She arrived at Old John’s Place in a state of exaltation; and was greeted perfunctorily by Mrs Lacey, who then seemed to remind herself of something, for Kate once more found herself enveloped. Then, since the rooms were still scattered with packing-cases, she was asked to help arrange furniture and clear things up. By the end of that day her resentment was again temporarily pushed to the background by the necessity for keeping her standards sharp in her mind; for the Laceys, she knew, were to be resisted; and yet she was being carried away with admiration.
Mrs Sinclair might have brought something intangible here that to her was valuable, and she was right to have been afraid that Mrs Lacey would destroy it. The place was transformed. Mrs Lacey had colour-washed the walls sunny yellow, pale green, and rose, and added more light by the sort of curtains and hangings that Kate knew her own mother would consider frivolous. Such rooms were new in this district. As for Mrs Lacey’s bedroom, it was outrageous. One wall had been ripped away, and it was now a sheet of glass; and across it had been arranged fifty yards of light transparent material that looked like crystallized sunlight. The floor was covered right over from wall to wall with a deep white carpet. The bed, standing out into the room in a way that drew immediate notice, was folded and looped into oyster-coloured satin. It was a room which had nothing to do with the district, nothing to do with the drifts of orange dust outside and the blinding sunlight, nothing to do with anything Kate had ever experienced. Standing just outside the door (for she was afraid she might leave orange-coloured footprints on that fabulous carpet) she stood and stared, and was unable to tear her eyes away even though she knew Mrs Lacey’s narrowed grey gaze was fixed on her. ‘Pretty?’ she asked lightly, at last; and Kate knew she was being used as a test for what the neighbours might later say. ‘It’s lovely,’ said Kate doubtfully; and saw Mrs Lacey smile. ‘You’ll never keep it clean,’ she added, as her mother would certainly do, when she saw this room. ‘It will be difficult, but it’s worth it,’ said Mrs Lacey, dismissing the objection far too lightly, as Kate could see when she looked obliquely along the walls, for already there were films of dust in the grain of the plaster. But all through that day Kate felt as if she were continually being brought face to face with something new, used, and dismissed: she had never been so used; she had never been so ravaged by love, criticism, admiration and doubt.
Using herself (as Mrs Lacey was doing) as a test for other people’s reactions, Kate could already hear the sour criticisms which would eventually defeat the Laceys. When she saw the nursery, however, she felt differently. This was something that the women of the district would appreciate. There were, in fact, three rooms for the baby, all conveying a sense of discipline and hygiene, with white enamel, thick cork floors and walls stencilled all over with washable coloured animals. The baby himself, at the crawling stage, was still unable to appreciate his surroundings. His nanny, a very clean, white-aproned native girl, sat several paces away and watched him. Mrs Lacey explained that this nanny had orders not to touch the baby; she was acting as a guard; it was against the principles which were bringing the child up that the germs (which certainly infested every native, washed or not) should come anywhere near him.
Kate’s admiration grew; the babies she had known were carried about by piccanins or by the cook’s wife. They did not have rooms to themselves, but cots set immediately by their mothers’ beds. From time to time they were weighed on the kitchen scales, for feeding charts and baby scales had been encountered only in the pages of women’s magazines that arrived on mail days from England.
When she went home that evening she told her mother first about the nurseries, and then about the bedroom: as she expected, the first fact slightly outweighed the second. ‘She must be a good mother,’ said Mrs Cope, adding immediately: ‘I should like to know how she’s going to keep the dust out of that carpet.’ Mr Cope said: ‘Well, I’m glad they’ve got money, because they are certainly going to need it.’ These comments acted as temporary breakwaters to the flood that would later sweep through such very modified criticism.
For a while people discussed nothing but the Laceys. The horses were accepted with a shrug and the remark: ‘Well, if they’ve money to burn …’ Besides, that farm had never been properly used; this was merely a perpetuation of an existing fact. The word found for Mrs Lacey was that she was ‘clever’. This was not often a compliment; in any case it was a tentative one. Mrs Lacey made her own clothes, but not in the way the other women made theirs. She cut out patterns from brown paper by some kind of an instinct; she made the desserts and salads from all kinds of unfamiliar substances; she grew vegetables profusely, and was generous with them. People were always finding a native at the back door, with a basket full of fresh things and Mrs Lacey’s compliments. In fact, the women were going to Old John’s House these days as they might have gone to raid a treasure cave; for they always returned with some fresh delight: mail order catalogues from America, new recipes, patterns for nightdresses. Mrs Lacey’s nightdresses were discussed in corners at parties by the women, while the men called out across the room: ‘What’s that, eh? Let us in on the fun.’ For a while it remained a female secret, for it was not so often that something new offered itself as spice to these people who knew each other far, far too well. At last, and it was at the Copes’ house, one of the women stood up and demonstrated how Mrs Lacey’s nightdresses were cut, while everyone applauded. For the first time Kate could feel a stirring, a quickening in the air; she could almost see it as a man slyly licking his lips. This was the first time, too, that Mr Cope openly disapproved of anything. He might be laughed at, but he was also a collective conscience; for when he said irritably: ‘But it is so unnecessary, so unnecessary, this kind of thing …’ everyone became quiet, and talked of something else. He always used that word when he did not want to condemn, but when he was violently uncomfortable. Kate remembered afterwards how the others looked over at him while they talked: their faces showed no surprise at his attitude, but also, for the moment, no agreement; it was as if a child looked at a parent to see how far it might go before forfeiting approval, for there was a lot of fun to be had out of the Laceys yet.
Mrs Lacey did not give her housewarming party until the place was finished, and that took several weeks. She did all the work herself. Kate, who was unable to keep away, helped her, and saw that Mrs Lacey was pleased to have her help. Mr Lacey was not interested in the beautiful house his wife was making; or, at any rate, he did not show it. Provided he was left enough room for books on horses, equipment for horses, and collections of sombreros, belts and saddles, he did not mind what she did. He once remarked: ‘Well, it’s your money, if you want to pour it down the sink.’ Kate thought this sounded as if he wished to stop her; but Mrs Lacey merely returned, sharply: ‘Quite. Don’t let’s go into that again, now.’ And she looked meaningly at Kate. Several times she said: ‘At last I can feel that I have a home. No one can understand what that is like.’ At these moments Kate felt warm and friendly with her, for Mrs Lacey was confiding in her; although she was unable to see Old John’s Place as anything but a kind of resthouse. Even the spirit of Mrs Sinclair was still strong in it, after all; for Kate summoned her, often, to find out what she would think of all this. She could positively see Mrs Sinclair standing there looking on, an ironical, pitying ghost. Kate was certain of the pity; because she herself could now hardly bear to look at Mrs Lacey’s face when Mr Lacey and Mr Hackett came in to meals, and did not so much as glance at the work that had been done since they left. They would say: ‘I heard there was a good thing down in Natal,’ or ‘that letter from old Perry, in California, made me think …’ and they were so clearly making preparations for when the restless thing in them that had already driven them from continent to continent spoke again, that she wondered how Mrs Lacey could go on sewing curtains and ordering paints from town. Besides, Mrs Sinclair had known when she was defeated: she had chosen, herself, to leave. Turning the words over on her tongue that she had heard M
rs Sinclair use, she found the right ones for Mrs Lacey. But in the meantime, for the rest of the district, she was still ‘clever’; and everyone looked forward to that party.
The Copes arrived late. As they climbed out of the car and moved to the door, they looked for the familiar groups on the veranda, but there was no one there, although laughter came from inside. Soon they saw that the veranda had been cleared of furniture, and the floor had been highly polished. There was no light, save for what fell through the windows; but this gave an appearance, not so much of darkness, but of hushed preparedness. There were tubs of plants set round the walls, forming wells of shadow, and chairs had been set in couples, discreetly, behind pillars and in corners.
Inside the room that opened from the veranda, there were men, but no women. Kate left her parents to assimilate themselves into the group (Mrs Cope protesting playfully that she was the only woman, and felt shy) and passed through the house to the nurseries. The women were putting the children to bed, under the direction of Mrs Lacey. The three rooms were arranged with camp-beds and stretchers, so that they looked like improvised dormitories, and the children were subdued and impressed, for they were not used to such organization. What Mrs Lacey represented, too, subdued them, as it was temporarily subduing their mothers.
Mrs Lacey was in white lace, and very pretty; but not only was she in evening dress and clearly put out because the other women were in their usual best dresses of an indeterminate floral crepiness that was positively a uniform for such occasions, there was that contrast, stronger now than ever, between what she seemed to want to appear, and what everyone felt of her. Those heavy down-looping, demure coils of hair, the discreet eyelids, the light white dress with childish puffed sleeves, were a challenge, but a challenge that was being held in reserve, for it was not directed at the women.
They were talking with the hurried forced laughter of nervousness. ‘You have got yourself up, Rosalind,’ said one of them; and this released a chorus of admiring remarks. What was behind the admiration showed itself when Mrs Lacey left the nurseries for a moment to call the native nanny. The same sycophantic lady said tentatively, as if throwing a bird into the air to be shot at: ‘It is a sort of madonna look, isn’t it? That oval face and smooth hair, I mean …’ After a short silence someone said pointedly: ‘Some madonna,’ and then there was laughter, of a kind that sickened Kate, torn as she was between passionate partisanship and the knowledge that here was a lost cause.
Mrs Lacey returned with the native girl; and her brief glance at the women was brave; Kate could have sworn she had heard the laughter and the remark that prompted it. It was with an air of womanly dignity that fitted perfectly with her dress and appearance that she said: ‘Now we have got the children into bed, we’ll leave the girl to watch them and feel safe.’ But this was not how she had said previously: ‘Let’s get them out of the way, and then we can enjoy ourselves.’ The women, however, filed obediently out, ignoring the small protests of the children, who were not at all sleepy, since it was before their proper bedtime.
In the big room Mrs Lacey arranged her guests in what was clearly a planned compromise between the family pattern and the thing she intended should grow out of it. Husbands and wives were put together, yes; but in such a way that they had only to turn their heads to find other partners. Kate was astonished that Mrs Lacey could have learned so much about these people in such a short time. The slightest suggestion of an attraction, which had merited no more than a smile or a glance, was acknowledged frankly by Mrs Lacey in the way she placed her guests. For instance, while the Wheatleys were sitting together, Nan Fowler was beside Andrew Wheatley, and an elderly farmer, who had flirted mildly with Mrs Wheatley on a former occasion, was beside her. Mrs Lacey sat herself by Mr Fowler, and cried gaily: ‘Now I shall console you, my dear – no, I shall be jealous if you take any notice of your wife tonight.’ For a moment there was a laughing, but uneasy pause, and then Mr Lacey came forward with bottles, and Kate saw that everything was working as Mrs Lacey had intended. In half an hour she saw she must leave, if she wanted to avoid that uncomfortable conviction of being a nuisance. By now Mrs Lacey was beside Mr Lacey at the sideboard, helping him with the drinks; there was no help here – she had been forgotten by her hostess.
Kate slipped away to the kitchens. Here were tables laden with chickens and trifles, certainly; but everything was a little dressed up; this was the district’s party food elaborated to a stage where it could be admired and envied without causing suspicion.
Kate had had no time to do more than look for signs of the fatal aspics, sauces and creams when Mrs Lacey entered. Kate had to peer twice to make sure it was Mr Hackett and not Mr Lacey who came with her: the two men seemed to her so very alike. Mrs Lacey asked gaily: ‘Having a good tuck-in?’ and then the two passed through into the pantries. Here there was a good deal of laughter. Once Kate heard: ‘Oh, do be careful …’ and then Mrs Lacey looked cautiously into the kitchen. Seeing Kate she assumed a good-natured smile and said, ‘You’ll burst,’ and then withdrew her head. Kate had eaten nothing; but she did what seemed to be expected of her, and left the kitchen, wondering just what this thing was that sprang up suddenly between men and women – no, not what it was, but what prompted it. The word love, which had already stretched itself to include so many feelings, atmospheres and occasions, had become elastic enough for Kate not to astonish her. It included, for instance, Mr Lacey and Mrs Lacey helping each other to pour drinks, with an unmistakable good feeling; and Mrs Lacey flirting with Mr Hackett in the pantry while they pretended to be looking for something. To look at Mrs Lacey this evening – that was no problem, for the bright expectancy of love was around her like sunlight. But why Mr Hackett, or Mr Lacey; or why either of them? And then Nan Fowler, that fat, foolish, capable dame who flushed scarlet at a word: what drew Andrew Wheatley to her, of all women, through years of parties, and kept him there?
Kate drifted across the intervening rooms to the door of the big living-room, feeling as if someone had said to her: ‘Yes, this house is yours, go in,’ but had forgotten to give her the key, or even to tell her where the door was. And when she reached the room she stopped again; through the hazing cigarette smoke, the hubbub, the leaning, laughing faces, the hands lying along chair-arms, grasping glasses, she could see her parents sitting side by side, and knew at once, from their faces, that they wanted only to go home, and that if she entered now, putting her to bed would be made an excuse for going. She went back to the nurseries; as she passed the kitchen door she saw Mr Hackett, Mr Lacey and Mrs Lacey, arms linked from waist to waist, dancing along between the heaped tables and singing: All I want is a little bit of love, a little bit of love, a little bit of love. Both men were still in their riding things, and their boots thumped and clattered on the floor. Mrs Lacey looked like a species of fairy who had condescended to appear to cowhands – cowhands who, however, were cynical about fairies, for at the end of the dance Mr Lacey smacked her casually across her behind and said, ‘Go and do your stuff, my girl,’ and Mrs Lacey went laughing to her guests, leaving the men raiding the chickens in what appeared to be perfect good fellowship.
In the nurseries Kate was struck by the easy manner in which some twenty infants had been so easily disposed of: they were all asleep. The silence here was deepened by the soft, regular sounds of breathing, and the faint sound of music from beyond the heavy baize doors. Even now, with the extra beds, and the little piles of clothing at the foot of each, everything was so extraordinarily tidy. A great cupboard, with its subdued gleaming paint, presented to Kate an image of Mrs Lacey herself; and she went to open it. Inside it was orderly, and on the door was a list of its contents, neady typed; but if a profusion of rich materials, like satin and velvet, had tumbled out as the door opened, she would not have been in the least surprised. On the contrary, her feeling of richness restrained and bundled out of the way would have been confirmed, but there was nothing of the kind, not an article out of place anywhere, and on th
e floor sat the smiling native nanny, apologizing by her manner for her enforced uselessness, for the baby was whimpering and she was forbidden to touch it.
‘Have you told Mrs Lacey?’ asked Kate, looking doubtfully at the fat pink and white creature, which was exposed in a brief vest and napkin, for it was too hot an evening for anything more. The nanny indicated that she had told Mrs Lacey, who had said she would come when she could.
Kate sat beside the cot to wait, surrendering herself to self-pity: the grown-ups were rid of her, and she was shut into the nursery with the tiny children. Her tears gathered behind her eyes as the baby’s cries increased. After some moments she sent the nanny again for Mrs Lacey, and when neither of them returned, she rather fearfully fetched a napkin from the cupboard and made the baby comfortable. Then she held it on her knee, for consolation. She did not much like small babies, but the confiding warmth of this one soothed her. When the nursery door swung open soundlessly, so that Mrs Lacey was standing over her before she knew it, she could not help wriggling guiltily up and exclaiming: ‘I changed him. He was crying.’ Mrs Lacey said firmly: ‘You should never take a child out of bed once it is in. You should never alter a time-table.’ She removed the baby and put it back into the cot. She was afloat with happiness, and could not be really angry, but went on: ‘If you don’t keep them strictly to a routine, they take advantage of you.’ This was so like what Kate’s own mother always said about her servants, that she could not help laughing; and Mrs Lacey said good-humouredly, turning round from the business of arranging the baby’s limbs in an orderly fashion: ‘It is all very well, but he is perfectly trained, isn’t he? He never gives me any trouble. I am quite certain you have never seen such a well-trained baby around here before.’ Kate admitted this was so, and felt appeased: Mrs Lacey had spoken as if there was at least a possibility of her one day reaching the status of being able to profit by the advice: she was speaking as if to an equal.
This Was the Old Chief's Country Page 16
