Friendly Young Ladies (11 page)

The little wooden door of her room gave out on to a matting-covered balcony, part of the original roof on to which the upper rooms had been built; ladders led from it, up and down. She climbed to the flat top, and stood there in the wind; her hair and clothes blew the same way as the willow-leaves and the waves on the water; she felt like a flag on a mast, floating in blue air above the world.

Someone was moving on the boat; she heard quick, light feet, falling softly, and a creak and click which seemed to belong, not here, but at home. She remembered why; it was like the noise of the pump which, almost every day of her life till now, she had heard drawing up the sparse Cornish well-water to its high cistern. A familiar clear alto began singing quietly to the rhythm.

Says I to the pretty girl, How do you do?

To me way-oh, blow the man down.

Says she, None the better for seeing of you-oh. …

Elsie ran down the ladders to the after deck. The pump was real, and just like the one at home. Leo was swinging the upright wooden handle, her faded blue silk pyjamas blown close to her body by the morning breeze. Her bare feet were as brown as her hands. She looked slight, taut and effortlessly happy.

Elsie felt suddenly too neat, too tightly buttoned-up in too many clothes of not quite the right kind. At home, Leo had been the odd one; Elsie’s things, a kind of preparatory version of her mother’s and those of her mother’s friends, had always been in the picture. She hesitated, shyly, on the ladder.

“Hullo.” Leo stopped singing to smile at her. “You’ve made a pretty quick comeback. I was going to bring you your breakfast in bed.”

“No, really. I don’t feel tired at all. May I do some pumping?”

“If you like. Then I can get the breakfast. I want a swim first, though. I’ll wait if you’d like to come in too.”

Elsie eyed the coldly gleaming river. “Will it be out of my depth?”

“All but a couple of feet by the bank. You can swim, though. Damn it, I taught you.”

Elsie had, till this moment, forgotten it. She had never gone beyond knee-depth, after Leo went. No one else had succeeded (or, for that matter, tried to succeed) in coaxing her out among the Atlantic rollers. It had been Leo who had taught her to dodge their fall, and to launch a surf-board on the white, tumbling rush when they had broken. She had been too small, then, for all but the little ones. Afterwards there had been no one to go with, and the terror of finding one above her, piling itself up by stealth and hanging at its height, had overcome her when she was alone. For a moment she thought of mentioning her bronchitis; but Leo had had a way of looking at one when one made excuses, and, thought Elsie, probably had it still. “I’d rather pump,” she said. Leo received this untrimmed fact quite cheerfully; she always had.

“All right. Thanks. About fifty turns it wants now.” She stepped out of her pyjamas on the open deck, with an indifference which shocked Elsie though no one was about, pulled on an old swim-suit which had been lying there, and dived, capless, over the side. Elsie swung the pump-handle, watching her dark, wet head and the neat knife-cut of her overarm stroke. She was back just as the pumping was finished, hoisted herself on to the flat floating deck, and went in. Through the open door, Elsie could see her in the galley, naked, putting on a saucepan with one hand and drying herself with the other. Her body was straight, firm and confident; it moved as though clothes were an accident about which it had no particular feeling, for or against. Her skin was creamy-brown all over, except for a belt of white round the loins, across one side of which ran a deep, puckered scar. It looked old, but Elsie felt sure she hadn’t had it when she went away. She did not like to ask Leo how she had got it.

“How are you getting on?” Leo came out into the cabin, rubbing her hair. “You must have done enough by now.”

“I’ve just finished.” Elsie came in too, and looked out of the window. She was embarrassed, not for Leo but for herself. There was a kind of arrogance in that slender, fluent shape with its small, high breasts, straight shoulders and narrow hips which made her feel as if it were she who had been stripped, and found to be pale and flabby and self-conscious in the light. Lest Leo should notice, she said, brightly, “I suppose all that water has to be boiled?”

“Boiled
?” Leo stared, and burst out laughing. “Lord almighty, you didn’t think we were pumping up the Thames to drink? That’s the bilge. It seeps in a bit every day; you have to keep shifting it, to prevent the whole joint from sinking. We’re on Company’s mains. If you look on the land side, you can see the pipes running through the water, along with the electric cables. All the houseboats have it. Not Joe, of course; he has to ferry his drinking-water in every day, and use the river for everything else. Nobody lived there before he did. But he doesn’t notice that sort of thing.”

“Who’s Joe?” asked Elsie, rather nervously. She felt she had heard the name before, but without its registering. Leo looked at her in vague surprise, as if she had pointed to some object in common use, a chair or a jug, and asked what it was.

“Joe? He lives on the island. He’s just the chap next door, as you might say. You’ll be seeing him, he’s always around.” She unhooked a striped towelling bath-robe from behind the galley door, hitched it round her, and began setting the table. “You can watch the coffee, if you like.”

“Who lives on the other two houseboats?” Elsie asked. “The ones on either side?”

“The one down-river belongs to a couple called Jennings. They’re only here at week ends. They bought it because it was the only place where Pop Jennings’ mother couldn’t stay with them; she’s rheumatic. They do their best to pretend they’re living in comfort at Golders Green, and play bridge every evening to pass the time. You don’t play bridge, do you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Stick to that if you meet them, you won’t regret it. Otherwise they’re rather sweet. Then the
Anitra
on the other side, the big place with the yellow awnings, that belongs to a technician from Elstree. He isn’t here much, but when he is you’ll know it. He’s quite intelligent when you get him alone, but to keep up with his crowd you need twelve evening frocks and a head like old teak, so we just grin at each other in passing. I’m afraid you won’t find much more social life here than you did at home. The bacon’s ready; come on and eat.”

“Where’s Helen?” asked Elsie, missing the third place.

“Left for town an hour ago. The man she works for today starts his list at eight-thirty. Probably she’ll be hanging about till after eleven, but she has to be there. She’ll be back for tea, I expect.”

“I like Helen,” said Elsie, “very much.”

“Everyone does.” Leo spoke like one who states a commonplace fact.

“She’s rather a
deep
character, isn’t she? I mean, she makes you feel there must be more in her than meets the eye.”

“Do have some mustard.”

Elsie did not pursue the subject. Conversation with Leo, she remembered, had always been liable to dead ends. In the old days one had come to them with a jolt; but now it no longer seemed to matter, one merely continued with something else. When the meal was over, and cleared away, Leo said, “Come up to my room and talk to me while I dress. You haven’t seen it yet.”

There was a second ladder, in the bow end of the boat. It led straight into Leo’s room, a big light one with windows on three sides. Through the ones at the end showed the back of the carved figure-head, a stout nymph whose bosom must have been bared for many years to the breeze, for it was cracked here and there, and weather had blunted her nose; though patches of gilt still clung to her serpentine tresses. The room itself was more like a living-room than a bedroom, and, in places, even more like the garden shed at home where Leo had kept her things. It had become tidier in the interval (Helen would see to that, Elsie thought), the big divan bed had a blue silk cover, the wall-cupboards housed clothes that looked decently kept, and there were many new books; but there was still a corner full of fishing tackle, another corner contained two old canoe paddles and one new one, and a shelf of the book-case was given over to tools.

Elsie wandered round, while Leo brushed her hair and rummaged for clothes. Only two pictures, and in such a big room. Elsie liked them three or four to a wall. One was a photograph of Helen, with all the light coming from one corner and the rest dark; the other a pen-and-ink drawing of a cowboy “fanning” a bucking horse with his Stetson. She went to the book-case; not very hopefully, for Leo’s books had always been disappointing. Time, she found, had brought no improvement. Fishing, sailing, climbing; a beginner’s textbook on flying; a huge volume called
Gray’s Anatomy
—that would be Helen’s, she supposed—Shakespeare, Hakluyt’s
Voyages
, a good deal of poetry and some flat, yellow, paper-covered books in French. Perhaps the novels were somewhere else. Over the big roll-top desk there was a shelf that looked more promising; the nine or ten books in it had the red shiny covers with which Elsie felt more at home. She explored them, but with diminishing zest.
Silver Guns
, by Tex O’Hara. The
Mexican Spur
, by Tex O’Hara.
Quick on the Draw, Yippee-ih
!
Lone Star Trail
, by Tex O’Hara. One might have known; Leo had never possessed what Elsie, following Mrs. Lane, called nice books. She took down
Lone Star Trail,
whose title had some faint suggestion of romance, and sat down with it on the hard chair at the desk,

“I don’t suppose,” said Leo without looking round, “horse-operas are much in your line, are they?”

“This one looks very nice.” Elsie spoke politely; Leo must think highly of Tex O’Hara to have collected what might well be his complete works; perhaps one ought to have heard of him. She dipped into the middle, as her custom was, looking for a love-scene, but encountered, as she had feared, only strife and masculine pronouns.

Leo was dressed, in fawn corduroys and a cream wool sweater. Elsie put down the book without reluctance.

“Do let me help you make the bed.”

“Don’t bother, it doesn’t take a minute.”

“What a pretty nightgown. Do you wear them for a change sometimes?”

“Good Lord, no, that’s Helen’s.” Leo folded it, neatly for her, and put it under the pillow. “She’s gone and left all the lids off her powder and stuff again. They won’t have any smell. Must have been late getting up—I was too sleepy to notice.” There was a little walnut chest of drawers near the bed, with an eighteenth-century swing glass on top; when Elsie, eager to be helpful, began putting the jars and boxes to rights, the faint scent that came from them seemed to make Helen present in the room. So, Elsie thought, she had turned out with a vengeance, taking all her things, and camped with Leo. It was very good indeed of both of them to put up with it so cheerfully. She would have liked to say so, but felt, for some reason, too shy.

“Well,” said Leo,” in a minute we’ll go out in the canoe and get some food.” She pulled a lipstick out of her pocket, lined in her mouth with a few brisk strokes, lit a cigarette, and sat down with it, cross-kneed on a corner of the bed.

“Look here,” she said. “About this running away. If you don’t feel like talking about it, don’t. These things are bad enough when they happen, without digging them up afterwards. On the other hand, if it makes you feel better, go ahead. It does, sometimes; it depends what it was, I suppose.”

Elsie looked at her shoes. She would have been happy, indeed, to talk about Peter: but not now. Everything prevented her; the room, the books, the memory of Leo, brown and stripped and confident, standing in the morning sun and drying her hair.

“Nothing happened really. Except the usual things. It just came to me that I had to get away.”

“You mean,” said Leo, “that you don’t want to go into the final row. Well, I don’t blame you. I didn’t myself, for a year or two afterwards. It seems odd, though, to think of you bursting out. Didn’t Mother mind a good bit when you said you were going? You and she always seemed to belong, somehow.” Her face had a look which, for the second it lasted, took Elsie a long way back. “I suppose it was Mother who told you where to find me. You know, don’t you, whatever she said at the time, sooner or later she’ll be here to bring you home?”

“She won’t,” said Elsie. “Nobody will.” She stared, again, at the floor between her feet. Suddenly Leo seemed too sharply outlined, too direct and clear, to be looked at without flinching. “There wasn’t any row. No special one, I mean. Mother doesn’t know I know where you are, or anything about you. I—I looked in her drawer when she was out, and found the address.”

“Oh,” said Leo slowly. “I see.” She pulled at her cigarette. Elsie moved her shoe a little, watching a crack across the toe. “I think, if you don’t mind, you’d better just tell me this. Are you going to have a baby?”

“Why
, no
!” Elsie was so shocked that she looked up. Leo was gazing at her, thoughtfully, with her light-brown eyes; her brows were contracted a little, as if she were trying to understand something difficult. “Of course not, Leo. I mean, I’ve never. …” She knew no way of saying it, and stopped.

“All right,” said Leo. “Sorry. I only asked because I couldn’t think of any other reason to do it. … Mother was so fond of you. You and she did everything together. You dress like her, even now.”

“It wasn’t anything—anything sordid. I just wanted to live a life of my own.”

Leo looked at her cigarette smoke. A faint smile, half bitter and half amused, moved the corners of her long mouth.

“You mean,” she said, “you got sick of it. Don’t you think perhaps you’d better just scribble a note to Mother to let her know you haven’t been knocked on the head and put in a brothel? She probably thinks you have. Helen can post it for you, in town.”

She had spoken quite coolly; but the sense of injury and injustice prickled under Elsie’s skin. She did not, as she would have done at home, put it into words; but Leo answered it.

“I never pretended. I never wanted them to pretend. If they ever faced a single plain fact in their lives, they must always have known that I’d go away. Even before I told them so. … I’m sorry. I’ve no right to talk like this. I got out eight years ago. The fact is, I suppose, I always excused myself by thinking they had you.”