Westwood (11 page)

Grantey jerked the last button of Barnabas’s dressing-gown into its buttonhole with such vigour that he stopped crying.

‘There!’ said his mother’s voice and her head came round the bathroom door. ‘Just cheered up in time for me.’

She did not ask what had been the matter; indeed, no one knew.

‘Hullo, Mummy,’ said Barnabas in a faint and heartbroken voice.

Emma stopped crying too, and began to push her arms into the nightgown which Margaret, upon whose lap she was sitting, had been manoeuvring over her head. She stared at her mother, while her sobs gradually died away.

‘Hullo – still here?’ said Mrs Niland, looking across at Margaret. ‘Aren’t you nearly dead? Come down when they’re in bed and have some sherry.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Margaret eagerly.

‘Miss Steggles and me are going to catch the bus from Jack Straw’s,’ said Grantey, in a warning and important voice. ‘I’ve got to be back at seven, Miss Hebe.’

‘I know, but it won’t take her five minutes,’ said Hebe soothingly. ‘You come down,’ she murmured to Margaret, and retreated. Margaret heard her voice as she went along the passage. ‘Earl will bring their supper up, Grantey; he’s getting it now.’

The curtains, which Margaret noticed as she went between bathroom and night nursery, were of rich red or green or yellow velvet, and every lamp was shaded in amber, and the glowing, jewel-like impression of the cottage which she had received in the afternoon was strengthened, now that the darkness had come, by the emerald-green or carnation-red carpets which covered all the floors and the staircase. She was enjoying every moment (apart from those spent in listening
to the yells of Barnabas and his sister), but as she carried Emma into the nursery she was wondering nervously how she would get on downstairs while she was drinking the sherry; who would be there, and what she should say, and what they would think of her.

Emma was now calm, and felt warm and soft inside her miniature dressing-gown. Her feet were still bright pink from the bath and she wore slippers shaped like rabbits. Her sweet-smelling hair tickled Margaret’s nose.

‘There!’ said Margaret, setting her down in the cot and covering her up, having first removed the slippers. Emma looked up at her but said nothing.

‘Hullo, therr!’ said a soft voice at the door, with a slur on the ‘r,’ and Margaret looked up. A fair young man of medium height, wearing the uniform of an American private, stood looking into the room through his glasses.

‘Hullo,’ she said pleasantly. She was not afraid of him, because he looked so young and probably was not a genius.

‘I’ve brought their rations,’ he said, coming forward with a tray. ‘Hullo, Barnabas,’ to the little boy, who had scrambled into his bed, kicking off his slippers as he went. The soldier put the tray down on the table.

‘Hullo, Earl,’ said Barnabas, and tried to stand on his head, suddenly overcome with self-consciousness.

‘Barnabas, darling, I don’t think Grantey would like you to do that,’ said Margaret gently.

‘Don’t care.’

‘Now that won’t do,’ said the soldier, taking him by the slack of his pyjamas. His touch was not expert but Barnabas allowed himself to be put right way up and given his bowl, and began to eat his supper.

‘Mrs Grant’ll feed Sister,’ said Earl, going over to Emma’s cot and putting her bowl on the table. ‘You can’t quite be trusted yet, can you, Sister?’ and he stood gazing down at Emma with his hands on the rail of the cot, while she gazed steadily up at him.

He suddenly glanced across at Margaret.

‘Aren’t they swell?’ he said simply. ‘It’s a great privilege – coming into an English home like this, and I can tell you it means a whole heap to me.’ His grey eyes were youthful and clear behind his glasses.

Margaret was moved. The pretty room, the rosy children eating their supper in the peaceful hush, seemed suddenly to typify all that was still safe and happy in England, while the boy’s words seemed to go out and away, across the dark dangerous Atlantic, to the home that he had left behind him when he came to fight for freedom. So touching were her thoughts that she was both astonished and indignant when another American voice said mockingly:

‘The hell it does.’

A second soldier, tall and dark and flashy, stood at the door looking into the room. He took no notice of her. ‘Will you come on down, Earl,’ he said, and turned away.

Earl looked hurt, but made no comment. He turned to Margaret, ‘I’m Earl Swinger, late of Swordsville, Kansas, and now of the United States Army. I’m pleased to know you.’

He held out his hand and Margaret took it. He gave it a firm shake.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, too,’ she said, and feeling that more was demanded of her, she added, ‘I’m Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’ She felt foolish as she said it, but then she wondered why. This was a sensible social custom which established a stranger’s name and locality firmly in one’s mind.

‘
Mrs
Margaret Steggles?’

‘Oh, no –
Miss
Margaret Steggles,’ she laughed.

‘And your profession? (Shall I lead the way downstairs?)’ he went on, going ahead of her down the passage.

‘I’m a schoolteacher.’

‘Why, that’s vurry interesting,’ said Earl, turning to look at her. ‘I was a professor myself at Swordsville Carllage before I volunteered. May I ask where you were educated? Excuse me, this way.’ He preceded her down the stairs.

Margaret thought that he seemed very young to be a professor but had no time to say anything more, because he was leading the way into the sitting-room.

Hebe was on a couch with her feet up, and the room was dim in amber light and full of the scent of dying violets. The dark soldier and Alexander Niland were standing talking by a tray of drinks.

‘Hullo,’ said Hebe, smiling. ‘Lev, bring some sherry over.
She’s
got to fly off with Grantey.’

‘Light or dark?’ asked the soldier, turning to Margaret with a decanter in each hand. He had a big nose and dark bloodshot eyes and she disliked his expression.

‘Oh – er – light, please.’

‘This is Arnold Levinsky,’ said Earl, as the soldier came over to her with the drink. ‘Lev, meet Miss Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’

Margaret muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ which seemed to be the formula, and Lev made a vague flip of his unoccupied hand and looked down at her with a casual smile, but he did not speak and at once went back to Alexander Niland. Margaret sat on the edge of her chair, nervously sipping her sherry. No one took any notice of her and she tried to make the most of her last few minutes in Lamb Cottage, for very soon the enchanted afternoon would be over. She longed to say something that would startle and impress them all and make them want to see her again, but it was of no use; she could not think of even the most ordinary remark, not even a comment upon the baby’s jacket which Hebe was placidly knitting, and she sat there in silence, feeling a growing resentment against them which mingled uncomfortably with her fascinated interest.

She began to listen to what Alexander Niland and Lev were talking about, but was disappointed to find that it concerned the difficulty of obtaining matches. The painter was holding up a box to the light, which fell slantingly upon his slightly podgy cheeks, and saying:

‘Well, I got these from that little man in Holly Square. He let me have them because he knows us, but he told me he has two or three hundred boxes in every Thursday, and they’re gone in a couple of hours.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Lev.

‘I once knew a man who collected match-boxes,’ put in Hebe. ‘Alex, would your stew be burning?’

‘Oh, God, yes, excuse me,’ he said and hurried out of the room. No one said anything. Hebe continued to knit, and Earl, who was standing near the head of the couch, watched her flying fingers, while Lev had picked up the evening paper and was glancing over it. How rude they are, thought Margaret; the Wilsons have much nicer manners. Not that these people say anything worth listening to when they do talk. I wouldn’t have believed a genius, and anyone so fascinating as Mrs Niland, could have been so dull.

‘Is your home far from here, Miss Steggles?’ suddenly inquired Earl earnestly, crossing the room and sitting down at her side. She turned to him gratefully, thinking how kind and perceptive he was, and that he at least had
nice manners.

‘About three miles. I live on the other side of Highgate Hill,’ she answered.

‘Highgate Hill? Then I expect you know the beautiful home of Mrs Niland’s parents,’ said Earl. ‘Lev and I hope to have the pleasure of visiting therr soon.’

‘No, she doesn’t,’ put in Hebe, ‘but she does live quite near my mamma and papa.’ Margaret was surprised, but then reflected that Grantey must have been talking to Mrs Niland.

‘Oh, it’s a swell place,’ went on Earl, ‘the sort of house we think of at home as typically English.’

‘There are some typically English ones in the back streets round Euston depot, too – what’s left of them,’ put in Lev.

Hebe, who had been knitting with her amused eyes fixed on Earl’s solemn young face, now laughed outright, and Earl looked pained.

The door opened and Alexander came back, and behind him the face – most unwelcome to Margaret – of Grantey.

‘It’s all right. Tastes superb,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s nearly ready, and Mary’s in.’ (Mary was the maid, obtained with much difficulty and filling up of forms, from Eire.)

‘Thank heaven; I’m ravenous,’ said Hebe, putting away her work.

‘Miss Steggles, we ought to be going; we’ve just got nice time if we go at once,’ put in Grantey, beckoning. Margaret put down her glass and stood up. Earl stood up too, but Lev stayed where he was.

‘Good-bye, Mrs Niland. Thank you very much. I
have
enjoyed it so,’ said Margaret; instinct told her not to put out her hand.

‘I’m so glad. You’ve been an angel with the brats,’ smiled Hebe. ‘Good-bye.’

Earl was holding the door open for her. Lev and Alexander Niland glanced up from the conversation which they had resumed, and Lev nodded, while Alexander gave her his radiant smile. Earl held out his hand, which she took.

‘Good-bye, Miss Steggles,’ he said warmly. ‘I am glad to have had the pleasurr of meeting you and I certainly hope we shall meet again.’

‘Oh … thank you; so do I. Good-bye, Mr Swinger.’

She was relieved that she had been able to remember his name. In another moment she was alone with Grantey in the blackout, turning up her collar against the cold wind and noticing the searchlights wandering over the dark cloudy sky. It was ridiculous to have tears in her eyes over the casualness of those people, she knew, but the afternoon had meant so much to her, and nothing to them, and she had never said good-bye to the children!

Grantey was saying importantly: ‘Better let me hold your arm; I know my way down here better than you do, I expect. Now there’s no need to rush; we’ve plenty of time. That sitting-room clock’s ten minutes fast.’

This information rendered Margaret silent for some time.

‘Who
is
that?’ demanded Alexander of his wife, as soon as Margaret had gone. ‘She was in the nursery when I got home this afternoon.’

‘Her name is Stubbles or something. She brought back my ration book. She’s been nursing it for weeks.’

‘Oh yes, she did say something about it, but you know I never hear what anyone says,’ said Alexander. ‘She has a rather striking head.’

Hebe made a face.

‘Do you want to paint her? I should think she’d faint with joy. She never took her eyes off you.’

‘Not while I’m still doing raids. Do you think there’ll be one to-night?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ laughed Hebe, and she glanced at Lev, who was also laughing. Earl looked argumentative.

‘Would you say,’ he began, ‘that while you are making your mental colour-notes (if you will permit a layman to use the expression) in an air-raid, the danger and the loss of lives mean nothing to you?’

Alexander shook his head.

‘I’m so interested in what I’m looking at that I forget to be afraid, and I don’t think about the poor devils who’re being killed.’

‘That shows a vurry high degree of artistic detachment,’ said Earl. ‘I am afraid that I should never be capable of that.’

‘You never know,’ said Lev.

Alexander looked a little bewildered and offered Earl another drink, which was accepted, and in a few moments they went in to supper in the studio.

Alexander had recently become interested in the colours of winter, and had taken to spending hours on the roof of his studio wrapped in airman’s kit which belonged to a friend who would fly no more, and studying the light and size of the winter stars, and the varying shades of black and brown and blue that make up the winter night sky. On one of these occasions a raid had occurred, and the effect was so awesome and fine that he had been excited by it, and had afterwards made some sketches which he now thought of expanding into a picture. The noise was unpleasant and he did not like it when large pieces of shrapnel fell on the roof, but it was not possible to make satisfactory sketches of the night sky during an air-raid without such events. Hebe, who had never been afraid of anything in her life, found his new experiment as amusing as it was natural.