Lettice & Victoria

by Susanna Johnston

  What had happened to Laurence’s stepdaughter, the Comtessa Primrose? Had she been cut out of his will?

  Archie and Harold prepared for Victoria’s visit. ‘Harold. What are we to do about this?’ He slid a summons from a renowned and neighbouring hostess, Perdita Chanter, over the table. ‘In view of the situation we should either propose taking Victoria with us or we should decline to go. Which do you advise?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘What on?’

  ‘On you. On how you behave.’

  Archie chuckled, ‘We shall take her.’

  Leaving Maudie with Arthur’s old nurse, Victoria travelled on a series of trains to Cambridge.

  Archie wrote to Perdita Chanter. ‘You have heard me speak of Victoria Holliday. The widow of Roland and Lettice Holliday’s son, Edgar. She will be spending the weekend here and I write to ask if we can bring her with us to your luncheon party.’

  On opening the letter, Perdita Chanter pressed a button on one of three telephones and dialled the number of the painter, Robert Stratton.

  ‘Tell me everything you know about Victoria Holliday.’

  ‘She used to live with Laurence. Laurence Bland in Italy. I met her there once or twice. Very talented painter, I thought.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was disappointed when she married that dreary Edgar.’

  ‘She’s Archie’s new friend. He’s bringing her here and I want some background. For heaven’s sake, go on.’

  ‘Well. She used to be frightfully pretty. Buxom. On the plump side.’

  ‘Not huge bosoms?’

  ‘They were a fair size.’

  ‘That’s terribly funny. Archie’s always hated bosoms. He’s got a thing about them.’

  Robert had to hurry.

  Later, in Victoria’s presence, Archie demanded of Harold, ‘I wonder what Victoria will make of Perdita.’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Women. She doesn’t like women.’ He was talking of Perdita.

  ‘How foul,’ Victoria pouted and cracked her knuckles as Archie winced.

  ‘I would be surprised if this time she doesn’t make an exception.’

  Victoria was nervous in the front of the Daimler. Archie never made use of the driving mirror and her fears increased as the hostess, on their arrival, stared at the front of her jacket before saying a word.

  The room was full of people; mostly men. Perdita wore her hair in a bun; out of joint with the rest of her elegant appearance. A skilled social technician, she whirled Victoria towards the runt of the group; a mossy youth sent by a firm of London auctioneers to put a price on Perdita’s possessions. Smoking, Perdita drawled to Archie, ‘I hope the merry widow can hold her own.’

  Victoria could barely hold her glass.

  She was placed between the assessor and a prosperous young man; the very one that Lettice had provided for Alice after Roland’s exhibition. The assessor told her how stimulating it was to work amongst beautiful things.

  ‘One or two mouth-watering possessions here.’ He lowered his voice.

  Perdita, celebrated for having reintroduced general conversation after the war, craned across her neighbour and addressed Victoria as though to disembowel her.

  ‘Archie tells me that Henry, next to you, knows your parents-in-law somehow or other.’

  Victoria turned to him and introduced the topic.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, ‘but your mother-in-law does keep ringing me up and asking me to things. I was invited to a dinner she gave not long ago at the Ritz after some exhibition. She’s relentless. I hope that I don’t sound rude.’

  Archie, on Perdita’s left and fairly far from Victoria, said, ‘Aren’t you wonderful. You’ve started her off.’

  ‘Now we shall have to see if she knows when to stop. I hope to God she doesn’t bang on about those ghastly Hollidays throughout lunch.’

  Archie arranged an expression of timidity as he heaped a white and curly pinnacle onto his plate. Perdita said, ‘Ordered for the occasion. It’s called Widow’s Peak.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’

  Perdita said that it was time for general conversation.

  ‘Now. I know we’re all wondering which coward wrote that ambiguous review about Roy’s book in the TLS.’

  On the way back to Cambridge Archie said, ‘Poor Perdita. She’s a bit of a goose but a very human one, if such a thing is possible.’

  To Victoria, ‘Harold thinks I should marry her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He likes her. She’s always been very good about including him in her invitations although he never utters and contributes nothing.’

  Harold had been mistaken. Archie was capable, after all, of saying things bad enough to make Victoria hate him. She, concerned for Harold’s feelings, turned and put her hand over the back of her seat, letting it rest by the knob of the pull-out picnic table behind her. Harold took it in his and they travelled on in silence and in some danger.

  Harold went to his room.

  Dining with Victoria, Archie questioned, ‘Did I notice a birdlike hand claw yours when we were in the car?’

  ‘You were certainly in a position to notice what was going on behind you.’

  ‘Are you criticising my driving?’

  ‘No. Just remarking.’

  ‘Very well. You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Then. Yes.’

  ‘But this is wonderful. It’s so frightfully good for him. I don’t see him holding Lettice’s hand – or Perdita’s.’

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t talk as you did in front of them. Poor Harold. You made him sound delinquent – saying it was good of Perdita to include him.’

  ‘Are you upbraiding me?’

  ‘Mildly.’

  Later on he said, ‘I think I despise you.’

  Wistful for the spotted handkerchief and wishing she hadn’t given it to Lettice, Victoria asked, ‘What for? How dare you? What for?’

  ‘For taking it all to heart.’

  Only half in jest, she shouted, ‘Humbug. Twisted, flint-hearted hypocrite. Tormented misogynist. Pedant, quack and sham.’ She was a bit drunk.

  ‘I would go and fetch you a drink but I don’t want to miss anything that you might say in my absence.’

  They were interrupted by a shrill ring from the telephone.

  ‘Perdita here. I was fascinated to meet the Holliday widow. I can see the whole thing.’

  ‘What thing are you referring to?’

  ‘Your thing about her. She’s frightfully attractive and what a frontispiece! Now. Seriously. I want you to help raise money for me to save the nation. There’s a strong note of feminine hysteria in our funds office and I’ve given your name as somebody who’ll help.’

  ‘I’m terribly busy at the moment. I’ll ring you back.’

  Perdita lay down and called out, ‘Do fetch me a toddy, Nanny. God I wish people would stop changing horses mid-stream.’

  Harold crept into Archie’s bed that night and told him that he was in love with Victoria but intended to allow his feelings to remain unexpressed, if possible, for ever.

  Archie, applauding each decision, for he regarded both as such, said, ‘This is all perfectly wonderful.’

  He had noticed that Perdita was a little captivated by Victoria and probably planned to take her up.

  Before going to sleep, Harold, stronger than Archie now, leant across the narrow bed and hit the other on the eye.

  The next day, a large area of Archie’s face showed bruising. In parts the skin had broken. He made weak attempts at concealment, applying a number of small sticky plasters. At breakfast a horrified Victoria ordered him to sit. She peeled off the plasters as Archie shrank.

  ‘Of course this is very good of you,’ he said, voice high-pitched.

  With incredible pliancy she ran to a chemist shop where she bought a tube of cosmetic cream.

  When the treatment was finished he looked passable,
albeit mottled, and Victoria returned to the stables.

  Perdita called, unexpectedly, on Archie that afternoon. She needed his advice and a signature. He signed with a flourish as she saw his face and sniffed.

  Later she rang the college bursar with whom she had always managed to stay on close terms. ‘It must be more passionate than we guessed. The widow has given him a black eye, and that’s not all. He’s allowed her to camouflage the wounds with reeking face cream. We must investigate.’

  Robert Stratton, the socially ubiquitous painter, rang Victoria.

  ‘It’s far too long since we met and I’ve been hearing the terrible tale of Archie Thorne’s black eye.’

  ‘Heavens! Poor Archie.’

  ‘I’m glad it was that way round. You might have been killed if he’d given you one.’

  ‘Given me what?’

  ‘A black eye. You must be stronger than you look.’

  ‘What can you be saying?’

  ‘Everybody knows. The town crier has informed the cabinet.’

  Victoria suggested that they meet. ‘I promise not to cause you any bodily harm.’

  Archie rang Victoria. ‘This is simply to say how much I appreciated your invaluable assistance. The damage went undetected, thanks to your skills.’

  ‘Not entirely, I hear. In parliament today I was held responsible for abrasions.’

  ‘Once again, I hope you don’t expect me to understand one word of what you say.’

  Robert Stratton planned to give a party. Perdita rang him. ‘I hope to God the widow won’t be there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t stand fisticuffs.’

  ‘Has anyone asked you to?’

  ‘Not yet but I can always smell an imbroglio.’

  She rang Archie and put the same point. He answered, ‘Victoria is certain to be there. Indeed, both Harold and I hope to see her.’

  ‘We’d better get Robert to put “knuckle-dusters” on the card.’

  ‘You know the invitations have already been dispatched.’

  ‘It’s terribly tiresome not knowing anything about her background. I can usually tell unless people are arty or foreign. I believe her mother was Norwegian or some such nationality.’

  ‘Will you be going yourself in view of all this nonsense?’

  ‘Willy-nilly,’ Perdita stopped to smoke and to cough.

  Robert, on hearing further whispers of unrest, called the party off.

  After pressing a button, Perdita dialled. ‘Long to know why you’ve funked it. Is it something to do with the widow? Has she hidden her mite under a bushel or something? Perhaps it would be better if she did.’

  Robert, strict, told her, ‘As you know, I’m very fond of Victoria but I’m also very bored of hearing about her. Sorry about the party. I’ve been called away. Say what you like.’

  ‘How about Tit Widow?’

  Nobody wanted to join in. That was the greatest hurdle to be climbed.

  Left to herself she had one more try and wrote:

  There once was a widow who knew

  How to hand out a black eye or two.

  As well as her thrust, she’d a pendulous bust…

  ‘Oh hell. I seem to have lost my touch. Perhaps I’d better give up smoking.’

  She dropped her pen, drained of poison, and walked about a bit.

  Her old nurse said, ‘Think of your first wedding and how the whole village was given a half-holiday.’

  It was Archie’s fault that Perdita and Lettice met.

  He had added Lettice’s name to Perdita’s appeal. Lettice, parsimonious to a point of absurdity, could not be expected to contribute but would enjoy the attention and the giving of reasons for refusal to do so.

  She decided to write him a note – heart-rending and quaint.

  ‘Dearest Archie.’ There she stopped for a moment to consult a dictionary. ‘You know, all too well, of our indigence. What a yoke it is to struggle under. Roland, bless him, has never known of the sacrifices we have made to his art. I feel that one of our sacrifices has to be my contribution to these appeals that you so nobly support.’

  Archie asked Harold to finish reading her letter in case any part of it might need a reply.

  Lettice wrote to Perdita.

  ‘Dear Mrs Chanter. Who are you, you might ask yourself on receipt of this. And a very fair question that would be! Lettice Holliday. An old, dear friend of Archie Thorne. He sent me one of your appeals – such a good cause. I gather my poor little daughter-in-law had lunch with you recently. How good of you. I want to thank you somehow. How about a weekend? Soon! End of the month say? Would love it. Lettice Holliday.

  ‘PS: We are covered in a blanket of moss and ivy. Can you bear it? Until then I will be alone here with my husband Roland and my beloved spaniel Orpheus, who lies at my feet as I write. Don’t you adore the unquestioning loyalty of dumb animals? I called him Orpheus to remind me of my lute (specially made for me when I was small) and of the celestial poetry of the Bard himself. I think my favourite line in literature is “In sweet Musicke is such Art”.’

  Perdita, who loathed dogs as did Archie, rang him. ‘I couldn’t face a weekend of moss and ivy in that dripping part of the world but I’ve asked her to lunch in London. Now, I suppose, she’ll go and accept and bore me rigid quoting Shakespeare. It’s all your fault for making me so curious.’

  ‘I refuse to be blamed for your curiosity.’

  ‘Oh, darling. Don’t be stuffy. It’s living in those lodgings that’s made you so gloomy. I shall call them “stuffy lodgings”.’

  ‘Very well but cancel lunch with Lettice. It was foolish and unnecessary of you to invite her.’

  ‘How’s Tit Widow?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Everybody calls her that.’

  ‘What a terribly feeble joke.’

  ‘You can blame Robert Stratton.’

  ‘I must go. I have to dine in hall.’

  Perdita decided not to cancel the lunch and booked a table for two at a London restaurant where she was pretty certain to know some of the clientele. Most of the people she knew went there regularly.

  She sang:

  In those stuffy old lodgings poor Archie now sits,

  Singing Widow. Tit Widow. Tit Widow.

  Lettice, in mauve, arrived first. Well rehearsed, she embarked immediately.

  ‘It’s wonderful to meet somebody on the same wavelength. There are so few kindred spirits in my part of the world.’

  Thinking, ‘Christ! What a sight!’ Perdita dug deep into her bag.

  ‘It was sweet of you to have Victoria to lunch. How did she manage? I’ve had an agonising time introducing her to our clever friends. You and I have dozens in common, it turns out. Dear Archie’s been an angel.’

  ‘Archie? His heart is made of flint.’

  Lettice, enraptured by the other’s worldliness, had a crack.

  ‘I must admit I can’t picture him with wings.’

  God, thought Perdita, sipping whisky, something must happen. She twitched her brain as Lettice kept trying.

  ‘What about a halo? Do you think that one would become him?’

  Four eyes met. Lettice’s teeth were enormous.

  Robert Stratton and Victoria came in to the restaurant. Victoria had travelled from the country by train to meet the painter, not realising that Lettice sat alone in her finery in another carriage. Perdita spied them at once.

  ‘Did I invite you both or is it divine coincidence? Sit down and have a glass of whisky while I see to a reshuffle.’

  We are the cabinet, Victoria thought, rather wonderful.

  She unbuttoned her coat and took it off. Perdita stared at her low-cut dress.

  Muscles on Lettice’s face, up to then under control, began to run riot – came near to the corner of one eye, gathered and stayed taut for a second before rippling and carrying a tear.

  Robert Stratton knew better than to interfere.

  ‘What a delightful party,’ Archie passed
on his way to a table booked for two, further down the room.

  ‘But I won’t join you. I’m in rather a hurry.’ He sat and waited for Harold who, on sighting Victoria, had been sick and gone to the lavatory.

  Lettice said, ‘If this was a novel we’d say it was overdone.’

  Perdita whispered, ‘Silly, twitching mistress of the obvious remark,’ as she turned to Robert. She needed an extra man for a dinner party that night.

  Lettice and Victoria caught the same train, free of kindred spirits, back to their part of the world.

  That evening Harold wrote some letters.

  To Victoria he said, ‘I love you very much.’

  To Lettice, ‘Yours is the only home I have ever known. Why are you not my mother?’

  To Perdita, ‘I’ll never know why I deserve the kindness you show me. Perhaps I am foolish to talk of deserving.’

  To Archie, ‘I will always be your boy but you must learn to be a more considerate father.’

  To the daughter of a colleague, ‘Will you marry me, please, at once.’ He had only met her twice.

  To his own mother, ‘You have never been of any use to me at any time.’

  He delivered the one for Archie by hand and the others he posted, jerkily, into a private letter box belonging to the college after crediting stamps to an account held by Archie.

  He waited until he saw the porter shuffle out with them, walk along the street and wedge them into the stately red box on the corner. Then he ran to his room where he lay, sobbing on his bed, until Archie came to comfort him. Archie rang each member of the letter club, and to each, apart from Harold’s mother, he said, ‘How shall I put it? Of course it’s not nothing to be loved by Harold. You know how sensitive he is. A sensitive genius. He means nothing but good when he writes like that. But of course à qui vous le dites? as my predecessor here used to say.’

  He rang Harold’s mother and said that Harold was sorry for his words but that, of course, he was a genius.

  ‘I don’t know about genius.’ Mrs Fitch spoke in a flat, drab tone. ‘That’s for the world to decide. He may have told you that I never cared for him. You should meet Edmund. He’s the one that looks to his mother.’