She’d done her best. The one day a week that she had worked in hospitals for the Red Cross before the war had taught her much that was of use. Blanket bathing, turning the patient in bed and bedpans, all things that gradually became necessary, and Sybil preferred her to any other anxious, amateur kindness …
She had felt useful as, indeed, and of course to a lesser degree, she supposed she did now. She wondered whether Miss Milliment would have told anyone else about her bed or the lack of hot water. But there certainly would have been someone else; Edward would have married someone who would have had his children, engaged servants, ordered meals and gone to parties with him. Except now there were no parties to go to, and when she saw Edward, which was not even every weekend, they were hardly ever alone. Not that she particularly wanted that; one of the things she had noticed during this last year had been that Edward seemed less keen on all the bed stuff, which had been something of a relief. It did happen occasionally, of course, but she could see that there would come a time when it would probably hardly happen at all. When they retired for the night these days they seemed to have little to say: there were desultory conversations about the children; she had tried several times to get him to give Louise a good talking to about how irresponsible it was to go on trying to get work in the theatre—a grossly overcrowded profession if ever there was one—when she ought to be doing something for the war effort. He made excuses, tried to change the subject and once, when she got cross about it, simply said that Louise would be called up anyway when she was twenty, which was only a year away, and why shouldn’t she have some fun while she could? Which seemed to her to be a thoroughly frivolous attitude to have about one’s daughter.
Louise … She was really becoming quite out of hand. She insisted upon living in London, where, although she said she was always to be on the point of getting some theatre job, it never actually happened: she had done one or two small parts in broadcast plays, but otherwise she was always talking of the auditions she went to, and the people she met who were considering her for a part. She went about London with her hair streaming down her back, in trousers, most of the time wearing far too much make-up. Villy had had what seemed to her the extremely sensible idea of Louise living with Jessica in the grandparents’ house in St. John’s Wood but, much to her chagrin, neither Louise nor (more surprisingly) Jessica had seemed at all keen on the notion. Jessica had made all kinds of excuses, the main one being that she did not want the responsibility, and Louise had declared that she simply couldn’t bear to: she was going to share a flat with her friend Stella and be free to do as she liked. And before she could object to this, Edward had anted up the thirty shillings for rent and Louise had moved in. And goodness knows what they get up to, Villy thought—staying up all night probably and not making themselves proper meals. And then there was Michael Hadleigh. His mother, Lady Zinnia, had rung up once enjoining her not to allow Louise’s heart to be broken by her son, which she had added, was constantly happening with girls. “But what on earth can I do about it?” Villy had asked herself. She felt ambivalent about Michael: on the one hand, Louise was far too young to be seriously pursued; on the other, he was a damn sight better than those awful actors she had got involved with in Devon. But he was far too old for her, and in any case she was not old enough for anyone—yet. More likely to turn her head than break her heart, Villy reflected bitterly: hearts were secretly (and rather horribly) a sore subject for her and, like most sore subjects, one that she dwelt upon a very great deal. There had been an accident in London that she had found so shocking that even now—weeks later—she was quite unable to think clearly about it, as when she tried she seemed prey to a kind of double vision, of how something that she had imagined would be wonderful, and what had actually happened.
It was to do with Lorenzo, of course. He had sent one of his rare postcards (inside a envelope), inviting her to a concert he was conducting in a church in London where, he said, a small choral piece of his own was to have its first performance. She was enthralled at the prospect. He had, rather surprisingly, asked her to ring him at home to say whether she could come—ordinarily it would have been out of the question as the jealousy (unnecessary, of course) of poor Mercedes was invariably inflamed by the most innocent telephone calls to her husband. But Mercedes turned out to be in hospital “so I am able to invite you to supper after the concert,” he had said. This meant staying the night in London. Her first thought had been to stay with Jessica, who she felt was rattling about in their parents’ house in St. John’s Wood, but when she had rung once and got no reply, she had second thoughts. If she stayed there, Jessica might say she wanted to come to the concert as well and that would spoil everything. Hugh would have her. She would go up in the morning, do some shopping, perhaps have lunch with Hermione and then go to Hugh’s house to bath and change for the concert. She arranged with Rachel and Zoë that between them they would do everything that Sybil required, obtained a latch key from Hugh and settled into a few days of glorious anticipation of her treat. An evening with Lorenzo, a concert, supper alone with him (they had only ever managed one tea together when he had so enchantingly accompanied her half-way to Sussex in the train), time, at last, in which they could discuss all the romance and despair of their attachment, their previous and lifelong commitment and their mutual integrity. She spent two evenings trying on her clothes to see what would be most, as she put it to herself, suitable, decided that nothing would really do, and planned a delicious excursion to Hermione’s shop. After all, she had not had anything new to wear since before Roly. She rang Hermione, who said, what perfect timing, she had just got her summer collection into the shop and added that she would provide lunch. Those days of waiting until the Thursday made her realize how entrenched she had become in routine and duty, how beset by insignificant but necessary detail and how tired it had all made her feel. For those three mornings she woke full of energy and resolution, looking forward to each day that brought her meeting with Lorenzo nearer. She told Edward, of course, that she was coming to London, and exactly what she was going to do and he was nice about it—said he hoped she’d have a splendid time and gave her twenty-five pounds to buy “the dress you’ll want but feel you can’t afford.” But everyone was nice about it. “I must say you’re extremely sparkly,” Lydia remarked when Villy was trimming the split ends of her long hair. “I always thought grown-ups had fun all the time, but you don’t, do you? You hardly have a speck of fun. I suppose having such a good character is a bit of a drawback. Mum! You know that awful very very old lipstick you only used to wear for going to the theatre, the very dark red one in a gold case that there’s only about a quarter of an inch of left?”
“How do you know so much about my lipstick?”
“I just happened to see it. One day. When I happened to be near your dressing table. Well. I wondered if you would sort of lend it to me. You never wear it any more and Louise said it was the wrong colour for your skin anyway.”
“What do you want it for?” Even Louise’s remark did not irritate her in her present mood.
“To practise with. I mean, one day, quite soon really, I’ll be wearing all that kind of thing and when I do I definitely don’t want to look like a beginner. So I just thought I could practise, you know, in the evenings when nobody would notice.”
Why not? she thought. The children did not have much fun either: no parties with conjurers and crackers or treats about London. “But you must only do it in the evening before you have your bath,” she said.
“I absolutely faithfully promise.” It would mean having more baths than she cared for, she thought, but it was worth it.
Eventually, at last, it was Thursday morning. “You deserve a treat,” Sybil had said when she slipped in to say goodbye to her. “It’s sad you won’t be dining with Hugh, but you’ll have breakfast with him. And you’ll be able to tell me truthfully whether Mrs. Carruthers is looking after him properly.”
“You’re not to worry about anythi
ng,” Rachel had said. “Just enjoy yourself.”
“I shall!” she had exclaimed. She felt joyful—and quite unlike her usual self.
It was a beautiful day: the sun shone, the sky was clear with small skittish white clouds, forsythia glistened in back gardens. She caught the train that people working in London caught and it was full of people reading their morning papers. “Princess Elizabeth registers for war service,” she read over someone’s shoulder. I must buy some scent, she thought. Her old bottle of Coty’s L’Origan had gone dark brown and smelt only as though it had once been scent. She wore a very old black and white printed frock that she had bought from Hermione before the war; for some reason, she always felt that when she went to buy clothes there she must wear something previously bought from her. She didn’t have a decent pair of stockings, but had packed some old beige silk ones in case she was unable to buy any new. Beige went with anything, she thought, a trifle uncertainly; pale stockings had always been the thing when she was young, and she had found it difficult to change. Her mother had always said that the peachy shades favoured before the war were extremely common: it was palest beige for the young, and pale grey for the old. Hermione wore flesh-coloured stockings, but she was the kind of person who could have worn any stockings—even black ones—and look both glamorous and well bred. She thought—not for the first time—of the occasion when Diaghilev, tapping one of her knees with his cane, had said, “Pas mal, ma petite, pas mal.” This, considering that he thought a woman’s knees the ugliest part of her anatomy, had been praise indeed. But, of course, it was usually ankles that people went on and on about and hers were definitely not good. But Lorenzo, who never seemed to take his burning eyes off her face, would not notice them. Their relationship, she thought happily (then), was literally on a higher plane.
The session with Hermione was utterly enjoyable, bounded only by how many clothes coupons she had, although Hermione mentioned in passing that they might be able to make the coupons go a little further than they had been designed to do. “Of course, we only do it for our favourite customers, don’t we, Miss MacDonald?” and Miss MacDonald, who must hardly ever have needed any clothes coupons at all since she seemed always—for years now—to be wearing the same tailored pinstripe coat and skirt, smiled obediently and said, “Of course we do, Lady Knebworth.” She tried on dozens of things—well, probably about a dozen, but some things she put on twice so it seemed like dozens. Hermione seemed to know how starved she’d felt for new clothes, and encouraged her to try things, even when she knew they would not really suit. “I must be sensible!” she kept saying as she stroked the most beguiling dark blue chiffon blouse that tied in a large floppy bow at the neck.
“Well, darling, if you had the navy suit, and really you must, you look a dream in it—you could have the blouse which would see you right through the summer, and then somewhere—fetch it, would you, Miss MacDonald—we have a perfectly divine sharkskin shirt, rather manly with cufflinks that you could wear with the suit in the autumn. And after that, any old cashmere …”
She bought the suit. And a crêpe dress that was a kind of mushroom colour trimmed with a dull orange velvet ribbon with padded shoulders and a cape sleeve. She bought both blouse and shirt, and finally a summer jacket or short coat made in a soft silvery colour that was neither blue nor grey. And Hermione gave her two pairs of stockings that were as fine as cobweb; they were made of nylon, she said, and had been sent from America. “Americans are so amazingly generous—I get absolutely deluged with them,” she had said. She also most kindly showed her how to put them on, which was helpful as they were so thin that Villy had felt they would snag if she touched them. “You turn the foot part inside out, like this, and whatever you do sit down when you put them on. But they’re marvellous: they last far longer than ours. I’ve never understood the patriotism of bare legs—especially with the ghastly regulation length of skirts these days.”
The morning cost her forty-four pounds—Hermione’s clothes were always priced in guineas—but she felt elated rather than extravagant. “Miss MacDonald will pack them up for you while we have lunch.”
Lunch was at a little restaurant that Hermione described as her standby. They seemed to know her very well there, and rushed to serve them. “Don’t bother with the menu,” Hermione said. “They’ll bring us much nicer things if we don’t.”
They began with some sort of pâté—“It’s probably made of field mice or hedgehogs, but it tastes delicious”—followed by grilled trout and a salad. Hermione made them wrap up the trout carcasses for the shop cat, a stray that she had found weeping, she said, in Hyde Park. “Riddled with worms and covered with fleas, but such a darling. She gives poor old Miss MacDonald fearful hay fever, but it can’t be helped.” Hermione was known for being kinder to animals than employees, although she inspired devotion in both.
“Is Edward taking you somewhere nice tonight?” she enquired when they got to coffee.
“He’s away, in Liverpool, I think, looking at a shipment of wood. I came up for a friend’s concert,” she added, as airily as she could manage, but felt herself beginning to blush.
Hermione regarded her with cool grey eyes. “What a good thing,” she said.
After lunch she said she would like to do a little shopping in Bond Street and collect her clothes in a taxi afterwards. She bought make-up and a new swansdown powder puff in a chiffon handkerchief and a stick of solid eau de cologne for Sybil to rub on her forehead. There wasn’t any scent to be had except lavender water, the only scent that her mother had approved of for girls. But I feel like a girl, she thought. It was strange and delightful not to find that a visit to London must entail a wearisome family shopping list: Start-rite shoes for Wills and Roly, summer vest for Aunt Dolly, esoteric haberdashery for the Duchy (fearful things like dress preservers), BBs for Clary and Polly, a hunt for razor blades for the men, who were always short of them these days—oh, all that stuff that would have taken the whole day and left her exhausted. She was not going to survey the dusty house in Lansdowne Road; she was not going to have an uneasy lunch with Louise when the conversation would have consisted in her asking questions that Louise did not wish to answer. She was not going to see Jessica in St. John’s Wood, which would have entailed criticism of her sister—Jessica seemed to have a series of small voluntary jobs that she could do when she pleased and not when she didn’t—and would have ended in resentment and envy. None of any of that. Instead, she bought presents: a café au lait straw hat for Lydia with a wreath of cornflowers, buttercups and poppies round it. Jacqmar scarves for Rachel and Zoë, lavender water for the Duchy, a box of chocolates for Aunt Dolly and Dinky cars for Wills and Roly.
In the taxi, after she had picked up her clothes from Hermione and was bowling along Bayswater Road thinking how much prettier Kensington Gardens looked now that they had taken all the little railings away from each side of all the paths, she remembered that she had bought nothing for the girls: she would have to do that in the morning.
The taximan helped her into the house with her boxes and parcels. “I can see it’s Christmas for some,” he said. “We don’t know what the hubby’s going to say to all that, do we? Oh, well, it’s what women are for, isn’t it? Men make it, the ladies take it. I don’t know. Thank you, madam.”
Hugh’s house was tidy, and reasonably clean, but it had the neglected air of a house hardly used. The spare room was on the top floor and there was a bathroom on the half landing below it. When she had bathed and dressed in the navy suit and chiffon blouse, she decided that she wanted, needed a drink. As the time to go to the concert drew nearer, and therefore seeing and subsequently being with Lorenzo, she had begun to feel nervous. Hugh would not mind her taking a drink, indeed he had said how sorry he was that he couldn’t get back in time to have one with her before her concert.
The shutters were closed in the drawing room and the drinks cupboard contained a number of bottles that had clearly not been used for some time, and were mos
tly almost empty, but she found a little gin left in one and a sticky bottle of Angostura, so she made herself a pink gin and took the glass back upstairs to fill with water from the bathroom. Armed with this and a cigarette, she tackled the business of her new make-up. She overdid it, wiped it all off with cold cream and started again. Her second attempt was not much better: she realized that she had not really looked at her face for some time (and for her, looking meant criticism). Now she could see that her lips had become much thinner, which she supposed must have happened when she had had to have practically all her teeth out; that the lines that ran down from each side of her nose to her mouth were not only more pronounced but reached down below it which in repose gave her an air of discontent. She smiled, but the smile seemed artificial, which it was; she could find nothing to smile at. Her eyes and her cheekbones were the same and, of course, she still had her widow’s peak which grew maddeningly a little off centre. Her hair was whiter, which was an improvement on the oyster-shell colour it had been for years, and it was comfortingly thick and naturally curly. Her face was one which was better when animated. She was not, never had been, the classic beauty that Jessica was. These unsatisfactory reveries were interrupted by a sudden fear that she would not get a taxi at the rank in Ladbroke Grove, and would be late for the concert.
But she did, and she wasn’t.
The concert was well attended; the church was nearly full and the choir—about sixty of them, already in place—were sitting in three rows in a semi-circle round the space where the orchestra was to be situated. They all wore white shirts and long black skirts or trousers according to their sex. They all looked tired, but since nearly all choirs were amateur they would have done a full day’s work before coming to sing and, in any case, the light shed from the high brass chandeliers was not flattering. She looked at the thin piece of paper with the programme mimeographed in purple ink upon it. Purcell, Bantock, Clutterworth, she read, The Temptations of St. Anthony. The players—not very many of them; it was a chamber orchestra of minimal size—were taking their places, and then he appeared in his black tailcoat and white tie. There was a small flurry of applause and as he turned to the audience to acknowledge it she thought he saw her, but she was not sure.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 108
