When he came to look through the bundles of dead investments, Quintin thought: ‘And I’ve nothing to rejoice about either.’
Now, gazing after the blonde girl, who had paused to put her dog on a lead, he thought: ‘I am poor.’ Never before had he so regretted the fortune that had failed to come to him.
The girl went on into the grey-shadowed park; the red dog-lead danced; the dog leapt forward. The silver-gilt head and the white coat shone through the wintry half-light.
‘A silken girl,’ he said to himself. ‘A voluptuous girl, a delicious girl . . .’ He laughed at himself as she faded away from him.
The desolation of his old sobriety had gone in a moment. Petta was forgotten.
A few yards down the road, he mounted the steps of a house identical with the one in which he lived, but where his house displayed a row of new bell-pushes, each named differently, here there were only two old-fashioned bell-pulls. He pulled the one marked ‘Visitors’.
The door was opened by a man-servant who greeted Quintin with deferential friendliness. Lady Wheeldon was at home. Quintin indicated he could find his own way up to the drawing-room. The man acknowledged this saving of his legs and time as he might have acknowledged a ten-shilling note.
Following the fine curve of the mahogany staircase, Quintin smiled to himself because he was once again surrounded by an ordered life. This house reminded him of his father’s house in Montagu Square. Of course, when he was young he had thought nothing of Montagu Square. He used to complain that it lacked chic. He despised the Edwardian splendours of his father’s establishment, he hated living so far from Mayfair, he envied the ‘new poverty’ of his friends. Now poverty, new or old, depressed him. He was nostalgic for the past.
When he reached the panelled landing, he glanced about at all this woodwork and wondered how many tins of furniture polish it consumed a week. Mrs Trimmer had a heavy hand with furniture polish. He sighed. There had once been a time when he had never heard of it. He could not doubt his own degeneration.
Alma’s drawing-room occupied the whole of the first floor. It was painted green, the mouldings heavily plastered with gold-leaf, the whole rather shabby. She frequently apologised for it, saying she could not face the reorganisation of life required before the house could be redecorated. Over the chimney-piece hung a large Sickert portrait of the late George Wheeldon. It was glazed. Quintin looked into it to see the reflection of his own face, a face that had never entirely satisfied him. His full lower lip protruded beyond the upper one. His eyes, light-coloured and heavy-lidded, gave him the arrogant look of one of those Restoration fops painted by Kneller. Secretly, he thought he resembled the second George Villiers.
It was not until he smiled at himself that he could see the look of benevolence that was, he believed, one of his chief attractions. Women trusted him. He smiled again, and turned, smiling, as the door clicked – but it was not Alma; the door, which he had left ajar, had fallen to; he was still alone.
He walked round the room, observing its condition closely. He supposed it would cost a fortune to replace the gold-leaf. Alma, he suspected, could not bear to part with it, but it would have to go. The woodwork could be stripped to reduce the ponderousness of the chimneypiece and lighten the room. As for the walls? A chalky blue, he thought; rather dark. That would mean dispensing with the purple brocade curtains, the dark Empire Aubusson, and the furniture, ebonised and inlaid with brass, that he found both oppressive and trivial . . .
He paused on the words, with no time to withdraw them before they applied themselves to Alma herself. She had entered, looking a little flustered. Her mornings, it seemed, were occupied with disagreements between the servants whom, Quintin believed, he could, if they were his, control with a word.
She said: ‘It’s Bettina again.’
He took her hands and laughed at her, saying: ‘You are a delicious silly to agitate yourself over such trifles.’
She flushed slightly and looked down: ‘Dear Quintin, things are so much easier for you men. I relied on George for everything. I imagined I could not live without him, yet here I am! – left to fend for myself. And I thought you had deserted me, too. It is nearly three weeks since your last visit.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded; his smile died. Alma gave a little murmur of alarm:
‘Something has happened? Do sit down . . . first, let me pour you some sherry, then tell me what is the matter.’
She was a large woman, Teutonic in appearance and heavy in her movements. She was only a few years senior to Quintin but gave the impression of belonging to an older generation.
‘Now?’ she said when Quintin was comfortably settled in an arm-chair with his drink.
He said: ‘Petta has returned.’
‘Oh!’ Her first reaction was dismay – and not on his behalf; but this she covered so rapidly with an appearance of decent sympathy that he might, had he not been alert, have missed it. She added quickly, her breathing irregular:
‘You must forgive her, Quintin dear.’
‘Forgive her!’ he laughed, ironical and weary. ‘The question of forgiveness has not come up. She simply returned and installed herself in my dressing-room. The flat does not accommodate two people very well.’
‘No, indeed. But surely she . . . surely . . .’ Alma fluttered with curiosity, but her upbringing had denied her the power of the direct question.
Quintin said: ‘I know I can confide in you, my dear.’
Alma pinked a little at this, his first use of an endearment, but her expression did not change. She held herself controlled and sensible, nodding occasional sympathy, as he told the story of Petta’s return. He let the circumstances alone lay blame where it should lie. He told of the attempt at suicide on Westminster Bridge; her invasion of his flat; her promise to leave; the second suicide attempt with the sleeping-tablets. Only by the tolerance of his tone and one or two muted gestures did he reveal the element of blackmail.
‘Then you do not think she intended . . . ?’ Alma paused. She had been shocked, it seemed, at the intention, but now was more shocked at the lack of it.
Quintin said: ‘She is terrified of death. Positively neurotic about it. If she has a tooth out, she fights like a tiger against the anaesthetic. That shows a deep-rooted dread of extinction.’
Alma nodded sagely, then, after a pause, moved on to securer ground: ‘Poor Petta, she must feel her position keenly. Do let me arrange a little dinner-party – just to restore her amour propre! We might go out somewhere.’
Quintin jerked up his head. Was it possible that Alma really saw herself as a sort of Wildean heroine championing a fallen woman in a public place? Apparently so.
‘Just the three of us,’ she went on, ‘but, no – I shall ask old Tom Claypole. You remember him? He was married to your mother’s sister, Rose – such a nice girl. So tragic! She died only eight months after the marriage; he never married again. Since I mentioned to him that you have moved into a flat near here, he has asked me several times to arrange a meeting. He says he remembers you when you were a schoolboy: he thought you charming.’
Quintin laughed: ‘Could I have been a charming schoolboy? It seems improbable.’
He was content now to leave the business of Petta. He had said enough. Alma was scarcely yet in a position to say more. He put it behind them by talking – surprisingly, it must have seemed to her – of his boyhood. He spoke simply, with sincerity. The time had come, he decided, to replace the pleasing but detached charm of the Quintin who had visited here when he had nothing better to do, with a new Quintin – one who could feel, who would seem to her to be within reach.
‘Claypole! I only met him once – a dark, ugly, little fellow in a motoring cap. He drove about in an enormous, open Rolls. My grandmother said to my mother: “That car seems to me fast in more senses than one.” My mother and I were spending the holidays at Chudleigh when Tom Claypole turned up. He was courting Aunt Rose. Poor Aunt Rose, she’d just come out of a sanatorium. She should ne
ver have married. I suppose you still remember Chudleigh?’
‘Of course.’ Alma smiled, looking, Quintin thought, a little like the housekeeper whose superiority stems from the ‘quality’ she has served.
Introducing these memories of Chudleigh, he was well aware of the value of that bond between them. He had met Alma first at Chudleigh. She had been a neighbour’s daughter; a stout, good-hearted girl whom his grandmother had been pleased to patronise. There had always been a number of these girls fetching and carrying for his beautiful grandmother, most of them younger than the daughters of the house. They played tennis, strummed on the pianoforte, danced with the male visitors, and formed a little court round her. She identified herself not with her plain, dull daughters, but with a younger generation of girls, some of whom had been lovely. She had found husbands for them all.
Quintin had been much petted by the girls. He was the only member of the family who had inherited his grandmother’s looks.
Alma said: ‘It seemed a great house to us, you know. I was delighted to be one of the knowledgeable ones when there was talk about Chudleigh. I never tired of describing your grandmother’s famous azaleas, and the orchid house, the vinery, the stables, the electric brougham . . . They ran that electric brougham years after everyone else had cars. I thought it terribly distinguished. We had only a dog-cart at home. I remember when George . . .’
Quintin had no intention of letting the conversation leave Chudleigh. As soon as Alma had finished her story about George and the dog-cart, he said: ‘All grandfather’s show, of course, was based on very little. Chudleigh was a sort of inverted iceberg – nothing below water.’ Now he held the Chudleigh memoirs well centred, talking with a good-humoured melancholy of changed times and changed people. He, he said, was always afraid that one day he might not be able to pay his way – but his grandparents! They believed no one should expect them to pay for anything. Their only fear was that some scrap of their privilege might be brushed off them by the shoulders of the encroaching mob. Quintin recalled the time when the son of the head gardener won a scholarship to Harrow. His grandfather had raged at them all through luncheon. What made things worse was that the boy was no ordinary ‘swot’; he had a genius for games. (He later became a Rugger Blue.)
‘Grandfather said: “We’ll have the fellow coming to the front door and asking if Master Quintin can come out to bowl for him.” I would willingly have gone out to bowl for him, but I was not invited.’
The boy had to keep out of sight of the house for fear the master’s anger should be turned on him. Quintin had thought his grandfather’s behaviour monstrous, but now he understood it. It came of fear, a fully justified fear. ‘A little air was entering the tomb,’ said Quintin.
Alma looked bewildered. He laughed. ‘You’ve heard of the body of Agamemnon, that kept its structure for centuries, then, when a little air entered the tomb, crumbled into dust?’
Alma made a movement that suggested such references were too lofty for her, then said in dismay: ‘But your grandfather was a darling. I adored him.’
‘So did I. When he was dying I was sent for; the only male relative. I remember, as I left the train, I said to the station-master: “My grandfather is dying”, and I was bitterly hurt that the man showed no emotion. In one’s school reading, the lower orders always sobbed at the death of the old master.’
Alma looked solemn: ‘Thank goodness your grandmother never lived to see such changes. She would have broken her heart when Chudleigh was sold up.’
‘No doubt, but my father was thankful to get Chudleigh off his hands. He’d been keeping the show going for years. He paid all grandfather’s debts, and grandfather despised him. Poor father, I don’t think he got much return on that marriage.’
‘Quintin!’ Alma was shocked, yet her eyes shone in admiration of his frankness.
Quintin smiled, then, suddenly leaning towards her, he pressed his hand down on her large, pale, soft, warm hand, and said: ‘Dear Alma! Only you and I share these memories now,’ and added, speaking carelessly as though scarcely aware of the implications of what he said: ‘I sometimes think that the thing that makes for true understanding and happiness in a relationship is similarity of background.’
Alma blushed. Her neck – not a young neck – dyed as deeply as her face. In her confusion she said: ‘Of course old Tom Claypole must remember Chudleigh, too.’
Quintin ignored that. Enough of Chudleigh for now. He said: ‘Petta, you know, comes from one of those broken-down Irish families that used to live in castles yet couldn’t afford sugar for their tea. I don’t know what would have become of her if an emigrant uncle had not left her some money. I remember a story she told me – how she and her cousin got themselves up for a ball on the flagship when the fleet put in at Cork. The girls were invited and hadn’t a rag between them. They were determined to go. What do you think they did? They took down the drawing-room curtains and made themselves dresses. They had no pretty shoes, so they bought gold paint from Woolworth’s and painted right over their old shoes and stockings. Petta was eighteen. The belle of the ball.’
‘She must have been exquisite. Indeed, she still is. I’m sure that means a great deal to you.’
Quintin made a sad little movement of denial. He sighed, then rose to take his departure. Alma crossed the room with him. As she went ahead, he watched her heavy face, her bulky waist and thighs, appearing and disappearing in one looking-glass after another.
When she turned at the door, he lifted both her hands and pressed his lips softly into the soft flesh. ‘For me,’ he said, ‘you will always be part of Chudleigh. Nothing means more than that.’
5
Ellie, during the days that separated her from Saturday, suffered an excitement that was near anxiety. Had she believed she had anything to fear, she could not have suffered more. She kept assuring herself she had nothing to fear. Quintin had not rung her because he was ill. When she rang him, he had at once suggested their meeting.
Yet she could neither eat nor sleep. She realised her attitude to life was changing. She was no longer a girl with everything to hope for, but a young woman with something to lose. If she lost Quintin, then all would be lost. London, that she had thought a miracle before she met him, would be, without him, nothing but a wilderness.
For the first time in her life she looked back in envy of the past. She remembered, a few days after her arrival, sitting in a bus in a traffic jam and hearing an old man stamp his foot and cry to the conductor in desperate tones: ‘Get on, can’t you! Get on.’ No one had shown surprise. Only Ellie had looked at him, unable to understand why anyone should so much care whether the bus moved or not.
She said to herself: ‘When I came to London, I was so happy, nothing could worry me; and now I worry for no reason at all.’
Looking back to that time of innocence, not five months past, it seemed to her she had been enchanted. Life had been like one of those dreams of flying when one need never touch the ground. Now her feet seemed weighted. She passed feverishly, yet with extreme slowness, through the no-man’s-land of intervening time. When Saturday came she felt suddenly intoxicated. At mid-day she pirouetted across the studio floor.
‘Bless us,’ said Denis, the Studio Manager, ‘look at the girl. Her cheeks are like roses.’
She came to a stop in front of him and said: ‘Darling Denis, can I go now?’
‘Why not?’
She rushed back to her lodging to have a bath and change. She had not been able to have a bath all week. An absurd old woman, a newcomer to the house, had, apparently, taken leave of her wits. Ellie had seen her once – a little, elderly woman in a yellow kimono, descending the stairs as though she feared she might be seized by a dangerous animal. Early each evening this woman would lock herself in the bathroom and the house would become full of the sound of cisterns emptying themselves. Once Ellie, hoping for a bath, had stood outside the door and heard the water pouring away, the precious hot water, enough for two or thr
ee baths: and when the woman at last burst from the bathroom and fled, all the hot taps ran cold.
Soon there were complaints from the lodgers. Mrs Mackie spoke severely to the new tenant, then went round tapping the doors and saying she did not think there would be ‘any more trouble’. The water had been hot on Friday evening, but Ellie had not been one of the lucky ones who got into the bathroom. Surely on Saturday morning, when everyone was out shopping, surely the bathroom would be free!
When she reached the first landing she heard the scurrying steps of the old woman in the dark bathroom passage, the click of the bolt, then the furious rush of water. In the bitterness of her disappointment, she sped to the basement stairs and called down: ‘Mrs Mackie. Please, Mrs Mackie, that woman is wasting the water again.’
Mrs Mackie had never shown friendliness to Ellie, but in this matter she was an ally. Her short, round, flatfooted body raged up the stairs. She shook the bathroom door until the lock broke. When the door fell open, Ellie could hear above the rush of water the old woman’s gasp of horror at discovery. Mrs Mackie turned the water off. There was sudden silence. She said harshly: ‘At it again! Didn’t I tell you all the lodgers are complaining!’
The woman said timidly: ‘But there was plenty of hot water last night.’
‘But not the night before, or all the week; and there’s precious little now.’
Ellie, suddenly ashamed of her part in the matter, went to the upper landing so that she need not see the old woman come out. Mrs Mackie called up to her: ‘You can use the bathroom now, Miss Parsons.’
Ellie said: ‘I’m sorry about all that.’
Mrs Mackie nodded her acceptance of this apology. ‘She’ll have to go,’ she said, ‘I found out from the milk-man she’s been turned out of half the houses in the street. And what do you think she was doing in there? Just washing an old coat-hanger under the tap. Proper looney. Oh, I said to her: “You get out of here tomorrow,” I said.’
Doves of Venus Page 6
