Chatterton Square (British Library Women Writers)

by E. H. Young

  “No. I was only thinking of those old Snap cards we used to play with when we were children. But perhaps you didn’t. Those funny ones. I can’t remember many of them, but there was one that said ‘Who’d be a doctor?’ in his nightshirt and I think that’s the one you look like now.”

  Looking still more like the rueful doctor, Mr. Blackett stared at her for a moment before he decided to say with marked lack of enthusiasm, “I’m glad I amuse you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It’s better to laugh than to cry.”

  Mr. Blackett, more like himself in the pyjamas he had hastily put on, lifted his eyebrows. This catchword came strangely from her and it was the kind of remark he particularly disliked. He considered it slightly vulgar and it ignored the possibility of the middle course, the one any civilized person would prefer. Bertha, whatever she might say, was quite evidently not herself. He could hardly believe she had really likened him to that ridiculous playing-card. She had always treated him with a charming, old-fashioned courtesy, as he hoped he had treated her; it astonished and displeased him that she could see him in a comic aspect and it was impolite to tell him so. The Bertha he knew and trusted would have ignored the less dignified details of the bedchamber or accepted them as among her privileges. He defied any man to get undressed without being, at some moment, an object amusing to unfriendly or ribald eyes, eyes, for instance, which were not brown like Bertha’s, but of a changing blue and all too ready to find humour in what they saw. The little lines at their corners, he decided, came of that readiness, and he glanced at Bertha whose eyes were now shut and saw that with her such lines were wanting. Hers was not a girlish face, that would have been unsuitable, yet there was hardly a mark on it which was not there when he first saw her, in her father’s church, decorating it for the Easter festival. No more perfect setting could have been found for her, no better augury for the future. She had looked like a flower herself, he thought, as innocent and candid as the pheasant’s eyes she was holding. The work was nearly done. Here and there a patch of sunlight settled on the dimness of the old church: very softly, someone was playing the organ, practising for to-morrow, and the sounds and the heady sweetness of the flowers and the sight of the girl who was not aware of the stranger who had strolled into the church, held the young Mr. Blackett in a charm which was not broken when she spoke. The whole thing would have been ruined by an ugly voice or accent, but everything was as it should be, even to the discovery that the vicar, appearing for an absent-minded inspection of the decorations, was her father and an easy person to approach. As an actor in this episode, Mr. Blackett missed its flavour of the novelette and had not detected it since. It was exactly what ought to have happened: his courtship had been carried on in the same atmosphere of calm and beauty: it had all been flawless except for the passing irritation of Lindsay’s battered appearance at the wedding and there had been no disappointment in his marriage. Now, as these memories passed rapidly through his mind, he was more puzzled by his wife’s laughter than vexed by his daughter’s behaviour. Bertha laughed very seldom. Never before had he seen her unable to control her amusement and, on this unique occasion, it had been directed against himself. For an instant, though he was standing under a strong light, he seemed to be looking into darkness, into unpleasant places where he might lose his way. But he would have none of that. He refused to be tempted into uncomfortable situations and, in connection with Bertha, he would not admit the possibility of their existence. But, though her laughter had ceased and she lay still, her lips settled into their usual contented curves, he could not be sure that her present mood was one in which to talk seriously to her about Flora. She might find that a laughing matter, too. On the other hand, she might worry herself unduly and, on the whole, perhaps it was not necessary to say anything about it. He was quite capable of managing the affair alone. Then, with a feeling of satisfaction and anticipation, he drew up the blind. As usual, there was a faint glow from Mrs. Fraser’s bedroom window. She kept late hours. This, too, gave him a feeling of satisfaction. It fitted in with everything else he had discovered about her character.

  Chapter X

  

  And long after Mr. Blackett had ceased his gentle snoring and turned on to his side, Rosamund was still awake. Miss Spanner had had to make her nightly visit later than usual. First Chloe and then Felix had forestalled her.

  “What lovely stuff money is,” Chloe said. “And I didn’t know Miss Spanner was an angel in disguise. Two nice, clean crackling five pound notes! They seem so much more real than a cheque. What made her do it, do you think?”

  “She wanted to give you pleasure, I suppose.”

  “While we can get it? Was that the idea? But Peter says—”

  “Is that his name?”

  “Yes, isn’t it a mercy it isn’t Pringle as well?”

  “Why should it be?”

  “Darling, didn’t I tell you he’s Miss Pringle’s nephew and an accountant and does her books and that’s how I got to know him? He’s called Stephens. I’m surprised at your forgetting anything as important as that.”

  “Oh, it’s important, is it?”

  “I’m not sure, but it ought to be, to you.”

  “So it is and I hadn’t really forgotten. Just for the moment. I’ve been rather muddle-headed lately.”

  “Tired?” Chloe asked.

  “Yes, a little, perhaps.”

  “I don’t know how you manage it all,” Chloe said. “It rather puts me off having a big family and I want one. Seven people to feed and the house to look after and all the odds and ends to do and never in a hurry and never bad tempered.”

  “Why should I be? And why shouldn’t I have a full-time job? A man takes that as a matter of course.”

  “Yes and when he comes home he has nothing more to do. He doesn’t sit up in bed and do the mending. I think you ought to have a holiday. You must be sick of us all. Have it when I have mine and I’ll stay at home and look after the family.”

  “Where on earth should I go?” Rosamund said, but before Chloe could answer, she had pictured the sort of place she wanted, somewhere high above the sea where she could walk for miles on the cliff edge or lie for hours among the little flowers and herbs that look brighter and smell more pungent for their nearness to the sea, as though they stole some of its colour for themselves and mixed its saltness with their own scents. “And who with?” she said and she knew the answer to that question too. The companion she would choose would be Piers Lindsay. It was rather absurd, but there was no doubt about it. Quite definitely, she did not want Fergus. He had wounded her, but that was not the reason. Even if he had not done that, if there had been no rupture in their union, she knew, to-night, she did not want him on those cliffs. But then, if there had been no rupture, she might not have realized, as she did now, that she had, as it were, grown out of him, that he was the garment of her youth and, quite startled by this confession, she exclaimed aloud, “I must be getting very old!”

  Chloe laughed. “What makes you say that?”

  “I was imagining such a middle-aged sort of holiday.”

  “And you’d like it?”

  “Yes,” Rosamund said.

  They would not talk very much, she decided. They would not need to be polite, giving way to each other’s fancy for this or that. They would go their own ways when they liked but, she thought, what one chose would probably be what the other wanted. It would all be easy and natural and comfortable, as though they had always known each other and there was nothing to explain or discuss. But what a foolish dream! And how horrified the poor man would be to hear of it!

  “Then do go,” Chloe begged. “With Miss Spanner, perhaps.”

  “No, nobody,” Rosamund said.

  “But you’d be dull alone, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not going alone, either.”

  “Is it the money?” Chloe asked. “You can hav
e mine, you know.”

  “Yes, your nice, crackling five pound notes and all the fresh air you ought to have after living in that stuffy shop. What an idea! But thank you, Chloe, very much,” Rosamund said gently. “And you were going to tell me what that Peter of yours thinks about things.”

  “Oh, he’s not mine yet. At least, I’m not his. He’s so frightfully sane. It must be because he’s always balancing accounts. I think it’s very boring when people are so determined to see the other person’s point of view that they positively have to squint.”

  “And is he squinting?”

  “Inclined to,” Chloe said.

  “Like Agnes, but she sees straighter than most of us.”

  “He says we’ve got out of so many difficulties, we may get out of this one.”

  “He means we’ve wriggled out,” Rosamund said scornfully, “and we may wriggle out again. Does he like that prospect?” she asked and Chloe heard an unaccustomed hardness in her mother’s voice and saw the straight line of her lips as she roughly pushed away the needlework lying in front of her.

  “I didn’t know you cared like that,” Chloe said almost timidly.

  “Of course I care! Of course I care! Though it’s not the fashion. It’s almost bad taste. Either nothing matters or there is nothing wrong. The result’s the same. We ought to be on the top of the hill with our heads up and instead of that we’re sliding down, quite pleased to accept a helpful shove from anyone who chooses to give it. Anyone! And such anyones! My God, how are the mighty fallen!” She sank back against her pillows. “What an outburst!” she said.

  “But you sound,” said Chloe, “as though you want a war.”

  “How could I? I know too much about it, but it’s not as bad as believing that any concessions, however cowardly, must be better.”

  She had, in this connection, a great longing for Fergus. His language would have done her good, but there was now no possibility of that pleasure. He had, she supposed, deserted her, but not for very long and she did not know whether it was long enough or what other grounds for divorce were necessary and whether he had given her any, in the matter of those sympathetic surroundings, for instance. It was just like him to be vague; it would be just like him to change his mind and it would serve him right if he changed it too late. The impulse of her pride and her affection was to gratify him speedily, yet the past asserted its claims, not to keep him for herself but to watch over his future and to go slowly lest he should act too hastily. And she had no idea what view the children would take of such legal proceedings or what they thought of the present situation. They had made no comment when she told them he had gone. For themselves, even for Sandra who looked wan and anxious the relief was evident. Perhaps they assumed that it was a relief for her too as, in a complicated way, it was. They had taken care not to embarrass her with questions and now, just as she was wishing there were some wise person to whom she could talk freely, but not Agnes, who had always been prejudiced against Fergus and perhaps jealous of him, Felix knocked at her door and came in. Here was someone wise, at least, in the law and, but for an air of responsibility he sometimes wore nowadays as the male head of the family, he might have been Fergus himself and it was half pleasure and half pain to look at him. And it was as the male head of the family that he had come.

  “Who’s this latest swain of Chloe’s?” he asked.

  “I don’t know much about him. I imagine he’s quite respectable. But sit down, Felix. Don’t stand over me so threateningly.”

  “Well,” he sat down, “I think you ought to head him off.”

  “That’s so likely, isn’t it? When have I tried to head off your young women or James’s?”

  “That’s altogether different and as far as James is concerned, it will be Father Blackett who’ll do the heading off if necessary.”

  “Father Blackett?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “I always try not to know, on principle. But, dear me, how extraordinary!”

  “Why? She’s rather an attractive wench. Not my type, though. She’s too much like an enamel—green eyes and black hair and red lips and sort of burnished.”

  “So she is. And you like something more elusive, I imagine. Well, I hope it isn’t serious. I shouldn’t like any Blackett blood in the family.”

  “Of course it isn’t serious. They’ve come across each other at the University and I should think she’s rather a limpet.”

  “She’s just like her father to look at. Take away Mr. Blackett’s beard and you’d see Flora. And he’s feminine, too. That’s what’s the matter with him, perhaps. Not effeminate. Feminine. Very bad in a man, I think.”

  “Not so bad as the masculine in a woman.”

  “Yes, yours must be the elusive type,” Rosamund said. “This isn’t curiosity. It’s deduction. And I expect you’ll end by marrying a big-footed, flat-chested, tweed and felt, loud voiced, thoroughly good sort.”

  “It would be the end of me all right,” he said. “And perhaps you’d better not let James know I told you.”

  “Of course I won’t. And I shan’t tell Chloe you are taking an elder-brotherly interest in her affairs.”

  “You mean I’m butting in where I’m not wanted.”

  “She might think so, but I don’t. I’m glad you came. I’m always at home to visitors at this time of night, you know, but Agnes is my only regular caller. And about this Pringle. That’s not really his name. I generally call him the conscientious accountant.”

  “Accountant? I thought he was some kind of farmer.”

  “You’re not,” Rosamund asked slowly, “talking about Mr. Lindsay, are you?”

  “Of course. Who else?”

  “But—” Rosamund began. “Well, really, this is a very surprising evening. And I don’t think, though he has been in and out of the house often enough, he has ever seen much of Chloe.”

  “He was making the most of his first chance, then.”

  “Was he? I didn’t notice it particularly, but I can well believe it. She’s very nice to look at.”

  In the mirror opposite to her bed, she could see herself, a Chloe grown middle-aged. Naturally, he would look at the younger edition, but this one, she thought impersonally, was worth some consideration too.

  “I don’t suppose she found it easy to look at him, poor chap, and then, he’s old enough to be her father. That’s why I said you ought to head him off.”

  “And it seems to me,” Rosamund said, suddenly angry, “that you’re being perfectly idiotic. Can’t I ask a friend to the house for fear he should fall in love with Chloe? He wouldn’t be so stupid. You’re very grandmotherly, Felix, to-night. What’s the matter with you?”

  Under this attack he looked more than ever like Fergus. There was trouble in store for some woman in the future, Rosamund thought, but she would have a great deal of happiness, too, as she had had herself.

  “I think,” he said, nervously determined to speak his mind, “it would be better not to have friends like that in the house. Better for you, I mean.”

  “Better for me?”

  “Yes. Well—I hate saying it—but you’re in rather a peculiar position, aren’t you?”

  She did not answer immediately. She was astonished, amused, hurt and angry all together, but she could not help being pleased when he added awkwardly, “And still so young-looking and pretty.”

  “I thought it was Chloe you were anxious about.”

  “Chloe? No, she’s in no danger, but he might be and people might think you were.”

  She tried not to laugh. “So you’re guarding my reputation.”

  “Yes,” he said stubbornly.

  “With dear old Agnes for a chaperon and two grown-up sons? Felix,” she was gentle with him, “surely this caution is unnecessary. I think my reputation, if I have one, will stand more than an occasional visit from M
r. Lindsay, when he brings the vegetables. And if it doesn’t, well, it can go hang. No!” she cried, sitting up with a jerk, “I’m not going to be locked up like a nun, no, not even if people talk—and why should they? It’s too silly and if they do and you are embarrassed by it, you’ll just have to bear it. I never heard such nonsense. Does James feel like this? Does Chloe? I don’t believe it. You must have inherited some puritanical taint from those awful aunts you’ve never seen. They’d convict me of sin if they saw me smiling at the butcher. And I do smile at him and he gives me the best cuts of meat. One must use what weapons one has. And I believe the policeman on point duty by the church would hold up a royal procession for me.”

  “That’s just it,” Felix said. “You’re so—so gay.”

  “The word they use for ladies who are no better than they should be, poor things. I always think it’s so ironic. And I’m in danger of being mistaken for one of those? You think I ought to look humble and depressed? Well, I’m neither. And I like Mr. Lindsay. He’s a friend and I’m going to keep him if I can. And with a daughter like Chloe in the house what busybody’s going to suspect an old woman like me? You said, yourself, he was looking at her all the time.”

  “Yes, but you were looking at him.”

  “So that’s it, is it? Why didn’t you say so at once.”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “I should think not. And you’re wrong. I know perfectly well how I look sometimes, but I don’t do it with Mr. Lindsay. I don’t want to.”

  Felix shuffled his feet before he got on to them. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I meant you suddenly looked so happy. And it made me angry, but not with you. Oh,” he said, when he saw that while she was laughing there were tears in her eyes, “I suppose I’m being a fool, but there’s no one else to look after you, is there?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody,” she said.

  “And you’re not cross with me?”

  “No, no. I think you’re sweet. Kiss me good night.”

  How young he was and how clumsy, she thought as she watched him go, how much more conventional and perspicacious than she had imagined and, she admitted it, how right!