‘Ah, yes, I remember. Laura, this child of mine will never let me see a word that she writes. But I know she has it in her. She is not my child for nothing.’
‘Really, George,’ said Laura indignantly, ‘you are too conceited. Probably people will soon talk about you as the father of Miss Knox.’
‘Will they, Laura?’ asked George, rather depressed. ‘Shall I indeed go down to posterity on the hem of her robe?’
‘Oh, no, Daddy,’ cried Sibyl, indignant at this cheapening of her father. ‘Mrs Morland doesn’t mean it. You are a million times better than ever I could be, isn’t he, Mrs Morland?’
‘I can’t tell, Sibyl, till I’ve seen your book. I expect you’ll both do each other credit, and I am as anxious to know what Adrian thinks as you are.’
‘After all,’ said George, cheering up, ‘it is only in the course of Nature. Each year fresh flowers grow from the rotting remains of last year’s blossoms, the years renew themselves, Zeus dethrones Cronos and is in his turn dethroned, Ragnarok swallows up the Gods, the world’s great golden age returns, seven cities have been built where once Troy Town stood.’
‘Oh, do stop talking like an encyclopaedia, George,’ said Laura, in her deepest voice. ‘You might as well say that spiders eat their husbands, and mice devour their young. I must go now, before Florence Nightingale comes back and finds me here.’
‘I hardly grasp your allusion, Laura, to the Lady of the Lamp.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t talk in clichés, George. I mean your kind nurse, your secretary, your Miss Grey.’
Laura got up, stared at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, pushed a few wisps of hair under her hat, and said goodbye.
‘Come over to lunch today fortnight and spend the afternoon,’ was her farewell to Sybil. ‘Adrian will be here. But we’ll meet before then.’
In self-defence Laura had arranged for Messrs Morland Jr and Wesendonck to have a high tea at half-past six, so that they could more fully discuss the work upon which they had been occupied all day. She herself usually had a meal on a tray in the drawing-room, while they were indulging in their interminable and ineffectual ablutions. Next evening Stoker brought her supper in and put it beside her in silence. Stoker’s silences were always so audible, and so fraught with meaning, that Laura waited to see what was coming.
‘I’ve brought you in the Burgundy,’ said Stoker gloomily. ‘It wants finishing, and I dare say you’ll need it when you’ve heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘That’s what I said to Mr Knox’s Annie.’
‘Well, what had Annie to say? Something about Flo, or the Institute, I suppose.’
‘I shouldn’t concern myself about the Institute, being as I’m on the committee,’ said Stoker haughtily.
‘Well, I don’t follow your argument, Stoker, but what was it all about?’
Stoker leaned herself against the writing-table and prepared to hold forth.
‘Mr Knox’s Annie come over on her bike,’ she began, ‘and had tea with me. And you’d hardly credit what she heard.’
‘Well, I can’t credit anything if you don’t tell me, Stoker,’ said Laura, seeing that Stoker was determined to be encouraged.
‘Well, it’s like this. Annie was very upset about Mr Knox having the flu, and the way madam was in and out of his room all day. Barely decent.’
‘Someone had to nurse him, Stoker. Don’t be absurd.’
‘I dare say. But there was Miss Knox not allowed in, and madam whisking about, morning, noon and night, and giving orders to cook, who knows what a gentleman requires when he’s an invalid as well as anyone. So one night madam was having her bath and Annie happened to be passing Mr Knox’s door and heard him call out, so she looked in to see if the poor gentleman wanted anything, and what do you think he was doing? Calling your name, mum,’ said Stoker, forgetting in her excitement to withhold Laura’s title. ‘“Laura, Laura,” he said, so plain that Annie said it fair give her the creeps.’
‘I expect he was dreaming, Stoker, or a bit delirious with a temperature.’
‘Some dreams go by contraries, others don’t,’ said Stoker darkly. ‘My aunt used to talk in her sleep, and one night she was calling “Henry, Henry”, and next day her Uncle Alf died. Shows you, doesn’t it?’
‘I can’t exactly say that it does, Stoker, but I’m sorry Mr Knox had bad dreams.’
‘That’s not all. When madam come back yesterday afternoon from having tea with Miss Todd, she saw three cups going downstairs.’
Stoker paused to let this sink in. Laura wondered if Miss Grey had been drunk or seen visions and dreamed dreams, but realising that this was only Stoker’s way of saying that Annie had been carrying the tea-things down to the kitchen, she waited with interest for the sequel.
‘And she said to Annie, “Who’s been having tea here?” And that Annie was fool enough to tell her, and Annie says madam let loose it was a treat to hear. And Miss Knox she run away into her room, and Mr Knox he poked his head over the banisters to ask if the house was afire, and madam she run up to her room and slammed the door.’
Laura’s face of horror was ample reward for Stoker.
‘So then Annie picked the pieces up.’
‘What pieces?’
‘The tea-cups. When madam pushed the tray, the cups and saucers fell off. And Annie and cook are going to give notice. Annie told her mother, and she said high time, too, with such goings on.’
‘Oh, Stoker, how awful. But do tell Annie to wait a bit. Miss Grey might be going soon. Only don’t say it came from me. Tell her and cook to wait till after the Easter holidays, anyway. And don’t talk more than you can help yourself, Stoker, and stop Annie talking if you can. It will be so horrid for Miss Knox.’
‘Silent as the grave,’ said Stoker, which Laura could not for a moment believe. ‘And did you wish the young gentlemen to use the old dog-kennel for their railway, because I found them with it, and Master Tony says he is going to knock the back out so the trains can go right through.’
‘No, I did not, Stoker. At least not to knock the back out. I’ll tell Tony tomorrow. And don’t let them have anything out of the kitchen without my leave. You remember how Tony took all our salt last year to make a snowdrift for his train.’
Stoker sang a few unrestrained notes and went back to her kitchen.
After this Laura and Anne Todd began to feel that they were involved in a heavy, endless nightmare, in which Miss Grey met them malignantly at every turn. While they were working on Monday morning, Sibyl came in, tearful and indignant. It appeared that Stoker’s account of the scene at Low Rising was hardly exaggerated at all.
‘She hit the tray Annie was carrying so hard that the cups fell off and were broken, Mrs Morland, and she slammed into her room and wouldn’t come out for the rest of the evening. Daddy heard the noise and he was furious, and said she must go tomorrow, but of course when tomorrow came he weakened, as he always does, and Miss Grey cried a lot and said she was all alone in the world, so Daddy said he would see about it. And then, Mrs Morland, an awful thing happened.’
Sibyl paused so long, with large tear-stained eyes gazing piteously at them, that both the elder ladies said, ‘What?’ simultaneously.
‘It came out that you were going to a play with Daddy next week, and she said she’d never seen it, and never could afford to go to plays, and—’
‘So your father asked her to come, too, I suppose,’ said Laura.
Sibyl nodded hopelessly.
‘Well, I’m not surprised. Your father, Sibyl dear, is perhaps one of the world’s most mentally deficient men. That is that. And I’ve a good mind not to go myself.’
‘Oh, but Mrs Morland, you must. You can’t let her go to a play with him alone.’
‘Don’t be silly, Sibyl. She can’t kidnap him, and it might make him even more sick of her than he is. Today is Monday. Of course with luck she might get influenza before Thursday.’
‘I’m sure she won�
��t,’ said Sibyl. ‘And she’ll never leave us. If only she weren’t so nice when she isn’t being nasty.’
‘I know,’ said Laura sympathetically. ‘When she is nice it is all I can do to remember how nasty she is. But stick to it, Sibyl. By the way, Anne, you must have come in for some of the wrath.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Anne Todd. ‘I took care not to. I knew you were lunching at Stoke Castle, and it wasn’t my fault if you nipped away and rushed off to see Mr Knox on the sly. The Incubus and I had a lot of talk about how hard it is to be alone, and I’m afraid I told her a good deal about Mrs Hocking, and how she has her house always full of young men from the colonies, and the Incubus listened attentively. One good shove from this end and we might get rid of her.’
‘But who is to give the shove?’ asked Laura.
‘Time, possibly. Mrs Morland, is Mrs Birkett coming down these holidays?’
‘Yes, the last week, after Adrian goes.’
‘Well, I shan’t lose hope till then. I have an idea she may be a kind of mascot.’
‘I must go home now,’ said Sibyl. ‘I feel so tired and shivery ever since that dreadful Saturday evening.’
‘Don’t you go and get influenza too,’ said Laura anxiously.
‘It might be the best thing she could do,’ said Anne Todd.
Sure enough Sibyl did go down with influenza, that evening. Dr Ford was sent for on Tuesday, and said it was only a mild attack, but she must stay in bed for a few days. Being that rare and desirable kind of man who can take a refusal in the spirit in which it is meant, he had not interrupted his friendly visits to old Mrs Todd and her daughter, and this evening he told them about Sibyl.
‘That Incubus is nursing her like an angel,’ said Dr Ford. ‘She appears to want to go to town for a night on Thursday, Anne, but Sibyl will be quite all right with Annie. She isn’t a serious case, only we might as well be careful. I’ll tell the Incubus tomorrow that she can go with a clear conscience.’
‘I think the Incubus had much better nurse Sibyl,’ said Anne deliberately. ‘Don’t ask me why, Dr Ford, but take my word for it. Will you tell her that only her nursing will pull Sibyl through, or words to that effect?’
‘Words to any effect you like, Anne, but they won’t have any effect on her.’
‘They might. And will you tell her that I send my love – my dear love you might say – and I am coming to see her tomorrow. And if I can’t fill her up with the notion that she is doing a beautiful and chivalrous deed, which will impress Mr Knox, in giving up her own pleasure and staying with Sibyl, I’m a Jew,’ said Anne.
So Dr Ford promised. And on Thursday morning Anne was able to give Laura the welcome information that the Incubus was behaving like a lamb with a swelled head, and going to stay and nurse Sibyl and show devotion. It was a pity, she added, that Mr Knox was so obviously impressed by the devotion, but that couldn’t be helped.
‘You are a marvel, Anne,’ said Laura.
‘I do my best. But I shan’t feel safe till tonight has come and gone. I feel she may still have an outburst – ride through the air on a broomstick perhaps, and cast spells on you.’
12
The Shakespeare Tradition
Laura didn’t very often get a treat. Her London life was one of hard work, and she was often too tired to want to go out at night. Unless one goes about a good deal, one doesn’t make fresh friends. Also, a woman who can’t bring a man with her is apt to be, if not unwelcome, at least the sort of person who doesn’t head one’s list of guests. Laura faced this fact quite placidly. She had had plenty of going about while her unlamented husband was alive, and was content to slip back into spending her evenings in slippered ease, or go to the nearest cinema. She was still young enough to have attracted men if she had cared to take the trouble, but that she most emphatically didn’t. One man had been enough trouble to last her for a lifetime. So she led a very peaceful existence, only broken by festivities when one or other of her sons came home. Then she tried to dress well, had her hair waved, evoked old friends, made advances to new ones, went to plays, had people to dinner, and kept late nights. Then when Gerald, or John, or Dick had gone off, she would shed a tear, breathe a sigh of relief, and have her meals on a tray again.
So it was a distinct treat to dine with George Knox and go to a play, even if only Shakespeare. Laura dressed almost in a flurry, while Stoker, whom she had brought up for the night, leaving Annie’s mother in charge of the boys, attended on her toilette, and gave her unvalued criticism. It was one of Stoker’s grievances against her mistress that Laura would not have a permanent wave in her long, heavy hair.
‘You wouldn’t look not half so old with a perm,’ said the faithful handmaiden.
‘I dare say not, Stoker, but I know only too well what I would look like. You can have a perm, if you like.’
‘Dare say I shall, one of these days,’ said Stoker, eyeing herself complacently over Laura’s shoulder as she sat in front of her glass. ‘Might suit my style. But you did ought to have a Marcel wave for the theatre tonight.’
‘Well, I hadn’t time, Stoker, so that’s that. And I’ve got the key, so if you want to go to a cinema, you needn’t hurry back. Leave out something for me in case I’m hungry, and I might bring Mr Knox back for a drink.’
Laura emptied the contents of one bag into another, clutched her fur coat round her, and went off to meet George Knox. George was waiting for her, and had secured a table and ordered dinner.
‘I’m so glad you have arranged what we are to eat,’ said Laura. ‘It makes it a much better treat not to know what I’m going to have.’
‘I may not be a popular author, Laura, but I can at least claim a little knowledge of food. My mother has transmitted the gift to me with her French blood, I suppose. Sibyl, too, understands the pleasures of the table. She is an admirable housekeeper. What shall we drink, my dear Laura? Something to celebrate my recovery, to celebrate this delightful occasion. Champagne, I think, is indicated.’
‘Not for me, George. Champagne makes me feel misunderstood at once. Also it makes my knees bend the wrong way. Water, please.’
‘But, Laura, I entreat. May I not pledge you? And to see your knees bend the wrong way would be excessively interesting. Let me be indulged for once.’
‘You can pledge me as much as you like, George, but I’m not going to pledge you. I don’t mind having a terribly expensive liqueur afterwards, with the coffee. You go ahead and drink what you like.’
George turned to the wine waiter and ordered champagne. Just as the man was going away to get it, Laura called to him to stop.
‘Just listen a moment, George,’ she said in a deep, clear voice which filled the small restaurant. ‘Not champagne for you. You will be weak in the head after that influenza and I’m not going to run any risks with you. A bottle, a small bottle, of red wine will be very nice for you, or, if you like, a whisky and soda; but that’s all.’
‘But, Laura, I am no drunkard, no tippler, no alehouse debauchee,’ protested George, in a voice as clear as Laura’s and far more powerful. ‘Do I downwards fall into a grovelling swine? No. Waiter, bring the champagne.’
‘One moment,’ said Laura to the waiter, petrifying him with her Mrs Crummles air. ‘This is my treat, George, not yours. Not champagne.’
George looked annoyed for a moment, but, recovering himself, said, ‘You are right, Laura, perfectly right as usual. Waiter, bring me half a bottle of No. 43. Laura, I am grateful to you. I live a lonely life. I become rustic, earthy, gross, unfit to associate with such women as you. I need your calm good sense, your admirable candour. Without it I am as naught.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Laura. ‘I do like caviar, George. Not so much because it is nice, as because I feel it ought to be. I shall have some caviar in my new book. Do you think we shall enjoy King Lear?’
‘Frankly – if frankness is what you require, my dear Laura – no.’
‘Oh, George.’
‘Wel
l, you know what it will be. It is astounding, Laura, how loudly Shakespearian actors can talk, and yet be perfectly unintelligible.’
‘I suppose it’s part of the Shakespeare tradition.’
‘Tradition! A loud booming noise that no one can make head or tail of. An elocution competition between bitterns. Why can’t they talk English?’
‘Do you think, George, that Elizabethan actors talked more distinctly than ours do?’
‘My dear Laura, there is no doubt about it. Absolutely none. If they didn’t, no one would ever have known what Shakespeare plays were about till the Quartos began to appear. And even then their extraordinary spelling and repellent appearance must have put people off. They were not, emphatically not, Laura, the kind of book to slip into your pocket and read, while you waited for the Globe early door. No, we may take it that the stage under Elizabeth, or perhaps more accurately under James the First, for, as you know, Shakespeare’s plays were not printed during the reign of Elizabeth, was remarkable for its clarity of speech. This I intend to enlarge upon in my new book.’
‘Well, don’t pretend it’s your idea, George. I suggested it. Oh, George, I do like quails. You are a splendid host.’
‘Never had host such a guest,’ answered George Knox, after the manner of Sir Richard Whittington. ‘My dear Laura, how you outshine those poorer beauties of the night whom I see around us. It is one of the few excellent features of this deplorable phase of civilisation through which we are now passing, if civilisation it may be called, when it is indeed rather a return, a dégringolade, to the Dark Ages, that the appreciation of mature beauty is more developed than at any other point in history.’
‘I suppose what you mean,’ said Laura, who was getting the best out of her quail by finishing the legs in her fingers, ‘is that there are heaps of novels with middle-aged women for heroines. Disgusting I call it. They have rejuvenating operations and lovers and what not. All most unsuitable. If you think I’m looking nice tonight, that’s very nice of you, and I’m much obliged, but don’t make such phrases about it. Stoker says I ought to have a permanent wave.’
High Rising (VMC) Page 16
