“I wanted to see if it was fine.” Even as she spoke Caroline was conscious the confession sounded childish, so she added, “And how my garden was looking.”
“It’s fine.” Pells, sulkily, as if unwilling to be caught doing an unnecessary kindness, moved the tray to a more convenient angle for Caroline’s hand. “And the garden hasn’t run away in the night.” She went into the passage and came back with an inexpensive cut-glass vase, filled with daffodils. “Many happy returns of the day, Ma’am.” The vase of daffodils on her birthday was a custom dating back to the days when there had been a house full of servants. Now there was only Pells. Caroline knew the flowers were coming, in fact she provided for their cost; on some occasion after Christmas and before the birthday, giving Pells five shillings and telling her to have a really nice afternoon. Yet she pretended surprise and really was pleased. Pells, though she must have known Caroline would expect them, would have been hurt if no surprise were shown. A week before the birthday she usually said to Miss Brown, “I might get Mrs. England some daffs this year. Always look well they do.”
Caroline put the vase of daffodils on the table by her bed, beside John’s last photograph. It was the nicest photograph they ever took of him. He was not looking the distinguished writer, but her husband. He had one eyebrow raised and half a smile. That was how he always looked when he thought her particularly silly. She poured out a cup of tea and lay back a moment looking at the photograph. It was years before she had been able to look at either his or Laurie’s photographs; the sight of them had strained her control almost to breaking-point. But she had always had the photographs out. Brownie and Pells would have guessed they were put away because they upset her, and really, with so many women with far more to endure than she, giving way to her feelings would have been very unsuitable. Her eye caught sight of her cup. How very slack she was becoming, lying here daydreaming, such a bad habit. She took a sip. There, the tea was half cold, that would be a lesson to her. These wide cups allowed the tea to cool so quickly. If it were not for the giver she would use another set. But how kind of John’s mother to leave her the set in her will. So curious, she had always thought, for she had never acknowledged the books of cuttings, nor all the photographs. Then to leave that message, ‘To my son’s wife Caroline, to thank her for all her kindness.’ She swallowed her tea and put down the cup. There she was, dreaming again. How John would laugh at her if he knew. He had been so fond of gossiping over his early-morning tea, a bad habit of which she had never been able to cure him. Such a mistake, she had always said, for the mistress of the house to be even a minute late. She was just getting out of bed when she heard Miss Brown’s step outside.
Miss Brown wished she dared give Caroline a birthday kiss. She looked so lonely in her half of the double bed. But for all they had gone through together, never for one moment had Caroline allowed familiarities. Not that she looked on Miss Brown as an employee, she was a friend. But her kisses were for her own family. She would never have dreamt of such things from anyone outside. Miss Brown held out a parcel.
“Many happy returns.”
Caroline untied the wrappings.
“Bath salts! How very kind of you, Brownie dear. Fancy, I’ve never used them. I know the children do, but I’ve never tried them myself. I shall feel luxurious.”
When Miss Brown had gone, she looked in a worried way at the heavy bottle beside her. Bath salts! How kind of dear Brownie. But, really, what a curious gift. She never had known why people wanted to scent nice clean water. She had always disliked scented soaps. A little scent on your handkerchief, yes. But to her there was something too luxury-loving about lying in hot, scented water.
She finished her tea and got up. She went to the bath-room. She carried the bath salts under her arm. Miss Brown had run the water for her. She felt it. Just a little on the warm side. Hot baths were weakening. They made you feel flabby, then if you felt flabby you were apt to sit about after breakfast, reading the paper instead of getting on with the day’s work. She unfastened the lid of the bath salts. It was tied down with pink ribbon. She folded the ribbon carefully and put it in her dressing gown pocket. Some little girl in the village would be glad of it. She smelt the salts inside. Dear me, they seemed very strong. She had seen Helen throwing in handfuls of the stuff. Then Helen, dear thing, had always been a little inclined to extravagance. She put a very small portion of the crystals in the palm of her hand, and dropped them into the bath. There they lay on the bottom. Bright green. She was glad to notice the water did not change colour. That would really have been very unpleasant. She took off her dressing-gown and nightdress and got in. She sniffed. How satisfactory. In all this water you could not smell them at all.
Caroline was ashamed as she sat behind the coffee pot that her eye never left the road outside the window. Ridiculous, at her age, to be watching for the postman. She tried to pretend that she was studying the weather. But when the postman arrived she did not seem to be the only person interested. The moment the bicycle appeared Miss Brown jumped up. “There he is.” Simultaneously, Pells put her head round the door. “He’s coming, Ma’am.” Caroline pulled herself together.
“Who? Oh, the postman. Well, I don’t suppose there’ll be anything for me.” But neither of the other two seemed to hear her.
Such a lot of post. Seven parcels and a great bundle of letters. Miss Brown produced scissors.
The first parcel was disappointing. Why should Louisa think she wanted a shawl as if she were an invalid. You gave shawls to babies, or to the sick poor, but not to a sister, not even on her sixtieth birthday. After all, Louisa herself would be sixty in five years’ time. She laid it back in its paper.
“Put it away in my present box, Brownie. I’ve no use for it myself, but no doubt someone will be glad of it.”
Five of the parcels had little things in them made by the ‘Miss Long Memorial Pensioners.’ Caroline was touched.
“But they shouldn’t. They’ve no money to spend on me.”
Her sister Elizabeth sent bedroom slippers. Caroline looked at the useful brown suede, and wool linings, with distaste. She had never been able to see why bedroom slippers should be ugly. She handed them to Miss Brown. “Put them away with the shawl. They will come in nicely for someone suffering from chilblains.”
The letters were what pleased her. A funny, prim little note from Jane.
“Dear Granny,—
“Many happy returns of the day. I had meant to buy you a present, but I was kept in for a bad mark on Saturday and could not go to the shops. I enclose twelve penny stamps will you buy something with it for your garden.
“Yours affectionate,
“Jane.”
“To-morrow, Brownie, we will go and buy a box of seedlings. She will like to see I really got plants when next she is here. I’m not at all sure I like that school. Why keep the poor child in on a holiday? I’m sure the sea air is excellent for her, but I think she would be happier at home.”
There was a birthday card from Ford. A lino-cut most beautifully done.
“How very clever. I shall put it in my Bible. She examined the card thoughtfully. “I do hope, poor little, boy, it did not take him long. I should dislike to think he was kept from his play by working for me.”
Bill wrote from school.
“Dear Granny,—
“Many happy returns. I am playing in the team for rugger this term. One of our boys Fathers was run over last week he was squished so his inside showed but he is much better now. Mum is bringing you a present from us both, I wish it was the holidays then I could come to your party. When you see Mum ask her to order me those flannels then I need not write.
“Much love from Bill.”
Amongst the other letters was one from Naomi’s fat daughter, now married to a labourer. She lived in Deptford.
“Dear Mrs. England,—
“My mother wished me
to write wishing you all the best for your birthday my mother is wonderful well considdering and have not took to living with us bad at all she is quite blind now but splendid in herself she have got over dads death wonderfull for she says she was glad to see him go for it hurt him crewel to see the old place changed like it was now I have to thank you dear Mrs. England for what you give for mother for that coming in regler is a help and mother being no trouble and enjoying her food though all her teeth is gone. With respects dear madam and kind remembrances from mother and us all Mrs. Amelia Higgs.”
“There now, Brownie. How stupid of me not to have thought of it. Find a nice box and we’ll send that shawl and those slippers to Naomi. No, wait until this evening. I think it would please her if I sent her a slice of my cake.”
“It’s extraordinary she’s able to enjoy her food with no teeth,” Miss Brown suggested. “How old is she?”
“I don’t know. I was a baby when she came to me. She must be over eighty. Dear Naomi. I should like to go and see her.”
Miss Brown had a horrifying vision of Caroline struggling down to Deptford.
“I expect she’s past enjoying a visit. Poor old thing, she’s blind and I daresay wandering in her memory, people often are at her age.”
Caroline disliked ‘at-her-age’ talk. It was part of being fussed by the doctor and told to take things easily. Of course Naomi was old enough to be her mother, but there was too much taking it for granted that because you were growing older you must be decrepit. Such nonsense.
“Rubbish. My grandmother was ninety-nine when she died and as clear-headed as she had ever been. My Uncle George, her son, died a few months before her at the age of seventy-seven and she was disgusted. She said, ‘I don’t know what’s coming over the boys of this generation. They’ve no stamina.’ And I think she was perfectly right. There’s too much flabbiness just because one is growing a little older.”
Caroline put on her coat. A disgraceful old coat it was too, green instead of black. But how splendid for gardening, so warm, and it did not matter what happened to it. She pulled on her gloves, took her basket and a pair of scissors, and went into her garden. She counted the daffodils as she picked them, visualising them as they would stand in the green bowl in front of the clock Uncle George had left her. Only twenty-four holes in that glass holder, no good being wasteful and picking more flowers than she could use.
“Good morning, Mrs. England.”
Caroline looked up. Mrs. Hampshire was her nearest neighbour. She lived in the tiny cottage opposite. Her husband was a farm labourer.
“Good morning. I’m just picking some flowers to make the house look nice for my party.”
Mrs. Hampshire nodded. She held out a bunch of primroses.
“That’s what Mr. Hampshire said last night. Mrs. England’ll be right busy for her party. So I says to my boy, you slip out early down to the copse and pick her some primroses. ‘Mrs. England,’ I said, ‘won’t want to go picking her flowers not more’n she can help with the garden looking so nice.’”
“Well now, isn’t that kind.” Caroline took the primroses. “How nice of Lennie to pick them. He has to get to work early enough without that. I’m so fond of primroses.”
Mrs. Hampshire made an agreeing sound.
“Nothin’ I’m fonder of, unless it’s a bit of wallflower. Mr. Hampshire says if they was growed in a greenhouse they’d fetch a lot of money, but seein’ they grows everywhere in England people don’t see their importance like.”
Caroline fingered the pink stalks lovingly. “They’re rare in some parts.”
Mrs. Hampshire’s England went as far as the bus took her for shopping, an expedition to Eastbourne every August bank holiday, and two excursions, one to Margate, and one to London.
“Are they now?”
“And they don’t only grow in England. My son picked some in France. He wrote about them in one of his letters.”
Mrs. Hampshire knew of the son who had been killed in the war. She accepted little stories of him in silence. She felt that she was not asked for sympathy. She left a moment’s pause and then changed the subject.
“Lady Fern will be glad to see the garden looking so nice. Rare one for flowers she is.”
Caroline stopped and cut another daffodil.
“As long as she does not have to grow them.”
“I remember how pleased she was with my lilac last year.”
Caroline laid a daffodil in her basket.
“Oh, Mrs. Hampshire, will you mind if Pells brings over the remains of our joint after luncheon? You have two big men to feed. I cannot bear a joint in the house. Pells, quite rightly, refuses to let me waste it. And I am one of those disgracefully extravagant people who cannot eat twice cooked meat.”
Mrs. Hampshire was aware Caroline knew how seldom she had a piece of meat in the house, unless it was a rabbit, or a little bit of bacon cooked with the vegetables. But then she also knew that Caroline realised it had not been easy gathering the bunches of flowers and berries to cheer her when she was ill. She did not know when she had been out in such weather as that day she went looking for spindle because Mrs. England was fond of it.
A kindness for a kindness, that was her rule. She believed that when Mrs. England had first come to live, that she had expected to give but never to receive. But she had soon put her right on that. Why, she had been the first to do the giving, with those roses for Mrs. England, before she had properly moved in. Made them friends they had, and friends like they ought to be. If you had no money there was other things you could give.
Caroline covered the hall table with newspapers. She laid out the vases. Miss Brown looked over the stairs.
“Couldn’t I arrange those for you, so that you have plenty of time to change before the children come?”
Caroline picked up a daffodil, and put it in the green bowl. She knew that talk of changing was only an excuse. Brownie believed that nonsense about a tired heart. As if doctors did not always find something the matter with everybody. If Brownie and Pells had their way they would have her sitting by the fire half the day. Just a look at the paper after breakfast did no harm, but sitting reading it in the morning was most demoralising. After lunch was the proper time. The next thing they would be suggesting was a novel in the morning.
“I can manage perfectly, thank you.”
With a sigh Miss Brown went back upstairs.
Chapter XXI
ELIZABETH’S car drew up outside the cottage. Caroline, flushed with pleasure, hurried to the door. Miss Brown looked down from her bedroom window. How smart Elizabeth had become. How far better her present age suited her than her young girl period. Well-cut coats and skirts were so much better than those frilly and beflowered creations the wretched child had been forced into before the war. No wonder she had gone out to parties looking sulky; she said she felt a fool, and really she never looked right. Elizabeth glanced up.
“Hullo, Brownie.” She saw her mother in the doorway. “Hullo. Many happy returns.”
Caroline was chilled. Her sixtieth birthday was an occasion. There was nothing wrong with Elizabeth’s greeting, but somehow it took a little of the glamour from her day.
Elizabeth was angry with herself. What a beast she was; she knew she had been disappointing, but at the mere hint of sentiment, she shied like a young horse. What with finishing her book (and how she grudged this day away from it) and that letter from Aldous, her nerves were stretched like an overtuned violin string.
Caroline sat down in her chair. She picked up the baby’s coat she was knitting. Elizabeth sat opposite her. She lit a cigarette; then took a small parcel from her bag. Caroline delayed the pleasure of finding what the little box contained. She began to undo the knot. Elizabeth watched her in exasperation. Only the tightest hold on herself prevented her jumping up, seizing the scissors and cutting the string. Keeping birthdays was an
idiotic custom anyway. If you wanted to give a person a present you should give it when you felt like it and not wait for an occasion. Always she had found it impossible to show pleasure when people expected it of her. How well she remembered her own birthday as a child. The excited feeling when she woke. How she would scurry through her dressing and dash downstairs hoping to get there first. How not once did she succeed. Her mother, looking embarrassingly affectionate, was always waiting beside the parcels. She could recall her longing to snatch her presents up and creep into a corner where she could open them away from those expectant eyes. How in the end her thanks were given with under-emphasis, and what a pig she felt when she sensed her mother’s disappointment. How her mother’s disappointment had been returned to her in full measure when she received her father’s gift. How she never learnt, but waited with breath-catching excitement for his hug, for the charming things he might say, for his attention and interest at least during breakfast because it was her day. The year of the fountain pen had been a fair sample of what happened. “Here’s a fountain pen. Pity to encourage you to add to the world’s bad books, but it’s a new kind and I want to know how it behaves.” She had that pen still, together with everything of his she could take without her mother knowing she wanted them. Dreadful if she ever found out about her sentimental collection locked in a drawer. She would be certain to say one of her would-be understanding things which jarred you all over.
Caroline took the lid off the box. Her inclination was to show her pleasure. She was fond of old paste, and this brooch was really charming. But Betsy was having what she mentally described as one of her difficult days. She did not want to risk her saying something in that rather crushing tone of hers. Of course she did not mean it, dear child, and would be horrified if she knew her mother felt snubbed but sometimes it did make her feel a little hurt, and that would be a great mistake to-day of all days. “Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. She took off the brooch she was wearing and pinned the new one in its place.
Caroline England Page 27
