Grass in Piccadilly

by Noel Streatfeild

“I only hope Mrs. Dill isn’t weak. Down there on the ground floor she could be put upon easy as easy. Her Ladyship said not to do anything about her little flat, she’s making her own arrangements. I know what that’ll be, that Mrs. Parks in the basement giving a lick and promise, her sort never knows how to give a room a proper turn out.”

  Mabel hung two dresses on her side of the wardrobe.

  “Her Ladyship told me Miss Penny—I never will get around to calling her Mrs. Dill—was seeing to her own meals. ‘Just about looks as if she does,’ I said. ‘Skin and bone and all of a jump.’ Her Ladyship was funny. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but we must respect her independence.’ She said it almost pleading like. ‘You will, won’t you, Mabel? We don’t want her leaving and she might if she thought we took too much interest in her.’ I gave in at the time. After all, what does she know? Never set eyes on Miss Penny till she was grown up. She doesn’t know how she used to be, laughing and cheeky sitting on my kitchen table. Remember how she used to come in after hunting? ‘Let me have my eggs in here,’ she used to say. ‘Dad’s brought back such a stuffy crowd.’ It’ll be a queer thing if Miss Penny’s in the house if I don’t get some food into her.”

  Hannah made an angry click with her tongue against her teeth. She held up her hand.

  “Look at my hand. Just laid it on the mantelshelf. Black as a sweep. Never think two women scrubbed this place out yesterday besides that Mrs. Parks.”

  Mabel looked at the clock.

  “Quarter to four. You ought to be changing. Move or no move Sir John will want his tea sharp on time.”

  * * * * *

  Sir John arranged his things. Charlotte had been clever. Space had been found for most of the furniture. If the room had been oblong instead of rectangular, and the windows had looked out on the rose garden instead of on the houses across the square, he might almost have been at Peasefield. It was like Charlotte to take an infinity of trouble to make him feel at home, bless her. Waste of time, never had liked London, never would, but what had to be had to be, and with this damned Labour government running the country he was lucky not to be in the workhouse. Charlotte had supervised the packing at Peasefield. She had seen that his things were clearly marked. “Study desk.” “Writing table.” “Mantelpiece.” Dear old Charlotte! As if he did not know exactly where everything belonged. Matter of fact, she had overdone the arranging business a bit. Hadn’t meant to put Sybil over the mantelpiece. That portrait of Sybil always had been over the mantelpiece but he had never cared for it, hated the way the fellow painted. Still, it was like Sybil, got her corn-coloured hair and blue eyes. How like her mother young Penny had grown. Funny, there had been a time when he had thought Penny’s hair was darkening. Wrong, though, turned out fairer than Sybil’s if anything. He busied himself unpacking the box marked “Writing table.” Thinking of Penny was like scratching at a sore spot. Nice the way Charlotte had taken trouble about the flat downstairs. Seemed to get on with Penny, but you never knew with women. Still, if any one could get on with Penny in her present mood it was Charlotte. Certainly it wasn’t himself. Shocking, whenever she came near him, to see that kind of film come down on her face like a stream muddying over. Would it have been better to say something that night? Couldn’t know Bill would be killed. Even in those days when Penny was different she was not a girl to interfere with. Never had wanted a lead, liked her for it too. Pity he could not get that night out of his head. Wished he knew if young Penny knew he remembered, or if she had forgotten. Quite likely wrong, different generations had different ways. His thoughts kept pace with his unpacking. Old Rajah’s hoof made into an inkpot. A silver box of pens and pencils, another of sealing wax and an ashtray all lay in their proper places, standing, to a fragment of an inch, on the same spots on his desk on which they had stood at Peasefield. He had reached the photographs. Sybil in a court gown. Queer, now he came to think of it, must have worn that dress in this very room. Must be thirty-six years ago. May or June the year after the wedding. Must have been lent the house that year; old man didn’t die until a year later. Pity he hadn’t tried to sell the house then. Probably couldn’t have, and little Sybil would have hated it; fond of London. If he’d been one of those soothsayer fellows he would have; still, he couldn’t see there would be a war, still less that during it Sybil would at last have a child and die giving birth to it. He put Sybil down and unwrapped a triple frame. Old Rajah in the middle, Penny on Dingo and himself on Lodestar. Penny had paid for mounting well. Wonderful seat; pity she never rode now. Hard to believe that Penny would grow up not to care for a day’s hunting. He stared at the photographs. Must have been about fourteen. Everybody getting at him to send her to school. Said she wasn’t being educated. Wasn’t, either. That Miss Erridge was a nice woman, but Penny twisted her round her finger. Twisted him too, if it came to that, saucy puss. Pity Charlotte couldn’t marry him then. Might have made a difference. He unpacked his blotter. He fingered it, unconscious for a moment of what he was holding. He saw instead Brighton. Charlotte meeting him at that rum little hotel. Poor old Charlotte, so sure she was right not to marry him then. “Not until he’s grown up. He’s such a jealous boy.” Look how that had turned out. Poor old Charlotte, she certainly knew what trouble was.

  Charlotte came in. She carried a vase of wallflowers. She put them on his desk. They looked remarkably homelike, might have been picked any day at Peasefield.

  “I think people sell much more sensible flowers than they used to, or else I’ve forgotten. I seem to remember only being able to buy greenhousey sort of flowers in towns.”

  John sniffed the wallflowers. He never mentioned Brighton, Charlotte didn’t like it, but he seemed to remember that she was right, and that when he had bought her flowers it was outsize sweet peas and prize roses, that sort of thing. Because he was thinking of Brighton, and not wishing to speak of it he changed the subject.

  “What you been up to?”

  “Stairs. That blue stair carpet doesn’t fit. Mrs. Bettelheim said it didn’t and she’s quite right. I must get the men again. Fancy if Hans or Irma fell! I should feel like a murderess.”

  “Why should they fall? Perfectly good banisters, and they’ve got eyes.”

  “I don’t suppose they will but if by any unlucky chance they do Mr. Bettelheim will say it’s because we wouldn’t let them use the front stairs.”

  “They certainly are not usin’ the front stairs. Don’t want to meet a lot of damn strangers in my own house. Talkin’ of that, who’s the red-headed woman with a little girl?”

  Charlotte sighed. So he had seen. She so hoped he had missed them, and that would give her a chance to speak to Penny before it happened again.

  “Mrs. Duke. The little girl’s called Jane. Just a mistake. After all, they only arrived to-day.”

  “Did you speak to her about it?”

  “No, they’re Penny’s friends. I thought she’d better do it. It’s in their lease, it’s just an accident, we don’t want any awkwardness.”

  “Thought I’d step down and see Penny after tea.”

  Charlotte rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. That would not do. At all costs Penny must be protected from unannounced visits. It would have to be worked round to gradually.

  “I meant to telephone her after tea to ask if she will come up for a drink. She must have had a horrible day, poor child. She might like to come out to dinner with us, but I expect she’s got other plans.” She broke off there. John worried so about Penny and he would hate to know she knew he was worrying. He would never discuss Penny with her.

  John was glad that Charlotte should telephone Penny. He had not really wanted to go down to her flat. She never made him feel he was not wanted, but it was easier if Charlotte asked her to come up.

  “Are all our tenants going through Penny’s flat?”

  Charlotte laughed.

  “They must get in somewhere. Down the area is the Parks
es’ front door, and, as you know, it opens straight into their kitchen. Why your grandfather, if he had to convert two houses into one, did away with one front door puzzles me.”

  “Simpler, I suppose.”

  Charlotte thought malevolently of John’s grandfather. Simple! What a word to use about this house! Simple, perhaps a hundred years ago, when the basement was full of underpaid servants who rushed to answer bells, and the rest of the house contained just one family. The architect who had converted the house into flats said it was the most inconvenient place he had ever been in. So many large, useless rooms; so few bathrooms, lavatories and housemaid’s cupboards; such an old-fashioned system of water heating so guaranteed to eat more coal than any one would ever be allowed to have that it had to be scrapped. Such enormous flights of stairs to clean, and such draughts. Whoever had done the converting of two narrow houses into one house had not heard of doors; he had merely knocked holes in the walls and arched them over. Charlotte liked warmth. Her spirits sank at the thought of her passage next winter. How could the stoutest-hearted electric fire help in passages open to two stairways. Beyond everything, why had they scrapped that second front door? Not only scrapped it but walled it up. How perfect that second door would have been now. Charlotte had a trick of thinking fervently and expecting people to know where her thinking had carried her.

  “I do hate architects. They know you don’t know anything and when you want something done they don’t want to do they look proud and use long words, and you have to give in.”

  John’s eyes twinkled.

  “What wouldn’t our architect do?”

  Charlotte did not want any further talk about the back stairs until she had spoken to Penny about Mrs. Duke.

  “I wish we had a lift. Fancy stumping up to the fifth floor!”

  “We used to when we stayed here as children.”

  Charlotte visualised John and his nine brothers and sisters, and John’s father and his brothers and sisters with nurses, governesses and nursery maids, all stumping up to the fifth floor. Not to mention meals, coal and hot water which must have got carried up there too. Were hearts stronger and legs stouter fifty and a hundred years ago? Probably not, probably everybody cursed, but there was no other way of getting to the top. Probably they accepted the inconvenience just as to-day they accepted the inconvenience of converting the house into flats. Nobody could like living in a house converted into flats; the inconvenience was overwhelming, but there was no other place to live.

  Hannah opened the door. She had changed into her black and a very starched apron. She looked so exactly as usual that she warmed John’s heart.

  “Doesn’t seem to matter what we do to you, Hannah, you always look just the same.”

  Hannah saw that Sir John was pleased, and was glad. Upsetting for a gentleman a move was. Especially a gentleman like Sir John who was so set on the country. Still, she had not come in for a talk; there was a time and place for everything.

  “I’ve laid tea in the drawing-room, m’Lady, and Mabel says have you remembered you are dining out to-night as it will take her all this evening to get her kitchen straight.”

  Charlotte and John walked arm in arm towards the drawing-room. John sniffed.

  “Muffins. Good.”

  Charlotte wondered about the butter ration. She hoped Mabel was remembering that they no longer lived where there were farmers who sometimes had some milk over and made a little butter to oblige their neighbours. Then she saw John’s face. The muffins were playing their part. The smell of them was friendly. Thank God for anything—even muffins—which eased their transplanting.

  * * * * *

  Penny and Alfred Parks were in Penny’s bathroom. Alfred gazed at the bath rather as a beauty specialist might gaze at a blemished skin. He shook his head sadly.

  “Not a nice job. Not a nice job at all.”

  Penny looked round the room in disgust.

  “It’s not only the bath. The whole thing is madly revolting.”

  Alfred believed in doing one thing at a time.

  “Be a job to get another bath. Nor I don’t know any one who could lay hands on a really nice job. I got friends in most lines, but I don’t do no plumbing myself.”

  “But you can see I can’t bath indefinitely in that bloody little thing.”

  Alfred knew that the Pennys of this world used words which would not be allowed in his home. He thought it strange that a gentleman like Sir John should have brought his girl up so badly. When Ivy and Rene were at home he would have liked to have heard them using words like that. He was not a man to use his hands, but they would have got such a box on the ear they wouldn’t have heard right for weeks. Still, the way Mrs. Dill talked was no affair of his, nor did it alter his liking or respect for her. It was merely regrettable.

  “You wouldn’t fancy it boarded in? It would board in nice, and I could paint it so you wouldn’t know it from enamel.”

  Penny used her imagination.

  “Sort of blue-green. That wouldn’t be bad with these walls and ceiling. Could you make that less repulsive too?”

  Alfred studied the lavatory seat. He ran his fingers over the wood.

  “Nasty cheap piece of work.”

  “Hasn’t even a lid.”

  “You can buy a very nice seat with lid attached. Not a bad job at all. Then I could board the pan in same as the bath.” Alfred warmed with invention. “Could have a nice cushion made of that plastic. Wouldn’t know it from a chair when I’ve finished.”

  Penny dismissed this flight of fancy without bothering to answer. She loathed things got up to look like something they were not, and moving a cushion every time you went to the loo was a fantasy. In her mind the bathroom was already transformed.

  “If I could get a good bluish-green plastic for the curtains could you get paint to match?”

  Alfred lowered his voice.

  “I’ve got ways. I’ll have to mix it in the daytime, though I’ll have to paint of an evening. The only thing is, how’ll you manage without? Take a day or two to dry. Want to make a nice job of it.”

  “I could do with a drink.” Penny led the way into her sitting-room. “I’ll have to use one in Dad’s flat, I suppose. Hell of a bore but my stepmother won’t mind. Whisky or gin?”

  “Little drop of whisky. If you can spare it.”

  “I couldn’t only a friend sent in six bottles as a house warming. Black, of course. Three pounds ten a bottle.”

  “Three pounds ten!” Alfred looked in awe at the lavish way Penny tipped up the bottle. “Three pounds ten! Drinkin’ gold.”

  Penny handed him his glass.

  “Here’s luck.”

  “And to you, ’m.” Alfred sipped happily then again lowered his voice. “I’ve had a piece of luck about that bookshelf you was wanting. Come across a lovely piece of oak. Good seasoned stuff. Haven’t had my hands on a piece like it for years. Had such a feel that I called my mates in. ‘Take a feel of that,’ I said.”

  “Where was it?”

  “A conversion job similar to this. The gentleman that owns the house is having enamelled stuff in all the kitchens. This was in what had been the real kitchen. Lovely old dresser. The moment I see it I said to myself, ‘If that isn’t Mrs. Dill.’”

  “I suppose you couldn’t find me some cut-glass door handles anywhere? These brass ones are getting me down.”

  Alfred looked grave.

  “That’s not easy. A year ago and I could have said yes and had them round the same evening. But things aren’t what they were. People who would throw out good stuff seems to be learning. Breaks your heart the way they say, ‘I’ll keep that, it’s not what I want, but I won’t get nothing so good.’ Quite right, of course, but it makes things harder for them like myself who fiddles of an evening and at the week-ends. Government are getting mean too. Cruel they are on paint.
That’s the worst of labour, they’re up to all the tricks.” He got up. “I must be going to my tea or Mrs. Parks will be after me. Will it be all right for me to do some painting in your hall this evening?”

  “Do. I want to get the place finished. I loathe things half-done.”

  Alfred stifled a sigh. He had hoped Mrs. Dill’s job was one of those heaven-sent affairs that you could have by you whenever you were not doing anything else and needed the cash. Still, what was not to be was not to be, and you never knew, with a young lady like Mrs. Dill, there would likely be things wanting doing. He was packing up to go when he remembered something.”

  “What about that door, ’m, through to the back stairs? You won’t never use it, but it will spoil the look of the hall left a different colour like.”

  Penny was thinking ahead. She ought to go up for that drink Charlotte had asked her for. A bore, but she would have to look in on Dad sometime, anyway. What hell life was! He wouldn’t say anything, but he’d be so obviously pleased to see her. If only she could get it out of her head that he had guessed anything. After all, he only saw her that once before Bill was killed. She came back with a jump to Alfred. She had thought he had gone.

  “What’s a different colour?” Alfred explained again. Penny was impatient, she had no idea what he was talking about. “Of course paint it. Nobody will use that door.”

  Alfred was amazed. Mrs. Dill was an independent young lady and probably not one to listen to gossip, but Mrs. Parks did for her, and it was unlikely that Gladys had been around and not spoken about the back stairs. Gladys was a great one to talk and, seeing she did the back stairs and heard what everybody had to say about them, she was in a particularly talking mood.

  “All the tenants use the back stairs. It’s in all the leases. I don’t know how you didn’t know as they have to pass through your hall. That’s why her Ladyship got doors cut through for you, so you didn’t need to go in the hall and meet the tenants.” He was surprised to see crimson flooding Penny’s cheeks. There was a spark in her eyes.