never in her life had she spoken to a strange man before. She felt hot with shame, yet really she could not be ashamed, for his manner was eminently respectable. There was nothing of the touring Romeo about him, nothing at which she could take offence.
He smiled. ‘You’ll love the Mediterranean. Where are you going?’
Although she knew that Cuthbert would not approve, she was so anxious to tell someone that she could not restrain herself. ‘Gibraltar and Naples. Malta and Venice. Ragusa, some of those little islands …’ Her geography was vague, therefore she hurried over it. ‘You know them?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Gib. is amusing. It is an excellent place for a start.It has an attractive atmosphere and you will love it.’
‘The flowers?’
‘Lilies and roses, heliotropes and freesias. You are fond of flowers?’
‘Very,’ and somehow ‒ she did not know why ‒ she was reminded of the prim daffodils in Cuthbert’s garden, and the clipped laurels. Cuthbert only grew ordinary flowers, those that everybody else grew; the unconventional had always struck Cuthbert as being ‘nasty’. He eschewed anything that was ‘nasty’. He believed an orchid to be as lascivious as an aspidistra was pure. He thought in those terms.
She sat on talking in the pleasant afternoon, and it was quite hot in the sun, one of those pleasant April days when the cold wind dies down, and in the comfortable warmth you can almost imagine that summer has come. He told her quite naturally that his name was Oliver Banks, that he had independent means and that he was a nomad by nature. He lived in a flat near Victoria Station when he lived anywhere at all, and she told him that she lived in South Kensington, and that she worked in an office in Henrietta Street.
All the time she felt that she ought to be ashamed of herself, for never had such a thing happened before. And it was entirely wrong. Properly brought-up young women of thirty-five did not speak to strange men, even though the first remarks were quite commonplace and ordinary. She realized that she had been very foolish and she got up in confusion.
‘I must be going back now,’ she said and hurried from him in embarrassment.
She did not dare to look back.
Chapter 4
I
The following morning brought a letter from Cuthbert. He had broken his steadfast and sacred rule never to write letters on the Sabbath day, in case it should jeopardize his chances of immortal life. For an extremely good man Cuthbert lived in an abiding fear of missing salvation. He had a suspicion that fate might not play fairly with him, he suspected injustice and he risked very few chances. But he felt that this was such an important occasion. Was there not three hundred pounds at stake? He must do something about it. Something to bring Ann to a sense of responsibility and the excess of foolishness which seemed to have possessed her.
So he settled down and he wrote several pages on his best notepaper. On opening the envelope, Ann was aware of the honour done her by the best notepaper! It was not usually wasted on relations, but was reserved for such people as patrons and bishops. The letter was voluminous. It said everything that could be said, and a great deal that couldn’t. Cuthbert was pained; worse than that, he was grieved and shocked. He could not think how Ann could ever have been so cruel and thoughtless. The whole family had been left shattered by the news. It was bad enough that she had won the money in such an undesirable manner; though that was of course a matter for her own conscience. But to contemplate this insane sojourn abroad; to go off entirely alone to these fast places, where only the dissolute collected; that was more than they could bear. All this had happened in one week. Surely matters had not gone so far that the project could not be cancelled? It must be cancelled. He knew of a most excellent investment, where her money would be perfectly safe, and although the interest it would yield would not be very large, it would be there. He dwelt upon the joy of knowing that every quarter day would bring in your regular thirty shillings. He agreed that it might not sound very much, but it was always comforting to know that it was there. And in case of need or illness ‒ you never knew when a long and serious illness might not swoop down upon you ‒ it would be a godsend.
He suggested that he should come to see Ann
one evening during the week. They could discuss it together. Ann knew that she did not want to see Cuthbert. She read his letter through laboriously, and she folded it up. Her reply was terse.
She was now terrified that Cuthbert should persuade her in some magic manner to give up the whole scheme. She was afraid that it might be possible to cancel it, and that the steamship company might be persuaded to return her the money. That would be terrible. The wistaria would be out in Naples. That thought haunted her more than all others. Wistaria in heliotrope clusters. She would not miss it for the world.
And, spurred on by Cuthbert’s pain and grief and general shock, she went into the West End one dinner hour and bought herself some clothes. They were serviceable garments of course, because all Ann’s attire was serviceable. She could only think in tailor-mades and woollen jumpers. Her shoes were severe, and she hated the extravagance of silk stockings.
The saleswoman listened to Ann’s nervous enquiries. She listened to the ports to be visited on the cruise, and all the while she thought what a waste it would be. Fancy somebody like Ann going, when there were lots of girls only too anxious, who would have such a marvellous time. She advised a lace dinner frock that would not crush in packing, and a good tweed costume, and brown shoes.
‘And a scarf?’ suggested the saleswoman, and held up a prettily fluttering affair of many colours. Blue and green and mauve.
‘Oh no,’ said Ann, ‘I couldn’t,’ then she thought how pretty it was. ‘Perhaps I could make it into a work bag,’ she said.
She had it sent round. The saleswoman packed the box with no interest, She did not care if the holiday was unsuccessful.
Ann did not look the sort of person who ought to be having such a holiday. And anyway if she intended sticking to tweeds and semi-evening frocks, she’d have a rotten time.
‘It does seem a shame,’ said the saleswoman to Miss Phyllis, who was second in command, ‘if I’d got that chance I’d pick up someone and come back married.’
Miss Phyllis, who was manicuring her nails, looked up casually. ‘Oh, well, I daresay she needs that chance more than you do, dear,’ she said, ‘did you see her face?’
II
Cuthbert was as good as his word, and he called round to protest. Mercifully he came in on one of those evenings when Mrs. Puddock was indulging in a tantrum. Her tantrums were as difficult as they were inexplicable. For no reason at all she would suddenly become huffy. It was very obvious that she had taken offence at something. Mrs. Puddock would be insolently haughty. All her conversational tides would be of a sudden stemmed. No longer would she indulge in that gay chattiness which was so much part of her. She would bring in the meals, and bang the door as much as to say: ‘So there you are!’ and she would flounce out again.
These tantrums would last either for a few hours or a couple of days. It all depended. Ann was sometimes at her wits’ end to account for the strange behaviour of Mrs. Puddock, though of recent years she had been forced to the lamentable conclusion that the condition of the cellar was largely responsible for these various moods.
Mrs. Puddock did not suffer from the artistic temperament, nor did she have nerves, though she always informed the neighbours that that was her malady. Mrs. Puddock tippled, and when she overdid it she drank sourly. She was ready to pick an imaginary quarrel with anyone, even if they happened to be so entirely harmless and innocent of blame as poor Ann.
Ann herself suffered from a periodically guilty conscience (most guilty of all on Tuesday nights), and she had previously connected Mrs. Puddock’s huffiness with the electric iron.
Perhaps it had been discovered. It was really a very mean form of cheating, she told herself, and she should not stoop to it, but necessity, the stern necessity of three pounds ten a week, drove hard. Necessity allied with bad example, for both Miss Thomas and little Gelding admitted to similar sinning.
When Cuthbert arrived in Onslow Gardens, Mrs. Puddock was in one of her very worst moods. She wasn’t having no truck with no one, she said. She had only seen Cuthbert twice before, and she did not recognize him again. On the whole she did not hold with parsons, seeing that you did hear such things, and read such things too in the Sunday newspapers. Being a parson only made it worse. So she conveniently forgot that Cuthbert was Ann’s brother, and she declared that Miss Clements was not at home. After all, she argued, if Miss Clements was going to start having gentleman visitors, brothers or no brothers, where would it end? Winning a prize in a sweepstake, and then going off gallivanting to foreign parts, well, what would happen next?
‘No, she ain’t at home,’ said Mrs. Puddock. She did not speak so badly usually, but she felt like it to-night. She was going to put a stop to gents coming visiting once and for all.
‘Then I’ll come in and wait,’ said Cuthbert.
‘Not in my ’ouse,’ said Mrs. Puddock.
‘But I’m Mr. Clements, Miss Clements’ brother. We have met before.’
‘Ho yus,’ said Mrs. Puddock and she shut the door firmly. She wasn’t going to have any truck like that. That she wasn’t.
At the moment she was feeling a fierce enmity towards Ann, but she had all unwittingly done her the best possible turn that she could. For, had Cuthbert gained access, had he pleaded his cause, playing on Ann’s sentimental feelings as only Cuthbert knew how, why anything might have happened.
But then all life is suspended on the slim thread of chance. If Eve had not fancied fruit, well, where might we not have been now?
III
The steamship company supplied Ann with a passport, and a most attractive-looking and varied bundle of labels. They intrigued her tremendously and she felt the thrill of voyaging coming rapidly closer.
It all sounded most important.
She took her time packing her nineteen-and-sixpenny trunk (she was always grateful to Mr. John Barker for that), and to have hurried it would have spoilt the whole thing. She took all her woollies. She would need them, she believed, for since this amazing series of coincidences she had read every newspaper article on the Mediterranean that came her way. Unfortunately they contradicted themselves badly.
She read disturbing warnings about sandflies and mosquitoes, and they frightened her. She tried to put them out of her mind, and furnished herself with an antidote for midge bites provided by a thoughtful and solicitous chemist.
The articles had suggested thin silk frocks, but Ann decided that was futile. No, she told herself, her woollies were quite useful, and it was senseless waste getting other things. She never felt the heat very much, and it could be quite hot at Worthing, especially in a heat wave. People made a lot of fuss about the heat, she thought, and anyway if it was a little trying she must put up with it. After all, it would not be for long.
The trunk went off two days before sailing, in accordance with the printed directions on the back of the form, as supplied by the obliging steamship company. The actual hour itself was fast approaching.
The day before she was to go she asked both Miss Thomas and Miss Gelding out to lunch, and she ordered it to be an extra special.
She could afford this now. Cold salmon, roast chicken, and a fruit salad. A bottle of wine. This she felt was not entirely right, in fact it was, according to Cuthbert, most definitely wrong. But in deference to the fact that it had been Miss Thomas who had originally bought the ticket, she felt that even though sinful she must stand by it. And as she had started sinning, a little more or less did not make much difference.
Little Gelding did not accept. She had a new boy friend. He was a professional dancer, she said, and taught the terpsichorean art at a school in Regent Street. He wore lovely suits, and silk shirts, and smeared his hair down with the most beautiful smelling hair cream. He had It. He had personality. He might look a little Nancy, but he wasn’t really. No, truly he wasn’t. You should just feel how he kissed you! Little Gelding had high hopes that this time it would be the real thing. It was always the real thing on her side, but the young men did not feel qui
te the same way about it. They had their own ideas, and more often than not those ideas were not marriage. But, touched by having been asked, little Gelding, always generous, bought Ann a very ornate sponge-bag in silk, all fitted up with soap and flannel and sponge.
‘Just as a remembrance,’ she said amiably.
It was really most touching. Most good of little Gelding, and Ann only wished that, on the strength of it, she had not borrowed seven and sixpence from her; as Miss Gelding put it, ‘to help her round a stiff corner’.
Ann and Miss Thomas lunched together and grew intimate over the cold salmon and hot chicken. Miss Thomas had invested two hundred pounds of her money in an insurance scheme, by which she would benefit enormously in those years of the mid fifties, when, as the prospectus tactfully put it, she would need a little extra comfort. Already the money had made a difference to her. She grew warmer and more confiding, aided by sips from the glass of wine at her elbow. At the corner of the road there lived a commercial traveller. For years Miss Thomas had thought that he cared for her, only thought, mind you, for she had had no cause to do anything more. It was the way he looked ‒ oh, you know! He was poor, because he was only paid on commission and it was difficult to sell these days. Marriage on his vague pay would have been impossible. But Miss Thomas wasn’t proud, and she did not see that it mattered which side the money was as long as it was there. And, since the sweepstake, he had been very friendly indeed. First he had congratulated her, then he had remarked upon his interest in her and her future, he always had been interested, he had informed her. They had grown quite matey, Miss Thomas assured Ann, over the hedge, discussing his roses overburdened with greenfly, spray them as he would. And after that, Miss Thomas said, Why, anything might happen, mightn’t it? You could not have more auspicious circumstances. Congratulations. Interest. Greenfly. Well, there you were. And Ann, not quite seeing where you were, said, ‘Oh yes, of course.’
