by Henry Green
“Sure everything’s all right?” Mr. Abbot demanded and put out a hand to detain Pascal in case the man had it in mind to flee.
“Simply delicious thank you. Dear Richard do start on yours. Why this is divine, simply melts in one’s mouth!”
“Fetch Mrs. Weatherby a sharp knife Gaspard now then,” he ordered. “She can’t use what she’s got, man! Here give me!” He reached out a hand to Jane.
“No Richard no, you shan’t. The veal’s too perfect.”
The trolley was withdrawn, Pascal’s act over. They ate in silence for a while, appeared to be in contemplation.
“Richard,” she said at last, having dabbed at her red mouth with a napkin, “I’m worried to death about my Philip!”
“What’s the lad up to now?”
“Oh my dear he so needs a father’s influence. The dread time has come I’m afraid! I’m fussed dear Richard.”
“If I’m to help I must know more you know.”
“I almost can’t find the way to tell you it’s all so confusing but there’s Philip’s whole attitude to women.”
“Playing fast and loose?”
“Oh no I rather wish he would though I fear he is far too much of a snob for that, no no, worse, it’s the other, oh dear if I go on like this I never shall explain, oh but Richard what has one done to deserve things? Sometimes I almost wonder if he knows the facts of life even. You see he respects girls so!”
Mrs. Weatherby made her eyes very round and large to give Dick Abbot an adorable long glance of woe.
“Good God,” he replied with caution.
“It’s not often I wish his father were alive again. You remember how Jim treated me, you’re my living witness darling, but oh my dear I have moments sometimes when I’m not sure what to think.”
“You mean he’s a . . . ?” Mr. Abbot demanded lowering.
She broke into a sweet peal of laughter. “Oh Richard I do love you now and then,” she cried.
“Wish you could more often,” he said, rather glum.
“I’m sorry my dear, there you are. But it’s a man about the house he needs I’m almost certain, an older one.”
“No shortage you could marry Jane,” he gruffly said. “Why there’s half a dozen or more would jump at the chance.”
“I couldn’t dear. I’d simply never dare!”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because of darling little Penelope!!”
“But good heavens . . .”
“So jealous,” she explained “such a saint I really believe she would be ill!” Her expression was of admiring love and pride.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“You don’t know what these things can be,” she answered. “I’m everything to Pen, everything. She often says ‘mummy I’d simply rather die’! Of course they copy the words out of one’s very mouth but I’d never dare.”
“Well then what is wrong with Philip?”
“He just treats girls as if they weren’t real.”
“How d’you want him to behave? Chuck ’em about?”
“Oh but he must learn to treat women as human beings.”
“Maybe he does behind your back Jane.”
She gaily laughed. “My dear I’m almost certain not,” she said. “No he’s so finicky with them.”
“You marry again,”he insisted.
“But I’ve got used to being alone!”
“I can believe that,” he agreed. “Besides you wouldn’t necessarily be doing it for yourself would you? And after all my dear we can’t pay too much attention to the six-year-olds. Pen will snap out of it.”
“And one thing that won’t snap them out of things, as you call it, is for their poor deluded mothers to remarry.”
“So you’ll sacrifice Philip to little Penelope, is that the idea?”
“Richard dear one, how simply diabolically clever you can be sometimes! Oh Lord my horrid problems. But I do apologize, all this must be infinitely dull for you, and just when I’m so enjoying your delicious luncheon.”
“Know what I think? I believe these things settle themselves.”
“Oh but how?”
“Before you realize where you are you’ll be in the Registry Office one of these days,” he asserted. “And after not having asked the children’s leave either.”
“Do you really think I could fall in love once more?” she asked.
“I know you can,” he said in a satisfied voice. She made a face.
“Richard,” she grumbled and gave a scared laugh. “Behave yourself, we were talking of marriage, not anything else, not anything!”
“Like me to have a word with him then, Jane?”
“My dear isn’t that too sweet, I do appreciate it, still I very much fear he might not actually listen. Oh I realize how rude this sounds. But he’s not normal! No I don’t mean that. I mean more he’s so old-fashioned! Can you believe it he even gets up to open the door for me!! Because if someone is not in the family then he never seems able to listen.”
“If according to you he’ll only pay attention to a stepfather he’ll have to wait a bit then, won’t he?”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m at my wit’s end,” she said.
“Thought you maintained you’d never remarry.”
“Why Richard I never uttered a word of the kind!”
“Only man you’ll get hitched on to in the end then is your faithful servant,” he said with a sort of forced joviality.
“Richard dear you’re quite wonderful! You can’t imagine what a solid comfort you are always.” She gave him an exquisitely lingering long smile.
“You wait and see,” he insisted.
“I’ll wait,” she promised gaily laughing.
He frowned.
“Wish I could count on that,” he remarked.
“My dear I do apologize,” she said at once. “How abominably rude that was! But I told you I could never marry again because of little Pen. And I don’t think you are being quite kind,” she added with a grave reproachful look. “Richard I really believe you’re almost making fun which doesn’t suit you dear. Your sense of humour is not your long suit.”
“I say I’m truly sorry Jane. Fact is everyone’s having trouble with their children these days. Only last week John Pomfret buttonholed me in the Club about his Mary.”
“I’m miserable I’m such a bore Richard.” She gave him an adorable smile of humility in which there was mischief. For a moment she looked very like her daughter.
“You aren’t, good Lord no,” he protested.
“But I am! Anyway I think Mary’s such a vulgar child.”
“Flattered to find you can bring yourself to confide in me on occasions,” he said at his most formal. “Never could make up my mind about her yet,” he said apparently of Mary Pomfret. “Striking girl though. Why, does Philip see much of her then?”
“My Philip? Certainly not. What’s John’s trouble over the girl?”
“A bluestocking I fancy. Too taken up with her job. Unfeminine. Properly upset about her old John seemed.”
“But how extraordinary Richard! Why that’s just how I worry about Philip. So unmanly and serious for his years. What else did John say?”
“Well you know, one thing or the other.”
“My dear what I do so like about you is your absolute loyalty. Of course if you’d rather not . . .”
“Tell you the truth I’ve pretty well forgotten now.”
“In at one ear and out of the other like when I confide in you over Philip, is that it?”
“Now Jane, you know me.”
“And that’s just what I respect you for! It’s so perfect to be sure what one pours out won’t be all over London the next minute.”
“Oh well,” he said and seemed flattered. “But you say Philip and Mary never meet. Don’t they work along the corridor in the same office?”
“Of course they do my dear. I thought everyone knew.”
“Well then ask Mary what s
he thinks.”
“But it’s just because they talk every day that they don’t see anything of each other. Would you take someone out at night when you sat opposite her six hours every twenty four? Really Richard what the world has come to! Besides he’s too much of a snob as I said. And thank God for it where that girl’s concerned!”
“Don’t care for Mary then?”
“I don’t see why one should be friends with one’s old friend’s children do you? Any more than we as children made a fuss of the horrid creatures our parents’ friends brought us to play in the nursery. Of course I don’t know the way Philip passes his spare time but I’ve a very good idea he doesn’t spend that with Mary! I should hope not indeed.” Mrs. Weatherby began to look indignant.
“What’s the gal done then Jane?”
“Nothing so far as I know, nothing at all. I couldn’t care less. But just because John is one of my oldest friends I don’t see why I should like his daughter even if, as you remember perfectly well, at one time I loved her mother, oh so dearly!”
There was a pause.
“Wish I knew something to suggest about Philip,”he said at last.
“Let’s not talk about the children any more,” she said, relaxing. “Did you notice Liz and John had gone? How is that drear sad old affair of theirs have you any idea?”
“Can’t imagine Jane. Don’t know at all.”
“I believe he’s simply sick of her and she clings on in the most disgustingly squalid way.” She laughed gaily again. “I can’t imagine where Liz finds the strength. She’s so ill!” She beamed on him. “Oh dear aren’t I being ill-natured all of a sudden! You don’t think I’m very wicked do you?” She leaned forward, laid her hand by his. “I tell you what,” she said. “We don’t want to wait for coffee here. Richard let’s have it at your place darling.”
His face showed eager surprise.
“I say, jolly decent of you, why not indeed? Let’s go now,” he said and in a few minutes they left. His great face beamed.
•
Philip Weatherby and Mary Pomfret were sitting in the downstairs lounge of a respectable public house off Knightsbridge.
“Will your parent ever ask a relative to the house?” he sternly enquired.
“Why no, Philip, I don’t suppose he does.”
“Nor my mother won’t and it’s inconceivable.”
“I think Daddy may sometimes.”
“You’d imagine my mother was ashamed of me. You see the position? I can’t ring up and say ‘this is your little nephew here and can I run round for tea?’ ”
“Poor Philip you must come after the office one day though you’d find us rather dull for you I’m afraid.”
“I’d like very much and it wouldn’t be dull.”
“I’ll tell Daddy then.”
“Have another light ale Mary?”
“Yes but this one’s my turn.”
“Is it? Oh all right.” He took the money she had ready and went over to the bar while she got out a mirror and went over her face. In the way of the very young she did not look round the saloon.
When he came back with their drinks he said,
“D’you think our parents see much of each other still?”
“Now Philip why should they?”
“Didn’t you know? They had a terrific affair once.”
“But my dear how absolutely thrilling! I don’t believe you.”
“True as I’m here Mary. Arthur Morris told me.”
“How sweet, did they really?”
“I don’t think it’s sweet in the least.”
“I know but they had their lives to live after all. I mean their time is practically over now you see, so why shouldn’t they when they chose?”
“I’m embarrassed by them that’s why.”
“Oh Philip are you being fair? What difference does that make?”
“We could be brother and sister for one thing.”
“Only half brother. I don’t mind do you?”
“Why should I?” Nevertheless he seemed quite awkward and when she looked at him out of the corner of an eye both hers creased in the tiniest amusement. “Only it’s absurd that we shouldn’t know,” he added.
“What makes you think we might be?” she asked. He did not give a direct answer.
“D’you believe there’s some special feeling between brother and sister?” he demanded.
“How about you and Penelope?”
“Oh she’s too young.”
“I don’t suppose there can be unless they live together—have been brought up in the same house,” she corrected herself.
“You don’t believe in blood?” he asked.
“Consanguinity, is there such a word?” she answered. “No more than three types surely? Daddy wore his stamped over a card he hung round his neck during the war on a ribbon he got from me. I thought that marvellous then.”
“I meant heredity,” he said in a severe voice.
“Oh it’s all a question of environment now,” she objected. “I was taught the whole question of heredity had been exploded ages back.”
“All the same I’d still like to see my relatives,” he complained.
“Why don’t you ask your mother then?”
“She’d think it pansy. Almost told me as much once or twice.”
“But you aren’t Philip, no one could pretend you were.”
“One never knows,” he darkly answered.
“Look at you with that Bethesda Nathan at the office.”
“I say, good Lord, what gossips you all are. Who says anything about Bethesda and me?” Obviously he was delighted.
“Of course we all do. Someone as attractive as you,” she said smiling gently full in his face.
“You’re making fun,” he complained.
“No Philip don’t be absurd. Naturally we gossip.”
“You’re laughing at me just like my mother.”
“Now that’s not nice and she hoots at everyone after all.”
“Does she? I’d never notice.”
“Every minute. It’s her line,” she comforted.
“Anyway there’s nothing between Bethesda and me.”
“Perhaps not. What all of us are interested in is whether there may be.”
“Bethesda and I discuss this entire question of relatives,” he told Mary. “She sees her own the whole time. In fact she’s fed up with them.”
“Jews have tremendous family feeling Philip.”
“And why shouldn’t they?”
“I say you are touchy! Penelope better grow up quick and take some of these awkward corners off you.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m being a bore.”
“No you aren’t at that,” she objected. “We’re having a cosy little argument that’s all.”
Yet what she said seemed to silence him. He turned his head away and looked round the room. She stretched her fingers out and tilted them upwards against their table, examined the short nails which were enamelled but not painted. When his eyes came upon a man with two sticks he said,
“Have you heard about Arthur Morris?”
She immediately put those hands away on her lap and smiled upon Philip.
“Who?” she asked, all charm.
“You know that great friend of both our parents.”
“Oh,” she said and seemed to lose interest.
“He’s having his toe off.”
“Why ever for?”
Both began to giggle.
“Why does a man have a toe off?” he demanded.
“How should I know?”
“Because it’s diseased stupid.”
“Poor man,” she said no longer smiling, in an uninterested voice.
“My mother went to see him the other day,” he told her.
“Well and why not? You don’t make out there’s something between them on top of her and Daddy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“See here Philip your mother’s splendid. O
h I understand she may have a slightly unmarvellous nature at least where you are concerned, but she looks wonderful!”
“What difference does that make?”
“All the difference. She gets so many more offers.”
“But at her age it’s disgusting.”
“I never said she accepted them Philip. There are so many must want to take your mother out.”
“Who could?”
“Don’t be filthy. Much better her than I should be mauled by one of the men her age!”
“You don’t mean to say that antediluvian Arthur Morris . . . ?”
“Of course not,” she sharply protested. “If you go on to others like this you’ll be getting me a reputation.”
“I never . . .”
“OK” she said. “Forget it.” She smiled. “But suppose you had to have a leg off wouldn’t you wish for visitors?”
“Well of course.”
“All right, then don’t make out they kiss on top of the cradle they’ll have put over his stump.”
“Oh if it was just kissing,” he said in a contemptuous voice.
“How should I know when or where they do the other?” she remarked petulantly. “I don’t mind. If it’s Daddy now and some woman good luck to him I say.”
“Yes but your father’s a man,” he protested.
“I should hope so indeed,” she replied at which both began to giggle again.
“You’re hopeless,” he said.
“I haven’t half as much the matter with me as you appear to,” she objected, serious once more. “Honestly you seem potty about your mother.”
“I wonder if it’s why the relatives won’t come.”
“No Philip really. You know what their whole generation is!”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well they wouldn’t let a little thing like that, I mean of going to bed, what we’ve just been discussing, make the slightest bit of difference would they?”
“I don’t believe it is a little thing.”
“No more do I.”
“That’s where the whole difference lies,” he said “between our generations. Their whole lot is absolutely unbridled.”
“Yes Philip but they are the generation you’ve just said you want to meet aren’t they?” Both laughed gaily at this remark.
