Saplings

  Selina sat in the half-empty theatre with Kim beside her. She had on a simple, childish silk frock and, in place of a hat, had tied a ribbon round her hair. Her eyes were on the stage where a troupe of children were dancing, but she was not seeing them. She was incapable of facing any fact squarely, instead, half truths shot into her mind, to be as quickly as possible shot out again. She had been young for her age when she married, and Arthur had accepted the fact that she was a child. With the babies came responsibilities, Selina poutingly thought it all rather a bore, too big a load for such very childish shoulders. Then Robert, whom she insisted on calling Bertie, showed signs of talent. Selina, unable to make a niche for herself with her contemporaries, discovered a life she would like with her children. She was not contented with one swan, she searched for talent in Fiona and discovered she could dance. From that time life was fun again, she was the wonderful little mother of two wonderful children. For miles beyond their own town the children were known, Bertie playing first a solo and then accompanying his sister’s dances. The children were a godsend to all who got up a show for charity. With the coming of the war the charity performances grew less frequent, Bertie and Fiona grew older. Arthur, who would have understood how Selina felt, went into the Air Force, and Selina who, when the war started had considered herself a still youngish mother, had become what Lindsey had so cruelly described as middle-aged. ‘It was not true, of course,’ Selina told herself. It was just Lindsey’s hateful way of talking. Still, there was the fact, she was thirty-seven. Thirty-seven was the beginning of the middle years. As well, during the war years, she had begun to have doubts about the children. Not that she admitted to herself that she was doubting, but in weak and unguarded moments she was conscious of hovering doubts struggling for attention. Arthur, when he had leave, and in his letters, made it clear Bertie was going to Sherborne. Before the war he had his name down, but it was such a long way off that no decision had to be made, and Arthur did not contradict her when she said that perhaps the boy would always need a specialised education. It was not possible to sort out her mind in regard to Fiona. The child was musical, she was a good build for a dancer, and she had admirably shaped feet for the purpose, but temperament, that extra something, where were they? Because Selina was fluffy minded and defenceless, Fiona and Bertie with their father away, took charge. They had knowledge and technique, they knew where they were going. Selina was aware they were forming views of their own. She had put up a fight. She had slaved for the introduction to Ninette de Valois. Such fun a daughter in the ballet, travelling with her, stage doors, the envy of other mothers. It was bitter to have been told what she had learnt that morning. She had been so proud, other mothers had envied her. The dancing children dimmed and swam, for Selina’s eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Good-afternoon, Mrs. Llewellyn.’ Selina blinked. Madame, the head of Fiona’s dancing school, was speaking. ‘My pianist has to leave early. May I ask your boy to play for the children after she’s gone?’ Selina had a lump in her throat. She managed a smile and a nod. ‘And who’s this?’

  Kim beamed. The light from the stage lit up his face.

  ‘I’m Kim Wiltshire, her nephew. My mother’s ill and my father was killed in an air-raid. I’m watching the rehearsal and, if you don’t mind my mentioning it, I’m bored.’

  ‘What a pity we can’t find a part for you. It is dull for you watching. I suppose you don’t sing or anything?’

  ‘No. I’ve acted a lot at school. I tell you what I could do if you like, I could announce everybody. There’s awful pauses between everything.’

  Madame held out her hand.

  ‘It’s not a bad idea. Let’s see if you can do it. Your cousin is going to play his piano solo after these children have finished. You announce him.’

  Selina watched Kim disappear through the pass door. She was too busy formulating thoughts and casting them out to consider him. Presently the curtains were dropped and, after a moment, he sauntered through them. He smiled at an imaginary vast audience.

  ‘The next thing is my cousin Bertie. He’s going to play the piano. If you don’t like the noise, put your fingers in your ears, he won’t mind.’

  He smiled again and strolled off.

  Madame sat down beside Selina.

  ‘What a beautiful child, and how confident, and so amusing. He’ll be the making of the matinée. I must say you’re a remarkably talented family.’

  A mother joined them.

  ‘Who’s that enchanting little boy?’

  Selina was warmed and revived.

  ‘My nephew. That sounds rather distant. He’s more like a son really.’

  XLVI

  Laurel gently opened Miss Grigson’s door. In the pre-war days Lindsey had a secretary whose life was spent wandering from author to author, and who was not only brilliantly efficient but could add a spice to life recounting the more lurid details of other authors’ private lives. That secretary had been called up and put to work in a Ministry, and Lindsey, after struggling with various hopeless incompetents, had fixed herself up with Miss Grigson. She thought Miss Grigson stupid and ignorant, but she had two superb advantages. She was over fifty, and had lost her home through enemy action. ‘Poor old thing,’ Lindsey told her friends, ‘a complete nit-wit, but imagine, she can type, she’s outside the clutches of the Labour Exchange and everything she possessed destroyed. Nowhere else to go. Aren’t I lucky?’

  Miss Grigson turned as the door opened. She beckoned to Laurel. She spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Just going.’

  Laurel crept out again and walked softly down the stairs. She stood by the front door. Presently a door opened, she heard Lindsey’s voice.

  ‘You clipped my speech on to the papers about the meeting?’ There was an inaudible murmur from Miss Grigson. ‘Have that rough ready by this evening.’

  Aunt Lindsey was coming down the stairs. Laurel straightened her frock. She stepped forward.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo, dear. Good-morning. Why aren’t you outside this lovely day?’

  Laurel flushed and swallowed. Dare she say, ‘I was hanging about to say good-bye to you?’

  She blurted, ‘Good-bye, Aunt Lindsey. I hope you make no end of a good speech.’

  Lindsey smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave Laurel a brisk, meaningless kiss. ‘Have a nice day.’

  Laurel stood in the porch. She watched Lindsey climb into the taxi and drive away. She heaved an admiring sigh. ‘How simply marvellous to be Aunt Lindsey. Fancy, famous, with people asking for your autograph.’

  Miss Grigson joined Laurel in the porch. When Lindsey was out of the house Miss Grigson relaxed so much, it was as if she slipped out of a heavily boned corset.

  ‘Gone! I thought I might take a little walk round the garden before I begin work.’

  Laurel, as always in this house, was torn by conflicting feelings. Aunt Lindsey was marvellous. It was gorgeous to think that she, Laurel, just a schoolgirl, plain and dull, was staying with a famous authoress, and Aunt Lindsey actually seemed to like having her. Against that it was a strain being a niece Aunt Lindsey would like. Never being seen or heard when she was working was part of it, and that was not easy on a wet day, for she did not want always to read, and there was nobody to talk to, and it was a temptation to turn on the wireless, hoping, if it was kept very low, Aunt Lindsey would not hear it. Then there was a high standard of tidiness expected, and, most important of all, to be a niece Aunt Lindsey liked, you must look after yourself. Aunt Lindsey detested what she called ‘the physicals’. Laurel blushed to think she had asked Aunt Lindsey for a pill. It humiliated her still to remember the disgusted look on Aunt Lindsey’s face, and the snubbing way she had said, ‘I dare say you can find something in the bathroom cupboard.’ In a way it was rather nice, though less exciting, when Aunt Lindsey was out of the house. If only Miss Grigson and Hannah did not look so pleased, and take it for granted Laurel was pleased too. Hannah was almost stone deaf an
d you would not think it made much difference to her who was in the house. For even when Aunt Lindsey was annoyed about something, the way a dish was cooked, or a piece of furniture polished, it was unlikely Hannah heard much of what she said. Still, there was no doubt it made a difference to Hannah when Aunt Lindsey was away. She would suddenly appear, beaming, with a cake hot from the oven or an apple. Usually, when Aunt Lindsey was away, Laurel helped Hannah do the housework. She would have liked to help her every day, it would have been something to do, but Aunt Lindsey had said, ‘No nonsense now making your bed. Hannah can manage and I don’t want her to get the idea she’s overworked.’

  Laurel and Miss Grigson walked round the garden. Miss Grigson sniffing the morning in a pleased way.

  ‘Such a treat to get out for an early breather. I always have liked a lung-full before I start work. My little flat had a piece of roof I could climb out on. Such a joy. I could see the river.’

  ‘Tell me about Aunt Lindsey’s book. Has the man asked Jess to marry him yet?’

  ‘The trouble is, dear, I never quite understand your aunt’s books. It’s all right when she gives me her rough in longhand, then I can go over it slowly. This last chapter she dictated. I find it very difficult to follow then. I’m afraid I lose interest. I like a sweet tale.’

  ‘But you must know if he asked her to marry him.’

  ‘I don’t. He seemed, if I understood right, to be staying with a man friend. There was a lot about subjugation, whatever that might mean. I get so worried with difficult words. Oh well, I suppose I must go and type it.’ Miss Grigson was held by an idea. ‘As it’s a lovely day why don’t we eat our lunch in the garden? Just a little treat.’

  There Miss Grigson went again. There was no reason why they should not have lunch in the garden, only it could never have happened if Aunt Lindsey were home. It would be fun, if only there was not the implication that anything nice could only happen when Aunt Lindsey was out.

  Laurel spent the morning helping Hannah. Hannah sang and rubbed up the furniture. Laurel dusted. When Hannah worked round to the wireless, with a wink she turned it on to its fullest extent so that she could hear it. Then suddenly, she sat at Aunt Lindsey’s desk and gave an imitation of Aunt Lindsey writing down the week’s orders. The worst of it was Hannah was so funny and so like Aunt Lindsey, who wrote even a shopping list in a grand way, that Laurel rolled about laughing, but even while she laughed she felt disloyal. Somehow, without meaning to, she seemed to be joined with Miss Grigson and Hannah, not exactly against Aunt Lindsey, but rather like it, which was all wrong, for she admired her more than anybody she had ever met.

  In the garden over lunch Laurel felt better because she talked about Aunt Lindsey. It was rather a one-sided conversation, but she did feel that she was making Miss Grigson see Aunt Lindsey more clearly.

  ‘People who are awfully clever can’t be expected to like the same things as ordinary people. She’s exalted really, isn’t she? Above us.’ Miss Grigson munched and made a vague sound. ‘You know, in the evenings when Aunt Lindsey and I are alone she treats me as if I was quite seventeen. She tells me all about her speeches. You know, she’s marvellous on child psychology.’

  ‘The woman who had the flat below me used to have her grandchildren to meals, their mother wasn’t well. Seven of them. Splendid how she managed. I often wonder what happened to her. Never saw her after that morning we came out of the shelter. . . .’

  ‘Should you suppose because you have an aunt who writes books you might be able to? I write simply foul essays, but, of course, books are different. I asked Aunt Lindsey if you had to write good essays at school if you were going to be a famous author, but she only said “Education in this country is fundamentally wrong.” It’s not exactly what I wanted to know, but she doesn’t like being asked anything twice.’

  Hannah came out with a dish of cherries. Miss Grigson looked greedy but cautious.

  ‘Aren’t they for dinner?’

  Hannah heard her. She gave Laurel a nudge.

  ‘Don’t leave the stones about or you’ll give me away. What time’s she back?’

  Miss Grigson saved herself from shouting by raising five fingers.

  It was lovely in the sun feeling so easy and unstrained, eating cherries, it was unfair to Aunt Lindsey that Miss Grigson’s five fingers should cast a cloud, but they did. Proud as she was of Aunt Lindsey and being Aunt Lindsey’s niece whom Aunt Lindsey liked, Laurel’s heart dropped.

  The afternoon was glorious. Laurel lay on a rug reading a thriller. She opened the sitting-room window wide and had the Forces programme playing loud enough to be heard not only by herself but all over the house. Laurel adored thrillers but when Aunt Lindsey was about she did not read them. Aunt Lindsey said she was just the Austen age. Laurel was not caring for Pride and Prejudice but she was proud when Aunt Lindsey said, ‘I was questioned on reading for adolescents today, and I told them I had a fifteen year old niece with me who was a Janeite.’

  At four-thirty Laurel turned off the wireless, folded up the rug and put it back in the hall. She put away her thriller where it lived on the shelf in the empty spare bedroom. Then she went to her room to do her hair and wash. Aunt Lindsey would be tired and easily upset if she looked untidy. She decided her frock was crushed and she took out a clean one. She would welcome Aunt Lindsey properly. Her head was in the frock when she heard the taxi stop at the gate. At the same moment the telephone bell rang. After a moment Miss Grigson padded down the stairs.

  ‘It’s Lady Rich, Mrs. Lawrence.’

  Aunt Lindsey’s clear, high voice.

  ‘I’ll take it on the hall phone.’

  Laurel, buttoning her frock, hung over the banisters. She would walk down exactly as the call finished.

  ‘Hallo, Lady Rich. Such ages since we met. I’ve been lecturing. I’m just in. I wonder, could you make it a week later? I’ve a niece landed on me for the holidays. Yes, frightful. Rather a moron. But one must do one’s duty.’

  Laurel tiptoed back into her room. Very softly she closed the door. Her legs seemed to crumple under her, so she sat on her bed. ‘Rather a moron.’ ‘Rather a moron.’ ‘Rather a moron.’

  XLVII

  Walter, with Stroch at his heels, crept round the side of the house and peered in at the kitchen window. Mrs. Oliver was putting a kettle on the stove. She felt somebody was near and looked round.

  ‘Funny, saw you in the cards Sunday. When did our front door fall off?’

  Walter came into the kitchen.

  ‘I came this way ...I thought Nannie ...I didn’t want to disturb. . . .’

  Mrs. Oliver looked at the parcels Walter was carrying and at Stroch. ‘Walking out,’ she decided. Aloud she said.

  ‘Brought Stroch back?’

  ‘Yes. I’m on the move.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that. Security.’

  ‘We’re never goin’ to start that second front in the winter, are we?’ His face told her nothing. ‘Nannie’s having a holiday. Those nurses.... Meadow ladies! We’ve only got one now and she goes when Nannie comes back next week.’

  ‘How’s Mrs. Wiltshire?’

  ‘Still a bit rough, but she’s up and about. Takes walks when it’s fine. She’s ’aving her nap now.’

  Walter laid his parcels on the table.

  ‘These are for Christmas. Those for the children, and that’s candies. This for Nannie, and this for you.’

  ‘Bit previous, aren’t you? ’Tisn’t November yet.’

  ‘Probably my last visit.’

  Mrs. Oliver looked at Stroch.

  ‘Had his dinner?’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘I’ll give him something to keep him quiet.’ She opened the scullery door. ‘In there, and one sound out of you and you’ll get such a wallop.’ She poured out some milk and gave it to Stroch. ‘Don’t want him wakin’ her.’ She stood at the scullery door thinking. She was sleeping in while Nannie was away. She would have to
put up with it if there was a scene. Mrs. Wiltshire was in no state for a scene, and she’d certainly create if he said good-bye. ‘Tell you what, Cock. If I was you I wouldn’t tell I was movin’, not for good. I’d leave a letter and slip off. You could write it so it didn’t sound it was for long.’

  Nothing could have suited Walter better. He was dreading seeing Lena.

  He wrote his note and handed it with a small jewel box to Mrs. Oliver. He was turning to go when he remembered Laurel.

  ‘When Nannie gets back, ask her when she’s writing to Laurel to say good-bye from me. She might tell them all I’ve brought Stroch back and he’s in good shape.’

  XLVIII

  Lena made a supreme effort at Christmas. She was still in a highly nervous condition, which was aggravated by fear and loneliness. ‘I mustn’t drink much. They’ll take the children away.’ She had heard nothing from Walter since he had left her a note and a little box of charms for her bracelet. He had said then he was moving but he did not suggest it was going to be for long, and still less that he would not be able to write. She had written, two or three times, and had rung up his office and his flat. She got no answer to her letters and no satisfaction from her telephone calls. She told herself it was just American fussiness about security, but it was borne in on her this was not true. Wherever Walter was and however secret his job, he could have written if he wanted to, if he could not put his address he could put one of those box numbers Americans went in for. Lena’s weakness made her a prey to moods. One day she was full of confidence and hope. She would get perfectly well and strong. The children would have the most lovely holiday. They would be sweet to her. Walter would turn up again, and they would have a marvellous time. He just wasn’t writing because he couldn’t. Any day now there would be a letter. On days such as this she made plans. She would go to London. She really must order a frock, she would have the coupons by the time it was ready. She would have her coats remodelled. She would have her hair done a new way. On the following day she would be flattened under a blanket of despair. She would never get better. She was not improving a bit. How could she give the children a decent holiday while she was in this weak condition? Walter was never coming back. Nobody loved her now. The grey years stretched, hopeless, unlit by one gleam of light. On those days she would cry for hours, amidst her sobs she would murmur Walter’s name, but it was Alex she was crying for. Strong, secure, somebody to lean against. If only this nightmare of fear would lift. She had never known fear when she had Alex.