by Henry Green
He came out of his description to find Miss Jennings laughing. “Oh my dear,” she gasped “you should never be allowed to play with small children. Particularly not little girls!”
“I know, I know,” he said.
“So when did the tears start darling?”
He objected that Jane had not cried then and went on to explain that so soon as this mock ceremony ended and Penelope had flown to her mother’s arms he’d taken it all a fatal step forward and asked the child to sit on her husband’s knee.
“You see they made an absolute picture,” he explained. “You know what Janie’s eyes are with that wonderful blessing out of the huge things.”
“Well?” Miss Jennings demanded when he paused.
“Just look at the man over there Liz I ask you,” he temporized. “Where was I? Oh yes,” and went on to describe Penelope’s little face buried in Jane’s bosom. He’d made a further invitation on which Jane did not call him to order, then suddenly, he said, it broke, there was a great wail came out with a “Mummy I don’t want,” after which nothing was any use, all had been tears.
“I nearly sobbed myself. Oh the blame I had to take! No but seriously you can’t think it wrong of me Liz?”
“Are you seeing a lot of Jane these days?” Miss Jennings wanted to be told.
“She’s supposed to lunch here this very afternoon,” he answered. “Which is as much as I ever see her, once in a blue moon, except when you choose to go sick-nursing.”
“Mother isn’t often . . .” she began.
“My dear what’s come over you,” he interrupted, “I wasn’t serious. No but do look over that man again. Well as you can imagine,” he proceeded “it’s gone on ever since. Whenever I ring I get the latest the child has imagined, she simply never seems to sleep now at all isn’t it awful, and the little boy who comes to tea with her quite heartbroken; Liz do say you don’t think it was dreadful of me!”
“What man did you mean?”
“Over there with a wig and the painted eyebrows.”
“Oh no how disgusting. But I can’t see anyone even remotely like! Well go on. This story of yours begins to amuse me rather, darling.”
“There’s no more. But look here Liz you can’t think it was indecent can you now?”
“Not a very nice thing after all.”
“But I couldn’t tell how she would react to sitting on my knee could I?”
“You should never have married her.”
“Yes but Liz she didn’t once in practice settle on my knee.”
“That’s not the point dear. Now Jane won’t ever hear the last!” Miss Jennings sniffed. “Well you said she was due and here she comes. We’ve simply talked her into the room!” Liz made a face as he craned to see Jane.
“Still Dick Abbot,” Mr. Pomfret remarked of the man with her. “Hello there,” he waved. With a great smile and one or two nods that seemed to promise paradise, Mrs. Weatherby changed course, made her way between tables to kiss Liz, to lay with a look of mischief and delight between John’s two palms a white hand which he pressed as had her own child the imaginary psalter.
The two women greeted one another warmly.
“And how’s Penelope?” he asked in his most indifferent voice.
“She’s just a little saint,” the mother answered. “Oh weren’t you wicked! I suppose he’s confessed to you Liz? Isn’t it simply unbelievable!” But she was smiling with great good-nature.
“Have you heard about poor old Arthur?” John enquired.
“Arthur Morris no,” Jane said, her face at once serious, the eyes great and fixed.
“Only a simple nail in the toe of his left shoe,” John told them. “A small puncture in the ball of the foot. But they’ve had to take the big toe off and now he’s dangerously ill.” He looked up at Jane. Her eyes grew round.
“Oh no,” she said, then began to shake. She was soon helplessly giggling without a sound. Then it spread to Liz and she clapped a hand over her mouth above blue eyes that watered with silent laughter.
“They may even have to amputate the ankle,” he added smiling broadly now.
“His ankle?” Jane cried, a tremor in her voice. Miss Jennings’ shoulders began to heave. “Forgive me I can’t help myself. Dick have you heard?” Mrs. Weatherby called out and turned around as though the escort must be close behind. He was nowhere near.
“But how rude of Richard!” she exclaimed, serious again at once.
Dick Abbot at that moment was in conference with a youthful seeming creature dressed up in the gold braid of a hotel porter and who turned away to bully a head waiter in white tie and tails.
“Table trouble,” John said.
“I ought to be on my way I suppose,” Mrs. Weatherby announced then began her farewell smile. “Goodbye darlings,” she murmured as if to promise everything again.
“The Japanese do,” Mr. Pomfret explained to her back.
“Do what good God?” Miss Jennings demanded.
“They all laugh even when their very own are at death’s door. It’s nerves. You don’t think that dreadful surely? Once Jane starts I’ve as much as I can do to stop myself.”
“She’s rather sweet,” Liz said “though I say as shouldn’t.”
He seemed to ignore this.
“The young don’t laugh,” he complained.
“I do, I can’t help it,” she said.
“They don’t,” he insisted gloomily.
“So what about me?” asked Miss Jennings, all smiles.
“I love you,” he said smiling back. “That’s one reason I love you Liz.”
“Well then? We’ve been over every one of your other friends haven’t we? And lunch Sunday’s as much as we ever seem to have. So let’s talk about me.”
“Oh don’t mention Sunday darling please, that brings up tomorrow, our all inevitably going back to work. Why it’s too despairing,” and his voice rose, “too too awful,” and he flapped both hands, “like a dip into the future, every hope gone, endless work work work!”
The man in porter’s uniform close by hurried across upon these gestures, a head waiter in attendance.
“What is there Mr. Pomfret?” he exclaimed. “Is not everything to your satisfaction?”
Miss Jennings began to laugh helplessly.
“No Pascal, nothing, I’m quite all right. Tell me, who are these other people on all sides?”
The head waiter stepped back.
“Oh Mr. Pomfret sir,” he hissed “they are not your people, they are any peoples sir, they come here now like this, we do not know them Mr. Pomfret.”
“Yes Gaspard so I’d noticed,” and he winked his far eye at Miss Jennings. Upon which Pascal spoke furiously to Gaspard who made off.
“For we do not see you often enough these years,” Pascal said to John, bowing low to leave in his turn.
“Thank you, yes that will be all,” Mr. Pomfret spoke softly to the retreating back. “That man’s ageless,” he complained to a smiling Liz. He went on “How old would you say he was?”
“Now how about me?” she demanded.
“Oh about thirty five,” he answered his own question.
“This is outrageous,” Liz said. She was twenty nine.
“But it’s true,” John abruptly insisted. “My daughter keeps a straight face on these occasions, in fact I try Mary all sorts of times and never get a smile out of her.”
“Mary’s sweet,” Miss Jennings announced.
“I know,” her father said. “But she just hasn’t that brand of humour or her nerves are over strong. Jane’s Philip at twenty is the same. What is it now darling?”
“Thank God I’m too young to have children that age.”
But Mr. Pomfret was not it seemed to be diverted.
“If I lay in bed about to be amputated,” he went on “I wouldn’t expect you to laugh of course my dear and naturally Mary couldn’t, but I’d lose a certain amount of resistance if I thought our acquaintances weren’t roaring their be
astly heads off! I’d even forgive you a grin or two,” he said smiling at her.
“That’s better,” she said and grinned back. “You mustn’t ever be serious. I can’t help but laugh over the solemn way you announce these things.”
“Yet you didn’t break out into howls when I told about Penelope.”
“That’s different. I mean they make wonderful artificial feet these days.” He laughed. “No,” she said “I’m serious. Why it might even get him out of the next war! No, with Penelope, there if you like you did something the young could never bring themselves to do.”
“Don’t be absurd Liz,” he said equably. “You know you would tomorrow, with any little boy dressed up in a top hat and spats for a fancy dress party; in fun of course.”
“But not with a girl. I’ll bet Jane’s Philip wouldn’t! Think of having a son of twenty and a girl of six!”
“That’s nothing, you’re to have more than that.”
“Oh I’m too old,” she muttered. “No one will marry me now.”
“Please Liz don’t!” he protested. “In your heart of hearts you know you will.”
“But I’m over twenty nine John.”
“Well when you’re fifty you can still have a boy of nineteen with a girl of six months.”
“You are sweet!” She smiled again.
“Then you do think I played Penelope a dirty trick?”
“She’s a girl of course,” Miss Jennings answered. “She really believed you married her so you see she thinks . . . how do I know what!”
“I still don’t see it Liz.”
“Oh I can’t tell, I expect she may just be over-excited. Why don’t you ask your Mary?”
“I daren’t. She disapproves so.”
“Why d’you say that about her? Oh bother children anyway! Except she isn’t a child any more of course. Eighteen if she’s a day. It always makes me feel old as the hills when I realize. The time I first knew you she can’t have been more than twelve.”
“And you look younger than she does every moment,” he said smiling into Miss Jennings’ eyes.
“Stop it John,” she smiled back. “Mary’s a very nice girl, just don’t forget, and she’s going to have all the young men at her heels in droves.”
“Yes that’s as may be. Certainly she’ll have to find someone who can look after her, I shan’t be able to manage much about setting up house for her husband. Who could these days? But she does disapprove. They all do.”
“I expect they can’t help themselves.”
“Yes, and why, that’s what no one will tell me Liz when I ask?”
“Perhaps they want to be different from their parents.”
“Poor Julia didn’t laugh either,” he said.
“Well if your wife never did then I suppose Mary doesn’t laugh especially so as to be different to you.”
“That’s rather hard Liz, surely?”
“But you must have been the same with your father or mother once you’d grown up. I know I’d have done anything to be different from both mine.”
“Ah children are a mystery! Just wait until you have yours.”
“Haven’t I already told you? It’s too late, I’m too old,” she wailed in a bright voice.
He reached across and laid his hand over hers on top of the white tablecloth. Her nails were scarlet. He stroked the bare ring finger.
“Oh I know it’s all finished between us where you’re concerned but it isn’t for me,” she said quite cheerfully.
“Good heavens what nonsense you can talk,” he replied in tones as clear as the skin of their two hands and the gold scrolls on the coffee cups. Looking up at her rather frightened nose he saw a reflection, from an empty wine glass and despatched by the sun in the Park, quiver beside her nostril.
“You’re adorable,” he said.
“If you only knew how I wish I were,” she answered smiling.
“Oh look,” he cried. “Dick Abbot’s having one of his upsets with a waiter.”
“Poor Jane, poor Jane,” she replied, in a voice she might have used to speak of Christian martyrs and did not take her eyes from Mr. Pomfret’s face.
He watched Mrs. Weatherby glance about with unconcern, with the especially humble half smile she used when in the same room as with what must have seemed, to her, inferior strangers, while the waiter stood relaxed beneath Abbot’s purpling face. Pascal next came over in controlled haste. He stood beside this waiter, bent a little forward, eyes averted while Abbot’s mouth worked and the words came tumbling out too far off for John to catch. Then Mr. Pomfret stiffened and even Liz turned her head to see. Abbot was half out of the chair, was pointing a palsied finger at his adam’s apple, held it there. Jane could hardly ignore this climax and laid a hand as if for reassurance on Pascal’s forearm. At least Mr. Abbot made gestures with slack wrists as though to brush off flies. Jane smiled again. Pascal bent forward in a torrent of humility, then chased the waiter off.
Mr. Pomfret turned back to his girlfriend.
“Poor old Dick! Whenever he gets upset it reminds him of that time at the club when he got stuck with a fishbone. He turned black and. . .”
“Now that’s quite enough John,” Miss Jennings stopped him. “In another minute you’ll get me laughing and if Jane sees she’ll think we’re being rude.”
“Well all right then,” he replied in what seemed to be great good humour. “Now wait a minute, I’ve paid haven’t I? All right then, let’s go back to your great bed.”
And they left, an elegant couple that attracted much attention, her sad face beaming.
•
“My dear I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Weatherby said to her companion. Reaching across she laid a hand over his on the white table cloth. Her nails were scarlet. She gently scratched the skin by his thumbnail. Gold scrolls over white soup plates sparkled clear in the Park’s sun without.
“It’s nothing, only that damn waiter . . .” Mr. Abbot muttered, his face alarmingly pale.
“All finished now,” she assured him.
He gave a great sigh.
“Most awfully sorry,” he said at last. “Can’t understand what came over me.”
“So blessed my dear there’s still someone to speak to them these days.”
“Terrible thing that half the waiters now don’t know what they’re serving. But I must apologize Jane. In front of John Pomfret too.”
“I shouldn’t let that even enter your head,” she sweetly protested. Yet when he raised his dog like eyes to hers she was looking over to where John and Liz had been.
“See much of him these days?”
“Of poor John?” Her eyes came back on him. To an extraordinary degree they were kind and guileless. “Why goodness gracious me no! Not from one year’s end to another.”
“Can’t imagine what people find in the chap.”
“Oh but he has thousands of friends.” She was looking round the restaurant again with her lovely apologetic smile. “Thousands!”
“Little Penelope care for the fellow?”
“Why yes how funny you should say it, now I come to think, Richard, he did come to tea only the other day, tea with her of course. He’s simply sweet with darling Penelope.”
“Only asked because children know you know.”
She brought her eyes back once more to smile full in his great handsome face. She did not say a word.
“Because they size a man up. Instinct or something. Always prefer a child’s opinion to me own.”
She gave a light airy little laugh.
“And now,” he went on, raising his voice, “now this damn waiter,” he said and twisted right round in the chair “it’s got so we’ll never be served! Good God I can’t apologize enough. Hardly ever see you except luncheon Sundays then this sort of thing crops up.”
Pascal hastened over.
“Have you all gone home man?” Mr. Abbot demanded.
“Oh sir, Mrs. Weatherby madam, in two minutes, yes sir please,” and Pascal went in
pursuit of a head waiter.
“My dear,” Mrs. Weatherby smiled. “Heavens how I love this place! Why I could sit where I am this moment the whole day long.”
“Decent of you,”he said.
“Have you heard about Arthur Morris?” she enquired. When he shook his head she passed on what John had told.
“Good Lord,” he pronounced, entirely grave. “It’s serious all right then. Can’t tell where these things’ll stop,” he added. “No telling at all! Well Jane that’s bad news you bring there!”
“Isn’t it dreadful,” she gravely replied. “I’ll have to try and see him at the clinic.”
“Jolly decent if you would. To cheer the poor unfortunate fellow.”
“You are sweet to be so sad,” she said.
“Then John Pomfret laughed of course?”
“Well darling to tell the utter truth I couldn’t help myself even. Oh, I was most to blame.”
“If you did I maintain it was out of common or garden politeness, there you are. Never will understand a man like that though. Good war record, plumb through the desert, all the way up Italy, must have had umpteen fellows killed right beside him. Did he laugh then out there,—eh?”
Mrs. Weatherby began to heave without a sound.
“Me being ridiculous again dear?” he asked, at his most humble.
“Only just a very little bit darling Richard. Oh I’m hopeless I know I am,” she said and dabbed at her brilliant eyes with a handkerchief. “You’ll have to forgive, that’s all.”
He watched her. His look was adoring.
“Bless you,” he said.
“You are so sweet,” she answered then composed herself.
Pascal and the head waiter hurried over with a trolley crowned by a dome of chromium which between them they removed with a conjurer’s flourish to disclose the roast. Abbot watched this closely, leant forward to touch the plate on which they were to serve Jane’s portion perhaps to make sure that it was hot and in general was threatening although at first he said very little. Mrs. Weatherby, the appreciative audience, greeted this almost magical presentation with small delighted cries, praised everything but told Gaspard to take away the potatoes that he had laid, one by one, around her portion in the loving way a jeweller will lay out great garnets beside the design to which he is to work, before the setting is begun. Pascal conjured these off in what seemed to be despair.
