Fruit on the Bough: A heartfelt family saga about a brother and sister

by Ursula Bloom

  ‘I don’t like the band shut in like that, do you?’

  ‘No, I like to see them.’

  ‘Aren’t the programme girls superior? They quite frighten me,’ from Ethel.

  ‘They don’t frighten me.’

  ‘You’re splendid,’ she said, trying to drag the conversation back to where the Jewish gentleman had interrupted it.

  ‘I’m ordinary.’

  ‘You’re ‒’ and then up went the curtain.

  Twit decided that The Green Hat was the last play to which he ought to have brought Ethel. It grew more intimate, but she liked it. Ethel came from starved surroundings and she longed for passion. She liked emotional crises. She liked seeing love, even that sort of love, because it excited her. She tried to picture what she might have been had she had the face of a Tallulah Bankhead and the experience of an Iris Storm. She longed for a certain sinister sex appeal, for all those things of which she had been cheated and of which life continued to cheat her. She enjoyed The Green Hat thoroughly, though the presence of Twit made her rather nervous at times.

  The tea arrived at four-fifteen. It was impossible for Ethel to balance the ridiculous little tray on her lap, owing to the presence of the new blue hat, so Twit took possession of it. It was a most miniature affair, and he wondered how much they would have the audacity to charge for it. Three mere slips of bread and butter, two miserable fingers of Madeira cake, and a chocolate biscuit. He supposed he would have to fight Ethel for that. Plenty of paper napkin and thin china, but not even two chocolate biscuits. Savagely he poured out a weak stream from the doll’s tea-pot.

  ‘It’s a rotten tea,’ he apologised.

  ‘I never eat much for tea,’ she said, which was not strictly true. Father liked a high tea with a good staple dish, sardines, or pork pie, or soused mackerel.

  ‘You certainly won’t get it here.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She ate a thin slice of bread and butter, and drank a drop of the tea which came from China, and which she hated. But Ethel had the idea that Twit was above her in position and that China tea was the hall-mark of a certain society, and therefore she would have valiantly protested that she liked it immensely, and always had it at home.

  The Jewish gentleman, forgetting the largeness of his size and the smallness of the seat, wheeled round sharply and jolted against Twit’s knee. It sent the contents of the ridiculous little tray into Ethel’s lap. It all happened in an instant. The doll’s tea-pot had upset itself on the new blue hat and the chocolate biscuit soaked itself into a wet meringue beside it. Ethel gave a scream. It was not that the tea was scalding, but that it was such a dreadful thing to happen. It was so conspicuous.

  ‘I’m most frightfully sorry, sir,’ said the Jewish-looking gentleman, and he tried to mop up the mess with a silk handkerchief of vivid and vulgar colouring.

  ‘Her new hat!’ gasped Twit. ‘We bought it on the way here. Now look at it!’

  ‘I’m most frightfully sorry.’

  ‘You did not look what you were doing.’

  ‘I again repeat ‒’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ Twit was white with rage, his eyes had gone dark as sloes against the chalk of his face. He stared at the Jewish gentleman savagely. He should pay, said Twit to himself, by Jove he should! Damned careless. Nothing but damned carelessness.

  ‘What can I do about it? The damage is done.’

  ‘She paid four guineas for that hat as we came along and it is ruined.’

  ‘I tell you I am most frightfully sorry.’

  ‘You’ll have to be something more than sorry,’ growled Twit. He had caught a glimpse of Ethel, brushing the hat with a tea-stained handkerchief. Ethel, with a piece of bread and butter entangled in her skirt, her eyes suspiciously moist and her nose mottling. ‘You’ll have to pay for the hat,’ said Twit.

  He and the Jewish-looking gentleman sat there staring into each other’s eyes, while the programme girl collected the remains of the tea, and Ethel, acting on her advice, went off to the cloak-room for a sponge down. ‘You understand?’ asked Twit.

  ‘It was a pure accident.’

  ‘Yes, but it has ruined her hat, mucked up our tea, and spoilt the afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  Twit put out his hand. ‘Four guineas,’ he demanded.

  ‘That hat will sponge.’

  Twit withered him with a look. Long and close intimacy with Jill had luckily given him an inside knowledge into these matters. ‘Plush won’t sponge. Water ruins it. Four guineas. Fair is fair.’

  With some protest the gentleman produced four notes, a florin and four sixpences. ‘Damn the hat,’ said the gentleman; ‘you both of you ought to be in the upper circle. That’s the place for people like you.’

  ‘You ought to be in a box,’ retorted Twit, ‘it’s the only place for men your size.’

  He was enjoying himself now. It was all power, a petty power perhaps, but power all the same. It vibrated through him, rushing into his veins like a great undammed stream. He felt that he was capable of any conquest. He was strong again. He was powerful. He felt it going to his head like hot red wine. It intoxicated him. When Ethel came back he squeezed the money into her hand.

  ‘I made him pay for the hat.’

  ‘But, Tristram, it isn’t quite spoilt. The girl sponged it. She was so clever.’

  ‘Here’s the money, anyway.’

  ‘How clever of you, how very, very clever!’

  ‘I couldn’t have you crying,’ he said gallantly.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘It upset you, poor dear.’

  Again she felt the faint stabbing of tears pricking behind her eyes, and she turned to him. ‘How lovely you are!’

  ‘Do say that again?’

  But she couldn’t. She blushed and realised that perhaps she had said too much. She felt hot rivers of colour flowing to her face and throat. There was the thrill within her, pulsing in her being, the complete knowledge that now she did love him. She knew she loved him. They would have to be married. She felt also the first faint thrust of a chilly fear that, after all, perhaps he was playing with her. But she need not have troubled herself. As the curtain fell he was racking his brain to think how he could get a moment alone with her. You cannot be alone in London. It is a seething mob of curious eyes and faces. He wanted to pursue the point now that he had gone as far as he had gone. This was the moment, the glad radiant moment when he could perhaps clinch his romance. He wanted to kiss her.

  ‘Oh!’ she said disappointedly, as the play came to an end.

  ‘We must go to the station.’

  ‘It’s been so lovely,’ she explained, ‘I’m sorry it is all over.’

  ‘It isn’t over yet.’

  A taxi! That was the thing. The idea came to him suddenly. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He had three shillings in his pocket and his third-class return ticket. If the fare was over two-and-nine he could not tip the man. Still, the man had a good profit without a tip, and, if he became abusive, Twit would just walk away and pretend that it had nothing to do with him. The man could not leave his taxi, which was something to be thankful for. Outside the theatre he took possession of her arm. His touch thrilled her. He had fired all her senses and she was confident that she loved him.

  ‘We’re going to have a taxi.’

  ‘But isn’t that extravagant?’

  ‘Bother the extravagance!’

  ‘You dear thing!’ she exclaimed, and squeezed his hand impulsively. Then she became reticent again. She blushed to think that she could have gone so far, hesitated, and was a little confused.

  In the taxi he kissed her.

  It was an embarrassing moment when they rolled past the ‘Old Vic.’ with the meter standing at two-and-nine. There was the long climb with the hairpin bend into the station itself. It clicked over halfway up the curve, just as he kissed Ethel for the third time. ‘Saved by a short head,’ he told himself, and he did not all
ude to the kissing. He let Ethel get out first, hoping that she would walk towards the booking-office. But he did not know Ethel. She stood there, patient and firm, reminding him of some of the army mules that had infuriated him in India in the war. Placid but obstinate, and devils when roused. Perhaps she’d be a devil when roused. He wasn’t sure and this was not the moment to think about it. He paid the man, turned swiftly on his heel, grasping the bag with the plum-coloured hat in it in one hand, and Ethel’s arm in the other.

  ‘We’re late!’ he gasped.

  They disappeared into the booking hall, ignoring the remarks of the taxi-man without who was slow in counting over the money.

  ‘We aren’t late,’ said Ethel.

  ‘My watch must be fast.’

  ‘I say!’ She eyed him furtively, a little dubious, with the hubbub of Waterloo Station eddying round them and the racket disturbing her senses. She said shyly, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘It won’t make you angry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you’re quite sure,’ she hesitated for him to protest, but as he did not say anything she went on even more doubtfully, ‘what about going down in comfort? The train is sure to be crowded. Let’s change the tickets to firsts?’

  In truth, Ethel had liked the kisses in the taxi and she wanted more. Ethel was now determined to go to the devil whole-heartedly. She believed she had captivated Twit, and that, given the opportunity, she could hold him by her sheer womanly charms. She had no chance at home with her father always present, and the office was so unsafe with Arthur Simpson for ever popping in and out. She had no idea that the suggestion had horrified Twit for the simple reason that he had not one penny left. He smiled, a ghastly attempt at a smile.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t a bean. The taxi cleared me out.’

  ‘I have! After all, you got the four guineas out of that fat man who upset the tea over me. You have a right to it.’

  ‘But ‒’

  Though, of course, he meant her to pay. And why shouldn’t she? She’d got plenty of money and it was only fair. She marched to the booking-office, bright-eyed, flushed, full of the spirit of this gay adventure. Behind her trotted Twit, still clasping the bag with the plum-coloured hat in it and trying to make a good show of half-hearted protestations. Ethel effected the exchange. She led the way to the platform. They settled themselves in a first-class carriage side by side, sinking back into the deep comfortable seats with a sigh of relief. The moment the train started, thought Twit, then he would make a fuss of Ethel. She was looking like some eager bird expecting something delightful to happen, for she knew what would take place. The cold corners of her heart were warmed. Her starved mentality poured itself out to Twit. This was love, real love, come to her on rushing wings, and she was carried away by it. It would be quite dreadful if somebody else got in, but they wouldn’t. Ethel believed that nobody save dukes travelled first class, and then only because they were dukes. The guard waved a flag, and somewhere from the duskiness of Waterloo Station a whistle shrilled the signal to depart.

  ‘Oh,’ they said together.

  Then they both knew that they had been waiting for this, hanging on to the thrill of this most exquisite moment, tense with apprehension, sick for the signal. But they had said ‘Oh’ too soon. A flying figure galloped up to the door, running beside the train already in motion. A ruthless fist wrenched the handle round, a bright young gentleman flung a suitcase to their feet and sprang in after it. Ethel’s eyes met those of Twit and they were full of a deep and passionate disappointment.

  They had said ‘Oh’ too soon.

  III

  One afternoon, when Jill was busy with the dressmaker, Jock had a long talk with Twit. He was leaving for Ceylon a fortnight after his marriage and he wanted Twit to make him a promise. This was to be a fleeting visit abroad, unexpected circumstances had interrupted his normal leave period, but at the end of six months he would be back again to finish his time. He wanted Twit to promise that he would not leave Jill during those six months.

  ‘She tells me,’ he explained, ‘that sometimes you two get wrong. She says that it is her fault because she is irritable, and she is always afraid that you may walk out and leave her.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Jill has done a lot for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve been a splendid companion to her.’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘I hate being in the interfering team, but you would not leave her, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re all she has got.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled.’ Jock drew out a cigarette-case and tapped a cigarette against it. He did not understand Twit, who, he believed, disliked him. You could not get far with him, he was close shut, he resisted attempts at friendship, and worried Jock, who was a splendid comrade and did not understand unfriendliness. He added, ‘It’s a great relief to me, and I hated bothering you.’

  ‘It wasn’t any bother.’

  They sat there dully eyeing one another. Jock wondered what Twit was thinking about. He was really a most difficult chap, and you did not know how to approach him. Twit was feeling guilty. If he were to marry Ethel, he could not keep his promise. He had made up his mind to marry her, being possessed of the idea that here lay the chance to cut himself free. He would receive the partnership. He had to promise Jock that he would stay with Jill, because it was impossible to explain all the ins and outs without involving Ethel. Then Jill would get to know about it, and after that Twit’s weakness would paralyse him. It would fizzle out. He did not explain anything at all. Jill asked Ethel to tea in return for her dinner invitation.

  ‘It’s one of those painful necessities,’ she explained; ‘try and be nice to her, Jock. I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard things. Heavens, what I’ve heard!’

  For had not Dora told her, and Grenville, too, and Olive once, and Nigel, who seldom had an ill word to say for anyone, but was care-free and sailorish and happy-go-lucky. ‘That Ethel,’ Nigel had told her, ‘a hard-boiled virgin, if you like. Oh, my God! What some man has been saved!’

  ‘They say she’s after our darling Twit,’ added Jill.

  ‘She’s not,’ declared Twit.

  ‘Rumour hath it, my lamb.’

  ‘But it isn’t true.’

  ‘Very well.’ She laughed it off. ‘Now we’ve all got to be very smug and refeened. Don’t forget! None of your first vulgarity team, Jock.’

  ‘I’ll be Grandmamma’s little angel.’

  ‘And Twit will put on a clean collar and be a perfect little gentleman.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my collar,’ said Twit.

  ‘There’s everything wrong with it.’

  ‘Now, you two,’ from Jock, ‘I’ll arbitrate. If she is your young woman, Twit, you ought to shine like a star for her …’

  Twit went to change.

  It was a difficult tea party, because he was the whole time afraid that Ethel might admit the London trip, and he had not dared to warn her against it. He had not reckoned on a woman’s natural sagacity. Ethel had sensed the necessity for secrecy in regard to London. She also realised at once that Jill did not care about her. Jill, as Lady Shane, interested Ethel, but as she was soon to be Mrs. Cave ‒ a very ordinary person indeed ‒ Ethel’s interest flagged.

  Ethel wore the new blue hat, still bearing traces of the tea, and she wore it with her new brown coat. Ethel had no flair for clothes. She had not grasped the unfriendliness of blue towards brown. Blue is for ever familied with the grey tones, but she flew in the face of such conventions. She wore her new stockings and her best brogue shoes. Because Twit had said she should be futurist and unafraid of colour, she stuck a gay little orange and pink buttonhole in her coat. It was formed of woollen pom-poms and she had made it herself. She ate hardly anything, because she believed this to be good form. She was
unnatural to a degree, and only too thankful when the painful ordeal was over. She took stock of Jill, and decided that she was fast. Ethel thought that it might be the way she did her hair, and that rather dazzling skin with the scarlet arrow of a mouth. In Ethel’s opinion, Jock was in for trouble, and it seemed a pity, because he was nice and quiet and deserved something better. Jock was a big lumbering fellow and he reminded Ethel a little of a spaniel. She decided that title or no title, there was no doubt about it that Twit was the pick of that bunch. He had obviously never had a chance. It was plain enough to see that her parents had spoilt Jill, showering things on her, and that she had had every opportunity, whilst poor gauche, misunderstood Twit had been shelved. Never mind, she would make up everything to him.

  She misunderstood the occupants of that house and she understood the house itself no better. Ethel felt that it wasn’t a nice house, it wasn’t heavy and prosperous like ‘The Fernery.’ Blue china and brass, and never a single bronze. Only the queerest old clock with one hand. The curtains, too, of flimsy silk stuff, so that everybody could look in on you, which was horrid. No Venetian blinds, no wrappings of plush, nothing to which you could look up and say, ‘Now that looks good! Heavy, but good.’ Ethel did not like the house at all.

  After she had gone and the strain was eased, Jill sank back on the leather sofa and fanned herself with a magazine.

  ‘Whew! Twit, where did you pick it up?’

  ‘She was shy.’

  ‘She was awful,’ said Jock brutally.

  ‘Darling, if I had to meet that often, I’d wilt,’ said Jill. ‘And what a hat! Where do you suppose she bought it?’

  Savagely Twit did not suppose.

  ‘All stained too. Perhaps she drinks her tea out of it. Very odd, isn’t it?’