The Flowering Thorn

by Margery Sharp

  “Why, Aunt Alice?”

  “Because you’re far too young, in the first place. You don’t know what you’re doing. People would say—would think—”

  “But they do already, Aunt,” pointed out Lesley blandly. “When I went to Salzburg last year everyone thought I’d gone with Toby Ashton.”

  “Lesley!”

  “But unfortunately Toby is almost as dark as I am, so as long as he stays ginger it won’t look quite so bad.”

  From Lady Chrome’s bergère came a sound like a suffocating Pekingese. Mrs. Bassington, with greater self-command, merely pursed her lips and continued to pour out tea. And all at once, from being slightly amused, Lesley was irritated beyond endurance. She said coldly,

  “I’m perfectly serious, Aunt Alice.”

  “Nonsense, my dear.”

  With a considerable effort Lesley controlled her temper. The impertinence of old women! A tie of blood, however thin, and how complacently they advanced to the limits of rudeness! Her resolve hardening, she said,

  “There’s really no need for any more discussion. I quite understand your feelings, Aunt Alice, but unfortunately you don’t understand mine. It probably comes of—”

  For the first time Mrs. Bassington raised her voice.

  “My dear, there’s no need to tell me what it comes of. I know. It comes of letting you have your own money at eighteen. Eighteen!” She took a fierce little sip of tea: over the rim of her cup her eyes popped angrily. “I said at the time it was ridiculous, but no one listened to me, and now this is the result. You think you can behave exactly as you please. You think you can fly in the face of convention and get applauded for doing it. Well, I shan’t waste any more breath trying to stop you. You’re ruining your life, my dear, but as you are no doubt preparing to tell me, it’s your own life to ruin.”

  She broke off, breathless and slightly mottled. Lesley smiled.

  “How well you know me, darling!”

  “And don’t call me darling,” added Mrs. Bassington in parentheses. “It’s ridiculous, a meaningless trick and I won’t have it. You go your own headstrong way and then try to placate me by foolish endearments. You won’t think yourself, and you won’t let others think for you. I know exactly what your income is, my dear: a bare five hundred and fifty, and you spend every penny of it. What’s going to happen, may I ask, when the child goes to school?”

  Lesley thought rapidly. Then:

  “Uncle Graham, darling,” she said; and with a secret enjoyment watched her aunt’s face. For old Graham Whittal was both wealthy and distinguished; and he had publicly referred to his sister-in-law as a pompous old busybody. “He’s a governor or something of Christ’s Hospital,” Lesley elaborated, “with two nominations. It’s one of the best schools in the country.”

  The riposte being unanswerable, Mrs. Bassington ignored it. Instead, she drew herself together and played her trump card.

  “Very well, my dear, since you’re so determined. But there’s one thing I warn you: you’ll have to take him tomorrow.”

  Whatever she felt, Lesley betrayed no emotion.

  “I’ll come down with a car.”

  “You’ve realised, of course, that you’ll have to leave your flat? And that no respectable place is going to take you in?”

  At last Lesley paused. The second threat worried her not at all: times had changed since Aunt Alice read East Lynne. But to leave Beverley Court! And leave she must: they didn’t take children. To-morrow, moreover: a bare twenty-four hours’ notice after nearly seven years! Her personal possessions, fortunately, would all be eminently portable, and with a waiting list like the Beverley’s, there would be no difficulty in letting; but all the same, to leave Beverley Court.…

  ‘It is rather perfect,’ thought Lesley reluctantly; and with her mind’s eye she suddenly saw the big wicker basket, rather like a laundry-basket, which arrived every Tuesday morning to collect her mending. And the following Thursday the basket reappeared and the mending was done. In case of any real crisis—a laddered stocking or a ripped hem—emergency assistance could be summoned by the ringing of a bell.… And that was only one of the amenities. On the first of April in each year a man came round with a dozen pink geraniums and filled the two window-boxes, which from then until the first of October became the responsibility of the under lift-boy. In the early hours of the morning he watered, groomed and when necessary replenished; and on the appointed day the man came back and put in privet instead.…

  “Oh well,” said Lesley, emerging from her brief homage to the past, “there are other places in town besides the Beverley. If I’m down by three o’clock, Aunt Alice, will you see that his things are ready?”

  “They’ll be ready on the door-step,” said Mrs. Bassington grimly.

  With an agreeable sensation of victory, Lesley gathered up her gloves, made a formal adieu, and walked towards the door. Half-way across the room, by the scattered heap of bricks, she paused and looked down.

  “To-morrow you’re going to come and live with me, Patrick.”

  He nodded off-handedly and got on with his tower.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Among the many epitaphs which Mr. Ashton constantly composed for himself there was one so exquisitely apt that he sometimes felt tempted to scrap all the rest and compose no more. It ran, very simply—though with perhaps a reminiscence of Stendhal—to no more than six words: ‘He made songs, and understood women’; and such being the case, he experienced not the least surprise when Lesley Frewen rang up to say she had changed her mind.

  “My dear, of course I meant it,” he assured her. “Come in to-day—now—whenever you like.” Under the flowered dressing-gown, for it was no more than ten in the morning, his heart, without actually beating faster, felt all the pleasurable emotion of prophecy fulfilled.

  “But what about you, Toby?” asked the voice of Miss Frewen. “When do you want to get out?”

  The moment had come. He would have liked to move to a more comfortable chair, for the conversation promised to be lengthy: but a pause at that point, however slight, would almost inevitably suggest that … well, that necessity was needing time to become a mother. With no pause at all, therefore, Mr. Ashton said rapidly,

  “Oh, really, my dear, it’s all rather odd. I’ve just had a wire from Paris, and they don’t want me till the week after next. So you see how it is. I mean, would you mind awfully if I stayed? There are two bathrooms.” And he waited with real interest for the answer. For Lesley Frewen—after all, what did one know about her? As hard-boiled a virgin as any in town, he shouldn’t wonder … and yet if so, with an almost uncanny gift for stopping a lover’s mouth. Or was she even now—for the pause continued—working up a flow of righteous vituperation?

  But Lesley’s voice, when at last it broke the silence, came cool and untroubled.

  “But of course I don’t mind, my dear. I think it’s terribly nice of you to let us come!”

  And now, at the other end of the line, Lesley waited with at least equal interest. The first result, however, was disappointment, for as soon as he got his breath again Mr. Ashton merely cursed the exchange.

  “Darling, this ’phone’s so rotten I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

  “I said we wouldn’t mind a bit, Toby, and it was terribly nice of you. Because—did Elissa or anyone tell you?—I’ve just adopted a baby boy.”

  This time the pause was so long that she began seriously to wonder whether the shock, at so early an hour, had not been altogether too great. But Mr. Ashton had not actually fainted: to be astonished to the point of swooning implies at least a standard of morality: and this, except in art, the composer of ‘Loving for Two,’ was admittedly without. He was surprised, but not bowled over; in proof of which, and with an undeniable gallantry, he broke the silence on a note of congratulation.

  “But darling, how original of you! Most people always farm them out. Shall you be bringing a bassinette!”

  “Not even a pram, my dear
. He’s four-and-a-half. How nice you are, Toby!”

  “Yes, aren’t I?” said Mr. Ashton. “I’ll tell Mrs. Lee. She runs the place, you know—very trustworthy, only mustn’t be hurried. When shall you be along, darling?”

  “About four o’clock, then,” said Lesley unhesitatingly. “Will that be all right?”

  “Perfect, my dear. Oh, and by the way—”

  “Yes?”

  “There is just a chance I may have to go to Madrid,” said Mr. Ashton.

  2

  The other man to whom Lesley telephoned that morning was her uncle-by-marriage Graham Whittal. Their relations being normally confined to the annual exchange of a ninepenny Christmas card, her summons to a five o’clock rendezvous in St. James’s Park caused him extreme surprise. He continued to feel surprised, moreover, all through the afternoon: for though his niece was obviously wanting something out of him, he could not for his life imagine what. There were always debts, of course, and in these days the young women were probably as bad as the men: but he had the curiously definite impression that she was not the sort that gets into a mess over money. But what then? What else drove the young into the company of their elders? Love? Not in these days! As puzzled as when he sat down there, Mr. Whittal rose from his club window, retrieved his hat; and taking a taxi as far as the Horse Guards, walked slowly to meet his niece in the neighbourhood of the pelicans.

  ‘And why the pelicans?’ he thought suddenly. Hideous plucked-looking creatures! Ungainly even in flight! But made very good mothers, one heard—or didn’t one, nowadays? So many theories being exploded, it was probably only a matter of years before the earth was flat again! In any case—good mothers or no—hardly a reason why that young woman should wish to contemplate them. And just then he thought he saw her, only she was accompanied by a child.

  “Hello, Uncle Graham,” said Lesley. “Aren’t these creatures hideous?”

  Mr. Whittal removed his hat.

  “Good afternoon, my dear. I was just thinking the same thing. Also that your escorts are usually a good deal older.”

  “Four-and-a-half exactly, Uncle. I’d tell him to say good afternoon, only I’m afraid he might not.”

  “Shyness, or vice?” inquired Mr. Whittal sympathetically.

  “Oh, vice, I hope. It’s so much more natural.”

  He had the distinct impression that she was carrying something off.

  “Ah, that means you’re judging by your own generation. This young man may be at the other end of the swing. But in any case, it’s hardly your responsibility.”

  Under that really ridiculous hat his niece looked at him oddly.

  “Oh yes it is, Uncle Graham,” said she.

  The retort had been irresistible: but it left too much to the imagination. With genuine interest Mr. Whittal looked from Pat’s flaming head to her own dark shingle.

  “His name,” said Lesley explicitly, “is Patrick Craigie, and he is the son of Aunt Alice’s companion, who died a month ago, by a father unknown, also dead, but legally married. I’ve adopted him.”

  “Dear me,” said Uncle Graham.

  On the other side of the railings a pelican suddenly shook out its wings, spread-eagling with gawky pride before a couple of indifferent companions.

  “And where do I come in?” asked Mr. Whittal.

  Lesley looked at him intelligently.

  “Well, I was going to lead up to it,” she said, “but aren’t you something to do with the Bluecoat School?”

  So that was it! Of all things on earth she was out after school fees! And deep in his heart there was something that sighed. Axes to grind—there was no getting away from them! Well, it was very natural: the old had, and the young wanted.

  “I am,” said Mr. Whittal, quite unaware how long he had been silent. “I happen to be a Governor.”

  “And you can get small boys into it?”

  “I can nominate them, if that’s what you mean. The small boy has also his share. He has to be able to read and write, for example—”

  One hand on his arm, Lesley smiled delightfully.

  “Come back to my Club, darling, and tell me there. You won’t believe it, but the sherry’s marvellous.”

  Graham Whittal looked at her. Whatever she wanted she was obviously going to get: but it was long indeed since a young woman had made eyes at him. With a perfectly clear view of his own motives, therefore, he followed her into a taxi and prepared himself for the shearing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The old, noted Lesley, are always wrong.

  The reflection, in all its gnomic simplicity, occurred to her at the breakfast-table, having been crystallised, as it were, from a hundred scattered musings, by the simultaneous arrival of three invitations to dinner and a card for an At Home. In circles unknown to Mrs. Bassington her niece’s adoption of a baby boy was being hailed as something so amusing and original that Lesley had not yet lunched or dined off the Yellow House china.

  The Yellow House was charming, and they had it to themselves. Exactly a week earlier their host had welcomed them with his foot on the doorstep and a passport in his hand: the man in Paris, he said, would be there after all. Lesley expressed her regret, honoured such devotion to duty; and with a single interested glance at the colour of Pat’s hair, Mr. Ashton flung himself into a taxi and was seen no more.

  ‘Dear Toby!’ thought Lesley. She felt quite a genuine affection for him; she even toyed, over the last of her coffee, with the idea of a second and unchaperoned visit at some future date. For the Yellow House, out of which he had so gallantly ejected himself, was exactly her idea of a small Town residence: compact, picturesque, and with one really large room over the next-door garage. One could give some very amusing parties there, in—other circumstances; it was definitely something to bear in mind. In the meantime, however, on the other side of Mr. Ashton’s breakfast-table, Patrick Craigie sat finishing a rusk.

  Lesley looked across at him, over the black-and-yellow china, and wondered what, if anything, to say. The news, the weather, the invitations?—all obviously impossible: and she had already seen he had enough to eat. Conscientiously but in vain Lesley sought for a suitable topic: in a year or two’s time, no doubt, one could take him the Daily Mirror or something: until then it looked as though they would breakfast in silence.

  Glancing again, she decided that Patrick at any rate was feeling no social embarrassment. He was a silent child, almost stolid. He never prattled, but his articulation was good. Whenever he addressed her, which was rarely, he did so as Frewen, which was also amusing and original, and made a good point at dinner parties; but what really went on in his mind Lesley had so far no idea. The sudden change in his circumstances had caused, so far as she could gather, neither surprise nor emotion: he accepted them silently, stolidly and with apparent content. Whether he ever thought about his mother she could not guess: that he should want her in the night sometimes never entered Lesley’s head; for Patrick at the Yellow House slept next to Mrs. Lee, and it was she who rose secretly in the middle of the night.

  Gathering up her letters, Lesley rose from the table and lit a cigarette. The morning—a hairwave and lunch in town: Pat could go shopping with Mrs. Lee. Afternoon—rather miscellaneous; an exhibition of Negro sculpture, and possibly a new hat. And then back and rest and change for bridge at Elissa’s, followed by a midnight matinée.…

  The door opened and Mrs. Lee came in. She was stout, cooklike, and with Lesley at least completely impassive; but for once a slight animation seemed to be working within her. She had no need to ask, she had merely to remind, and the flow of her pleasure was therefore unchecked.

  “You do remember, Madam, that I’m going for the night to my sister’s?”

  Lesley remembered perfectly. Hadn’t there been a note from Mr. Ashton about it.

  “That’s right, Madam. I shall leave the table ready, and the chicken in the refrigerator. Master Pat’s supper I can do before I go.”

  With equal good humour Miss F
rewen confirmed the arrangements, omitting, however, to mention that the chicken would not be required. Mrs. Lee was invaluable, but her prejudices dated from the flood, and Lesley had no intention of either staying at home herself or of wrecking the long-laid private arrangements of a first-class cook. She was going to begin, in fact, as she meant to go on.

  Through the smoke of her cigarette Lesley smiled securely. The evening, besides being amusing, was also going to be important: a test case so to speak, in which should be proved with what perfect confidence one could leave a four-year-old child until three in the morning. For one night at least, or at any rate for a considerable part of it, Patrick should sleep by himself in the Yellow House.

  2

  In pursuance of this resolution, therefore, Lesley went up about seven o’clock, saw Pat peacefully dreaming, and bathed and dressed as quietly as possible. It was an occasion for full fig, in this case a new dead-white moiré of extreme backlessness: the smooth, heavy silk clung snugly about her thighs, the narrow crossed shoulder-straps settled immaculately into place, and never in her life had Lesley felt more successful.

  “How maternity agrees with you, darling!” said Elissa in Pont Street. “One of these days I shall go to Battersea myself. Cut for partners, someone, and let’s play rather high.…”

  With no more than a pleasant sense of its being her due, Lesley picked up a safe Three No Trumps. She did not know it, but she had about another two hours. She had, in fact, until exactly ten o’clock; when having just raised her partner to Three Spades, her inner eye was suddenly distracted by a lively cinematograph impression of young Patrick Craigie setting the house on fire.

  He was doing it with matches.…

  “Darling, your lead!” said Elissa sharply.

  Rapidly concealing her agitation, Lesley laid a card on the table, discovered too late that it was the Ace, and apologised all round. His sleeping-suit was made of flannel.