Cluny Brown

by Margery Sharp

  “I am twenty,” admitted Cluny.

  “It’s just,” persisted Mr. Wilson, “that I happen to have conservative tastes. I dare say when I get used to it I’ll like it very well.”

  “I don’t want you to get used to it if it doesn’t suit me. Oh, dear, I wish I’d never bought it!”

  “Did it cost a great deal?”

  “No,” said Cluny. It had cost half a crown, but she wasn’t going to say so, because she was sure he would think it too much. What a failure it had been! Abused by Mrs. Maile and Syrett, jeered at by the Professor—When Cluny remembered the Professor, her cheeks burned again. “I’m silly,” she said, with genuine grief. “I try not to be, but I can’t help it …”

  Mr. Wilson opened his mouth to observe that most young women were silly at her age, but for once had the sense to keep quiet. Instead he did what was for him a really imaginative thing: he raised his hands and carefully straightened the scarlet bow, pulling it out, crimping it, so that it set jauntily on Cluny’s head.

  “There!” he told her. “Foolish or not, you look very spruce. Now we’ll get that book I spoke of, and I’ll show you a map of this very valley.”

  It was an odd afternoon altogether. Cluny’s spirits were rising and falling like a barometer in a thunderstorm, and she was glad to sit down at the table and let Mr. Wilson explain his maps. He was exceptionally kind and patient; the old lady slept; gradually peace returned. It deepened and enclosed them; Cluny’s first impression of that little room came back stronger than ever. How cosy it was, how warm and safe! How quietly time went between those four bright walls! It was like being inside a warm gay box.…

  “And here,” said Mr. Wilson, “is Exeter, where I was born.”

  Cluny looked earnestly at the interesting spot, and wondered what he had been like as a little boy. She couldn’t imagine him tousled and bare-kneed; he must always have been a serious child, with a precocious eye to scholarships. A steady child, as he was now a steady man. Cluny meditated on this quality of steadiness for some minutes: the lack of it in herself had been so frequently deplored, by Mr. Porritt and the Trumpers, that she had always realized its importance; now, for the first time, she saw its attraction. To be steady was also to be at ease—unswayed by rival passions, undistracted by bypaths, indifferent to the world’s weather.…

  Mr. Wilson folded one map and opened another. They were now in Cornwall. The hands of the clock moved to five, to half past, to six. The room grew hotter. Mrs. Wilson still slept. Cluny began to look about a little, and shift her feet under the table; unused to sitting still so long, she began to feel both restless and sleepy. But she controlled herself until the last map was put aside and Mr. Wilson looked up at her with a smile.

  “This has been a quiet holiday for you,” he said, “but I hope not a dull one.”

  “I like it here,” said Cluny. “It’s so peaceful.”

  He looked contentedly at the small bright room, at his mother dozing by the hearth. He said:—

  “It’s always like this, in the evenings.”

  Why was it that at those words Cluny suddenly felt a pang? Was it the heat of the fire, had she sat too long after eating so large a tea? Had the atmosphere really become oppressive, or was it imagination? For whatever reason she looked at the clock and saw almost with relief that it was half past six.

  “I must be going,” she said. “I shall be late.”

  Mr. Wilson made no effort to detain her. He approved her conscientiousness.

  “The weather’s cleared,” he said. “It won’t be an unpleasant walk. I’ll come with you.”

  With genuine earnestness Cluny urged him not to leave his mother alone; but the chemist, born organizer that he was, had arranged for Mrs. Brewer to come across in precisely ten minutes. Though the road was safe and plain he had no intention of permitting Cluny to walk home alone through the dusk. And he had moreover a positive intention as well, which he did not reveal until they were halfway up the Friars Carmel drive.

  “I believe I’ll step in,” said Mr. Wilson, “and have a word with Mrs. Maile.”

  Cluny thought he wanted to enquire after the housekeeper’s cough. She had not been at Friars Carmel long enough to realize the extreme gravity of this moment.

  II

  For Mrs. Maile was a conscientious woman, as every one knew, particularly the various young men who, over a period of thirty years, had taken her Floras and Bessies out walking on their afternoons off. Sooner or later in each romance came the inevitable summons: would Ernest (or Richard, or Bartholomew) please to step into the housekeeper’s room? Upon which he either made clear his honourable intentions, or received his congé.

  There was so much to be said for this system that no Bessie or Flora ever raised an objection, and Mrs. Maile certainly anticipated none from Cluny Brown. Her only uneasiness was with regard to Mr. Wilson. The Ernests and Richards and Bartholomews were as a rule ploughmen, day-labourers, perhaps postmen, persons over whom Mrs. Maile had a natural superiority; she wasn’t used to so big a fish as a chemist. Moreover Mr. Wilson, as has been seen, further broke with tradition by presenting himself unsummoned. Still, duty was duty, and when Cluny brought in the surprising message, Could Mrs. Maile spare a moment for Mr. Wilson, the housekeeper reached as it were for her gaff and sent a message back, “With pleasure.”

  (Hilda observed this démarche with an emancipated toss of the head. Her own romance, culminating in Gary, had occurred during a week’s holiday at Loo. She gave Cluny a rather de haut en bas look, to which Cluny innocently reacted by asking what was biting her.)

  Mr. Wilson, who had rightly taken no part in this exchange, made his way unperturbed to the housekeeper’s room, which Mrs. Maile had just had time to adorn with her best antimacassars. They greeted each other with mutual respect, and Mr. Wilson accepted a small whisky, to keep out the cold.

  “For the weather,” commented Mrs. Maile, “appears to be turning to the bad.”

  “I doubt we shall have more rain,” agreed Mr. Wilson. “How’s that cough of yours?”

  Mrs. Maile coughed to demonstrate it. There was nothing she would have enjoyed more than a thorough discussion of her symptoms (and perhaps a little free medical advice); but her fine manners forbade her to pursue the subject further. Instead, she boldly gave Mr. Wilson his lead.

  “It is kind of you to take so much interest in Cluny Brown. She is a Londoner, as you no doubt know, and it is often difficult for them to form acquaintances.”

  “I think very highly of her,” stated Mr. Wilson. “I hope that is your opinion also.”

  Mrs. Maile paused. For the first time in the long series of these interviews she found herself in the position of one giving, rather than demanding, references. But Mr. Wilson was undoubtedly entitled to them.

  “She’s a very good girl,” said Mrs. Maile. “I can’t speak personally, of course, but Miss Postgate, whom I do know, and who saw Cluny in London, tells me she comes of most respectable folk.”

  “The poor wee lass!” said Mr. Wilson.

  Mrs. Maile stared at him. She could hardly believe her ears. That Cluny Brown, five-foot-eight and thinking far too much of herself, could appear in the eyes of a sensible man as a poor wee lass, simply flummoxed her.

  “She has great courage,” continued Mr. Wilson, “orphaned as she is.”

  “Perfectly fearless,” agreed Mrs. Maile—rather tartly. But she held herself in, for here was obviously the chance of a lifetime for Cluny Brown, and the housekeeper was too good a woman to spoil it. “She is also a hard and obliging worker. I can’t call her truly conscientious, but that may be because she is still a little unsettled.”

  “Her uncle is a plumber,” added Mr. Wilson. “I mention that because many young ladies would have concealed the fact, out of foolishness. Cluny Brown told me at once. There is a great openness about her. One could hardly call her well-educated—”

  Mrs. Maile, quite relieved to find that she had not been harbouring a phoenix of
all the virtues, readily agreed that in many respects Cluny was as ignorant as a child of six.

  “She’s young,” said Mr. Wilson tolerantly. He finished his whisky and rose, Mrs. Maile too felt that quite enough had been said: she had done her duty, and had certainly no desire to push Mr. Wilson farther than his own good sense judged fit. Indeed, she came very near to changing sides: she felt it was Mr. Wilson, not Cluny Brown, who needed to be protected from an entanglement.

  “A plumber may no doubt be a very nice sort of person,” said Mrs. Maile, carelessly, “but I don’t think you and I, Mr. Wilson, would find much in common with one.”

  “We should find our common humanity,” said the chemist gravely. “Apart from which, I’m no snob.”

  III

  Cluny’s cheerful unconsciousness did not last long. When she came downstairs from changing her dress she was met by another meaning look from Hilda and the information that Mr. Wilson was still on the premises, in the back lobby. Cluny put her head round the door to say good-night, and there, in that very unromantic spot, within the space of five packed minutes, her eyes were opened.

  “Come in a moment,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “I can’t stop!” said Cluny—still cheerfully. “It’s nearly dinner-time.”

  “I will not keep you long. I just wish to tell you that I am thinking of going to London.”

  “What, for a holiday?” asked Cluny, in surprise.

  “To pay a visit,” said Mr. Wilson. “I shall not be away more than a night.” He gave her one of his rare, serious smiles. “So you must tell me the address.”

  Cluny stood perfectly still. The portentousness of the chemist’s manner had given her the most extraordinary idea.

  “You’re not—” she stammered, “you’re not—”

  “I thought I would give myself the pleasure of dropping in on your uncle.”

  Quite overwhelmed, Cluny could do nothing but stare. She could not even think. For no understatement could minimize the importance of what she had just heard: the dropping-in of Mr. Wilson upon her Uncle Arn foreshadowed consequences too tremendous to be grasped.… The chemist meanwhile took out pencil and note-book, evidently ready to write down the address.

  “Fifteen, String Street,” murmured Cluny automatically.

  “Paddington?”

  “Paddington.…”

  He wrote it down.

  “Maybe you would like to send him some small gift? Fresh eggs are often acceptable.”

  Cluny saw the point of this at once: a dozen eggs afforded a reasonable pretext for the visit—a non-committal pretext. Eagerly she agreed to a dozen eggs.

  “To make sure of my welcome,” smiled Mr. Wilson. His manner was nearer to playfulness than Cluny had ever seen it, but she could not smile back. This did her no harm in the eyes of the chemist, who for a moment looked as though he were about to make some more impulsive remark still. However, he refrained. He evidently had his plans cut and dried.

  “When are you going?” asked Cluny nervously.

  “Probably on Saturday. I dare say, when writing to your uncle, you have mentioned my name?”

  “I have, just mentioned it,” admitted Cluny. This was indeed all she had done, for as her preoccupation with Mr. Wilson increased she had naturally grown more secretive about him. “He’ll be surprised,” said Cluny.

  Mr. Wilson agreed that this was probable, but shewed no apprehension. Why should he? He could not help knowing his worth. It was arranged that he should get the eggs in the village, and Cluny would pay for them later, and on this business-like note the interview came to an end.

  After Mr. Wilson had gone Cluny remained a moment or two longer in the lobby, staring at her own and Hilda’s mackintoshes, and Mr. Syrett’s boots, and a knitted scarf belonging to Cook. She observed that the boots needed cleaning; but apart from this achieved no constructive thought.

  IV

  “Well?” said Hilda, as Cluny returned to the kitchen. “Well, Cluny Brown?”

  But for once Cluny was silent. Her own name sounded oddly in her ears. The old question echoed again—“Who do you think you are, Cluny Brown?”—and it at last seemed probable that she had the answer.

  Chapter 22

  I

  All this happened on a Wednesday; during the next two days Cluny was afflicted by an extreme absent-mindedness, which Mrs. Maile pointedly overlooked. Too pointedly for Cluny’s comfort: happy as she knew herself to be, she wished her affairs could have been conducted with less publicity. Mr. Syrett’s astonished looks betrayed discussions in the housekeeper’s room; Hilda giggled almost without ceasing. Hilda had expected confidences and been disappointed, so her giggling was in fact proof of a warm, unresentful nature, a tribute not withheld, but it got on Cluny’s nerves. By Saturday afternoon (when Mr. Wilson had actually started for London) her only desire was for seclusion; as soon as the coast was clear she ran upstairs to her bedroom—and there was Hilda again, ahead of her, with a nightgown of Cluny’s in one hand and a tape-measure in the other.

  “I’m goin’ to make’ee a silk’n!” proclaimed loving Hilda.

  Cluny fled downstairs again, back to the kitchen. She knew she was behaving like a fool, and hoped it was natural; but she didn’t feel natural. That was the whole trouble: she felt as though this wonderful piece of good fortune wasn’t happening to her, Cluny Brown, at all. Sitting at the big scrubbed table, her chin on her fists, Cluny tried hard to think herself into her rightful place. She had no doubt of her feelings towards Mr. Wilson; he was simply the kindest, the cleverest and the best man she had ever known. He was going to give her a place where she belonged, a home she would never leave, and she hoped he would also let her keep a dog. (He liked dogs. He liked Roddy.) And in return Cluny was going to be all that he wished, kind to old Mrs. Wilson, and learning lots of poetry. Put so it seemed easy enough; but on re-examining the point, balancing what each would give and each receive, Cluny thought she had perhaps found the root of her trouble. Perhaps she wasn’t worthy of Mr. Wilson. The more she considered it the likelier it seemed, and never can a sense of inferiority have brought greater comfort: for if that was all that was wrong, the remedy lay in her own hands. She had simply to improve.…

  And this happy thought brought in turn a new and fruitful idea. Who, of all at Friars Carmel, had been her unkindest critic? The Professor. Cluny suddenly felt that a talk with the Professor was the very thing she needed. He would tell her frankly of all those faults which the eye of love (Mr. Wilson’s) did not yet, but might later, perceive—so that she could get down to improving without a moment’s delay.

  Thought and action being ever coincident with her, Cluny jumped up and ran out through the laundry to the stable-yard. It was not certain she would find the Professor there, but Miss Duff-Graham hadn’t come that afternoon, there was no tennis, and Cluny hoped that he might for once be doing a bit of work. Emerging into sunshine, she glanced eagerly at the window: no head was visible, but this didn’t mean the Professor was not within. Cluny felt sure he was within—and as she crossed the yard she told herself that this time, when he asked her, this time she would go up into his little room, so that they could have a good, long, improving talk.

  She reached the foot of the stairs. What happened next was so unexpected (and yet why should it have been?) that she felt an almost physical shock. From the window above, faintly, came voices: the voices of Adam Belinski and Betty Cream.

  Cluny stood a moment uncertain, and then went slowly back through the laundry door.

  II

  In designing that small apartment for Mr. Belinski’s convenience Andrew had certainly never realized how extremely convenient it might, in certain circumstances, be. Half-secret, secure from household interruptions, it was the very place for intimate or even amorous conversation. Mr. Belinski of course had realized this at once, and of late spent much time and ingenuity in persuading Betty to visit him there. Now he had more than succeeded; Betty brought Andrew with her; and whatever
thoughts Cluny took away sprung from a mistaken premise.

  “This is nice,” Betty was saying. “This is very nice indeed. I believe I could write a book here myself.”

  “It is yours,” said Mr. Belinski promptly—and just as though he owned the place. He shot Andrew a malicious look. “Did Andrew ever tell you why he prepared it for me? So that I might hide away from the Nazis. I am a great disappointment to Andrew: he thought I was a political character, worth saving, and I am not.”

  Impassioned and unscrupulous, Belinski thus did his best to drive his benefactor away; but Andrew remained where he was on one end of the camp-bed. Betty had curled herself at the other. What a pity it was they were grown-up! As children they could have enjoyed themselves there enormously, safe out of reach from the house, with a horse stamping below; triumphant—governess evaded, holiday-tasks shirked—at being all together; urgent to hatch plots, tell secrets, concoct strange foods and chemical experiments. Both Betty and Andrew felt something of this, and even Belinski (with childhood memories very different from theirs) recognized that the atmosphere was unfavourable to his original design. He gave Betty one long reproachful look; then with a complete change of aspect pulled a letter from his pocket and flourished it before them.

  “This is again from my splendid American publishers!” he proclaimed. “They wish me to go to New York. They wish me to address lunch-clubs. I am famous in the U.S.A.!”

  III

  It is a rare guest the cutting-short of whose stay brings no compensation. Andrew heard these tidings with considerable pleasure, and advised Belinski to fall in with whatever plans had been made for him. Belinski turned to Betty Cream: it was for her sake he had held himself in all morning, ever since the letter arrived by the first post; he had hoped to dazzle her with it in private.