“I expect the best thing would be to have a talk with Mr. Willis. Do you know what hours he works? I’ll try and catch him sometime.”
Hannah did not like the word “sometime.” Her ladyship was probably quite right and sometime would do, but Mrs. Parks would not think so.
“He usually works on Saturdays, but he hasn’t this week, he’s in this morning.”
Charlotte looked across at the garden. She did not see John in the flesh but in her mind she could see him planting bulbs. A shame to disturb him. After all, a girl in a funny state because she was having a baby was a job for a woman.
“Can you think of any excuse to ask him to come and see me? It’ll have to be something to do with the house or I ought to ask her too.”
Hannah looked down at her dustpan and got inspiration.
“The window-boxes, m’Lady, you did say you’d ask all the flats if they could have them by the spring.”
It was as if they were back at Peasefield. The evacuees who were not keeping a cottage clean; suspicions that some girl was in trouble and her mother should be interviewed. Hannah or Mabel saying, “You could see her about helping the salvage, or the Women’s Institute . . .” The excuse covering the real object of the visit.
“How clever of you. Of course the window-boxes. I’ll write a note and you can take it up.”
The Willises were turning out their sitting-room. Jenny was doing the lighter work. She was happy, the sun shining, the wireless blaring and Jack home for the whole day.
Jack had not worked up from the bottom of a chain of stores to be assistant manager of their first London branch without knowing how furniture and furnishings should look. He knew Jenny could not do much, but they had a Mrs. What’s-it who came in for two or three hours every morning, who was supposed, in exchange for five shillings a day and her fares, to clean the place. He had never seen the old so-and-so for she did not come on Saturdays and always arrived after he had gone to work but he could see by looking round that she was the mucky type. Probably the sort who thought it was good of her to work at all.
“Mrs. Thingummy-bob doesn’t seem to have done much to this room.”
Jenny was dusting the mantelpiece. She had to shout to be heard above the wireless.
“Every day she says that nobody can say she doesn’t earn her money.” Her face clouded. She came across to Jack. “We mustn’t offend her. I wouldn’t get anybody else.” She stroked his arm. “I ought to do more myself, I’m a bad manager. Your mother’s house always looks lovely, you aren’t used to dust.”
Jack gave her behind a friendly slap.
“You are a muggins, Mrs. Willis, who’s talking about your doing anything more? I’ve got lots of odd days I can take off as we didn’t have a holiday this year. Domestic type, that’s me.” He turned back to his work. It was all very well, but Jenny was a bit soft, bless her. “Can’t you sit over Mrs. What’s-it and see she does her stuff?”
Jenny’s pupils expanded. Her face was scared.
“I daren’t. I’m afraid she’d give notice; I’m afraid she doesn’t clean much, but she is company.”
Jack went on with his work. No good upsetting Jenny, but he thought Mrs. What’s-it was jolly expensive company. Five shillings a day, and fares, for an old so-and-so who, as far as he could see, spent her time sitting on her arse drinking cups of tea. Bit of cake his mother thought they ought to be alone for a bit and hadn’t popped up to see them. The old lady wouldn’t say anything, of course, but she’d think quite a bit. He could not imagine there had ever been a time when she had allowed a place of hers to get in this state. Not that he blamed Jenny. Jenny wasn’t strong like his mother, but he did blame Mrs. Thingummy-bob sitting on her arse drinking cups of tea.
The drawing-room door opened. Hannah stood in the doorway with a note on a silver tray. Her lips were moving. Jack turned off the wireless so that he could hear what she had to say.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been knocking, but I don’t think you heard with the wireless on.”
Jack felt shy; the Nettels lived in a totally different way from themselves. This maid was probably going to hand everybody the hell of a laugh describing how he had been caught doing the housework. People like Sir John never turned out rooms. He was not scared of many people, but he drew the line at old servant types.
“Sorry, that thing was making an awful row.”
Hannah was taking in the room. Poor young things, what a state the place was in! Of course Mrs. Willis wouldn’t feel like doing much. She thought Mr. Willis a very nice young man; he was just the sort to turn to and do the work on a Saturday morning.
“It’s a note from her Ladyship for you, sir.”
Jack took the note gingerly. What on earth could Lady Nettel be writing to him about? He read the letter and was no wiser. Charlotte had been careful not to mention the window-boxes. Window-boxes were a woman’s affair and might make him bring his wife down with him. She had only written “business.”
The door shut behind Hannah. Jack and Jenny stared at it in dismayed silence. Jenny was the first to speak; her voice was only a whisper.
“What does she want? I haven’t done anything, truly, I haven’t.”
“She wants to see me. She says business.” He searched his mind for any way in which they could have offended. “Did you get a reference for Mrs. What’s-it. She couldn’t have got into their flat and stolen anything, could she?”
“I did what you told me, I rang the registry. They said I needn’t take up a reference as they’d known her well for the last seven years.”
“I bet they know her well. If there was any one else to get I should think nobody would keep her for more than a day. I bet she’s spent most of that seven years sitting on her backside in their office.”
“When shall you go and see Lady Nettel?”
Jack rolled down his sleeves and picked up his coat.
“Now. May as well get it over.” He gave Jenny a kiss. “Shan’t be long. When I come back we’ll have a nip of something I bought yesterday. It’s called British wine, sherry type.”
Charlotte was waiting for Jack in the drawing-room. She watched him as he came across the room. How little it showed that he had an artificial leg. She had taken a fancy to Jack Willis the first time she had seen him. She had liked the way he had rushed down to Peasefield immediately on top of his telephone call. He had seemed to her then to be rather pathetic, needing help. Now he looked like a small boy expecting to be caned for a misdemeanour.
“How kind of you to come. I wanted to see you some time and my housemaid told me she believed you were in this morning. I do hope you’ll forgive my bothering you. It’s about window-boxes.”
Jack was confused. He had come to explain, apologise or, if necessary, pay for damage. Window-boxes foxed him. What had he to do with window-boxes? He wasn’t a gardener or anything like that.
Charlotte, conscious that she did not sound very enthusiastic, talked about the spring and her scheme that all the tenants should have matching window-boxes. She even struggled with her idea that if London was to look any better everybody ought to help brighten their street or square.
Jack was grateful to Charlotte. It was she who had chosen them to have the flat out of dozens of applicants. Come to think of it, it was she really who had got Jenny out of Brighton and given her back to him. Still, this talk about brightening London was a bit off. He never had cared for patriotic blah, sort of stuff padres had put over during the war; you expected them to woof out a lot of rot, but he had thought better of Lady Nettel. He answered with aloof politeness.
“Wizard idea. As soon as I can lay my hands on a bit of wood I’ll make them myself.”
He was going, he was half-way to the door. That was a bit of all right, only window-boxes; in a couple of shakes of a dog’s tail he’d be upstairs, and he and Jenny could put their noses into tha
t sherry type muck; probably foul; he would rather have had a glass of beer himself, but Jenny didn’t like beer and he seemed to have read somewhere that sherry didn’t do a baby any harm. Charlotte spoke just as he reached the door.
“How is Mrs. Willis?”
Jack turned. He did not want to hang about talking. Jenny had been so pleased about this day off that he was taking. He wanted to get the work done upstairs and then they would go out. He had not told Jenny yet, but he thought she might enjoy Kew or something like that if it was fine. He had heard air was good for babies.
“She’s all right.”
“When’s the baby coming?”
“December, the last week she thinks, but the doctor says it might be January.”
“Where’s she going to have it?”
“My mother’s fixed it; sort of a maternity place she knows of.”
“In London?” Charlotte kept her tone carefully casual, but she felt that Jack was getting restive under her questioning. No wonder! She must seem impertinent. This conversation would take her nowhere if she did not come out into the open. She patted the soda beside her. “Come and sit down a moment, Mr. Willis.”
Now what? What was this in aid of? Jack could not see how to choke her off; it would be rude. Better be cagey, stooge around a bit and see what was brewing. He sat down gingerly. Charlotte passed him a box of cigarettes.
“People shouldn’t gossip, but what I’ve heard was kindly meant. They tell me your wife’s nervous, hates being alone. I was wondering if I could help in any way.”
Jack took his time lighting a cigarette. So that was it! Too right, Jenny was nervous, but there was nothing Lady Nettel could do about it. He could just see Jenny’s face if he came back to the flat, and said, “Lady Nettel wants to see more of you, she’s asked you down to her flat.” Jenny would probably have hysterics.
“She is in a bit of a state, but my mother says that’s all right, it’ll pass off when the baby’s born.”
“Has she got a mother?” Jack nodded. “I know you must think me a very interfering woman, but it isn’t good for a girl to be on her own if she’s nervous. Couldn’t her mother come up?”
Jack was resentful. Lady Nettel meant all right, of course, but what was she doing mucking about in his affairs? Jenny’s mother! If only she could see Mumsie! If she could only know that it was to get Jenny away from Mumsie that he had rushed to Peasefield to ask for this flat. Gosh! Come up! Couldn’t she come up too, probably bringing Dougie, Freddie and all those bloody little dogs with her. He could just hear her yattering. All that nonsense being flogged about again. Not that Jenny had snapped out of it, but she didn’t need her nose rubbed in it. Mumsie, if he knew anything, would never talk about anything else. Charlotte was watching his face. She laughed.
“You don’t like her?”
He began to thaw. Charlotte was an easy person to talk to.
“She’s not so hot.” After a pause he added, “Fusses Jenny. Gets in no end of a flap.”
“If Mrs. Willis has got a doctor looking after her, and she’s been examined and all that sort of thing, there’s nothing to get worried about. Having a baby is a very ordinary state of affairs.” Charlotte saw a secretive look cross Jack’s face. It was so much the opposite to his nature not to be open to all the world that the expression looked as false as if he had stuck on a cardboard nose.
Charlotte felt middle-aged. She had blundered with this nice young Mr. Willis. It was so easy for one generation unwittingly to offend the standards of another. Clearly there was some little mystery. Very likely nothing; something perhaps said by a doctor that neither of the children had understood. But whatever it was it was not to be shared with a middle-aged acquaintance; though, in the Penny manner, with their contemporaries it would probably be treated as a terrific joke. Charlotte was far too poised for these thoughts to show in her face. She gave Jack a brilliant smile. “It’s been nice of you to come down. I look forward to seeing the whole house front full of flowers. If your wife’s mother fusses about Mrs. Willis you are quite right not to have her up. After all, it’s no distance to . . . is it Hastings or Folkestone?”
“Brighton.”
Jack was outside the door. He dragged at his collar to loosen it. Gosh, he was glad that was over! Jenny was all right, anyway, would be all right after December. No good people me-owing round, only make her worse. It was like the war, really, if you lost your nerve it was no good any one yattering, the only thing was to snap out of it. He bounded, three steps at a time, up the stairs back to Jenny.
Charlotte lit herself a cigarette. She saw her hand was trembling. She disliked lack of control. She was being foolish. Brighton was a big place. There was no reason why Mrs. Willis, or her mother, should have heard a word. Mrs. Willis. She must think about Mrs. Willis. Hannah had trusted her to see something was done. Should she discuss it with John? That wouldn’t help; John was further away in age and mentality from Mr. Willis than she was. Penny? Of course, Penny. It was Saturday; she might come home at lunch-time. She would leave a note.
Penny found Charlotte’s note on the hall table. She had flown in at five o’clock to have a bath and change before a party. Charlotte had written, “Be kind and telephone me when you get in. I want your advice rather urgently. I won’t keep you long.” Penny went into her flat. She had eaten a sardine for lunch and then had drunk several drinks before an afternoon of only half-satisfactory love-making. She felt horrible as if she were a piece of elastic stretched to breaking point. She twiddled Charlotte’s note in her fingers. She didn’t want to see her. Pretty funny, really, anybody wanting her advice. She knew quite a few people whose lives were a mess, but none quite such a bloody awful mess as her own. She dialled her father’s number. Charlotte answered her. Could she come down a minute or could Penny come up? Penny explained what she had to do; if Charlotte didn’t mind watching her have a bath, that was the best idea.
Charlotte sat on the lavatory seat. She saw Penny dimly through clouds of pine-scented steam. The girl’s golden hair was pinned to the top of her head; she did not wash, merely lay back looking at Charlotte in an amused way over the top of the bath.
“Of course Hannah would think you ought to do something, Charlotte. Hannah’s fantastically landed-gentry minded; care of the tenants and all that. She’s the worst snob I know.”
“What do you think? Is there anything I can do?”
Penny sat up. She turned on the hot tap to re-heat the water. After a moment or two she turned it off again and lay back.
“Mrs. Bettelheim’s the person. Actually she’s kind.”
Charlotte remembered Penny had said that before. She wondered what Mrs. Bettelheim could be kind to Penny about. Suddenly she remembered Mr. Bettelheim and his mysterious parcels of which Mabel kept her informed. Of course, black market. Penny was always giving parties, she must need help about food. She seemed to have no conscience about such things. Look at this bathroom. They had spent on it every farthing they were allowed, but somehow Penny and Mr. Parks had found the paint and the wood to transform it into its very much more pleasant present appearance. But the black market could hardly help poor little Mrs. Willis.
“I hear Mr. Bettelheim can get anything, but it’s not food and things she needs; it’s company, I gather.”
“It was company I was thinking of. I wouldn’t touch his black market. Actually, I think people who get extra food pretty foul.” Charlotte would have liked to have learned why it was all right to get paint and wood, and pretty foul to get extra food, but there was no time for that. Penny said, after a pause, “I’ll talk to her, if you like. I see her now and again.”
Penny got out of the bath. She reached for her towel and absentmindedly dried one foot. Charlotte felt an unexpected lump in her throat. How thin the girl was, but still, how lovely; for all her sophistication and resolute effort to appear self-sufficient how incredibly forlorn
she looked. She got up and gave Penny’s head a pat.
“You are kind. It’s such a comfort to me having you in the house. I feel there’s no situation you couldn’t cope with.”
Penny looked up.
“Actually, that’s madly funny.”
* * * * *
The milk cart came into the square. There was a fine, drizzling rain. Both the milkman and his pony’s head were bent with depression. A young man with too-pointed shoes, and a mackintosh flapping open to show an exaggerated suit, cut across the square on his way to Piccadilly Circus. The young man carried a camera. The milkman needed someone on whom to vent his general fed-upness. He had stopped outside a house with a milk bottle in his hand; he lifted his thumb up and down on the lid as if he were clicking a camera.
“Wait for the picture.”
The young man gave a sharp, appraising glance.
“Could do a lovely one of you and the pony.”
The milkman took another bottle from one of the wire baskets.
“Like hell you could.” He looked at the pony severely. “Stand still, Nellie.”
“Shockin’ weather, this. Shockin’ weather for me job.”
The milkman looked at him sourly.
“Call that a job!”
“I like gettin’ about. I go all over the place, race meetin’s, seaside and all that.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“Anything with bunce. Sometimes I work for me uncle. Go’ a lil’ fun fair, off of the Circus.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 10
