On her way upstairs she asked herself how she could make the afternoon pleasurable for the old man. They would have tea somewhere. And she’d wear clothes she thought he would like. She had a pale blue tweed suit. Most men liked pale blue and the older they got the more they liked it. She herself thought it insipid but not bad if mixed with other colours. She would wear a yellow sweater. Quite a good combination. And she’d do a little something to her hair and make-up.
Her trouble was rewarded at lunch when Baggy said how nice she looked. ‘Mabel would have liked that shade of blue. She always admired the way you turned yourself out.’
‘How nice of her,’ said Fran warmly, trying to remember Mabel. All that came to mind was a bundlesome figure reminiscent of a small-size cottage loaf and a face like a pretty cauliflower.
May saw them off in the taxi, after arranging that Tom would pick them up in the market square for the return journey. ‘And of course charge it to the account, Tom. Don’t let them pay you a penny.’ She closed the taxi door on them, glad of an afternoon to herself. She was now considering a quite new line on the conservatory.
Fran had been none too certain that the little town would be equal to Baggy’s needs, but she found that the largest fruit and vegetable shop was considerably better than the one she dealt with in London. The manager did not flinch at the mention of four dozen bundles of asparagus and, though strawberries were still expensive, any amount could be obtained for a definite order. Everything would be delivered early on Saturday morning. The only surprise shown was when Baggy produced his cheque book. The Dower House credit would have been good for any amount.
‘Well, that was all very satisfactory,’ she said as they came out of the shop. ‘And a truly princely present, Baggy. Now what ought we to do?’ She looked around, slightly bewildered. This wasn’t the sleepy little market town she had expected it to be. One was in some danger of being pushed off the pavements by the crowds. ‘Will you come with me while I do my shopping?’
But Baggy stuck to his undertaking to let her shop on her own, and this wasn’t only out of consideration for her. He planned to buy a new pair of country shoes and then study the windows and showcases of the town’s three house agents. There would be photographs and particulars of properties for sale. Always interesting to note what prices were being asked. But he told Fran he hoped she would do him the honour of having tea with him.
‘Oh, Baggy, I meant to ask you!’
‘Well, I got in first,’ said Baggy, looking pleased. ‘Shall we say five o’clock? That looks like a good tea-shop.’ It was a few doors along the street in a handsome Georgian house, its façade little changed. ‘Now off you go. Women always take longer over their shopping than they expect to. Mabel always did.’
Fran, amused by this suddenly dominant Baggy, started off at a brisk pace but soon slackened it; one really could not walk fast through so many shoppers, most of whom were dawdling. They were also jostling – and the perambulators were the worst jostlers of all. Their pushers seemed to think they had an invincible right of way. Well, they probably deserved it; shopping while coping with a pram must be exhausting. What handsome vehicles most of them were, positively the Rolls Royces of pramdom. She extracted her instep from under a wheel and turned into a side street that looked worth exploring.
Here there were fewer and smaller shops and far fewer shoppers. This was more like the town she had expected. How delightful the houses were, some Tudor, some Georgian, some imposing, some quite humble – she came to a close of ancient cottages which were little better than slums but still beautiful in their decay, with geraniums in their none-too-clean lattice windows. Fascinating that they should still exist little more than a stone’s throw from the busy High Street with its Woolworth’s and supermarkets. She wasn’t against progress. One mustn’t expect little country towns to crumble uncomplainingly just to oblige one’s sense of the picturesque, but it was pleasant to find survivals such as this. But the whole street, much of it well preserved, was a miracle of survival.
A clock with a deep, musical chime struck the half hour. How right that sound was for her surroundings, how it crystallised the moment – in a way, made time stand still. Strange that a chime denoting the passage of time should somehow annihilate time. She was pleased with the thought… But she must get back to the High Street and do her shopping before exploring the town further.
She walked springily, enjoying the afternoon sun and feeling extremely well. A little tune was running in her head. After lunch, while waiting for the news on television, she had seen a cartoon teaching children how to cross roads. There had been a song – ‘Fanta, the elephant, going to school…’ The baby elephant had to learn its kerb drill. ‘Left, right, keep to the rule.’ It was a catchy tune. She found herself prancing along to it, absurdly feeling that she was Fanta. But even a baby elephant must feel heavier than she did. She was herself as a child, at any moment she might take to skipping instead of walking. What nonsense…
Back in the High Street she wondered where to buy bathroom scales. A good chemist would have them – and she now remembered she’d said she’d give Baggy some bath oil. There was a large chemist on the other side of the street. She crossed without difficulty owing to a hold-up in the traffic – though eeling between the waiting cars was something of a feat; Fanta, the elephant, wouldn’t have had the figure for it. Yes, there were some scales in the chemist’s window. But before going in she’d just glance at the dress shop next door.
It called itself a Boutique – and with justification, Fran considered; it was her idea of what a Boutique ought to be. In the window were two light-weight suits, three summer dresses, some excellent cashmere sweaters, a couple of unusual belts and some original costume jewellery. One didn’t often see such a mixture of pretty things assembled together. Fran had bought no new clothes since her return to England and one of these suits was just her style. She went in.
She bought the suit (leaf-green; she’d had something like it when she was a girl) and arranged for the necessary alteration (it had to be let out, not taken in as most ready-made clothes had to be for her; oh, those Dower House meals!) Then she investigated the costume jewellery and chose brooches for herself, May and June (large stones, barbarically set, wearable at any hour of the day – strange that if they’d been real stones one would only wear them for full-dress occasions; she hardly ever wore her few pieces of real jewellery). Finally, she bought a large, felt frog, green and yellow, very cleverly designed. It reminded her of a felt frog she’d owned in the twenties – though that frog had worn a top hat.
‘It’ll do for one of my granddaughters,’ she said mendaciously, as the frog was put in a carrier bag printed with psychedelic flowers. (And very possibly Corinna and Prue would like it. Mascots were even more popular now than they had been in her youth; only nowadays they were said to be Freudian. Anyway, Corinna and Prue weren’t going to get the chance to like this frog.)
She paid the bill by cheque (how trusting shopkeepers were) and said, ‘Now I must fly – is that four o’clock striking?’ But even as she said it she knew, with sudden guilt, that it must be five. And she still had the scales to buy. But she was only a few minutes’ walk from the tea-shop. If she could get served with the scales quickly…
She hurried out of the Boutique and into the chemist’s, bought the scales and Baggy’s pine bath oil, also some green, pine-scented soap. Then she ran into a snag: the scales could not be delivered for several days, and she wanted them quickly; having to have that suit let out had been a horrible warning. She would take the scales with her.
There was no carrier bag strong enough to hold them and she wasn’t going to wait while they were made into a parcel – already it was five-fifteen. She grabbed the bag containing the bath oil and the soap, the frog’s psychedelic bag, the little bag of costume jewellery, and her handbag all in her right hand and then got her assistant to put the scales in the crook of her left arm and open the door for her. Now, hurry, hurr
y!
But nobody else seemed to be hurrying and no sooner had she managed to get beyond one slow mover than she found herself behind another. Besides, her feet now disliked hurrying or even walking at all. Damn it, she couldn’t have aged suddenly! It then dawned on her that the scales were not only a ton weight on her arm but also on her feet, which were now being expected to carry a heavy woman. Really, she was laden – and the tea-shop was farther away than she’d realised.
She told herself to stop grizzling. ‘You’ll be there in a minute.’ The scales were slipping. She paused to adjust them – and someone bumped into her. She then decided she’d have to change arms and stood in a doorway to do so. It meant putting everything down and picking everything up again. And she soon found that it was impossible to nurse the scales in her right arm (why? because one carried babies in one’s left arm?) and she had to stop in another doorway and change everything over again. And the inexorable clock, which no longer held any charm for her, struck again; she was half an hour late. But at last, at last, it was blissfully there, the tea-shop. Now she only had to cross the road.
She stood on the kerb watching a steady stream of cars. (A woman standing beside her said resignedly, ‘Factory going-home time.’) She could see no pedestrian crossing. How did one get across? If there was a momentary break in the traffic on her side of the wide street, cars on the far side were sweeping past. She noted that hardy souls got as far as the middle of the street and then waited. She’d simply have to do the same… and very nerve-wracking she found it, standing there unauthorised by any island, expecting cars to crash into her behind. Really, this country High Street was more dangerous than Piccadilly Circus. At last! She could make it now if she was nippy. She started out – and instantly saw that an approaching truck was coming faster than she’d realised. She began to run, or rather, she intended to begin; what actually happened was that she found herself incapable of running. She simply could not run – it was like some nightmare in which one had leaden feet. Run, run! But she was still only walking, and the damn truck wasn’t slowing down in the least… Somehow, somehow, she staggered to safety only a couple of seconds before the truck swept past. And then, for no reason at all, her legs gave way and she sank to the pavement, dropping everything she was carrying. The clanging scales sounded like a car smash.
Various people rushed to help her. There was a clamour of voices. Someone asked if she was hurt. Was she? Surely that couldn’t be her, screaming? It was not. It was the frog inside its psychedelic bag; one of her elbows was on it. (She hadn’t known it was a squeaker.) She raised her elbow and said, ‘That wasn’t me, it was my frog.’ This only added to the confusion – someone said ‘Her dog’s been run over.’ Fran gasped, ‘Not dog, frog in bag,’ then found herself helped to her feet. She distributed thanks and apologies, as her possessions were restored to her – ‘Such a silly thing to do’ – then saw Baggy coming towards her. Thankfully she accepted his assistance into the café.
‘What happened?’ said Baggy, having settled her at his window table. ‘Did you slip or something?’
‘It was my legs, they just gave way – because a truck was coming. Oh, Baggy, I couldn’t run. It must have been because of the scales; they weigh a ton.’ She sorted her purchases. ‘What a miracle your bath oil didn’t break!’ She handed it to him, with the soap.
His thanks were interrupted by the arrival of a waitress.
‘Tea and hot-buttered toast – with jam,’ said Baggy, somehow implying that jam would be a strong pick-me-up. ‘All right for you, Fran?’
Fran nodded gratefully and asked where the Ladies’ Room was; as well as feeling sure her make-up needed repairs she wanted a few minutes on her own to recover herself. Her legs, as she mounted the stairs, were still shaky.
The Ladies’ Room, on the half-landing, was deserted. She sat down at the little dressing table, closed her eyes, felt dizzy and instantly opened them; mustn’t give in to dizziness. Briskly she coped with her appearance… that was better, no more dizziness. Now just forget the whole ludicrous incident.
Coming out of the Ladies’ Room she faced a short flight of stairs at the top of which a door stood open on to a large empty front room which looked as if newly decorated. The pale green walls were the exact shade of the walls in a Bloomsbury bed-sitting-room she’d had as a girl. Would this be an extension of the tea-rooms? She doubted that for she now saw a roll of expensive-looking grey carpet and handsome window curtains. This must be a flat. At once curious, she mounted the few steps and looked in.
Afternoon sunlight was flooding in through the two tall windows, just as it had in her Bloomsbury room. How very like it this room was! Not that she’d had such an expensive carpet or curtains. Her floor had been covered with pale Chinese matting and the curtains had been printed linen, green and white.
She found herself conscious of an extraordinary sensation. She was back in that bed-sitting-room, she saw everything in its rightful place: the divan, her few pieces of furniture – picked up second-hand and painted by herself – the Lovat Fraser rhyme sheets drawing-pinned to the screen which hid what she called ‘the kitchen’. This was more than remembering, she was there…
And now she saw the lilac, masses of it in her two Devon pitchers, three jugs she had borrowed from the crone in the basement – and, of all things, a bucket! Masses and masses of long-stemmed white lilac. And now she could smell it – and it didn’t smell at all like the lilac at the Dower House now in full bloom. And in a flash, she knew why. What she was smelling in memory was the scent she had used in those old Bloomsbury days, a scent called Le Temps de Lilas. It was that scent which had caused him to inundate her with lilac – she had been almost hysterical with pleasure when he arrived positively weighed down with it all. He had put it down on the floor and they had sat amongst it, laughing and kissing. And later… That had been the first time, so long remembered, so long forgotten – and now suddenly there.
But only for a moment, perhaps only for a split second. Then she was back in her seventies, a respectable elderly lady whose legs would no longer run. And she would be very, very glad of a cup of tea.
10
In the taxi, on their way home, Baggy asked Fran if she would tell May about his projected treat. He rather feared May might try to overrule his wish to have nothing but asparagus and strawberries.
Fran was sure she could sell the idea to May. It might help to say that the French often had asparagus feasts – and they well might, for all Fran knew to the contrary. ‘You leave it to me,’ she told Baggy reassuringly.
He was happy to do so. His liking for her was increasing and he was more and more impressed by what he thought of as her savoir faire – the expression seemed to suit her. He had greatly enjoyed their tea together. She had seemed a little distressed when she returned from tidying up – no doubt she was still shaken by her fall. But she had quickly pulled herself together and been most amusing. They had looked out of the window at all the people hurrying home from work and had agreed that the shortness of the girls’ skirts was perhaps a bit much – ‘Though attractive, when the girls have good legs,’ said Fran. ‘It’s funny how much sexier short skirts are than bikinis, if you know what I mean.’
He found that he did – he had seen bikinis on television. Feeling rather daring he said, ‘Well, with bikinis you can see that a girl’s decently covered – well, just. But with mini-skirts one’s never quite sure there’s anything under them.’
‘Exactly,’ Fran agreed, laughing. ‘And I suppose that decency, like justice, must be seen to be done.’
He had thought that very good and had taken pleasure in having this sophisticated conversation with Fran – a conversation he would not have dreamt of having with either of his daughters-in-law. He couldn’t even imagine having it with Mabel. But Mabel had been wrong in thinking Fran might be fast. That word would always have been too crude for her. ‘Mondaine’ was the right word. He was pleased with ‘mondaine’. She was a real woman of the w
orld.
They had gone on to discuss the behaviour of the modern young and Fran’s tolerance had almost won him over. One of her theories was that drugs were often a substitute for religion – ‘Some of these kids are seeking for something beyond materialism, though they may not know what they’re up to. Perhaps we’re to blame – I mean, most of us. We’ve let religion slide and not found any substitute to hand on. Not, of course, that one can be deliberately religious; that’s sheer hypocrisy.’ He had agreed and later he had agreed that, as one grew older, one got lazy about taking an interest in music and poetry. (He had never taken an interest in either but, while talking to Fran, he felt he might have, if he’d tried.)
One way and another he found the tea-time conversation most stimulating; indeed, he had enjoyed the whole afternoon and was sorry that it was over… though he was a little tired. He leaned back in the taxi and closed his eyes. It might be wise to lie down for half an hour or so before dinner.
While he was resting Fran told May and George about the asparagus feast, She chose a good moment, George having come home in the kind of spirits that lift everyone else’s, and May always feeling at her best when about to serve a dinner she was proud of; and she really was extremely pleased that Baggy had taken so much trouble.
‘And I think it’s most original of him,’ she said warmly. ‘Probably nobody’s had exactly that idea before.’
Fran instantly censored her idea of mentioning the French and substituted, ‘It’d be the kind of meal that they’d like to put in Sunday supplements, with huge coloured photographs.’
‘Not complicated enough,’ said May. ‘They doll everything up so.’ She seldom took any notice of other people’s recipes; when not cooking simple, basic dishes, she liked to do her own creating. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely sweet of Baggy, don’t you, George?’