by Ursula Bloom
She gave up.
She rose, wrapping herself in pale pink towelling, well and truly crowned, and wondering what on earth she should do about her hair. She dressed and rang the bell, as had been indicated by the pert little chambermaid, who appeared with commendable promptitude.
‘My hair?’ said Miss Marvin.
‘Oh, la la!’ said the little maid, looking upon it as a major disaster; then ‘Le postiche, madame?’
Miss Marvin had little idea what a postiche was, but gathered that it might be a drier. ‘Oui,’ she said.
‘Venez, madame,’ said the little maid.
They tripped down corridors, turning this way and that and finally arriving at an important-looking door which the chambermaid opened.
It was a hairdressing salon. At first Miss Marvin recoiled with some horror; for it would take too long and cost too much. Secondly, she came to the conclusion that if she wanted to get her hair dry ‒ and she had got to achieve this end somehow ‒ ‘le postiche’ was undoubtedly the only solution.
She herself washed her hair on Friday evenings in accordance with the best advertisements, those were awkward evenings, when she crouched on the rug, trying to keep the requisite portion of her head to the fire, whilst she corrected the girls’ essays on the floor, a feat which she found difficult.
She tried explaining her misfortunes to a very charming young man who spoke no English, and was that shade of blond that can only come out of a bottle and he promptly whisked her into a cubicle. There were shell-pink silk curtains, and pale blue bottles of lotion, and Miss Marvin, relaxed from her bath, really very tired with the journey, settled herself into a comfortable chair and fell asleep.
When she awoke again the most startling things had taken place. The young man adored his work, flattering himself that he was an artist. He could never resist the chance to make interesting experiments with a head of hair, and Miss Marvin’s long neglected hair had been an open invitation to his chivalry. Chivalry is not dead in France, it is for ever at attention and ready to assert itself. He had seen the difficulties of a mouse-coloured coiffure, and had changed it to pale gold. He had busied himself with a cold perm, and while she was asleep Miss Marvin’s hair was settled under a drier, had been veiled closely in pale blue gauze and looking most peculiarly unlike her hair. He was unclipping this and that, and winding up the pale blue gauze, while he lightly sang a tune to do with ‘mes sabots’.
When he started to comb the hair the real surprise came!
‘That isn’t my hair!’ said Miss Marvin, for now it had regained the tender pale gold of her youth. No longer was there a mouse crown of straight unyielding hair which had but two methods of getting itself done. Now she had soft brown-gold hair, brown in the shade, gold when the sun caught it; it was slightly waved, and arranged in little curls above the ears, whilst an urchin cut lay charmingly on the brow.
‘Gamin,’ said the hairdresser. It was certainly very gamin!
About it was that distingué air of the French. She had in her first anxiety been about to say, ‘I couldn’t go out like that. Please change it,’ but she couldn’t. First of all, he wouldn’t understand a word she said, and secondly ‒ after the first alarm ‒ she knew that she wanted it to stay like this. What Miss Halifax would say when she saw it could only be left to the imagination, but Miss Marvin felt wonderful.
It cost a lot.
When it came to paying in francs, hundreds and thousands appeared to be mere nothings. It was agitating, because as she went down in the ornate lift to find the route to the salle à manger she was beginning to worry about spending every farthing she had with her before she even got to the Riviera.
The salle à manger was a spacious room panelled in pale yellow silk, with a great deal of shining light oak woodwork. On the tables yellow roses merged into a green maze of fern; whilst there were pale amber napkins to match inside crystal glasses. It looked most expensive, and she regretted the idea from the moment she entered. If only they had a Lyons’ or an A.B.C.! thought Miss Marvin, now considerably worried. So far this trip had cost far more than she had ever expected, and it rather looked as if all previous expenses would be capped by this dinner. Waiters rushed at her with exaggerated courtesy. She was escorted to a corner table.
‘I don’t want a lot,’ she told the superb gentleman with epaulettes in a prominent position, who desired to take her order.
He bowed genteelly, confronting her with an awe-inspiring menu. It was quite clear that menu French and the French one learns at school are two very different languages. She made a feeble attempt to read it, then gave it up.
She would have a little chicken, and a biscuit glacé, she explained, for surely they could not charge the earth for that? In England eight shillings would be the most, the very most; why, it couldn’t possibly amount to eight shillings, she told herself.
The epauletted gentleman, having handed the order on to a commis, now offered her another enormous book of the words.
‘Wine, madame?’ he said.
‘Water, please,’ said Miss Marvin.
Instantly she realised that she must have dropped a major brick, for water is not drunk in Paris!
‘Evians?’ suggested the waiter, trying to hide his chagrin.
‘Anything,’ said Miss Marvin recklessly, for she was giving up the ghost.
An elaborate meal appeared. There was chicken with sweet corn, exquisitely cooked, and an array of vegetables. She had to admit that it was delicious. It was followed by a biscuit glacé and a cup of coffee served in an elegant little cup with violets scattered on the frail china. But when the bill came there was horror! The expectant waiters gathered round; vultures waiting for the corpse, she thought. They were very nice about it ‒ for ever courteous ‒ but at the same time persistent. She dolled out the tips, and went out of the room, her legs like a pair of quavering celery sticks, kept a week in water and gone soft.
She walked to the station, and could only think with terror of what she had spent. Thank goodness Mr. Swinnerton had paid down something at the Hotel Bella Vista in Cap Rabat, because she would need that. Her hair might look lovely, and she might be feeling well fed, refreshed and relaxed, but what she felt about her depleted purse put ‘paid’ to all other emotions.
Miss Marvin rescued her two cases, and an amiable porter lined her up for the Marseilles train. It looked to be a very ordinary train, she thought, and could only thank her lucky stars that common sense had persuaded her not to spend extra money on a sleeper, or that thing called a couchette. She could already note the behaviour of the wagon-lits man, who was bustling about with a little book of the words, a poised pencil, and a moustache that had two bright tips worn like a dachshund’s tail when he has spotted fun ahead. Without a doubt the wagon-lits man would want a heavy tip, she was sure.
She got a corner seat on the corridor side of the carriage.
‘Très necessaire, very convenient,’ said the amiable porter, who had insisted on it.
‘Is it better?’ she asked.
‘Mais oui, madame. The lavatory, the saloon car,’ and he smiled eloquently, whilst the modest Miss Marvin wished very much that she had not asked.
For the moment she had the carriage almost to herself, save for a Frenchwoman who looked tired, and taking the far corner, immediately saw to it that all the windows were pulled up and the ventilation closed. Presently a little Catholic priest arrived, his rusty cassock shining with use; he took the opposite corner to Miss Marvin.
‘Pas engage?’ he asked, and seeing that she did not understand, followed it with ‘Occupied? Yes? No?’
‘No,’ said Miss Marvin firmly.
A French papa, a French maman, and their little girl aged five, now arrived, spending a considerable time getting the luggage arranged to their fullest satisfaction. Then they deposited themselves about the carriage and began to talk. The priest was conversational, he patted the little girl’s head, whilst the woman who had looked tired in the corner, proved her
self to be chatty too. It looked as if nobody would ever sleep at this rate.
The train drew out of the Gare de Lyon, growling like a tiger, then it began to plunge through the darkening evening. The ticket collector came round, and there was an agonizing moment when Miss Marvin was terrified that she had already lost her ticket. All the time everyone talked madly, and laughed very loudly, apparently in French.
It was half past eleven before the carriage began to settle down. The woman in the corner sighed heavily and made frantic efforts to undo her corsets. This was an elaborate proceeding, accompanied by a great many grunts and groans, for she tried to do it under her cloak so that no one should see, but she found it difficult. The priest read a missal whilst this was going on, whispering loudly to himself, but the French papa had to look and wink with his gay eye, and giggle. Whereupon la maman took offence and flapped him with her nappa gloves. ‘Oh, la la,’ said he.
The priest, having read his missal, now produced a bag from which he took out a huge stiff roll with salami inside it. He ate it smacking his lips, and in the end flipped the crumbs from his shabby little cassock, sending most of them over Miss Marvin, who flinched visibly.
The little girl was brushed and taken along the corridor for washing, finally to be wrapped in a shawl and curled in the lap of her mother. Whilst she was dozing, papa undid his collar and tie, and his belt, belching violently as he did so, and laughing joyously at his own behaviour; then he lolled against the back of the seat and placed a handkerchief over his face. After a time, when his breathing became regular, the handkerchief rose and fell in little puffs, proving to be a most fascinating sight to watch. The priest went through the same performance, having previously removed his false teeth and arranged them in a paper bag, apparently kept for the purpose, which he thrust into his pocket.
Horror fought interest in Miss Marvin, she had no idea that people could share their bedroom manners this way, and she did not know what to do. She had not undone her corsets, for she didn’t wear them. All the others had taken off their shoes, thrusting their feet into bedroom slippers of a comfortable nature, but she had none to hand. She lay back in her corner trying to get her head in an easy position, and finding this difficult, for her neck had developed the most surprising habits; it had lumps in it, it was too long or too short, nothing that she could do would persuade it to behave normally.
The lights were turned down. Now there was only the pleasant thudding of the train pounding towards central France, and the snores of those peacefully asleep. She dozed. At last she got to sleep, and very soon after that the door was abruptly shot open and the guard appeared, demanding ‘les billets’.
‘Damn les billets!’ thought Miss Marvin.
Worse still, once again she could find no billet in her bag. She held up the complete carriage, waiting whilst her frightened fingers searched in corners for the billet. Oh joy! At last she found it, the door was slammed to, the guard and his bellicose-looking boy friend retreated; once more the carriage slipped into some semblance of sleeping. It wasn’t easy.
At four in the morning Miss Marvin woke and decided to ‘go along the corridor’. A wash would be edifying, she thought. Oh, what would she give for a breath of fresh air, but the train was now hermetically sealed and so frowsty that it was nauseating. She stirred softly and put out a hand to open the door to the corridor. Papa nipped the handkerchief from his face with a horrified gesture as though he suspected that she was after his purse. He grasped what was afoot, and smiled sympathetically. He knew what was happening! Horror and humiliation came to her. She felt sick that a man should know where she was going, but in France nothing matters. Blushingly she went along to the lavatory, which smelt atrocious. There was hardly any water to wash in and so cool her hands and face; and coming out again into the humid air of the train, was a shocking experience.
‘This journey will never end, I was a fool to take it,’ she told herself. ‘What I would give for a couchette!’ Yet for all that she fell asleep.
When she woke, yellow sunshine was filling the carriage. The woman in the corner was trying to get her corsets about her, but seemed to have swelled in the night. She grunted more than ever as she pushed part of her up and part of her down, then tried to hook the busks up. The guard came along with disconcerting abruptness, saying that there was coffee if anyone desired it.
Miss Marvin did desire it.
She went along to the dining car and found it was airy and pleasant. She sat down in a corner seat, and the young steward brought her coffee with a young alp of cream on top; it was served with a stiff little roll, a pat of butter and a midget jar of honey, and was far more appetising than she would have expected.
Beyond the windows a new world showed itself, and it was summer. The new world had vines straggling across the fields; there were anemones blowing in vivid banks of colour, prune, cerise and wine; whilst cypress trees stood in blue cocoons looking like solemn little nuns, hands hidden in the long sleeves; there were roses flowering profusely on the houses, and now for the first time she saw that purple and crimson creeper called bougain ‒ something or other, that Mr. Swinnerton had remarked upon.
The horror of the night, which had really been most distasteful, had gone. All the disappointment and doubtfulness were disappearing, for now she knew that she had been wise to come. Of course she had done the right thing! In spite of what everybody had said, it had been her own money, and why shouldn’t she do with it what she liked?
Miss Marvin had arrived.
Four
CAP RABAT
At Marseilles there was the difficulty of changing trains and getting herself established in the new one, which was a little jogging train smelling of caries and onions and sleeping bodies. That smell was dreadful. ‘I shall fly back if only I can,’ she thought, ‘because I could not take that smell again.’
The curious thing was that she did not feel as hungry as she would have expected after that slim breakfast which she had thought inadequate. It was warm outside, like an English summer hotting up for a heat wave.
Now as they jogged forth on the final stage of the journey, for the first time she saw the Côte d’Azur appearing. The palms purred in the gentle wind, like the wings of great dark birds. She saw pepper trees, and sombre olives, clustering together. The whole vista was so very much more beautiful than anything that Miss Marvin had ever expected, that she could only hold her breath and stare at it in amazement.
There were rectangular houses, some painted in a dusky pink, others in turquoise blue, and some in lime green, with lemon trees growing in the garden. At every bedroom window mattresses were displayed, bulging over the window sills, for the French seemed to have very curious ways of conducting their bed-making activities. Little children ran gleefully to school, and gaily-sailed boats were on the perfect sea.
Miss Marvin did not recover from the first joyous enthusiasm of watching, until she and her luggage were deposited at the very countrified station of Cap Rabat.
It was a little station, so much smaller than she would have expected that it was almost disappointing. A jardinier with one leg, and a cotton jumper belted round a capacious stomach, was shuffling along amongst a welter of pink stocks; he ignored her presence.
The solitary porter was sitting on a rickety wooden chair reading the newspaper, and as she seemed to be the only person who had got out of the train she believed that no one would ever notice her. She stood there, her two suitcases on the ground at her feet. She looked through the archway, which was wreathed in some purple flower, and beyond it lay the station yard. There was a good deal of dust, but no sign of a taxicab. Transport here seemed to be the subject everyone found the least interesting. She looked at the porter and summoned up her courage.
‘Ici!’ said Miss Marvin rather peremptorily as she did at school when the girls were getting troublesome.
The porter put down his paper, sprang to attention, and taking off his hat bowed with such politeness that she might h
ave been the Queen of England.
‘Madame?’ said he.
‘I want a taxicab,’ said Miss Marvin very slowly, hoping that that would make her need easier to understand.
That was a mistake; instantly there welled out of the porter a complete volley of French which was quite undecipherable. Already Miss Marvin had been badly disillusioned about the French taught in England as being ‘of the country’. It was not of the country at all. Although schools went to immense trouble to import desirable young women from France, what did they teach? Nothing of any use, it seemed. Certainly the Parisian French of Mamselle at school had done precious little for Miss Marvin in France, because when one set foot on French soil the language changed profoundly.
‘Un moment,’ said she, but with difficulty, and the porter stood mutely cap in hand, his bland face full of benign expectancy. ‘Taxi,’ she repeated, ‘pour l’Hôtel Bella Vista.’
The moment she named her destination he bowed, shrugged his shoulders, raised his hands to Heaven, and indicated that he thought exactly nothing of the Hotel Bella Vista and was disappointed that she was going there. He pointed down the road. It ran down a hill, curling gracefully between private houses, with their pleasant and luxuriantly flowery gardens before them. He indicated a white house at the end, with a gay flag on the roof.
‘L’Hôtel Bella Vista,’ said the porter.
‘Je vais,’ said Miss Marvin, and after a moment, as it seemed to convey little to him, ‘Lá!’ She pointed to the two suitcases, ‘Les bagues.’
Instantly he became shatteringly surprised and interested. ‘Vous les avez perdu?’ he asked in a shocked manner, and began to stare into the dust as though he hoped to find something there.
She could not think what had happened, he stirred the dust with his feet, prying cautiously as though for some small articles, and then walked back along the route she had taken from the train.
In glib English she said, ‘I want to get my luggage to the Hotel Bella Vista.’
