“It’s lovely on you, isn’t it?” she exulted, rejoicing whole-heartedly in the transformation that her own skill and judgment had helped to bring into being. “Really lovely. My goodness, you’ll look a real June bride!”
Odd that the kind, spontaneous compliment should bring a sudden chill to Ellen’s happiness. When—where—had she heard these words before—a very short while before?
Cousin Laura, of course. Cousin Laura had used the very same phrase—again in spontaneous kindness—just before she fell into those long reminiscences this morning. Wasn’t it rather strange that wishing Ellen joy for her wedding should have plunged the old woman straight into bitter memories of Ellen’s birth; should have made her relive, then and there, the whole tragic humiliation of it?
Was it strange—or was such a connection of ideas the most natural thing in the world? For the first time Ellen realised, clearly and consciously, that she was afraid. Standing there in the bright, business-like little cubicle, with the kindly assistant still smiling at her, Ellen was remembering Leonard’s words:
“She is an embittered woman, Ellen, and you are the very core of her bitterness…. You’re so naïve, Ellen, you see the world as a child sees it….’
That had struck home, Ellen remembered. It hurt, for the very reason that there was an element of truth in it. She was childish in some ways—wasn’t it childish, for example, to have felt so scared of the opinions of all these capable young assistants this afternoon? But everyone has weak points somewhere—it didn’t follow that she was childish about everything.
Or did it? Was it childish to believe that a woman can experience great bitterness, and then, through courage and will-power, recover from it? That she can feel hatred enough to write such a letter as Cousin Laura’s—and then later forgive, and even learn to love, the original cause of her hatred? According to Leonard, such a belief was childish and unrealistic. According to him, the dark forces of the subconscious must inevitably keep hatred and resentment alive in some hidden corner of the mind for as long as life lasts. Many people, Ellen knew, would agree with him; but was it a proven truth?
She remembered Leonard’s warnings against letting Cousin Laura see too much of Mr Fortescue: she had ignored those warnings. She remembered, too, the driving anxiety which Leonard had so unmistakably shown during the last few days —an anxiety which had grown, at times, to something near to panic. Panic on his own account? Or Ellen’s? Or was it about something of which Ellen as yet knew nothing?
What else had he said about his stepmother—more recently?
“If she were to find out that the money she is living on is not her own, I dare not guess what she would do.”
And Cousin Laura could have found out. For Melissa apparently knew the truth—Ellen wished she had thought of asking Melissa how she had found out. And if Melissa knew, then maybe others did, too … it was by no means impossible for the truth to have reached Cousin Laura herself…. Bitterness piled on bitterness for the unhappy old woman…. and now a wedding … the wedding of the child she had so much cause to hate. A wedding to recall her own unhappy wedding, and all its ensuing bitterness….
The assistant had left the cubicle now, and for some minutes Ellen had been staring into the mirror, quite unseeing. But now her eyes came momentarily into focus again, and for a fantastic flash of time, before her preoccupied brain caught up with the image on her retina, she seemed to see in the mirror a different figure altogether; not the figure of a pleasant, reassuringly young-looking woman in a becoming yellow dress, but a very peculiar figure that she had seen once before in her life; a figure in a brown lace dress, with a cream-coloured shawl thrown over its shoulders, and above these sober, matronly garments a grotesque, painted face, like a clown.
The face of her dream. It was gone, of course, in an instant, as Ellen roused herself to proper consciousness of her surroundings; but the memory was not quite gone; and with the memory came a new, appalling doubt. Had it been a dream? Could gentle, kindly Cousin Laura have been so driven by the relentless hatred in her unconscious mind as to have crept into a child’s room at midnight, dressed up with painstaking care to terrify? Ellen dismissed the idea with quick revulsion—and with shame, too, at having dared to entertain it. She reached up towards the zip down the back of the beautiful dress, and then paused, her elbow rigid and awkward above her head.
For dreams, they say, are not wholly meaningless. Of course Cousin Laura hadn’t dressed up to frighten her—but what instinct was it in the nine-year-old Ellen’s sleeping brain that could have made her picture Cousin Laura in such a rôle—picture her with such terrible vividness that even in twenty-five years the sight was not forgotten?
Slowly, Ellen undid the zip, remorse already driving away her fears. To hell with amateur psychology, dream symbolism and all the rest! It was wicked—cruel—to think such things of a harmless old woman who, in actual fact, had never shown her anything but kindness as long as she could remember. It was all Leonard’s fault—he had made her nervous with all his silly hints and innuendoes about the state of his stepmother’s unconscious. It wasn’t as if he really knew anything about psychology at all. What was it Roger had once said of him? “That fellow buoys himself up on psychological jargon like a ping-pong ball on a jet of water.” Roger was being unkind, of course, but all the same …
Ellen tried to put the whole matter out of her mind. She took a last look in the mirror, trying to recapture her former light-hearted pleasure in the pretty dress.
It was lovely. Ellen knew that she had never looked so attractive, and was suddenly terribly sad: for it was all wasted somehow. As she ran the zip down to its full length, she had a sudden queer presentiment that she would never wear the dress. Something would go wrong. She would never have a wedding.
CHAPTER XIX
WHEN ELLEN REACHED home that evening there was a row going on. She sensed rather than heard it—for the voices of the protagonists were not unduly raised—and her first thought was that it must be Mrs Hammond and the stairs. Melissa, capable and impatient, and home for the whole afternoon, must have been sweeping them out of turn, and Mrs Hammond must be in tears. Ellen hurried, hot and agitated, across the gravel, clutching her unwieldy cardboard box and composing soothing speeches as she ran.
But as soon as she entered the cool, dilapidated old hall she knew that this, at least, was not the trouble. For she saw at once that Howard—dear Howard, once again a blessing in disguise—had been carrying rubbish down from the building operations in the attics; and Howard’s method of accomplishing this task always effectively swamped all possible clues as to whether anyone had or had not swept the stairs that morning—or, indeed, that week, or ever. Having filled two pails mountain-high with bits of broken slate and plaster, he would set off downstairs, humming, and swinging the two pails in time to whatever tune it might be, so that one or other of them was continually coming up with a jolt against the banisters. “Oops-a-daisy!” Howard would admonish himself reprovingly whenever this occurred—or, if the spill was considerable, simply the more restrained and serious “Oops!” by itself. Naturally, these mishaps occurred less when he swung the pails in time to “Abide with me” than when “Sugar in the morning” perhaps was his chosen melody; but either way the results were usually ample to cover up any possible shortcomings of Mrs Hammond’s. Ellen observed this evening’s traces with wry satisfaction.
No, the row wasn’t about the stairs; it was coming from the billiard room, where the staccato rattle of Melissa’s common sense mingled in absolute unison with the more monotonous rumble of Father’s obstinacy. Neither of them could possibly be hearing what the other was saying, reflected Ellen, as she hurried towards the scene of the conflict; and as she opened the door the two angry voices swept towards her like a wind.
Melissa, of course, was in the right; but on the other hand it was Father’s billiard room. Even before she had heard what the dispute was about, Ellen knew that this would be the dilemma she would b
e called upon to resolve; and Melissa’s brisk summary of the situation, dubiously illumined by Father’s pungent generalisations about interfering women, entirely confirmed her expectations. For it was clear that Melissa had been acting not only sensibly, but generously. She had decided, with her usual mixture of kindness and superabundant energy, to arrange a wedding reception for Ellen and Leonard on Saturday. She had already prepared a lot of the food in her own kitchen, and had invited all the inmates of the house as well as a few outside friends: the next thing was to prepare a fairly large room for the party. Melissa had decided, with headlong and indisputable logic, that the billard room would be the right place. It was the only large room not occupied by tenants; it was on the ground floor; and it was never used—this was an important point to Melissa, who would be out at work all Saturday morning and so would have to leave everything laid out ready on Friday night—she was determined to take all the trouble of the party on herself and leave Ellen entirely free.
And so this afternoon, while Ellen was out, Melissa had set to work to clear the billiard room; and if she had any qualms about her uncle’s view of the matter, they were wholly allayed by the knowledge that he was asleep in his deckchair (Melissa’s conscience was a very practical one) and that he would not wake until teatime, when she calculated the whole job would be finished.
There was only one flaw in these calculations. Melissa was right in believing that Mr Fortescue was in the habit of sleeping till teatime; what she did not understand was that teatime in this household was at whatever time he happened to wake up; and so it came about that it was barely a quarter-past three when Mr Fortescue, yawning and irritable after his sleep, made his way towards the mysterious thumps and clatters in the billard room, and found Melissa in the very act of piling two dusty glass cases of moth-eaten stuffed kingfishers on to the precious billiard table.
That was when the row had begun; and apparently it had gone on ever since. For not only had Melissa refused to put the two cases back until she had dusted and polished the surface she had taken them off; she had also declared that it wasn’t teatime yet, even showing her uncle the time on her watch, just as if that had anything to do with it. And after that she had simply gone on tidying and dusting, briskly contradicting everything Mr Fortescue said as she did so—Melissa had long ago discovered that she could quarrel and work simultaneously, thus saving valuable minutes.
How to combine adequate gratitude to Melissa with effective condolences for Father; how to view the tidying of the billiard room through Melissa’s eyes as a triumph of kindness and efficiency, and through Father’s as an unprovoked piece of interference and upheaval; how to combine both these attitudes in a single well-chosen sentence which was all she could possibly hope to get in edgeways before they both began talking again—such was Ellen’s problem. She was thankful to have it shelved, albeit temporarily, by the headlong arrival of Adela, who burst into the room, flung her satchel on to the nearest surface—unfortunately the billiard table—and plunged forthwith into a request of such urgency and complexity that Ellen felt her brain whirling.
“Please Mummy, can’t I? You see, when you said I couldn’t it was to have been at Jean’s, but now Jean can’t be there by six, and beside’s Barbara’s got a bigger garden, but they won’t be there yet—at least Sybil said not—and so if they haven’t rung me up——”
All this might have been the restless murmuring of the hot water pipes for all the notice Melissa seemed to take.
“Honestly, Uncle Richard, considering it’s your own daughter’s wedding——”
“I’m not talking about weddings. I’m talking about the billiard table. That cloth was——”
“So you see, Mummy, if I knew the telephone number, then even if you weren’t going to be in——”
“I think you’re being just downright selfish, Uncle. This is the only large room Ellen’s got for a party——”
“Party? Party? If Ellen wants a party she should have it in the drawing-room. That’s the place for parties.”
“Oh Uncle! Don’t be so obstinate! You know you haven’t got a drawing-room any more. Or a dining-room. The Butlers are living there.”
“Butlers indeed! Why should I want to know where the Butlers live? All this gossip about the neighbours! I’ve lived here all my life, and I don’t know the names of anyone in the whole road!”
Pride in this rather negative achievement was evidently taking the edge off Father’s wrath. Ellen held her breath. If only Melissa didn’t say anything to annoy him again … but of course she did:
“Don’t be so silly, Uncle. You know heaps of people. What about the Whittakers? You were arguing with Mr Whittaker about weed-killer only on Sunday. And you know Dr Forbes. And the Fairchilds, who used to give you lunch while Ellen was away—— What, Adela? Yes, of course you can go. The number’s 7498, run quickly and ring them up, and say Daddy will fetch you at half-past nine—and Sybil too, if they like. And don’t try to wear your white shoes, the sole’s half off …”
Melissa’s calm ability to unravel and deal with all that rigmarole of Adela’s at the same time as quarrelling with Father left Ellen speechless with admiration. But she was annoyed, too, at having the old man provoked like this. Why couldn’t Melissa, with all her cleverness, be more tactful? And now she had let Adela go tearing off to the telephone, leaving her satchel spilling books and bits of crayon all over the billiard table. Inky exercise books; a tattered French grammar; the unfortunate copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy again—none the better for having been dragged backwards and forwards to school all that week for the Quiet Reading period—and now spread-eagled upside down on the billiard table. Father would be furious all over again if he noticed. Ellen was on the point of unobtrusively gathering up the satchel and its contents when she was startled by the anxious voice of Cousin Laura in the doorway:
“I couldn’t think where you all were,” the old lady began plaintively—and then stopped, staring in pleased surprise at the unwontedly tidy and shining billiard room.
“Why—my dears! Haven’t you made it look nice! Why, it’s just like old times, isn’t it, Dick? This is just how Mama used to keep it, everything polished and tidy!”
Mr Fortescue glanced round grudgingly. So accustomed had he grown to the thirty years’ accumulation of rubbish that he had quite forgotten that it was not an essential feature of the billiard room. Ellen watched with amused affection as the look of outrage on Father’s face changed to one of baffled obstinacy as he slowly recognised that Melissa’s spring-cleaning had indeed restored to the billiard room something of its original dignity. But he wasn’t going to admit it: oh no; not with all these women standing around waiting to be in the right like fledgelings waiting for food. It was bad for women to be in the right, anyway.
“The whole thing is to take place in the drawing-room,” he announced autocratically, and made for the door, determined, it seemed, to be out of earshot before anyone could start explaining all over again that there wasn’t a drawing-room. It was bad enough not having the drawing-room without the additional irritation of not being able to use it. Really, women!
With a sigh of relief at his departure—and also at the fact that he had made his exit without noticing Adela’s books on the billiard table—Ellen set herself once more to clearing them away; but once again she was interrupted, this time by a sort of sob.
“Oh, it’s wicked, wicked!” Cousin Laura was moaning, half under her breath. “I can’t forgive it this time, I can’t!”
But Ellen had no chance to find out exactly what she meant, for at that moment there was yet another interruption—Roger this time, in search of his wife. Almost unnoticed, Cousin Laura slipped past him as he entered, and disappeared into the hall.
“Sorry, duckie,” he greeted Melissa cheerfully. “I’m afraid I’m not late tonight—you’ll have to feed the brute. I say, this room looks smashing! Twice the size! All in honour of the wedding, I suppose? How’s the happy bride?”
> Before Ellen could answer the friendly query—which, for a horrid moment, struck her as sarcastic, though Roger surely could not have meant it so—Melissa broke in through clenched teeth:
“Happy? I should think she should be! Honestly, Roger, if I’d been looking after Uncle as long as Ellen has I’d be happy to be marrying Bluebeard himself! Any man would seem an angel in comparison! Of all the selfish, unreasonable, pig-headed old——”
“Hush, dear, hush! You’ll make me jealous. Those are adjectives that you usually reserve specially for me. Seriously, though, the old chap’s not so bad. Not to Ellen, anyway. You must remember that she doesn’t annoy him all the time the way you do. But, in any case, it’s not an exchange that’s contemplated, is it? It’s Bluebeard and the old man she’ll be looking after, surely, not Bluebeard or? That’s right, Ellen, isn’t it? You and Leonard will be living here with your father?”
“Why—yes….” In the bewildering hurry of her wedding plans Ellen had scarcely thought of this question. Certainly no alternative possibility had occurred to her.
“Well, I only hope Leonard knows what he’s letting himself in for,” snapped Melissa. “Living with in-laws is bad enough at the best of times; and when the in-law in question is——”
“I don’t agree,” interrupted Roger. “In-laws are only a problem nowadays because women no longer have the knack of creating a happy family circle out of whatever material lies to hand. It’s the same with food,” he continued—rather at a tangent. “Women today can no longer assimilate ordinary basic foods like bread and potatoes. They can’t be healthy and slim unless they live on a special expensive diet of salads and proteins. In the same way they can no longer assimilate Grandpa and Grandma, and so elaborate and expensive arrangements have to be made for living apart. But some women still retain the old knack, and I suspect that Ellen may be one of them.”
Seven Lean Years Page 16
