The Gipsy's Baby

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘Barefaced,’ said Oliver, whirling upon them with plates of buns and sandwiches. ‘Our father can only describe it as barefaced. Jane, Jane, you’ve shaken our father’s faith in girlhood. His imagination boggles.’

  Jane collapsed upon the sofa and buried her gratification and her bun in cushions.

  Rapidly the generous board was stripped, draughts of cider and ginger beer were tossed down. Cider, surely, was heady stuff? She saw John in conversation with Roger lean back against the mantelpiece and make as if to prop his head upon his hand. His elbow slipped, he replaced it carefully, looking puzzled. One eyelid drooped, he was repulsively pale! Side by side at the buffet, the back views of Audrey and her brother displayed a striking family resemblance: square-planted, complacent, humourless. Methodically they ranged over the table, clearing it of its remains. The little girls sat together, their bare legs crossed, on a small couch at the end of the room, licking ice-cream off little spoons daintily, like cats, and conversing in serious undertones. Mr. Carmichael put on his spectacles, took up a gardening catalogue and composed himself in his armchair. Oliver thumped upon the piano; his mother lay back, her eyes shut, tapping out the tune with one foot. The party was petering out.

  ‘Jane,’ said Mrs. Ritchie, ‘when you’ve finished your ice—’

  ‘What when I’ve finished my ice?’ Jane shot upright.

  ‘Time to go home.’

  At this announcement, amid yells of protest, the party sprang to life and began to ascend once more in giddy spirals. Gerald dashed back into the room after a prolonged absence.

  ‘Sorry, everybody, I was telephoning. Mummy, I got Daly long distance in ten minutes, wasn’t it superb? He may be coming on Monday for a night or two, with a friend. Is that O.K.? Oliver, stop that filthy row. Let’s have some decent music.’

  He switched on the wireless. A husky voluptuous moaning, a swooning and a throbbing began to seep discreetly from the instrument. ‘Reynaldo and his Dreamy Boys! Superb!’ he cried.

  ‘Why don’t you dance? Do dance,’ said Mrs. Carmichael faintly.

  ‘Come on then.’

  Gerald swung her to her feet and began to revolve. What he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm, and soon she began to smile, to sparkle and look young again. Presently everybody was dancing. Rocking in a stately restrained way in the arms of Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Ritchie beheld Oliver, John, Meg and Jane locked together in a close ring, arms intertwined, stamping and shuffling: a crude performance. Norman was not among them. He sat on a chair against the wall, munching the last rock cake and looking sleepy. Threading hither and thither, deft, smooth-turning, Roger guided Audrey. He looked as if he knew all about how to dance; and Audrey, bouncing light as a balloon against him—yes, Audrey could dance too.

  Nostalgic and deprecating, Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael now took the floor together. Gerald and Oliver danced with the little girls. ‘That’s right, Jane, superb, you’re getting it,’ cried Gerald, while Jane, stiff, demure, eyes on the ground, counting one two three, one two three, laboured round with him at arm’s length. ‘Mrs. Ritchie, Jane’s got a marvellous sense of rhythm.’

  Roger danced on with Audrey. She looked very happy. Earlier in the day, Mrs. Carmichael had suggested that if you really looked, you saw that Audrey had fine eyes. Not untrue, perhaps? Enlarged, dark, they overcame her cheeks and softly glowed. She looked like a young girl.

  Mrs. Ritchie took a turn round the room with John; but the syncopated insinuations of Reynaldo could not beguile John’s ears or mollify his limbs, and they desisted amicably, by mutual consent.

  ‘I can’t teach you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how it’s done. I can only follow. Perhaps if you watched Roger you could pick it up.’

  ‘Oh, Roger,’ he said, without scorn or bitterness; ‘I could never pick up what he’s got. Might as well tell me to pick up fencing by watching him. He’s the best fencer the school’s had for years.’

  ‘Audrey’s a good dancer too.’

  ‘Mm.’ He studied her feet as she passed. ‘I suppose she is. I might get her to give me some tips.’

  His mother shot a glance at him. Satirical? Not at all. Unaccountable youth. Or was it that despising her as he did in her person, her femininity, he could permit himself to make use of her accomplishments for his purposes; whereas Roger, unapproachable, hero-figure, must not even in imagination be exploited?

  ‘Mrs. Ritchie, will you dance?’

  She found herself gliding and turning easily in the circle of Roger’s arm.

  ‘Do you dance a lot?’ she said after a while. ‘But of course you do.’

  ‘As much as I can. I had a marvellous party in London last week, and I hope to fit in another next week before I go home.’

  ‘Are people really still dancing in London?’

  ‘Oh, yes, rather. Like mad.’ He sounded surprised. ‘I suppose some parents do prefer to keep their daughters out of bombing range if possible, but there seem plenty left.’

  ‘You dance beautifully,’ she said. It was absurd: she could not refrain from feeling shy. I’m old enough to be his mother, she told herself. But it was his air of tolerant authority, his self-sufficiency, his elegance.

  ‘Let me return the compliment.’ He gave a little bow, a little laugh.

  ‘I haven’t danced for years,’ she said.

  ‘I adore it, I must say,’ said Roger. ‘My sister and I are going to give a little dance at home at the end of this month. It’s her sixteenth birthday.’

  ‘Have you a sister? That’s nice. What is she like? Is she pretty?’

  ‘Going to be, I think. She’s a bit on and off still, but I think she’ll make it.’

  ‘Is she like you?’

  ‘They say she’s like me.’ He gave another little laugh. He whirled with her, round and round, smoothly, at the end of the room. ‘It’s an odd thing,’ he said as they started to glide on again, ‘I cannot dance with my sister. I don’t know why it is. My friends tell me she’s quite a fair dancer, but so far as I’m concerned she might be a sack of potatoes.’

  He sounded baffled, quite indignant. He was very young after all. She looked up at him and laughed. The tune came to an end. He kept his arm round her, waiting for the next one to begin. When it did, he said: ‘Ah, my favourite waltz!’ and started off with her again. It seemed strange to be dancing to tunes with which she was totally unfamiliar. She did not say so: it would make her part of what must be to him totally unfamiliar history. Mr. Carmichael had taken the floor with Audrey. An athletic waltzer of the old school, he dipped, swung, reversed her vigorously. Otherwise the sexes had become segregated. The little girls hopped about together, bunching each other’s skirts up. The three boys circled together in the crouching attitude of a football scrum. From time to time Gerald broke out and did a few pirouettes and mincing runs with arms outstretched, on tiptoe. Presently Oliver tripped him up and they all fell together in a heap. The eyelids of Norman dropped lower, lower, closed entirely. Mrs. Ritchie said:

  ‘I’ve put those cherry branches you gave us in a white vase in my bedroom. They look so beautiful. I can’t tell you what pleasure they give me.’

  ‘Good!’ he said. ‘They are nice.’

  ‘Roger, I can never thank you properly for your playing to-night. You simply made the evening. You must have seen for yourself how much the village appreciated it. They’ll never forget you.’

  ‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to thank me for. I enjoyed myself hugely: it was pure self-indulgence. But it was a disgraceful noise, really it was. I’m hopelessly out of practice. I haven’t touched the fiddle since I was at my private. I fancied myself as a Maestro then.’ He uttered his characteristic amused two-note laugh.

  ‘You’re more interested in painting now?’

  ‘Well … yes …’ He considered. ‘I suppose I am. I took to it about eighteen months ag
o. Mr. Carrington, that’s the art master I expect you know, is responsible really. He encouraged me.’

  ‘I saw two of your portraits in the drawing school when I went down to see John. I remember them very well. I was so impressed.’

  ‘Did you really?’ He sounded mildly surprised, mildly gratified. ‘That’s excellent news. I must say I find portraits fascinating.’

  ‘You’re going to go on with it? Make it your career?’

  ‘I don’t know. I do wonder.’ He sounded impersonal, incurious. ‘I’m in hot water all round at present. My Papa destines me for the family business. He doesn’t care to see me idling about and fiddling with brushes. He’s worried. Mr. Carrington’s worried too. I appear to be stuck. My report says: Unable to finish anything. What is to be done?’

  ‘It’s just one of those bad patches. They’re inevitable. You’ll make a big step forward soon.’ But she felt at a loss. What intuition, what secret principle was at work within him? What moved him? He was without ambition. Delightful dilettante, would he come to nothing?

  ‘Jane’s so excited about sitting for you,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid she may have a hang-over to-morrow and not look her best … You must be firm with her about sitting still. She’d do anything to please you—stand on her head if necessary.’

  He laughed. ‘She’s a charming creature,’ he said. ‘I’ve quite lost my heart to her. She’s incredibly paintable, isn’t she?’

  ‘Do you think so? I’m so glad.’ She felt extreme gratification.

  ‘Those gold lights in her skin. I really must paint her some day, if I may.’

  After a pause, she said: ‘Not to-morrow?’

  ‘Well, actually I’m leaving to-morrow, I believe. I think I really must. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael must have had enough of me.’ He laughed. ‘Besides I believe I’m expected elsewhere to-morrow.’

  ‘What a pity.’ A blow. A blow for Jane: better not break it tonight. ‘Perhaps you’ll be coming to stay again in the summer?’

  ‘I do hope so,’ he said. ‘I’ve had such a perfect time. It’s such incredibly beautiful country here.’

  She said, feeling shy: ‘Perhaps you’d come and stay with us some time. We’d all love it.’

  ‘How very kind of you. That would be delightful. There’s nothing I’d like better.’ The tune died away. The voice of Reynaldo himself came on the air, crooned out a personal goodnight. It was midnight. ‘Unfortunately,’ said Roger, ‘the shades of the prison house will have closed on me by the summer. I shall be in the Army.’

  ‘In the Army? As soon as that. I forgot. You’re eighteen?’

  ‘Eighteen last month.’

  ‘Are you dreading it?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He nodded. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it.’

  He would go into the Army, and be drilled and do fatigues and go on courses, and be sent to his O.C.T.U.* and get his commission, and have embarkation leave and vanish from England under security silence and … come to nothing?

  ‘Perhaps the war will end,’ she said.

  She looked at him. He looked away over the room, smiling secretively. What was his meaning? ‘You see, as things are, it’s rather pointless really, isn’t it, to commit myself, to choose, to have a future …’ Was that it? Or had he no meaning?

  Now this party was really over. The hostess’s face looked tiny, mournful with weariness; the host yawned without restraint. That’s what we shall remember most clearly about the war: everybody yawning, dropping with sleep. Jane submitted to her overcoat without demur. Her face was vacant. She was far past the point of asking Roger exactly what time to-morrow she was to be ready. Audrey came downstairs: during the last ten minutes she had removed the somnolent Norman and, like a good sister, stretched him in his bed. All the Carmichaels gathered at the front door with jokes, with thanks, with promises to telephone, with kisses and handshakes to speed their guests. Suddenly another note became added to the din: an urgent yodelling torn from a throat in the torments of dementia.

  ‘Puffles!’ cried Meg. ‘Shut in my bedroom all this time. Oh, Puffles!’

  Up she flew. Next moment down shot Puffles and hurled himself among them, gabbling, shrieking, swooning at their feet in circular swathes.

  ‘Oh, Puffles, Puffles!’ ‘Oh, the poor man!’ ‘Shut in all the evening and never said a word!’ ‘Does he want to go outies then?’ ‘Mummy, we must take Puffles for a run to make up to him.’ ‘Good boy, outies, come on then.’ ‘Come on, let’s all go. Mummy, we shan’t be long. Just up the lane.’

  The front door banged, shutting off Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael. Feet pounded down the darkness and away. Shouts, laughter diminished in the distance. Mrs. Ritchie grasped Jane to her side. They found themselves alone in the drive.

  ‘Where’ve they gone?’ said Jane, dazed, walking at her mother’s side.

  ‘Only just a little way up the lane with Puffles. You heard them say they’d be back very soon.’

  ‘Did John go? And Audrey? Why couldn’t I go? They went without telling me.’

  ‘Oh, darling, it’s nothing to miss. Just groping about in that pitch-dark muddy old lane. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it a bit.’

  ‘Did Meg go?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sure Meg’s going to bed this very moment.’

  ‘I thought I saw her dash out of the door.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs. Ritchie suppressed an identical image.

  ‘I’ll ask her to-morrow. Did John ask you if he could go?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He’s a bad boy and I’m cross with him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought Audrey would go without asking.’

  The face of Audrey at the door came before Mrs. Ritchie; sparkling, eager, lost to decorum. ‘I bet they won’t come back for hours.’

  Only too likely. She saw them ranging the countryside with whoop and chorus. I won’t have it, she told herself, furious, impotent.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you stayed with me. I should have been sad going home alone.’

  Jane pressed her hand. They crossed the lane and climbed the steep withy bank into the pasture, where open space made a faint lightening of the deep darkness.

  ‘We forgot to bring a torch,’ said Jane. ‘Never mind. I like being out at night with you. Walking, walking, walking in nowhere. It doesn’t seem as if we were in the world at all.’ She squeezed her hand tightly again.

  ‘Oh, Jane, I haven’t danced for years. Not since you were born.’

  ‘Haven’t you? You seemed to get on all right. I noticed you smiling. I’m so glad Roger didn’t ask me to dance. I should have felt awful, not knowing how to.’ She spoke with simple relief and satisfaction. ‘Meg was telling me all about her school in New York while we were eating those ices. It was very interesting. She thinks their standard of education rather low in some ways. She was awfully behind in history when she came back. But up more in Current Events … Oh, Mummy, isn’t Norman an awful boy? He took the very last piece of chocolate cake. He said: “Anybody want this? Then I will.” Oh, he is awful.’

  They reached the front door, opened it and went into their house. Mrs. Plumley had left one light burning in the sitting-room.

  ‘I suppose I’d better leave it for those wicked creatures,’ said Mrs. Ritchie. ‘Quick to bed, darling.’

  ‘Can’t we wait up?’ Jane rocked on her feet.

  ‘No, no. I’m going to bed too. I shan’t wait up.’

  ‘Is it after midnight?’

  ‘Long after.’

  ‘Good!’

  Half carrying Jane upstairs, Mrs. Ritchie pulled her clothes off, removed the remains of lipstick and rouge with face cream, brushed her hair cursorily.

  ‘I can’t be fished to do my teeth,’ said Jane, falling into bed. ‘Tell me the minute you hear them come in, won’t you? I wonder if John likes Audrey any better now.’r />
  They kissed. Mrs. Ritchie went down, took a sheet of paper, wrote on it in large print: ‘Good-night. Go straight to bed’; left it propped against the lamp, went upstairs and undressed. Coming from the bathroom, she listened at Jane’s half-open door. Deep breathing issued softly, rhythmically from the shadows.

  She got into bed and lay with her bedside light on, staring at the tall white vase of cherry. Beautiful, beautiful, triumphant consolation. But one branch was withering already; and as she watched, a whole flurry of petals dropped down out of the sheaf and fell on the table.

  Above the roof the arch of night began to throb through all its length and breadth: a strong force of our bombers passing overhead. She took up Shakespeare’s Images of Man and Nature and read a few passages, but her eyelids dropped. She lay in a coma. It was just under an hour before she heard the front door creak open, close again. Cautious footsteps, whispers. They were trying to be quiet. She heard John’s tread going through the kitchen to the larder, returning. He opened the cake tin noisily. They would be finishing off the dough cake. Another few minutes and Audrey came tiptoeing upstairs. ‘Good-night,’ called John from below: cheerful, friendly.

  She leaned out towards the light to extinguish it. As she moved, something slipped out of the sheets on to the floor: Jane’s writing pad. Of course, Jane had selected this bed to rest on and deal with her correspondence before the performance. She picked it up. She read:

  Darling Angie, how are you? I shall be staying up till twelve o’clock to-night. We are having wonderful hol

  * Three fertility goddesses who had been deities of punishment under the name Erinyes (the Furies).

  * Painter (1878–1961).

  * Popular wartime radio programme. Its name was an abbreviation of the catchphrase ‘It’s That Man Again’, used in newspapers whenever Hitler made a new territorial claim.

  * ‘My God! You’re not going to tell me, honestly, that that blasted boy is still there? … He is indeed, ready to jump out on us.’