Grass in Piccadilly

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mabel adored Penny when she said things like that. It put her and Penny’s lives more or less in a line, as it were. The years slipped away from Mabel, and she felt that she and Penny were girls together. Penny looked at the clock.

  “My God! It is late. I’ll only just make it. Be an angel, Mabel, and go into the bathroom, you’ll find some bromo seltzer on the shelf. Mix me a dose.” Mabel went into the bathroom. Penny gingerly stretched out a hand for her dressing-gown. She put it on and got out of bed; she put both hands over her stomach. “I feel most peculiar, Mabel, you’d better hurry with the bromo seltzer.”

  Mabel’s voice came from the bathroom.

  “You’d better lie down again for a bit. I’ll run up to Mr. Duke and tell him you can’t take the little girl to school this morning.”

  Penny wandered over to her dressing-table.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” She held out a hand for the bromo seltzer. “I promised I’d do it; there’s no one else. They haven’t got a car.”

  “What’s the matter with him taking her on a bus?”

  Penny’s face took on an abstracted, bored look. She drank down the bromo seltzer and handed the glass to Mabel.

  “He’s got his writing to do. I promised Mrs. Duke that I would, just while her play was on tour.”

  Mabel snorted.

  “That for a tale! Are you telling me we’re going to see Mrs. Duke running for a bus every morning at nine? That’ll be something new.” She looked at Penny, who was cleaning her face with a lotion. “What you want to get that out of a bottle for when God made water, I don’t know. You do look terrible. Like a bit of cheese that’s been forgotten for seven weeks.” She produced a special voice which she kept only for Penny, a voice compounded of warmth and cajolement. “Now I’m going to get you a cup of coffee.”

  “Black?”

  “If I give you a big cup of black coffee will you eat, if it’s only two spoonfuls of cereal?”

  “I’ll be madly sick if I do.”

  “Well, judging by the look of you, better out than in.”

  Penny shuddered.

  “Go away and bring the black coffee.”

  Mabel had the coffee waiting in Penny’s kitchen. She was not gone many moments, she put a large cup of black coffee on the dressing-table.

  “It’s no wonder you’re all skin and bone, day after day going to work with nothing in you. Why you don’t fall down unconscious I don’t know.”

  Penny paid no attention to her, but carefully and methodically made up her face. Mabel saw she had gone as far as she could in criticising Penny’s life. It was not a very long step to Penny throwing her out; her temper had been very funny since her husband was killed. She pushed the coffee cup a shade nearer to Penny so that the aroma would reach her.

  “It’s raining again. Never knew an August like it. Never knew a year like it, come to that. Go on like this and we’ll all be growing web feet. Why her Ladyship doesn’t catch her death I don’t know, paddling about in Shepherd’s Market, shopping; every day I tell her we’d do better to let the tradesmen deliver.”

  Penny picked up the cup and began to sip the coffee. She looked at Mabel over the rim.

  “You’ve been bullying her again, I suppose. As a matter of fact, she enjoys shopping; she likes the tradespeople and they like her, and she does just as well as you could, you old so-and-so, and well you know it.”

  “She does look tired, though.”

  “That’s London or the weather or the tenants, but it’s not the shopping and it’s no good your trying to bully her into thinking it is.”

  Mabel lowered her voice. There was no suggestion that could be jumped on, but the pitch of her voice would draw Penny’s attention to the fact that she had something important to say.

  “She’s got enough to worry her without the shopping.”

  Penny, slightly revived by the coffee, wondered what Mabel meant. Of course it must be ghastly running this sort of boarding house, but Charlotte was not the sort to be easily got down. Had Freda been making trouble again? She thought that Jeremy’s idea that there should be a door had settled that. It couldn’t be Freda. She was on tour, thank God. The mere thought of Freda and Penny’s solar plexus seemed to turn a somersault. She flared out at Mabel.

  “Don’t take on that mysterious tone; there’s no earthly reason why she should be tired, the tenants don’t give any trouble.”

  Mabel let that pass. She thought that it was most regrettable that Penny should live away from her family, mixing herself up with that unpleasant Mrs. Duke. She stood up for that Mrs. Duke to Hannah, but that was to get a rise out of Hannah, and did not mean that she did not mind Penny’s friendship with Mrs. Duke as much as any one in the house. She hoped that one day the three floors would be run as one house and Penny would sit down to breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner with her father and her stepmother, properly looked after and eating good food. It was queer how she had changed. Why, right up to the war she and her father had been so close you couldn’t have got a picture post card between them. Now look at them. If Penny did come to the flat it was to have a drink or two and talk about nothing at all. She had not, as far as Mabel knew and she kept a pretty good watch, spoken one word alone with her father. It had been at the back of Mabel’s mind for quite a while that she might do a bit of good by making Penny see that things were not, perhaps, so easy upstairs; that her Ladyship was worried. Miss Penny knew that if anything worried her Ladyship it was bound sooner or later to worry Sir John.

  “It’s not the tenants. Nothing in this house.”

  Penny finished her coffee and went back to her face.

  “What are you blahing about?”

  “There’s none so blind as them that won’t see. Her Ladyship’s always the same, I speak as I find and I must say she’s pleasant to work for, but she’s got something on her mind. I can’t think why you haven’t seen it. If you ask me it’s all to do with where she goes when she’s away every month.”

  Penny pulled her dressing-gown round her and went into the bathroom.

  “You ought to make a living writing thrillers.”

  It was casually said, but Mabel eyed the closed bathroom door with a contented smile. She had sown her seed all right. Miss Penny might have changed, but she was not so heartless as she made out to be.

  “You be quick now, I’m bringing in another cup of coffee and that cereal.”

  When, in twenty minutes’ time, Jeremy brought Jane into the hall, Penny was waiting for them. Jane flew to Penny and flung her arms round her hips.

  “Good-morning, Penny. I’ve been down and said good morning to Trinity, he’s had a mouse.”

  Jeremy looked anxiously at Jane.

  “Does she look all right? She had her bath last night but I gave her another wash over this morning, as you told me. She says she’s got the right clothes on.”

  Penny laughed and held out her hand to Jane.

  “Come along, darling. Mustn’t be late for school.” She smiled at Jeremy. “I think you’re making a marvellous nursemaid. Isn’t he, Jane? I wish, though, you could get that woman who comes in the evening to come in the mornings.”

  Jane shook her head.

  “I don’t. Daddy cooks our breakfast and we have fun.”

  Jeremy ran a hand over Jane’s fair hair. He hated the way the child said “fun.” It was clearly a novelty and so to be mentioned.

  “We must have more fun. I’m afraid I’ve not been a very good Daddy. It is good of you to take her, Penny. I don’t know what I should do; it does cut so into the morning if you haven’t a car.”

  Penny was leading Jane to the front door.

  “It’s not out of my way.”

  Jeremy could not accept that. He stood on the step watching Penny and Jane walk towards the garage. He called after them.

  “The
day we went to Bruton Street by way of Gloucester Road.”

  Jane looked up at Penny.

  “Why did Daddy say that?”

  “Just for silliness. How was school yesterday?”

  “Very good. I did a painting that was stuck up on the wall because it was absolutely the best, and I almost finished a mat.”

  “Did you do any reading or writing?”

  “I made letters and I read some words on the blackboard. Miss Luke said I could nearly read, and she said that was very good.”

  Penny squeezed Jane’s hand.

  “I think it’s very good, too.”

  “She said it was specially good for somebody who won’t be five till December.”

  Penny stared ahead. She did not seem to hear. Then she said, almost sharply:

  “That’s not so long—December—it’s only three months.” She felt she had spoken in a voice the child would not understand. “I thought of giving you a present. I was going to give it to you next Tuesday.”

  “Why Tuesday?”

  “Because it’s a special day to me. What would you like?”

  Jane considered.

  “I’d like something to dig with so that I could help that old man in the garden.”

  Again the blank look came over Penny’s face. Once more the harsh note crept into her voice.

  “You mustn’t say ‘that old man.’ He’s my father.”

  Jane was unaware that Penny was disturbed; the garage was in sight, she loved driving in a car. She strained forward, pulling Penny behind her.

  “What should I call him?”

  Penny shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter, but not ‘that old man.’”

  Charlotte, on her way to the kitchen, looked in on John. He was standing by the open study window staring up the square. Charlotte had only looked in on him from affection; she made a casual remark about it being for once a lovely day. He did not at first hear her; surprised, she called his name. He started and turned.

  “Hallo, my dear. Just going to the garden. I was watching Penny and that little girl from upstairs going up the street. Wish Penny had a child.”

  Charlotte thought before she answered. She must try and keep John’s mind from Penny and Mr. Duke.

  “I wonder. I never know about these young widows. A child must help them through the first ghastly getting over the worst period, but afterwards I think perhaps it keeps them from being lonely and they don’t consider remarrying. There’s always a danger, I think, with these young war widows that the happiness they knew was so perfect, and often so pitiably short, all glow, as it were, that a second marriage seems terribly third best. I know Penny and Bill had known each other since they were children, but their married life was such a flash.”

  John turned back to the window. It never crossed his mind to unburden himself about Penny to Charlotte. Penny was his daughter, not Charlotte’s; it would be breaking a trust to discuss her affairs even with Charlotte. Charlotte’s words fell into his mind; they might have been pebbles in a lake making ever widening circles round them. “The happiness they knew was so perfect—all glow—a remarriage would seem so terribly third best . . .” Could the happiness Bill and Penny knew have been so perfect? Could there have been nothing but glow when, on a brief, short leave he could see Penny as he had seen her? Could the true Penny he had brought up have gone to pieces as she had, and still be in pieces almost five years after Bill was killed if she had not some terrible thing to regret? Could this man Duke have had anything to do with that?

  “Can’t understand Penny’s friendship with that Duke woman. Not her type at all. Prancin’ in and out of taxis—too much paint.”

  Charlotte interrupted him.

  “It’s quite natural. They were ambulance drivers together; they worked under that big building in Berkeley Square, I mean that’s where their cars lived; they spent hours together; there are a lot of those war friendships; we, who lived in the country, can’t understand how danger and all that drew people together . . .” She broke off abruptly. “Oh, dear,” she thought, “how false all that sounds.”

  John gave Charlotte one quick look and went to his desk. He made a pretext of tidying his morning mail. Rum that, Charlotte isn’t happy about Duke either. Wonder if there’s any monkey business going on. Penny forced us to take the fellow and practically give him the flat rent free. If I knew there was any monkey business he’d go. Wouldn’t stand for it under me own roof.

  “D’you mean to tell me that red-headed creature had the nerve to drive an ambulance all the war?”

  Charlotte managed to sound bored with the subject of Freda.

  “I dare say she had the nerve but, of course, she didn’t drive all the war. When the child was expected she must have given up, and afterwards she was living with his people; I don’t suppose she worked there, she had the baby to look after.”

  “How old is the child?”

  “Four, nearly five, I believe.”

  John appeared to be rearranging his post. He shuffled the letters as if they were playing cards. Bill was killed early in ’42; Penny had not been with that ambulance unit much in ’41. She had been ordered a holiday after the big London raids stopped; she went to that farm in Wales. Only rejoined the ambulance outfit a few weeks before Bill’s last leave. Lot of poppycock this friendship with Mrs. Duke; can’t have seen much of her, she would have been away having her baby by the time Penny got back from Wales. Where was Duke all that time? Had he been stationed in Wales?

  “Was Duke soldierin’ in the war?”

  Oh, dear, thought Charlotte, he has got on to it, or at any rate, he’s very warm. She had better get away before he could ask any more questions.

  “No, a sailor, I believe.” She gave his shoulder a little pat. “I must go and order our lunch.”

  It was pleasant after that straining talk to chat with Hannah. Hannah was tidying the drawing-room window-boxes.

  “They’re still looking nice, aren’t they, Hannah?”

  “Wonderful this morning with the sun on them, and the wild flowers on the ruins at the back are a picture. Strange how they come there, m’Lady.”

  “Blown by the winds of fate like ourselves, and as alien as we are.”

  Hannah thought “winds of fate” a very fancy line of talk. Sort of foolish thing people said meaning nothing and taking you nowhere. She tactfully led Charlotte back to practical affairs.

  “I wish there was something we could put in the boxes for the winter.”

  “So do I. There are only awful little plants with variegated leaves. We might do something with holly at Christmas, and we’ll plant a few snowdrops; they won’t show from the street, but they’ll cheer us up until we can put in tulips, hyacinths or daffodils.”

  Hannah always found it difficult to start a conversation with Charlotte about anything outside her work. She had, however, a duty to do. She fumbled in her mind for the right words. Back at Peasefield, village affairs had turned up naturally. Sir John would say, “Heard how Mrs. Jones is doing, Hannah?” or “How’s that boy of Smith’s to-day?” Everybody’s business was known and it was expected that she or Mabel should have information. In London it was different. People took pride in not knowing each other. Quite right, too, in a city where you never knew who anybody was, and where people needed to be reminded to keep their place. Still, human beings were human beings. Kindness was needed in a town as much as in the country.

  “It’s not my business, my Lady . . . I hear things when I’m doing the hall stairs . . . Mrs. Parks, though rough, is good hearted . . .” Hannah broke off. In the pause thoughts dashed around in Charlotte’s mind. What was this leading up to? Not the Dukes, oh, surely not the Dukes! Hannah, whatever she knew, would not gossip about Penny and Mr. Duke. No, it couldn’t be that. What then? Had one of the tenants upset Hannah just as at last, thanks
to the window-boxes, she’d stopped being on the verge of giving notice? Hannah had a brush in one hand and a dustpan in the other. With the brush she swept the dying geranium flowers she had picked into a neat pile in her dustpan. “It’s Mrs. Willis on three.”

  “Mrs. Willis!” In her relief at it not being Mr. Duke Charlotte almost sang the word. “What’s wrong there?”

  “She’s expecting a baby in December, m’Lady, and she’s very queer—very queer indeed.”

  “Queer! How do you mean?”

  “She sits on the stairs. She’s frightened to be alone. Mrs. Parks was saying yesterday she didn’t think she was safe.”

  Charlotte was not willing to take on any one else’s burdens. God knew she had her own packet of worries. She said nicely but briskly:

  “That husband of hers looks very competent.”

  Hannah was not to be put off. This house belonged to Sir John. People who owned houses and possessions had a duty to those who had neither. Such was the creed on which she had been brought up. When Gladys had said yesterday, “I’m worried about Mrs. Willis and so is Mr. Parks,” she answered, “I’ll tell her Ladyship and she will tell Sir John.” In that sentence she had assumed the responsibility of passing the trouble to the family, who would take it over, doing, beyond question, what ought to be done. Hannah was afraid Mrs. Parks had not understood what her statement had implied, for she had gone on as if her views were still important. “I’ll send for her mother.” And when Hannah had answered, “Sir John and her Ladyship will decide that,” Mrs. Parks had said, as if she had not spoken, “In her state what she needs is her mother.”

  “She’s been queer ever since she came, m’Lady. Young Mr. Willis is out all day. I understand she’s all right when he’s in. It’s when he’s out Mrs. Parks is afraid she might do something foolish.”

  Charlotte was startled.

  “Something foolish!” She scarcely knew Jenny by sight, but as Hannah spoke a young woman who stood for Jenny flashed across her mind, falling out of a window or with her head in a gas oven, one of those dreadful Sunday paper sort of accidents. She moved to the window and leant against the frame. The sun was a treat, the geraniums smelt delicious, but she did not think of the sunlight or of the geraniums; what ought she to do about little Mrs. Willis? It would seem so queer to take an interest in her suddenly; The girl would have to be very strange indeed not to think that odd. Perhaps it would be better to tell John to ask Mr. Willis down for a drink. That would be difficult without asking Mrs. Willis too. In any case, what should they say to the poor young man? They couldn’t very well say, “My maid tells us your wife’s queer.”