Nightingale Wood

  (Actually Hetty was a finished liar; she had to be, or she would have had to give up her private life and be a Spring. But she never lied unnecessarily or from malice, and this time she was speaking the truth.)

  The fact is (thought Mrs Spring) though Phyl is so suitable for Victor in many ways, I don’t like her much. Oh dear, why can’t girls be like men? I never had an hour’s worry with poor Harry (her husband) and Victor is just the same. They are much nicer than women, people can say what they like. Now here’s Hetty and Phyl, both very tiresome in different ways, when they both ought to be a comfort to me.

  ‘Yes, well, never mind that now …’

  ‘I don’t. It wasn’t a book. If she’d ruined my Seven Pillars of Wisdom now, I might have.’

  ‘… you’d better wear the white.’

  ‘It wants cleaning.’

  ‘Oh, Hetty! I told you to give it to Davies.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘The blue, then? Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Part of it has burst out, I think.’

  Mrs Spring, in silence, switched open Hetty’s wardrobe and took down the dress from its place in a row.

  ‘Where? Just show me.’

  Hetty pointed to a minute split under one arm.

  Mrs Spring shook her head. ‘No, that will spread. You can’t wear this again, you must give it to Davies.’

  ‘Oh, can I? Excellent.’ Hetty looked pleased. ‘She wants a new frock, she’s going to the Baths with Heyrick next week.’

  ‘Is she?’ Mrs Spring was interested, for she was a good mistress to her maids. She looked over her shoulder, while her hands were busily rummaging among the dresses. ‘Is she going to marry him, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I would hardly say that they have got as far as that. She is always careful to tell me that he is not her Regular.’

  ‘Here … what about this?’ Mrs Spring pulled out a salmon-pink one. ‘Has she got a Regular?’

  ‘No. She says she is still turning them over. She has Heyrick, and a policeman, and the new young postman.’

  ‘The red-haired one? Hetty, this will do. Just slip it on, will you, and we’ll see how it looks. I think it will do very well when it’s pressed.’

  Hetty listlessly peeled off her dress and wriggled into the cloud of salmon-pink frills.

  ‘Do stand up, child, and don’t look as though you were going to a funeral. Don’t you want to go tonight?’

  Hetty shook her head. Her arms hung slackly at her sides, she stooped, and her whole posture expressed a lugubrious indifference to her fate.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It will be so tedious, and I dislike Bunny Andrews.’

  ‘Rubbish. He’s a charming boy. It’s just like you to take a dislike to one of the few really nice boys in the neighbourhood, for no reason. I suppose you would rather sit at home all evening, and frowst with a book.’

  ‘Indeed I would.’

  ‘Hetty, you’re a very discontented, ungrateful, tiresome girl, and very selfish too. Do you ever think that you might make life much pleasanter for me if you tried to be more like an ordinary girl? What do you expect to be like when you’re my age, if you’re so odd and unnatural now? You’ll never attract men, you know, or get a good time while you go on like this.’

  ‘I don’t want what you call a good time, thank you, nor do I wish to marry.’

  ‘What do you want to do then? – and don’t talk in that stupid drawl, it’s affected.’

  ‘I want to go to College. I want to be educated. I want to meet interesting people. And I want a job,’ said Hetty, in a savagely careful voice as though she were repeating a lesson. ‘And I see no reason – absolutely no reason at all, Aunt Edna, why I should not do those four things. That is why I don’t care for dancing or the Bunny Andrews of this world. But there is no point in prolonging this argument, is there? Shall I wear the gold shoes or the brown satin?’

  ‘The gold. No, you are not going to College; it’s a waste of time and you’d never pass the exams. You aren’t clever, like your mother was. One day you’ll thank me for having stopped you from wasting your time and money. Get Heyrick to cut you some of those Los Angeles roses; they’ll just match your dress.’

  She hurried away, anxious not to quarrel further with Hetty, for the mention of her dead sister made her sad. This was not one of her good days, which was a nuisance, for she was looking forward to the Ball, where she would meet old acquaintances and show off her clothes and her good-looking son.

  Meanwhile, at The Eagles, Mrs Wither was slowly climbing to Viola’s room, her hand dragging along the polished mahogany stair-rail and upon her face the expression worn by one who does an unpleasant duty.

  She was going to find out if Viola had The Proper Clothes.

  The idea that Viola might not have them had been put into her head, surprisingly, by Mr Wither. Usually Mr Wither took no interest in the wardrobe of his womenfolk, beyond telling them that they spent too much money on it; but ever since Viola had come back from London with her hair cut in that untidy, vulgar mop, Mrs Wither had noticed him keeping a very watchful eye upon his daughter-in-law. Mrs Wither knew how he felt; she felt like it, too. They could not be sure what Viola would do next; they could only be sure that they would not like it. Who would have thought that she would come back from London with her hair like that, so conspicuous, so common-looking, so unlike the hair of all the nice girls living round about? It made her look a different person. Before she had it done, when she came into the room no one noticed her, which was as it should be. Now everyone stared at her, which was very annoying. Even nowadays, when apparently all the old nice ways had gone for ever, a widow should not be conspicuous. And Viola’s manner was different, too. She laughed more often, she seemed more self-confident. Mr and Mrs Wither did not think this a change for the better.

  So, with all these ominous changes in mind, Mrs Wither quite agreed with Mr Wither when he said that it might be a good idea just to find out what Viola was going to wear that night, in case it was ‘unsuitable’. By unsuitable, Mr Wither meant likely to be stared at, cut very low with a very short skirt, red velvet with a lot of poppies on it, or something of that sort.

  Mrs Wither knocked at Viola’s door.

  ‘Hullo?’ said her rather muffled voice. ‘Come in.’

  She was washing stockings in her basin, a habit of hers that Mrs Wither much disliked; a row of them was hanging half-way out of the window and two pairs of gloves were pinned to the curtains.

  She looked up and smiled. She had been crying.

  Mrs Wither knew why. It was the anniversary of her father’s death, Tina had said yesterday. Mrs Wither thought it wiser not to refer to this. She began:

  ‘There you are, dear. I just wanted to have a little talk with you about tonight. (Those could always go to the laundry, you know … they take such a long time to dry here … Oh dear! they are dripping on the floor.’)

  ‘I’ll put down a newspaper,’ said Viola, and did.

  ‘Well, dear, now about tonight. What are you going to wear? I just want to make sure that our colour-schemes will not clash. Tina is wearing her brown, as you know, and Madge will be in green, and I shall be in wine-colour.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Viola, in that new cool tone she seemed to have acquired with the loss of her hair. She went rather pink but said no more. A bagful of advice from Shirley, and the knowledge that her new haircut was fashionable as well as startlingly distinguished, had hardened our Viola surprisingly. Inwardly, she might be the same girl; but outwardly she was not.

  ‘And what will you wear, dear?’ pursued Mrs Wither.

  ‘A frock,’ giggled Viola. ‘At least, it would look rather odd if I didn’t, wouldn’t it?’

  Mrs Wither smiled painfully.

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Well …’ Viola was wringing out a pair of stockings and sending splashes over the wall-paper. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s a surprise, so I hope you won’t think me a
n awful pig if I don’t tell you. I don’t want anyone to see it until tonight.’

  ‘A surprise! That sounds very exciting,’ said Mrs Wither gloomily. (Red. It was sure to be bright red, with a lot of spangles and cut disgracefully low).

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Viola, smiling with happiness at the very thought of her frock.

  ‘Don’t you think, dear, you had better give me just a hint about the colour? Then the girls and I can be quite sure that we shan’t clash.’

  ‘Oh? that’ll be all right,’ off-handedly.

  ‘It is white, then? Or black?’

  A smiling shake of the head.

  ‘Well, I must just possess my soul in patience,’ said Mrs Wither, getting up, with a tight smile. ‘I am quite longing to see this wonderful frock.’

  ‘Oh it’s lovely,’ said Viola, earnestly. ‘It’s a – no, I won’t tell you! You wait till tonight.’

  Alone, she went over to the glass and began to comb the famous curls. She never tired of doing this, nor of studying her transformed face. Her chin was more pointed, her mouth pinker and prettier, her eyes and eyebrows darker below their ash-blonde crown. She had small shapely ears; now they showed. Her head was a good shape; that was displayed too. Her neck was longer and whiter than most girls’; that had an innings as well. Best of all, she no longer looked what Shirley called moist. She was demure yet gay, like a cherub on its night out.

  And all because she had said casually to Shirley, as they sat finishing their black-currant jelly sundaes at the Corner House, I must do something about my hair. I’m awfully fed up with it. Funny, only this morning, coming up in the train, I was thinking about that picture in Dad’s old Shakespeare I used to love when I was a kid, the one he always said I was called after, you know, the girl dressed like a boy with her hair in curls all over her head. That’s how I’d love to have mine done. And Shirley had said, as casually, Well, why don’t you? You’ve got a natural kink, haven’t you, and you could have it permed to help it. Let’s go and get it done after lunch.

  And after lunch they found a hairdresser with three hours to spare, off Oxford Street, and got it done.

  Oh, please, please, let Him be there, and let Him dance with me.

  Miss Barlow, thoughtfully rubbing a quiet but expensive toilet-water over her smooth arms at a quarter to eight that evening, in front of her mirror at Grassmere, thought what a bore this Ball was, and congratulated herself on having brought down for it a dress she had worn several times, which was not one of her favourites. There was no point in wasting a good dress on these people. No one would be there. Essex was a dowdy county; and the Dovewoods were frumps. Not an old title, six plain clever children, not much money, religious, a large, ugly, inadequately heated house. Who were the Dovewoods, that Miss Barlow should shine for them?

  Bang! on her door.

  ‘Phyl! Can you do something to this tie for me? I’ve slaughtered two already.’

  ‘Of course.’ She unhurriedly put on a house coat, and opened the door to Victor.

  He was in shirt sleeves and dress trousers, with a fresh white tie in one hand, and looked attractive, as a handsome man does in undress. There was an intimacy in the competent wifely way she took possession of the tie and began to adjust it that showed how old their friendship was and how naturally it would develop into marriage; anyone, seeing them thus, would have said that they were married already.

  ‘Keep still.’

  ‘You’re tickling.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s that stuff you’ve got on? It’s good.’

  ‘My perfume, do you mean? English April. I’m glad you like it.’

  Her brown smooth fingers moved deftly, switching the white strip into a correct butterfly of a bow.

  ‘There. How amusing – your still not being able to cope with a tie.’

  ‘I can usually; only tonight, lady, I’m kinda noivous.’

  He gave her a lightning kiss and went back laughing to his room. Phyllis was smiling, too, as she took off her coat and re-painted her lips. Victor was nice tonight. Sometimes he bored her, and sometimes he irritated her by coming the he-man, but tonight he was definitely attractive. As he laughed down at her, she was warmed by a sudden glow of feeling. She had been fixing ties for Victor since he was eighteen, and tonight she felt willing, even eager, to go on fixing them for him until he was sixty-eight. Good old boy; nice-looking, rich, go-ahead, first-class at his job and likely to get even better (and richer) as he got older. True, she had known him for so long that he was more like a brother than a possible husband, but at least she knew him thoroughly, and they liked the same things, the same sort of life. There would be no fear of their ending up after three years with a divorce. Phyllis took divorces for granted, of course; if a thing wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t; but she did not want her own marriage to end in one. Divorces were rather bad style, really; it was smarter and newer to have one husband for a long time and be seen about with him. Children were smart, too: but there were limits. I don’t spoil my figure for anyone, thank you.

  All the same, it would be fun, being married to Victor.

  The Ball began at eight o’clock, and the common herd, determined to have its money’s worth, was there on the tick; but the quality never arrived until nine or even later, thereby creating the impression that their lives were such a dervish whirl of gaiety that what was the Infirmary Ball to them?

  To Viola, in a fever of impatience to get there and begin dancing, the Withers seemed to crawl through dinner (lighter than usual, because of the Refreshments they would take at the Ball); but at last it was over, and they all went out into the splendid light of evening, where the car waited with Saxon holding open the door. The green heads of the oaks on the other side of the road glowed above dark bushes in the drive, the sky was peaceful gold, the air smelled of wild flowers and dust. A cloud of gnats moved up and down, up and down. The ghostly moon was rising, huge in the east over the far-off sea.

  The ladies settled themselves, Viola wrapped from neck to toes in a large old velvet cloak that had been Shirley’s which successfully hid the surprise dress. There had been a number of sour jokes because she wore the cloak during dinner. Mr Wither, exhaling a strong odour of moth-balls, seated himself with creaks, posed his hands upon his knees and counted the flock.

  ‘Where is Madge?’ demanded Mr Wither, resignedly.

  ‘She won’t be long, dear.’

  ‘She’s just saying good night to Polo,’ said Viola, and even as she spoke, a voice could be heard crying heartily: ‘Good dog! Good dog! Lie down, sir. Back soon,’ which manly words did not at all conceal the emotion in the speaker’s tone. Then Madge appeared at the double, looking enormous in bright green.

  Tina made room for her. Tina was trying not to look at Saxon; and wondering if he thought she looked pretty in her chiffon dress of silver, brown and grey, like a moth.

  ‘Now, if we are all here, we may as well go,’ said Mr Wither awfully, putting back his watch into his pocket.

  ‘The Assembly Rooms.’ The car moved off.

  ‘Good heavens, it’s still afternoon! Are you sure it’s really nine, Victor? Hetty, is that bit of hair meant?’ Two cool fingers sharply pulled Hetty’s rat’s-tail. ‘That’s a good dress; I’ve seen it before, haven’t I?’

  ‘So have I yours; you had it last year,’ retorted Hetty, stooping into the car and raising her voice as Miss Barlow disappeared into the other with Victor. Hetty looked despairingly at the two faces confronting her: her aunt’s delicately painted, middle-aged, cheerful and tired; young Mr Andrew’s, a mere vacuity, so many insignificant features grouped meaninglessly upon a frame of bones. She wondered if his own mother would know him in a crowd. Then she wondered what would Dr Johnson have said of a face like that? The corners of her mouth went up and she felt better.

  ‘The Assembly Rooms,’ said Mrs Spring.

  With Victor driving his own, the two cars moved off.

  CHAPTER XII

  When t
he Springs’ party arrived, the Ball was well away, and the rooms were full. Three hundred laughing, chattering people in their best clothes were there, exhilarated by swift movement to music and by the Dovewood Cup, which had been tasted by Mr Joe Knoedler and the Boys and pronounced, in amazed voices, to be not so bad. (Alcohol, in short, could be detected therein.)

  The ladies went at once to the cloakroom to repair the ravages caused by the drive, while Victor and Mr Andrews, having parked the cars, awaited them in the vestibule.

  The vestibule had yellow stucco columns, a shabby red carpet with settees to match, and busts of musicians all over it; the Rooms had been locally famous for a series of concerts during the 1880s. Behind the tall swing doors, Victor could see the dancers and hear the music swell and die as the doors swung open; and as he was staring idly, wondering if Knoedler’s Boys were coming up to scratch and how soon he could go home, he saw something familiar drifting past the glass panels. It was a girl’s head, covered with short fair curls.

  There she is! he thought, recognizing her with an excitement that amused him. So she is local produce! Who’s that with her? No one I know. Rather a tick. Not tall enough for her. She looks a bit down. What a peach. I wonder who she’s staying with?

  Viola was, in fact, a bit down. She had arrived at the Ball on tip-toe, quivering with happiness and excitement and longing to dance. The long wall-mirrors told her that she was transformed into a tall, silver-headed belle in a floating dress of palest blue pleated chiffon, with a dark-red sash like a little girl’s. Everyone was staring at her; lots of people had waved and said, ‘Hullo, Vi! I didn’t recognize you. I like your hair!’ and gone on staring at her as they danced away.

  And Mrs Wither had approved her frock, after all, though she did say that it must be rather chilly, with no sleeves and no back and not much front, and even Mr Wither, revolving slowly in a corner with Mrs Wither on a square foot of floor, had said that it was pretty (he was so relieved that it was not red and very short and all over spangles, that he was prepared to like anything) and Tina had opened her big eyes exceedingly wide and said, ‘Hul-lo! and where did that come from? If that isn’t a Rose-Berthe, I don’t know anything about clothes,’ and Viola, hopping with glee, had said triumphantly that it was a Rose-Berthe, reduced in successive sales and sold at last to Shirley by a friend who kept a dress shop, and Shirley had sold it to Viola for – ‘Well, I haven’t any money left now, but never mind!’ and away Viola had skimmed, like a pale blue angel, and dived into the heart of the Ball … where there was no one romantic to dance with her.