The Matchmaker

by Stella Gibbons

  “Young elephant! Thank you!” The last drop of tea went down, and Sylvia set her cup on the saucer.

  “Don’t bang it down like that, you’ll break it, next thing.”

  “Sorry. Well,” she stood up, “I must get cracking. Thanks for a smashing lunch.” She slowly stretched her arms out, straining the coarse shirt over her bosom, then vigorously twisted her hair into a knot and secured it with two large black hairpins. Over this she tied a faded scarf.

  “The way I like your hair done is low on your neck,” said Mrs. Hoadley, poking the fire.

  Sylvia made a face. “It makes me look so corny.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s a refined style and it shows up your eyes, that side parting.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Sylvia, pleased, and she strode away whistling, thinking that perhaps she would dress her hair like that when she met Fabrio.

  15

  PART OF JEAN’S nature belonged to a sentimental slave. Had it grown to the power over her whole character which it had threatened in her early youth it would have made of her a different person; morbidly, helplessly wandering in that labyrinth which ensnares those who are both timid and chaste yet longing for love, and from which few find their way out into the fresh air, for the lamp they carry has long ago been quenched and become a tear-bottle. But she was saved by her sturdier qualities and the varied nature of the novels she read; had they been only love-stories, all the voices in her nature (laughing or sharp or ironical) might have been muted in sighs and tears. But from the age of fifteen, when she found Tom Jones and Three Men in a Boat and Quo Vadis in the attics at Alda’s home, love in novels was to her only one of the novelists’ themes, and not the most absorbing; and although that sick, true-hearted slave in her soul continued to run forward to meet and recognise Love before Love had made any movement towards her, side by side with the slave dwelt her other selves, who took a different view of life, and who had lately taken to criticising the slave’s habits.

  During the days that followed her first meeting with Mr. Waite, she thought her usual thoughts about a new man; his figure was good, his eyes were handsome, that severe manner was exciting, and so forth, but the incantation refused to work, the fumes did not rise, and the slave remained sober. I am not thrilled with him; he isn’t quite my type, decided Jean.

  She and Alda had not discussed their new acquaintance as exhaustively as they might have done, because their attention was at this time fully engaged with the children and the convent.

  The first weeks there were so unhappy that Alda seriously thought of taking them away, and as she knew that if she wrote her intention to Ronald he would certainly forbid her to do so, she was almost as miserable as her daughters. In listening to Jenny’s shuddering accounts of the unappetising lunches and the severity of the nuns, she had no previous experience in disentangling such tales to help her to distinguish truth from the exaggeration due to violent distaste, for, until now, she had always known the backgrounds against which Jenny and Louise had moved. She did not realise (though she might have, from remembering her own years at a boarding school) that children always grumble about school food, just as they always praise food served in the shoddiest restaurant or tea-shop; and she did not understand that, to little girls brought up in a home where virtue was assumed unless wrongdoing had been proved, the system of assuming wrongdoing, and not believing even in the desire to do right, appeared terrible in its harshness and injustice.

  Day after day Jenny came home with those marks of tears upon her face or flushed and defiant with the recent recollection of some conflict with authority; yet, when Alda caught a glimpse of Sister Benedict in the mornings when she waited for the children in the hushed, gleaming, flower-decorated little room with the statue in blue cloak and white robe, and they were ushered in to her by a nun whose businesslike manner did not prevent her from smiling, it did seem difficult, indeed, it was not possible, to reconcile this clean, peaceful orderliness and these calm pink faces with Jenny’s tales of uneatable meals and those same faces purple and snapping with fury.

  “That’s only their cleverness,” Jenny assured her, sitting up in bed in shabby pyjamas which were a hand-on from her cousin Richard. “They always put that on when the mothers are there. Egg says so.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Egg Peers. Her real name’s Eglantine. She lives at that enormous house just outside the village. Her people are awfully rich. She’s got a pony.” And Jenny sighed. The clarity of her expression had already been destroyed: at one time it had been so clear as to suggest that nothing went on behind her eyes that was not spoken by her lips. It had gone, and it would not come again, but mothers must make up their minds to see that expression “fade into the light of common day.”

  So Eglantine had a pony, had she? Well, thought Alda, at least I can do something about that. The moment was certainly ripe.

  “Jenny, would you like to have riding lessons?”

  “Oh Mother! Super! But—we can’t afford it, can we?”

  “Marion sent the money to pay for twelve lessons for you just after Christmas. I’ve been keeping it for a surprise.”

  “Oh Mother! How lovely! Oh, it’s something to look forward to,” and Jenny slid beneath the bedclothes and ecstatically danced her feet. “I’ve always wanted them,” her voice came up, muffled by blankets, “only I pretended I didn’t because I thought we couldn’t afford it.” She emerged, with ruffled hair and a joyful face. “Where shall I go for them? Carina Smith——”

  “Who, Jenny?”

  “Carina Smith. She’s in my form.”

  “What perfectly extraordinary names they do have there—Damaris, Eglantine, Carina!”

  “Their parents like them to be different, Carina says. She doesn’t think Jenny’s an unusual name at all. I suppose you wouldn’t let me call myself Janina?”

  “I would not, and neither would your father. I’ve been talking to Mr. Hoadley about riding lessons and he thinks Mr. Mead down at Rush House would be the best person to go to. He says those people who run the school at Burlham are more expensive and not so good.”

  “Egg goes to Burlham.”

  “I daresay.”

  “Mother darling, will you come out with me?”

  “I will the first two or three times perhaps, then Jean can go out with you. She’s going to treat Weez to some lessons, too,” she added.

  “Oh good.” Jenny was her mother’s daughter and it did not occur to her that anyone could be afraid of a horse.

  Communications were accordingly opened with Mr. Mead and Jenny’s first lesson was arranged for the following week, which was the third in February.

  The children had been at the convent for nearly a month and as the days went on, with their undiminished catalogues of misfortunes from Jenny, Alda began to notice a slight change in Louise. She had never been so passionate as her sister in her complaints of the convent discipline and Alda had always known, from the reports of the children’s various haphazard instructors and from Ronald himself, that she was the cleverer of the two. These qualities now began to work for her greater comfort, for although the Sisters never praised those patient efforts to improve the spider-writing, it did begin to improve; it straightened, the blots dwindled and finally, like the last flying drops of a rain shower, ceased altogether; the simple verbs and tables and dates, at first stumblingly repeated under a fire of sarcastic comment gradually became fluent and accurate and were received in silence but with full marks and, above all, the submission and obedience with which Louise received every reproof or irksome instruction earned the affectionate approval of those among the nuns who loved children and cherished in their souls the image of that heavenly Child whom they believed that human children should aspire to imitate.

  In these mornings of earliest spring, which were gradually growing brighter as the sun came up earlier across the fields and sent low rays between swelling willow buds and catkins, Fabrio would see the group of children
setting out for school as the prisoners’ lorry paused at the crossroads to set down Emilio and himself, and sometimes, if he did not feel morose, he would wave to them. Should Sister Benedict happen to arrive in the car while the lorry was there, all the prisoners would shout “Good morning!” to her and receive in response a smile and a movement of the lips which those of them who were Christians knew meant God bless you.

  Fabrio drew from the presence of the convent among its spinneys that same sense of familiarity and home which dwelt, for him, among the rafters and sacks of the granary, and sometimes as he worked his mind would vaguely dwell upon a picture of the Sisters, at prayer before the altar or moving amidst flowers and holy images. On Sundays he went to early Mass with a few other prisoners, and once a week he went to Confession but there, to him, it was an awesome, confused impression of words muttered in an unfamiliar tongue whose sound had yet been familiar to him almost from babyhood, the severe colourless face of Father Francesco above the shining curve of the Cup, the scent of burned-out incense steeping the air, the glow of flower colours and the glimmer of stars upon Our Lady’s mantle; and these, though they were dear to him and he would have missed them strongly if they had been taken away from him, were less dear than that sense of home breathed out by the granary and inspired in him by the sight of the Sisters’ black robes.

  Father Francis had sharply and severely discouraged his timid wish to perfect his knowledge of reading and writing. Faith of a sort among the Italian prisoners committed to the priest’s charge was not uncommon, but unquestioning faith and regular observances such as Fabrio practised were not common, and Father Francis, who felt for this ignorant and devout soul a harsh pure love, was not going to risk its being delivered over to hell by the questioning and discontent often induced by reading. It was also as well, Father Francis decided, that Fabrio could not speak much English. He would soon be returned to his own country, where the Faith was national and not practised as a mission among heretics, and there, among a peasantry which was still devout, his soul would be safe.

  On the morning of his first lesson with Sylvia, Fabrio lay on the sacks in the granary, finishing the lump of hard cheese which he had been sharing with the dog Ruffler, who lay at his side. He looked sulky; he resented the plan and the fact that she had made it, and he dreaded the coming lesson in which she would discover that he could spell out only the simplest words and barely write his own name. She will make fun of me, he thought; that’s why she offered to teach me. I wish it were Maria who was coming instead, and he pulled out the cheap worn wallet where he kept his identity card and a few other papers and glanced proudly over the lines of Maria’s last letter, which told him a little about affairs at San Angelo and a great deal about how much your friend, Maria Amato, misses you. It had that morning been read aloud to him by Emilio. There is a girl, thought Fabrio, returning the letter to his pocket, not a half-boy with a voice like the pavone in the gardens up at the great Villa at home.

  “Yoo-hoo!” cried the voice of that same peacock, and her head came round the granary door, “Oh, there you are, I thought you might be. (Hullo, Ruffler, good boy.) You ready, Fabrio? Come along, then, let’s go and sit on the rick, it isn’t going to rain after all,” and without waiting for his answer she strode off. Ruffler glanced inquiringly at Fabrio, then went away on his own affairs.

  Fabrio got up leisurely, with the grace that no one at the farm had noticed, and followed her out into the daylight. She had seated herself upon the heap of straw at the foot of the rick, which looked across a field of brilliant green winter wheat to a marshy coppice, already yellow with catkins; the wind was from the west and blew into their faces fresh odours from grass and wet straw and brimming pools hidden in the woods; all the sky was hurrying and confused with low clouds grey as pearls, and clear spring light lay over the scene.

  She was smiling and holding out a packet of cigarettes, invitingly opened but as yet unrifled.

  “Will —you—have—a—cigarette,—Fabrio?” she said in the voice of an affected schoolmistress.

  Fabrio accepted one and muttered his thanks in his own language, for he was too embarrassed to attempt English. He lit it and inhaled a few puffs without making any movement to seat himself by her side. He glanced down at her; her hair was almost concealed by her cap and a little smear of chocolate from the recent meal was on her chin. He glanced away again, thinking Holy Mother, how white her skin is.

  “Sit—down,—Fabrio.” She made room for him and brought a book out of her pocket. “Here—is—a—book—for—you—to—learn—from. I—bought—it—in—Horsham. It—has—a—funny—name. Look!” and she held it out to him.

  This was the second time in a few weeks that a woman had held out a book to Fabrio, as if it were the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, and the familiar feeling of reverence, interest, humiliation and rage which he always experienced upon seeing a book began to invade him. But there was no look of amused, superior interest upon Sylvia’s young face to make him long to assert himself as a man, there was no Mr. Hoadley here to shout at him, and the feeling subsided. He swallowed once or twice, and then read slowly aloud in the beautiful voice which nervousness made slightly less deep than usual:

  “Re—re-ad-ing—redd-ing wi-oout——” He broke off, and impatiently shook his head; then suddenly glanced at her, smiled shamefacedly, and sank down by her side.

  “Why—that—is—very—good!” cried his governess approvingly, moving a little away from him. “Reading—Without—Tears. Look—at—the—pictures,—aren’t—they—corny—(old-fashioned),” and she turned the pages with their woodcuts of chubby children in crinolines or round jackets gathered about their mother’s beflounced knee.

  “Anticamente,” nodded Fabrio, his face expressing deepest interest.

  “We—will—not—start—reading—to—day,” pronounced Miss Scorby, shutting the book upon an exciting picture of some little boys having a fight. “To—day—we—will—have—conversation. Good morning, Fabrio,” leaning towards him and nodding and smiling. “Now—you—tell—me—in—Italian.”

  Fabrio wanted to go on looking at the pictures, in which he took a child’s pleasure, and his expression became sulky again as he muttered:

  “Buon giorno.”

  “Now—say—it—like—this—Good morning.”

  “Good-a morning—good-a morning, gooda morning!” and he added impatiently, “I know it—I can say it for a long-a time.”

  “Yes, but you don’t say it correctly. You’ve got to get a good accent, it’s important. Now say it again; not good-a morning; good—morning.”

  Fabrio did not say it. He continued to stare obstinately down into the straw and was silent. Sylvia waited with slightly compressed lips and eyes sparkling with mischief, and in a moment he glanced up, said explosively, “Good morning!” and burst out laughing.

  “That’s grand!” she exclaimed, laughing too. “I am hungry. I want my lunch. Now tell me in Italian, like you did before.”

  This time he obeyed at once, but she lingered so long over the next few phrases in Italian while repeating the words after him, and he was so pleased to become teacher instead of pupil that the short time allotted to the lesson passed very quickly, and it was fortunate that the question “What is the time?” caused her to glance at her watch. She exclaimed, and jumped up, saying, “Gosh, it’s just on time. You’ve done very well to-day, Fabrio——”

  “Fabrio,” he corrected, standing a little way off from her and gazing at her from under his brows; now that the lesson was over he seemed sulky and withdrawn into himself again.

  “Fa-brio, then—but I can’t stay here all night saying it. Bye-bye. See you to-morrow, same time and place,” and she ran off, repeating under her breath I want my lunch in the Ligurian coastal dialect in which Fabrio had naturally taught her to say it, while he went in the opposite direction muttering I want my lunch in the muted Cockney used off the Camden-road.

  She had not thought of herself as l
earning Italian from him, but although she took no interest in the language itself she liked to think of me jabbering away in Italian, it’s not so common as French, everybody knows French, and she was also intelligent enough to realise that a knowledge of languages is useful. She did not, of course, conceive of them as instruments which could give her pleasure. In the same way, her family dismissed both the knowledge of history and history itself as dates and kings and fascist battles and all that stuff, and had no idea of the richness and solidity which even a limited knowledge of history can bring to everyday life.

  Yet, if compared with a London family of forty years ago, how kind they were! and their kindness extended far beyond their immediate circle and embraced, at least in theory, all the millions of people living in all the countries of the world. It was as if the Christian law Love thy neighbour as thyself had at long last, after centuries of misunderstanding and abuse, begun to flower side by side with the fiercest and most despairing materialism the world had ever endured and as if those who were loudest in their denunciations of the Christian Church were compelled, by one of those superb ironies in which we detect, or imagine that we detect, the humour of God, to practise one of the chief virtues upon which that Church had been founded.

  However, Sylvia had no intention of letting the lessons develop into Italian lessons for herself. The small red book was soon in use and Fabrio was struggling with Bet Sells Buns and He gets on his nag. He tried to assert himself by producing a copy of Post and demanding to be allowed to read the captions under the photographs, but she made him put the paper away and continue with the longer sentences (Ned was rude. He plucked a trumpet from the tree) at the end of Reading Without Tears. She explained each word to him with vehement pantomime after he had read the sentence aloud, telling him that it was good practice for her as an actress, but Fabrio did not enjoy looking at La Scimmia’s face when it was distorted in mime; he preferred the Conversation, in which she sat quietly beside him, with her eyes fixed upon his own as she gravely or laughingly spoke the simple sentence, and then it was his turn, having guessed what she meant or had it explained to him, to tell her what it was in Italian.