“Oh, very, very,” said Frances enthusiastically.
“She said that what Claudia really wanted, was to see an extension of her own personality in the children. History repeating itself kind of idea, I suppose. That’s why she was so keen on Arling. Seeing herself as a child again, and a young girl—only it was Sylvia and Taffy and Maurice instead.”
“Repeating the pattern,” Frances elucidated, feeling proudly that this was indeed an admirable summing-up.
Copper appeared to feel it so as well.
“That’s exactly it. You’ve got it in a nutshell. Repeating the pattern. She wants to see herself again, living in her children. I suppose it’s natural enough. Still, they won’t be children much longer. Sylvia isn’t living at home and soon Taffy won’t be. Home’ll just be the place they come back to, for a year or two longer, and then after that they’ll make their own lives. What’s the sense of hanging on to Arling?”
“But Claudia———”
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently. “But I’ve danced to Claudia’s tune all these years and I think it’s about time I had a say in things. Honestly—don’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” Frances said solemnly.
She was aware, in a remote kind of way, that she would probably have qualified this statement in a more normal mood. Two cocktails, taken in the middle of the day after a very light breakfast of five hours earlier, had, she felt certain, impaired her powers of judgment.
A happy confidence enveloped her and seemed to vibrate glowingly between herself and Copper Winsloe.
III
(1)
It had been a day of hard work, rushed jobs and continual irritations. Thank heaven, thought Claudia, Ingatestone will be back to-morrow.
She had deliberately arranged to do a certain amount of Mrs Ingatestone’s work herself, and this addition to her own multifarious occupations added to the nervous strain under which she laboured.
Her head ached as she presided over the staff conference, and it seemed to her that Sal Oliver was argumentative, Frances Ladislaw half asleep, and the two girls unusually casual and inattentive.
Claudia’s self-command enabled her to keep these impressions to herself, but her manner grew more and more curt and peremptory, and as soon as the conference was over she slammed her door viciously and snapped on the red light.
A pile of letters to be signed lay on her desk. She read each one through, making an alteration here and there.
I shall have to stay at Sal’s flat to-night, she told herself. I can’t face that drive through the traffic, and I drive so badly when I’m tired. Claudia knew—it was one of the facts that she faced most fearlessly and frequently—that, although she was a careful driver, she was not a good one. Extra fatigue was always liable to make her movements rather slower, her judgment a shade less accurate, than was desirable.
Perhaps it wasn’t altogether to be wondered at.
One couldn’t do everything—although one might try.
The inter-office telephone-bell rang.
“Yes?” said Claudia. She allowed herself to sound just as exasperated as she felt at this fresh demand upon her attention and energy. It was much better that the office should realize the tension under which she was living and working: otherwise they might become careless, and allow unnecessary interruptions.
Claudia’s “Yes?” therefore sounded, even to her own ears, not so very unlike a sharp bark.
“If you please, Mrs Winsloe, Mr Winsloe is in the office. Shall he come up?”
The children, thought Claudia. Which of them is it? Maurice …
“Please show him up at once,” she directed, and leant back in her chair.
Copper had never before come to the office except by appointment.
In the four and a half minutes that elapsed before Edie knocked at the door, Claudia had mentally lived through a good deal. With complete composure and presence of mind she had handed over one or two urgent pieces of work to Sal Oliver, had commanded Miss Frayle to sign the remainder of the letters for her, put a telephone-call through to Arling and given various instructions, sent Edie for a taxi, and stepped into it, directing the driver to go—where?
Was it Sylvia, or Taffy, or Maurice?
“Come in!”
It was Edie’s deprecating knock, but she did not appear. The door opened as though by an invisible agency, and Copper came in, wearing an unmistakable air of jauntiness and an unwonted flower in his button-hole.
Claudia instantly recognized that all her fears had been without any foundation at all.
“Copper!” she said sharply. “Is anything wrong with any of the children?”
“Good God, no! Why should there be?”
Claudia visibly relaxed in her chair.
“I’m sorry—it was silly of me,” she said very sweetly. “When I heard you were here, quite suddenly, I thought you might have come to fetch me because one of them had met with an accident or was ill.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
“I’m so glad.”
She looked at him expectantly.
“I say, Claudia, come out and have tea somewhere. Not now this minute—but when you’re ready.”
“But my dear—I’d love it, of course, but I do wish you’d warned me. I didn’t even know you were coming up to London.”
“I know you didn’t. As a matter of fact I’ve got something to talk to you about. Can you come now?”
She shook her head.
“Not possibly. I’ve got a woman coming to see me at four o’clock—that’s in ten minutes—and I want to give Frayle some dictation before she goes—and then Collier is bringing me some accounts to go through—oh, Copper, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I didn’t know you’d be so tied up,” he said gloomily. “You’ve got to have tea some time, haven’t you?”
“Not necessarily. If I do, it’s only a cup that stands on the corner of the table while I work.”
“That’s the way women always go on,” muttered Copper.
“I can’t help it, dear, really. You know,” said Claudia mildly and reasonably, “I don’t come to the office just for fun, to do nothing.”
“I should have thought you could spare half an hour or twenty minutes, I must say.”
Claudia sighed.
Then she said brightly: “Well, I must see what I can do. Sit down and smoke a cigarette, Copper, and perhaps I can reorganize things a little. I suppose you’ve had lunch?”
“Yes.”
He had reverted to his customary monosyllabic way of answering, and Claudia stared at him in some perplexity.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“No,” said Copper, without much exultation. “No, there’s nothing wrong.”
(2)
By half-past four it had become possible for Claudia to delegate some of her tasks, and complete others. She threw on her hat and coat and rejoined Copper, who had retreated downstairs.
She found him in conversation with Miss Frayle. A peculiar gift for finding out by instinct the proximity of any man, and immediately entering into conversation with him and keeping him entertained thereby, was known in the office to be one of Frayle’s leading characteristics.
Even Claudia was aware of it, and rather amused by the graceful creature’s pose as she stood balancing a wire basket on one hip, her eyes raised appealingly to Copper’s face, her expression one of candid satisfaction in his society.
When Claudia appeared Miss Frayle scarcely moved—yet in some indefinable manner she instantly ceased to be a bewitching houri and became instead a competent young worker.
“Goodbye,” said Copper.
“Goodbye, Mr Winsloe,” drawled Miss Frayle with her best sham-American intonation.
Copper followed his wife into the street.
“Where would you like to go?”
“The nearest place,” she said wearily. “I’ve had the most frightful rush all day and I’m no
t nearly through yet. I wonder where they’d serve us quickest.”
“Shall we go to the Savoy?”
“Not unless we’ve come into a fortune Copper. I think Lyons would be more suitable.”
In the end they went to neither of these extremes, but to a small tea-shop off the Strand.
There, Copper told Claudia his news.
She listened attentively, her eyes widening every now and then.
“But, my dear—it’s—it’s all such a surprise. I had no idea.”
“Neither had I until I got Branscombe’s letter.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I’d like to get something settled first. It’s my own show, come to that.”
“But naturally. Of course. Only it’s so … Tell me, are you committed definitely yet?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘committed.’ They’ve practically offered me the job, if I can raise the two hundred pounds capital—which I shall eventually get back, of course, in salary—provided the directors pass me—and Branscombe is one of them, and was practically told he could appoint anybody he thought suitable.”
“Copper, it’s all splendid, I’m sure, but …” She hesitated, and then asked him if he would like a second cup of tea.
“Yes, please. What were you going to say?”
“I was only going to ask if you know anything at all about this enterprise—this country-club experiment. Except, of course, what Branscombe has told you.”
“Well, isn’t that enough?” Copper demanded. “Branscombe has put his own money into it, which is pretty good proof that he thinks it’s sound enough—if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Copper—please! I’m not driving at anything. But naturally I’m anxious. It seems so marvellous—too good to be true almost.”
“You don’t sound very delighted.”
“I’m afraid I sound tired. I’m so sorry. It’s been an awful day. Never mind that now. Tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Go up north the day after to-morrow and get the once-over and then, provided they don’t kick me out at sight, look into things a bit. I imagine I shall be wanted for the opening show, when some big bug is coming to make a speech and set the ball rolling.”
“I see. And then what?”
“How do you mean? I shall come back, after the opening, to get things settled and tell you what’s happened, and what sort of offer they’ve made me—if any.”
He smiled rather anxiously.
“I think it’s going to be all right. My God, I shall be thankful to have a job of work again!”
“I know, darling. I can so thoroughly understand that. Though I wish it wasn’t quite so far away. Still, I suppose it’s only temporary.”
“Well, I don’t know.” Copper’s voice had roughened. “You must see, Claudia, that if this turned out to be a really big thing—as it very well might—it would be worth almost any sacrifice to keep it.”
“Quite,” said Claudia, speaking carefully. “I quite see what you mean. At the same time, we’ve got to consider my position, too, a little bit. I’ve built up this business at the cost of a great deal of very hard work—harder than most people realize, I think—and a good many sacrifices. And after all, it’s been keeping us all for a good many years.”
“There’s no reason why you should chuck it up entirely, that I can see. I suppose, if necessary, we could move somewhere half-way between your job and mine. Anyhow, there’s no need to think of that yet, surely.”
“None whatever,” she said quickly. “We don’t even know whether you’ll get the job if you do apply for it, or how long it would last, or anything.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. Of course I’ve applied for it. Upon my soul, Claudia, anybody would think you didn’t want me to get it.”
“Oh my dear!” said Claudia wearily. “Please don’t take up that attitude. I’m so sorry if I sounded unsympathetic. It’s the last thing I mean to be. But you see—this has all come on me very suddenly, at the end of a gruelling day. I’m sure I sound very stupid—but it’s the last thing I want to be. Why, it would be the most wonderful thing if you could get something to do—even if it only paid your own living expenses.”
Copper scowled.
“One less for you to keep,” he said brutally.
Claudia took no notice.
“About this capital,” she began. “I do wonder how I could raise it.”
“I suppose another mortgage wouldn’t be frightfully difficult to arrange. I wish to God I could do it myself, without having to ask you———”
Claudia was at once warmly responsive.
“Don’t think of that. Anything I can do for you, I will. You know that, Copper.”
“I thought you might think of it as an investment.”
“Yes, I know, but you see, Copper—I’ve got to consider the children too. I want to do everything I can for you—I do see how much this means to you, I think … We must find out more about it all. I wonder if Adolf Zienszi knows about it.”
“They’re very keen to get him interested. Branscombe told me.”
“I see. Yes, I see,” said Claudia thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s why—yes, I see. Copper, wouldn’t you like some more bread-and-butter? You’re not eating anything.”
“I don’t want anything,” said Copper ungraciously. He pushed his chair back and took out a cigarette and lit it, forgetting or omitting to hand the case to his wife first.
(3)
Frances Ladislaw, although less exhilarated than when under the influence of her two cocktails, was, even at the end of the day, sufficiently elated by the remembrance of Copper’s good news to ask if the Winsloes would dine with her that night in London. She was much surprised to hear from Claudia that Copper had already gone home, and that she herself intended to spend the night at Sal’s flat, because she was too tired to drive back to Arling.
“I’m so sorry,” said Frances. “What a pity! Well, will you come and have dinner with me, Claudia? just quietly—and you shall go back to bed as early as you like. You do look dreadfully tired.”
Claudia said that was nothing, and accepted the invitation to dinner.
The club of which Frances was a member had moderately comfortable bedrooms upstairs, and superb reception-rooms and a marble staircase downstairs, very indifferent service, and bad cooking.
The members knew this, and bemoaned it quietly amongst themselves, but they took no concerted action. The service therefore continued to be indifferent, the cooking bad, and the cellar abominable.
Neither Claudia nor Frances were perturbed by these failures to minister to their comfort.
They dined, unperceivingly, off dishes made of eggs and scraps of fish, a few chicken-bones, and some black coffee.
Afterwards they sat in a remote corner of the enormous smoking-room and talked in low voices about Copper’s announcement.
A sensation of puzzled disappointment invaded Frances as she became aware, without quite knowing how, that her friend was less pleased than she had expected her to be.
Claudia was practical and business-like. Probably she knew what she was talking about when she said they must enquire into it all very, very carefully before risking any money.
“I see,” said Frances. “I see what you mean, of course. But wouldn’t it be worth risking something—if it is a risk—so that Copper should have something to do—feel that he’s working?”
“Yes, of course,” said Claudia at once. “That’s frightfully important, and I’ve been thinking about it a great deal. It’s been wretched for him, all these years—and bad for his self-respect, though heaven knows one’s had no thought of blaming him, poor Copper.”
“It must have been dreadful for him to see you working so hard and not be able to do anything himself. And when he gets this job,” said Frances happily, “you won’t have to work so hard any more. It’ll all be easier, when you needn’t feel it all depends on you.”
“But Claudia—Claudia—I’m sure that’s all wrong,” said Frances, incoherent from mingled grief and astonishment. “You must want Copper to take his fair share of responsibility. It’s been bad enough, all this time when he couldn’t, but now—it does seem to me that you’re making a most dreadful mistake if you don’t do everything in the world to help him to get it.”
Agitated as she was, her eyes met those of Claudia squarely.
Claudia’s expression was exceedingly grave, but when she answered it was in a very gentle voice, without a hint of anger at what Frances herself felt to be her own audacity.
“You think me very ungenerous, and unsympathizing about this idea of Copper’s, don’t you? I suppose it’s quite natural you should. I don’t see why I should expect you to understand. But you see, I’ve been married to Copper a good many years, Frances. I’ve seen him let down one responsibility after another. I don’t say he can help it—it’s partly temperamental, I suppose. But it does mean that I can’t feel very enthusiastic about putting very badly-needed money into a scheme that doesn’t sound to me too terribly practical.”
“You’ve just said that we—that you—must enquire into it very carefully. And I quite agree. But until you’ve enquired into it very carefully, how can you know whether it’s practical or not?”
“I can’t know, of course,” Claudia agreed with perfect equanimity. “It was a silly thing to say. I’m sorry.”
So far from being moved by this simple admission, Frances suddenly felt that it would be a great relief to lose her temper, scream at her judiciously impartial friend, and possibly even return to the methods of the old-fashioned nursery and slap her.
Horrified and surprised, she actually felt herself colouring with mingled shame and vexation.
Hastily she rushed into speech.
“If the capital is very difficult to find—and I know it must be, with the children costing such a lot—I do wish you’d let me lend it to you. I could really manage it quite easily. I have so few expenses now, and only myself to think about. I’d love to do it.”
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