Dorothea’s mother, of whom no photograph existed for she saw no sense in wasting money on photographs, remained in Dorothea’s memory also as tall, dark-haired, robust, honest as the day and devoted to her children in the Yorkshire fashion, that is cooking and cleaning and sewing and ironing for them with boundless energy and attending to their morals and manners with unfailing vigour, but not expressing her love much in words—or, as she would have put it, not fussing over them, not indulging in any sloppy nonsense. Everything in the Dean household was perfectly clean, perfectly respectable, perfectly decent, but there were, again as Mrs. Dean would put it, no fancy frills there. Left a widow with three children to bring up on an army pension, Mrs. Dean had taken over the small corner shop previously kept by her father at the end of Naseby Terrace and ran it extremely well. She sold newspapers and cigarettes and chocolates, string and pencils and notepaper and a few toys. The shop window was cleaned rigorously every week and the stock was always good and fresh, but it was set out in plain symmetrical rows, arranged for usefulness, easy access, rather than beauty.
The children in their young days helped occasionally in the shop, but were soon sent out to other work so that the Dean eggs should not be all in one basket: Kathy to a large Ashworth haberdashery establishment, Tom as an engineering apprentice, Dorothea when she presently left school to a stationer’s shop, as she had always been, in Mrs. Dean’s phrase, “fond of books and such.”
Kathy, who was tall and bouncing, with lots of dark hair very neatly brushed, a bright complexion, a loud voice, a hearty laugh and a big bust, did extremely well in the drapery store; she became particularly skilled incorsetry—the difficulties of her own ample figure inclining her to knowledgeable treatment of customers’ problems—and received steady promotion.
Tom grew up before the war was over and entered his father’s regiment, but luckily the fighting was over before he could get to the front. When he came back from the occupation forces in Germany he very soon went off, capable and energetic, to Canada, prospered and presently married very suitably there. Mrs. Dean of course missed him, but never thought of objecting to his departure—she would have regarded any such objection as “standing in his light” and altogether “silly work.” She wrote to him regularly once a month, just two sheets of a lined writing pad, signing her letters your affectionate mother in a sensible unfussing fashion.
Yes, they were a strong, sensible, healthy family, deeply attached to each other without making any fuss about it. Dorothea as the youngest perhaps received more outward show of affection than the rest. Ten years younger than Tom, eleven years younger than Kathy, she was always something of a pet and a plaything to her brother and sister. They cared a great deal for their little sister, and had a feeling that there was a kind of grace about her which was lacking in themselves. But this did not incline them to be possessive or selfish with Dorothea, and certainly they would never dream of “standing in her light.”
Accordingly when Mrs. Dean a couple of years ago suddenly died of ‘flu, and her daughters’ first grief was over and plans had to be made, there were no floods of tears, no outraged protests, on Kathy’s part at Dorothea’s announcement that she wanted to remain in Ashworth and continue in her present work, though Kathy had decided to move to Scarborough and take up a better job she had been offered there. True, Kathy looked disappointed; true, she pointed out the economic advantages of living together and the beauties of the seaside resort; true, she threw out a blunt word on the dangers of a young girl’s living alone. At this Dorothea quietly laughed. Her sister joined in the laughter.
“But why do you want to stay behind, Dot?” she asked in a sensible, friendly tone.
Dorothea hesitated, for in truth she hardly knew.
“I want to be on my own for a while,” she said at length.
“Well, you do right to say what you want,” said Kathy approvingly, and she made no further attempt to prevent Dorothea from having her own way.
The house and shop were sold advantageously and the money divided between the three Dean children; the furniture was stored; a room for Dorothea was taken with Mrs. Eastwood at the other end of Naseby Terrace, and Kathy departed cheerfully for Scarborough, stipulating only that the separation should be regarded as temporary and reconsidered after a year, and that the sisters should meet at least three times mean-while.
Towards the end of that period Kathy heard of a highly suitable flat which was to fall vacant on the outskirts of Scarborough in a few months—suitable, that is, if Dorothea came and joined her; it was too costly for her to rent alone. At first Dorothea regarded this plan without disfavour if without enthusiasm. She was by now tired of Mrs. Eastwood; she found herself a trifle lonely in Ashworth without her family; she was fond of her sister and willing to oblige Kathy now that she had lived alone and managed her own affairs long enough to have established an independent status; she could not altogether disregard the financial benefits which would accrue from shared expenses; she had no fears about getting a good job in Scarborough, and being young she liked the idea of a change of scene. She therefore replied in a temporising but not rejecting sense to Kathy, and the plan was discussed in some detail and communicated—as was only fair—to Mrs. Eastwood, who laid down the principle that a fortnight’s notice must be given of Dorothea’s departure.
But the next time the sisters met—Dorothea had taken a Sunday coach trip to Scarborough—and Kathy announced eagerly that she had arranged that Dorothea should see the flat, Dorothea, looking aside, said firmly:
“Kathy, I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t want to come to Scarborough after all.”
“You don’t want to come!” exclaimed Kathy incredulously. “But, Dot, you said in your letter——”
“I know,” said Dorothea, colouring. “And I’m sorry, Kathy. Truly sorry. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Is it because you don’t want to come to Scarborough, or because you don’t want to leave Ashworth?” asked Kathy shrewdly.
“I don’t want to leave Ashworth,” said Dorothea, looking aside.
There was a pause.
“Is it a boy-friend, love?” asked Kathy in her kindest tone.
Dorothea coloured deeply and made no reply.
“Do I know him, eh?” pressed Kathy.
“No. And perhaps you never will,” said Dorothea.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Uncertain, is he?” said Kathy, tossing her head. “Thinks himself too good for you, does he? Or what?”
“He is too good for me,” said Dorothea simply. “He’s a truly good man, Kathy. We’re friends, but I don’t really know whether it’s anything more, with him. It hardly seems likely, to me.”
“What does he do for a living, then?”
“He’s a schoolmaster at the Grammar School. He’s been to Oxford and all that.”
Her sister was silent for a moment, in spite of herself impressed. Then with the usual Dean mixture of warm kindness and practical good sense, she said shrewdly:
“Well, stay on in Ashworth for a bit, then. Give yourself a chance. Only don’t be too long about it, Dot. I shall have to give a firm answer at the end of the season, you know.”
“You’re very good about it all—the flat and everything, Kathy,” said Dorothea.
“Oh, rubbish!” said Kathy, laughing, embarrassed by this expression of feeling.
She had, of course, with the customary Dean shrewdness, hit the nail on the head, for between Dorothea’s letter and her visit to Scarborough, the Easter holiday had occurred, and Dorothea’s feeling for Richard Cressey, from being a mere wistful daydream, had seemed to take on reality and hope.
Was it too soon yet, wondered Dorothea, turning from the mirror, to put on the brilliant summer frock which she had washed and ironed at the weekend for this dinner with Richard? Yes, it was too soon, for its spotless freshness must not be marred. She threw a towel over her strong young shoulders and sat down—carefully so as not to crease the new lingerie she had bought especially for t
his occasion. It was the first time Richard had asked her to dine, and she wanted to feel that everything was perfect for him. Fastidious herself, she felt an even more sensitive fastidiousness in Richard, and was determined that in that way at least she would live up to his highest expectations.
It was indeed for this fastidiousness, this delicacy, this refinement of spirit, that she loved him.
The first time he came into the shop she was struck at once by his kind, pleasant, friendly manner. No, it was more than that; quite a few customers had kind, pleasant, friendly manners, but Mr. Cressey had something more. He had what she meant by the phrase, the flower of courtesy. There was something polished, something truly civilised, in his ways. Then he spoke so well, using such elegant words, so neatly turned—nothing at all pedantic or high-flown, just simple and clear, but simple as a beautifully curved line, clear as crystal. It was a pleasure to serve him. She had to climb a ladder to reach the book he wanted; turning at the top to enquire which edition he preferred, she found he was holding the ladder steady for her. Many customers would have done the same, of course, but what she particularly appreciated was that when she descended the ladder far enough for safety, he released it, so that there was no question of her hands or body touching his. Nor did he mention the ladder, or show any awareness of it in his speech or look; he did not expect thanks, and would indeed, Dorothea felt sure, have frowned if offered them.
After that he came in often, and Dorothea always felt happy when he entered the shop; his visit made her day. She was puzzled at first because sometimes he seemed to wish his purchases to be thickly packed, and sometimes liked to tuck them loose under his arm; but she soon made out the reason—books were things he cherished; when the weather was wet they must be most carefully protected, but when it was safe to carry them unpacked, he liked the feel of them under his arm. In fact, decided Dorothea, books were almost like living things to him; he disliked wrapping their identity away in brown paper almost as much as she would have disliked doing this to a child. When he perceived she understood this, he joked pleasantly about the weather: “Yes, showery, I’m afraid,” he said as Dorothea turned to the roll of wrapping paper. Dorothea liked this devotion to books. She liked it just because it was so unpractical and excessive, what the Dean family called silly work. It was something poetic and beautiful, quite outside the prosaic Dean world.
She began to listen to everything Mr. Cressey said, and remember it carefully. Laughing at herself, she actually took to buying one of the dignified Sunday newspapers he mentioned—she concealed this from Mrs. Eastwood at first but of course the landlady found it out presently and said: “Well, well!” in a disagreeable tone. By chance one day Dorothea encountered in the Ashworth Municipal Library one of the books Mr. Cressey had bought recently. She took it home. It was rather hard and dull, she thought, but for some reason it gave her great pleasure to be reading the same words as he had read. She began to seek out these books regularly; many were quite beyond her, she was silly to waste her time thus, she told herself, but all the same she continued to find pleasure in doing so.
Then came the day when she met him in the library. His charming courtesy shone out in strong contrast to the crass bustling self-aggrandisement around as he apologised for what was the others’ fault; his hand just touched Dorothea’s elbow as he prevented her from falling in the crush. Suddenly she loved him; she loved his fine slender hands, his large grey eyes which often had the pleasantest sparkle of interest or amusement, his well-shaped head, his large but most agreeably chiselled mouth. Yes, after that meeting she quite frankly admitted to herself that she loved him. It was quite absurd, of course, on her part; she took pains to ascertain that he was not married nor apparently engaged with any woman, but all the same it was absurd to love him, he would never look at her. Still, there was something noble, something beautiful, about loving him; something finer and as it were freer than she had ever done before. She awoke every day longing for him to come into the shop.
As to their meeting at Easter, Dorothea was really ashamed. Unfamiliar with large-scale maps and not in any sense a country girl—Ashworth lay in the very heart of the West Riding conurbation—she had no idea that the village she had chosen to visit would prove to be so close to Mr. Cressey’s. She had simply wished to see the kind of country he liked to see. When they met at the cattle grid she was overwhelmed with mortification: he would imagine she had followed him! The burning blush which rose uncontrollably to her cheek made it all worse. She gave him a deprecating look, a look which acknowledged a fault and implored forgiveness; she throbbed in every nerve with anguish lest she should have forfeited his good opinion. When he suggested they should make some expedition together, all this anguish turned instantly into ecstasy.
It seemed that seven miles’ walking really tired him.
At this Dorothea was racked by protective tenderness and a strange sweet joy; there was something she could give him, something in which she was stronger than he. She longed to cherish him and nourish him, take small physical chores off his shoulders, see that he was warm or cool as the season required, always comfortable, always well fed. He actually rose early and came to her door to escort her to the bus! A piece of delicate consideration and courtesy, just like Richard.
Back in Ashworth, their friendship did not wither, as Doro-thea had feared, but grew stronger; they went out a great deal together. Once when she was unable to accompany him on the following Sunday because she must go to Scarborough, she took the opportunity of telling him about her sister. She brought out the matter of the corsets firmly, because she was determined he should know all the prosaic elements in her situation.
“A carver of curves,” said Richard, smiling.
It chanced that he was escorting her home to Naseby Terrace for the first time that day.
“This,” said Dorothea as they approached the corner where Naseby Terrace turned off from the busy main road, “is the shop my mother used to keep. I was brought up here.”
“Really!” exclaimed Richard.
He bounded across the pavement and gazed into the shop window, glanced sharply from side to side, observed everything in it and asked some highly sensible questions about how one ran a shop. He was genuinely interested. Dorothea perceived with amazement that all those “liberal” remarks of his about a classless society and so on were not merely theoretical chatter; he really meant what he said. That was the greatness in Richard, thought Dorothea; he lived what he professed.
He was extremely interested, too, in Naseby Terrace, asking if she knew who had built and named it, which of course she did not. He had noticed, he said, that the streets in the neighbourhood all had Puritan, Parliamentary, anti-Charles I names: Cromwell, Milton, Hampden, Marston, Naseby—heroes and battles, he explained, of the Commonwealth and the Civil War. The buildings dated, he supposed, said Richard, gazing up at their smoke-blackened but highly respectable rows, from the 1850’s or thereabouts. Somebody must have felt very strongly about a struggle two hundred years old, to have named his property thus. Why, he wondered? What upbringing, what passion, had moulded his motives so powerfully? This was typical of outings with Richard, thought Dorothea; he never in the least lectured or preached or appeared to instruct, but something interesting, something new to her, something which made the world a more exciting place, was always dropping casually from his lips. Who would have thought that Ashworth was such an interesting place? Full of history, full of sad old human stories?
Yes, their friendship flourished; but was it only friendship? On Dorothea’s side, she knew more and more clearly as the weeks went by, it was definitely love. All other men began to appear coarse and vulgar to her, and any thought of love-making with them seemed positively obscene. It was only Richard she wanted; if he could ever condescend to desire her body, her life would be fulfilled and she would ask no more. But how was it on Richard’s side? She wished sometimes she knew how to do something positive to attract him, and considered wistfully the va
rious methods of doing so which she had observed, about her in real life, or on the stage or screen. But she rejected them all; they seemed vulgar and dishonest when considered in relation to Richard Cressey. She just went on loving him and hoping for the best.
And one day at last it seemed as though she were to have her reward. Richard had asked her to dine with him—that in itself was hopeful enough—and on Saturday morning when he referred to this Tuesday appointment again, there was a subdued excitement in his manner. He looked at her and looked away again, seemed about to make some important remark and then decided not to make it. He smiled, he looked happy, he coloured slightly and appeared pleasurably embarrassed. Suddenly Dorothea experienced the certainty—exquisite, delicious, flooding mind and body with quivering joy—that on Tuesday he meant to ask her to marry him.
Could it really be so? Her joy was followed by a moment of panic; she could never do it, she was too inferior to him in mind and manners, she would never be able to keep up with him and make him happy. But why not try, after all? Why always be unsentimental, practical, blunt, prosaic? Why stay down to earth? Why not enter this lovely world which Richard knew, full of music and poetry and art? Why not allow herself to feel all she was capable of feeling, to express her feeling in all its depth and truth? She smiled at him frankly, intending that all the sweetness she felt towards him should be in her smile. And now here she was, about to meet him, having done everything in her power to make herself worthy of the greatest moment of her life.
She threw her frock over her head and pleasurably drew the zip; its bold pattern of deep rose on turquoise blue heightened the rich colour of her cheek, the close-fitting bodice agreeably emphasised the taut curves of her full young breast. She re-combed her hair—luckily there was never any trouble about her glossy, tightly-curling hair—picked up her handbag (scrupulously washed and polished the previous day) and trembling a little with happiness ran out of her room and down the stairs.
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