Something Light

by Margery Sharp

  Louisa swallowed fast. She didn’t mean to receive his proposal in form with her mouth full.

  “—to turn to,” finished F. Pennon, “in a jam.”

  For one moment—and alas, for one only—incredulity numbed Louisa’s brain. The moment passed. After but the briefest pause, during which she resisted an impulse to dash the scone to the ground and grind it into the carpet—

  “Here we go again!” thought Louisa resignedly.

  3

  Resignedly she composed herself to listen. She also put another scone on her plate, beside the slice of cake, to make sure of supplies. Though where were now her rosy hopes, if she ate enough tea she could do without supper, and so be at least a meal up.

  “Fire ahead,” said Louisa.

  It was encouragement of a sort. At any rate it was encouragement enough for F. Pennon. He drew a deep, already assuaged breath.

  “I don’t suppose even you can realize,” he began earnestly, “how a man feels—a man of my age—when the woman he’s worshiped for twenty years is at last free to marry him.”

  Louisa sat perfectly still. The words were a final blow, and in the circumstances a shattering one. Yet what fidelity they exhibited! Twenty years! How different, such true devotion, thought Louisa, from the untidy amours of her familiar circle! Chagrined as she was, she felt her heart melt.

  “Perhaps not,” she said kindly. “Tell me.”

  “He feels terrified,” said F. Pennon.

  4

  Another moment passed. As though upon some emotional switchback, Louisa had scarcely time to alter her expression—in fact she was still looking reverent—before it was necessary to speak.

  “I thought you said you’d worshiped—?” began Louisa.

  “Yes. But from afar,” said F. Pennon.

  “How far afar?”

  “Argentina. For the last eighteen years, she’s lived in the Argentine. She married a man in business there—a splendid chap,” said F. Pennon warmly. “Now he’s dead.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen her for eighteen years?” marveled Louisa.

  “That’s right. His business rather went downhill, d’you see, and they couldn’t afford to come home. But of course I’ve written to her. We wrote to each other,” said F. Pennon, warming up a little, “every month …”

  “You mean love letters?”

  “I suppose you might call ’em so. I know Enid told me they added meaning to her whole existence.—So they did to mine,” said F. Pennon. “I’d no other attachments, never wanted any; but once each month I’d turn aside from—well, money-grubbing—and just give myself up to sweeter things. I used to keep a special evening, settle down at that desk with perhaps a spot of brandy—”

  “And a dictionary of quotations?” suggested Louisa.

  “Just to refresh my memory,” said F. Pennon simply. “Enid liked me to put in poetry. She’s particularly fond of Tennyson. One way and another, taking all my letters together, I dare say you’d find the whole of Maud. And then of course there’d be a letter each month from her, and I kept a special evening for them too. It was ideal …”

  Louisa could see that it had been. Now that she wasn’t going to marry him herself, now that she regarded him dispassionately, she could see it was the very thing for him: a sentimental attachment—a long-distance attachment—neatly compartmented from, not interfering with, the solid comforts of Gladstone Mansions. It was a particularly galling reflection that she herself, at Cannes, had no doubt been merely an Enid-surrogate—F. Pennon on holiday, with time for sweeter things on his hands …

  “Did she teach you to carry aspirins?” asked Louisa abruptly.

  “Enid? As a matter of fact, yes. How did you guess?”

  “Never mind,” said Louisa, beginning to eat again. “Go on. Where do I come in?”

  But Freddy was still gazing nostalgically towards the writing desk.

  “I’d just bought a new seal, an agate,” he mourned. “It had Semper Fidelis on it.—Now the poor chap’s dead!”

  “And I suppose Enid expects you in Buenos Aires?” prompted Louisa, not quite patiently. “I still don’t see where I—”

  With an effort he jerked himself back to the present.

  “Actually her boat docks the day after tomorrow,” said F. Pennon. “She’s come …”

  Though still eating fast, Louisa met his desperate eye with renewed sympathy. Who wouldn’t, thought Louisa, in such a situation, be terrified? To worship afar for eighteen years, and then to have one’s idol all at once within reach! And not only within reach but positively, so to speak—and soon now, indeed, without metaphor—in one’s lap! For Louisa had no doubt in the world, she read it in F. Pennon’s every agitated glance, that in those monthly letters he had absolutely committed himself. Enid had come home to marry him.

  “Congratulations,” said Louisa, “and cheer up. When does she get to London?”

  “She isn’t coming to London,” said F. Pennon. “She’s going straight to my house at Bournemouth.—What else can she do? She hasn’t a penny, poor gel—and I can hardly pay her hotel bills! So she’s going to Bournemouth. That’s where we’re going to meet. And that’s where I want you to come too,” said F. Pennon rapidly, “dear Louisa, just to help me over the hump.”

  5

  Louisa swallowed the last crumbs of plum cake and rose. At least she had had a good tea.

  “Dear Freddy,” said Louisa, “not on your life.”

  Just as Hugo when she left him on his sickbed, Freddy stared incredulously.

  “But, Louisa—”

  “I quite see why you’ve been telephoning me,” said Louisa, more kindly, “I even see that it wasn’t a bad idea. You’ve still, so far as I can judge, got to marry her—”

  “Of course I’m going to marry her!” cried F. Pennon, with belated fervor. “Dammit, I want to marry her! Only I can’t, I tell you I positively can’t, be all alone with her for the first few days. There’s got to be a—well, a buffer. Come to Bournemouth just for a week—”

  “You could hardly introduce me as a buffer,” said Louisa coldly.

  “Of course not. I shouldn’t think of it. You’ll be a friend I have staying with me. Probably she’ll take it for a delicate piece of chaperoning. I dare say she’ll expect chaperoning—”

  “Duennas, in Argentina, are probably still all the go,” agreed Louisa. “Haven’t you any female relatives?”

  “No. I tell you you’re the only woman I’ve been able to think of—you with your wonderful understanding of a man, you who’re such a thorough good sort—”

  “Listen,” interrupted Louisa. “Listen carefully. I know that’s my reputation, but I’m through. I’ve had enough of being a good sort. I’ve had enough of being man’s best friend. From now on, they’ll have to take Airedales. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and thanks for my tea.”

  She brushed the cake crumbs from her fingers and rose. (She really felt adequately fed until next morning.) She powdered her nose standing, and moved definitely towards the door.

  “Louisa!” cried F. Pennon desperately.

  She knew better than to turn. He would be looking too much like an abandoned Sealyham. How infinitely preferable if he were!—then she could simply take him home.

  “It’s not only on my account,” implored F. Pennon desperately, “it’s on Enid’s. I know she’s a married woman—”

  Louisa paused.

  It suddenly struck her how extraordinarily few married women she knew. In fact she knew very few women at all, and those mostly of the Pammy type—without a wedding ring among them. Freddy’s Enid had not only married once, but within the first months of widowhood was about to marry again. Louisa’s own aim now being matrimony—if not with F. Pennon, then with another—it struck her that from a woman so eminently nubile she might well pick up a few tips.

  “Oh, okay,” said Louisa. “When do we go?”

  6

  “You know what?” said the milkman. “That chap Ibs
en’s dead.”

  “I know,” said Louisa.

  “I didn’t; my Auntie told me,” said the milkman. “Also while never chaining herself to railings she did once black a gentleman’s eye.”

  “Those were the days,” said Louisa.

  The milkman considered her with more attention.

  “Since you mentioned it yourself, you do look a bit jaded. What about another spot of cream?”

  “No, thanks,” said Louisa. “In fact, you needn’t leave anything for a week.”

  “Saving money or going on holiday?” inquired the milkman.

  “Neither,” said Louisa. “Summer school.”

  —She hesitated. Whether as a buffer between old Freddy and his beloved, or as a picker of that beloved’s brains, she was pretty well assured of a week’s good grub. She was still resolved to give Number Ten the go-by; she simply recognized that the idea of his peering fruitlessly outside the door each morning might spoil her appetite; and on second thoughts ordered yoghurt as usual.

  Chapter Four

  1

  “And this,” said F. Pennon, “is Miss Datchett, who’s staying with us for a bit.”

  Was he flushed with triumph, or merely feeling the heat? The afternoon was so warm, Louisa couldn’t decide—and indeed spared him but the briefest glance, so eager was she to observe the woman he’d worshiped for twenty years, and whom he’d just been to fetch from Bournemouth West station.

  Enid Anstruther was small, slight, blonde and faded. Her age was more difficult to be precise about: on the facts, Louisa had worked her out at about forty, at which age a woman today is still young, and Mrs. Anstruther in manner at least was positively girlish; but this very girlishness had the effect of making her seem older. As she jumped out of the car, and ran up the loggia steps, Louisa, observing these pretty, girlish movements, had to tell herself not to be a cat.

  “But how nice!” cried Mrs. Anstruther warmly.

  —At least it was big of her, or at any rate she was a very quick thinker. A small gloved hand flew out and patted at Louisa’s in a kind little gesture of acceptance. The latter, always dispassionate about her own appearance, was uncontrollably reminded of a recent First Prize Amateur Snap; of a robin making friends with a lurcher.

  “Name’s Louisa.—You’ll get on together,” promised F. Pennon optimistically. “Now then: Enid’s had a long journey, she’ll want to lie down.”

  Mrs. Anstruther turned to him gratefully.—She turned; and Louisa saw her profile.

  No tropic heat, so ravaging of skin and hair, affects the profile. Enid Anstruther’s had remained exquisite: low, straight forehead, straight, delicately cut nose, short upper lip and delicately rounded chin. It was a profile out of a Victorian keepsake—Grecian softened to prettiness. It was a profile, there was no denying, for a man to remember with devotion even after eighteen years.

  Lying down being apparently the order of the day, as soon as Mrs. Anstruther had been shown her room, Louisa went and lay down too.

  2

  The bedspread, which she carefully turned back, was of pink brocade. Upon the floor a deep pile carpet, slightly darker in tone than the quilt, fitted from wall to wall. Curtains patterned with enormous pale green leaves framed a view of pine trees and sea. It wasn’t even the best bedroom—that had Mrs. Anstruther lying down in it—but it was still so very different indeed from Louisa’s room in Paddington, when she woke in it that morning she felt like the chimney sweep in Buck House.

  Freddy had driven her from London the day before. (In his custom-built Rolls: his own luggage stowed in matching suitcases, Louisa’s in a variety of air-line giveaway bags. Actually Freddy didn’t drive himself, there was a custom-built chauffeur.) Louisa enjoyed the trip thoroughly, even though Freddy grew progressively more taciturn. (“And why the hell not?” thought Louisa sympathetically. What a lapful awaited him!) She sympathized—but not so acutely that she forgot to loll. Novel though the experience was, in Freddy’s Rolls Louisa discovered that she could loll as to the manner born. Halting for coffee, halfway through the morning’s run, she didn’t even descend, but let a cup be obsequiously carried out to her. Halting for lunch, at a famous and fabulously expensive inn, she just accepted the necessity of putting foot to ground. Then they had everything most expensive on the menu.

  “I could, don’t you think, make a woman comfortable?” suggested F. Pennon.

  “Unless she’s off her head,” said Louisa warmly.

  They reached Bournemouth about six: the big house above a famous chine awaited them in apple-pie order. “Evening, Karen,” said Freddy casually. “Got any cocktails for us?” A large and smiling Swede indicated the tray. (“What she must be paid—!” thought Louisa.) Some sort of understrapper of the chauffeur’s carried in their bags, and a dinner to recruit Arctic explorers was served at eight. Freddy was still taciturn, and what slight conversation took place concerned the desirability, or otherwise, of Louisa’s accompanying him to meet Mrs. Anstruther’s train.

  “Just to break the ice!” pleaded Freddy.

  “Not I,” said Louisa. “You’ve got to take the plunge.”

  “I tell you, I’ve told you, it’s exactly just at first I’ll want you there.”

  “Yes, but not just at first as all that,” said Louisa. “Not on the platform …”

  As has been seen, she won her point, and Freddy went to the station alone.

  3

  Louisa pummeled the pillow into a sausage under her nape. It was an uncommonly warm afternoon, but she couldn’t sleep. To sleep at such an hour was unnatural to her; naturally, or customarily, she’d have been developing film in Rossy’s basement.—Louisa put the thought of Mr. Ross aside; as she saw now, she’d been over-impulsive in her confidences to him. She had also been over-impulsive in her confidences to Hugo, and was only thankful she hadn’t said anything to Number Ten.

  “All the same,” thought Louisa uneasily, “I’m going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do when I get back …”

  She pummeled the pillow again. Its linen slip was pale pink, so were the sheets, and blankets. Impulsively Louisa stripped down the nearest corner for a look at the mattress. It was pink too.

  “At least I’m on velvet for a week,” thought Louisa.

  It struck her that a week seemed to be the natural term of any luxury for her. It had been for a week that she’d luxuriated at Cannes …

  Her thoughts veered to Mrs. Anstruther. Brief though their meeting had been, in Louisa’s opinion it sufficed to form a judgment.

  “She’s nothing,” thought Louisa, “she’s a nonentity. She just happened to be born with a profile …”

  But just that profile, that echo from a Victorian beauty-book, was going to put Enid Anstruther on velvet for the rest of her life.

  4

  If Louisa had been thinking about Mrs. Anstruther, so, evidently, had Mrs. Anstruther been thinking about Louisa. It was only natural—as it was only natural that she should have cut short her siesta to stroll with Freddy on the broad gravel walk under the bedroom windows.

  “Freddy dear, who exactly is Miss Datchett?” murmured Enid Anstruther.

  Louisa had no scruples about eavesdropping in such a case as this; but sat up to listen better.

  “Gel I’ve known all my life,” said Freddy. “That is, knew her people all my life …”

  There was a slight pause.

  “I don’t remember any Datchetts at Keithley?” mused Mrs. Anstruther.

  “Came from Leeds,” said Freddy instantly. “After you deserted me and went to Argentina. It’s eighteen years, y’know.”

  “You’ve changed so little, I forget,” sighed Mrs. Anstruther.—The next moment she rippled with pretty laughter; she was very volatile. “And I feel just a slip of a girl again,” confessed Mrs. Anstruther, “with my chaperone! Kind Freddy, to take such care of me! I wonder what made you ask Miss Datchett.”

  “Convalescing after mumps,” said Freddy. “Thought I’d kill two bir
ds with one stone.”

  Louisa’s outraged ear caught a delicate babble of alarm. Then—

  “No, of course she ain’t infectious,” said Freddy. “I told you, she’s convalescing. Building up.”

  5

  As in completion of the circuit—

  “Well, now you’ve seen her,” inquired F. Pennon, “what d’you think of her?”

  He and Louisa were waiting in the spacious, galleried entrance hall for Mrs. Anstruther to come down to dinner—Freddy in black tie, Louisa, to keep her spirits up, in toreador pants.

  “She’s got the most beautiful profile,” said Louisa sincerely, “I’ve ever seen off an Afghan.”

  “She has, hasn’t she?” said Freddy eagerly. “It’s what I’ve always remembered about her—that little nose, and the way her lip curls … she hasn’t changed in the least. She says I haven’t either.”

  “In fact the water was quite warm,” said Louisa.

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “What water?”

  “The plunge. In off the deep end, up with your pockets full of fish,” said Louisa, who was feeling rather disagreeable. “Why the hell did you have to give me mumps?”

  “It just came into my mind.—D’you mean to say you were listening?” retorted Freddy.

  “Naturally, in this heat, I had the window open. You should be more careful, on that path.”

  “Well, what would you have liked me to give you?” inquired Freddy sulkily.

  “Appendicitis,” said Louisa. “If you had to give me anything, appendicitis would have been classier. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t think of pinkeye.”

  “You haven’t much regard for my feelings,” said Freddy, “if when I want to talk about Enid you start talking about pinkeye.”