Part of the Furniture

by Mary Wesley

‘Yes, Anthony, I have.’

  ‘Just checking.’ Anthony walked ahead to push open the front door and shout, ‘Ann?’

  Hurrying across the hall, Ann called out, ‘Sorry, Mrs Villiers, but you’d better not bring your dog in. Jessie might go for him, she’s got her pups.’

  ‘I know, Ann.’ Priscilla closed her car door. ‘Poor fellow, wait, I shan’t be long,’ she addressed the dog. To Anthony she said, ‘Could you bring in the vegetables?’

  Anthony said, ‘Righty-ho.’

  ‘I’ve brought you some broccoli, Ann.’ Priscilla’s voice rang loud in the hall. ‘And some artichokes. Thought you might like them for soup.’

  ‘Very windy things, but thank you.’ Ann took the basket of vegetables from Anthony. ‘You staying the night?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t,’ said Anthony. ‘I have to catch the night train. I’m due at the Ministry of Fear in the morning, cutting things fine as it is. My leave’s over, the war goes on.’

  ‘But you have time for some tea?’

  ‘Just, and I’ve left some clutter. I’ll go and collect it.’ Anthony leapt up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘You don’t mind the kitchen, do you?’ Ann led the way. ‘It’s the only warm room. We are all frightened, aren’t we?’

  ‘Ann, who is that girl I saw as we came up the hill? Has Robert got another landgirl? She was wearing the most unsuitable clothes, looked like fancy dress.’

  ‘Friend of Evelyn’s, arrived with a letter.’

  ‘Oooh! What’s her name? Would I know her?’

  ‘Juno Marlowe.’

  ‘Really? Never heard of her. No, wait a minute, wasn’t there a girl called Marlowe at school with me?’

  ‘I was not at Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’ Ann filled the kettle at the sink, her back to Priscilla.

  ‘I remember now. Violet Marlowe, a very bossy type, good at games. That’s the one.’

  ‘She’s helping Bert. She can milk.’

  ‘What a godsend.’

  ‘Hope so. Arrived in the snowstorm with flu, but she’s all right now, a bit on the quiet side.’

  ‘I can’t stand noisy girls,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s awful to say, but that poor girl who was killed in the raid was noisy, the one whose funeral Robert has rushed off to. She brayed when she laughed.’

  ‘Tsk.’ Ann rattled the kettle onto the hotplate. ‘Did Anthony do a good job?’

  ‘Wonderful. He has got the garden in better trim than I’ve seen it since the war. Pity he can’t stay longer. He is good company and an amusing gossip. He is lucky not to have passed his medical; I can’t see much wrong with him, though he says he has a “chest”.’ Priscilla paused, then, lowering her voice, said, ‘Do you think he is—’

  Ann said, ‘What?’ and poured boiling water into the teapot.

  Priscilla said, ‘You know what I mean, Ann. Does he like boys?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Is he queer?’

  Ann said, ‘All I’m concerned with is the work he’s done in the garden. You don’t take sugar, do you?’

  ‘Not since the war.’ Priscilla took the cup Ann proffered. ‘Thanks, Ann.’

  Pouring a cup for herself, Ann remembered that, before setting off to help Priscilla with her garden, Anthony had said, ‘If I can come again I will bring a friend and we will get twice as much done. I know he would love it,’ but she measured a meagre half-spoonful of sugar into her cup and kept her counsel.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any eggs you can spare, Ann? My hens are all broody.’ Priscilla cast her eye over a bowl on the dresser where reposed some dozen eggs. ‘I will pay you, of course.’

  Ann said, ‘Sorry, Mrs Villiers, I haven’t. Six of those eggs I am giving to Anthony to take to London, the rest we need ourselves.’

  Priscilla said, ‘It’s all right, I only asked. I thought perhaps in exchange for the artichokes—’

  Ann said, ‘Artichokes! We have lots. Once you have artichokes in a garden you have them forever. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Mrs Villiers, but I am going to ask John to try and get rid of them.’ She wished Anthony would hurry up; she had had enough of Priscilla. She began to wrap some of the eggs in newspaper and put them in a box.

  Priscilla said, ‘John?’ And again, John?’

  Ann said, ‘He has got himself exempted, he is the only son of a widowed mother.’

  ‘So Robert is getting his gardener back! Some people have all the luck! Oh, Ann, I did not mean it like that! Oh, Ann—’ Remembering Evelyn, Priscilla’s eyes moistened. ‘How could I be so tactless?’

  With her back to Priscilla Ann did not reply, but she wrapped the last egg with vicious precision and fitted the lid onto the egg-box, giving it an unfriendly pat.

  ‘Was this girl who can milk a particular friend of Evelyn’s?’ Priscilla enquired. ‘Or just someone like Anthony, sent to help his father? Where did Evelyn find these useful people?’

  Ann said, ‘I have not asked.’

  Priscilla said, ‘I take it she was a girlfriend. When will she finish milking? I long to meet her. Is she very pretty?’

  ‘Doesn’t Anthony have to catch his train?’ Ann wound string around the box of eggs.

  ‘Yes, of course he does. Well, another time. I hope she stays; that other girl was gone in a flash.’

  ‘Joined the Wrens.’

  ‘Was that what happened? Wasn’t she, too, one of Evelyn’s discoveries?’

  ‘Came through the Ministry.’

  ‘Well, I hope this one suits Robert. How does she get on with Bert?’

  ‘He likes her.’ Ann was conscious of exaggeration.

  ‘My word, she must be quite something. Goodness! Isn’t Robert lucky! Oh, God! There I go again.’

  ‘Ready?’ Anthony came into the kitchen. ‘I don’t want to miss my—’

  ‘I know, your train. I’m coming. What an old woman you are, we’ve plenty of time.’ Priscilla put down her cup. ‘Got everything?’

  ‘Yes.’ Anthony gulped the tea Ann handed him. ‘Oh, bliss! Eggs!’ He kissed her. ‘Could you give us a push, Ann? Mrs Villiers makes me sit in the back and I can’t leap from the back seat onto the road to open the moor gate without risking Mosley biting the seat of my trousers. Will you say goodbye and thank you to Mr Copplestone? Tell him I’ll write.’

  The two women watched Anthony swing his bag onto the back seat and get in. Priscilla got into the driving seat, released the brake and shouted, ‘All right, Ann, push!’

  Ann pushed, the car began to roll and, as it gathered speed, Mosley barked to be let out. Priscilla slowed the car and opened the car door.

  Taking a short cut up the hill from the farm, Juno watched the Morris freewheel down to the moor road with the dog galloping behind. At the moor gate the car stopped, a young man leapt out, let the car through, shut the gate and leapt back in, leaving the dog to follow as the car continued downhill in ghostly silence. Juno resumed her climb.

  At the back door she kicked off Ann’s boots and removed a pair of extra socks she had taken to wearing to keep the boots on. Ann called, ‘You have just missed Mrs Villiers and Anthony.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Anthony spent part of his holiday working in her garden. He was sent by Evelyn to get ours in order, then went on to do hers. She’s a widow and has trouble getting help, an old friend of Mr Robert’s.’

  ‘Why do you sometimes call him Mr Robert and at others Mr Copplestone? And sometimes sir?’

  ‘Sometimes I forget he is grown-up.’

  ‘Grown-up?’

  ‘He was only a boy when I first came here, and was plain Robert to us all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And Mrs Villiers was a girl. She seemed to think she knew your family but couldn’t quite place you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be placed.’

  ‘No. Well. She’s a gossip. Wanted to know whether you were a girlfriend of Evelyn’s, she’s that sort.’

  ‘Nosey?’

  ‘A bit. She was a bit miffed when
I told her John is coming back.’ Ann grinned.

  ‘Who is John?’

  ‘Didn’t Evelyn tell you anything?’

  ‘Not much.’ Juno shrank.

  John is our gardener; he was called up but is now exempt. He will be pleased that Anthony has been here. Pity you didn’t meet Anthony, you would like him, but he may come again. He works in the same Ministry as Evelyn—as Evelyn did, I should say. Oh my! It’s so hard to realize he is dead and won’t come walking in—’

  Juno thought, and neither will Francis or Jonty come walking in, but she said, ‘I’ll mix Jessie’s dinner, shall I?’

  Priscilla Villiers allowed her car to slow almost to a stop, pushed the gear lever and restarted the engine. ‘I hope he hasn’t strained his heart.’ She peered into the driving mirror.

  ‘Taking his time, stopped for a pee, seems a trifle puffed.’ Anthony craned back. ‘I don’t want to miss my train.’

  ‘You won’t, there is plenty of time. Here he comes. Get in, old boy.’ Priscilla opened the car door, Mosley clambered in, Priscilla slammed it shut and drove on. ‘That girl was not dressed like a landgirl,’ she said. ‘The other one wore breeches and a green jersey. Bert couldn’t stand her.’

  Anthony said, ‘Ann does not seem averse.’

  Priscilla said, ‘She doesn’t, does she? And for Robert’s sake one can only hope it works out.’

  Anthony, already dreading his return to the air raids and being back in his office, said, ‘Yes.’

  Priscilla said, ‘If she’s one of the Marlowes I think she is, it’s quite a good family, but there is no money.’

  Anthony said, ‘Ah!’

  ‘I seem to remember there was something funny about the father. It will come back to me presently.’

  Anthony said, ‘I bet it will. You have the memory of an elephant if it’s anything to do with family trees.’

  Priscilla said, ‘I shall take that as a compliment. Whatever one thought of Evelyn he had good taste and was kind.’

  Anthony pondered, ‘In what respect do you mean?’

  ‘Sending the girl to work for Robert. He was always very kind, even if the “turnover”, as you call it, was rapid. They all remained on good terms. There was even …’ Priscilla paused.

  ‘Even what?’ It was maddening when Priscilla remembered discretion. ‘Even what?’ Anthony niggled.

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters now. I was going to say, even one occasion when he went to Munich—prior to Hitler—just to keep the woman company when it was nothing to do with him or her husband, of course.’

  ‘Munich? You’ve lost me. Am I being obtuse?’

  Priscilla said, ‘That clinic, you must have heard about it.’

  Anthony said, ‘No.’ Guessing, he asked, ‘Oh, for abortions?’

  Priscilla said, ‘Yes.’

  Anthony said, ‘That was big of him.’ He gave thanks that he was not likely to have such an embarrassment.

  Priscilla said, ‘At the time I suspected Evelyn even paid the bill, her husband was badly off.’

  ‘But of good family,’ Anthony teased.

  Hurt, Priscilla exclaimed, ‘Do I sound as awful as that?’

  Anthony assured her that he was only joking, while he memorized the conversation to regale to Hugh. It would gladden their day in the office. ‘When next I come,’ he said, ‘I will try and bring a friend, we will get more done. He is called Hugh Turner.’

  Priscilla said, ‘What a very good idea.’

  And Anthony said, ‘His family is “quite good”, too, and they are rich.’

  Then they both laughed and presently Priscilla said, ‘Here is the station, you need not have fussed. We are in good time for your train. Any friend of yours, my dear, will be welcome.’

  Settling back in his seat after waving goodbye, Anthony exhaled. What an old gossip, he thought, what an old snob, relishing his late hostess.

  SIXTEEN

  STANDING BAREHEADED IN THE drizzling rain, Robert Copplestone observed his old friends watching their only daughter being lowered into her grave. Their faces were bleak. The girl’s brothers stood on either side of their parents, both in RAF uniform, both distressed and uneasy. They probably felt guilty, Robert surmised; it was not for girls to get killed in a war, that was a male prerogative. ‘Not any more,’ Robert muttered as he put on his hat and turned to go. The service was over; if he said goodbye now he could just catch the last train.

  ‘I say, just a minute, could you help us?’ The man was a stranger.

  Courteously Robert said, ‘Of course, if I can.’

  ‘We motored over, there was no other way to get here, but we got lost, kept taking the wrong road, the wrong turning. No signposts, you see.’

  Popping up beside him, the man’s woman companion repeated as though explaining to an imbecile, ‘No signposts. It’s the war. We got lost. Such a worry, we have to be careful of our petrol ration.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ said the man. ‘Do you know this part of the world?’

  Robert said, ‘Where are you trying to get to?’, cutting them short, mindful of the train timetable.

  They told him.

  Pointing, Robert said, ‘Go down that road, turn right at the first crossroads, turn left, then second right and you are on the main road. Go straight ahead.’

  Brightly they said, ‘Crossroads, right, then left, then—Oh, could you write it down? Got a piece of paper? Sorry to be such a nuisance. Could you draw us a map?’ The man fumbled in his breast pocket for a pencil; the woman opened and closed her bag in exasperation. ‘Can’t find any paper, sorry.’

  Quickly Robert drew a map on the back of an envelope. The rain was turning to sleet. The bereft father was miming to him to catch up, come to the house for a drink, give some comfort. ‘Don’t go yet, don’t leave us alone.’

  He said, ‘There you are, follow that, go that way and you’ll be all right,’ and, thrusting the map at them, ‘Curse it, I shall miss that train.’ He broke into a run to catch up with his old friend. ‘Who are those boring people?’

  ‘No idea, come into the house. Press, I dare say, ghouls of some sort. Say something to Lizzie, something to the boys. We are all numb. You’ll know what to say. Oh God, isn’t this awful?’

  Robert said, ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He could not refuse. He would miss his train; he must swallow his impatience.

  His old friend said, ‘The vicar tried to help, said we are all in God’s hands—’

  Robert said, ‘Terrible butter-fingers.’ His old friend yelped with laughter. Hysteria not far off, they went into the house.

  The next day, at last on the station platform waiting for his train, Robert wondered what comfort he had been able to give and what he had received? He had drunk too much, talked about the war, wondered with the bereaved what was going on over there, across the Channel, in the rest of Europe? Agreed with Lizzie, the dead girl’s mother, that Lord Haw-Haw was tremendously funny, had quite the opposite effect of that intended, said that at home Ann was really annoyed if she missed hearing him, that Lord Haw-Haw and I.T.M.A. were the highlights of her day.

  ‘Don’t cry, Lizzie,’ he had said, ‘try to remember her happy. She had a great sense of humour, Evelyn always said so, a lovely, lovely girl.’ What lies one told in one’s cups; he had no recollection of Evelyn ever saying anything of the sort.

  Then, lying awake in his friends’ spare room he had heard Lizzie break down and howl and his old friend, attempting to still her, say, ‘But darling, he understands, of course he understands. Hasn’t he just lost Evelyn? He knows what we feel.’

  And Lizzie’s bitter reply, ‘It’s not the same thing. Evelyn’s been dying on and off for years. He could be spared, he wasn’t an only daughter.’ He hoped that the girl’s brothers, stumbling late up the stairs to their beds, did not hear their mother.

  Poor fellows, Robert thought next morning waiting for his train, stamping his feet to keep warm, both in the RAF, both likely to get killed; would they want to spend t
heir leaves with such miserable parents or would they go somewhere jollier, more cheerful, where there would be someone they could look forward to meeting? Someone to fall in love with between battles?

  Then, as his train came hissing and trumpeting to a stop, Robert remembered that at home, when he reached it, as well as Ann and Jessie and her pups, there would be the strange girl Evelyn had sent him. He at least had something to look forward to.

  And now, he thought, climbing into the train and settling into a corner seat, he really must see what, apart from the suggestion that she might be ‘rewarding’, Evelyn had had to say about the girl. He reached into his coat pocket and, finding it empty, cursed out loud, remembering the tedious couple who had asked the way, made him draw a map on the back of an envelope, the envelope which held Evelyn’s letter.

  SEVENTEEN

  IT HAD BEEN ALL right helping Bert milk the cows on that first day, but not any more. There was now no ease as she sat on her stool, cheek brushing the beast’s soft flank, ear tuned to its rumbling stomach, the swish as it snatched hay from the rack, the odd scratch of hoof on concrete and the munching of cud.

  Juno was conscious that behind her, astride his stool, Bert swore at the cow he was milking, exclaimed, ‘Stand still, you bugger,’ when it had not moved, scraped his stool along the concrete floor to bang it abruptly down by the next animal in line, that he muttered aloud as he tramped to the dairy with a full pail of milk, banged against the door of the box which held the cow with the calf so that the beast inside shuffled in apprehension. She guessed the man was waiting for her to empty her last pail in the dairy, shrug into her coat and leave him to finish the work he had grumbled was too much for one man. She was aware and tensely irritated.

  ‘Let me help.’ Juno took the broom before he had time to resist. ‘I am quite capable of sweeping out the cowshed.’

  Bert exclaimed, ‘Nah!’, but she had the broom and had begun to sweep. He watched, aghast.

  ‘And give the cows their nuts and fill the hayracks.’

  Had she not learned these things long ago on the Murray/Johnson farm, as the child who had hung about filling in time waiting for Jonty and Francis to come back from hunting or fishing or playing tennis? (Hanging about like an unwanted puppy.)