“Copper’s been offered the secretaryship,” Claudia said at once, “if he can put up the capital. Two hundred pounds, it is. Of course all the details are still to be settled and it would be six months on trial to begin with, but his friend Clive Branscombe is evidently anxious to have him, and he’s backing the whole scheme heavily.”
“I hope it will be all right,” said Sal simply. “Will the money be a difficulty?”
“It could be managed, I suppose. Copper says he’s coming home to-morrow—Saturday—and we shall have to talk it over. He’s forgotten that I shall be at Eastbourne till Monday.”
“Couldn’t you go home on Sunday evening?”
“Perhaps. We’ll see: I can’t disappoint Maurice.”
Sal would not dispute the point.
Presently Claudia looked up again.
“I’ve got a letter from Sylvia. She really is beginning to like Paris and enjoy her work, and she’s making friends with one or two people. There are some Americans to whom Anna gave her an introduction who are being very kind to her. I hope—and I’m beginning to believe—that it’s going to be a success and give her just the kind of independence and experience that she needed.”
“Don’t answer this if you don’t want to of course, but I’ve sometimes wondered why you changed your plans about Sylvia all of a sudden, and sent her to Paris instead of letting her come to London.”
“It was her own decision. I think I actually suggested Paris in the very first instance of all—or perhaps Mother did, I’m not sure—but Sylvia decided she’d go there.”
Sal nodded, wondering if she was to be told any more.
“You’ve guessed, probably, that there was rather more to it than that,” Claudia said with a smile. “It was that Bank Holiday week-end at Arling—do you remember?—when Andrew Quarrendon was staying with us.”
“I remember thinking that Quarrendon was very much attracted by her.”
“Yes. Well, that wouldn’t have mattered but unfortunately he told her so, at the same time giving her to understand that he had no intention of marrying her. Sylvia was a little bit in love with him, odd though it seems, and—it hurt her. That’s the whole story, practically. It was much better that she shouldn’t take a job in London where there would have been every possibility of their meeting. The Paris idea wasn’t at all a new one and it was quite simple to send her over there. I think from the tone of her letters that it’s answering very well.”
“Do you ever hear of Quarrendon?”
Claudia shook her head.
“Why should I? You’ll grant that I’m not a particularly conventional woman, Sal, but I didn’t think Andrew Quarrendon behaved well. It was my own fault, partly, for not realizing that Sylvia had grown up and that one ought to be more careful.”
“Careful about what?”
Claudia looked up in surprise.
“About letting her run the risk of—of pain and disillusionment,” she said.
Sal pushed back her chair.
“Poor Sylvia,” she remarked non-committally.
“She’ll get over it. She is getting over it,” Claudia asserted. “Mercifully, things don’t leave permanent scars at her age as a rule.”
Then I wonder why, thought Sal, you came between her and experience. I don’t believe Andrew Quarrendon would have done her harm really, and Claudia of all people has penetration enough to have known that.
She did not speak her thought aloud. It would be of no use, and Claudia looked ill and tired.
“I know it’s exasperating to be told so, but you don’t look terribly fit this morning. Why don’t you stay here and I’ll ring up from the office and let you know if there’s anything urgent?”
Claudia smiled. It was a grateful, charming smile, but her voice held the old note of inflexibility.
“Thank you, my dear, so much. But I think I must go. I’m all right.”
“Supposing there’s nothing that Ingatestone and I can’t deal with, couldn’t you come back here and rest until it’s time to go down to Eastbourne? That is, if you really are going to Eastbourne this evening.”
“I’m certainly going to Eastbourne this evening, and although it’s very nice of you, I couldn’t ever look myself in the face again,” Claudia declared gaily, “if I did the very thing that I’m always accusing other people of doing—lying down on the job.”
Sal shrugged her shoulders.
These were all sentiments that she had heard before, and she wondered why she had deliberately given Claudia so good an opportunity for assailing her ears with them once more.
Without wasting further words she prepared to set out for the office.
(3)
“What a hell of a day it’s been!” pensively observed Miss Frayle, flinging down the last sheet of a typewritten memorandum.
“Are you doing anything to-night, Frayle?”
“‘Friday night’s Amami night.’ My two step-ins, three pairs of stockings, and one pyjama get their weekly wash to-night and are dried on the hot-water pipes. A home-girl’s life is made up of little things.”
“An office girl’s life is made up of damned hard work and very little fun, if you ask me.”
“You never spoke a truer word, Collier. I sometimes think I’ll go on the streets for a rest.”
“I bet it wouldn’t be as strenuous as this office,” Miss Collier grumbled.
“Of course it wouldn’t. Trouble is, how does one begin? I must ask Ma Ingatestone.”
“She’s forgotten, it was all so long ago.”
“I say, Collier, could you come to the Symphony Concert one night? They’re doing the Eroika next week.”
“O.K. I’d love it.”
“We shall have to get there early; I can’t afford anything but the gallery.”
“Oh, neither can I. Standing’s frightfully good for taking off weight, though.”
“How too marvellous!” said Miss Frayle languidly. “I honestly think, sometimes, that I put on a stone a day.”
“I wonder if tea is bad.”
Young Edie came in.
“Mrs I. says I can go off now. Is that O.K. or is there anything I can do for you?”
“O.K. by me, young Edie,” said Frayle. “I’m hoping to get home myself within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Trot along,” Miss Collier benevolently instructed Edie. “How’s the great work getting on?”
Edie blushed and giggled.
“I don’t get much time for working at it, do I?”
“Well, when it’s a best-seller you’ll remember us, won’t you? I shall want a copy of the first edition, signed and dated.”
“O.K. Miss Collier. G’night.”
“Good-night. I say, is it raining?”
“Simply pouring.”
“Oh, hell!” sighed Miss Collier.
Mrs Ingatestone came in as Edie went out.
“Mrs Winsloe will sign the letters now, Miss Frayle. After that we can shut up shop.”
Frayle snatched up her papers and skimmed across the room and up the stairs.
She entered the room of her employer decorously.
God, the woman looks all in! she thought.
“Did those chintz patterns go back to the city all right?”
“Yes, Mrs Winsloe. Edie took them this afternoon.”
After that, the letters were signed rapidly and in silence.
“That’s all, Miss Frayle, thank you. I shan’t want you again this evening. I’m going down to Eastbourne to-night and I shan’t be here again till Monday morning. If there’s anything urgent, though I don’t see why there should be, take it in to Miss Oliver, and if necessary she can get me on the telephone.”
“O.K. Mrs Winsloe.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night,” repeated Miss Frayle. And she added to herself, “You look as if you needed it, too.”
(4)
The same thought crossed Sal Oliver’s mind when Claudia came in to her room to say that she
was just going.
Unlike Doris Frayle, Sal spoke it aloud.
“It’s a perfectly filthy night, pouring with rain, and the roads will be greasy and the traffic’s always bad on a Friday evening. I wish you’d go early to-morrow morning instead. It can’t make any real difference to Maurice.”
Claudia gave her a slight, grave smile.
“I’ve never let him down yet, and I’m not going to begin now. I told him I’d come to-night. Then I can take him out to-morrow morning.”
Sal was on the point of saying, “You don’t look fit to drive a car—for goodness’ sake go by train.”
But of what use would it be?
Claudia, in the opinion of Sal, would only derive a perverse satisfaction from hearing, and disregarding, such an observation.
(5)
In reality Claudia was much nearer to capitulation than her partner supposed.
She felt far more tired than she could remember having felt for a very long while, and the background to a day of hard work had been the miserable, reiterated recollection of Anna’s words of the previous evening.
Whether they were true or untrue it hurt unbearably that Anna should have spoken them, that Anna should believe them true.
Claudia kept on telling herself over and over again in futile repetition that she must face Anna’s accusations and examine them impartially. But she was so tired—and there was the drive to Eastbourne—
Perhaps, after all, she could remain in London that night—face her problems alone and in the dark—and go to Maurice on the following morning?
A queer little picture kept forming itself before her mind’s eye of herself valiantly driving out into the night, because she wouldn’t fail him. She wouldn’t let down her job. …
Claudia even smiled a little, recognizing that she was dramatizing the situation.
Not very like me to do that, she thought.
All the time, she was putting away papers, leaving everything in order and ready for Monday morning’s work, and finally pulling on her heavy motoring coat and dark béret.
On the threshold she paused and looked round the room. Then she went slowly back to her desk, took up the telephone, and dialled the number of the Zienszis’ flat.
Anna’s voice answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s Claudia speaking, darling. I’m just off to Eastbourne for the week-end and I thought I’d like to say good-night.”
“Oh, darling, how sweet of you!” Anna’s voice, quick and warm, came back instantly. “I’m so glad you rang up. I was going to write.”
“Anna—about yesterday evening—I dare say you were partly right. I’ll try and see it—look at it quite straight.”
“I oughtn’t to have said it. I’ve been wretched—I think I was horrible. Please, Claudia darling, forgive me.”
“There isn’t anything to forgive. It’s all right, truly.”
“You’re so generous and good. Thank you for ringing up. Now I shall be much happier.”
“So shall I. Let’s see if we can meet when I get back.”
“Ring me up here on Monday morning. Give my love to Maurice. Have a nice time, Claudie.”
“You too, Annie.”
It was their childhood’s formula.
“Good-night, darling. Thank you for ringing up.”
“Good-night, darling Anna.”
Claudia hooked up the receiver with a strong feeling of comfort and relief.
She went out to the car.
It was a very dark night and the rain fell steadily.
As she turned towards the river, Claudia once more realized that she felt as much tired and shaken as though she were recovering from a long illness. She became aware that she was driving badly, wavering in her decisions, and slightly nervous and unready in all her movements.
I must take hold of myself, she thought.
For a moment she envisaged the possibility of taking her car back to the garage and herself returning to Sal’s flat for the night. She knew her partner well enough to feel certain that she would meet with no comment.
How silly. As if it mattered whether other people commented or not!
The traffic was heavy and it was only possible to crawl at a snail’s pace.
Her thoughts veered round to Copper and the letter that she had received from him that morning.
A very short letter and not an eloquent one, but Copper had made it clear that he had actually accepted the secretaryship of the club and undertaken to find the capital required. No doubt he meant to borrow it. If Claudia didn’t offer to lend it to him then Adolf Zienszi would, or perhaps his friend Branscombe.
Anyway he’ll get it, thought Claudia. She conscientiously told herself that to see Copper in a job must be the greatest possible relief. Financially, as well, it would ease the strain upon her.
If she wasn’t so tired, she’d be glad.
A thought pricked somewhere at the back of her mind. For a moment she was unable to grasp it.
Arling.
Copper might want them to leave Arling, to go and live somewhere that would give him the chance of getting home for the week-ends at least.
One would have to consider that very carefully of course. Arling was expensive and the mortgage a heavy drain. Still, it was being paid off by degrees, and once it was cleared, the house might be regarded as a good investment.
And she loved it so! To see her own children growing up where she had grown up—to make them familiar with everything that was most strongly associated with her own youth … it was like an extension of the past into the present, identifying her own childhood with theirs.
What was it that Anna had said?
“You bought Arling because you wanted to see yourself again in your children—you wanted home to be associated in their minds with you primarily. …”
How little Anna understood!
Approaching Westminster Bridge, Claudia slowed down again. The traffic was very heavy and the roads greasy and slippery from the rain.
Presently the car was brought to a complete standstill.
She wondered whether Copper would get a new car for himself now. Of course he would. The old Morris was fit for nothing but the scrap-heap.
Perhaps Copper wouldn’t succeed in keeping the job. He hadn’t, Claudia thought, much staying power, and he’d got into the habit of drinking just a little too much. He ought to realize that it wasn’t any too easy, nowadays, to hold down a responsible position. There were so many waiting eagerly to displace the inefficient, the elderly.
Detached phrases, with which she would explain this to Copper, floated through her mind.
The close-crowded vehicles began to move again, led by a seemingly endless procession of trams, and Claudia slipped into bottom gear and turned onto the bridge.
Impatience suddenly possessed her and she thought with dismay of the long drive ahead of her, the necessity of unpacking, even the labour of preparing herself for bed. But she’d be all right after a night’s sleep. Able to go up to the school and take Maurice out in the morning, before sitting through the play in the afternoon. She wouldn’t have disappointed him, even in the smallest degree.
“Aren’t you, all day and every day, acting as the perfect mother … dramatizing yourself as the world’s worker? …”
Anna’s searing, intolerable words flashed into her mind.
With an irrational impulse to move faster, as if by so doing she could escape from her thoughts, Claudia took advantage of the slowing-down of the tram ahead, accelerated, and endeavoured to pull round it.
A second later she perceived, on the other line, the slow, jerky advance towards her of the second tram.
Startled, she wrenched at her brake, felt the car slew beneath her as it skidded round, heard the long-drawn screech of violently-applied brakes and a man’s horrified shout.
The on-coming tram loomed above her, monstrous and menacing.
Part III
The Following Spring
&
nbsp; (1)
As the ship ploughed her steady way across the Atlantic Taffy leant over the side and gazed, fascinated, at the churning depths far below.
Supposing one of the small children on board were to fall in, would she have enough courage to spring in after it? How utterly helpless she’d feel, swimming about that boundless green waste, with the waves slapping at her relentlessly!
Quickly abandoning that aspect of her fantasy, Taffy rehearsed instead the comments of the other passengers, particularly those of the tall boy from Santa Barbara with whom she had danced the evening before.
He was too young, of course, but she’d quite liked him—and it was exciting that he should like her so much—better, apparently, than any of his own compatriots, although the American girls on board seemed to Taffy far prettier, more competent, sophisticated, and above all much, much smarter than herself.
At least, she thought wistfully, it was a mercy that black and white both suited her sandy colouring so well.
“The slender figure of a young girl in deep mourning was silhouetted against the sky. Her face was set towards the New World. Fearlessly she envisaged whatever might await her there.”
Could one envisage something if one didn’t know what it was?
Perhaps not.
It was pretty exciting, though, to be going to College in America. For two years she wouldn’t see England again. When she next saw the white cliffs of Albion a world of experience would lie behind her.
England would always be home, although Arling was to be sold.
On the whole, Taffy didn’t feel that she would regret Arling very much. The new house was smaller and much more modern and could be run with two maids. And His Lordship wasn’t there, to resent transplantation.
At the thought of her old friend, put painlessly to sleep and buried under the willows at Arling, Taffy felt hot tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She fiercely fought them back and turned quickly in search of distraction.
An American brother and sister, both young, were setting up their portable gramophone on the deck. They smiled at Taffy and invited her to come and listen to their new records.
“D’you know a marvellous one called ‘Icecream Blues’?” they earnestly enquired.
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