by Emily Hahn
She jumped to her feet and started changing the plates for dessert. Little by little Aunt Norah was permitting her to take over the routine tasks of the house, and that was all to the good. And other things, too, were all to the good. It was surprisingly pleasant, for instance, to feel safe on waking up in the morning. There was no sensation quite like that anywhere else in the world, though after all she had never lived a particularly dangerous or adventurous life: it was just that you knew all through your being when you were home. Francie recollected the gray mornings of England and the way her spirits had needed pumping up as soon as she realized where she was; she’d been like a limp balloon at first, but it was all right after a little while. You could manage; you could put yourself into a good mood if you tried, in England or anywhere else. But that wasn’t the same as starting out in the right mood from the very beginning, in the morning, in your own bed, in your own room. Jefferson must be given credit for that.
She was still feeling unwontedly charitable toward Jefferson when the afternoon mail arrived—the Jefferson Rotarians and other boosters would have been aggrieved and alarmed if they had known that this mood was unusual in Francie Nelson. What was the matter with Jefferson, they might well have asked. It was an up-and-coming town with more than its fair share of natural beauty in the surroundings. It had good, modern housing. It had plenty of industry; the factories were properly built, well kept, and far from the residential districts. There was civic pride aplenty in Jefferson. Just outside the town the government had bult a skyscraper hospital, and doctors and nurses and many kinds of technicians and workers were settling in Jefferson. It had one of the best public-school systems in the Middle West, and a rapidly increasing population.… “Yes,” Francie would have retorted; “no doubt that’s all true, but it isn’t a big city; it isn’t New York, and I feel out of place.” However, at the moment she was somewhat appeased.
Then the mail arrived and brought with it a painful reminder of that richer life of the past—a letter from dear Aunt Lolly Barclay. Laura Barclay was only an aunt by courtesy, which may have been one reason Francie loved her so much. For as long as the girl could remember Mrs. Barclay had played fairy godmother to her. She had been at school with Francie’s mother, and though her husband’s government post took her far afield, she never lost track of her adopted niece. It was Aunt Lolly who had been responsible for Francie’s year in Portugal. Now she was in Paris, where her husband, Uncle Martin, was working. Francie had wanted very much to write about Pop’s difficulties and her own, but had resisted the impulse to pour out the bad news as soon as it all happened. A much later and restrained version had gone to Paris after the Nelsons were settled in Jefferson, and this was Aunt Lolly’s prompt reply.
You poor child, I’m so awfully sorry. Of course your father is sure to ride out of the storm in his usual capable way; I’m not a bit worried for him, but I’m afraid you’re having an anxious period and a sad one. It was just what I would have expected of you, to stand by and held all you could. But dear, haven’t you been just your course at Barnard and rush out to Aunt Norah’s? You ought to have asked us to help, and I’m rather hurt that you didn’t, though I know how independent you are. So now I think you owe it to me to change your mind, even though it’s too late to go back to Barnard. Come to Paris. I’ve never given you that year in France that I promised, and Martin and I would be delighted—but you know that without being told, so I’ll only add that we’re having a very gay time and you’d make a lot of difference in this house, which is too quiet. Do let me send you the fare; if there’s any chance of your agreeing, I’ll telephone your father one of these nights and talk to him.
She had added the underlined words, I mean this.
Yes, she meant it; Francie hadn’t a doubt. But Aunt Lolly was too far away to understand all the complexities—the financial situation, by which their money was legally in Aunt Norah’s hands and must stay there, and Pop’s state of mind, and, for that matter, Francie’s own. No doubt it would be all right, in a general manner of speaking, for her to go off and live comfortably and amusingly in Paris while Fred Nelson saw the crisis through. But it wouldn’t be—Francie struggled to find the right word and failed—it just wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair or nice; it would look terribly selfish. Nor would she be so comfortable as all that, being conscious all the time that she was depending on the Barclays. On other occasions when she visited Aunt Lolly and Uncle Martin, she did so knowing that she could pay her own way. This time, it would all be depending on some future date when Pop could signal the all-clear. And yet—Paris! Exciting and unknown, a city of theaters and concerts and everything she was missing so much! And certainly Aunt Lolly meant it.…
“But—no,” said Francie. She sighed, and sat down to write a reply.
She managed to arrive at Ruth’s house at just the right time, when little Bill was being settled in after his two o’clock feeding. Ruth was still in the baby’s room arranging the crib for his nap. Francie watched from the sidelines as her friend drew the curtains, pinned the blue blankets down and placed everything ready for the bath later on. How deft Ruth had become at these tasks, which must have been totally unfamiliar to her a few months before.
“I couldn’t do all that,” said Francie solemnly, “never in the world. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Sometimes I amaze myself,” Ruth admitted. “But it’s surprising what you catch on to when you’ve got to. Well, come on; I’m through here for a little while. I’ve made coffee in the kitchen.” As they went downstairs she gave Francie the quick, appraising look that was characteristic of her. “I notice your skirts are longer than ours,” she said. “Is that the way they’re being worn in New York? Because the fashion columns in the papers here say that skirts ought to be shorter this year, and we’ve all been shortening them at a mad pace.”
“I don’t know,” said Francie. “I just wear them the way they come ready-made, at the store.”
“Seems to me you’re awfully careless about such things,” said Ruth. “I should have thought you’d be more particular in New York.”
There was nothing to say to that. They poured their coffee in the pleasant kitchen with its blue denim curtains, sitting at a stainless-top table. Francie looked around with pleasure.
“It’s a darling room,” she said. “Everything so spick and span and new.”
Ruth looked gratified. There was a short silence, while both girls wondered what to talk about next. These silences had become quite common in Francie’s life; she hadn’t caught on yet to the local small talk. Then Ruth brightened. She had thought of a suitable subject.
“You remember Kate Jaffee?” she asked. “The red-haired girl who was so good at Latin?”
Francie racked her brains trying to be agreeable and remember. Finally she said, rather unconvincingly, that she did. Really it was terrible, the way she had forgotten so many names and faces; it made her feel like some sort of half-wit. However, Ruth didn’t notice.
“I just had an announcement of her wedding,” she said, “and you’ll never in the world believe who she’s married. Tony Arletti! Oh, Francie, of course you remember him. Don’t say you don’t. He ran the Union at school, he was that big boy who looked so much older. He was a senior when we were sophomores. And I’m sure he never so much as looked at Kate in those days. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the announcement. The way people turn out as you’d never have expected!”
“It’s funny, all right,” said Francie. “Yes, it’s funny.”
There was another pause.
“You reading anything just now?” asked Ruth. “You used to be a great one for reading. Always in the library.”
“Was I?” asked Francie in surprise. “I didn’t think I was such a bookworm. Anyway, I’m not now.”
“I often wish I had time to read,” said Ruth contentedly.
Francie looked at the pretty face with its hint of smugness. You don’t wish anything of the sort, she sa
id to herself with sudden resentment; you’re perfectly satisfied with yourself and your life exactly the way it is. How many times during the rest of life in Jefferson, she wondered, would she hear people making that remark? Oh, it was all desert ahead—arid desert.
It was enough to make anybody regret that letter, already written and mailed, that had gone off to Mrs. Barclay. Yet it wasn’t the slightest use moaning like this, she thought with self-disgust.
There were steps on the back porch—vigorous, youthful steps, and then the door burst open.
“Well, come in, Marty,” said Ruth. “You’re setting up a draft.”
The girl who obeyed her reminded Francie of the old days far more than her sedate contemporary. She was young and carefree and a little bit sloppy, but very pretty, and it was a shock when Francie realized that this self-assured young thing was Ruth’s cousin, who had been nothing but a pest, always wanting to trail along behind the older girls when she herself was about Marty Jenner’s present age. It was a pleasant shock, however, especially when she became aware that she was still the object of Marty’s admiration. Marty sat down and stared at her with unabashed interest, and her many questions showed that she at least shared nothing of Ruth’s rather cautious, critical reserve. Even though her questions were over-powering and difficult to answer—“What’s New York like? How did you get along in England? Did you get to Paris? Could I make a success of painting, do you think, if I went to Europe to study?”—Francie welcomed them. She got on fine with Marty while Ruth washed the cups.
Then it was Bill’s bathtime, and Francie said good-by and walked home in the afternoon light, scuffing leaves. She must put herself into the proper mood for a quiet domestic evening. Dinner, dishes, crossword puzzle. Television. Bed. She foresaw what it would be like when she came in: Aunt Norah with her new glasses that were supposed to do so much for her, knitting away, and Pop reading the evening paper. He was always reading the paper. Everything as wholesome as could be, and as dull. The poor darlings! They must never, never know how Francie felt.
There they were, just as she had predicted; she could see them through the front window as she came up on the porch, where the sitting-room lamp was already lit and gleaming on the table. She stood outside the room for a minute and drew a deep, desperate breath. She put on a pleasant smile. Then she stepped in.
Aunt Norah said, “There you are, Francie, at last. Come in and sit down. We’ve been talking you over. We’ve decided this just won’t do, Francie. You’re not happy.”
CHAPTER 4
“Huh?” said Francie.
Aunt Norah repeated it. “You aren’t happy,” she said. “We want to talk it over.”
Francie said weakly, “Who ever said I’m not happy? I’ve never complained, have I?”
“It wasn’t necessary,” said Pop. “It was plain enough.”
“I haven’t been glooming,” protested his daughter. “I may have seemed quiet, but that doesn’t mean—”
“You mustn’t worry about the way you’ve behaved,” said Aunt Norah. “You’ve been perfect; you’ve been an angel, hasn’t she, Fred?”
Pop nodded. “Good sport,” he said.
“Only,” continued Aunt Norah firmly, “it stands to reason that a young person with your background wouldn’t be satisfied with doing nothing all day here in Jefferson. Goodness knows you tried hard enough to spend all your time running this house for me, but anybody can see it isn’t a full-time job for an active girl. Even if it were, it isn’t the sort of job to interest you very long. Not unless you were running your own house, that is, with your own husband to look after.” She paused, and as Francie sat there in silence, she added, “Isn’t that the truth?”
“Well, but Aunt Norah, even if what you were saying was true—which I don’t admit—well, what else can I do? You act as if we were all free to go around changing our plans and everything. I thought it was understood that I should help you with the house and all that. We agreed.”
“We agreed,” said Aunt Norah, nodding, “but it isn’t working out. Plans don’t always.”
Francie looked at Pop. He said nothing. Aunt Norah continued briskly, “I’ve looked around at other young people in town, Francie, and I realize we’re not thinking in an up-to-date way. When I was a girl, you either lived with your parents and went out with your best beau and finally married him, or you just went on staying home. If you did that—” Aunt Norah’s eyes didn’t waver, but her voice changed subtly, and Francie knew she was thinking of herself—“you slipped into your parents’ shoes in good time. You ran your own house and you made a life of it. Some of us had a little more luck than others. Me, for instance. In spite of my own stubbornness, my life didn’t turn out to be as limited and selfish as it might have been.”
“Aunt Norah!” cried Francie. She remembered old family stories about her aunt. There had been an engagement and then a quarrel, and Aunt Norah had never married. “It’s the first time I ever heard it called lucky,” she said, “being landed with a brat like me.” She held out her hand across the table, and the older woman patted it.
“Not such a bad brat,” said Aunt Norah. “Not bad at all.… Anyway, what I was getting round to is that times have changed, and no young woman can very well make a life work of just running a house.”
She paused. Francie looked down at her shoes. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to have her martyr’s crown suddenly snatched off her brow. Disconcerting, but oh, what a relief! Her mind leaped at the possibilities that opened before it. At the same time, there was a bit of letdown. “Haven’t I been of any use?” she asked in disappointed tones.
Pop said quickly, “It isn’t that at all. Please get that out of your head, Francie; you’re a great help to both of us.”
“Of course you are,” said Aunt Norah. “We aren’t trying to get rid of you, dear. I certainly do need your help. I couldn’t do without it. But wouldn’t you like some outside interest as well? We were thinking of work. Part-time work of some sort if you can find it—”
“What about the sort of thing you used to do in Lisbon?” asked Pop. “Those designs you made for fabrics.”
Francie said doubtfully, “I don’t know. You get out of touch unless you’re right there with the people in the trade, I guess. But it’s an idea, Pop.”
Aunt Norah said, “But that would mean you’d still be at home all day, wouldn’t it? My idea was some routine that would get you out among other young people and keep you on your toes. Otherwise your designing will just turn into a hobby, like water-color painting or making your own clothes. Or even that awful thing we used to do with hot pokers on leather—I remember so many useless Christmas presents—”
Pop said rather stuffily, “There was never anything wrong that I could see about painting in water colors. Or dressmaking either, if it comes to that. Rosemary enjoyed it.”
“Francie’s got too much vitality to fritter away on hobbies,” said Aunt Norah. She spoke defensively. “Francie needs something definite. She’s so full of life.”
“Well, now, I don’t know, Norah; from what I saw of the way she did her work in New York, it looked to me as if she was pretty methodical on her own time. I think you could trust her to arrange things in a satisfactory way. Fix up a table or something right in her room.”
“She wouldn’t like that. You don’t understand what I mean, Fred. A young woman needs routine today. Routine. They’re more serious than we were at their age. Francie wants a job she goes out to. It’s more stimulating. It was all very well for Rosemary to putter around with her pretty little paintbox and her blue smock when she had a mind to dress up, but nowadays—”
“I don’t agree at all,” said Pop.
Francie sat there, vainly trying to catch his eye. She wanted to make some signal, some gesture that would remind him that now he, too, was at that irritating game of allocating her. But Pop was getting too worked up to pay any heed. He went on wrangling with Aunt Norah.
There they sa
t, these two older people, each fighting to preserve his own hopes in Francie. She wondered what effect it would have if she should speak up for herself and make a claim to decide her own fate. On the whole, she decided, it would be better not to. It would be kinder. After all, she had a lot of time ahead of her—much more time than Aunt Norah or Pop.
The family argument came to an end after a little, with Aunt Norah an easy winner. She had superior knowledge to support her: Pop didn’t have an idea, when he was challenged to produce one, of how Francie was to go about finding part-time work that she could do at home, whereas Aunt Norah had a plan all cut and dried.
“You said yourself that Francie’s main talent lies in her taste for pretty things,” she said. “Well, I’ve been talking it over with Biddy—”
“Oh, Aunt Norah!” said Francie reproachfully.
Aunt Norah said, “Now, now, whatever we may say about her, Biddy knows everybody in town. If you’re going to get a job in a store—”
“Oh, so I’m going to work in a store?”
“For goodness’ sake, child, what else do you think we’ve been talking about all this time?” Aunt Norah sounded exasperated.
Francie said, “I’m sorry. What did she say?”
“Well.… She had what I consider a really good idea. You know the Birthday Box?”
Yes, Francie knew … the Birthday Box was one of those little shops which are hard to describe, with china animals in the window, and framed prints, and wooden salad bowls, and now and then a small piece of furniture.
“You’ve never gone in, I suppose,” said Aunt Norah, “but it’s really a darling little place.”
“Actually I have been in. I bought those shell earrings there,” said Francie. “Those pretty pinkish ones. There was a woman waiting on people.”
“I think that must have been the owner, Florence Ryan. She’s a nice woman, Francie,” said Aunt Norah earnestly, “and I think in spite of everything she’s making a go of that place.”
