“That will be the day,” Christine retorted robustly, feeling that their mutual dislike could be brought into the open now that they were about to part, she heartily trusted, for ever.
“Yer off tomorrow, then,” Mrs. Benson said, after a pause, shocked and surprised.
That stuck-up toffee-noses never answered back was one of the foundations of the Benson creed. Decent pretence of neighbourliness must always mask spite, nay, courtesies must be exchanged, like those taking place between two knights about to knock each other silly in a tournament.
“Yes. They’ll be here in the afternoon, about three, with … the … stuff.”
“I’m sure I don’t know where I’m going to put it all. I was saying so to Stan last night. Still, I’ve said I’ll have it and I will. I stick by my word. My sister always says, ‘Ruby’d never let you down, she’s that sort.’”
“I hope it will be … useful,” was all that Christine could force herself to say. The thought of the furniture had come upon her again, in fullest force.
“Oh, I daresay it’ll do upstairs—don’t matter what you give lodgers—they’re all so-and-so’s.” She darted a glance up the stairs. “Don’t suppose we’ll be here long ourselves, anyway, now. We’ll be off to a Council flat. These places are coming down—hadn’t you heard? Making room for one of those big blocks like they got up the Archway. Offices and that. Good thing too—dirty old holes they are—I’m sure it’s not worth the trouble cleaning the place, it’s as bad again in half-an-hour.”
“I’m just getting out in time, then.” Christine nodded and escaped to her room with “See you” shrieking in her ears.
So the graceful old row was to be demolished. The thought was painful, and linked in some way with her memory of That Day. She knew that Mrs. Benson had told her because she had divined, by the instinct that led her unerringly to any weakness in another human being, that Christine liked Iver Street, and for a moment her detestation of the woman glowed into real hatred. Oh, well. Only one more night under the same roof.
She left well before eleven o’clock the next morning. Mrs. Benson had rushed out on some errand, announcing that she wouldn’t be half a tick, back in time to see the last of yer. But Christine, knowing that Mrs. Benson’s ticks were of the expandable kind, snatched up her case and was gone for ever.
She did glance once down to the end of Iver Street. The houses, small, grubby-white, stared placidly at the sun, children skipped and shrilled, a few poor Spring flowers glowed in the little front gardens, all under the benevolent eye of old green Parliament Hill; but of the van with The Furniture, of course, there was not a sign. But, unsuspecting and complacent, The Furniture would arrive that afternoon, grandly secure in the belief that it would shortly be entering some new version of Forty-Five Mortimer Road and then … Bensonia. Don’t be mental, thought Christine crossly, riding in the bus up to the Village. Furniture isn’t like people.
“Hullo!” Mrs. Traill called gaily, through the open door of Pemberton Hall, “Come on in … Awful news … Mick has just told me the boys won’t be out for another week.”
Mr. Ryan, who now appeared as Mick, was standing in the hall accompanied by his partner, the slide-rule. He muttered what Christine supposed was good-morning—keeping on Mrs. Traill a gaze at once sardonic and touched with proud exasperation. Look at her, it seemed to say, isn’t she a wan?
Mrs. Traill said, Oh well, she supposed they would have to put up with it, and Mr. Ryan went away to drink some tea. The sunny house responded with hammering, hissing and wailing.
“They put a pipe in all wrong. A wall will have to come down,” Mrs. Traill sighed. “Talking of tea, come on down to the kitchen and we’ll have some. James and Diana will be here presently and Clive, I think, but Antonia isn’t coming until tomorrow. This way.”
The stairs, concealed behind a thick door covered with green baize (“We kept that, don’t you adore the colour?” said Mrs. Traill), were so dark, steep and dangerous, and so shut away from the delicate proportions and airy grace and floods of light in the rest of the house, that Christine was almost shocked, until she remembered that they led to the part where the servants used to live. Of course, anything was good enough for Mrs. Benson.
But when, after going down a stone-floored passage, they came out into the kitchen, she forgot everything in her first sight of a Boiler.
“Isn’t it fearsome?” said Mrs. Traill, noticing her fascinated stare. “And we’re stuck with it for ever, because Mick says they daren’t move it: it would bring both walls and the ceiling down and cost thousands.”
The thing was eight feet high, made of some dirty bluish metal, with a thick rusty pipe coming out of the top and many smaller pipes, apparently made of copper, wreathing around it. The largest pipe vanished into a hole in the ceiling, now neatly squared off.
“Goodness, you don’t heat the water in that?” breathed Christine.
“Of course not!” pealed Mrs. Traill. “Mick said we must never light it; I suppose he thinks we’re all bonkers … as if anyone would dare … No, the boiler is in a little cellar round at the back, oil-fired, and it heats the house as well—”
“I’d noticed how warm it is.”
“—and the oil is in another little cellar. There are four of them, gardening tools and things in the one near the backdoor, and James has made the other one into his wine place. I’ll just put the kettle on, and show you.”
Christine, awed by the spectacle of the Great Boiler, had received an impression that the rest of the kitchen was equally Victorian, for the walls were papered in a shiny green-and-brown design which absorbed light, and the massive old dresser and cupboards had been retained, newly painted white.
But although this kitchen did not correspond with those Dream ones promoted by advertisers, she now saw that it was efficient. The cooker was of the newest design, and on the walls were many shining devices for unscrewing and grinding and opening. There was something else there: cosiness. As this had been the only redeeming feature of Forty-Five Mortimer Road, Christine had grown to rely upon it, and now, having missed it for some months, she welcomed it. But, because she was a Smith, she said nothing.
“Cosy, isn’t it?” Mrs. Traill glanced at her. How dreary some people were. Never a word of appreciation.
“It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?” Christine said, and indeed she thought so, not realising that much of the cosiness was due to the dimness.
“Oh, we did that on purpose—had a dark paper, I mean. I chose it. Antonia had taken a fancy to something all over little houses. It is queer, she’s so good about clothes, and has no feeling at all about that kind of thing. Let’s go and see the cellars.”
While they were looking round the whitewashed walls of Mr. Meredith’s wine-cellar, where the racks and bins awaited their tenants, there were muffled sounds of arrival from upstairs.
“Someone’s come, oh good. I’ll fly up and see who it is. You make the tea,” and Mrs. Traill tottered away.
Christine went back to the kitchen and made tea in an old pot of dented Victorian plate which she took from the enormous dresser. The cups and plates displayed there must belong to Mrs Traill, as the first tenant to establish herself; there-were Spanish lustre saucers, grey and blue dishes from Brittany, a sea-blue jug from Bruges, some Japanese cups of eggshell fragility.
Christine turned each one upside down, curiously examining the marks on their behinds. Mrs. Traill must have Travelled. Then she set them all out on the table; people would be arriving all day, and arrivals always wanted and expected tea.
She was experiencing a faint excitement. The fear and suspicion of unknown people endemic to her home had never infected her, for she had left the nest each morning for thirty-five years to go to a job where she dealt with strangers all day. You got used to meeting people, in business.
But these people were different.
Eighteen, she had been, that first morning at Lloyd and Farmer’s: with her hair—nice hair it was, s
he had always had a good head of hair—in a shingle, as they called it, and a hat, and gloves, and those pinky silk stockings. 1924. Seemed like another world. But she didn’t feel all that different.
Voices and footsteps coming down the passage. The kitchen door opened, and Christine looked up.
“Ah—tea!” exclaimed James Meredith, “and Miss Smith—how nice to see you both.” He laughed, and his wife, who, Christine saw at once, had been upset by something, gave him a resigned look. “These will come in handy, I hope.”
He put a large carton, crammed with cream buns, on the table, and Diana Meredith sank into a chair, muttering to no one in particular, “Oh good heavens.”
Christine now saw that someone had followed the Merediths down the passage and was standing in the doorway, surveying the room. Mrs. Traill, who was pouring tea, followed the direction of her glance.
“Clive! Darling!” she cried. “Come and have some tea … Miss Smith, this is Clive Lennox …”
“You may have heard of him,” chorused Diana and James, as the actor came forward.
“Yes, she might just have as a schoolgirl,” he said, taking Christine’s hand and gently pressing it while he gazed into her face. “How sweet of you to come and look after us.”
“Of course, I have!” Christine said eagerly. “On T.V. …”
“Oh he doesn’t count that,” cried Diana. “He doesn’t count anything really since Mr. Melody, do you, darling?”
“Well hardly that, dear. It would mean I hadn’t worked for fifteen years … Where’s Antonia? Not here yet?” He sat down, and took a cup of tea.
“She’s coming tomorrow evening. She’s in the country for a few days. With … for a day or two.” Mrs. Traill fixed an intent gaze on the cream buns.
“I shall just gulp this and get upstairs. They’ll be putting the heavy stuff in the wrong places. James, I don’t know who you think wants to eat those things at half-past eleven in the morning.”
Diana drained her cup and turned to Christine. “You can give us lunch today, can’t you? We shall be up to our eyes.”
“Yes. I’d thought of that. I’ll go out and shop. Would one o’clock be all right?” asked Christine.
“Perfect.” Diana nodded, adding as if making a concession. “It’s only for today. I expect Fab—Mrs. Traill has told you how we want—how things are to be run, hasn’t she?”
“Very sketchily. But she understands. We’ll work it out as we go.” Mrs. Traill smiled absently towards Christine. “None of us are fussy about food, really. I mean, we shan’t expect marvellous menus, on the occasions when you are kind enough to do us a meal. But—” she glanced round at the company—“and this goes for all of us—we’d sooner have good bread and cheese and coffee, or wine, than hot snacks or endless tea. Or puddings.”
“Here!” James Meredith looked up across his cream buns, “Hands off puddings. I like ’em.”
“We’ll have puddings sometimes,” Christine promised him.
James bowed, smiling, and Clive Lennox said :
“Now, James. Don’t you have any of that, Miss Smith—he’s only making up to you to get all the gravy. I like puddings too. I know you girls—if you’re left to yourselves you’ll live on wet lettuce.”
“Antonia may. I like my food,” said Mrs. Traill.
“Antonia has to think about her figure,” said Diana.
“Oh, what nonsense, Diana. She’s been 34–26–34 since she was seventeen,” Mrs. Traill protested, “though personally I like something up above. It’s more feminine,” and James and Clive unsmilingly nodded.
“Work—work,” exclaimed Diana, getting up. “Fabia, has Miss Smith any cash?”
“Oh—no—of course. You’d better all give her something now. We’ll work out details tomorrow.”
In a few moments Christine was in possession of five pounds—“one for Antonia”—and alone in the kitchen with Clive Lennox, who was unhurriedly finishing the cream buns. Mr. Meredith could be heard humming contentedly while he took a refreshing glance over his wine-cellar.
Christine, trying not to show that she was doing so, studied Mr. Lennox. It was her first opportunity to look at the celebrity in the flesh.
And after all he was only an elderly man in a shabby silver-grey suit, with a long actor’s face and dark hair flecked with silver above his big, comic ears. Nothing thrilling about him.
Christine would have found it difficult to say, had she been asked, what she did find thrilling. The beautiful, debauched word meant, to her, things which she found ‘farfetched’ and ‘silly’; those contemptuous Smith expressions applied to suspense plays on television, and other contemporary devices for providing excitement. The thought now slipped through her mind that she had been more thrilled by That Day than by anything else in her life, and she scolded herself. What a thing to be ‘thrilled’ by. She must be going mental.
But the instant this comment from her past made itself heard, she fiercely repudiated it. Nothing—nothing was going to spoil the memory of That Day.
Chapter 6
SHE GLANCED UP, and found Mr. Lennox looking at her.
“All a bit strange? You’ll get used to us,” he said, gaily, but gently too.
“I was in business,” was all Christine could say.
“You’ve never done this kind of thing?” The cloud-shadow swiftness of the actor’s responses can be disconcerting: he looked dismayed, but Christine’s own responses were not cloud-like, and she did not notice.
“I helped my mother. I shall get on all right, I’m sure.”
“Of course you will.” Her firm manner and rosy, solid looks reassured him. He held out a cigarette-case which, Christine noticed, bore the sprawled engraved signature Always—Tasha, and she took one. He leant gracefully across the table and lit it for her.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“I’ll just wash these up.” She began to collect the cups. “I’m not used to sitting down; in business I was usually on my feet.”
She began swiftly on the work. Mr. Lennox would not want to hear what went on at Lloyd and Farmer’s. (The rarity of this decision, the difference it would make to social life if we all decided that no one wanted to hear about what went on at Lloyd and Farmer’s, quite passed Christine by.)
Clive Lennox, who could not help caressing women with voice and manner, began to chat to her. It was an agreeable sound; his voice rose, fell, hesitated, pounced on a word, rippled. It was like listening to Semprini Serenade on the wireless, thought Christine, with an unaccustomed flight of fancy.
“I expect Fabia told you we’ve all known each other since the Flood? James and I were at school together, and Fabia was on tour with me between the wars—she’s done a bit of everything—through her I got to know Antonia Marriott. I’d always kept up with James, he knew a couple of Fabia’s husbands, too … But neither of ’em wanted to come here, thank God,” ended Mr. Lennox with fervour.
A couple …? Christine turned from the dresser to look at him.
“She’s had four. But I’m gossiping. I won’t say ‘forget it all’ because you must have a clue to us … Oh, you’ve finished! And I was so busy cackling I never offered to help you.”
“That’s all right,” Christine said with her cheerful smile. “Talking of helping, I’ve got us a cleaner.”
“Splendid. I’m afraid none of us is very deft with the duster.”
“Er—he’s black. His name’s Mr. Johnson. He’s coming on Monday evening.”
Clive went off into a delighted peal of laughter.
“It can’t be! Massa Johnson! How absolutely perfect.”
“Don’t you mind, then?”
“Of course not. I love nigs; my old father was so fond of nigger stories. So long as he doesn’t strain the coffee through my socks … but I don’t expect you know any of those stories, do you? Before your time. Ah, well. To work, to work.”
He made an airy gesture and stolled out, leaving Christine to bustle calmly a
round, thinking that Mr. Lennox was nice.
They always say stage people are temperamental, she mused. But he isn’t. Fancy them all being such friends …
Four husbands. None of these people seemed to be what you might call ordinarily married, except the Merediths, and it was plain to see, thought Christine, who wore the trousers there.
Who wore the trousers, and to what extent, had been a subject of perennial interest in Mortimer Road. Racialism might burgeon like some monstrous toadstool, earthquakes might shatter cities, newer and more appalling bombs might threaten the globe—the Smiths were more interested—and perhaps on second thoughts are they to be blamed?—in who wore the trousers.
Lunch was eaten hastily and in relays by the party, as no one could leave their tasks to spend long over it, and Christine passed the rest of the day in finishing the arranging of her own flat and in shopping for the week-end.
She tramped busily about her three rooms—Christine had not a light step—aware of distant hangings and bumpings all over the house.
Furniture was gradually filling up its rooms; furniture heavy with associations and memories settling down on the uneven old floors and against the walls, curtains draping the long windows with the little panes that window-cleaners call ‘postage-stamps’; an endless roll of drugget, the colour of biscuits, unrolling from Christine’s landing right down the stairs to the hall, with what seems hours of hammering.
There’s a deal of white paint for Mr. Johnson to keep clean, thought Christine, coming down about six o’clock to begin preparing supper.
It’ll show every mark and so will the carpet, but then she thought recklessly that it all looked so nice, a bit of dirt-showing would not matter. The bareness of the walls, and the light colouring everywhere, light yet sober, was most unlike what she had all her life regarded as ‘looking nice’. Yet she liked it; she liked it all, very much.