“Whatever state you were in there’s the facts. You told them to the solicitor, who told them to me; you got rid of your child on Freda, who hoisted her on me. Now you want her back.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Penny thought, well, after all that’s what he’s here about and the sooner we get things fixed the sooner he can go. No good prolonging it. He naturally loathes my guts.
“Any day, really. I thought I ought to leave it to you, I’d like her as soon as you’ve explained to your family. I’d like it to be soon, of course, but it must depend on you.”
“I’ll be glad to get back here, I can’t work in the parents’ house.”
“Back here!”
“Of course, where else?”
Penny kept her face wooden but her mind was like a moth caught in a lampshade. She had never dreamed of his coming back to his flat. After all, the flat was let to him dead cheap because she wanted it for Jane. He must see how intolerably awkward it was his staying on. Then, looking at him, she saw he did see and still meant to do it. She did not understand a creative temperament, she did not know that Jeremy would gladly put up with any awkwardness in order to have a place of his own in which to write. She thought that he wanted to be as difficult as possible, and did not blame him for it.
“If you’re here it will make a difference. I’d sort of pictured having Jane to myself and getting her used to being mine. With you upstairs she will just think she’s sleeping and eating with me, but that your flat is her home.”
That was a new idea to Jeremy too, but it did not trouble him, it was Penny’s worry.
“Would that matter?”
Penny took a cigarette and passed the box to Jeremy, who, without thinking, took one. He lit both their cigarettes. They smoked in silence for a bit. Penny said:
“Actually, it might be easier from every angle for the moment. I’ve got to hang about seeing the solicitors. I mean, I can’t go away until . . .” She did not say “so will you move as soon as possible,” but it was implied. “Jane will go on calling me Aunt Penny, I suppose, and you Daddy, which is idiotic, but it may help while she’s getting used to living with me.”
“As soon as my book’s finished I’ll shift.”
They both got up.
“Thank you for coming, you’ve been decent. In your place I wouldn’t have had anything to do with me except through a solicitor.”
For one second Jeremy saw Penny clearly. The amusing, smart Penny he had known with Freda, disappeared as if she were an orange, and he had skinned the peel off and could see the fruit. He saw the ardent Penny that Bill had married. He saw the Penny who could be unfaithful to the man she loved. The Penny who had tried to straighten out a ghastly muddle without realising that she was making tragedy for three people, perhaps four, for no one could guess what the wretched business had meant to Freda. He no longer wanted to hurt her.
“I hope everything will be fixed up quickly. We can’t straighten things for ourselves, we’re bogged, but things should be all right in the end for Jane.”
After Jeremy had gone Penny, too restless to sit, fidgeted round her flat. Picking up this, putting down that, she came across a note from Charlotte. It had been with her morning letters. She had read it but scarcely taken in what it said. All her mind was then on Jeremy’s visit. Now she re-read it.
“DEAR PENNY,—As you know, I’ve had to catch a very early train. I wish I could have been here to-day as, naturally, the interview with Mr. Duke is bound to be unpleasant for you, but I have no alternative. Would you have a meal if possible with your father? He looks wretched. He’s worried for me at the moment. I’ll tell you about that sometime. Love,
CHARLOTTE.”
Penny thought the note very like Charlotte. “He’s worried for me.” It might have a soupçon of truth in it, but only a soupçon. John looked ghastly. He had aged, he looked ill, frail and with less grip on life. There was no question who was to blame. “Would you have a meal if possible with your father.” How like Charlotte! She never interfered, never gave direct advice, but she evidently thought the time had come when there should be some effort, or she thought an effort had to be made sooner or later and to-day was as good a day as any other; she covered whatever she did mean by “a meal if possible.” Holding the note Penny thought of Charlotte. She had been so shut up in herself she had not thought of why Charlotte might be away. “I may be away a day or two,” she had said. Penny, tortured by self-consciousness, was a little glad. Alone, waves of embarrassment swept over her, making her cheeks flame. Charlotte, her father, the solicitor, Jeremy, all gaping into her past. She, who loathed interference, who had bristled at the faintest interest in her private concerns had no hidden place left to her. She had grown more fond of Charlotte every day. Charlotte had been kind, no getting away from that. She had made everything easier than it would have been without her intervention. All the same, it was a rest that she was away. Penny’s whole being was screaming for privacy. The thought of the minds fixed on her made every nerve in her body ache. But Charlotte was right; it was time she made some effort about her father. The mere thought of a tête-à-tête with him made her feel sick. She had only seen him when the solicitor was there. There had been no reason for her to see him alone. They both knew they could not go on as they were, but neither had made an effort. The situation was no easier because she had been so aloof with him for so many years. Penny, staring at Charlotte’s note, was faced with the thought, “Oh, well, I suppose to-day’s as good as any other.” Her inclination was to go out with friends who had no idea anything was wrong. She would have liked to have drugged herself with drinks; instead, she picked up the telephone receiver and asked Hannah, who answered it, if it would suit the larder if she came up and dined with her father. With her other hand she screwed Charlotte’s note into a ball and flung it across the room, following it with three revolting words.
Gladys, cooking Alfred’s tea, felt aggrieved. She had seen Jeremy arrive, she had known he had called on Penny. Well, that was all right. To be expected really, but foolish if there was going to be a divorce. She had heard it was more difficult to get a divorce if you were doing what you didn’t ought yourself. Not that there was going to be any chance of Mrs. Duke getting out of it. Over and over again to Alfred, to Rene, to Frank she had described the discovery of “the gentleman;” how he had looked, what he had said, what she had said. She had found the days since that great morning dull. She was vague as to what happened before a divorce case. She knew it was not a matter for the police, but it was a matter for somebody. She had expected to be called on and to have everything she said written down. Nobody had called, nobody had done anything, not even written. Mrs. Duke had left disappointingly quietly. Just boxes and suit-cases in the hall. Then a big car calling and that was the end. As soon as she had gone Gladys had expected Mr. Duke back. He would need a bit of looking after living on his own and life would stir again. Doing his flat she’d learn all there was to know. But Mr. Duke did not come back. He did nothing, not even come for his laundry. He might have been dead. Then suddenly he called, just like a stranger, saw Mrs. Dill and off again. Never a word to anybody else. Never just a call down the stairs to say, “Hope you’re ready to say what you saw, Mrs. Parks.” Just slam the door and up the square like a streak. Life was being dull without that. Gladys couldn’t think what had got into everybody. Of course the weather was something chronic, but it was no good letting it get you down. Mrs. Dill had been ever so down since that day she fainted. Gladys wondered about that faint; of course it might mean she had got something to faint about, but she doubted that. She didn’t look the sort to get careless and find herself in the family way. More like she hadn’t got over her ’flu. Anyway, she was about as cheerful as a wet bank holiday. Gladys usually enjoyed doing Penny’s flat when Penny was at home, but not lately. Lucky if she got a “yes” or “no.” Then Hannah was as sour
as a grape. Worried about her Sir John, said he wasn’t eating enough. Gladys was sorry she was worried, but inside she sometimes lost patience with Hannah and “the family.” You’d think, the way she went on, that Sir John was a child. Mrs. Bettelheim was being starchy. She was usually very pleasant, which was a wonder, poor thing, with that husband, but over Mrs. Duke she’d been so close Gladys could have shaken her. Living on four she must have heard a lot. Now it had all come out no harm in talking. Passing the door the day after Mrs. Duke left Gladys had given her a proper lead. “Be quieter for you. Must have been noisy sometimes up on five.” Paula had shaken her head, and answered, “There is much suffering” and gone into her flat and closed the door. If that wasn’t being starchy Gladys didn’t know what was.
The door was ajar. The cat came in. Gladys put some fish on a saucer.
“There you are, Ket. And don’t look at it old-fashioned. There’s enough sour faces and up-turned noses in this house without you joining in.”
Hannah was laying the dinner table. For the first time in days she was looking a little cheerful. Mrs. Dill having dinner with her father. Very right, proper and nice. Hannah displayed her approval in her choice of the table appointments. The finest mats and table napkins. There were violets in the drawing-room; she rearranged them for the table. She had lit the electric fire as soon as she knew Penny was coming. The electric fire in the dining-room was not, while the crisis lasted, supposed to be on longer than could be helped, but this was an occasion. The best china was not used except when there were guests. Hannah put it out. They did not have much silver in use. Charlotte had bought glass mustard, pepper and salt sets and told Hannah she must use them, that she could not possibly clean a lot of silver with all the other things she had to do. Hannah had been forced by lack of time to give in, but unwillingly. To-night, with pleasure, she unrolled the black paper and took her silver out. Mrs. Dill knew well kept silver when she saw it. There were some very special glasses. Charlotte had told Hannah they were too good to use and ought to be in a case. Hannah had said, “Yes, m’Lady” and put them back in her glass cupboard. To-night they came out. They already gleamed, but not enough for Hannah; each one had to have another polish. Mrs. Dill, in the old days before the war, had been very set on candles on a table. There were some candlesticks with crystals hanging from them that Hannah thought the world of. She got them out. There were some pink candles put away. Charlotte did not care for pink and did not know of Hannah’s hidden store of candles. Hannah took four out; pink was cheerful, just right for to-night.
Mabel, in her own way, was taking just as much trouble, but she scorned to show it. There was something about Hannah’s creaking, heavy-breathed emotionalism that got on her nerves. Nobody who knew the family could fail to have noticed that things weren’t right between Miss Penny and her father. Remembering Miss Penny’s childhood, the wedding and the one Sunday Miss Penny and Mr. Bill had been down after the wedding, Mabel knew that whatever the upset was it must come from Miss Penny. She was the one who’d changed, not Sir John. Sir John had been as pleased as could be over the wedding and looked on Mr. Bill as a son. Maybe he had written or said something to annoy Miss Penny, but she would be the one who was stand-offish. She had always been quick to lose her temper and quick to make it up. Queer how long she had let whatever it was between her and her father go on; still, there came an end to all things; to-night was evidently it. She had a nice little dinner planned, but she wasn’t going to carry on like Hannah.
There never was fish and meat at the same meal, but she prepared both scallops and the meat ration as if she did it every day.
“That’s right,” said Hannah, “give him the best.”
“I always do give the best I’ve got.”
“Mrs. Dill’s looking badly.”
Mabel thought Penny’s looks a disgrace, but she had her own views about that. If Mr. Duke was divorcing Mrs. Duke, Miss Penny and Mr. Duke would have to watch their steps. No scuttling up and down the back stairs for him for a bit. It was no good saying that to Hannah, who would take offence.
“Never got over her ’flu.”
Hannah sighed.
“What she needs is to live with those who love her and can look after her.”
Mabel agreed inwardly, but Hannah was too much for her.
“Oh, get along, you and your sloppy talk. What she wants is a nice second husband.”
* * * * *
Penny and John had drank an uneasy glass of sherry together. They were both glad when Hannah announced that dinner was served. They greeted her with unnecessary heartiness.
“Splendid, Hannah! Splendid!”
“Good. I’m madly hungry.”
Neither John nor Penny had any appetite. They made vague conversation for Hannah’s benefit. Penny, not having eaten at her father’s table for the best part of seven years, did not know the table was unusually resplendent. John noticed.
“Doin’ us proud to-night, Hannah.”
Hannah beamed.
“Well, sir, it’s such a time since I’d Mrs. Dill to wait on.”
Penny broke in hurriedly:
“You old liar, who carried food to me when I had ’flu?”
“Not sitting at your father’s table I mean. That’s where we like to see her, isn’t it, sir?”
When Hannah left the room to fetch the savouries John said:
“I think Mabel’s spread herself a bit. Don’t like to leave the food, but I’m not very hungry.”
Penny thankfully put down her knife and fork.
“I’ll be sick if I force any more down.” She looked at the meat on her plate. “Mabel will be furious.”
They looked at each other as they had a hundred times in Miss Erridge’s day. Two conspirators wondering how they could get round Miss Erridge’s plans to make an educated woman of Penny without actually offending Miss Erridge. John said:
“Can’t waste meat. You could use it, couldn’t you?”
It was the work of a moment. John found a large envelope and held it open. Penny put the meat in. When Hannah returned for their plates, except for a little vegetable, they were bare.
“We shan’t want any fruit, Hannah, after the repast Mabel’s given us. Just bring the coffee here. We’ll help ourselves.” John waited until Hannah had shut the door, then he poured Penny out a glass of port. “Some of the good stuff.” He passed the decanter in a circle round the table to his own glass. He had not meant to touch on Penny’s affairs until they were in the drawing-room, but the silly incident of the meat had concertina-ed the years. It was easier to speak than he had thought possible. “What did Duke say?”
Penny fiddled with her port glass. She, too, had been helped by the business of the meat. It had reminded her that once nobody had understood her better than her father.
“Says he’ll tell his family and bring Jane back here. There’s one awkward thing; he’s coming back himself.” John prepared and lit a cigar and considered that. In the pause Hannah brought the coffee. Penny poured it out and brought John his cup. “It means, of course, I can’t tell Jane the truth just yet.”
‘Difficult to tell a baby that age, anyway. Matter of fact, saw old Pollock to-day; he thinks that you’d better go on as you are as much as possible. He says that it’ll be better for everyone if she’s supposed to be adopted.”
“I want everything cleared up.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. That’s what I felt myself. Old Pollock’s not bad as solicitors go. Wise old bird. He says pity to brand the child . . .” He broke off, able suddenly to ask a question which was pestering him. “What sort of fellow was her father?”
Penny stretched her mind back to Christmas nineteen forty.
“The Americans weren’t in the war when I knew him. He’d joined up in Canada. You know how it is when Americans take up a cause, they take it up much more madly than
any one else. Elmer, his name wasn’t Elmer, that was a joke, really had come to save the world and didn’t mind if he died doing it. He found us disappointing; he wanted us all to look like he thought we acted. Instead of which, there we all were, looking revoltingly ordinary in drab uniforms, anything but world savers. He was lonely, but, when he wasn’t being idealistic, madly amusing.”
“Do you suppose he was killed?”
Penny shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. I never tried to find out.”
John sorted out useful good words that would serve.
“I’ve been thinkin’, Penny, all the afternoon about what old Pollock said. If it could be fixed so it looked like adoption the child could take my name.”
Penny snapped:
“In the meantime her name’s Jane, I wish you’d use it.”
John went patiently on:
“We don’t want more people hurt than need be, and it would be a nasty knock for Bill’s people if they had to know the truth.”
“How can I adopt her? Where’s she supposed to have sprung from?”
“Pollock says it can be arranged. Great thing is to keep the little girl—Jane, I mean—out of it.” Penny thought, “That isn’t what I want. I want everything cleared up. I want Jane absolutely mine.” John saw how she felt and spoke with more energy. “You can’t think of yourself in this. You must think of Jane first, and after that of Bill’s family. You never see them now. I can understand you couldn’t face them, but they’re fond of you. With an adopted daughter you could visit them; give ’em great pleasure. You owe Bill that.” He stretched out a hand. “I’m not goin’ to pretend this thing hasn’t hit me hard, but your stepmother said a very sensible thing. She told me not to judge but to help. I’ve been trying to do that.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 23
