‘I suppose I’ll do for the party except for my feet,’ she said, ‘What’s wrong with your feet?’
‘Well, I ought to wear high-heeled shoes and stockings,’
‘Those black dangling ear-rings,’ said Tom doubtfully, ‘will you be wearing those?’
‘Why not? Don’t you like them?’
‘They seem so very black.’
‘Of course I And men don’t always like women in black, do they? Does it foreshadow death, or are they afraid that it has some depressing significance, like Masha in The Seagull, in mourning for her life? Or Thurber,’ Catherine laughed, ‘the unfolding of some dreary tale about a past love affair that went wrong that makes a man want to reach for his hat?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Tom, frowning. He sat down on the kitchen table. Catherine had told him once that somebody she loved had been killed in the war, and he was sensitive to other people’s unhappiness, especially when they made light of it. Then a memory of his grandmother, cutting grapes in the conservatory at home, came to him. There had been a feeling of oppression in the house—it must have been just after his grandfather’s death. ‘ Didn’t people wear jet for mourning,’ he said, ‘I seem to remember my grandmother …’
‘So I remind you of your grandmother.’ said Catherine lightly. ‘I wonder what the psychoanalysts would make of that?’
‘It was just the feeling of them, so heavy and black-looking and when you touch them, so light.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought she’d wear jet in those days. It could only have been about twenty-five years ago.’
‘Ah, but she was old, you know, and it was in the country,’
‘Yes, of course.’ Tom’s childhood in the house in Shrop-
shire with his brother and sister had always seemed so enviable to Catherine who had lost both her parents when young and been brought up by an aunt who was now dead. ‘We aren’t getting on very fast with your welcome-home party,’ she said, disengaging herself from his arms.
‘I wish we weren’t having it now.’
‘Oh, you’ll enjoy it once it gets going.’
‘By the way, I asked a little girl anthropologist to come along, her name’s Deirdre. I found her sitting all alone.’
‘Good. What pretty names your girl friends have,’ said Catherine, busily grating cheese. ‘Did you see Elaine when you were at home?’
‘No, she was away.’
‘Had she taken the dogs with her?’
‘I don’t know—I shouldn’t think so. I suppose one of her sisters could look after them.’
‘But are the sisters as fond of them? And think of the dogs, too. I always imagine them as being so very devoted to their mistress, and they might pine. Are they loose-limbed bounding dogs, or heavy solid ones with broad backs, the kind you see with money boxes strapped on to them, collecting for charity?’
‘Catty, I really don’t know and I don’t care!’
‘All right, go and see what the room looks like, will you? Tidy away all bits of your thesis, please.’
The room looked quite tidy to Tom. He pushed Catherine’s work-basket under one of the arm-chairs, emptied an ash-tray into the fireplace and straightened cushions as he had seen women do. Catherine hurried in and out with plates of food and bottles and glasses. Then the bell rang, so she ran to her bedroom where she hid the bottle of gin behind her dressing-table. She sat down in front of the looking-glass, splashed scent over herself in a haphazard way, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, pushed up her short-cropped hair at the sides and straightened one of the jet ear-rings. But she forgot to change her espadrilles and it was this one flaw in her appearance which reassured Deirdre when she arrived some time later to find herself in a room full of what seemed to be complete strangers and Catherine coming forward to greet her in a most friendly and charming way.
‘What a lovely room!’ exclaimed Deirdre, looking around her in wonder.
In daylight the sitting-room, with its pale green walls, looked rather ordinary and in need of redecoration, but the dim lights were a s flattering to it as they are to most people, and to Deirdre, used to the beige walls and flowered chintz of her mother’s drawing-room, it was the most attractive room she had ever seen. Large jugs filled with leaves or even branches of trees stood on bookcases obviously full of ‘interesting’ books, but it was really no more remarkable than many another such room in Chelsea, Hampstead, Kensington or Pimlico. Who can say, also, whether there might not be such a room in Balham, East Sheen or Paddington?
The people in the room, who had been similarly softened and improved by the dim light, now turned out not to be strangers at all. Deirdre realized with a shock of astonishment that the two almost handsome young men standing in a corner against a background of leaves were none other than Mark Penfold and Digby Fox. Here, with drinks in their hands, they had a relaxed air, and Digby, who had on entering the room cast a startled glance at Vanessa Eaves’s bare shoulders and made for an opposite corner, now found himself joining the little circle she had collected round her. As for Tom, he did not need any dim flattering light or exotic background, for when a man is loved he is never more doted upon than when he appears at some slight disadvantage, in the harsh light of day. Deirdre had not been aware of this and was a little disappointed to see him moving from group to group with drinks or food in the suave way that a good host should. Whenever he passed near her he gave her a vague sweet smile and once he put his hand on her arm in a reassuring sort of way.
Conversation at real life parties is not usually very witty or worth recording, and where members of the same profession are gathered together it is likely to be incomprehensible to all but themselves. Deirdre, from feeling herself to be on the fringe of anthropological circles, now seemed to plunge right in, and the sensation was altogether delightful to her. She found herself joining in the speculations about the Foresight research fellowships, laughing at malicious little stories about her teachers and having what seemed to be a profound discussion with the American couple, Brandon and Melanie, and Jean-Pierre le Rossignol, about the changed position of the sexes, for now, Brandon maintained, women were more likely to go off to Africa to shoot lions as a cure for unrequited love than in the old days, when this had been a man’s privilege.
‘But there are more wild animals left in the French territories,’ declared Jean-Pierre, ‘and that is a good thing, I think, for Frenchmen are so much more likely to have women hopelessly in love with them.’
Deirdre looked down at him, her eyes sparkling, almost feeling that she could love him at this moment.
‘I have the intention of visiting your church one Sunday,’ he said rather primly. ‘It is a thing I have not yet studied, the Sunday morning in the English suburb. When is the best time to come?’
‘I should think at Whitsuntide. There is usually a procession at the eleven o’clock service and more people are likely to be there.’
‘Ah, yes, Pentecost,’ declared Jean-Pierre in a superior tone. ‘And afterwards there is the traditional English Sunday dinner with joint?’
‘Yes, most families eat their joint on Sundays.’
‘And after, the sleeping? That is a custom too, I think?’
‘Well, with the older people, perhaps.’
‘Lovely!’ said Catherine, joining them. ‘I adore sleeping on Sunday afternoons. Where do you live?’ she asked Deirdre.
Deirdre told her.
‘With your family, I suppose?’
‘Yes, my mother and brother and aunt.’
‘How lucky you are to have relations! I haven’t any now,’ said Catherine sadly.
‘They’re rather a nuisance, really,’ Deirdre mumbled. ‘I should like to live in a flat on my own.’
‘But they care about you,’ said Catherine. ‘They fuss when you’re home late. I expect your mother lies awake till you get in and then calls out when she hears you creeping up the stairs.’
Deirdre laughed. ‘Yes, she does do that.’
br />
‘And on Sundays you all have a big tea together. Sunday afternoon is horrid in the middle of London. The flat’s all littered with crumpled Sunday papers, and after tea there’s the sad sound of church bells.’
‘You must come and have tea with us on a Sunday,’ said Deirdre shyly. ‘If you can face the journey, that is. I’m afraid it’s rather a long bus ride.’
‘Oh, I should like that! May I really come one Sunday?’
‘Of course, my mother would love to meet you. Do you think I dare ask Tom to come as well?’ Deirdre burst out, encouraged by Catherine’s friendly manner.
‘Why, yes! He’s so busy with his wretched thesis all the time, it would do him good to get away from it.’
Somebody had now put a record on the radiogram and a few people began to dance. When Vanessa stood up it was seen that she wore tight-fitting leopardskin trousers; these, with her long silver ear-rings and bare-shoulder black jersey, made a striking effect.
Jean-Pierre leaned back in an arm-chair, eyes closed and finger-tips joined in a prayer-like attitude, listening to the jazz as if it had been Bach.
Deirdre found Tom beside her, asking her to dance. ‘Not like Vanessa and her Ethiopian boy friend,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I can only do ordinary dancing, going round the room and turning at the corners. We prefer dancing like this, don’t we.’ He took hold of her right hand and laid it against his heart.
‘We haven’t ever danced together before,’ said Deirdre, feeling rather gauche but happy that he should have singled her out in this rather unusual way. She closed her eyes, trying to hold the moment, but it would not stay. Soon the record came to an end and although another was immediately started that came to an end too, and at last people began to go home.
After the good-byes and thanks had been said, Deirdre was outside in the street with Mark and Digby, who seemed to be going in her direction.
‘Quite a good party, wasn’t it,’ said Mark dispassionately. ‘Plenty to eat and drink.’
‘Yes, Catherine usually has good parties,’ said Digby. ‘A woman who can cook and type—what more could a man want, really?’
‘I think she’s awfully nice,’ said Deirdre, in the warm tone a woman unconsciously uses when praising another woman to a man.
‘Trust Tom to get himself well looked after,’ said Mark. ‘I suppose it must be his ruling-class upbringing asserting itself. A Coppersmith’s research fellowship, and they’re about the best one can get, and a nice cosy place to live.’
‘Does he live in the same house then?’ Deirdre asked.
‘He lives in the same flat,’ said Digby.
‘With Catherine,’ Mark added.
‘He lives with Catherine?’ Deirdre’s voice faltered a little, for she could not believe that Mark and Digby could mtan what they seemed to. ‘You mean, he is her lover?’ she went on, in a high unnatural voice.
‘Well, we haven’t actually asked him, but one presumes that is the arrangement.’
‘It would be a reciprocal relationship—the woman giving the food and shelter and doing some typing for him and the man giving the priceless gift of himself,’ said Mark, swaying a little and bumping into a tree. ‘It is commoner in our society than many people would suppose.’
‘I wonder if we could find anyone to look after usT asked Digby. ‘Perhaps if we were to advertise in one of the learned journals. “Two personable young anthropologists, early twenties, would like to meet sympathetic woman under thirty-five with flat and private income—object subsistence.” ‘
‘Miss Clovis and Miss Lydgate might take us on,’ suggested Mark. ‘I believe they are quite kind, really, but I suppose we should have to give ” help with rough”, as they say in advertisements.’
‘All the same, Catherine is quite attractive,’ said Digby. ‘We might aim at someone a bit younger than Qovis and Lydgate.’
Deirdre walked between them in a stunned silence, their frivolous conversation passing over her head. It had never occurred to her that Tom might be attached to another woman. She had not realized that the very fact that she had immediately loved him could mean that other women would love him too.
‘I suppose they will be getting married?’ she asked at last.
‘Who-.Tom and Catherine? Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ said Mark cheerfully. ‘Catherine isn’t keen on going to Africa with him and she isn’t a trained anthropologist. He would do better to marry Primrose or Vanessa.’
‘Or even you,’ said Digby, squeezing her arm affectionately. ‘You’re still young enough to be moulded.’
‘I think there will be a train still running,’ said Deirdre quickly, as they approached an Underground station, ‘so I’d better go down here. Good-bye I’
She had gone before they could offer to see her to the train, which they would not have done in any case.
‘Did you think she seemed a bit upset about something?’ asked Digby as they walked on.
‘No, did you?’
‘She looked as if she might be going to cry—it was when we were talking about Tom and Catherine.’
‘But she hardly knows Tom, does she?’
‘No, but I think she likes him. I wonder if she will be all right? Ought one of us to have seen her home—supposing there isn’t a train as late as this?’
‘Seen her home?’ echoed Mark in astonishment. ‘Has the drink or the night air gone to your head? She probably lives miles away. You really must cure yourself of these old-fashioned ideas.’
‘Yes, of course, one’s apt to forget that women consider themselves our equals now. But just occasionally one remembers that men were once the stronger sex,’ said Digby almost sadly.
‘Of course, if she really wants Tom,’ said Mark, his eyes brightening as they did when there was the prospect of some interesting piece of gossip, ‘ there’s no reason why she shouldn’t get him. Did you notice how he seemed rather interested this evening? A few obstacles in the way will only make it more worth while for her.’
They had come to a crescent of once beautiful houses, now decayed and shabby, in one of which they shared a flat with an African student. The sound of his typewriter greeted them as they opened their front door. The kitchen was full of washing-up and there was no milk left for breakfast. Mr. Ephraim Olo liked to drink Ovaltine while he composed articles of a seditious tone for his African newspaper.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Once Deirdre had recovered from the shock of learning that Tom and Catherine were living together she began to feel quite cheerful again. At nineteen one’s hopes do not remain blighted for very long and Deirdre was soon able to find a good deal in the situation to encourage her. Mark and Digby had not seemed to think that Tom and Catherine would marry and certainly they had not appeared to be very much in love, though it was a little difficult to know how they could have shown this at a party when they were busy looking after their guests. Anyway, Catherine was neither particularly beautiful nor even young, and it was quite likely that Tom was beginning to grow tired of her, expecially if she was not an anthropologist and therefore unable to take an intelligent interest in his work. This last was terribly important, Deirdre felt; it was really a privilege to have the opportunity, especially when the work was difficult and unrewarding in itself. Not that she wanted to deprive Catherine of Tom’s love, for she had taken a liking to her in the way that a younger woman often does admire an older one who appears to have an interesting and enviable life. For Catherine seemed to Deirdre rather a splendid person—her Bohemian flat and way of living, and her writing were all very different from the suburban background which Deirdre found so stifling and from which she now felt herself struggling to break free.
The day on which Catherine and Tom were coming to tea was Whitsunday. At breakfast the question of churchgoing was discussed. Mrs. Swan was grieved that Deirdre had not been with them at Early Service. The vicar called it Low Mass, but she could not yet bring herself to adopt this unfamiliar and somehow rather shocking terminology.
‘Malcolm and Mr. Dulke took the collection,’ she said. It was such a nice service -I wish you’d come, dear.’
‘I didn’t feel like it,’ said Deirdre evasively. ‘I don’t really know that I believe in it all any more.’
There was silence at the table. Malcolm passed up his cup for more coffee. Rhoda took another piece of toast. Nothing was said, but Deirdre began to feel that her remark had been rather childish and in bad taste.
‘What was that thing the organist played when we went up?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Rather a nice tune, I thought.’
‘It sounded like Hiawatha’s wedding feast,’ said Rhoda in a worried tone, ‘Coleridge Taylor, you know. But I don’t think it could have been that.’
‘Mr. Lewis was improvising,’ said Mrs. Swan. ‘There were nearly a hundred communicants, I should think, and I dare say his thoughts wandered. I suppose the music wasn’t really so very unsuitable, in a way; many Indians are Christians, aren’t they?’
‘These were Kid Indians, surely,’ said Malcolm.
They seemed to be getting into rather deep water, so Mabel changed the subject by mentioning that there was to be a procession at the eleven o’clock service.
‘I might come to that,’ said Deirdre. ‘I suppose it will be quite an interesting spectacle.’