Jenny was waiting in the sitting-room. She was looking lovely against its pink and blue because Jenny seldom looked anything but lovely. She had on an ill-fitting blue frock buttoning up the front. One of the buttons on the breast was undone. One of the buttons in the front of all Jenny’s frocks was undone these days. Life circled round Vera and her feeds, and a button undone at the time was one button less to undo later on. She was not sitting demurely behind the tea-table; Jenny never sat behind the tea-table in the sitting-room, it was Jack’s mother and his aunt who sat behind tea-tables. Jack only thought that Jenny did when he was not with Jenny. Jenny was kneeling in front of the fire making a piece of toast, on either side of her were the two squat towel horses on which hung Vera’s nappies. The windows were shut, the room had a faint odour of half-digested milk and drying nappies. Vera was where his imagination had placed her; in her bassinet. Jenny turned to him, her eyes shining with welcome.
“I was just making you a bit of toast, darling.” Jack stepped over to the cradle. He beamed down on Vera. He wished she wasn’t asleep, he would have liked to have picked her up and given her a good hug. Jenny suddenly remembered where he had been. “Was it very horrid for you, darling?”
“It was all right, they decided the poor chap was bats.”
He waited for Jenny to ask what he had been forced to say about his gun, but at that moment Vera stretched and opened her eyes. Jenny hurried to the bassinet and knelt by it.
“Did-ums smile at ’oo’s muvver then.”
Jack forgot all about the inquest; he thought Jenny kneeling by his baby’s cradle the loveliest sight in the world.
“When the weather’s better do you think you could come along to the stores? We’ve a new line in high chairs coming in.”
“Lovely, I’ll bring Vera, they’d like to see her.” She got up and put her arm through Jack’s. “I’ve been thinking we mustn’t be a selfish Mummy and Daddy. When Vera has a little brother or little sister, or perhaps three little brothers and three little sisters, I think this ought to be their nursery. It could be a lovely room.”
Jack forgot that less than a year ago a rose and blue room had been all his dream, forgot his pride in a nice home; he saw only the splendid vision of duplicates of Vera in varying sizes. His mind roamed round Willis’s stores in Brighton; things they had sold before the war, rocking-horses, Noah’s arks, a superlative dolls’ house, play pens and washable nursery rugs flew into the room. He gripped Jenny’s hand tighter to his side.
“That’ll be wizard, Mrs. Willis.”
* * * * *
Penny was tipping back a much needed drink when Alfred tapped on the door. Alfred felt self-conscious; he was doing something foreign to his nature; he had made an excuse to call on Penny. All day, while he had been working, he had said to himself, “Wouldn’t half like to tell Mrs. Dill I’m sorry things have been so rough.” He probably never would have said anything to Penny had not one of his mates dug him in the ribs and stuck a paper under his nose and called out, “Old Alf isn’t ’alf a close one. Did you say the girl what did the shooting was just ordinary?” Then men had gathered round laughing. A camera man with a clever eye had caught Penny coming out of the court room; she looked lovely, no mistake about that; she also looked rather what the men called her—a nice piece. Alfred had let that go by. In his opinion extra words never made bad ones better, but it was those words about the photograph that had brought him to Penny.
“I thought you’d like to know, Mrs. Dill, Nobby Clark and his wife and the baby reckon to come in early to-morrow afternoon. It’s his day off.”
Penny poured Alfred out a drink; she pointed to one bottle of whisky, two of gin and a few glasses.
“This is all that’s left to go upstairs.”
“I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you down here, but I saw the door was open so I looked in. I was comin’ up otherwise.”
“Nice of you to let me know. Ought to be damned convenient having the milkman living in the house. Whoever else goes short of milk we shouldn’t.”
Alfred cleared his throat.
“I’m glad everything passed off nice at the Coroner’s. Things have been rough for you all.”
Penny nodded.
“You can’t be more glad than I am. I shall miss this flat; still, I’m glad the milkman should have it.”
Alfred looked round at those bits of work that he had done for Penny. Especial door plates, the bookshelf by the fire. He did not like to think she was giving it all away, they had cost her quite a piece; he particularly did not like to think of the bathroom and all those mirrors and the basin in the bedroom.
“He’s a nice fellow, Nobby Clark, he’d be quite willin’ to pay something week by week for the fixtures. He said to me, ‘I ought to pay something, fair’s fair.’”
Penny gave herself another drink.
“I never heard such nonsense. Actually, he could probably make me pay him for saying nothing. If the Council came in and saw all this they’d have kittens.”
Alfred was shocked at the suggestion.
“He’s not that kind of man at all. As a matter of fact, there’ll be two or three little things he wants doing himself. What the Council don’t see the Council don’t grieve after.”
Penny pointed to the glass door handles.
“I’ll probably have those off him some day. Have you got the old brass ones you took away?”
“I kept them. I’m glad you’ll keep the glass set. The job I had to get those, weeks it took, you remember. Terrible how people have got these days, they never throw out good stuff like they used to do. If it hadn’t been for a friend of mine who had that job of a night time doing up that mews flat for that theatrical lady, I never would have got these. Enamelled handles she had with flowers on them. My friend said to her, ‘What do you want done with the glass ones?’ You know how they are in the theatre, easy come, easy go. She said, ‘Take the damn’ stuff away;’ he brings them to me and says, ‘You want glass handles, give me five pounds and Bob’s your uncle.’” Alfred crossed to the door and stroked the handle affectionately. “Nice job they are. They were a pleasure to fix. I’ll have a word with Nobby Clark and we’ll put back the old brass ones. I’ll put these down in me front kitchen until you’re ready for them.”
Penny refilled his glass.
“I wonder when that’ll be. I’ve got a feeling, Mr. Parks, that I shall be here a long time yet.”
Alfred raised his glass to her.
“I hope so, Mrs. Dill. Mrs. Parks and me, we’d miss you if you went away.”
* * * * *
Gladys had the sausages sizzling for Alfred’s tea. She turned to him in pretence anger.
“All right, don’t tell me you’ve just come in, I heard the door open and I heard you slip up the stairs. So did old Ket.”
Alfred sat down at the table.
“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Dill about her glass handles.” He looked at the cat. “Do you think Mouser’ll mind moving to-morrow?”
Gladys laughed.
“He won’t move, he knows when he’s well off. Mrs. Dill said to me did I think we could let Trinity go? I said, ‘That’ll be up to him, Mrs. Dill; foreign he is, not one to be ordered about, if Jane can make him stop upstairs then he’ll stop; if he fancies coming back down here then he’ll come. Lately he’s been a lot up on four, nor I don’t blame him; sits down like a lord to half a chicken, wouldn’t wonder.’” She put the sausages on the table and gave Alfred an affectionate nudge with her elbow. “It’s no good actin’ up. You want to know what happened to-day, and if you don’t you’ve got to hear.” Her voice warmed. “It was as good as the pictures.”
Alfred took some mustard and ate a bit of sausage before he replied.
“I’ve read me paper. Unsound mind.”
“Oh, that! Well, of course he was unsound in his mind; nobody who kne
w Mrs. Dill could have thought she’d shot him, but you wouldn’t believe the questions they asked. Mr. Willis was the one. The time the Coroner had to get a straight answer out of him! He tried to say that nobody ever thought Mrs. Willis in any way funny. I whispered to Rene, ‘For tuppence I’d get up and say that before her baby came there was nothing to choose between her and your Aunt Ella.’ You ought to have seen Mrs. Willis’s mother, and what she had with her. Two as proper nancies as ever I see. I knew it was her mother because we were sittin’ just behind her and when Mr. Willis went into the box to answer the questions she said, seein’ he was limping a bit, ‘My poor Jenny married to a man with one leg, and he used to be such a splendid looking boy.’ I nearly hit her. I’d like to have said, ‘If it wasn’t for Mr. Willis and them like him you wouldn’t be sittin’ there at all, you old meadow lady, you!’”
Alfred knew he must hear the rest of the story.
“How about Mrs. Dill and Lady Nettel?”
Gladys’s voice was respectful.
“Lady Nettel was the one. Talk of the pictures! You should have seen her. Standing there, white as a sheet, just as smart as ever; very plain black she wore, with a white blouse and pearls. Never a tear, just speaking quiet and dignified. And the things she had to say. The times that boy had been in trouble. Rene said to me afterwards, ‘That just shows, one law for the rich and another for the poor. If it had been our boys he’d have been in Borstal,’ but I said, ‘No, fair’s fair, when they did cop him they gave him extra because of the good education and home he’d had. Ten years and the cat, fifteen strokes.’”
Alfred said:
“Missed having a father, shouldn’t wonder.”
“Don’t you believe it. Born bad, as good as said so herself. Thought he’d been hard done by when his father lost his money, and he’d a right to take what he wanted no matter how. Fancy having to stand up and say all that about your own son before a crowd of people.”
Alfred chewed steadily on, hoping to cut the recital as short as possible.
“Mrs. Dill go all right?”
“Just herself she was. Answered the Coroner just the same as she answers me when I’m doing her flat. One thing I will say, she was less foul-mouthed than usual, never swore once. I said to Rene, ‘That’s funny, she doesn’t have to do it, not a bloody, not a damn. I didn’t know she knew how to speak without using language.’”
Alfred felt that was enough. He wondered whether Joany Clark was the talkative sort; if she was there’d be a fine old hum going on between the ground floor and the basement.
“Have you said goodbye to Lady Nettel?”
“No. Hannah said that she thought if I stood in the hall it would be nice; she said they could speak or not as they felt; you know how she is. I didn’t say anything, but I knew I’d be on the step waiting. Hannah can say what she likes but a hearty send off sets you up however low you’re feelin’.”
* * * * *
Charlotte heard John come up the stairs. She rang for tea. He came in wearily but his face lightened at the sight of her at her tea-table. She had changed out of the black clothes she had worn in the Coroner’s court, and had put on a dull blue velvet that he was fond of, and her diamonds. Though it was April it was still cold; there was a small fire of logs. Beside Charlotte was a beautiful bowl of tulips. John crossed straight to her and kissed her.
“Old Pollock said we’re going away about the right time, he wouldn’t wonder if it was a lovely Easter. Nice, those tulips.”
Charlotte smiled at the tulips as though they had not been standing in exactly the same place for days. She was glad John was at last able to see things like tulips.
“They were sent to me by Mrs. Bettelheim. I shan’t miss anything in London much, but I shall be sorry not to see Paula Bettelheim; she’s that unusual creature, a really nice woman.”
“Shockin’ fellow, that husband. Still, if you like the woman we might do somethin’. I don’t know how you set about it, but might see what can be done about his emigratin’.”
“Emigrating! Where on earth to?”
“Palestine. Fellow’s often talked to me about it. Says it’s his home as much as ours is England.”
Charlotte laughed for the first time for days.
“How can you be so silly! He talks like that, but he doesn’t mean it. In no time now he’ll be a British citizen, then I should think we’ll read his name in the papers as one of our leading business men; later on he’ll probably go into Parliament; he might finish up anywhere, even be our Prime Minister.”
The door opened and Hannah came in with the teapot. John went to his chair. He smiled at Hannah. Charlotte would have told her of the result of the inquest; that was something closed and done with. He felt rather as if Good Friday were over, with its restrictions, and he had now reached a cheerful Easter Saturday.
“No need to tell you to keep an eye on the window-boxes. I don’t trust Mrs. Dill. I’ve left an order at the florist fellow’s. You’ll see when these hyacinths finish the boxes are repainted and kept as good as last year’s, won’t you?”
Hannah was charmed to find him so much himself.
“You can trust me, sir.”
John waited until the door was closed.
“Can’t understand Hannah and Mabel stoppin’ on. Hannah never liked London.”
“Mabel won’t trust her kitchen things to Penny, and I don’t blame her. Hannah wouldn’t go away without Mabel. I hope it won’t be for long. There’s nothing like being on the spot to hear of a house.”
“Never knew Devon well. Old Pollock was sayin’ ought to get somewhere near a bit of fishin’; he says there’s good fishin’ all over the place. I’d like that.”
Charlotte passed him his cup and watched him relax in his chair and help himself to bread and butter.
“We’ll get something. Nice little small place, easy to run.”
“Should like room for Penny and Jane.”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps Penny would get a place near us later on when things aren’t so difficult.”
“Anyway, she’ll bring Jane to stay. Probably leave Jane with us quite often. I don’t think Penny’ll live in the country, she’s become such a Londoner.”
“Can’t stop on here with everybody knowin’ about the Dukes. Old Pollock says everythin’s goin’ nicely. He thinks she wants to make a break as soon as possible.”
Charlotte did not answer that; she had ideas of her own about Penny. At the present moment Jeremy Duke was bitter and why not? But he still saw Jane, and Jane still called him Daddy. Jeremy and Penny had both known true happiness; Penny actually with Bill and Jeremy, though he had never married her, had loved somebody. It would be the most perfect solution if, after the divorce, Penny and Jeremy could get to like each other enough to make a go at life together. There was nothing on earth to suggest such a solution, but with two disillusioned people under one roof you never knew. She said:
“What’s going to happen about the square garden after we go?”
John was not sorry to leave London, he hated the place, but he was sorry about the square garden. It was work he had done with his own hands, and he did not like to think of it going backwards.
“There’s a firm comin’ to do the fencin’ and the house is still mine so I’m subscribin’, and I’ve not resigned from the committee. I thought, as long as Penny’s here, I could come up for a meetin’ now and then. After all, Devonshire’s not Timbuctoo.”
Charlotte held out her hand for his cup. Devon might not be Timbuctoo, but it was a long way off. She longed for Devonshire as, on a hot day without water, she might have longed for a drink. The glare of publicity had scorched her soul. She could not come inside the front hall without shuddering. Peter had come up those steps. Inside that room Peter had shot himself. In Devonshire, though people might know her story, there would not be
constant reminders. She passed John back his refilled cup.
“That’s a good idea. No reason why you shouldn’t come up; after all, this is your home. I’m glad, though, we’re not going on struggling to live here. We don’t belong. I remember, one morning when I was going over this house with Penny at the beginning of last year. We looked out of the windows at the back, at the ruins. Penny said it was queer the way the weeds and grass had come up, and I said, ‘They’re rather like you and me, two country hayseeds transplanted to London;’ that’s why I’m so pleased you’ve let me put the milkman and his wife on the ground floor. Anything else was wrong, or, at any rate, wrong for us. They’re part of the make-up of London, they must not be crowded out.”
Grass in Piccadilly Page 26
