The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “What’s it going to be, dear?”

  “Oh, it’s just for a chair. I’m doing a set of eight for the dining-room.”

  “What a labour for you?”

  “I think it will be gay,” she said meekly, holding up the square with her dear little old-fashioned head on one side.

  Nothing you did or conceived of could ever be gay; and do your children know yet they hate you?

  “What’s your masterpiece, Blanche?” inquired Lady Spencer as her sister also opened a work-bag, a massive and handsome one of crimson damask, and drew from it a stout pair of wooden knitting pins, a ball of violet wool and a curious knitted oblong to match.

  “Oh, my dear, it’s just a garment. For my needlework guild. You know—everybody makes two and the things go to the Workhouse for Christmas. It’s a sort of bed-jacket, I think.” She looked at it in a brooding, doubtful way.

  “It’ll be nice and cheerful,” said Mary with gracious interest, conscious of superior powers. “What’s the stitch, Aunt Blanche?”

  “Oh, my dear, just plain. Purl’s too much for my feeble brain.”

  “You’ll never finish it, Blanche.”

  “Not a hope, my dear. Tucker’ll have to unpick it all, I expect, and knit it up again. Still … I thought I’d start it. Poor old dears, they do so appreciate it if they know one’s made the things oneself.”

  Olivia sat down on a low stool beside Aunt Blanche.

  “What a gorgeous bag,” she said. The look of it lying richly on that bursting lap made her feel weak, yielding and protected. Aunt Blanche looked down at her in a plethoric kindly way from under her full, fowl’s lid.

  “Rather jolly, isn’t it? I got it at that Blind place in London. Do you ever go there?”

  “Oh, yes, I know,” said Mary. “They do wonderful work. I always make a point of doing my Christmas shopping there. Only, of course, they’re so dreadfully expensive …”

  What’s the Blind place … What’s become of the blind man … Timmy his name was; and he and his wife kept hens, and he had a child called Elizabeth … Sharply she remembered him in this room, ten years ago: waltzing round and round with him to the Blue Danube­, his fingers quivering; … feeling him listen for Marigold hour after hour …

  “Do you do needlework, Olivia dear?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s as much as I can face to mend my stockings. Kate was always such a natural-born sewer, I felt defeated at the starting post and never bothered.”

  “Dear Kate, how is she? I always admired her so much. Has she still got that exquisite skin and hair?”

  “Yes, still very good.”

  “Olivia’s sister,” explained Lady Spencer, “had the most exquisite fair skin and hair.”

  “Kate’s exactly the same,” said Olivia. “Only of course quite different.”

  Mary uttered a deprecating tinkle.

  “Like all of us.” Lady Spencer smiled with a sigh. “And is she happy, dear Kate?”

  “Yes, I think she is. I think she’d say she was happy on the whole.”

  “She was always such a splendid capable girl.” The sensible sister … the one who’d avoid getting into trouble: so different from the younger one …” “And how many children is it?”

  “Four. Beautifully spaced out.”

  “Four! How delightful. The ideal number for a family. I hope they look like her?”

  “No, they don’t. They look like their Pa, but they’re quite nice. Three girls and a boy. The youngest a baby.”

  An extraordinary bleating sound, something between a gasp, a groan and a coo, came from Mary.

  “Oo-o-oh! How old?”

  “About eight months, I think. I can’t remember.”

  “Eight months! The lamb! How I do envy her. Every time I hear of any one with a tiny baby I feel quite green with envy. Oh dear! If only they’d stay wee and cuddly and never grow up. Personally I think up to a month old is the sweetest time of all … Oh dear, when I think of mine, the great long-legged things!—I can’t bear it.”

  “Can’t you really?” said Olivia. “I should have thought the only point about producing them was to encourage their growth. Or isn’t it like gardening?”

  Mary ran an eye over her … Ringless hands, flat hips and stomach …

  “I don’t think it’s quite the same,” she said with cold firm amused gentleness, making allowances. “Not for mothers anyway.”

  “Of course I’ve never had any,” said Olivia clearly, “so I can’t tell.”

  “I always found their companionship such a joy as they grew older,” said Lady Spencer, breaking in with tact. “But of course, one misses the babies too.”

  “Personally I always disliked babies,” said Aunt Blanche, struggling with a dropped stitch. “All the same, I do wish Archie would marry a nice girl and make a grandmother of me. I find I quite yearn to be a grandmother, Millicent. I suppose it’s old age.”

  “It’s very pleasant,” sighed Lady Spencer. “Marigold’s two are such darlings. Of course grandmothers have to know their place, and never give advice or interfere.”

  “You must find that a little difficult, dearest.”

  “Not as difficult as you’d find it, love.”

  “Are you the mother of Archie?” said Olivia, playing with the ball of wool. “I remember him. We used to dance together at the children’s parties.” She smiled up at Lady Spencer. “I remember teaching him the baby polka and he thought it was so funny. He simply stood still and cackled with laughter. I couldn’t think why. And once I said to him: ‘What lovely blue eyes you’ve got,’ and he said, ‘Oh, d’you think so? Yours are brown, aren’t they? I do prefer blue myself.’”

  Aunt Blanche shook to the depths with a chuckle. “The wretch!” She was delighted. “I hope you snubbed him.”

  “Not I. I was much too madly in love with him. I was a fearfully amorous child. But even at that, I think he must have been irresistible.”

  Mary gave a trifling laugh in the top of her nose: deploring the tone … I must always have been a nasty-minded girl.

  “He’s always been very good to his old Ma,” said Aunt Blanche. She gave Olivia an approving, it seemed almost a grateful look. She likes me anyway … Without a word said, it was all plain: Archie, far from satisfactory, on bad terms with his father, tapping secret supplies of money, of love, comfort and indulgence from his foolish mother …

  “He’s a dear boy,” said Lady Spencer, looking unusually abstracted.

  “Do you see much of him these days?” inquired Aunt Blanche, a touch of something in her voice,—embarrassment, apology …” He’s got so many friends, I really don’t know … He’s out so much …”

  “Oh, no, I haven’t seen him for years. He’d never remember me. We’re in quite different worlds now.”

  Lady Spencer broke in quickly:

  “What is it exactly you’re busy at nowadays, dear? Your mother did tell me—”

  “I work in London.” It seemed a futile effort to explain it all again; but she did so, briefly.

  “How interesting,” said Lady Spencer, approving the principle of labour. “It sounds delightful work.”

  “You must give me the address,” said Aunt Blanche. “Not for myself—God forbid!—But I do think Archie ought to be done. I haven’t got anything nice of him since Eton. Don’t you think Archie ought to be done, Millicent?”

  “What sort of prices do you run?” said Mary.

  “Absolutely top prices.”

  “Oh, really? What a pity! I mean I do think it’s rather a pity not to come down these days when everybody’s coming down—don’t you? I mean everybody’s so badly off— It sort of keeps people away, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, it does keep people away.” This is the personal touch in salesmanship—counts for so much: dine out in the best
houses, use your charm, and the rest’s child’s play.

  A dance orchestra flooded the room suddenly, noisily.

  “Gracious! Where can that come from on a Sunday?” said Mary.

  “Some low foreign station,” said Olivia.

  Silently, Marigold came back through the open doors from the ante-room, and stood in front of the fire, listening, nibbling her fingers—the same trick as Rollo.

  “What a jolly tune,” said Aunt Blanche.

  “Couldn’t you turn it down just a little, dear?” said Lady Spencer. “We can’t hear ourselves speak.”

  “No, no,” said Aunt Blanche. “It’s cheerful. Makes me want to dance.” She tapped her feet and swayed about from the hips in her arm-chair, humming loudly.

  “I haven’t danced for years,” sighed Mary. “Harry just won’t go out in the evenings. He’s getting such an old stick-in-the-mud. I tell him he’s just letting himself get middle-aged—and me too. We’ll soon be just a dull old stay-at-home couple, sitting over the fire.” She made a pretty, girlish moue. “And I do so love dancing.”

  “Why don’t you find a boy-friend and go on the tiles?” said Marigold.

  “Oh, Marigold!” Mary bridled and tinkled. “Aunt Millicent, isn’t she awful? What next?”

  Marigold dropped suddenly on her knees by Olivia’s stool and leaned a cheek against her shoulder.

  “What next? What next?” she murmured.

  After a moment she moved away lightly and knelt by the fire, staring into it. Something seemed to happen in the room. Beneath the incongruous assault of drum and saxophone it appeared frozen suddenly in a gleaming fixity. The group by the fire had a static quality, as if anaesthetised. The needles paused. The ladies leaned their heads upon their hands, stared in front of them.

  Only Lady Spencer stood up erect, majestic, upon the hearthrug: as if to stand thus were her sole purpose and function: as if the pose were an heroic assertion. Time drew a circle round the scene. It was now: it was a hundred, two hundred years ago …

  Nothing essential is changed yet …

  “What a lousy din,” said Marigold suddenly. She sprang up, seizing Olivia by the hand, and led her rapidly away through the doors into the ante-room.

  She switched off the wireless, flung herself on the sofa and pulled Olivia down beside her.

  In the ensuing vacuum of silence Aunt Blanche’s unrepressed voice rang out, clearly audible from the other end of the next room.

  “What an attractive gel, Millie. Where did you get her over from?”

  Olivia kicked her legs towards the door, kissed both hands with a flourish.

  “We can—hee-ee-ar you!” Marigold trumpeted through her fists in a loud ribald whisper. They giggled.

  A low murmur was going on from the inner sanctuary, inaudible now … Laying fingers to lips, raising eyebrows, nodding … Most unfortunate … Really? … Who was he? … And is sh … ? Dear, dear! … Pity …

  Discreet, guardedly regretful.

  Marigold sprang up again.

  “Oh, come on.”

  Olivia caught her up in the corridor among the dark bloodshot pictures.

  “Let them cackle their heads off,” said Marigold. “God, how I do hate women. That Mary needs a bomb under her—and I wish I could be the one to set it off … Olivia …” She stopped short and gave her a hug. “I’m extraordinarily glad … Why don’t I ever see you? Why haven’t you ever looked me up in London? You are a pig. I think of you so often—you and Kate. Oh dear! How we used to laugh! Didn’t we? Mm? D’you remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I suppose we laughed … Yes, we did … Only what I remember seems much more complicated: exciting, emotional—melancholy, somehow, on the whole …

  “Such fun …” She went on walking apparently at random down one passage and at right angles into another. “You must tell me all about you. My dear, I’ve got two children. Did you know? Can you imagine? I’ve done my duty, haven’t I? They’re rather sweet. Oh, and I remember you wrote me a divine letter when I had Iris, and I don’t believe I ever answered.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It didn’t need an answer.”

  “Oh, but I meant to! Only I’m so hopeless about letters. I don’t know what comes over me. I can’t. And there were so many,” she added vaguely.

  She opened a door at the far end of the passage: they were in a wing of the house Olivia had never penetrated before. She switched on a light and they went into a small, close uneasy-shaped room with red walls and dark red curtains and heavy Victorian furniture. Various antlers, foxes’ brushes, heads of animals were nailed about the walls; and in a case on the table was a stuffed otter, snarling on a rock among greenery, with bared teeth and scarlet tongue. Silver cups and other athletic trophies adorned the mantelshelf; and above them hung photographs of horses and fish, and sporting and school groups. A thick smell of polish and green baize pervaded the room.

  “Ugh! How murky.” Marigold wrinkled her nostrils. “Never mind. It’s sequestered anyway. They’ll never guess where we are. I must telephone.” She closed the door behind them, switched on a stark rail of electric fire in the grate, and looked about her. “My God! What a nightmare of a room. I never noticed before. Its name is the telephone room. It’s a secret extension known only to the family and you, and everybody comes here to put their secret calls through. The footman mostly, I should think, judging by the smell.” She took up the receiver from an old-fashioned instrument screwed to the wall behind the door, and gave a London number. “Sit down, Livia. Make yourself at home. I promised to ring up Sam. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Shan’t I go away?”

  “No, of course not. It isn’t private … Beside I want to talk to you.” She leaned against the wall, holding the receiver in a vague half-hearted way. “Livia … It was fun Rollo running into you like that. He was so thrilled. Isn’t he a darling? … I do love him …” She stiffened suddenly and said: “Hallo! … Oh, Lang? … It’s me … Tell his lordship, will you, please? … Not there? … Oh. … Wasn’t he expected? I thought he said he’d be dining to-night … I see … Yes, p’raps he did … No, no message. At least … No, never mind. Good-bye, Lang.”

  She hung up with a crash and stood gnawing at her fingers, her eyes very narrow beneath the fringe. “His lordship telephoned at seven o’clock to say he’d been unavoidably detained in the country,” she quoted. “Just—as—I—thought. Damn his eyes. The fur will be in the fire … Well, he can stew.” Her eyes darted, looking at nothing.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing really … Only he’d arranged to dine in London to-night with his aged parents. It was all fixed up. He was going to do the clean breast and ask for some money. We’re so in debt. And they’re so touchy, they’ll be furious and bitterly wounded and everything, I suppose. Bang goes our last hope. He never does what he says he will. Never. I’ve never known him to.” She laughed. “Oh, well … What the hell? … It doesn’t make much odds. We’ve been bust for years, but we seem to go on in comparative afflatus, not to say luxury, like everybody else … Sam’s fantastic about money. You wouldn’t believe. And I’m not awfully economical either … What’s to be done? … I wonder if Mr. Ponds would like to put me in his harem … What, jib at a couple of double gins?—not Lady Britton … Shall I offer myself for five hundred?” She began to walk up and down, fingering and shifting objects. “You know, I wouldn’t a bit mind being poor. I truly wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t. It’s one of the few things I’m certain of … though everybody laughs if I say it. I mean—if I was in love with a person—and we wanted perhaps to go off together—I wouldn’t mind one scrap if he hadn’t a bean—it would never occur to me to be refrained by that. Heaps of women I know, quite nice ones, simply say, ‘No money, no go, my boy’—and that’s that. But personally I’d be glad … yes … I’m almost sure I’d prefe
r it. It’ud make one feel one was doing something real … wouldn’t it? I often think about living in a little house and doing the cooking and saving up for treats and—”

  “Oh, Marigold! What a day-dream!”

  “Why?” She reflected, seeming to be taken aback. “Are you poor, Olivia?”

  “Pretty poor.”

  “I know, someone told me.” Her eyes flew over Olivia from top to toe; and the latter said, smiling:

  “Don’t I look it?”

  “No, you look marvellous. But then you always did, you and Kate. It’s your figures, I suppose.”

  “It isn’t amusing to be poor, darling. You wouldn’t like it, honestly. Unless you mean something different from what I mean. I expect you do …” Well on the safe side of the line, with somebody to fall back on and a guaranteed overdraft …

  “I don’t know what I mean. Never do. I suppose I’m talking through my cocked hat, as usual. But I just feel anything would be better than this frittering futile … I’d like to have to work—have my day filled up from start to finish and come home too weary not to be peaceful.” She leaned against the mantelpiece, brooding. “Tell me, Livia, do you ever feel as if you weren’t real?”

  “Often.”

  “Oh, do you? I shouldn’t have thought you would. It’s a beastly feeling. Everybody has a solid real life except oneself. One’s a sort of fraud … empty.” She spoke the last word with a slow lingering emphasis. “I thought having babies would cure me: it’s one of the few things you can’t pretend about all the way through. However prettily and unsickly you start, you’re jolly well for it in the end. But I don’t know … It turned out to be another sort of dream. They gave me so much dope I sailed through the worst of it as if it wasn’t me. And there I was again: the young mother. Touching. Money for jam for the photographers.” She laughed suddenly.

  “I’d love to see your children.”

  “Oh, yes, you must! They’re divine.” Her voice was vague. After a moment she went on, differently: “I adore them, of course, but I must admit I’m simply amazed every time I see them, wondering where on earth they came from and why they’ve taken up their abode in the house. And then … Bennie’s so frightfully naughty and unbridled—absolutely a gangster. When I see him in one of his moods I think to myself—look what you’ve done … and I simply long to abolish him. It seems the only way out.”