Richard took his daffodils and went up to the block of flats. Ann’s flat was on the third floor. He went up in the lift after having been greeted affably by the porter, who now knew him well by sight.
Edith opened the door to him and from the end of the passage he heard Ann’s voice calling rather breathlessly:
‘Edith – Edith, have you seen my bag? I’ve put it down somewhere.’
‘Good afternoon, Edith,’ said Cauldfield as he stepped inside.
He was never quite at his ease with Edith and tried to mask the fact by an additional bonhomie that did not sound quite natural.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Edith respectfully.
‘Edith –’ Ann’s voice sounded urgently from the bedroom. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Do come!’
She came out into the passage just as Edith said:
‘It’s Mr Cauldfield, ma’am.’
‘Richard?’ Ann came down the passage towards him looking surprised. She drew him into the sitting-room, saying over her shoulder to Edith: ‘You must find that bag. See if I left it in Sarah’s room.’
‘Lose your head next, you will,’ said Edith as she went off.
Richard frowned. Edith’s freedom of speech offended his sense of decorum. Servants had not spoken so fifteen years ago.
‘Richard – I didn’t expect you today. I thought you were coming to lunch tomorrow.’
She sounded taken aback, slightly uneasy.
‘Tomorrow seemed a long way off,’ he said, smiling. ‘I brought you these.’
As he handed her the daffodils and she exclaimed with pleasure he suddenly noticed that there was already a profusion of flowers in the room. A pot of hyacinths was on the low table by the fire and there were bowls of early tulips and of narcissus.
‘You look very festive,’ he said.
‘Of course. Sarah’s coming home today.’
‘Oh yes – yes, so she is. Do you know I’d forgotten.’
‘Oh, Richard.’
Her tone was reproachful. It was true, he had forgotten. He had known perfectly the day of her arrival, but when he and Ann had been at a theatre together the night before neither of them had referred to the fact. Yet it had been discussed between them and agreed that on the evening Sarah returned, she should have Ann to herself and that he should come to lunch on the following day to meet his step-daughter to be.
‘I’m sorry, Ann. Really it had slipped my memory. You seem very excited,’ he added with a faint note of disapproval.
‘Well, homecomings are always rather special, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m just going off to the station to meet her.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, it’s all right. Anyway, I expect the boat train will be late. It usually is.’
Edith marched into the room, carrying Ann’s bag.
‘In the linen cupboard – that’s where you left it.’
‘Of course – when I was looking for those pillowcases. You’ve put Sarah’s own green sheets on her bed? You haven’t forgotten?’
‘Now, do I ever forget?’
‘And you remembered the cigarettes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Toby and Jumbo?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
Shaking her head indulgently, Edith went out of the room.
‘Edith,’ Ann called her back and held out the daffodils. ‘Put these in a vase, will you?’
‘I’ll be hard put to it to find one! Never mind, I’ll find something.’
She took the flowers and went out.
Richard said: ‘You’re as excited as a child, Ann.’
‘Well, it’s so lovely to think of seeing Sarah again.’
He said teasingly, yet with a slight stiffness:
‘How long is it since you’ve seen her – a whole three weeks?’
‘I daresay I’m ridiculous,’ Ann smiled at him disarmingly, ‘but I do love Sarah very much. You wouldn’t want me not to, would you?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t. I’m looking forward to meeting her.’
‘She’s so impulsive and affectionate. I’m sure you’ll get on together.’
‘I’m sure we shall.’
He added, still smiling: ‘She’s your daughter – so she’s sure to be a very sweet person.’
‘How nice of you to say that, Richard.’ Resting her hands on his shoulders, she lifted her face to his. ‘Dear Richard,’ she murmured as she kissed him. Then she added: ‘You – you will be patient, won’t you, darling? I mean – you see our going to be married may be rather a shock to her. If only I hadn’t been stupid about that letter.’
‘Now don’t get rattled, dearest. You can trust me, you know. Sarah may take it a bit hard at first, but we must get her to see that it’s really quite a good idea. I assure you that I shan’t be offended by anything she says.’
‘Oh, she won’t say anything. Sarah has very good manners. But she does so hate change of any kind.’
‘Well, cheer up, darling. After all, she can’t forbid the banns, can she?’
Ann did not respond to his joke. She was still looking worried.
‘If only I’d written at once –’
Richard said, laughing outright:
‘You look exactly like a little girl who’s been caught stealing the jam! It will be all right, sweetheart. Sarah and I will soon make friends.’
Ann looked at him doubtfully. The cheerful assurance of his manner struck the wrong note. She would have preferred him to be slightly more nervous.
Richard went on:
‘Darling, you really must not let things worry you so!’
‘I don’t usually,’ Ann said.
‘But you do. Here you are, dithering – when the whole thing is perfectly simple and straightforward.’
Ann said: ‘It’s just that I’m – well, shy. I don’t exactly know what to say, how to put it.’
‘Why not just say: “Sarah, this is Richard Cauldfield. I’m getting married to him in three weeks’ time.”’
‘Quite baldly – like that?’ Ann smiled in spite of herself. Richard smiled back.
‘Isn’t it really the best way?’
‘Perhaps it is.’ She hesitated. ‘What you don’t realize is that I shall feel so – so frightfully silly.’
‘Silly?’ He took her up sharply.
‘One does feel silly telling one’s grown-up daughter that one’s going to be married.’
‘I really can’t see why.’
‘I suppose because young people unconsciously consider you as having done with all that sort of thing. You’re old to them. They think love – falling in love, I mean – is a monopoly of youth. It’s bound to strike them as ridiculous that middle-aged people should fall in love and marry.’
‘Nothing ridiculous about it,’ said Richard sharply.
‘Not to us, because we are middle-aged.’
Richard frowned. His voice, when he spoke, had a slight edge of asperity to it.
‘Now look here, Ann, I know you and Sarah are very devoted to each other. I daresay the girl may feel rather sore and jealous about me. I understand that, it’s natural, and I’m prepared to make allowances for it. I daresay she’ll dislike me a good deal at first – but she’ll come round all right. She must be made to realize that you’ve a right to live your own life and find your own happiness.’
A slight flush rose in Ann’s cheek.
‘Sarah won’t grudge me my “happiness”, as you call it,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing mean or petty about Sarah. She’s the most generous creature in the world.’
‘The truth is that you’re working yourself up about nothing, Ann. For all you know Sarah may be quite glad you are getting married. It will leave her freer to lead her own life.’
‘Lead her own life,’ Ann repeated the phrase with scorn. ‘Really, Richard, you talk like a Victorian novel.’
‘The truth of it is, you mothers never want the bird to leave the nest.’
‘You�
�re quite wrong, Richard – absolutely wrong.’
‘I don’t want to annoy you, darling, but sometimes even the most devoted mother’s affection can be too much of a good thing. Why, I remember when I was a young man. I was very fond of my father and my mother, but living with them was often quite maddening. Always asking me how late I was going to be and where I was going. “Don’t forget your key.” “Try and not make a noise when you come in.” “You forgot to turn out the hall light last time.” “What, going out again tonight? You don’t seem to care at all about your home after all we’ve done for you.”’ He paused. ‘I did care for my home – but oh God, how I wanted just to feel free.’
‘I understand all that, of course.’
‘So you mustn’t feel injured if it turns out that Sarah hankers after her independence more than you think. There are so many careers open to girls nowadays, remember.’
‘Sarah’s not a career type.’
‘That’s what you say – but most girls do have a job, remember.’
‘That’s very largely a question of economic necessity, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
Ann said impatiently:
‘You’re about fifteen years behind the times, Richard. Once it was all the fashion to “lead your own life” and “go out into the world”. Girls still do it, but there’s no glamour about it. With taxation and death duties and all the rest of it, a girl is usually wise to train for something. Sarah has no special bent. She’s well up in modern languages and she’s been having a course of flower decoration. A friend of ours runs a floral decorating shop and she’s arranged for Sarah to work there. I think she’ll quite enjoy it – but it’s just a job and that’s all there is to it. It’s no use talking so grandly about all this independence stuff. Sarah loves her home and she’s perfectly happy here.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Ann, but –’
He broke off as Edith poked her head in. Her face had the smug expression of someone who has heard more of what is going on than she intends to admit.
‘I don’t want to interrupt you, ma’am, but you do know what time it is?’
Ann glanced down at her watch.
‘There’s still plenty of – why, it’s exactly the same time as when I looked last.’ She held the watch to her ear. ‘Richard – it’s stopped. What is the time really, Edith?’
‘Twenty past the hour.’
‘Good heavens – I shall miss her. But boat trains are always late, aren’t they? Where’s my bag? Oh here. Lots of taxis now, thank goodness. No, Richard, don’t come with me. Look here, stay and have tea with us. Yes, do. I mean it. I think it would be best. Really I do. I must go.’
She rushed out of the room. The front door banged. The swing of her fur had whisked two tulips out of the bowl. Edith stooped to pick them up and rearranged them carefully in the bowl, saying as she did so:
‘Tulips is Miss Sarah’s favourite flower – always was – especially mauve ones.’
Richard said with some irritation:
‘This whole place seems to revolve round Miss Sarah.’
Edith stole a swift glance at him. Her face remained imperturbable – disapproving. She said in her flat unemotional voice:
‘Ah, she’s got a way with her, Miss Sarah has. That you can’t deny. I’ve often noticed as how there’s young ladies who leave their things about, expect everything mended for them, run you off your feet clearing up after them – and yet there’s nothing you won’t do for them! There’s others as gives no trouble at all, everything neat, no extra work made – and yet there you are, you don’t seem to fancy them in the same way. Say what you like it’s an unjust world. Only a crazy politician would talk about fair shares for all. Some has the kicks and some has the ha’pence, and that’s the way it is.’
She moved round the room as she spoke, setting one or two objects straight and shaking up one of the cushions.
Richard lit a cigarette. He said pleasantly:
‘You’ve been with Mrs Prentice a long time, haven’t you, Edith?’
‘More than twenty years. Twenty-two, it is. Come to her mother before Miss Ann married Mr Prentice. He was a nice gentleman, he was.’
Richard looked at her sharply. His ultra-sensitive ego led him to imagine that there had been a faint emphasis on the ‘he’.
He said:
‘Mrs Prentice has told you that we are going to be married shortly?’
Edith nodded.
‘Not that I needed telling,’ she said.
Richard said rather self-consciously, speaking pompously because he was shy: ‘I – I hope we shall be good friends, Edith.’
Edith said rather gloomily:
‘I hope so, too, sir.’
Richard said, still speaking stiffly:
‘I’m afraid it may mean extra work for you, but we must get outside help –’
‘I’m not fond of these women that come in. When I’m on my own I know where I am. Yes, it will mean changes having a gentleman in the house. Meals is different to begin with.’
‘I’m really not a large eater,’ Richard assured her.
‘It’s the kind of meals,’ said Edith. ‘Gentlemen don’t hold with trays.’
‘Women hold with them a good deal too much.’
‘That may be,’ Edith admitted. In a peculiarly lugubrious voice she added: ‘I’m not denying that a gentleman about the place cheers things up as it were.’
Richard felt almost fulsomely grateful.
‘That’s very nice of you, Edith,’ he said warmly.
‘Oh, you can rely on me, sir. I shan’t go leaving Mrs Prentice. Wouldn’t leave her for anything. And anyway it’s never been my way to quit if there’s trouble in the offing.’
‘Trouble? What do you mean by trouble?’
‘Squalls.’
Again Richard repeated what she had said.
‘Squalls?’
Edith faced him with an unflinching eye.
‘Nobody asked my advice,’ she said. ‘And I’m not one to give it unasked, but I’ll say this. If Miss Sarah had come back home to find you both married, and the whole thing over and done with, well, it might have been better, if you take my meaning.’
The front door-bell rang and almost immediately the button was pressed again and again.
‘And I know who that is right enough,’ said Edith.
She went out into the hall. As she opened the door two voices were heard, one male, one female. There was laughter and exclamations.
‘Edith, you old pet.’ It was a girl’s voice, a warm contralto. ‘Where’s Mother? Come on, Gerry. Shove those skis in the kitchen.’
‘Not in my kitchen, you don’t.’
‘Where’s Mother?’ repeated Sarah Prentice, coming into the sitting-room and talking over her shoulder.
She was a tall dark girl, and her vigour and exuberant vitality took Richard Cauldfield by surprise. He had seen photographs of Sarah about the flat, but a photograph can never represent life. He had expected a younger edition of Ann – a harder, more modern edition – but the same type. But Sarah Prentice resembled her gay and charming father. She was exotic and eager and her mere presence seemed to change the whole atmosphere of the flat.
‘Oo, lovely tulips,’ she exclaimed, bending over the bowl. ‘They’ve got that faint lemony smell that is absolutely spring. I –’
Her eyes widened as she straightened up and saw Cauldfield.
He came forward, saying:
‘My name’s Richard Cauldfield.’
Sarah shook hands with him prettily, inquiring politely:
‘Are you waiting for Mother?’
‘I’m afraid she’s only just gone to the station to meet you – let me see, five minutes ago.’
‘How idiotic of the pet! Why didn’t Edith get her off in time? Edith!’
‘Her watch had stopped.’
‘Mother’s watches – Gerry – Where are you, Gerry?’
A young man with a rath
er good-looking discontented face looked in for a moment with a suitcase in each hand.
‘Gerry, the human robot,’ he remarked. ‘Where do you want all these, Sarah? Why don’t you have porters in these flats?’
‘We do. But they’re never about if you arrive with luggage. Take them all along to my room, Gerry. Oh, this is Mr Lloyd. Mr – er –’
‘Cauldfield,’ said Richard.
Edith came in. Sarah caught hold of her and gave her a resounding kiss.
‘Edith, it’s lovely to see your dear old sourpuss face.’
‘Sourpuss face indeed,’ said Edith indignantly. ‘And don’t go kissing me, Miss Sarah. You ought to know your place better than that.’
‘Don’t be so cross, Edith. You know you’re delighted to see me. How clean everything looks! It’s all just the same. The chintzes and Mother’s shell box – oh, you’ve changed the sofa round. And the desk. It used to be over there.’
‘Your ma says it gives more space this way.’
‘No, I want it as it was. Gerry – Gerry, where are you?’
Gerry Lloyd entered saying: ‘What’s the matter now?’ Sarah was already tugging at the desk. Richard moved to help her, but Gerry said cheerfully: ‘Don’t bother, sir, I’ll do it. Where do you want it, Sarah?’
‘Where it used to be. Over there.’
When they had moved the desk and pushed the sofa back into its old position, Sarah gave a sigh and said:
‘That’s better.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Gerry, standing back critically.
‘Well, I am,’ said Sarah. ‘I like everything to be just the same. Otherwise home isn’t home. Where’s the cushion with the birds on it, Edith?’
‘Gone to be cleaned.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right. I must go and see my room.’ She paused in the doorway to say: ‘Mix some drinks, Gerry. Give Mr Coalfield one. You know where everything is.’
‘Sure thing.’ Gerry looked at Richard. ‘What will you have, sir? Martini, gin and orange? Pink gin?’
Richard moved with sudden decision.
‘No, thanks very much. Nothing for me. I’ve got to be off.’
‘Won’t you wait until Mrs Prentice comes in?’ Gerry had a likeable and charming manner. ‘I don’t suppose she’ll be long. As soon as she finds the train came in before she got there she’ll come straight back.’
A Daughter's a Daughter Page 6
