The Paying Guests

  It was an anti-Len day, clearly. But she seemed to want to leave the subject. She studied the drawings for another moment, then made them into a bundle along with the papers on the bed. She took the bundle over to the chest of drawers and did her best to find a spot for it among the scent bottles.

  Then she grew still, and raised her head, and looked at Frances through the bit of swing-glass left unobscured by the stockings. ‘Why don’t you come to Netta’s with me, Frances?’

  Frances was taken aback. ‘To the party?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘I haven’t been invited.’

  ‘Netta said I could bring who I liked. And my family would be pleased to see you. They’re always asking after you. Oh, do say yes!’ She had turned, was growing excited. ‘It’ll only be little – at Netta’s house in Clapham. But it’ll be fun. We’ll have fun.’

  ‘Well —’ Frances was thinking it over. Would it be fun, with the Walworth sisters? ‘I don’t know. When is it, exactly?’

  ‘The first of July. A Saturday night.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to wear.’

  ‘You must have something.’

  ‘Nothing that wouldn’t shame you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Let me take a look. Come and show me, right now!’

  But, ‘Oh, no,’ said Frances. Her mind had gone flashing through her wardrobe. ‘Half of my things are falling apart. I’d be ashamed for you to see them.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’

  ‘You’d laugh at them.’

  ‘Oh, Frances, come on. You threw your shoes at a policeman, once.’

  ‘Not a policeman. An MP.’

  ‘You threw your shoes at an MP. You can bear to show me the inside of your wardrobe, can’t you?’

  She came across the room as she spoke, her hand extended, and when Frances still hesitated she reached and caught hold of her wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong: Frances tugged against it for a moment, but then, protesting, complaining, she allowed herself to be drawn from the room and led around the stairwell. They went into her bedroom laughing, and had to stand, pink-faced, to let the laughter subside.

  Once Lilian had recovered, she began to look around. She had never been right inside the room before: Frances saw her gazing in a polite but noticing way at the few little things on display, the candlesticks on the mantelpiece, the Friedrich landscape on the wall…

  ‘This is a nice room, Frances,’ she said, with a smile. ‘It suits you. It isn’t full of rubbish, like mine. And are those your brothers?’ She had spotted the two framed photographs on the chest of drawers. ‘May I see? You don’t mind?’ She picked them up, and her smile grew sad. ‘How good-looking they were. You’re awfully like them.’

  Frances stood at her shoulder to look at the pictures with her, the studio shot of Noel as a handsome schoolboy, the family snap of John Arthur in the back garden, larking about, tilting his hat to the camera. He was years younger there than she was now, though she still thought of him as her elder. And how quaint he looked in his waistcoat, with the old-fashioned watch-chain across it. She had never noticed before.

  All at once, she had had enough of her brothers for the day. And she could see Lilian’s eyes beginning to wander again, to wander almost furtively this time, as if she were thinking that there might be another young man in a photograph somewhere, perhaps over there, on the bedside cabinet…?

  ‘Look here, this party.’ Frances crossed to the wardrobe. ‘You really meant it, about going through my clothes?’

  Lilian returned the pictures to their places. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Well —’ The wardrobe door creaked open like the door to a cemetery vault. ‘Don’t say I haven’t warned you.’

  After a moment of looking over the drooping garments on their wire shoulders she began to unhook them and pull them out. She started with her house blouses and skirts, then moved on to the things she kept for best: the grey tunic, a fawn jacket, a navy frock that she was fond of, another frock, never quite so successful, in tea-coloured silk. Lilian received each item and carefully examined it, polite and tactful for a while, finding details to praise and admire. As she warmed to the task, however, her tone grew more critical. Yes, this one was handsome enough, but it was the colour of a puddle. This skirt ought to be shortened; no one wore them so long any more. As for this – it might have belonged to Queen Victoria! What had Frances been thinking?

  She piled the garments on the bed. ‘Have you never wanted nice things?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Frances. ‘When I was young.’

  ‘You always talk as though you’re ninety.’

  ‘I lost heart for it all. And then, there hasn’t been the money. You ought to see my underclothes. They make this lot look Parisian. Some of them are held together with pins.’

  ‘Well, what might you wear to Netta’s?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’ve sprung it on me, rather.’ She pulled a gown free from the heap on the bed. ‘This, I suppose.’

  It was a black moire frock, a thing she’d been wearing to suppers and parties for the last six or seven years. She shook it out, and turned it to the light of the window so that she and Lilian could look it over. But it was worse than she’d remembered. The bodice was beaded, but beads had been lost, leaving threads behind them like coarse black hairs. In one of the sleeves a line of stitches was visible where she had mended a rip. Worst of all, the armpits were pale: she had coloured them in with ink in the past, but the ink had faded, was streaked and blueish…

  She lowered the gown, embarrassed. ‘Perhaps the puddle-coloured one instead.’

  ‘There must be something else.’

  ‘Truly, there isn’t. See for yourself.’

  Side by side, they gazed into the wardrobe’s bleak, plundered interior. All that hung from the rail now were things from Frances’s schooldays. Serge frocks, long skirts, stiff collars, neck-ties: it was astonishing to think that only a decade ago she had been going about in cumbersome clothes like this. The very memory of the endless layers of flannel underwear made her droop.

  But something had caught Lilian’s eye. She put in her hand, and pulled. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Frances, as the garment emerged, ‘I only ever had that as a fancy. Someone talked me into buying it. No, that won’t do at all.’

  The gown was a sage-green thing with a wide collar and a tiered skirt, laced at the bosom and cuffs with slim leather thongs. It was Christina who had persuaded her to buy it, back in that other life of theirs. It had cost three guineas – three guineas! The figure seemed astronomical now – and she had worn it only once, to a Red Cross ball. Christina’s father had got hold of the tickets, and in their earnest, pacifist way she and Chrissy had debated the ethics of attending. But they had got swept up by the fun of it in the end; she remembered that ball, now, as a bright spot among shadows. Seeing the gown dangling from Lilian’s fingers brought it all back: the electric intensity of the evening, the rides in the taxi through the blacked-out streets with Christina’s dim Aunt Polly as chaperone, Christina herself, the sweet scent of her hair, the feel of her hands in tight kid gloves…

  Lilian was watching her face. ‘This is what you ought to wear, Frances.’

  ‘This? Oh, no.’

  ‘Yes. All the other things have made you frown. But this – You see? You’re smiling. Put it on.’

  ‘No, no. I’d feel a fool. And look at the state of it! It reeks of must.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. It wants a wash and a press, that’s all. Put it on and let me see. Just to please me. Will you? I’ll look away until you’re ready.’

  She shoved the gown into Frances’s hands, then turned her back to her and stood waiting. Frances, seeing no way out of it, began to undress. She did it slowly at first. But the petticoat that she was wearing was literally coming apart at the seams, and, realising that, growing afraid that Lilian would turn too soon, she worked more quickly – kicking off her slippers, wri
ggling free of her skirt and blouse, then shaking open the musty frock and pulling it over her head. It seemed immediately to tie itself into a knot, and she wrestled with it for several seconds, trying to work her arms along its narrow sleeves. Looking into the mirror at last she saw herself red-faced, with untidy hair, her collarbones plainly visible beneath the clinging creased material, and the dress itself, with its lacings, like something from Sherwood Forest, as if she ought be sitting in one of her father’s chairs, playing a lute.

  But when Lilian turned, and saw her, her expression softened.

  ‘Oh, Frances, you look lovely. Oh, the colour suits you. You’re lucky. If I wear green near my face it makes me look like a corpse. But, yes, it just suits you. All it needs is a bit of work.’ Coming close, she began to tug the frock into shape with brisk, professional fingers. ‘The waist wants lowering, for a start. It’ll be quite a different gown then. It’ll show how lovely and slim you are – oh, I’d give anything to be slender like you! – but the line will be softer. You see what I mean? You ought to wear looser stays, you know. They only need to be stiff or elastic when you’ve a bust like mine. And you must wear silk stockings, Frances, not these terrible cotton ones. Don’t you want to make the most of your nice ankles?’

  She spoke without a blush, quite unselfconscious, as if it were perfectly natural that she should have been studying and forming opinions on Frances’s ankles, Frances’s hips, the style of Frances’s underwear. But then, of course, women like Lilian studied other women all the time. They noticed, they judged, they admired and damned, they coveted bosoms, complexions, mouths… She was drawing up the hem now. ‘This ought to be raised. See how it’s better?’

  ‘But I don’t want it raised.’

  ‘Just an inch or two, for the party? I should have thought you’d like ladies to have shorter skirts. You don’t want us to go about hobbled?’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Stay just like this, while I fetch my pins!’

  There was no resisting her. She ran for her work-basket and returned to measure and mark, moving Frances’s limbs about as if they were those of an artist’s dummy. She loaded the frock with so many pins that when it was time for Frances to remove it she had to inch herself out, afraid for her skin.

  And even then she hadn’t finished. Once Frances was back in her harmless, laundered-to-death old blouse and skirt, she stood looking her over with a calculating expression, tapping her fingers at her plump mouth, and – ‘What shall we do about your hair?’ she said.

  Frances was aghast. ‘My hair? My hair’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘But you always wear it up. Wouldn’t you like a new style, to match the frock? I could cut it for you. I could wave it! We could surprise your mother. Oh, Frances, what do you say?’

  Frances didn’t want a cut or a wave. She was happy with her brown, uncurly, middle-length hair, which could be trimmed when necessary at the scullery sink; which could be cheaply washed and dressed. As for surprising her mother – she knew exactly what sort of surprise that would turn out to be.

  But Lilian’s excitement was exciting her now. There was something seductive about the idea of putting herself into Lilian’s hands, something seductive about the very passivity of the poses she had to adopt in order to do it: the bowed head, the lifted arms. She thought suddenly, I’m like one of those men one hears whispers about, who bend themselves over the knees of women in shady rooms off Piccadilly and ask to be thrashed.

  But that thought was exciting, too. With only the feeblest bleat of a protest she let herself be led back out to the landing. She peered down the staircase as they passed it, thinking of her mother, dozing in the drawing-room in that unprotected way; but she didn’t slow her step. And, as before, Lilian kept hold of her so that she shouldn’t escape, hanging on to her cuff while awkwardly shaking out a newspaper, spreading sheets of it on the floor, lifting across a chair from beside the table. Once Frances was seated she even leaned over her with her hands on her shoulders, lightly but firmly pinning her in place.

  ‘Now,’ she said, in a warning way, ‘I have to gather my things. Don’t you run away from me, Frances! I am putting you on your honour.’

  She left the room for two minutes and came back with a towel and combs, and swinging a leather vanity case, something like an effete doctor’s bag. She closed the door with an air of conspiracy. The towel went over Frances’s shoulders and was tucked into her collar. The case was set aside for now; she planned to wash the hair first. She wanted to do it all properly, and she meant to start with an egg shampoo. Oh, she knew Frances was going to say that! No, it wasn’t a waste of an egg. Or, if it was, then that was the point: it was a bit of pampering. Was Frances a nun?

  She spoke playfully still, but also with determination, fetching an egg from a basket and carefully breaking it, tilting the halves of the shell above a saucer to separate the yolk from the white, then tipping the yolk into a cup and whisking it with vinegar. When she saw Frances begin to pull the pins from her hair she stopped her. Did ladies at the beauty parlour unpin their own hair? Of course they didn’t. She stood behind the chair and drew the pins out herself, feeling for them with her fingertips and gently working them free. As the locks grew slack, then slid and tumbled, Frances’s head seemed to expand, like a bud becoming a flower.

  The putting on of the egg broke the spell. The sticky wet weight of it made her shiver. And then she was led to the sink and had to hang over the lip of it while Lilian filled jug after jug with water and doused her like a prison matron; she went stumbling back to the chair, her eyes stinging and her ears blocked, to have her head tugged in every direction as the tangles were combed out. There was a brief, blissful pause while the vanity case was unlatched; then she heard the unmistakable rasp and snap of a pair of scissors being opened and closed. And suddenly she was struck by the reality of what was about to happen. She turned, to see Lilian poised with the scissors in her hand, looking as though she, too, were rather daunted. The newspaper crackled under their feet. Again Frances thought of her mother, slack-mouthed and snoring. She thought of the unswept porch. How exactly had she got to this dangerous moment?

  Lilian laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You aren’t losing your nerve?’

  She hesitated. ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Think about that MP.’

  ‘I’m sorry I ever told you about that wretched MP.’

  ‘Think about that man in the park that time, how brave you were in seeing him off.’

  ‘That wasn’t bravery. It was —’ Frances turned back to face the wall. ‘I don’t know what that was. I haven’t done a real brave thing in years.’

  Lilian’s hand was still on her shoulder. ‘I think you’re brave, Frances.’

  ‘Well, you hardly know me.’

  ‘You do just what you want to do, and don’t mind what other people make of it. I wish I was like that. And then —’ Her voice dipped slightly. ‘I think it’s brave of you to be so cheerful when you’ve had – well, so many losses.’

  She might have had in mind any of a number of losses: Frances’s father, Frances’s brothers, the vanished family fortune. But somehow it was clear that the loss she was really referring to was that of Frances’s phantom fiancé.

  After all the talk of bravery, the moment made Frances feel like a fraud. She didn’t answer, she didn’t turn. Lilian gave her shoulder a gentle, tactful pat, then drew her hand away.

  And a moment after that, Frances felt the cold touch of the scissors, startlingly high up the nape of her neck; the blades closed with a scythe-like sound, and something slithered to the floor. She twisted, peered, and her heart missed a beat. There was a lock of dark hair on the newspaper, about half a yard long. Lilian took hold of her head and straightened it. ‘You’re not to look,’ she said firmly. The cold-metal touch came again. Another snip, another slither… Well, it was too late now. The hair could hardly be re-attached. She stared at the varnished wallpaper while the scissors continued their chill
, ravenous journey around her neck.

  And perhaps the steady snipping away of her hair had something to do with it. Perhaps she was still slightly hysterical from being led across the landing. But that comment of Lilian’s was on her mind. Wasn’t this the moment to speak – right now, while there was no possibility of meeting Lilian’s eye? Her stomach began to flutter. She waited until another lock of hair had gone slithering to the floor. Then, with a suddenly dry mouth, she said quietly, ‘Listen, Lilian. I think I might have given you the idea that I was once engaged to be married. That I once had some sort of an affair. With a man, I mean.’ She hesitated, then plunged on. ‘The truth is I did have a kind of love affair a few years ago. But it was – it was with a girl.’

  She felt Lilian’s uncertainty in the slowing of her hands. She thought Frances might be teasing. With a touch of laughter, she answered, ‘A girl?’

  ‘Another woman,’ said Frances, flatly. ‘I’d like to be able to say it was terribly pure and innocent, and all that. It – well, it wasn’t.’ There was a silence. ‘You know what I mean?’

  Lilian still said nothing; but she withdrew her hands. Frances gave it another few seconds, then turned to look at her. She was standing with the scissors at her side, and her colour was rising, rising even as Frances watched, spreading upward in a single tide of colour from the triangle of flesh that showed at her open-necked blouse, over her throat, her cheek, her forehead. She met Frances’s gaze, then looked away.

  ‘I – I didn’t know,’ she said.

  ‘No. Well, how could you?’

  ‘I’d supposed there was a man.’

  ‘Yes, that was my fault. I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to have misled you. But this sort of thing – one can’t just drop it into conversation. I don’t feel in the least ashamed about it. My friend and I, we were awfully in love. – But don’t let’s talk about it any more.’ Lilian’s colour had deepened at the word love. Frances turned back to the wall. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it. Don’t give it another thought. It was a long time ago, and it was – it was nothing, really.’