CHAPTER SIX
Liza could never afterwards remember running down the drive home. Which seemed peculiar, as she could quite clearly recall Simon's taunting words and see his darkly persuasive face. All that she could remember, and the effort it had taken to wrench herself from his detaining arms, but not exactly how she had managed to get from the car into the house?
Perhaps she had been too busy preparing exactly what she would tell him next day. All her pent-up fury to be abbreviated and expressed in a few well chosen words—a mental exercise which must have wiped all routine considerations from her mind. She didn't even remember inserting her key into the front door, and it was with a definite start of surprise that she found herself standing in the kitchen.
Monica was not at home. Dismayed, Liza read the note she found propped up against a jug on the table. Her mother would be back in an hour or two. There was no explanation as to where she had gone. With an audible sigh Liza replaced the sheet of paper. One more thing going wrong, she supposed, wouldn't really matter at the end of a long day in which nothing much seemed to have gone right.
Without a great deal of interest she glanced at her dinner, neatly set out at one end of the wide, scrubbed table. Somehow, this evening, something seemed to have happened to her appetite, and salad and fruit didn't appeal. With a small unhappy frown she stared at the rather wilted lettuce; there had been salad with every meal this week. Lettuce from the garden, a few radishes, no meat. She knew this was what her mother meant when she talked about the cost of living, but surely sometimes they could have something different? A resigned shrug chasing her anxious frown, Liza plugged in the percolator, pushed aside her plate and sat down.
Thankfully, almost glad of a moment's respite, Liza leant on the table, propping her rounded chin in her hands to wait moodily for her coffee, which was all she felt she wanted. She felt hot and sticky and would have loved a bath, but lately the water had only been tepid and she made do with a shower. No hot water, the central heating turned off for the summer, even in cooler weather, a meagre allowance of plain food—all would seem necessary economies. Since Silas had gone nothing seemed to be working out very satisfactorily. Again the thought haunted her that she should be contributing more to the household expenses. Otherwise she must insist that they found a smaller place to live, especially now that Simon had arranged other caretakers. How could they hope, her mother and she, to continue living here, to run a small car, when they couldn't afford to? Suddenly adamant, Liza resolved that when Monica returned they must have a talk, an honest appraisal of their finances, otherwise they might soon be in trouble.
Unable to sit with her thoughts any longer, she quickly switched off the percolator, jumped up and searched for the key to the flat. There was a door in from the passage upstairs, but it was locked and barred and she didn't suppose it would be opened. The flat was completely self-contained and had its own front entrance to the back of the drive. It was years, so far as she knew, since anyone had been there, and, curious to see if it was still fit to live in, she thought she would take a look around. A few cobwebs need not be a deterrent, and it might take her mind off her present problems, and Simon and his cynical, deliberate kisses, which aroused in her feelings which she was sure a girl was better without.
But, greatly to her surprise, just as she had found the key and was on her way next door, she met Monica in the hall. "Oh, good!" A sense of relief flooded her as she saw her mother removing her light summer coat. "I'm so pleased you're home," she said.
Monica swung around to look closely at her daughter, noting her pale face, the wide, strained eyes. "Surely you haven't been worrying?" she asked impatiently. "It was necessary to go out, otherwise I shouldn't have gone, but there's nothing to be alarmed about!"
"I wasn't worrying, Mums," Liza retorted, trying to restrain her own impatience as she waited while her mother took off her hat and put away her keys. She sensed that her mother wasn't in a particularly good mood, but then neither, she supposed, was she. "As a matter of fact," she confessed, as her mother straightened, "I think when I came in I was almost bursting with odd pieces of news which I wanted to discuss, and then you weren't here."
"Well, I've some news myself, if it comes to that," Monica replied stiffly. "And none of it's good. So you might be advised to listen to mine first. It's something I couldn't foresee," she added righteously, "so you needn't look so shocked, but I expect you'll only say I told you so."
"Shall I make coffee first?" Liza's voice was toneless as she stared at her mother, thinking that nothing could justify the awful sinking sensation in her heart. Desperately she played for time, feeling that she had had about all she could take for one day, but that something awful must have happened for her mother to be acting in this manner.
"Of course not!" Monica snapped sharply. "I'm going to need something much stronger than coffee if you insist on acting like this."
"Like what?" asked Liza in a strained little voice as she followed her mother into the drawing room.
"Like Judgement Day," Monica retorted dryly, pouring herself a small whisky and carrying it to the window, where she stood with her back to the room. "It so happens I'm in debt, but it's nothing to make a fuss about. I just thought you should know, that's all."
"That's all!" Liza's eyes widened incredulously and her breath quivered on the quiet air. "And you said, when you came in, that there was nothing to be alarmed about! How much," she went on helplessly, as Monica made no reply, but continued to sip her drink, "how much do you owe?"
"About two hundred pounds."
"Oh, no!" Liza sat down with a thump, her legs suddenly weak. They had scarcely that many pence between them. Or she hadn't. "Oh, Mums,", her voice trailed off miserably and her young face was tense, "how could you?"
"Don't preach, Liza, please. You sound just like your father."
"But Daddy wasn't like that!"
"I'm talking about your real father."
"Oh, I see." Futile to say she had never known him. When Monica was in trouble her resentment against fate often made her unkind. But Liza could never remember her being in this sort of trouble before. There must be some mistake? She must make an effort to understand, not to condemn before she had even heard the evidence. Perhaps Monica was right to feel so bitter. After a moment's hesitation she suggested softly, "It might be better if you told me all about it."
An hour later they were still talking. Monica's story, when it came out, was a relatively simple one. She had run up quite a large bill for clothes as, over the years, she had become accustomed to being well dressed. Silas had expected it of her, and this time, as at others, she had thought the company would pay for them. When, to her dismay, she had discovered this was not to be so, she had started to gamble rather heavily at cards—not just a few shillings, amongst the friends whom Silas had approved, but with women she knew little of, and who often considered such games as a profitable source of income. Unfortunately Monica Lawson's skills were not of this class and she had suffered accordingly. Instead of acquiring money to settle her debts, she had lost, and the amount which she owed had grown alarmingly.
"I've been trying to recoup my losses this afternoon," she concluded unhappily. "But I'm afraid I've only partly succeeded."
Liza sat very still, gazing at her apprehensively. What Monica had just divulged had been a shock; their present circumstances had seemed hard enough to bear without this. Her mother's folly in buying clothes she could in some measure understand. Silas had entertained a lot, especially in the evenings, but he had often brought clients home for lunch, which had necessitated her mother's being smartly turned out at all hours of the day. Occasionally he had been annoyed when she had had to rush away to "tidy up". But, to give him his due, he had never quibbled over the size of her dress bills. If Monica was at fault it was in that she had never checked that what she had purchased immediately before he had died would be covered by his estate. The account had, after all, been in her own name, which shou
ld have warned her! In view of this it seemed incomprehensible the way she had gone about things since, but then, Liza realized, her mother wasn't so much worldly as foolish. And just what had she been up to this afternoon? Feeling suddenly cold, she asked warily, "What do you mean about only being partly successful?"
Monica's face brightened slightly, although she still continued to look ashamed. "I managed to sell four small landscapes to a man I know in Hagley Road," she explained. "He runs a small art shop, he's taken things from time to time. It has meant that I've been able to settle my bridge debts, if nothing else. Which is always something."
"But you still have to settle with the store," Liza heard her own voice, a muted whisper, a note of reproach which she found impossible to restrain. A dreadful thought came to her then, from out of the blue. "Simon Redford doesn't know anything of this, does he?" Her eyes widened nervously.
"No, of course not. I haven't seen him to tell him anything. Although," Monica hesitated thoughtfully, "it might come to that in the end. Don't you see," she went on sharply, as Liza started to protest, "he could help us quite easily, and might be more than willing to do so. In any case he would probably prefer this rather than risk a family scandal. Looking at things from this angle it's probably my duty to tell him, because I don't know where I'm going to find the cash to settle with the store."
"Mums, you still mustn't tell him," Liza insisted, more than a little desperately. "We don't want to be completely under his thumb. There's just got to be another way." The frown on her smooth brow deepened. "Have you sold all your paintings, or do you still have some left?"
"Two, I think, but you know I never do much during winter, I can't bear the cold outside. And somehow I haven't been able to get started this spring, what with one thing and another. But of what use would two paintings be? Even if this man would take another two, I still owe over a hundred pounds."
"But don't you see, Mums?" All of a sudden Liza was in a positive fever of impatience. "If this man in Hagley Road thought your pictures good enough, then why shouldn't the department store where you bought your clothes? They might just be willing to take them as part payment. Stores, today, sometimes do this sort of thing providing the merchandise offered is up to a certain standard, and I'm sure yours is. One of the girls at the office has a sister who sells things this way. She paints on linen, a sort of super tea-towel, traycloth type of thing, and can't produce them fast enough."
"I know, darling." Far from being impressed, Monica gazed at her daughter despairingly. "But there are so many amateur artists around…"
"I know, but you're better than average, and you've improved a lot since you did that one over there." With a peculiar ache in her heart Liza indicated the painting which Simon had noted so disparagingly on that first evening when he had brought her home.
Momentarily diverted, her mother walked over and stood looking at it. "I did this when I first came here, but Silas wouldn't part with it. I rather think because he liked that particular angle of the stream. Not because of any great appreciation of my artistic talents. Not then."
"But he always saw that it was there, your talent, I mean," Liza continued on her theme more hopefully. "Look, Mums, why not arrange to go to the store and see the buyer in the relevant department? You don't have to explain what it's all about. Just show her what you have and ask if she's interested. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to write off anything they were prepared to pay against your debt. If you did succeed in selling anything then I'm sure they would be prepared to take more. The finer weather seems here to stay and you could paint every day. Why, even after you'd cleared everything off you could still be left with a thriving little business of your own making."
For the first time since she had arrived home that evening Monica stopped looking frightened. "I'll go and see exactly what else I have, right away," she said.
Unfortunately it wasn't to be as simple as that, as Liza soon discovered. After an uncomfortably restless night, during which she was beset by a mounting despair, she woke early and went downstairs to find Monica in the kitchen, drinking tea. It didn't appear, in spite of their growing optimism the evening before, that either of them had been able to get much sleep.
"I've heard that troubles never seem so bad in the light of a new day," Monica remarked unhappily, as she watched Liza pour herself a cup of tea. "But this morning mine seem worse, if anything."
It was Saturday and the office was closed for the weekend, although Liza clearly remembered Simon saying he would send a girl in to help her. Every day must seem alike to him, she decided, recalling that most weekends he journeyed to London. The only opportunity he had of keeping an eye on that end of his business, he said, his brother's inefficiency continuing to plague him. Rather bleakly Liza surveyed the next two days without him, although she realized she should be glad of the respite in order to help settle her mother's affairs. If the store wouldn't take the paintings she didn't know what they would do. Further than this she hadn't thought, but she did acknowledge, if only to herself, that they probably hadn't a lot to be optimistic about. And even if the paintings sold, the outlook still seemed black. Monica had done all her painting at Hollows End, apparently finding it impossible to work anywhere else, and while Liza privately was unable to understand such an attitude she was forced to admit that some artists did form a particular attachment to one spot, from which it was impossible, even unwise, to uproot them. Liza's own half-formed plans to discuss a move from the house appeared to have been foiled once more, and with a faint sigh of resignation she concentrated on forgetting her own wretchedness in order to cheer her mother up.
"I'm sure you're mistaken about things looking worse," she said, as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "I think if we plan carefully it might all turn out very well."
But no amount of planning, she found, could persuade Monica to go herself to the store with her pictures. It had seemed comparatively easy the evening before, but this morning she refused almost tearfully to be talked into going further than the store car park so as to hold her paintings that they might not be damaged while Liza drove. Yesterday, she insisted, it hadn't been difficult to approach the small dealer, but to go boldly to a large shop in the city centre was quite beyond her. So willy-nilly, Liza had to go alone. Feeling anything but brave herself, Liza left her mother to wait in the car while she entered the store, finding the appropriate department, the two heavily wrapped paintings clutched tightly beneath her arm. To her almost disbelieving delight the buyer was there and after a few minutes' careful examination, agreed to take both pictures. Obviously an expert, with knowledge far in advance of Liza's rather elementary apprehension, the woman nodded her head with some satisfaction.
"Extremely nice," she commented, with a slight smile for Liza who returned it tentatively. "Just the sort of thing people are after. If you have any more I should like to see them, although," she added more cautiously, "I shall have to see what I can get for these, of course."
Liza was only too eager to assure her that there could be more perhaps in a week or two, and feeling decidedly happier she left particulars and turned to go, then gave a little start of surprise. Laura Tenson was standing directly behind her.
Liza's fingers flew, she felt, too dramatically to her lips, but she was unable to restrain them. Laura Tenson was the last person whom she expected or wanted to see. How long had she been standing there? The cat-in-the-cream expression on her smooth face suggested she had been there long enough to hear something, and while Liza tried sensibly to assure herself that it really didn't matter, a small voice kept niggling that it did.
"Good morning, Miss Tenson," she said politely, as the other girl made no effort to speak and the silence seemed to be getting a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Laura didn't recognize her? They had only met once before.
But it seemed that Laura did. In fact, considering they had met only once, she seemed disposed to be, if anything, over-friendly. "Oh, good morn
ing, Liza," she smiled sweetly. "How nice to see you. Do you happen to be thinking of buying?" She gave a casual nod towards Monica's pictures which were propped against a wall.
Liza bit her lip hard, her suspicions immediately confirmed, both by the girl's gushing tones and her obvious awareness that something unusual was going on. Her efforts to alleviate her curiosity were blatant enough to be almost insulting.
But before Liza could think of an evasive reply, to her utter dismay she heard the buyer saying effusively, "Miss Lawson is selling, Miss Tenson—two rather clever paintings which her mother has done. What do you think of them? I'm sure your father would agree that they are very nice."
It was then that Liza suddenly remembered. Laura's father, Sir Ronald, was a managing director of this store. It had never occurred to her until this moment, but she clearly remembered Silas mentioning it. Of course Sir Ronald owned and was part owner of so many companies that it was perhaps excusable that she had forgotten. But there was nothing excusable, she knew, in allowing such a recollection to shatter her defences. She had committed no crime in coming here today and Laura Tenson's well-bred, slightly supercilious attitude couldn't possibly affect her.
Laura was now turning from a faintly bored inspection, her eyes flickering with continuing indifference over Liza's slender figure, curved just enough to give interest to the silky blouse and tightly fitting jeans. "They're quite good," she agreed with the buyer, who slid away with a word of apology to speak to another customer. If Liza had hoped to escape by leaving the two of them chatting, she was doomed to disappointment.
As if sensing her desire to be gone, but not yet done with her, Laura fixed the younger girl with her pale, piercing scrutiny. "I believe my mother once bought something when she was at Hollows End," she said, with marked lack of interest.
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