When Katherine had cleared up the surface disorder and made her bed, she lit a gas-ring fitted to the gas fire, and poured some milk in a blue saucepan to boil, absently licking the cardboard top of the milk-bottle. Then she carried the breakfast things out to the sink, and washed those that were not greasy in cold water, bringing back a clean cup and saucer. She looked at Miss Green. The fire was beginning to warm the room.
“I’m making you some hot milk,” she said.
Miss Green turned her head from side to side, as if seeking to evade a dream. She said nothing. Her face was pale, almost yellowish.
Katherine felt really rather alarmed. Obviously the best thing for her would be to go home, but equally obviously she was in no state to go. If the visit to the dentist was going to make her ill for a few days, and it had surely been disastrous enough, there was no use in her staying here for an hour or two: it would mean taking her home by taxi. That would be expensive. Perhaps she ought to go downstairs and ask advice of the chemist. Since she had forced Miss Green to the dentist, instead of letting her go home as she wanted to, all the responsibility fell on her that otherwise Miss Green’s mother would have borne: really she ought not to have interfered. But since she had, it was up to her to do what she could despite the trouble and expense.
But perhaps she would improve with resting.
When the milk boiled, she poured it into the clean cup, holding the skin back with a spoon. Then she unsealed the bottle, crushed two aspirins, and stirred them in.
“Here’s your milk,” she said.
Miss Green did not reply. Katherine looked at her doubtfully, and stood by her with it.
“Don’t you want it?”
Miss Green murmured something, shifting her head, and her eyes half-opened and shut again, like a doll’s that is lifted and then laid back. Katherine knelt beside her and brought the cup to her lips.
“Drink some,” she said.
Miss Green put out her lips, and took a sip; in a moment she took another, then licked her lips as if discovering there an alien taste. She breathed more deeply. At last she brought up her hands and took the cup herself, holding it against her shallow breast.
After five minutes she had drunk about half of it.
“Do you feel better now?”
“I——” Miss Green’s voice was hoarse: she cleared her throat. “I don’t feel as sick as I did.”
“Did it make you feel sick, then?”
“That, and the”—she hesitated—“the taste of blood.”
“Finish it up, and you’ll soon be all right,” said Katherine, vastly relieved. She walked away from her, smoothing her hair back over her ears, and suddenly came upon the letter lying by the opened milk-bottle on the table. It was quite obviously from Robin Fennel.
It was not that she hadn’t noticed it the first time, but her mind had been so unreceptive that it had simply glanced off. Now it returned to exact its full impression. She picked it up with a hand that trembled slightly, noticing that it bore no stamp and an anonymous field-postmark. Her name and address were written in Robin’s sloping handwriting, that had scarcely altered at all since he had written to her six years ago: each character was given its full shape, very occasionally two words would be joined carelessly, but never two words that did not look well when joined. It did not feel as if there were more than one sheet in the envelope.
She laid it down again. So here it was.
She would open it, of course; but not now, not while Miss Green was here. Though she thought she had prepared herself enough for its arrival, now she held it she was shy of opening it, as if it contained examination results. For in a sense it would be the verdict of the Fennels upon her. For whatever Robin said, it would be less his own individual opinion than the present attitude of the family put into his mouth. If he suggested that she visit them, she would know that they would like to see her again; but if he said no more than his mother—surprised you’re in England, why didn’t you tell us, hope you’re getting on all right—she would know similarly that on the whole they preferred to keep her at arm’s length and that she had done wrong to write. This letter would settle it one way or the other. Her forehead rested a second on her right palm, then her fingers trailed away through her dark hair. She shook her head.
“Some more milk?—do you like milk?”
“I can drink it,” said Miss Green, looking like a crippled child in her rug.
“I thought it would warm you,” said Katherine, hesitating with the saucepan.
“Yes, I’ll have some more. Only I get a lot at home. Mother thinks it builds me up.”
Katherine took the cup and tipped the last of the milk into it. Miss Green took it with a sigh.
“How do you feel?”
“Oh … better, I think. I don’t feel I could walk yet, though.”
“No, of course not. Stay as long as you like. Would you like to take your things off?”
“No, thank you.”
Miss Green put her small nose into the cup again. Katherine sat on the stool by the fireplace, where she could not see the letter.
“Fancy you living in Merion Street,” said Miss Green after a while. “I had an uncle in business here once.”
“Oh yes,” said Katherine vaguely.
There was a pause.
“Have you lived here long, then?” said Miss Green, presently.
“All the time I’ve worked here, yes. It was all I could find.”
“Oh.” Miss Green considered this. “I thought you’d have lived in a hostel, or something.” As Katherine did not say anything, she went on: “It’s nice to have a place where you can bring people.”
“I’ve no-one to bring,” said Katherine, scratching the parting of her hair with one fingernail. “You’re the first visitor I’ve had.”
“Oh!” Miss Green stared at her with her mouth slightly open. “Not really?”
“It’s quite true.”
“Don’t they allow it, then?”
“Oh, they allow it, I suppose. I just haven’t had anyone to bring.”
“I expect you go out to other people’s—it’s different when they’ve their own houses.”
“No. I mean I don’t know anyone.”
Miss Green stared as if Katherine were trying to deceive her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know anyone—apart from the people at the library, of course.” She smiled at the expression on Miss Green’s face while she was digesting this.
“Don’t you go out at all, then?”
“Not often. Usually I go to bed very early. Sometimes I go to concerts or films.”
“Don’t you dance?”
“I can dance, but I don’t.”
Miss Green considered her as if this was really too much to believe. Talking, Katherine thought, might do her good. Her face was already showing signs of animation, but she still had a yellowish look.
“Oh, but you must know somebody!”
Katherine refused to take up the implication.
“I don’t know anybody here at all.”
“Then somewhere else?”
Katherine gestured. “I did know one or two people in London, but I’ve quite lost touch with them now.”
“Who were they?”
“People I worked with.”
Miss Green was silent.
“Pardon me asking, but how long have you been in England?”
“Nearly two years now.”
“You speak it awfully well, really. I mean, people would hardly know except for——”
“I learnt it at school, of course.”
“But you hadn’t been to England before?”
“Well, I had once, I suppose.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“You mean you lived here?”
“No, I came for a holiday.”
“All alone?”
“Yes. I stayed with a family I knew.”
“Well, don
’t you know them any more?”
“I suppose I do,” Katherine admitted. She moved her head as if her neck hurt her.
“Do they live round here?”
“No, in Oxfordshire.”
“My grandfather lived there,” said Miss Green. “What was their name?”
“Fennel. The father was an auctioneer.”
“Fennel,” said Miss Green. “I wonder if he’d remember them.”
“They’re still there,” Katherine said. To speak of them made them more real, brought them into line, as it were, with the letter that lay on the table. “I haven’t seen them since I came to England.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Yes, they do now. I’d almost forgotten about them. But I was in the Reading Room looking for the time a film started, and I saw something about them in a births and deaths column. It was pure chance, because I don’t ever see a newspaper, hardly.”
“What did it say, then?”
“Well, there was a daughter called Jane. She wasn’t married when I knew her. Her little girl had died.”
Miss Green shook her head in an incomprehending way that meant she was sorry.
“So I wrote, just to say the usual things.”
“Were they friends of your family, then?”
“Oh no. That was the queer thing about it. I got to know them when I was at school.” Since this seemed to interest Miss Green, Katherine began explaining. “There was a scheme we all joined to improve our English. The idea was, you sent up your name, address, age, nationality, what you were interested in, and what language you were learning. Then they put you in touch with someone. Oh yes, and you had to put how much your father earned. Did you ever do that?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Green, rather offendedly. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”
“Oh. Well, that was the scheme. You were supposed to write to each other in the other’s language, and correct each other’s letters, if you were really keen about it. All they did was take your money—there was a charge, though I’ve forgotten how much—and then put you in touch with an English boy. We all said we wanted boys, of course.”
“And you mean—your father and mother didn’t say anything?”
“They didn’t know till the letters came, unless you told them.”
“How funny,” said Miss Green, meaning it seemed hardly decent to her.
“We were very excited for a week or two. But it took so long to get started, we’d nearly lost interest when the letters began to come. And our English-teacher tried to make us do it properly—she asked to read the letters out in class, and that kind of thing. That took all the fun out of it. Most of us wrote a few times and then lost interest. One girl pretended she had stopped writing, but she hadn’t. It was a day-school, so the mistress could never find out. They used to write each other love-letters.”
“What, without knowing each other?”
“They sent photographs … they visited each other when they left school. In the end they got married.”
“No! Where are they now?”
“In South Africa, I think.”
Miss Green pressed her hand to her cheek again. Her thin astonishment made Katherine feel that she was telling her a fairy-story before sending her to bed. Her knees moved under the rug.
“And what about you?”
“Oh!” said Katherine. “Well, I was put in touch with the son, Robin Fennel. He was about my age. He’d said he was interested in books and music. Why, I don’t know. He hardly said anything about them. In fact, I don’t know why he was in the scheme at all. Still, I had said the same, so I suppose that was why we were linked up.”
“Can you play the piano, then?”
“A little. I played the violin more. Then, when the summer came, he wrote and said would I come and stay with them for a holiday.”
“You must have been thrilled,” said Miss Green, almost resentfully.
“I was more scared,” said Katherine. She took out a cigarette and was about to light it when she felt Miss Green’s eye rather balefully upon her. “I’m sorry—do you smoke?”
“Only privately.” Miss Green dived eagerly at the packet, and bending her head to the lighter-flame Katherine extended, put it out. Katherine relit it. “I say, do you think I should? Will it hurt my tooth?”
“I should be careful. How does it feel.”
“Rather stiff and sore.”
“You don’t feel sick any longer?”
“No, not now.” Miss Green wriggled in her chair, seeming to find it uncomfortable. “What was he like?”
Katherine was pleased she had cheered up this far, seeming to have forgotten her wounded mouth. The extreme paleness had left her and her complexion, although always rather sickly, had practically returned to normal. She flicked her cigarette and went on.
“Really quite nice. They were all very good to me. At first I didn’t want to go. I’d hardly ever been away from home before. And I was terrified of going all that distance —wouldn’t you have been?”
“I should!” Miss Green was whiningly emphatic.
“He said he’d meet me at Dover. But I was afraid he wouldn’t. I was terrified I should have to ask my way. It’s hard to understand English at first, you know: you all speak so carelessly.” She frowned. “Still, I needn’t have worried. Everything turned out all right.”
“And did you have a good time?”
“Pretty fair. I was sorry to go back.”
“I suppose you asked him back, the next year.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I did, but he couldn’t come. I’ve forgotten why—he was ill, I think. And by that time we’d more or less stopped writing.”
“What a shame.”
“Oh, not really. We were never very great friends.”
“But they’re still there, are they?”
“Yes. I expect they’ll be asking me to go and stay with them, or something like that.”
“Won’t that be nice,” said Miss Green with an approach to enthusiasm. “Perhaps you’ll pick up with him again. And auctioneers get lots to eat and that, surely.”
“Well, yes, but would they want me?” Laughing, she added: “They haven’t asked me yet, but it’s the kind of thing they would do.”
“Well, if they ask you, you needn’t worry.”
“No.” Katherine considered for a moment, moodily. “You English are all so polite.”
Miss Green bridled slightly, as if in the presence of somebody above her station. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing to complain of.”
“No,” said Katherine more lightly. “It isn’t, I suppose. And I shall go to the Fennels if they ask me, and probably have a very good time. How are you feeling now?”
Miss Green put out her cigarette messily, and cautiously got up, leaving the rug in the chair. She patted her hair with care and complacence, and went to look at herself in a mirror.
“I don’t feel too bad,” she said. “Where is he now—the one you know?”
This brought Katherine up to the present moment with a start. She went to the table and picked the letter up again, nerving herself to open it.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But this is from him, I suppose.” She took up a table-knife and cut open the envelope; withdrew the crested sheet, and gave it a shake to flatten out its folds. Then she read down the two paragraphs of Robin Fennel’s unambiguous handwriting.
The first said how surprised and glad he was to hear that she was in England: the second that he would try to call and see her on Saturday sometime after midday.
Miss Green, who had turned to watch her, did not see any change in her face. All she did was to look quickly at her wristwatch. But within her, an extraordinary dread began crawling. This she had not expected. Whatever else he had said, she would have had time to think, to make herself ready: but at this moment it was nearly twelve-fifteen, and Robin Fennel was coming towards this room and her like a bead sliding on a string.
Why this alarmed her she had no idea. But she was nearly panic-stricken.
“I must go back to work,” she said, going to the door for her coat.
“You’re off at one, aren’t you?” said Miss Green, puzzled. “It’s hardly worth while. What does he say?”
“Oh—” Katherine struggled with her sleeves. “He says he’ll pay me a visit some time. He doesn’t give me an address—just his regiment, care of the Army Post Office, whatever that is.”
“He’s in the army, then?” said Miss Green, looking at her reflection again. “That sounds as if he’s going abroad. That address is so that you won’t know where he is, you see.” She turned, glancing about the room. “Where did you put my bag?”
“Oh—” Katherine went to the side table. “Here.”
Miss Green did not stretch out her hand to take it.
“But that’s not it.”
Katherine stared at her.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“No—” Miss Green’s voice rose to an incredulous whine. “Where’s mine that I gave you?”
“That’s it.”
“It’s not!”
“It must be.” Katherine picked her own up. “Here’s mine. There aren’t any others.”
“But this isn’t mine.” Miss Green inspected it, worried and petulant. “It’s the same kind. I got mine at Hanson’s. But this isn’t it.”
“Oh dear.” Katherine took the brown handbag impatiently from her, and opened it. She felt in no mood to be hindered by accidents of this sort: she wanted to get away, as if this room were the scene of a crime. But for Miss Green’s sake she controlled herself. The lining of the bag was shiny and worn, and in addition to a purse and mirror and other oddments there were a few papers and letters. She drew one out, and stared frowningly at the address.
“‘Miss V. Parbury’,” she read aloud. “‘Fifty, Cheshunt Avenue’. You’re right.” She stared at the address longer than was necessary.
“But what have you done with mine?” insisted Miss Green, in a thin, apprehensive tone.
Katherine replaced the letter and snapped the bag shut. “Let me think. I was taking care of it in the dentist’s. And I’m sure I brought it away with me.” She looked round the room. “The only thing I can think of is that I left yours in the chemist’s, when I bought the aspirins, I was in such a rush. I can’t remember. Perhaps someone took yours by mistake, or I took hers first. Shall we go down and ask?”
A Girl in Winter Page 5
