Perhaps because Penny had placed him in exactly the right setting in her mind, or because he knew Jenny should not be alone, Jack found himself talking easily.
“Mrs. Parsons, Jenny’s mother, isn’t a bad sort, really, I suppose, but she flaps.” Penny’s face expressed her feelings about people who flapped. Jack stretched his legs; his artificial leg was at its most comfortable stuck out at an angle. “Mumsie . . .”
“No! Not really! She’s not called Mumsie?”
It was perfect. Jack’s parents had never said what they thought of Mumsie. His mother, until Mumsie became his mother-in-law, had called her “That Parsons’ woman.” His father “That mother of Jenny’s.” Because he had loved Jenny ever since he could remember he had tried to like her mother. As an awkward schoolboy he had quivered under her jokes which, in case he missed them, she had helped out with nudges and winks. “Look, Dougie, who’s here. Jenny’s beau.” In his mind he had accepted that the whole outfit was a bit off. Nobody, until this moment, had laughed. He described the flat. He described Dougie and Freddie. He described the bloody little dogs. The more clearly he described everything the more Penny laughed.
“I’m awfully sorry for you, but you’ve simply got to have her up if it’s only for a day. I can’t live if I don’t meet her.”
Jack sobered.
“She isn’t good for Jenny. She—well, I told you she flaps.”
“Is there any reason to flap?”
Jack hesitated, then he leant forward. Mrs. Dill would understand. She would never arse about yattering all over the place.
The telephone rang.
“Hallo, Angus. Yes, actually, it’s madly inconvenient. I’m having a wildly interesting talk. I’ve had the best laugh I’ve had for years. No, ring off. You can ring back later.” Penny put down the receiver.
Jack was the shy boy who had come in half an hour before. Mrs. Dill was not his sort. She belonged to The Savoy and The Ritz. Now he had heard her on the ’phone he wondered he had ever felt she was his sort. He got up.
Blast that telephone, thought Penny. I was going to get the low down. She had not been educated by her father for nothing. Miss Erridge had not been a highly trained governess for nothing. Her voice was detached and very practical.
“When’s the baby coming?”
“Last week in December or it might be January. The doctor thinks Jenny has the date wrong.”
“Probably has. Will you get leave for Christmas?”
“Yes, I could.” He sounded sulky. Why was he confiding in this interfering so-and-so? “Matter of fact, I could ask my father. Might put a week on what’s due. I could be home then till the baby came.”
Penny was too good a hostess to let him leave her feeling annoyed. She refilled his glass with beer, and raised her cocktail to him.
“That’s fine. Well, here’s to it. What d’you want, a boy or a girl?”
* * * * *
A fog was dropping over London. Through it came the clip-clop of a pony’s feet. A horse drawing a cart of logs came into the square; the man raised his voice.
“L—aars. L—aars.”
Gladys heard the cry and ran across the outer kitchen into her area and up the steps.
“How much?”
The log seller looked appraisingly at Gladys. She was not the sort to be talked into extravagant spending; she was not the sort to believe a tale; she was the sort, however, who might use influence with others to buy at exhorbitant prices. His voice had the rough note of one who from childhood had shouted about things for sale on barrows.
“Fif’een sh’ings a ’undred.”
Gladys picked up a log and examined it. They were not bad logs at all. She thought fifteen shillings was not a bad price. Rene had thought herself lucky to get a couple of hundred at seventeen and six, but Gladys had not bought from street markets all her life for nothing. They always put it on.
“I’ll take three hundred at twelve and six.” The log seller did not waste words, he took a sack from the front of his cart and began throwing logs into it. “And I’ll count ’em myself.” Again he did not waste words, he tipped the logs back on to the cart.
“Coun’ ’em an’ choos’m while yer abah’ i’.”
Gladys had no intention of doing anything else. She had never been one on whom the coster could plant decaying fruit while a wall of perfect fruit was piled on the front of the cart. She was quite disappointed to find that the logs did not deteriorate as she delved further. As she filled each sack the log seller ran down the area steps to the front kitchen and stacked the logs in a neat pile. He did not bother to bargain with Gladys about this. He knew, and she knew, what was right under such circumstances; when the job was done there would be two shillings or half a crown for him.
From the other corner of the square came a faint glow.
“Well, I never!” said Gladys. “Chesnuts. That shows you it’s getting on for Christmas.”
The chestnut vendor was pushing his can across the square on his way to Leicester Square. Hearing voices, he raised his.
“Ches’uts orl ’ot. Ches’uts orl ’ot.”
Gladys interrupted him.”
“I dare say they’re hot, but how many’s bad?”
The vendor’s chestnuts had been criticised too often lately for him to think that remark at all funny. Was it his fault if it had rained the whole blinking summer and the nuts rotted on the ground and the maggots got in? He bought them from the market just as they were. In the market nobody went over them to see if there was a hole where a worm could walk in, so was it his job to go looking for trouble? He ignored Gladys.
“Ches’uts, orl ’ot. Ches’uts orl ’ot.”
Gladys raised her voice.
“That’s right, you go on and sell your rubbish somewhere else.” She turned amiably to the log seller, who was back beside her with his empty sack. “Proper robbers, they are. My daughter and me, we bought three bags last Sunday. How many d’you think was bad?”
The log seller opened the mouth of his sack. He watched Gladys drop in the logs. About another three sacks and that would be the lot. He was not going to run down the chestnut market. You never knew what you might be selling next.
“Shoc-in, wevver fur fru——”
Gladys threw one more log into the over-filled sack. He was right, it was a shocking year for nearly everything; but she was enjoying herself. This was life as she liked it. She even liked the smell of the fog; it was a good old London smell anyway. She liked saucing the chestnut vendor. She liked buying logs which would later warm up their living-room. She liked to think of a pile of logs, her own and Alfred’s, to be used whenever they liked, not waiting for Frank or Rene to say, “Bit parky, what about another log?” She smiled at the log seller as he reappeared.
“I’ll leave you to count the rest and see you don’t mistake twelve for six. When you’ve done there’s something for you and a cup of tea.”
* * * * *
Gladys sang as she cooked the bacon. Usually she kept the bacon ration for Sundays, but she believed in marking an occasion. To-day was an occasion—a party. She had never been within smelling distance of a party in which she had not in some way participated; if in no other than throwing rice at brides whom she did not know, or cheering, on the day when the son returned home, outside strangers’ houses which were placarded “Welcome Home, Bert.” The day of a party was the day for throwing duties away like dust out of a window: “Make it up to-morrow.” To-day’s party was one to which she was invited, if not as a guest at least as part of the proceedings. The guests were to be let in and shown up the back staircase to the fourth floor; that was job one. All the guests having arrived she was lending a general hand; that was job two. Her voice rose in cheerful accompaniment to the sizzling bacon.
“In his master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow
lay dinted.”
Alfred came in sniffing.
“Bacon? ’Tisn’t Sunday.”
“The better the day—’tisn’t every day we have a party in the house.”
Alfred sat down at the table.
“Young Jane’s ever so excited. Good of Mrs. Bettelheim.”
Gladys leant over him, saucepan in hand and forked his rashers and a piece of fried bread on his plate together with his share of the bacon fat.
“It’s a Christmas party, really; she’s just calling it Jane’s seeing it’s her birthday.” She gave herself her share of the bacon and poured out their tea. For quite a while they ate and drank in silence. Gladys pushed her piece of bread round the plate to gather up the rest of the fat. “Bacon ration’s better this week, so it had oughter be. Don’t know what’s come over the pigs; don’t seem to grow the same insides as those we had before the war.”
Alfred was thinking ahead of his day’s work.
“I’ll pop up and give another look at that tree; I’ve set it right, but what with Mrs. Bettelheim and the kids climbing all over it you never know if it’s slipped.”
“Decorates in a funny way; glues it all over then frosts it. Looks unusual; give me good old-fashioned decorations.”
“You giving Jane her presents this morning or off of the tree?”
“The tree. I asked Mrs. Bettelheim.”
Alfred looked at the mantelpiece on which was lying a mouse he had carved out of a bit of wood.
“I hope she won’t be disappointed. Can’t say old Mouser has taken to it.”
“He will, proud that’s what he is. I gave him his dinner yesterday on his new plate; I’m not going to tell Jane, but I thought I’d just try him out knowing how choosey he is. Walks round and round, nose up, you’d think I was trying to poison him, then he goes and sits outside. ‘All right, Ket, my lad,’ I says, ‘no plate no dinner.’ He was glad to nibble a bit round teatime.” She held out her hand for Alfred’s cup to refill it. “You hear that Mr. Bettelheim was going to be Santa Claus?” Alfred nodded; of course he had heard; indeed, married to Gladys, no detail of what was going on in the house was likely to escape him. “I said to Hannah, if he’d just pop in his sack a few of the things he brings home under his arm every day I wouldn’t be backward at getting my hand in.”
Alfred looked at the clock.
“You give me my cup. It’s going to be a busy day.”
Mabel was putting the final decorations on the cake. Hannah was finishing a cup of tea while she watched her. Mabel’s cooking had always been her pride. Since a flower show in Peasefield, when she and Mabel had been girls, and one of the judges had said, “Your friend’s got a Highly Commended for her buns; be a first next year, shouldn’t wonder,” she had shared Mabel’s glory. “I suppose the cake’s being made in your kitchen.” “I’ve had six goes at guessing the weight of the cake; ‘Must try and win that,’ I said, ‘seein’ who made it.’”
Mabel stood away from the cake holding a silver leaf towards it.
“D’you think it’ll stand another dog rose, Hannah?”
Hannah put down her cup, her corsets creaking as she got to her feet.
“If it was for ourselves I’d say no, but seeing it’s the Bettelheims’ party I’d say yes. Mr. Bettelheim is one for a display.”
Mabel nodded and went back to the cake. In the ordinary way she would not have changed her decorations to suit anybody, but Hannah was right; a display would please Mr. Bettelheim, and that would please Mrs. Bettelheim. She had established a cooking friendship with Paula. Quite often in the last week she had popped up on her way back from fetching Jenny’s milk to say good-morning. She had seldom come away empty handed. Paula loved to be generous with the good things Heinrich brought to the house. Mabel would have liked to give Paula gifts in return, but there was painfully little in the Nettel kitchen to reciprocate with; in fact, as she said to Hannah, giving food to the Bettelheims was like giving fish to the fishmonger. When she had been told about the party it had been her opportunity to help. “Little Jane was telling me you’re giving a party, ’m.” Paula’s eyes had glowed. “A party for Jane for her birthday and a Christmas party for all the children. Mr. Bettelheim is very pleased; he invites the children of his partners and he, himself, will be Santa Claus.” Mabel had lowered her eyes so that Paula should not see the twinkle in them. In imagination she saw Mr. Bettelheim, his hook nose protruding from a forest of white whiskers. Out loud she said, “If you like, ’m, I could make some cakes for you. We can’t do much about ingredients but, though I say it myself, I’ve always been considered a cake hand.” A very happy talk on cakes had followed. There seemed no end to the unheard of luxuries, of which to make cakes, that Mr. Bettelheim could not buy. Mabel had entered wholeheartedly into an orgy of rich planning. Then Paula had said, “You will make the cake.” Without words Mabel had understood how Paula’s mind was working. Mrs. Bettelheim had lived in Peasefield; she had lived there before the war; she would know what was what; in asking her to make the birthday cake she was giving honour where, in Mabel’s opinion, honour was due; but that did not mean that she accepted casually. The person asked to provide the centre-piece never accepted casually; that was making too light of a serious matter. Mabel had said all the right things, but from the beginning she had known that she would make the cake and her fingers itched to be at it.
“I wish it could have been rich plum, Hannah. Of course, with all the eggs that’s gone into it, it ought to be a wonderful sponge, but when you think of how rich a cake I could have made with all that he could lay his hands on.”
“You never made a prettier. Those pink dog roses! What are you putting the five candles in?”
“Mrs. Bettelheim’s got those. Silver holders to match the leaves, and pink candles, no expense spared.”
Hannah fetched the teapot and refilled her cup.
“What happened to that top little cake on Mrs. Dill’s wedding cake that you put away for a christening?”
Mabel pointed her thumb to the top of a cupboard.
“Up there in its tin. Be as good as the day I made it. You could get the stuff in those days. Remember those lovers’ knots I put in sugar round the edge? . . .” She broke off, straightening her back and gazing up at the top of the cupboard. “I wonder if Miss Penny’s remembered I’ve got that—it’d be a chance to get rid of it.”
Hannah’s eyes, too, were on the top of the cupboard.
“Mrs. Willis?”
“That’s right; if her baby’s born safely I’ll have a word with her Ladyship. I’ll be glad to get rid of it. Often wondered what we could do with it. Couldn’t even use it if Miss Penny married again; would seem bad luck somehow.”
Hannah stirred her tea.
“There, another stranger in my cup. Tall and thin again. Wouldn’t wonder if it’s her doctor.”
“You and your tea leaves! Funny thing if you didn’t see strangers in your cup on the day of a party.” Mabel leant once more over her cake, adding another spray of dog roses. “Funny, I never thought of that. I wonder if Miss Penny would recognise the cake if she saw it. Not likely that she would, three-tier it was, if you remember. We took the top ones off before she cut it. I nearly gave it to Mr. Bill. I wish I had now. You remember how cheeky he was; that Sunday they came down just after they were married he said to me, ‘Haven’t you got any more of that wedding cake, Mabel? I’ll drop it on Berlin.’ I said, ‘If you promise to hit old Hitler you can have it.’ Then he gave me a kiss and said if he got his hands on a piece of my wedding cake he wouldn’t waste it on Hitler. I said, ‘You wait till there’s a christening,’ and he said, ‘This isn’t the time for that sort of thing,’ and went off laughing. He might just as well have eaten it.”
Hannah put down her cup.
“I wish that baby was born.”
“It will be all in good time. Mrs. Bettelheim say
s she’s better since they’ve been fixing the party, gives her little things to do; he starts his holiday to-night, he won’t be going back to work till she’s in the nursing home.”
“Well, I must be moving.” Hannah looked back regretfully at the cake; it had been the pride of the kitchen. “Mrs. Bettelheim won’t half be pleased with that.”
Paula was as excited as the children, more excited in fact, than Hans, who was looking forward to the afternoon with mixed feelings. Paula could see how Hans was feeling and tried, by keeping him employed, to prevent him putting these feelings into words. Of what use to express feelings when, under no circumstances, could those feelings be given in to.
“We will put the cake in the centre of the table and arrange crackers round it, then, all down the table on both sides, the cakes and the sweets and the jellies.”
Irma clasped her hands.
“Himmlich! Such a feast as this will be!”
Paula gave an inward sigh. Such a child to speak German, but she was too busy and too happy to reprimand; it was to be hoped that Irma would speak English at the party, but it was no good saying this to Irma, who would retort that she was British and could speak what she liked.
“First we will put the sandwiches. If you are carrying sandwiches, Irma, both hands and walk and not dance.”
Hans could not be prevented from speaking.
“Do you think that Father will make me play all three pieces?”
Paula hurried towards the kitchen.
“Come, we must fetch the sandwiches. It may be only two that he will require, but three must be ready.”
Hans ran beside her looking anxiously up into her face.
“Mr. Jones says that Mr. Moses, if he is musical, will think better if he only hears me play one. Mr. Jones thinks Rachmaninoff’s prelude in G, and that is all.”
“That is not how your father thinks.”
“But my father cannot play. Mr. Jones says if there must be two it should be ‘Jardin sous la pluie,’ he says Mr. Moses will perhaps know less of Debussy than Schumann; he does not think it good that I should play ‘Papillon.’”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 16
