The Feast

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘Three are us. Now let’s settle who gets which.’

  Each card had been decorated by the Coves, who could draw and paint beautifully. They had been busy all day.

  Beatrix spread them on her bed, and the three sisters knelt round it, arguing whether it would be polite to give Maud’s design of snails to Mr. Siddal. Eventually they gave him hollyhocks and allotted the snails to Robin. For Nancibel they set aside their favourite card, with a border of dandelion clocks, exquisitely done in pen and ink by Blanche, while Mrs. Paley was to have their rival favourite, which had a pattern of shells.

  ‘Rabbits for Mrs. Siddal, the spider’s web for Duff, fir cones for Gerry and bracken crooks for Angie. What about Angie’s father?’

  ‘Give him the sea anemone I blotted,’ suggested Maud.

  ‘No,’ decided Blanche. ‘That’s the worst one. We don’t want to give the worst to somebody we don’t like. Let’s give him the owls. I wonder what he will dress up as?’

  ‘He could change clothes with Fred,’ said Maud. ‘Then Fred could go as a clergyman and the Canon could go as a waiter. Oh I do hope poor Lady Gifford will be well enough to go. We mustn’t forget to put her card on her breakfast tray.’

  Their own ecstasy did not surprise them in the least, though they had never enjoyed such a transport before. But they had always believed in it as a natural accompaniment of a feast. So they took it calmly and attended to details. Their costumes had been easily settled. Hebe and Caroline had lent them two cotton kimono dressing-gowns in which Blanche and Beatrix were to appear as Geishas. Maud had collected Hebe’s slacks, curtain ear-rings, a sash, a red handkerchief and a plastic pencil case which looked like a pistol. No pirate could ask for more.

  ‘Let’s go to bed,’ said Beatrix. ‘Let’s go to sleep and make to-morrow come quickly.’

  But Blanche objected that now was just as good as to-morrow. And after the Feast was over they would have it to remember for always.

  ‘This time to-morrow,’ she said, ‘we shall be up on the headland feasting and revelling. Now we are here, thinking about it. Afterwards we shall be in other places, thinking about it. So it will sort of happen for a long time in a lot of places.’

  They went to the window and hung out, looking at the solid mass of Pendizack Head, standing out above the sea. The tide was high. They reckoned that it would be high to-morrow when they started for the Feast. They would not be able to cross the sands. The musical procession, the first item on Hebe’s programme, would have to wind its way up the drive to the place where the higher cliff path branched off.

  They were all still hanging out of the window when their mother came. Something ominous about her approaching footsteps, as she hurried down the passage, warned them of trouble before she came into the room. A premonitory shiver went through all three. They turned slowly when they heard the door open. She was exceedingly angry, a fact not easily apparent to a casual observer, since it made little difference to her expression, but always discernible to her children.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, sitting down on her bed.

  They came and stood in a trembling row in front of her.

  ‘Somebody in this room,’ she said, ‘is a thief. Somebody took my keys, while I was in my bath, and stole my black amber, and threw it out of the window. Which of you is it?’

  Anybody could have seen which it was. The blank astonishment of Maud and Beatrix could not have been assumed. Mrs. Cove shot out a steely hand and seized Blanche by the shoulder.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ whispered Blanche.

  ‘Who put you up to it?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Don’t tell lies.’

  ‘Nobody else knew. I … just didn’t want us to have it.’

  ‘You know what happens when you tell lies?’

  A gasp went up from them all.

  ‘No …’ cried Blanche. ‘No. I’m not telling lies. Nobody knew.’

  ‘Somebody must have known. You are telling lies. Put a bath towel in the middle of the room and put a chair on it. Put another towel round your shoulders.’

  Mrs. Cove rose and went to a drawer for a small safety razor which she used regularly upon her own upper lip.

  Beatrix and Maud broke into wails of protest.

  ‘Oh not here! Not here, where everybody can see! Oh Mother! Please … please … the Feast … she can’t go like that to the Feast … please don’t do it till after the Feast….’

  ‘There’ll be no Feast for any of you,’ said Mrs. Cove, turning, ‘unless Blanche tells the truth.’

  The wails rose to shrieks.

  ‘I am telling the truth! I am! I am!’ howled Blanche.

  Mrs. Cove took no notice whatever. She took a soap dish from the washing stand and marched down to the bathroom to get a little hot water. The Coves wept hopelessly until Maud, with the courage of the desperate, jumped up and locked the door. A sudden silence fell upon the room.

  ‘She shan’t do it,’ said Maud. ‘We’ll lock her out.’

  ‘She’ll break down the door,’ whispered Beatrix.

  ‘She can’t, by herself. It’s very strong. And she won’t dare tell anyone. It’s wicked. It’s cruel. They’d stop her.’

  ‘She’s our mother,’ said Blanche.

  ‘We shall starve to death,’ observed Beatrix.

  ‘No. They’ll find out. When we don’t come to the Feast they’ll come and look for us. We shall be very hungry, but we shall have food at the Feast. They will save us.’

  Beatrix sighed an assent. Blanche felt too faint to say more. They waited, shivering and still sobbing a little until their mother came back. To her knocks and calls not even Maud had the courage to reply. They let the locked door deliver their ultimatum for them.

  She hammered and threatened for some moments until a fresh voice interrupted her.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Mrs. Cove? Locked you out, have they? Well!’

  It was Miss Ellis. Their mother stopped hammering and asked if there was such a thing as a screw-driver in the house.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Not very likely, I should think. But fancy your girls playing you such a trick! Bet those Giffords put them up to it.’

  ‘No we didn’t!’

  The twins, aroused by the tumult, were peering out of their door.

  ‘If I were in your shoes, Mrs. Cove, I’d leave. Take them away before they learn worse. Even if I had to pay for the rooms….’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Ellis. I’m quite able to manage my own children.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. And if you knew as much as I do, Mrs. Cove, you wouldn’t even pay for the rooms. They wouldn’t dare make you pay….’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Can’t tell you here. Little pitchers have long ears. Come in my room for a minute. You really should know….’

  Footsteps receded, a door closed, silence fell.

  ‘They’ve gone to Miss Ellis’s room,’ surmised Maud.

  Blanche, who had been lying on the floor, stirred and sat up.

  ‘It’s no use,’ she said feebly. ‘We can’t lock mother out of her own room. We can’t do anything except offer it up.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Maud and Beatrix.

  ‘Then Jesus will decide.’

  ‘I’d rather He didn’t,’ said Maud. ‘We offered up the stray kitten, but He didn’t make her let us keep it.’

  ‘He was very sensible,’ Beatrix reminded her. ‘We saw that, afterwards. How could we have fed it? He made the next-door people take pity on it, and it had a much nicer home.’

  ‘If He’d been even more sensible He’d have let us keep it and sent us food for it.’

  ‘We couldn’t have brought it here. Perhaps He knew we were coming here. What would have happened to it?’

  ‘Maud!’ cried Blanche. ‘Don’t you trust Jesus?’

  ‘Not to give me anything I want. He only cares about Kingdom Come, which won’t be for millions
of years. If I want anything very much I just particularly don’t offer it up.’

  ‘If we offer it up, nothing bad can happen. Nothing He wants can be bad. That clergyman said so, on Good Friday.’

  ‘I daresay. But something very nasty can happen, all the same,’ muttered Maud.

  They said no more. Maud was quite right. Their previous attempts to offer things up had never saved them from disaster, though Blanche had insisted that this was because they had never achieved complete indifference to their own wishes. She could not do so now. She could not escape from the hope that Kingdom Come might not require her head to be shaved.

  But after twenty minutes of suspense even Maud began to falter. The desperate naughtiness of their conduct became increasingly apparent to all of them.

  At last they heard their mother coming back. She tried the door, found it still locked, and called to Blanche. Her voice was changed; it was worried and uncertain.

  ‘Don’t be so silly. Open the door, I want to talk to you.’

  Blanche tried to get up, but Maud held her down.

  ‘If you’ll stop this nonsense, perhaps I’ll let you off for once.’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t! It’s a trap,’ cried Maud, struggling with Blanche.

  ‘Rubbish!’ replied the anxious voice outside the door. ‘If I let you off it’s because I have other things to think of. I may have to go away … to London … I may have to leave you here…. In that case …’

  ‘Why should she have to go away all of a sudden?’

  ‘If you want to stay here you must behave sensibly. I can’t ask Mrs. Siddal to keep three crazy children …’

  Blanche threw Maud aside and rose to her feet.

  ‘Will you solemnly promise to let Maud and Bee go to the Feast?’ she called. ‘If you do, it doesn’t matter about me.’

  ‘What? The Feast? Yes, I suppose so … I said I’d let you all off, if you’ll come to your senses.’

  Blanche turned to the others.

  ‘Offer it up! Offer it up!’ she exhorted them. ‘There’s no other help. If Jesus wants us to escape we shall. If not, not. But I must open the door.’

  Beatrix and Maud, closing their eyes, began to offer it up.

  Blanche unlocked the door. All three children stood rigid, with tightly shut eyes, as their mother came in.

  7. Atalanta

  It was half-past nine by the old cherry-wood clock in the Thomas kitchen when Nancibel wearily pushed open the door. A blast from the radio greeted her and her mother’s voice, asking wherever she had been. All the rest of the family had gone to bed, but Mrs. Thomas was sitting up in a mood which swung between indignation and excited curiosity.

  Indignation spoke first.

  ‘I thought this was your half day. I thought Millie Stephens was going to give you a perm.’

  ‘I cancelled it,’ said Nancibel, throwing herself into a chair. ‘I rang up Millie from Pendizack. Mrs. Siddal took faint so I changed my day and stopped on. There’s no hurry for my old perm.’

  ‘Just what I thought, just what I thought. I said you’d given up your half-day again. It’s getting too much of a good thing.’

  ‘Only changed it, Mum. I’ll take two days one week later on. Got a cuppa? I’m dying of thirst.’

  ‘It doesn’t do to let yourself be put on,’ said Mrs. Thomas, bringing the teapot from the stove. ‘They aren’t grateful. They only take it for granted. And there’s such a thing as being too unselfish. You’re only young once. Now’s the time to enjoy yourself. There’ll be plenty of giving up for others later on, without you going out of your way to look for it. When you’re married it’s never anything else.’

  Nancibel smiled as she sipped the sweet, stewed tea.

  ‘Yet you’re always going on at me to get married,’ she observed.

  ‘Husband and children, that’s life,’ declared Mrs. Thomas, pouring out a cup for herself. ‘It’s not much fun, but neither is life much fun here below. What I mean is, Pendizack’s not your funeral. Mrs. Siddal has bitten off more than she can chew, poor thing; but that’s not to say you have to lose your sleep over it. You can’t set the whole world to rights. Do your work you said you’d do, and do it properly, and let her boil her own kettle of fish.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go on, Mum.’

  They both shouted, for the radio was playing at full strength, unnoticed by either of them. They had become so used to it that they never thought of turning it off. Ever since half-past six in the morning it had supplied an obbligato accompaniment to the life of the family.

  Mrs. Thomas, having vented her displeasure, turned to a more agreeable topic.

  ‘Oo!’ she shouted. ‘I forgot. There’s a letter for you.’

  She took it from the mantelpiece where it had stood all day, leaning against a china statuette of John Wesley preaching in a verdant bower.

  Nancibel sat up, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. A letter? Bruce?

  But it was not his hand, and the postmark was Wolverhampton. She took it and sat hunched up at the table, reading it slowly, while her mother tried not to watch her too eagerly and Geraldo’s Band played a foxtrot.

  All the Thomas family had been discussing this letter ever since its arrival, for they knew that Brian lived in Wolverhampton, and they had decided that he might be writing to make it up with his old love. But they could agree about nothing else. Mr. Thomas, furious at all the grief which this wretched youth had brought on Nancibel, had wanted to throw the letter behind the fire. Myra hoped that the match might still come off; she had smarted under the reproach of having a jilted sister and longed for a chance to be a bridesmaid. Mrs. Thomas was uncertain; Brian had good prospects, but she had much preferred the look of Bruce. The rest of the family was merely frantic with curiosity, which should have been satisfied in the afternoon, had not Nancibel changed her half-day. They had wished to sit up till she got home, but Mrs. Thomas had forbidden it and packed them all off to bed. She thought that she might have more chance to say a sensible word if she got the girl to herself.

  ‘Is it from … Brian?’ she asked, when Nancibe had finished.

  ‘No. From his father. Read it.’

  Nancibel, with a little laugh, pushed the letter across the table and went back to her tea. Mrs. Thomas read:

  MY DEAR MISS THOMAS,

  You will no doubt be very surprised to hear from me. But I am a plain man and do not think that two young people should spoil their lives for want of a little plain speaking. So am writing to know if your feelings have changed since last year re my son Brian.

  His feelings have not changed. He has been miserable ever since. He cannot forget you. He takes no interest in anything, he never goes out or takes a girl out, just sits around moping, he does not even take an interest in his food. He says his lifes happiness is ruined since he parted from you. But he says he has not got the nerve to write you after what happened. Though I do not see why you should not make it up if your feelings are the same. I know you are a sensible young lady and have a sweet disposition. You would not let an old grudge interfere with a bright future.

  Miss Thomas, I ought to tell you that there has been some very sad changes in our Home lately. My poor Wife passed away in June. So self and Brian are now alone in the Home with nobody to see to us. It is a great comfort to Brian now to know that he did not go against the wishes of his poor Mother. They say a good son makes a good husband. But I am now free to admit that my wishes were not always the same as her’s. I would personally be glad to welcome you as my Daughter.

  If you have changed it is no good. But if you feel the same a line to Brian would make a new man of him. Or if you feel awkward about that a line to me would greatly oblige and I could drop a hint.

  There is the business. It is doing well and he will get it when I retire. There is a good future for him if he will cheer up and take an interest.

  With best respects to your parents and your goodself,

  I remain, yours sincerely,

  A. G
OLDIE.

  ‘Poor Brian!’ said Nancibel, with another laugh. ‘First his Mum says he mayn’t. Then his Dad says he may. Did you ever hear anything so soft?’

  ‘What’ll you do?’ asked Mrs. Thomas.

  ‘Oh, I’ll write the old bird. I’ll write Sunday. Say I’m sorry his wife is gone and all that, but my feelings are changed, thank you.’

  ‘They are?’

  Nancibel took the letter and put it on the dresser behind the communal bottle of ink.

  ‘They certainly are, Mum. If nothing else had changed them, this letter would do.’

  ‘It’s a pity Brian didn’t write himself,’ agreed Mrs. Thomas, doubtfully.

  ‘He’s nothing but a spoilt kid. First he lets them talk him out of it and then he moans and groans over spilt milk. I snapped out of it and forgot him. But he’s got no guts.’

  ‘Guts! I wish you wouldn’t use such common expressions. Why do you?’

  ‘Because I am common, that’s how come. Too common for the Goldies.’

  ‘You never learned such a way of talking from me, or your Dad.’

  ‘I know. But we had all sorts in the A.T.S. We had girls with handles to their names, and if I talked the way some of them did, you’d turn me out in the snow. Look Mum, the big kettle’s on and I’m as dirty as a crow. I got so hot and sticky down in Pendizack kitchen tonight. Can’t I have a nice wash down here, comfortable, in front of the fire before I go to bed?’

  ‘O.K.,’ said Mrs. Thomas, clearing the tea things.

  The unspoken name of Bruce hung heavy in the air between them. Mrs. Thomas was acutely aware that he had not yet been mentioned. Memories of her own youth, experience with other daughters, told her that it is not the boys you hear about who matter. She longed to ask if he had anything to do with this change in Nancibel’s feelings, but she dared say nothing lest she should get her head snapped off.

  She went into the back kitchen to get a basin, soap and a towel. Nancibel, as if determined to change the subject, launched into a spirited account of the day’s doings. She told of Gerry Siddal’s engagement, the mystery of the disappearing library, the burnt letters in the boiler, Mrs. Siddal’s collapse, Miss Wraxton’s competence as a cook, and her own fear lest she should go bats if she stayed at Pendizack much longer.