The newsagent went home to his Cissie. The caretaker finished his pipe, then he knocked it out on the steps. He went down into his basement. There was silence in the square.
* * * * *
Charlotte put a log on the fire. It was nice in her drawing-room in the firelight; almost, but not quite, it might have been Peasefield. Hannah came in carrying a tea-cloth. She drew the curtains then fetched the small tea table and placed it by Charlotte and laid the cloth over it. There was something about the line of Hannah’s shoulders which Charlotte did not like. Too well she knew the feeling of an inward sag, but Hannah’s was outward. At Peasefield Charlotte would have at once inquired if anything was wrong. In London it was not so easy. Something always was wrong. It was a constant decision whether it was better for whoever was overflowing with grievance to be unbuttoned to let the grievance flow out or to leave them buttoned, praying that the grievance might dissolve. Hannah creaked her way out of the room. She returned with the tray with the tea things. As she leant over and placed it in front of Charlotte her corsets let out a protesting wail. The silence was oppressive. Charlotte said:
“How nice this room looks in the firelight.”
It was an unfortunate remark. Hannah straightened up.
“The coal came this afternoon, only half what was expected. The man that delivered it said why the other half hadn’t come was nothing to do with him.”
Charlotte made a mental note to call on the coal merchant. “Well, we’ve a nice lot of logs.”
“Might be burning gold at the price we pay.”
Charlotte did not think that only half the coal being delivered, and that logs were expensive, could be what was depressing Hannah. It was annoying about the coal but it was her trouble. Hannah went out to fetch the cake-stand. While she was away the various things which could have upset her passed rapidly through Charlotte’s mind. There were, of course, no window-boxes; the geraniums had blackened and died. Had the laundry not come? Surely not. Mrs. Bettelheim, bless her, was wonderfully efficient about that laundry. Oh, dear, why did people have to have moods? Why did Hannah have to hover so often on the verge of such deep depression? Surely life was difficult enough without having a Hannah whose private woes overflowed. This was probably a moment when she had better be brave and speak, or rather ask, out. Hannah did not look as if whatever was troubling her was likely to dissolve if left buttoned inside her. Hannah returned with the cake tray.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Nothing, m’Lady.”
“Now, that isn’t true. What’s worrying you?”
Hannah moved slowly towards the door.
“There are things I’m not accustomed to. I must get the teapot, m’Lady, it’s made.”
Charlotte’s morale dropped. What was Hannah not accustomed to? Without doubt it must be something to do with the tenants. She was so used to Mabel that Mabel could do nothing she was not accustomed to. It would not be Mrs. Parks because, oddly and mercifully, Hannah seemed to approve of Mrs. Parks. Could it be Mrs. Willis again? That was not likely; thanks to Hannah’s hints and Penny’s good nature Mrs. Bettelheim was being good to Mrs. Willis and things, she gathered, were better there. Could it be the Bettelheims? Of course Mr. Bettelheim, according to Mabel, did bring too much food home, which Hannah might not approve, but it was not like her to mind what people brought home provided they brought what they brought quietly and did not walk up her stairs. That left the Dukes. Oh, dear, that left the Dukes. This time it must be the Dukes. Mr. Duke and Penny . . . surely Penny, sophisticated Penny, had not been such a fool as to do anything . . . Charlotte’s brain skipped what she meant by anything . . . with Mr. Duke, under Hannah’s nose. Of course the back stairs were beside Mabel’s and Hannah’s bedroom, but even suppose that Hannah had seen Mr. Duke going down or up, why should she suppose that he was visiting Penny? After all, he could be going out to post a letter. Even if Mr. Duke was such an idiot as to go down in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, he need not be going to visit Penny. Charlotte could not imagine what else he would be doing on the stairs in a dressing-gown and pyjamas, but Hannah was not the imaginative type. Of course, if Mabel had seen anything that was different, she was only too certain to put two and two together. Hannah came back with the teapot and the hot water jug. Charlotte looked on her in much the same way as Mr. Parks looked on a local authority—a sleeping dog better left to lie. Only you could hardly call a dog sleeping when it told you there were things it was not accustomed to.
“What aren’t you accustomed to?”
Hannah stooped to put the teapot and jug on the tray. That position would make those strange creaking corsets of hers press against her ribs, which might account for her red face. Charlotte hoped it was the corsets for there could be no doubt that Hannah’s face was red.
“I’ve been with Sir John over thirty years, m’Lady, and I’ve no wish to make a change . . .”
“You know Sir John counts you as a friend, he couldn’t imagine life without you.”
“Because of Sir John and, of course, yourself, m’Lady”—Charlotte was grateful for that, though she knew it was not meant—“and having Mrs. Dill in the house I was willing to come to London, which I never have liked nor never will. I said to the first Lady Nettel, poor dear, when she used to come up to this house for the season, ‘Don’t take me, m’Lady. Peasefield is my home, I couldn’t fancy London . . . ’”
“I know, but Peasefield isn’t our home any longer, they’re pulling it down. I hoped you were getting more used to London.”
Hannah swallowed. She spoke in a strangled burst.
“It’s not London, m’Lady. It’s the house. There’s things you can’t help seeing and hearing. People think, because we’re all under one roof, as you might say, that what goes on is known by Sir John. In all the years, m’Lady, I’ve been with the family, there’s never been talk.”
Charlotte looked at her rings. She twisted the diamond ring that John had given her when they were married.
“Who is talking?”
“Mrs. Parks says everybody, even the window cleaner.”
The window cleaner! Charlotte mentally flinched. Whatever was Penny thinking of? In her own way the girl was fastidious. Charlotte had supposed she was at work in the daytime when a window cleaner would be about. She felt a strong inclination to shut Hannah up. To say something snubbing about gossip. What was she to do when she had heard the sordid story except go to John? John would, of course, turn the Dukes out of their flat. He never had liked them as tenants. He was no fool, of course, he was suspicious. If the Dukes went Penny would leave. That unhappy, nervous girl off on her own again just as she was beginning to look better. Charlotte did not think she meant much to Penny, but she felt she was tolerated, and that Penny might treat her as a friend if she were in extremis. She could not snub Hannah; there were principles involved. Hannah believed in the uprightness of her family as she believed in God. She was in mental distress because the people who were talking believed that John knew what was going on and was conniving at, or at least accepting, it. Hannah knew she and John did not know, but that would not take the slur off the family. Charlotte went on twisting her rings. Her face was composed.
“What do they say?”
“It’s Mrs. Duke, m’Lady.”
Charlotte bit back a delighted “Mrs.——!” She did raise her head and look at Hannah, praying that relief was not shining out of her eyes.
“What’s she been up to?”
The story came haltingly. Mr. Duke typing away in his study, as innocent as a baby. The gentleman who was always in the house, so much so that the people round, like the caretaker at the government building up the square, couldn’t help seeing. The window cleaner said he had been let in by Mrs. Duke in her night things, and the gentleman had been there. The gas man had told Mrs. Parks something Mrs. Parks had either not repeated or Hannah had not understood
. Hannah had not believed the talk until last night.
“It was our afternoon, as you know, m’Lady. I went to the pictures with Mabel. Coming home on the tube Mabel slipped in quickly, and the door shut leaving me on the platform. When I came to our square there was a taxi outside the house. I took out my key but the front door was ajar. That’s strange, I thought, Mabel would never leave the front door open. There was no light in the hall so I felt for the switch . . .” Hannah stopped, searching for words. She had none for what she had seen.
Charlotte came to her aid.
“Mrs. Duke and ‘the gentleman?’” Hannah nodded. Charlotte felt her way carefully. “Was he kissing her?”
“Worse. They were ever so upset at seeing me.”
Charlotte, still gloating inwardly that it was not Mr. Duke and Penny they were discussing, found it hard to keep a smile off her face. Hannah would be easily shocked but if her “worse” meant what it might mean Mrs. Duke and “the gentleman” might well look “ever so upset.”
“Did Mrs. Duke say anything?”
“They had to whisper because of Mrs. Dill, she was in, I saw a light under her door. Mrs. Duke said to the gentleman, ‘The Nettels’ maid,’ and if you’ll believe it, m’Lady, he took out his notecase and offered me five pounds!”
Charlotte attempted to look aghast. She could see the whole scene so clearly. “The gentleman” slipping in just for a minute. Mrs. Duke’s belief that all the household were in. Of all people, Hannah, bulging, creaking Hannah to come in and turn on the light. It must have been a funny, almost Hogarthian scene. Something would have to be done, of course. Meanwhile, it was funny. She picked up the poker. Whatever happened Hannah must not see even a flicker of amusement, still less relief. She spoke as she poked the fire.
“Have you told any one what you saw?”
“Oh, no, m’Lady.”
Charlotte was ashamed; she should not have asked that. Of course Hannah would keep the story to herself. Only because it was her duty to her family had it come out.
“I will think what is best to be done. Thank you for telling me. Would you let Sir John know that tea is ready?”
Charlotte was distrait over tea. John started conversations, but Charlotte, after a brief answer, let them die. Her mind was with Freda. What ought she to do? Of course Mrs. Duke should not be made love to in the hall, but it was not really their business. There was probably something in their lease about being desirable tenants, but what was meant by that Charlotte was not sure. Certainly it was not being a desirable tenant when the gas man and the window cleaner found you in your night things with strange men. If John heard even a whisper of these things the Dukes would certainly be asked to leave at the next quarter day, or whenever they could be asked to leave. It was all complicated by Penny’s supposed friendship with Mrs. Duke. Charlotte toyed with the idea of asking Penny to talk to Mrs. Duke, It made her nervous. She had never forgotten the day she had asked Penny to ask the woman to use her own stairs. Penny had suggested the solution of closing the front stairs with that door, but that was only after she had learned that Mr. Duke and the little girl used the back stairs anyway. Undoubtedly the door on the front stairs was Mr. Duke’s idea; he must be clever with Penny. What a pity she couldn’t ask Mr. Duke to help. If only somebody would help. There was something about Mrs. Duke that made Charlotte quail. A sort of air of “You try interfering with me.” She was not used to the Mrs. Dukes of this world.
John ceased trying to talk. He was at a bit of a loose end now it was almost winter. He had planted the bulbs and cut back the hedges in the garden, and turf had been laid. Some men were coming one day to fence in the garden with wire; he would have to be about when they came, but in the meantime there was no more to do. He was willing to do anything to help the Conservative Party, but he happened to live in an area where the Conservative Party did not need help, it was a safe seat. He wrote a letter about once a week to The Times pointing out what he considered overlooked misdemeanours of the Government, but The Times had not so far published his letters. That was one of the subjects in which he had tried to interest Charlotte. “Don’t know what’s come over the paper. Gettin’ more red every day” Charlotte, usually such a satisfactory listener, had been woefully uninterested. He had tried the elections in France and the effect on the nation’s buying capacity by the removal of price controls in America. That last should have interested Charlotte, who was quick at seeing how world conditions affected her marketing in Shepherd Market, but not this afternoon. What was she thinkin’ of? He looked across at her, sitting behind her tea tray. She looked as usual. Her blue-grey hair beautifully arranged, her diamond ear-rings and rings glittering in the firelight. She had on a black dress that he was fond of; it had some velvet about it; he liked her in soft materials. He liked the way the neck line was held by a diamond clip. Behind her was a great vase of autumn leaves. Charlotte against autumn leaves reminded him of Peasefield. What could she be thinking of? Worryin’ most likely. You never knew with Charlotte. He had finished his tea. He got up and stood by her, holding her shoulder.
“Evenin’s are drawin’ in. Soon be nineteen forty-seven.”
Charlotte looked up at him, Freda swept from her mind by his words.
“Ninteen forty-seven! It’s only November.”
“All the same, nineteen forty-seven in a matter of weeks.” He held her shoulder more firmly. He could not say, “Talk to me of your trouble, you have me to look after you,” it had to be expressed in that warm grip.
Charlotte smiled up at him. What a dear he was! How lucky she was to have him!
“Sorry I’ve been so distrait. A silly little household worry. I wasn’t thinking about Peter.”
His thumb stroked her shoulder.
“He’s your business, my dear, but two heads are better than one.”
Charlotte sat on by the table after John had left the room. Two heads were better than one. John had known all about her son when he married her. Had known Peter since he was a child. He had been so patient with her. Accepting her insistence on not disturbing the boy’s background. The years of happiness they had missed waiting for Peter to grow up. He was not the sort to interfere but he had warned her. No, she was not inflicting Peter on him. Nearly nineteen forty-seven. She shivered, then rang the bell for Hannah to clear the tea.
It seemed like fate when Penny telephoned. Could she come up for a drink or could Charlotte come down? Charlotte knew that Penny could only just have reached home, and that no heating would have been on all the afternoon.
“Come up, my dear. It’ll be warmer.”
Penny sat on a stool almost in the fireplace. Her long legs stretched out carelessly, regardless of the fact that they were covered in nylon. In one hand she held her glass of gin and lemon, in the other a cigarette. Her hair, Charlotte noticed, had recently been retinted; it was pale gold to the scalp. She was certainly looking better. No fatter, but less on edge. Either the house, or the eye that Mabel kept on her larder were doing the girl good.
“It’s Mrs. Willis, Charlotte. Mrs. Bettelheim thinks something ought to be done.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, I can only tell you what Mrs. Bettelheim told me yesterday . . .”
Charlotte was so curious she had to interrupt.
“When d’you see Mrs. Bettelheim? I never do.”
Over Penny’s face came her most remote expression. It made Charlotte feel that she was displaying vulgar curiosity.
“I help Freda Duke with Jane. I often fetch her from Mrs. Bettelheim’s flat.” Charlotte marvelled. What charm hidden from herself did Mrs. Duke possess that made practically all the other women in the house anxious to save her trouble and act as nursemaid to her child? With the probable exception of Mrs. Willis she was the only woman who did not expect to be treated as a crèche. Penny, after a pause, went on with her story. “Mrs. Bettelheim, who actuall
y is madly good with children, says she thinks Mrs. Willis has had a baby before and something went wrong, and that what she’s scared of isn’t having a baby but of what went wrong happening again.”
“Poor child! But even if that’s true what does Mrs. Bettelheim think that we can do about it? After all, she’s got a husband to look after her.”
“I don’t know him. From what Mrs. Bettelheim says he sounds the hearty type; you know, anything can be blown away by a breath of fresh air. What Mrs. Bettelheim says is that she ought to have her mother with her.”
Charlotte had been lying back in her chair happily relaxed. Talking of Mrs. Bettelheim was a pleasant delaying action before facing the problem of Mrs. Duke. Now her nerves contracted. She spoke a shade too quickly.
“That’s out of the question. That day I talked to her husband he said he didn’t like his wife’s mother. He didn’t put it that way, but that was what he meant.”
Penny sipped her drink. Her face was blank but her mind was darting to and fro like a mayfly on a stream. What was Charlotte up to? Charlotte, who was never in a rush about anything. Calm, sensible, soignée Charlotte, to bounce in on what they were saying like an unsophisticated schoolgirl. Any fool would spot that Charlotte did not want Mrs. Willis’s mother to come to the house. Why on earth should Charlotte care? She had barely seen Mrs. Willis; she had left the arranging of Mrs. Bettelheim being asked to help to others. She had seen Mr. Willis once or twice, but any thought of Charlotte taking an interest in a boy of Mr. Willis’s age was wildly funny. Charlotte was the last person you would suspect of that sort of thing. Even if it were true, why on earth should Charlotte care if Mrs. Willis’s mother was about for a week or two until the baby was born? But, of course, it was not true; some things were impossible and that was one of them. The silence felt prolonged. Penny raised her head and turned on Charlotte disinterested eyes.
“I suppose most people think their mothers-in-law utterly revolting. Actually, I used rather to like Bill’s mother. I don’t see her now because she will slop about things.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 14
