The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “How kind of her.” Mrs. Curtis was gracious, appreciative. No more than one’s due, but thoughtful all the same.

  “I won’t go,” said Kate quickly. “I’d truly rather not.”

  “Do go, Kate, dear, why not? It’ll do you good.”

  “No, I don’t want to. Go on, Livia, rush. I’ll lend you my white. Tell her you’ll come, but not me.”

  Back she flew.

  “Kate is so sorry, Lady Spencer …”

  “I quite understand,” cut in the voice vigorously, with sympathetic approval. “I felt perhaps your mother wouldn’t quite like to spare you both. Well, dear, we shall expect you to-morrow then. Benson will be there at 7.30 … But of course, nonsense, I insist … And we shall all look forward so very much to seeing you. Good-bye, dear.”

  V

  Benson drew up beside the portico, hopped out and pulled the bell while she waited inside the car. Stiff, ageing as he was, his limbs still moved not at their own pace but as if under an old persisting mechanical compulsion to look sharp now, look alive, bustle up for orders at a moment’s notice. A lifetime of service, said his patient figure, standing on the steps, waiting: the last, no doubt, to wish to change his station; deploring each successive stage in the breakdown of the social scale; yet a man of intelligence, of dignity.

  The heavy doors were flung open, the lights of the hall blazed out, the footman faintly returned her faint smile, she stepped inside.

  “I’ll just leave my coat here.” Assume my image is still the one I saw in my bedroom glass: satisfactory enough. Another view might shake my equilibrium. She slipped off her mother’s fur coat into the footman’s hands, and gave a touch or two to the white dress. Floating, transparent and fragile, swathing itself lightly over breast, waist and thigh and sweeping backwards and out in a wide flaring line, it was a romantic, pretty, waltz-like frock. Inside it she felt drastically transformed, yet at home with it, able to suit it.

  “There you see,” Kate had said scoldingly. “In spite of you choosing to adopt the Bohemian consumptive style nowadays, the fact remains that this looks entirely apt on you, whereas on me it’s on the kittenish side.” She pulled in and tied the long flying airy bow in the back of the waist. “Look.” She marshalled her to the long glass.

  It was true. She looked a young girl, and a pretty one.

  “You’d better stick to it,” said Kate. “I fell for it in the sales, but I can’t wear this sort of thing any more.”

  “Oh, you can …”

  “And may it be a lesson to you,” said Kate.

  Olivia followed the young footman’s spruce, swinging, glittering back across the pillared spaces of the hall, down a corridor lined obscurely with supernumerary specimens of family portraiture—here a legal wig, red robes; there the dulled splendour of ancient regimentals; here a pink satin gown, a smirk, a rose, a long neck, a white hand and breast, there a towering Victorian group, exaggeratedly fertile-domestic-blissful. Now they were in the drawing-room. Empty. I’m too early.

  “Her ladyship will be down in a few moments.” He swung briskly away.

  She went and stood by the fire where the logs blazed and whispered rosily in the wide carved marble grate. She looked round. There it all was, not changed at all: the long elegantly proportioned prospect of white, of gold, of green brocade, the panels of glass, the screen, the Aubusson carpet, the subdued gleam of porcelain and crystal, the piano painted with light faint-coloured wreaths and sprays. Chrysanthemums, white, bronze, and rose-coloured, outsize, professional-looking, were massed in Chinese bowls, in vases and stands. The oval mirror above the mantelpiece gave her back a muted reflection; for the chandeliers were unlit and, except for the narrowly radiating wall-lights in triple-branched gold brackets, the only suffusion of light came from two tall porcelain reading-lamps by the fireplace … Yes, and the Gainsborough ancestress was lit, the Romney boy and girl.

  This was the scene—huge, flashing, stripped, a hall of ice in memory—of the children’s parties years ago; of that last dance for Marigold’s coming-out. After that, the parties had been in London: and we weren’t invited. She left the fire, crossed over and craned her neck at the Gainsborough. Feet make no noise on the passage carpet. The room might be filling up behind me …

  “Hallo!” A voice from the door.

  Rollo came towards her, alert and pleased-looking.

  “Hallo”

  He took her hand and held it, looking down at her with head held up, lids lowered, in a characteristic way. “This is a good idea.”

  “I’m awfully early, I’m afraid. Benson was so prompt.”

  “Benson is a very punctual man. Well, all the better.”

  “I’m glad you’re first. I’m so frightened.”

  “Nonsense. Mummy’s thrilled to see you again. So’s Marigold.”

  “So am I thrilled, but—Is there a party?”

  “Not my idea of a party” He laughed. “Not a lot of party spirit.”

  “But people?”

  “A few.”

  “God!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.” Their eyes met, smiling, acknowledging a secret united front. “Come by the fire,” he said. “Have a cigarette. Have a drink. Shall I make a cocktail?”

  He busied himself over a tray of bottles and decanters on the piano, and brought back two brimming glasses.

  “Goodness, what a size,” she said. “I shall be dreamy after this.”

  “Will you? But you’re always dreamy, aren’t you?”

  She looked at him, slightly startled.

  “Yes, I suppose I am. Is it so awfully noticeable?”

  “Only to a close observer.”

  “Oh …” She raised her eyebrows, glanced sidelong: an adaptation to his technique. “Well, when I’m really tight I get dreamier and dreamier. I do everything in slow motion. I lean and lean about and my words trail off and I smile and smile …”

  “It sounds rather attractive. Come on, drink up. Here’s luck!” He drained his glass and scrutinised her again, attentively. “You’re looking very well to-night. … I’m most awfully glad, you know, about your father.”

  “Yes, thank you so much. It’s grand.”

  “I told you it would be all right, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. I’m afraid I didn’t believe you.”

  “Ah, you see, you should. Poor dear, you did look so small-faced. I couldn’t make out what was bothering you. I didn’t like it.”

  “It was nice of you …”

  “I hate gloom, don’t you? For myself or any one else … It’s so uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, it is.” She laughed. “I can’t do with it at all.”

  “Yet some people enjoy it. It’s a fact. I know someone who does.” He made a rueful grimace and she said in mock surprise:

  “You don’t really, do you?”

  “Yes. My mother-in-law. You wouldn’t credit what a lugubrious woman she is. Give her a really large-scale disaster in the morning papers and she’s renewed like that bird. Not to speak of private croakings and prognostications of doom.”

  “I know the type.”

  “Do you? I suppose it’s fairly common.” He looked a little depressed.

  She said rapidly:

  “I had a mother-in-law. She was just the same.”

  “Ah! …” He hesitated. “You had. I have … Has yours passed away?”

  “Far from it. They never pass away. But—but we’re dead to one another, as you might say. At least I hope so. Worse than dead, I suppose I am to her. Though it’s what she always worked for.”

  He nodded, sighed dolefully.

  “My case is different,” he said. “We are far, far from dead to one another. We meet with outstanding frequency … in my house … I suppose we always, always shall …”

  “Can�
�t you make a stand?”

  He said after a moment of silence:

  “No, I can’t. I’m a weak selfish easy-going character, and all I want is a quiet life.” He glanced at her with a smile. “Don’t you?”

  “It’s not all I want …”

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked away, whistling softly between his teeth.

  “However,” he said, “let’s not dwell on unwholesome subjects. Have another drink.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need any more support. I feel fine now.”

  His eyes travelled intently over her and he smiled to himself. She looked up at him. Yes, all was well. For this evening some illusion was being breathed out, some reflection thrown back of a power as mystic, as capricious in its comings and goings as it was recognisable when it came. No need for anxiety now: it would carry her through. I shall enjoy myself.

  “Well, I need a good deal more support myself.” He strolled over to the piano and mixed himself another drink.

  “Who’d have thought it?”

  He looked handsome, fresher than ever in a plum-coloured velvet smoking jacket; and the prosperous aroma clung to him: cigars, expensive stuff on his hair, good soap, clean linen … a rich mixture.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t feel too unhealthy, and that’s a fact. Two days hoofing it in the open air—blown some of the cobwebs away. Shooting’s not among the more intellectual of my recreations, but it suits me quite well all the same.”

  “Do you think I might be sitting next to you at dinner?”

  “I do think so. I’ve reserved you.”

  “Oh, good!”

  She beamed on him whole-heartedly.

  “Olivia! It is!”

  Lady Spencer was in the doorway, was bearing down, full-rigged, confined in an ample severity of black, with diamonds, with heroic shoulders bare, with white, austerely sculptured cheeks and hair, with both hands outstretched. “My dear! This is delightful!” She kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “We all felt we had to see you—when Rollo told us of your meeting … Let me look at you … Yes, it’s our same Olivia. But thin! … Naughty girl.” She gave her a loving, scolding pat on the hip; then laid a hand on Rollo’s shoulder.

  “I am so glad to see you …” Olivia felt the tears prick under her lids … Absurd …

  “Dear …” Lady Spencer looked affectionately absent, musing. There was something … Ah, yes … “And your father is really on the mend? That does make me so happy … Do tell your dear mother … Jack!” she called: for Sir John himself had entered, had creaked down the room to join the group … and she was calling out to him in reassurance, to cover his entrance … because there was something wrong with it; because one couldn’t help watching, with faint uneasiness, his ponderous leaden-footed progress …

  “Hallo, Daddy!” said Rollo.

  “Hallo, m’boy …”

  “Jack, dear, you remember our friend Olivia?”

  “Who?”

  “Olivia Curtis, Marigold’s friend, you remember?”

  Lady Spencer addressed him with a careful encouraging firmness that spoke of habit, her eyes made blank, long ago refusing to consider impatience or acknowledge dismay.

  “Ah, yes, yes! How are you? Very glad to see you.”

  His hand was dry and stiff”.

  “Olivia’s come over from Little Compton to dine with us.”

  “Very friendly of her. Some good shooting round Little Compton. Nice spot … Know it well?”

  “You remember Mr. Curtis, Jack, Olivia’s father, at Little Compton … We used all to meet in the old days—more than we do now, I’m afraid.”

  “Curtis? Are you the daughter of my old friend Charlie Curtis?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Bless my soul! How is he? Haven’t seen him in years …” For a moment the look she remembered broke across the thick inflexible surface of his face—the mastiff look, kindly, amused, mildly titillated. “So you’re Charlie Curtis’s girl …”

  His mouth dropped open, he looked vaguely round the room. “Er …”

  “Where are the dogs, Daddy?”

  “Shut them in the library. They’re all right. Both got their baskets.” He smiled at Rollo, the expression of faint bewilderment smoothed out.

  “That reminds me, I must have left Lucy in my room. She’s probably cooking up a deadly grievance under the bed, waiting for me to kneel down and implore her to come out … Shan’t be a moment.”

  Laboriously his father’s gaze went after him, clung to him as he strode out of the room. Yes, Sir John was altered. He was so slow, so heavy, standing beside his wife, she seemed somehow to be supporting his dead weight. Both had aged; her hair was white, her face hollowed under the cheekbones, the delicate skin scored with innumerable fine papery lines, the Queen Mary curves had lost perhaps the ultimate edge of opulence; but she was erect, imposing as ever, and an ageless vitality flashed from the pale blue, enigmatic, clear-gazing jewel-like iris. But he had gone old irrevocably. Below his smooth forehead and thick brown young-man’s hair, the spark was extinct in the bloodshot eyes and the broken-veined dusky cheeks; and though his frame still carried him upright, broad and tall, it seemed embedded in some petrifying semi-solid material; as if too much of earth, too little of live flowing blood informed it.

  People were coming in now. Almost perceptibly the energy began to well up in Lady Spencer. She began to draw them all towards her, to relinquish them with care and set them in motion towards one another. For the millionth time in this drawing-room, by such a fire, effortlessly, she was designing the social process, and nothing should be left to chance: no one left out, no one obtruded.

  “My sister, Lady Clark-Matthew—Blanchie, I wonder if you remember our neighbour, Olivia Curtis, such an old friend of Marigold? … Do see to this hook for me, there’s a dear, Doris always misses it … My niece, Lady Mary Denham … Mary, dear, I looked out that address you asked me for—and the recipe: remind me to give it you … Mr. Denham: Harry, did you get a game of billiards? … Sir Ronald Clark-Matthew … Ronnie, have you pronounced yet on the Wilsons? Jack was going to ask your advice—weren’t you, Jack? … Mr. Bassett, Miss Curtis … Well, George? Did you have a nice nap? … Oh, yes, you did, my dear, it was quite audible. Never mind, we’re all apt to drop off now and then as we grow older … Henriette!”—stooping to shout in the ear of an apparition newly arrived upon the hearth, shapeless and formidable in a casing of lilac and silver brocade with trailing skirts, festooned like a Christmas tree with chains and bracelets, head wrapped in black lace shadowing a mad frizzle of frosty fringe and two dark star-pierced pits of eyes ringed with smudges of mascara … “Ma chère! Je voudrais te présenter une jeune amie …”

  “Qu’est ce qu’elle me dit-là!” … Toneless croak of interruption, addressed to nobody in particular.

  Once more, fòrtissimo:

  “Une bien chère amie, Olivia Curtis … Marigold’s dear godmother, Olivia, Madame de Varenne …” Sotto voce: “She’s rather deaf …”

  “D’où donc arrive-t-elle celle-là?”

  Again the remark hung on the air, in utter detachment, like a statement picked up on the wireless.

  “Now where’s that bad girl? Late as usual, I suppose …”

  “She was in her bath a few moments ago,” said the one who was to have the recipe. “I heard her singing. I just gave a tap on the door and called out the time, but I didn’t get any answer.”

  “I dare say not.” Rollo was back, followed self-consciously by Lucy, had come straight to stand beside Olivia, smiling at her, conspiratorial. “I dare say the singing got louder, didn’t it, Mary?”

  Mary gave him a pained, slight, patient smile, and turned away.

  Olivia bent to pat Lucy, who winced away, hostile and cringing.r />
  “She doesn’t like me.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “She hated me on sight in the train. Is she always like this with strangers?”

  “Not always—she has an unerring instinct,”

  “That sounds rather impolite.”

  He laughed.

  “I don’t think you quite follow me.” He gave the woolly body a soft push, saying: “She sets up to be my conscience, you see …”

  “Well, we won’t wait,” said Lady Spencer, turning from conversation with the tall, spare, rosy, white-moustached pronouncer-on-Wilsons, and putting a finger on the bell.

  Expectation sharpened perceptibly in the air. Ha! A good meal coming, another good dinner: one of hundreds before, hundreds to come—anywhere, any time they liked. Not one grain of doubt, ever, about the quality, quantity, time and place of their food and drink … In prime condition they all looked: no boils or blackheads here, no corns, callouses, chilblains or bunions. No struggle about underclothes and stockings. Birthright of leisure and privilege, of deputed washing, mending … Can they sniff out an alien upon this hearth? Or is it disguise enough, simply to be here, in an evening-dress?

  Marigold …? Where is Marigold?

  “Dinner is served,” pronounced an official voice.

  They started to file out, through the double doors, across a space of hall towards the dining-room: Olivia last, with Rollo.

  Someone was running down the spiralling, shallow staircase. Out of sight still; round and round; would be swept out on it into the hall in a moment, just behind us … A figure swayed round the last curve of the balustrade, and came arrowing down the last flight in one straight skim, ran silently to her side, caught her and clutched her hand at the dining-room door.

  “Marigold!”

  “Olivia!”

  She said rapidly, panting a little, barely glancing at her:

  “You haven’t changed a bit. Oh, I’m so glad … How’s Kate? I’ve changed, haven’t I? Hell, I did mean not to be late. Nannie would wuffle on, and make me change my stockings … Are you all right?”

  “Yes … Marigold.” They still held hands, tightly, half- inclined to laugh, to cry. She was so different. She was exactly the same. “You do look wonderful …” Her hair, her mouth, her neck and shoulders … and such a dress …