“Not for an office job, of course, Vicky, I see that. But domestic work is rather different, surely?”
“Yes, it is more personal. But even so—!”
“I think she wants a home more than a job,” suggested Rene sentimentally.
“Oh—you’re a pair, you and her!” I said, laughing, but nevertheless a little annoyed that Rene could not apparently see what I was driving at. “I shall have to express myself more brutally, I see. Look here. It’s for me to say what I’m offering her, not her—and, in point of fact, I’m offering wages for a job, not a home for someone I’m sorry for.”
“It is your house, Vicky. I quite see that, and that you must do as you like,” said Rene in a small voice.
Well, it was better that Rene should say it was my house than that I should. Nevertheless, I had driven her to it, and now felt slightly ashamed.
“Oh well,” I said hastily, “the question of whom we get does affect you too, of course—in some ways more than me. I certainly want to hear your views, Rene. You’d really like this woman, would you? I can’t see her sitting in the kitchen somehow. I think we’d have to have meals with her and that sort of thing.”
“But that’s just what I should like, Vicky!” said Rene, cheering, up again instantly. “That’s to say, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh well, I’m out such a lot or working in my room . . .”
“Yes, that’s just it. I mean—” (Rene looked confused for a minute but plunged bravely on), “I mean sometimes—although it’s absolutely nobody’s fault—I do get a little bit lonely. Mrs. Dabchick would be company for me the days you’re out.”
Poor Rene! I had a sudden vision of her moping about the house in solitude, Blakey sour and inscrutable in the kitchen, nothing to look forward to but my own arrival back in the evening and my prompt retirement to my own room. It wasn’t much of a life for her, and if Mrs. Dabchick could brighten it, would not that be really to my own advantage?
“Well, I’m glad to know what you feel about it, Rene,” I said sincerely. “I’m not going to commit myself one way or the other for a day or two, but I promise you I’ll seriously consider at least trying her.”
“There’s no harm in trying, is there?” said Rene happily.
Perhaps there wasn’t. Nevertheless, as I went up the stairs to my own room I had a nasty recrudescence of the feeling that it was, after all, my house, and would I ever feel it was with Rene and Mrs. Dabchick prattling cheerily to each other all over the place?
Chapter 12
*
The fact that Dr. Lambert had, at least on her first visit to Antonia, showed by her manner to me that she considered that there was, a certain coolness between us on account of the ‘two doctors’ episode, had contributed slightly but perceptibly to my general wretchedness at the time. When I saw her on Tuesday morning she had suggested that I should ring her up on Tuesday night to let her know if I wanted her to pay Antonia a visit on Wednesday or not. She thought it would probably be unnecessary, but she would be quite willing to come if I wanted her.
By Tuesday evening it was plain to me that the bit in my little book about the wonderful recuperative powers of a child was coming true all right, and I went down to the telephone to tell Dr. Lambert she certainly need not bother. I hoped, as I took off the receiver, that we might possibly have a cheery little chat together which would finally restore us to our previous very friendly relations.
I reported progress, and even tentatively suggested that Antonia might possibly be allowed to get up for an hour or two on Wednesday afternoon. Her temperature had been normal since Monday evening.
“No, no,” said Dr. Lambert, still, I was sorry to note, a trifle brusque, “I’ll come again on Thursday and let you know what I think then.”
“Of course, just as you say,” I answered meekly. “It’s just that she seems to be so bored with bed and—”
“It won’t do her any harm to be bored for a bit,” retorted Dr. Lambert. “That was a sharp attack, you know, and you’ll have to go on being careful for a bit.”
Absurdly enough, I felt like bursting into tears. To treat me as if I was a casual fool! Me! Had she gone through the agonies, or had I?
“Oh, I know,” I said hastily, “I’ve been wondering whether there was anything I could get her that would help to pull her up again a bit now? Children have cod-liver oil and oranges anyway, these days, don’t they? I can’t quite think what I mean, but perhaps you could?”
What a fool I sounded, I thought! The trouble was, I was so desperately tired!
“A holiday—not immediately, but in a week or two’s time—wouldn’t do her any harm,” suggested Dr. Lambert. “Harminster’s rather a relaxing spot, you know. A change does everyone good from time to time.”
“Do you mean take Antonia to the sea?” I said, a little blankly, thoughts of barbed wire, blown-up piers and landmines rapidly ousting my primary immediate mental pictures of sand-castles and pierrot shows and shrimp-teas on the beach.
“Not necessarily the seaside. That’s not too easy these days, is it? Good country air—somewhere bracing, preferably—would do just as well. Just a little change from this Thames Valley mugginess you know.”
“Would the region of Ashdown Forest in Sussex be suitable? It’s lovely country and quite high up, I believe.”
“Yes, I should think that would be excellent. Do you know of somewhere you could go there?”.
“Yes. Some friends of mine keep a hotel there, and there’s a bungalow in the ground they let out as part of the hotel, with sendee. If I could get it that’s so much more suitable for a child than just being in a hotel full of grown-ups. Not that Antonia isn’t quite sensible now and all that, but . . .” I stopped. I suddenly had the strongest impression that Dr. Lambert was not profoundly interested in all this—and indeed, why should she be? “Well, anyway, I mustn’t keep you,” I finished quickly. “Could you just tell me when you think it would be best to take Antonia away?”
“Oh, in about a fortnight to three weeks, if all goes well, as it certainly should now.”
“I see. The beginning of June, in fact. I’ll see what I can do about it. I’ll have to arrange with the office to let me have my summer holiday early this year. Thank you so much. Good-bye, Doctor Lambert.”
“Good-bye.”
No. Things were certainly not quite as they had been between us. A trifle frigid, still. Obscurely, I felt that it was all the more important that I should do what she suggested about Antonia. I had, after all, no other plans about a summer holiday. In a way I rather welcomed this decision being forced on me.
It would do Antonia good. It would give me a rest from Rene. It would refresh us all and give us a breathing-space. Really, it was an excellent idea.
On impulse I took up the telephone receiver again, dialled 0, and asked for the number of the hotel in question.
It is really wonderful how circumstances sometimes respond to a fit of decision. There was no delay on the line. I was able to speak to my friend personally. She and her husband both thought it was an excellent idea that I and Antonia should pay them a visit. Yes, by very good luck, the bungalow was free from the 5th of June to the 15th—a booking had just fallen through. The hotel was very full, there were so many officers’ wives in the district, so it was extremely fortunate I had rung up just at this moment. Otherwise I might not have got a room, even in the main building. Yes, certainly, the bungalow was ideal for children. They had had so many families staying there that they had made a paddling-pool and a sand-pit in the bungalow’s garden, and perhaps Antonia would invite any other children who happened to be staying in the hotel to come and play with her in it?
I think it was this final touch that enchanted me more than any other. I saw myself charmingly welcoming the children, and then retiring to read in luxurious peace while they all played happily together in the garden. They would, without exception, all be very nice children of just the right age. Antonia would love their
company, their parents would be very grateful to me, and nobody would be able to help noticing that Antonia was prettier and had nicer legs than most of them. I dwelt on this idyllic picture so long that, by the time I went up to bed, I was firmly convinced that it would be unthinkable to go to any other place at any other time. If I imagined anywhere else at all I imagined instantly over-furnished rooms, red plush, antimacassars and (to get away from such horrors) long walks in the pouring rain with a fretful Antonia dragging at my heels. Could there really be any choice?
I had told my friends—Margaret and Harry Smith by name—that I would let them know for certain the following evening. They promised to hold the bungalow for me until then.
* * * * *
The worst of hating indecision is that one tends to rush things. Had I really considered the matter instead of letting my imagination take fire in this dangerous way, I would have seen that Wednesday morning was hardly the most propitious time to tackle Mrs. Hitchcock for an instant decision about my summer holiday. I would have realized that I had not been to the office since Friday, and that to Mrs. Hitchcock sick children were a nuisance and absolutely nothing else. I would have realized that all remarks about the doctor recommending a holiday in the country had much better be omitted, and the request formulated purely as a matter of ordinary fixing-up of staff holidays. I would have realized that Blakey had done me no good by telling Mrs. Hitchcock over the telephone that I could not come in on Tuesday because it was essential I should interview a new Nanny that day. I would have realized that I had always hitherto taken the greatest pains not to behave to Mrs. Hitchcock in a ‘harassed housewife’ kind of way, and that it was really a measure of my success that her attitude was clearly now that I was ‘letting her down’ and she had never expected it of me.
I saw my mistake quite quickly, and tried to defend myself. Of course I made things rather worse.
“I suppose it will be all right for you to take your holiday then instead of later,” said Mrs. Hitchcock grudgingly, as I finished my unwisely frank and full explanations. “I hadn’t really got round to arranging holidays yet, but still—all right. As long as that’s the end of it.”
I would have done much better at this point to thank Mrs. Hitchcock and retire. Instead, like a fool, I took her up. I suppose I was in a rather nervy state.
“The end of what?” I said, on the defensive at once.
“The end of all these requests.”
I stood silent a moment. What a beastly woman she could be!
“I don’t think there have been many requests,” I said stiffly. “I’ve had one day off and one only because of Antonia.”
“And one when your sister-in-law was ill,” retorted Mrs. Hitchcock. “And you wouldn’t come in on Tuesday instead of Monday because you had to interview a Nanny or some such thing.”
Obviously, to Mrs. Hitchcock, interviewing Nannies, was an almost flippant pastime. I saw that it would be the greatest mistake to suggest to her that it was a serious matter. Quickly I changed my ground.
“I’m sorry about both those things. They were very unfortunate. I didn’t realize you so particularly wanted me on Tuesday or I might have . . . I never do come on Tuesdays, after all, do I?”
“No. But I had no opportunity of explaining to you personally—since you didn’t come to the ‘phone yourself—why I wanted you.”
“Why did you?”
“Dorothy Harper rang me up on Sunday evening and wanted to know if you could change your lunch together to Tuesday instead of to-day. If you hadn’t rung me I was going to ring you about it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Is she coming to-day or has it been cancelled?”
“No. She said she could manage to-day after all.”
“Oh.”
I did not honestly feel that there was any great grievance involved here. Dorothy Harper was the type of woman who always rang up at the last minute to try to rearrange things, as Mrs. Hitchcock very well knew. Mrs. Hitchcock had often been quite firm with her in the past and held her forcibly to her word.
“Well, as I say, I’m sorry,” I said. “But as she can come to-day after all, perhaps there’s no great harm done.”
It was a silly thing to say. Too airy. I could see it irritated Mrs. Hitchcock afresh.
“As it happens there is no great harm done,” she admitted. “But all the same, I should like your assurance, Vicky, that this sort of thing isn’t going to keep on happening.”
It was at this point that I realized that Mrs. Hitchcock really was rather a cruel woman. Tiresome as it was for her that I had been absent once or twice, it was very hard on me, in the circumstances, to take up this attitude. Antonia’s illness had shaken me considerably, and I was, naturally, still a little worried about her. I did not expect or want Mrs. Hitchcock to sympathize with me over this. I merely thought she might have refrained from badgering me about the future. It was cruel, yes, it was cruel.
“Mrs. Hitchcock!” I burst out. “Honestly, I think you’re being rather unfair. I’m extremely sorry I’ve been absent twice, but which of us in the office isn’t ill occasionally without all this fuss? Miss Spenser had ’flu for a week and I did most of her work, and nobody thought of being nasty to Miss Spenser when she came back.”
“If you’re ill yourself, that can’t be helped. It’s this staying away on other people’s account that I dislike, Vicky. Where is it ever to end?”
“If you’re asking me for a promise that I’ll never stay away again on Antonia’s account, Mrs. Hitchcock, I just can’t give it,” I burst out recklessly. “All I can say is it’s happened extraordinarily little so far—never before this time I think—and I don’t see why it should happen any more in the future. I’m sorry now that I told you the truth. It would have been much better to have said I was ill myself. As for this question of my summer holiday, don’t give it to me in June if it makes you so angry that it’s on Antonia’s account.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Vicky,” said Mrs. Hitchcock sharply. “I’ve told you you can take your holiday then. That’s settled. As a matter of fact you look as if you could do with a holiday yourself. You’ll be the one to be ill next.”
Perhaps this was meant kindly. It was not, however, reassuring. Mrs. Hitchcock was almost hypnotizing me into thinking myself a crock surrounded by crocks. Of all the injustice!
“In all the years I’ve worked here,” I said angrily, “I think I’ve been away less than anybody else in the office. Just think—haven’t I?”
She would not even admit this, perfectly true as it was.
“For goodness sake drop the subject, Vicky, and let’s get on with the work now you are here again!”
Beast!
I went angrily back to my room. I had got my way about my holiday, but at what a cost! The lovely vision of the children and the sand-pit was all spoilt for me, and, moreover, I had now to cope with Dorothy Harper with my self-confidence well drained away in advance.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hitchcock had even shaken me about my appearance. I peered into the murky, spotted little office mirror, and decided I undoubtedly looked a battered hag.
I was not late at our rendezvous, a quite expensive and fashionable restaurant, but Dorothy Harper was. I had a bit of trouble with a waiter insisting that our reserved table should remain reserved; I think I should have lost it had not an old friend of mine, John Martindale, drifted up and greeted me at the crucial moment.
John Martindale is now a very well-known actor and well established in the hearts of the great British public. I have known him ever since we were children together—his father was a friend of my father and we lived in the same London square once—and, although never knowing him really intimately, I have never altogether lost sight of him, and we naturally call each other by our Christian names. The waiter’s manner to me altered very perceptibly after John drifted up. He recognized him, of course—his profile is extremely well known—and, when he heard him calling me ‘Vicky,’ was immedi
ately all deference and servility again, and not a word more was said about tables only being kept reserved if customers claimed them promptly. I loathed the waiter for this change of front, but was nevertheless grateful to John for his unconscious championship.
John went off to join his own party at the other end of the restaurant, and Dorothy Harper finally arrived, vaguely apologetic in a way that was obviously intended to be very charming and gracious. Of course, I let her think that I was completely won over by this exhibition.
“You business women frighten me sometimes!” declared Dorothy Harper, playfully. “You are so very business like, aren’t you? Now don’t be offended, dear—I didn’t mean you particularly and, as a matter of fact, I love your hat, where did you get it—I meant Mrs. Hitchcock, for instance. I quite shook in my shoes when she told me I’d got to lunch to-day and no other day!” She laughed merrily, and then patted my arm confidentially. “Tell me! Doesn’t she frighten you sometimes?”
I laughed warily. Even for the sake of getting on well with Dorothy Harper, I was not going to demean myself by discussing my employer with her—all the more because the previous events of that morning had made me feel rather like the office-girl with a grievance.
“Business-women wouldn’t be much good unless they were business-like, would they?” I said, playing for safety.
“Yes, that’s very true,” agreed Dorothy with as much intensity as if I had just given vent to a profound and novel thought. “Of course, in the case of the artist . . . I don’t know that they should even try to be business-like. It might—stultify something in them, don’t you think?”
I laughed silently. What a good opening for what I had to say to her! Not that I would follow it up immediately—that would be clumsy. It was as well, however, to know that Dorothy was in her ‘artist’ mood to-day. It was a very easy one to play up to. I flattered myself that I could do it on my head—and without letting her have the faintest suspicion that I knew it was utterly bogus in every way. Dorothy Harper was no victim, willing or unwilling, of the ‘artistic temperament.’ Swelled head was all she suffered from, nothing more artistic than that—swelled head and a snobbish desire to appear aristocratically superior to all those middle-class virtues—sticking-power, business instinct, and so on—which actually she indubitably possessed.
Company in the Evening Page 18
