Grass in Piccadilly

by Noel Streatfeild

  Gladys caught Penny as she was leaving the room.

  “Lovely party, isn’t it? I heard you say you were fetching Hannah. Passing four you might see what’s happened to Mrs. Willis. She slipped off when the concert began.”

  “All right. I wish that baby was born. Everybody spends their time asking what’s happened to Mrs. Willis.”

  “Get your wish, shouldn’t wonder. I was only saying just now she looked funny to me.”

  Penny had not been to the Willises’ flat. She did not know which room they used for which purpose. She called “Mrs. Willis, Mrs. Willis,” but got no answer. She wandered down the passage listening for sounds. One door was ajar, she pushed it open. It was the big bedroom. Twin beds stood side by side. Jenny was lying half-across one. She was unconscious. In running to her Penny’s foot struck something. She glanced down and stopped. It was a revolver.

  * * * * *

  Jack arrived home to be met by Penny in the hall.

  “I was waiting for you. Come in.”

  Jack stood where he was.

  “What is it?”

  “You better come in. I’ve something of yours.”

  As soon as she had him in the flat Penny closed the door.

  “Your wife has gone to the nursing home.” Jack moved. Penny stopped him. “There was a children’s party upstairs. I found her; she was unconscious. Luckily she came round and I rang her doctor. Her baby has started.” He moved again. Penny once more stopped him. She picked up the revolver from the mantelpiece. “I found this. She told me she had tried to shoot herself.”

  Jack looked at the revolver.

  “It’s mine. It’s one I had at the beginning of the war.”

  “I supposed it was, seeing it’s service type.”

  “I’ve never thought about it. I mean, it would be useful, I thought, for burglars. Can I use your telephone?”

  “Of course. I’ll fix you a drink; better have something stronger than beer. You’ll need it before the night’s over.”

  Jack took his drink standing. He was longing to be off, at least he could wait outside Jenny’s door, but he had to give Penny some sort of explanation. He did not want to discuss Jenny; he sounded sulky.

  “We had another baby. Nearly two years ago. It was born dead. I wasn’t there and I don’t believe a word of it. They said she went scats. They put her in a sort of home.”

  “Who did? Mumsie?”

  “That’s right. My mother saw Jenny and said she didn’t think it was anything; got sort of hysterical that was all.”

  “But Jenny believes it. She thinks it’s going to happen again. Have you told the doctor?”

  “Haven’t told any one. ’Tisn’t true. Jenny would only feel worse.”

  Penny looked at the floor. Could she try and make this young man see what his wife had been through? She gave it up. He never would see. He wasn’t the type.

  “You want to pop off. Don’t wait. But tell the doctor, you owe me that much for keeping that thing from him.” She nodded at the revolver.

  After Jack had gone Penny poured herself out another drink. What a day! She was tired. She was supposed to go out but she would cut it. She looked at Jack’s revolver. That was a nice thing to get left with. She picked it up gingerly and laid it in a drawer.

  * * * * *

  Children came round singing carols. They came from the bombed street at the back of the square. They stood outside the Nettels’ front door and sang piercingly and inaccurately through the letter-box. “The first No-well, as the ain-jels did say. Was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay.” Penny was out and their voices did not carry up to the rest of the flats, but Gladys heard them. She came out into the area.

  “Call that carol singing? My cat can do better than that. Still, seeing it’s Christmas Eve, come along down and we’ll see what we can do for you.” The children trouped down the area steps. Gladys ushered them into the stone-flagged kitchen. “Now, then, what d’you know? Let’s hear it.” She raised her voice. “Alfred, open the door and ’ave a listen; there are some kids going to sing a carol.” The children looked shyly at each other. One murmured, “The first No-well.” Gladys sniffed. “That you never. Only about one of you knows the words. How about good old ‘King Wenceslas?’ Come on, I’ll give you a start.” She lifted her voice, pitching the carol far too high. “Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.” She was not too sure herself of the words, but they got through somehow, and by the time they reached:

  “Wherefore christian men be sure

  Wealth or rank possessing

  Ye who now would feed the poor

  Shall now yourselves find ble-hes-hing.”

  Alfred had come into the kitchen and joined them. Gladys looked at the children and laughed. She was enjoying herself. This was her kitchen, it was Christmas Eve and right and proper that there should be carol singers, even carol singers who sang as badly as these children. Her mind was running over her Christmas store. Packed in a big bag, ready to take to Rene’s to-morrow, was their share of the Christmas dinner. Some apples, oranges and two boxes of dates, as well as crackers. On Boxing Day Frank, Rene and the children would come to them. For that she had two chickens waiting. They had tried to pull wires to get a turkey, but they had failed. Still, two chickens would be all right. There was a wonderful lot of stuff prepared for “afters.” It was those “afters” her mind was examining mentally. There were five carol singers; could she spare five mince pies? Or should she give them five of the little cakes she had made?

  “I suppose you’ll expect some money now I’ve done all the work. Come on, Alfred, you feel in your pockets and see what you can find. You wait there, kids; expect you can do with somethin’ to eat.”

  Munching mince pies, with coppers in their pockets, the children walked down the square looking for fresh victims. The caretaker of the house requisitioned by the government beckoned to them.

  “There y’are, there’s a shilling. I don’t think much of yer carol singing, but you’re the first kids I’ve ’eard singing round ’ere since I’ve been ’ere, and that’s seven years. ‘Op along and don’t forget to hang up your stockings to-night. Father Christmas has a rare job to get through his rounds, ‘is reindeer don’t keep the speed they did, not on their rations.”

  Jack Willis came limping down the square. The caretaker was just going in, but he turned back to greet him.

  “’Evenin’, sir, how they doin’?”

  Jack stopped. It was natural, he thought, that everybody should be interested in Jenny and his baby. He wished he had a photograph of the baby. She was a wonderful baby; everybody at the home said so. He would have liked to have had a photograph of her to show people.

  “Wizard. We decided on the names to-day. Vera, Desirée, Jennifer. Jennifer’s my wife’s name.”

  The caretaker considered the names carefully.

  “That’s pretty. Desirée. Never knew any child called that. My sister’s third is Vera. Vera Margaret Rose.”

  “I picked Vera because of Vera Lynn.”

  “Ah! Forces’ sweet’eart.”

  Jack had always thought that a damn’ silly name for anybody. Nobody that he had ever known had thought of her as their sweetheart; they just liked listening to her; still, you couldn’t blame the girl for that, and Vera was a nice name.

  “Piece of cake her being born in time for Christmas. I’ve got her a Christmas present, especial kind of rattle thing which she can bite when she’s got teeth.”

  The caretaker looked stolidly at Jack. Inside, far out of sight, he felt moved. Nice young chap, hard luck he had lost a leg.

  “Pity you can’t ’ave your kid and your missus ’ome for Christmas.”

  Jack did not think it hard luck; he thought it was wizard that it was all over and the baby safely born. Why, if Jenny had not had the
baby a month too soon he would still have the thick end of three weeks to wait. He wished the staff at the store, and people like this caretaker, could see Jenny sitting up in bed wearing a little yellow coat.

  “I’m going round to the home to have tea with them to-morrow.” He wondered if the caretaker knew much about babies. He would have liked to have told him of the extraordinary thing that had happened. He had been wishing all the way home there was someone he could tell about it. He had very nearly told the conductress on the bus, she had been a nice type, but just as he started somebody had called her to give her their fare. He decided the caretaker was unmarried type, unable to understand the miracle of a baby, not quite a week old, recognising her father and smiling. He put his hand in his pocket and took out five shillings. “You might drink to her health. Don’t forget, the name’s Vera.”

  The caretaker looked after Jack, jingling the half-crowns in his hand. He would pop along to the Two Chairmen with that; it was his favourite local, he would be pleased to drink to the baby. It was a bit of all right a baby being born in the square. Ever since he had been there it had been a sterile place, warmed up, of course, by the young Yanks, but sterile. He had heard there had been a time when the square was full of children. Likely enough true, he wouldn’t wonder. There were still bars across most of the top windows. There was a time, so he had heard, when the garden was full of nurses and prams. They said that every house in the square had paid to keep that garden up, and all had their own keys. Funny to think of that, funny to think there ever had been a time when just one family lived in those big houses. One final look round to see everything was all right, then he wouldn’t be back for two days. He jingled the half-crowns once more. In his mind’s eye he could see himself tipping back a glass of beer. “Merry Christmas, Vera.”

  * * * * *

  Gladys rushed through her work. Never a dull moment in this house. Christening parties were not as a rule her favourite; she preferred a nice wedding or a good spread after a funeral; still, a christening party on the scale of this one on three, that was something.

  Hannah regretted that tendency in an otherwise admirable worker, to skimp because something extra was taking place. To mark her disapproval without putting it into words she brushed her stairs a shade more slowly and methodically than on other days.

  “Good-morning,” said Gladys. “Bit parky.” Hannah acknowledged the greeting without turning her head. Gladys was in far too good spirits to be affected by disapproval. She gave an amused grin at Hannah’s back. Proper old starchy this morning, she thought. It was not, however, in her nature to let starchiness exist if she could break it up. She searched for something to say that would please. “Mrs. Bettelheim’s fetching in snowdrops to put round the cake; ought to set it off wonderful.”

  Hannah thawed slightly.

  “Very nice. Mabel has sent up a proper silver stand and all.”

  “What did you decide about goin’ up for the tea?”

  Hannah could talk to Gladys about many things but she could not tell her what she and Mabel had felt about the Willises’ invitation to the christening tea. At first Mabel had said they would go. She would speak to her Ladyship about it. Hannah had agreed. Almost certainly Sir John and her Ladyship would be going up themselves. She had not intended herself to go as a guest. It would not be fitting if Sir John and her Ladyship were there. Mabel said she was going in her best hat, but Hannah knew that was just talk. If she and Mabel went at all it would be to help. Then yesterday Mabel had taken down the cake tin. She had put the cake on the table. White icing and true lovers’ knots. They had not been able to speak for a few minutes. They saw the table at the end of the library at Peasefield House laid for the wedding. They saw this little cake and another tier being lifted off. They saw Miss Penny’s hands, which were on the cake knife, covered by the big hands of Mr. Bill. They saw, what perhaps nobody else had seen since the guests only saw the backs of bride and groom, whereas they on the serving side of the table saw their faces, the way they had smiled at each other. It had given Hannah quite a turn to remember that smile. Miss Penny’s face had lost the shape for carrying that sort of smile. Must have given Mabel a turn too, because she had picked up the cake and shoved it back in its tin, and from the way she fumbled for the lid Hannah was sure her eyes were full of tears. Neither of them had said anything about feelings. Mabel had said, “You might take it up to Mrs. Willis later. Tell her I shan’t be able to come to the tea.” Hannah had not replied, but she knew she could not go to the tea either.

  “Her Ladyship and Sir John aren’t going so there’ll be drawing-room tea as usual.”

  Gladys knew she must not criticise the Nettels; there was no more certain way to upset Hannah. It was so near the tip of her tongue to say, “Kill her to get it herself for once I suppose,” that she decided she had better move. She had done enough cleaning for a busy day.

  Charlotte came down the stairs. She was carrying a pot of hyacinths.

  “I’ve stolen one of your pots, Hannah. I thought it would cheer Mrs. Dill.”

  Hannah creaked to her feet to allow Charlotte to pass.

  “She’s better this morning, m’Lady. Says she’s getting up. I’ve made her bed and later I’m doing the flat. Mrs. Parks is helping over the christening and won’t be able to give the time to doing it she should.”

  Penny was sitting up in bed reading the paper. There was a large electric fire, but the room felt cold. Charlotte put the hyacinths on a table.

  “Hannah tells me you’re getting up. Are you fit to? It’s wretched weather.”

  “My temperature’s down. I might just as well get up, I’d feel lousy anywhere. I hope you’re not getting ’flu, you don’t look too good.”

  Charlotte smiled. It was, Penny registered, a forced sort of smile.

  “I never get ’flu.” She sat down on the bed. She spoke with artificial casualness. “There seem to be great doings over this christening.” Penny agreed. She was not interested in the christening, and was about to talk of something else, but Charlotte went on. “Were you asked?”

  “No.” Penny was again going to leave the subject, but Charlotte had not finished.

  “Neither were we. Don’t you think that’s rather odd?”

  “Odd? Why?”

  Charlotte could not say “because we sent the cake.” Penny must not be told about that. She said instead:

  “Well, they’re our tenants.”

  Penny had been only half-attending. She had the dim-witted feeling belonging to influenza. Now she made an effort and concentrated. What was biting Charlotte? She was the last person to care if she were asked to a party or not. Yet she had come down, probably on purpose, to talk about it. Only too well Penny knew the sensation of nerves nagged at over something ridiculous that either did not matter, or that was purely imagined. What was making Charlotte feel like that? Suddenly she saw. Of course, Brighton again. She had probably worried herself into believing that the Willises had discovered her husband, or the body, or whatever it was. Penny had told nobody about Jenny and the revolver, or what Jack had told her. A hatred of having her own affairs discussed made her try never to discuss other people’s. It was not always easy; stories about people were the simplest way to raise a laugh, and life being what it was most people would rather be handed a laugh than a pound note. Nevertheless she did try not to let the wish to amuse outrun discretion. She had not been unduly tempted over the Willis story because, outside the household, nobody she knew had heard of them. There was no reason not to have told Charlotte, who was discretion on two legs; it just happened that it was Christmas time and a lot was going on, and somehow she never had.

  “Actually, the Willises won’t want us about. I never told you about them, but they probably think I did. You know all that flapdoodle of everybody rushing round saying ‘Mrs. Willis ought not to be alone?’ Well, there was more sense in that than you would think. She
’d had a baby before; it was born dead. She’d had some kind of a come-over after that and had to be pushed into a home.”

  “Really! However did you find all this out?”

  “Actually, I was in at the death, as it were. Damn nearly was a death too. She thought that the same thing would happen again, and this time she would go right off her rocker. I only heard about this from him and he’s not the sort of man who explains things. He wasn’t there when the first baby was born, but he didn’t believe half they told him; I think he thought, and his mother did too, that her mother was making things out to be worse than they were; that’s the woman called Mumsie. What happened to start the baby early I don’t know, but some time on the day of the party she knew the baby was coming, lost her head and took Jack Willis’s revolver and tried to shoot herself. He’s one of those militant types who keeps a loaded revolver in his flat. Luckily, the mere sight of the thing scared her so much that she fainted; that’s where I came in. She came round, I rang up her doctor and carted the revolver down here—still here, as a matter of fact. Now that the kid’s born and everything’s turned out for the best in the best of all possible worlds, they don’t want reminding of that sad bit of their past. I know that because I sent a sprig of flowers and what-not to the home with a note; I met him in the hall just afterwards and he thanked me, but you could see he intended to forget that she’d ever seen his revolver, and he wanted me to forget too. I think he’s the sort that could really fool himself that it never happened. Some day I’ll have to ask him to take his gun away, but I thought it would be tactful to leave it until after the christening.”

  Charlotte looked quite different. She was, Penny thought, like a plant bucking up after it had been watered.

  “Really, what a story! Fancy you keeping all that to yourself! Silly of Mrs. Willis not to have told any one . . .”

  “I see her point. He didn’t believe it and didn’t want her to believe it. The world’s full of people foxing themselves that facts aren’t facts. Actually, things have turned out all right. There’s Vera Desirée Jennifer. What a name! And I gather Jenny Willis is a mother to end all mothers. Paula is almost nauseating about her.”