Kathleen’s answer quite startled me; I had never heard her speak to Jo in such a way before.
“Oh, don’t be such a silly ass! You don’t suppose he wants to waste his time with people like us, do you?”
Pique, I thought, because he paid more attention to Jo than to her in the train. And whose fault was that? Poor Jo looked quite crushed for once.
“There’s no need to be so nasty to your sister, Kathleen. If Mr. Somervell hasn’t got as much time to spend with us as he used to have it’s because he’s going to be married.”
“Married? Did you say married? Who to?” squealed Jo. “Oh, Mummy, I’ve never been a bridesmaid! Do you think he’ll let us be bridesmaids? Wouldn’t it be fun?”
“He’s marrying Lady Emily Hope,” I told her, “and it’s the bride’s business, not the groom’s, to choose the bridesmaids. Besides, as Lady Emily has been married before, I don’t suppose she’ll have bridesmaids.”
“How funny,” said Kathleen. “How funny.” And she started to laugh. I don’t know why her laughter made me feel creepy. I stood it as long as I could, then I said:
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Kathleen, be quiet; you’re giving me a headache.”
But when we got back to Sutton she was still pushing herself back in the car, smothering her laughter in her hands.
Yet, what with one thing and another, that was a pleasant year. At Christmas we went down, all three of us, to Cissie May’s. Of course I have forgotten all about telling how I came to know Cissie.
It was the year George took us to the Derby; he had always threatened to, and we did it in style: hired Daimler, luncheon basket from Fortnum’s, and dear old George in a white topper and sponge-bag pants! I decided to go gay too, and had my first dress from Handley Seymour’s — who have dressed me ever since, except for my tailor-mades, that I get at Flora’s place in Savile Row. It was a very pretty turnout of pale, violety gray, and I had a hat made to match, by Mme. Germaine, of Worth’s. The girls had light biscuit-colored coats over pink summer frocks. George and I cut quite a dash in the paddock; I never realized how distinguished he could look when he got into the right clothes — for which, I may say, I was responsible: as I was for taking the couple of pansies out of his buttonhole and making him stop and buy a gardenia.
About the first person I saw was the duke, with a big party of people, and of course he saw me, and I think George had the shock of his life when he found me on chaffing terms with a duke. I introduced them, and they got on like wildfire, over gardening; I heard George inviting the duke to come and see his lobelias, and I nearly choked myself with trying not to laugh at what the duke would think when he set eyes on Kozy Kot. Then suddenly I heard the duke say, “Hallo, Cissie!” and there she was.
She looked so much bigger on the stage that at first I could not believe it was she; then I saw the big mouth and the bright eyes, screwing themselves up in the sunlight, the bright blue eyeshadow and the long lashes blobbed with mascara, so that they stood out like black-headed pins, and I knew it could be nobody else. I remembered the first night I had heard her sing “I Don’t Mean What You Mean,” and the way she had put heart into me — and I suppose something of what I was thinking got into my smile, for when the duke said, “Cissie, this is Bell Timson; you two ought to know each other,” her hand came into mine as if we were friends of a lifetime, and the thought flashed into my mind, This is a woman I can love. It was sheer prevision, for Cissie and I have loved each other ever since, and I often thought of the way her little hand came into mine that day in the paddock at Epsom. Cissie had the smallest hand and the biggest heart in the world. We followed the duke and George across the grass, Cissie eying George, to my amusement — it didn’t take much to see that she had an eye for a man.
“A little something of yours, dear?” She jerked her hat with the little curled blue ostrich feathers in it toward George. I laughed at the idea.
“No fear. I’ve given up that form of sport at my age,” I told her.
“Get along with you,” said Cissie. The two men went strolling ahead. “What I call a fine figure of a man. That one ought to be the dook.” And as a matter of fact I agreed with her; for the duke looked a regular little cock sparrow, trotting along beside George, whose shoulder came about level with the top of the duke’s head. She turned her wise little face toward mine — in spite of the heavy make-up she was beginning to show her age, and she was much thinner than she had been ten years ago, though there was still plenty of bosom, and she carried herself like a little empress. “I know what you mean, dear; men are nice creatures, but they’re tirin’. A woman likes to have a bit of a rest now and again.”
In spite of which, I noticed she didn’t take much of a rest while the men were about. She and the duke were evidently old friends — I heard later on that they had been something more — and the pair of them kept us in a roar the whole time between the races. If it had been anyone but Cissie I believe I should have been jealous; for, after all, the duke was supposed to be my boy friend! But you could not be jealous of Cissie. She had none of the tricks of playing another woman off the field that so many have who have always commanded masculine admiration, and while she was cracking her jokes with the men (I could see George was fairly bowled over) she kept catching my eye and giving me a look, as if we had got a secret between us. Trust Cissie for not letting anyone feel out of it. The girls were enchanted with her of course — they were of an age to feel a big thrill in being seen about with anyone as famous as Cissie May; and she was as sweet to them as she was to me.
Flora was there; she had driven down in Bunty Roscoe’s four-in-hand, with a party of young bloods from the Debrett, and the whole lot of them were as blind as owls. Flora insisted on wavering up to our party, on kissing me and the duke (George’s face was a picture), and on informing everybody that as she had “fixed things up” between the duke and me she thought it was high time we stood her a bottle of fizz on it. Of course they all — except George and the children — knew Flora, and there were some ironic cheers and ha-has, and I knew this would take a bit of straightening out with George, but I was starting to get worried about Kathleen (who could be fairly well trusted to understand anything she was better without) when I saw Cissie, with her arm through Kathleen’s, strolling off to get some money on the race. Bless her heart! You might not think that Cissie, with her broad songs and her innuendoes on the stage, would have much regard for the innocence of a girl like Kathleen; but that’s where you would be wrong. All the years they were young Cissie — who could use language like a bargee when she felt that way, and tell a story so hot it was a wonder it did not blister her tongue — never said a word in front of those girls that I would not have used in talking to Mother. Later on, when I knew Cissie’s friends, I found music-hall people in general like that; they would be foul-mouthed enough among themselves, in their easy fashion, but put a child or an ignorant young person among them, and their delicacy was touching. And that is more than can be said of the society people I knew.
Somebody towed Flora away, and I found an opportunity of slipping my hand through George’s arm and telling him no one took any notice of Flora; and anyway, she was as drunk as a coot. At which George, who was looking thoroughly wretched, cheered up a bit and began to enjoy his Derby Day once more. But I could see that, what with the duke and Flora, he thought I had a pretty queer set of friends. He was getting an eye opener, but I did not mind. I felt it was good for him.
As a matter of fact I was surprised, on that day at Epsom, to find out how many people I knew. Yes, I had learned a lot about society in the last few years; I bowed to some, and others I looked through, to save their doing the same by me. I knew a lot of secrets, and I was quite aware of some uneasy looks out of the corners of eyes which, if I happened to glance in their direction, hastily looked away; but they need not have worried. If those years had taught me anything it was to keep my mouth shut.
“Bring the kids down to Sunningdale one Sunda
y,” Cissie told me when we said good-by. “I’ve always got the place full over the week end, hut there’s nothing there that will do them any harm.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” I accepted gratefully.
“Oh, I saw you when that old kite started off about you and the dook.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “I hate folks that don’t care about kids, don’t you?”
In the car going home Kathleen said, “Mummy, who was that old woman?”
“Do you mean Cissie?” I felt quite indignant, although I realized that to anyone of Kathleen’s age Cissie probably appeared as old as the hills. But she soon put me right.
“Oh, she’s an angel. No, I mean the frightful old woman with yellow hair.”
“She’s nobody special — poor old thing, she’s a bit cracked, you know,” I told Kathleen. I felt George looking at me.
“But she kissed you, Mummy! Ugh, it gave me the creeps.”
“Well, it needn’t. She kisses anybody,” I said — a bit too carelessly, for Kathleen sounded quite shocked.
“Do you know her?” I felt her actually disapproving.
“One gets to know all sorts if one’s earning one’s living.”
And then of course Jo had to pipe up.
“What did she mean about ‘fixing things’ between you and the duke? What things?”
I haven’t often felt as if I would like to do my children an injury, but I could cheerfully have thrown Jo out of the car. To my horror I felt my face getting red — and there was George, the great fool, sitting like a graven image, or the day of judgment, or something — I could have smacked the pair of them.
“If you paid as much attention to the things you should as the ones you shouldn’t hear,” I was beginning. Then I caught George’s eye, and to my astonishment, for he so seldom butted in between me and the girls, he said, “That will do, Jo.” And she was so much taken by surprise that she was silent.
I knew it could not be left at that; so when the Daimler stopped at our door I chased the girls off and turned to George.
“So you’re still chewing that over.”
“Chewing what over?” he was deceitful enough to reply.
“About me and the duke.”
“No, I’m not,” he said gloomily.
“Then, George Glaize, what on earth’s the matter with you?”
He got it out after a while.
“These folks you know in the West End, Bell — they’re not the sort for you.”
“Don’t talk such arrant rubbish!” I fairly lost my temper; I had so enjoyed the day, and here was George, spoiling it all.
“They’re not,” he persisted. “Katie’s right; that old woman with the yellow hair — there’s something wrong there, Bell. I don’t like to see you and her together.”
I was touched in spite of myself; there was something really pathetic about old George, with his goodness and his ignorance.
“I know all there is to know about old Flora, George; you’re right, she’s a bad hat; but she once did me a good turn. Poor old cow — she won’t be here much longer, at her rate of a couple of bottles a day! And you wouldn’t expect me to turn people down when they’ve been kind to me?”
“You look out for their kindness,” croaked George.
“Oh, bless me, do you think I can’t look after myself?”
The gardenia was dead in his buttonhole, and his hair had got untidy under the white topper. Poor old George; his grandeur had somehow departed from him, and in spite of his swell new outfit he looked a bit like a broken-down music-hall turn. It’s very hard on a man, when he is feeling tragic, only to look foolish. And he had given us such a lovely outing!
“You won’t let any of them get you into trouble, Bell?”
I leaned forward and put my hand on his.
“Never, George; I can promise you that. For the sake of the girls, nobody’ll ever be allowed to get me into trouble.”
He looked a bit happier after that, but all the evening I felt the cloud of his anxiety hanging over me and wondered what on earth bee he could have in his bonnet, when everything was going so well for us all.
Chapter V
ITS JUST OCCURRED to me, in talking about the children, how little I’ve said about Jo. “And that’s all the thanks you get,” I can fancy her saying, “for not making a nuisance of yourself!” She would be the first to make a joke of it — bless her!
It isn’t as if there was little to say either. Right from her babyhood Jo was a real character — full of fun and affection, and on real good terms with herself and the world; I’ve never met a child more popular or less spoiled by the fuss people made of her. Jo never had a thought of self; and this, in a way, was her downfall, for it made us all take her for granted. With Jo one never had to steer clear of moods or pick and choose one’s language; she had a laugh for everything and, best of all, for herself. The contrast between her and poor Kay, eaten up with self-consciousness, was almost painful; or it would have been if Jo had not, from the very beginning, taken it on herself quite naturally to cover up all Kay’s moments of awkwardness. Jo loved us all, but she fairly worshiped Kay; and it often puzzled Susan and me, when we could not make head or tail of Kay in one of her moods, to see the matter-of-fact way in which Jo tackled her, and the mildness with which, sooner or later, Kay would give in to her younger sister’s handling.
For there’s no blinking the truth: Kathleen led us a nice dance for the next few years after she left the Towers.
“Oh, for the love of God, Bell,” Cissie used to say, “let the girl alone; it’s only temp’rament.” Cissie would have it Kathleen was an artist. “It isn’t the things that come out of people that make them artists.” I remember her being quite grave about it. “It’s the make-up inside: the way they look at things and people — the sort of vision they’ve got on life in gen’ral. Sometimes they can express it and sometimes they can’t; but being dumb doesn’t make you any less of an artist if you’ve got the goods!”
I thought it sounded a bit cockeyed, but I knew Cissie was wise, besides being sweet and brilliant; so I tried to possess my soul in patience and see what comfort I could get out of an “artistic” daughter. It wasn’t much. Frankly Kay didn’t, to me, show the smallest aptitude for art, though I’d persuaded her to go to the local art school, as we had planned all along, and did all I could to encourage her at home. Commercial art, she informed me, was “just cheap stuff — to catch the eye.” Well, if a picture doesn’t catch the eye, what’s the good of it? All she did was to putter about with bits of clay and paper, producing things she called “abstracts,” which I thought looked very much like the sort of stuff they taught her in the kindergarten. So I felt there was no point in her going on with it; it was a sheer waste of money.
Then there was the French craze, and Mademoiselle, whom I have mentioned. That was even shorter. I quite thought her trips abroad would have made her keener than ever on it, because they seem to speak French everywhere on the continent, and I was quite proud, she spoke it so prettily on our shopping expeditions in the ports and in the restaurants we visited here and there. But no; that was another flash in the pan. When we came home she would not be bothered with her French lessons, and Mademoiselle, after a lot of that irritating French shoulder-shrugging, said that, as Kathleen would not work, she might as well give in her notice and find a more appreciative pupil. One person was glad to get rid of her, and that was Susan; Mademoiselle was always criticizing what she called la cuisine, wanting to poke her nose in the kitchen and exclaiming over the “extravagance”: until I forgot my manners one day and said that though the French were very economical it was what their circumstances had obliged them to be, and there was no virtue in living on offal. I still hadn’t got over the meals at Dr. Lavigne’s!
I suppose the next move was natural. Seeing so much of Cissie and her friends, Kathleen got it into her head she wanted to go on the stage. Although I did not care for the idea I felt, for once, there might be something
in it. I told Cissie all about that performance of Prunella, and she did not seem particularly impressed; I expect she thought it was just the old story of the fond mother thinking her duckling’s a swan. “I can’t help her,” said Cissie flatly. “I don’t know anybody in the legit, and of course Kay’s no good for the halls. Get her behind the band and the floats, and nobody’d see or hear her.” However, I thought the duke might help, because he had a lot of friends in the profession, so I had a word with him; and he said he had a bit of money in a show that was on in the West End, called Early to Bed, and he thought he could get her something in that.
But that did not suit my lady at all. She wanted to be in Ibsen or Shakespeare. All right, said Cissie; send her to the Academy. If she passes her entrance she’ll learn something about acting and have a chance of catching somebody’s eye.
But after a term of Gower Street — would you believe it? — it was the same old story. Whatever she took up, her enthusiasm seemed like the flame of a candle: the first puff of wind would blow it out. She “never had the parts she wanted”; it was “such a fag going up to town every day” — all signs, as I knew, that the work wasn’t going the way it should. I got so worried about the child that I took her to Remmy, and he diagnosed anemia and said she had better stop at home for a while. I did not expect she would mind, as she was always grumbling, but there were tears and a scene, and she “was never allowed to do what she wanted” — and then the giving in — as if it was all hopeless, we were all against her and she had no heart to struggle any longer.
I actually spoke to Jo about it when she came home for her holidays.
“I don’t know what to do with Katie, Jo; she hasn’t got a notion of settling to anything.”
Jo looked quite solemn for once.
“I think she’s only stretching herself, Mummy.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Well, I think school’s rather a tight fit for anybody like Kay. I wouldn’t worry if I were you; I’d just pretend to take no notice and — let her alone.” She threw an arm like the branch of a young tree round my neck; Jo’s embraces were always a test of one’s staying power. “You know I’m leaving at the end of next term, Mummy!”
Bell Timson Page 36
