The Complete Short Stories

by Muriel Spark

  Linda started to cry. Daphne said, ‘I’ll write to my friends, and explain.’ Linda dried her eyes and said, ‘You can’t imagine how deadly it is living in this awful house year after year with a couple of selfish old people and that helpless Clara.’

  Next weekend, while Linda was away, several Patterson relations arrived. Molly, Rat, Mole and an infant called Pod. Mole was an unattached male cousin. Daphne expressed a desire to see Cambridge. He said it would be arranged. She said she would probably be in London soon. He said he hoped to see her there. Aunt Sarah stuck a pin in the baby’s arm, whereupon Molly and Rat took Daphne aside and advised her to clear out of the house as soon as possible. ‘It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Daphne, ‘but it’s typically English.’

  ‘Good gracious me!’ said Rat.

  At last she had her week in London with the relations of her friends in the Colony. Daphne had been told they were wealthy, and was surprised when the taxi drove her to a narrow house in a mean little side street which was otherwise lined with garages.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ she asked the driver.

  ‘Twenty-five Champion Mews,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Daphne. ‘This must be it.’

  Before Daphne had left the country Linda had remarked, ‘A house in Champion Mews. They must be rather rich. How I would adore a mews house.’ Daphne remembered this.

  The interior of the house was very winning. She readjusted her ideas, and at dinner was able to say to her hostess, ‘What an adorable mews house.

  ‘Isn’t it? We were so lucky — literally everyone was after it.’

  Mrs Pridham was middle-aged, and smart. Mr Pridham was a plastic surgeon.

  ‘I shan’t make the mistake,’ he said to Daphne, ‘of asking you about all the dangers you encountered in darkest Africa.’

  Daphne laughed.

  ‘You must have a Season of course,’ said Mrs Pridham. ‘Have you arranged anything?’

  ‘I’m here for two years at least.’ Then she remembered about the London Season, and said, ‘No, I have nothing arranged. But my uncle has written to various friends.’

  ‘It’s getting a little late in the year,’ said Mrs Pridham.

  ‘Really,’ said Daphne, ‘I just want to see England. I’d like to see London. I’d like to see the Tower, and Uncle Chakata’s friends.’

  ‘I shall take you to the Tower tomorrow afternoon,’ said Mr Pridham.

  He did, and afterwards they went for a spin round Richmond and Kingston. He pulled up at a pleasant spot. ‘Daphne,’ he said, ‘I love you.’ And he pressed his lips of sixty summers to hers.

  As soon as she could disengage herself, she casually wiped her mouth with her handkerchief— casually, for she did not want to hurt his feelings. However, she told him she was engaged to be married to someone in the Colony.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve done the wrong thing. Have I done the wrong thing?’

  ‘Daphne is engaged to a lucky fellow in Africa,’ he said at dinner that night. Mole was present. He looked at Daphne. She looked back helplessly. Mrs Pridham looked at her husband, and said to Daphne, ‘Before you do anything, you must have your London Season. Stay six weeks with us, do. I’ve brought out girls before. It’s too late of course to do anything much but —’

  ‘Do stay with us,’ said Mr Pridham.

  Later, when Daphne explained the tale of her ‘engagement’ to Mole, he said, ‘You can’t stay with the Pridhams. I know someone else you can stay with, the mother of a friend of mine.’

  Mrs Pridham looked said when Daphne told her she could not prolong her visit. For the rest of the week she unmistakably cast Daphne into her husband’s way, frequently left them alone together, and often arranged to be picked up somewhere in the car, so that Daphne was obliged to dine with Mr Pridham alone.

  Daphne mentioned to Mole, ‘She hasn’t the least suspicion of what he’s like. In fact, she seems to throw the man at me.’

  ‘She wants to hot him up,’ said Mole. ‘There are plenty of women who behave like that. They get young girls to the house simply in order to give the old man ideas. Then they get rid of the girls.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  She went to stay as a paying guest with the mother of Mole’s friend, Michael. It was arranged by letter.

  Michael Casse was thin and gangling with an upturned nose. He had been put to stockbroking with an uncle, but without success. He giggled a great deal. His mother, with whom he lived, took a perverse pride in his stupidity. ‘Michael’s hopelessness,’ she told Daphne, ‘is really…’ During the war, his mother told her, she had been living in Berkshire.

  Michael came home on leave. She sent him out with the ration book one day after lunch to buy a packet of tea. He did not return until next morning. He handed his mother the tea, explaining that he had been held up by the connections.

  ‘What connections?’ said his mother.

  ‘Oh, the trains, London, you know.’

  And it transpired that he had gone all the way to Fortnum’s for the tea, it never having occurred to him that tea could be bought in the village, nor indeed anywhere else but Fortnum’s. Daphne thought that very English.

  Michael now lived with his mother in her fiat in Regent’s Park. Greta Casse was as gangling as her son, but she gangled effectively and always put her slender five foot ten into agreeable poses, so that even her stooping shoulders and hollow chest, her bony elbows akimbo, were becoming. She spoke with a nasal drawl. She lived on alimony and the rewards of keeping PGs.

  She took vastly too much money from Daphne, who suspected as much, but merely surmised that Greta Casse was, like her son, stupid, living in an unreal world where money hardly existed, and so one might easily charge one’s PGs too much. Daphne frequently slipped out to Lyons for a sandwich, so hungry did she go. She assumed at first that society women were simply not brought up to the food idea, but when she saw Greta Casse tucking in at anyone else’s expense, she amended her opinion, and put Greta’s domestic parsimony down to her vagueness about materialistic things. This was a notion which Greta fostered in various ways, such as always forgetting to give Daphne the change of a pound, or going off for the day and leaving nothing in the house for lunch.

  That she was, however, a society woman, in a sense that Daphne’s relations were not, was without doubt. Molly and Linda had been presented, it was true. And Daphne had seen photographs of her mother and Aunt Sarah beplumed and robed, in the days when these things were done properly. But they were decidedly not society women. Daphne mused often on Greta Casse, niece of a bishop and cousin of an earl, her distinctive qualities. She went to see Pooh-bah one weekend, and mentioned Greta Casse to a Miss Barrow, a notable spinster of the district who had come to tea. Daphne was surprised to learn that this woman, in her old mannish Burberry, her hands cracked with gardening, her face cracked with the weather, had been a contemporary of Greta’s. They had been to various schools together, had been presented the same year.

  ‘How odd,’ Daphne remarked to Pooh-bah later, ‘that two such different people as Mrs Casse and Miss Barrow should have been brought up in the same way.

  He gave a verbal assent, ‘I suppose so, yes,’ but clearly he did not understand what she meant about it being odd.

  Back she went to Regent’s Park. Greta Casse arranged a dinner party for Daphne at a West End restaurant, followed by an all-night session in a night-club. About twenty young people were invited, most of them in their early teens, which made Daphne feel old, and she was not compensated by the presence of a few elders of Greta’s generation. Michael came, of course. Englishman though he was, Daphne could not take him very seriously.

  The party was followed by another, and that by another. ‘Can’t we invite Mole?’ Daphne said.

  ‘Well,’ said Greta, ‘the whole idea is for you to meet new people. But of course, if you like…’

  The bill for these parties used up half of Daphne’s annual allowance.
Luncheons, at which she met numerous women friends of Greta’s, used up the other half. Daphne longed to explain to Mrs Casse that she had not understood what was involved by becoming her lodger. She did not want to be entertained, for she had merely counted on somewhere jolly to stay. Daphne had not the courage to put this to Greta who was so uncertain, precarious, slippery, indefinite and cold. She wrote to Chakata for money. ‘Of course,’ she wrote, ‘when I’ve had my fun I’ll take a job.’

  ‘I hope you are seeing something of England,’ he replied when he sent his cheque. ‘My advice to you is to go on a coach tour. I hear they are excellent, and a great advance on my time, when there was nothing of that sort.’ She rarely took much notice of Chakata’s advice, for so much of it was inapplicable. ‘Do introduce yourself to Merrivale at the bank,’ he had written. ‘He will give you sherry in the parlour, as he used to do me when I was your age.’ On inquiring for Mr Merrivale at the bank, Daphne was unsuccessful. ‘Ever heard of a chap called Merrivale?’ the clerks asked each other. ‘Sure it’s this branch?’ they asked Daphne.

  ‘Oh yes. He used to be the manager.

  ‘Sorry, madam, no one’s heard of him here. Must have been a way back.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Daphne got into the habit of ignoring Chakata’s questions, ‘Have you been to Hampton Court?’

  ‘Did you call on Merrivale at the bank? He will give you sherry…’

  ‘Have you booked for a tour of England and Wales? I trust you are planning to see something of the English countryside?’

  ‘I couldn’t find that bootmaker in St Paul’s Churchyard,’ she wrote to him, ‘because it is all bombed. Better stick to the usual place in Johannesburg. Anyway, I might not order the right boots.

  Soon, then, she made no reply to his specific requests and suggestions, but merely gave him an account of her parties, pepping them up for his benefit. He seemed not to read her letters properly, for he never referred to the parties.

  Greta came back to the fiat one afternoon with a toy poodle. ‘He’s yours,’ she said to Daphne.

  ‘How utterly perfect!’ said Daphne, thinking it was a gift, and wanting to express her appreciation as near as possible in the vernacular.

  ‘I had to have him for you,’ said Greta, and went on to demand a hundred and ten guineas. Daphne ducked her face affectionately in the pet’s curly coat to hide her dismay.

  ‘We were so terribly lucky to get him,’ Greta was saying. ‘You see, he’s not just a miniature — they’re slightly bigger — he’s a toy.

  Daphne gave her a cheque, and wrote to Chakata to say how expensive London was. She decided to take a job in the autumn, and to cut out the fortnight’s motoring tour of the north with Molly, Rat, and Mole which she had arranged to share with them.

  Chakata sent her the money as an advance on her next quarterly allowance. ‘Sorry can’t do more. Fly has had a go at the horses, and you will have read about the tobacco crops.’ She had not read about the blight, but a bad year was not an uncommon occurrence. She was surprised at Chakata’s attitude, for she believed him to be fairly wealthy. Shortly after this she heard from friends in the Colony that Chakata’s daughter and her husband who had gone to farm in Kenya, had been murdered by the Mau Mau. ‘Chakata implored us not to tell you,’ wrote her friend, ‘but we thought you should know. Chakata is educating the two boys.’

  It was the middle of May. Daphne had engaged to be Mrs Casse’s lodger till the end of June. However, she telephoned to Linda that she was returning to the country. Greta was out. Daphne packed and sat down courageously with Popcorn (the poodle) on her lap to await her return, and explain her financial predicament.

  Michael came in first. He was carrying an empty birdcage and a cardboard box with holes in it. On opening the box a bird flew Out in a panic.

  ‘A budgerigar,’ said Michael. ‘I expect they fly about wild where you’ve come from. They talk, you know. It’s frightened at the moment, but when they get used to you, they talk’ He giggled.

  The bird was perched on a lampshade. Daphne caught it and put it in the cage. It had a lavender breast.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Michael said. ‘Mummy sent me home with it. She bought it for you. It says “Come here, darling” and “Go to hell”, and things like that.’

  ‘I really don’t want it,’ said Daphne in despair.

  ‘Peep, peep, peep,’ said Michael to the bird, ‘say halo, say halo. Say come here darling.’

  It sat on the floor of the cage and moved only its head from side to side.

  ‘Really,’ said Daphne, ‘I have no money. I’m hard up. I can’t afford your mother’s birds. I’m just waiting to say goodbye to her.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes,’ said Daphne.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Take my advice and clear out now before she comes back. If you tell her this to her face there’s bound to be hell.’ He giggled weakly, poured himself a drink of brandy which his mother had watered, and said, ‘Shall I get you a taxi now? She’ll be back in half an hour.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait,’ said Daphne, and ran her hand nervously through the poodle’s curls.

  ‘There was nearly a court action one time,’ said Michael, ‘about another girl. Mummy was supposed to have given two balls for her, but she didn’t or something, and the girl’s people got worked up. I think Mummy spent the money on something else, or something.’ He giggled.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Daphne went and telephoned to Mole and asked him to call for her when he left his office.

  Greta arrived, and when she had taken in the situation she sent Michael from the room.

  ‘I must tell you,’ said Greta to Daphne, ‘that what you are proposing is illegal. You realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘I can give you a week’s money in lieu of notice,’ Daphne said, ‘and a little extra.’

  ‘You agreed to stay till the end of June, my dear. I have it in black and white.’ This was true. Daphne realized how deliberately her letter of confirmation from the country had been extracted from her.

  ‘My uncle has had some unforeseen expenses. My cousins were murdered by the Mau Mau, and their sons —’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but one just can’t be sentimental. It’s not like taking in ordinary lodgers. A Season is a Season, and one can’t get another girl at this time of the year. Look what I’ve done for you. Parties, the races, meeting important people … No, sorry, I can’t consider releasing you from the obligation. I’ve arranged a cocktail party at Claridge’s for you next week. After all, I don’t make anything out of it. Mercy Slater charges fifteen hundred to bring a girl out.’

  This put Daphne off her stroke, it prompted her to haggle: ‘Lady Slater gives balls for her debs.’

  Greta rapidly got in: ‘You surely didn’t expect the full deb process in your position?’

  ‘Mole is calling for me,’ Daphne said.

  ‘I don’t want to keep you against your will, Daphne. But if you leave now you must compensate me fully. Then, if you want to go away, go away.

  ‘Go’way. Go’way, go to hell,’ said the budgerigar, which had now risen to its perch.

  ‘And then there’s the bird,’ said she. ‘I bought it for you this afternoon. I thought you’d be thrilled.’ She began to weep.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ said Daphne.

  ‘All my girls have adored their pets,’ Greta said.

  ‘Come here darling,’ said the bird. ‘Go’way, go to hell.’

  Greta was doing a sum. ‘The bird is twenty guineas. Then there’s the extra clothes I’ve ordered —’

  ‘Go’way. Go’way,’ said the bird.

  Mole arrived. Daphne placed a cheque for twenty pounds on the hall table and slipped down to his car, leaving him to cope with her bags. ‘You will hear from my solicitors,’ Greta called after her.

  Michael was hanging about in the hail. He took the scene calmly. He giggled at Daphne, then went to help Mole with the luggage.

 
They had been driving for ten minutes before they had to stop for a traffic light. Then, when the engine stopped, Daphne heard the budgerigar chirping at the back of the car.

  ‘You’ve brought the bird!’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it yours? Michael told me it was yours.

  ‘I’ll ring the pet shop,’ she said, ‘and ask them to take it back. Do you think Greta Casse will sue me?’

  ‘She hasn’t a hope,’ said Mole. ‘Forget it.’

  Daphne rang the pet shop next morning from the country.

  ‘This is Mrs Casse speaking,’ she said with a nasal voice. ‘I bought a budgerigar from you yesterday. So silly of me, I’ve forgotten what I paid you, and I’d like to know, just for my records.’

  ‘Mrs Greta Casse?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t think we sold a budgie yesterday, Mrs Casse. Just a moment, I’ll inquire.’

  After a pause another, more authoritative, person came on the line. ‘You’re inquiring about a budgerigar, Mrs Casse?’

  ‘Yes, I bought it yesterday,’ said Daphne through her nose.

  ‘Not from us, Mrs Casse — oh, and by the way, Mrs Casse…’

  ‘Yes,’ twanged Daphne.

  ‘While you’re on the phone, I’d like to mention the account.’

  ‘Of course. How much is it? I’ll send a cheque.’

  ‘Eighty guineas — that’s of course including the toy poodle.’

  ‘Ah, yes. What exactly was the sum for the poodle? I’m so scatty about these things.’

  ‘The poodle was sixty. Then there was an amount last October—’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sure it’s quite correct. I’ll send a cheque.’

  ‘You have stolen that bird, I know,’ said Aunt Sarah that afternoon, giving the cage a shove.

  ‘No,’ said Daphne, ‘I paid for it.’

  In the spring of 1947 Linda died of a disease of the blood. At the funeral a short man of about forty-five introduced himself to Daphne. He was Martin Grindy, the barrister who had been Linda’s lover.

  He gave Daphne his card. ‘Would you come some time and talk about Linda?’