‘Perhaps we shall see something else.’
As they walked along Spa Street he suggested various purchases but there was nothing she wanted; and when he lingered by a jeweller’s window she very firmly led him on. She then showed him the Pump Room and they wandered round various squares and crescents, but none of them seemed as impressive as Queen’s Crescent. ‘That had the advantage of moonlight,’ said Miles, ‘which reminds me, Peter’s thinking of changing the lighting for the end of Act II.’
His mind had swung back to the play and Jill soon saw that he was no longer interested in exploring. And it would be more comfortable to talk if not walking. She said, ‘Let’s get back to the hotel. They’re going to give us a sort of high tea. We can have supper after the show.’
The theatre was so full that night that she and Peter Hesper had to stand at the back of the dress circle. She found this tiring but nevertheless enjoyed the play more than on the first night. She was less anxious and could now take a more technical, professional interest, noting slightly different audience reactions to various scenes. Sometimes she rested, by sitting in an alcove from which she could hear, but not see the stage. This was, she knew, the acid test for dialogue and she didn’t think the dialogue stood up to it; but the audience was held.
So it was when she saw the show again next day. It seemed more and more a pity that cuts and changes were to be made.
These were to be rehearsed on Thursday morning. After seeing Miles off to the theatre she joined Robin and Kit in the hotel lounge, prepared to be taken to see the New Town.
‘We’re all taking you,’ said Robin. ‘Father’s gone to get the car.’
‘It’s our great-grandmother’s 1937 Rolls-Royce,’ said Kit. ‘Father keeps it here at the hotel. We think of it rather like a retired race horse. Old horses like to be visited and old cars like to be driven.’
‘Not that it’s old enough to be funny,’ said Robin. ‘In fact, we think it’s beautiful.’
Jill, when she went out to the car, thought it the most beautiful she had ever seen. It was a silver-grey Sedanca de Ville, the lines of its elegant, clean-cut coachwork surprisingly modern in spite of the car’s height. Paint, chromium and upholstery seemed still to be in perfect condition.
Geoffrey Thornton, helping Jill in to the front, said, ‘My grandmother had the body specially built for her, and travelled up to London twice to see how the work was going on. I remember going with her when I was about twelve.’ He went round to get in beside Jill. The girls, at the back, drew her attention to the small glass-topped tables that could be pulled down for picnic meals, and to the little cupboards with mirrors inside, where lights went on when the doors were opened.
‘And the glass screen between the front and the back goes up and down when you press the button,’ said Kit. She demon strated this, then added, ‘I must say it’s a terribly class-conscious car. Before the war, I understand, our great-grandmother sat in the back, here, with her pekinese, completely protected from the weather, while her chauffeur and maid sat in front, utterly exposed.’
‘They could shut the top if they wanted to,’ said Thornton, ‘but they seldom did unless it poured with rain. The chauffeur, who adored the car, thought it looked smarter with the front open – as it does. But please say, if you find it too draughty. It closes easily, and then both looks and feels like a completely closed car.
‘It’s lovely as it is,’ said Jill, looking up at the sky.
Thornton asked her if she drove.
‘No, and we haven’t a car. It wouldn’t be very much use in London. And Miles has never driven since he was involved in an accident ten years ago.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘No, but a friend of his was killed.’ Why had she mentioned that? She quickly spoke of something else.
They were proceeding – it seemed the suitable word – along Spa Street at a snail’s pace, so that the girls could point out various shops and buildings. And after only a couple of minutes she noticed that people looked towards the car with smiling recognition.
‘I’d never dare drive a modern Rolls here,’ said Thornton, ‘even if I could afford one. The Spa Town would think it ostentatious, though there’d be no resentment of the money spent on it. The New Town wouldn’t give a damn about the ostentation but would strongly resent my being able to afford it. But my grandmother’s Rolls is popular in both towns. I even think it won me quite a lot of votes.’
Soon they turned into a street which, Jill remembered, led into the New Town; she had walked it often enough during that long-ago week. The eighteenth-century terraces here showed signs of having come down in the world, and soon the car was passing semi-detached Victorian villas and then rows of small houses with bay windows and stained glass in their front doors.
‘I stayed somewhere near here,’ said Jill.
‘Can you remember the address?’ asked Kit. ‘We could make a pilgrimage.’
‘No, thank you. It was a horrid place.’ She had a sudden memory of a linoleumed bedroom with a cold, sagging bed … though perhaps it was a composite memory. Life, in those days, had achieved a general average of discomfort.
Already they were entering one of the busy streets of the New Town. Jill gazed with dislike at the gaudy shops.
‘Now you must look about you carefully,’ said Kit, ‘or you’ll miss interesting bits. Ignore the shops – these are some of the worst – and look up at the roofs. Lots of these buildings are Queen Anne or older.’
Jill did as she was told and was surprised to note the jumble of tiled roofs and little attic windows, some of these cobwebbed and indicating unused rooms.
‘My grandmother told me that shop assistants used to live in, up there,’ said Thornton. ‘Now very few of the attics are used even for storage; too many stairs and rickety at that. From a hard-headed point of view, all this property should come down. And will, eventually.’
Jill said, ‘I suppose, when buildings are so badly spoilt …’
‘But I like them spoilt,’ said Robin. ‘I mean, I like the mixture of old and new. Anyway, I like it better than having the old buildings pulled down.’
Kit said, ‘You don’t think keeping them like this is a bit like keeping old people alive when they’ve got one foot in the grave?’
‘No, I don’t. And neither do you,’ said Robin.
‘True enough. I was just airing the idea.’
‘And anyway, we do keep old people alive as long as we can. And when you’re old, I bet you won’t think you’ve got one foot in the grave, even when you’re dangling both feet into it. And you’ll want to go on and on. Most people do.’
The sisters continued to bicker amicably until the car reached the large market square which was in the middle of the New Town.
Robin said, ‘Now you see what happens when the old buildings are tidily pulled down and replaced.’
There were chain stores, cut-price supermarkets plastered with advertisements, two gaudy cinemas, a particularly hideous town hall. Buses painted blue, green, orange and even striped, were bringing people in from the surrounding countryside.
‘I’ll admit this is awful,’ said Kit.
‘But the market itself is rather fun,’ said Jill. ‘Somehow the crude colours look all right there.’
Racks of bright dresses, rolls of materials, blankets, towels, nylon nightgowns and negligées swinging in the breeze, inflated plastic toys, hardware … even the food looked brighter than food normally looks.
‘I sometimes buy things here,’ said Robin. ‘Shall we go and explore?’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Thornton. ‘If I park the Rolls here it’ll get mobbed. Oh, affectionately mobbed, but I don’t want the market boys climbing all over it. When you girls go market shopping, you go on your own.’
They drove on, slowly because there was much traffic. Interest in the Rolls was as lively as in the Spa Town but there it had been greeted with smiles, and occasional bows from acquaintances of the Thorntons; here,
the populace waved. Robin and Kit waved back and, presently, Jill waved too; it seemed discourteous not to. She said, ‘Really, we might be royalty.’
‘Well, it’s a queen of cars,’ said Kit. ‘And you look exactly right for it, with your grey suit and your lovely not-quite-grey hair.’
‘You must have a wonderfully clever cut,’ said Robin. ‘It doesn’t at all mind an open car.’
‘I wouldn’t care if it did; I’m enjoying myself too much.’ The day, the car, the interest of seeing the town from a different point of view, the companionship of the three Thorntons, all were giving her pleasure – though she found Thornton quieter than on their earlier meetings; perhaps he was letting his chattering daughters have the floor. It occurred to Jill that he must be unusually lacking in egoism; he seldom spoke of himself unless in answer to some question. She felt she ought to show interest in his political career but was dubious about plunging into a subject about which she knew so little. She had no political views beyond a vague sympathy with the underdog – and these days, who were the underdogs and which party their champion? Here, certainly, the prosperous New Town might house more top dogs than the Spa Town. Anyway, judging by Thornton’s majority, both towns had accepted him as their champion. She would have liked to say this, making it a compliment, but felt it safer to keep off politics altogether. Also she found his quietness a little inhibiting. She remembered her first impression of him as veiled. The veil was still there.
After they had driven through a number of ancient alleys which linked the main shopping streets (the latter pretty hideous, Jill thought, though she gave due recognition to all the survivals that were pointed out to her) Kit said, ‘Let’s show her a bird’s-eye view from above. It’s fascinating, like those old prints called “A Prospect of ….”’
They left the town behind and headed for the hills. ‘I always enjoy doing this,’ said Thornton. ‘The car likes to pretend we’re merely ambling up a gradual rise, but you’ll be surprised, looking down, to see how steep this hill is.’
She was. In only a few minutes they had risen high enough to see the town spread out beneath them. Thornton drew up at a grassy plateau obviously intended for a look-out. A modern pay-telescope was mounted there.
‘Oh, good, we’ve got the place to ourselves,’ said Robin. ‘So we can hog the telescope. You look first, Mrs Quentin. But it’s best to get your bearings in advance, with the naked eye.’
Jill saw that the New Town began at the foot of the hill, its modern suburb of detached houses merging into streets leading to the town centre. Then came the streets leading to the Spa Town, with its squares, terraces and crescents. The hill on which Queen’s Crescent was built seemed only a little hill when viewed from here. The whole length of Spa Street was visible.
Thornton, after pointing out various landmarks, said, ‘One’s apt to forget that for nearly a hundred years after the Spa Town was built, it was called the New Town. Still was, when my grandmother was a child. I suppose one day it’ll be as spoilt as what used to be the old town has become.’
‘Come and look through the telescope now,’ said Robin. ‘It’s a wonderfully clear day.’
Jill, who had never before looked through a telescope, was startled by the way Spa Street seemed to leap towards her. She could see each shaving-brush chestnut, distinguish individual shops. She spotted the café where she had met Thornton; then, swinging the telescope slightly, found herself looking at the golden lion outside the hotel. Just beyond it was her bedroom window and there was someone standing there. Miles? He had not expected to come back for lunch. The figure moved – and before she had even made out for certain if it was a man or a woman; but it had seemed too tall for a maid. She handed the telescope over to Robin and looked at her watch.
Thornton said, ‘Are you anxious to get back? We were hoping we might take you out to lunch. There’s a good country hotel, just a few miles further on.’
Why not? If Miles was back he wouldn’t in the least mind her staying out to lunch; he had known she was spending the morning with the Thorntons. All the same, she said, ‘I think, perhaps … you see, they’ve been making cuts and that can be tricky. Miles may want me to run through them with him.’
‘We could get you back by, say, three o’clock,’ said Thornton. ‘Still, if you’d rather not …’
‘It’s just that I suddenly felt guilty, out here enjoying myself when they’re all working so hard at the theatre. By the way, would any of you like to come with me tonight? I’ve got tired of standing so they’re keeping me a box.’
‘Alas, we’re all going out to dinner,’ said Thornton. ‘But we were wondering if we could buy seats for the first night in London – or is it too late?’
She said she could arrange it – ‘And now, if we’re to get back in time for lunch … Oh, I have enjoyed myself.’
The Thorntons, too, expressed their pleasure in the morning. Jill, taking a last look round at the rolling hills and the town below, found that going back when she didn’t really want to took the edge off her guilt. But some not quite identifiable sense of guilt remained.
Shocking Disclosure in a Cosy-Corner
It had been Miles at the window and he had been on the look-out for her. The rehearsal had been trying and he wanted to talk about it. Peter’s cuts had irritated the whole company – ‘I don’t mind clean cuts but small, niggling cuts are so difficult to learn.’ He described them fully, and niggling they certainly were, but they would shorten the play by some minutes without taking anything of value out of it. In Jill’s opinion, that was the right way to cut; but she did not say so, nor did she remind Miles that ‘clean’ cuts usually removed whole speeches which actors did not care to lose.
She worked with him after lunch, got him to eat an early tea, and then went to the theatre with him for a last-minute run-through with the company – which gave the impression that the evening performance would be disastrous. But it wasn’t; the cuts went in smoothly except for Cyril’s; and Miles was able to cover up for him. The play went well. Jill, after arranging with Frank Ashton about the Thorntons’ first-night seats, asked how he felt about London and found he was wildly optimistic – ‘We just can’t fail, judging by the reactions here.’
‘Yes, they’ve been splendid,’ she said heartily.
‘Our young author’s walking round in a daze of bliss. Such luck to get your husband in his first play.’
‘And to get such a kind management.’ She did not think Frank Ashton knew anything about the theatre but he had been unfailingly pleasant, also generous.
At supper Miles was his usual cheerful self and freely admitted he had been wrong about the cuts. ‘They’re really very skilful. Naturally they upset the boy, but I can do a little private rehearsing with him during the photo-call tomorrow. He’ll be steady as a rock by the evening.’
The photo-call meant that Miles would be in the theatre most of the day. Jill decided to take sandwiches down to him. She ordered these as soon as she had seen him off and then went to the bedroom intending to spend the morning typing thank-you letters for Miles’s first-night telegrams; she was often glad that she had learned to type during her days as an assistant stage manager.
She had just settled down at her portable typewriter when the hall porter brought up a note. He handed it to her, saying, ‘The young ladies are waiting in the lounge.’
The note read:
Dear Mrs Quentin,
We should like it very much if you would come out and have coffee with us this morning. We rather particularly want to talk to you privately.
ROBIN AND KIT
Robin had written the note. Kit had merely signed her name – Jill marvelled that anyone could get so much individuality into three letters: they were large, angular, and faintly suggestive of Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Well, one could hardly ignore ‘particularly’ and ‘privately’. Jill got her handbag and went downstairs.
The sisters rose to meet her and, on hearing that she woul
d be happy to come out with them, thanked her with a touch of gravity. She had been about to say, ‘Well, this sounds exciting,’ but it seemed too flippant for the occasion.
‘If you don’t mind the little walk we’ll go to the Spa Street café,’ said Robin. ‘We have a specially private table there.’
Gravity, Jill decided as they walked along Spa Street, made both the girls seem younger, not older. But they retained sufficient social sense to maintain what could only be described as polite conversation, on their way to the café. Jill found herself both touched and amused – not to mention curious.
As they entered the café Robin said, ‘This is where you met Father, isn’t it?’ to which Kit added, ‘We feel grateful to it.’ Jill smilingly said, ‘So do I!’ It was merely the called-for, con ventional reply and she wished she had managed something better. The formality of the outing was having a paralyzing effect on her spontaneity.
The sisters conducted her through the shop into the tea room, and on into a small, circular alcove which was the cosy-corner to end cosy-corners. It reminded Jill of a miniature bandstand, but a bandstand with curtains. Once inside it the tea room could only be seen through a heavily draped arch.
‘We always come in here unless we’re with Father,’ said Robin. ‘He says it gives him claustrophobia. I’ll admit it’s a trifle airless.’
‘Pure imagination,’ said Kit. ‘Enough air comes through that arch to supply a regiment.’
A waitress appeared who obviously knew the girls well.
‘We usually have hot chocolate,’ Robin said to Jill, ‘with lots of cream. But I expect you prefer coffee.’
‘No, indeed; chocolate would be marvellous,’ said Jill, wondering how long it was since she had drunk any.
The order was given. The waitress departed. A silence fell.
‘Well,’ said Jill, at last, looking hopefully at the sisters.
‘Let’s wait until the chocolate arrives,’ said Kit and then proceeded to chat about the Edwardian decoration of the café … ‘Once people thought it was hideous and now it’s coming into fashion again. By the way, are you interested in Art Nouveau, Mrs Quentin?’