Westwood (53 page)

There was indeed. The avenues and the brown may trees and the palms in their prison were shared by many thousands of people, and Mr Challis became slightly irritated by their presence. In and out he had to dodge; round laughing groups who had stopped to admire the water irises, and old people who preferred to saunter, while children darted under his nose and people stuck their feet out comfortably as they sat reading the newspaper.

‘What time does your train go?’ demanded Hilda at last, drawing back a little. ‘You’re in an awful hurry, aren’t you?’

‘I am sorry,’ he said at once, slackening his pace, and repressing an impulse to wipe his forehead. ‘I want to get you away from all these people.’

‘Fat chance,’ she answered gaily, glancing about her; and indeed, although they had now left the main walks and were proceeding across a grassy expanse which sloped to a lake overhung by weeping willows, there were still far too many people about; people sitting on the grass; people sprawling under the trees; people obviously proposing and being proposed to; people proclaiming that they loved and were beloved by their silence; people sitting quite close to other people but obviously not seeing the other people or even knowing that they were there, and thereby demonstrating the marvellous truth that
The Kingdom of Heaven is within you
.

But Mr Challis did not wish to sit down in the middle of a lawn with Hilda and tell his love within twenty feet of another pair of lovers, and he hastened remorselessly on. Hilda had by now begun to cast glances at the tea-basket, but she said nothing, because after all it was his tea and to hint was not polite, for she combined a funny little set of conventional ‘that’s-Mum’s-good-girl’ manners with her native impertinence. All the same, she did begin to want her tea. However, so did he, she supposed, as otherwise what could account for his eagerness to find a suitable spot to sit down?

At last the bluebell glade came in sight, and certainly there were not quite so many people here. It was in a remote part of the gardens and was approached by a long broad avenue, mossy and shady and lined by magnificent trees, and too far away for little feet and tired old feet to make their way there. However, there were plenty of feet at Kew that day that were neither little nor old; large strong feet clad in good U.S. Army boots, and here were their owners, rubber-necking respectfully at the vast, gentle, ancient trees and chewing gum as they strolled along. Up and down they went, and they all glanced approvingly at Hilda’s snood and legs while Mr Challis doggedly urged her on, on, towards the bluebell glade.

‘Here –’ he said at last in a low tone, pausing amidst green shadows and sunny flickering rays. It was a space of rich grass, bent over by its own weight, with tiny twisted seed-sheaths, dried petals, the microscopic cast wing-cases of beetles, lying among the white roots. A few groups of people were in sight and the American soldiers still laughed in the broadwalk, but at least there was a
sense
of solitude.

‘Nice,’ pronounced Hilda, glancing round. ‘Why can’t they clear away all those dead bluebells?’

‘Their richness sinks back into the earth,’ he said. ‘Let us sit down,’ and he opened the tea-basket. Hilda saw this action with rising hope, but no; he only brought out a Shetland rug of fairy fineness, unfolded it, and spread it upon the ground.

‘Thanks,’ said Hilda, sitting down.

‘May I sit down too?’ he asked, still standing, looking yearningly down upon her sunny head.

‘Well, I should hope so, you aren’t going to have your tea standing up, I suppose?’

‘I shall be … close to you,’ he said a little unsteadily, seating himself.

‘Yes, there isn’t much room, is there? but it’s a lovely quality,’ and she respectfully fingered the rug. ‘Look, you leave a place just
there
,’ indicating some eight inches between them, ‘and we can put the tea on it,’ and she could not help a gleeful anticipatory glance towards the open basket.

There was a pause. Hilda, seeing her hint fall to the ground, gazed cheerfully about her and thought that it was nice to sit down for a bit, and Mr Challis, for all his experience, for all his fame and all his genius, gazed at her and swallowed convulsively, twice.

‘Pardon?’ she said, and turned her blue eyes upon him. ‘Did you say something?’

Her look struck his heart with loneliness and pain.

‘Hilda –’ he burst forth urgently, bending towards her. ‘I love you.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Hilda, going red. ‘Pardon?’ and in her confusion and surprise her pretty mouth opened and stayed open.

‘I love you,’ repeated Mr Challis recklessly, scrambling towards her across the eight inches. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to tell you like this, I meant to lead up to it gently, but I can’t – when you look at me like that – your eyes are so unutterably lovely –’

‘Well, don’t get so worked up,’ she said soothingly, putting out her hand and taking his – an action which was intended to serve the double purpose of calming him down and preserving the
status quo
of the eight inches. ‘It’s very nice of you. I’m fond of you, too – in a way, and you’ve been ever so kind to me, only Mum and Dad do think it’s funny the way you’ve never come to tea –’

‘
Fond
of me!’ he cried. ‘Is that all? I
love
you, good God, I
love
you!’

‘Yes, I heard you the first time, Marcus.’ Hilda was used to dealing with this sort of thing, and had usually found that a bright, firm manner, like that of a nurse, was successful in the more violent and unwelcome cases; while the welcome ones were so enraptured at having their kisses returned that they did not demand those fervent protestations of love which she (at least up until last Wednesday evening at a quarter to ten) had never felt the wish to make. But it now struck her that the hospital manner was not going to work upon poor old Marcus.

‘Don’t you realize what that means?’ He laid his hand upon her knee and she started away from him with a sharp ‘Don’t!’

‘I want you, body and soul,’ he said, withdrawing his hand and colouring sensitively as a boy, ‘I want to take you away with me, to wonderful unknown places and strange lands, to South America. We could be so happy together – I would give you everything you wanted –’

‘It’s ever so kind of you,’ interrupted Hilda firmly at this point, ‘but I’d rather not. It
is
kind of you really, I do mean it,’ she added, rather distressed by his stricken look, ‘but what’s the use of going on like that when I don’t – er – don’t feel like that about you? The fact is I – don’t feel like that about anybody.’ A pause. ‘Not about
anybody
,’ she repeated stoutly, as if reassuring herself.

‘Listen,’ he interrupted in a low persuasive tone, ‘it has come as a shock to you, I can see that – I’m sorry – I was mistaken – I thought you
must
know, a little, how I’ve felt about you for months. Just think it over. Don’t
dismiss the whole idea at once. Oh, Daphne,’ he pleaded pitifully, ‘don’t say “no.” For God’s sake, give me a chance!’

It was at this moment that an interruption occurred. Across the grass a small figure in grey came bounding, waving his arms, and followed more slowly by a smaller and stouter female form in a pink frock. And through the air, as they approached Mr Challis and Hilda with every sign of pleasure and excitement upon their broadly smiling faces, resounded their shrill cries:

‘Grandpa! Grandpa! It’s us! Grandpa! Grandpa!’

Mr Challis started to his feet and stood waiting for them to come up to him. He had turned pale, but after the one glance of amazement and fury which he had darted towards his grandchildren, he was immediately in control of himself and even managed to smile.

‘Well, this
is
a surprise!’ he said with stiff lips. ‘What are you doing here? And Emma, too?’ turning to the little girl who had now trotted into the group and stood silently gazing up at him.

‘Margaret and Earl brought us. Did you know we were coming?’ demanded Barnabas.

‘I had an idea you might be,’ returned Mr Challis, and dared to glance at Hilda, who was gazing from Barnabas to Emma and then at Margaret and Earl, who were coming over the grass towards them. Her face showed bewilderment, amusement, interest in the children, and then amazement as she recognized Margaret and scrambled to her feet. ‘Hullo, look who’s here!’ she called, waving. ‘Mutt, it’s me!’

‘Hullo, Hilda,’ returned Margaret, who had also gone pale, even paler than Mr Challis. She was not in such command of herself, but she managed to smile. ‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Challis – this is a surprise, isn’t it –’ she ended unsteadily, and then, turning to Earl, who was looking at Hilda with surprised admiration: ‘This is Earl Swinger, Hilda – Earl, meet Hilda Wilson, my best friend.’

Afterwards, she did not know why she had said that. Perhaps it was a desperate appeal to Hilda to stand by her, not to let her down, not to be angry with her, to comfort her in her bewilderment and pain. Whatever the reason, Hilda responded to the appeal. She could see that something was wrong. What, she simply could not imagine, but it was evident that Mutt knew Marcus, and knew him by another name too, the old deceiver. She felt her indignation growing as she smilingly acknowledged Earl’s ceremonious greeting and then turned to the children, while Margaret recited their ages and names. So these were his grandchildren, were they? And how was it that Mutt knew him, and she had never known that Mutt knew him, while poor old Mutt was obviously struck all of a heap at seeing them sitting together on the grass? Oh well, it was plain that Marcus had been lying like fun and pretending he wasn’t married when he was, and that was the sort of thing she, Hilda, was not going to stand for. The silly old fool, she thought, while asking Emma if she had seen the duck-ducks?

‘There’s the tea-basket,’ said Barnabas meaningly, in the midst of the pause following the introduction, while Earl glanced from the pale Mr Challis to the paler Margaret and wondered just what was going on here. Everybody laughed, glad enough of the opportunity to do so, though Mr Challis’s laugh was hollow.

‘I want my tea,’ said Barnabas, encouraged by this reception. ‘We all want our tea, don’t we, Emma?’ (‘Say yes,’ in a fierce whisper, and nudging her.) ‘We stood in a queue outside a place but when we got there it had all gone, so we didn’t get any.’

‘No teee!’ suddenly exclaimed Emma, smiling brilliantly and showing all her baby teeth.

‘No, poor Sister,’ said Earl. ‘We were just wondering what to do,’ he added, turning with pleasant respect to Mr Challis.

Alas, for that famous and gifted man. The tea was fated to be eaten under circumstances very different from those of which he had dreamed; it was his painful task to invite his grandchildren and that dull girl and duller young man to partake of the paté sandwiches, the fresh rolls and home-made quince jam, the chocolate biscuits and the ginger biscuits and the flask of scalding delicately flavoured tea.

But he set his teeth, and amid his disappointment and humiliation courteously invited the party to share the tea-basket, and they (the younger members, at least) accepted with offensive haste and were ready to begin at once. However, first they must be taken to make some necessary toilet arrangements, and accordingly Margaret and Hilda, taking a hand of each child, led them away in the direction of a small building half-concealed amidst the trees, promising to rejoin the gentlemen in ten minutes. (We will assume that the gentlemen, left to their own devices, smoked and exchanged comments upon the weather and the landscape, though Mr Challis’s only impulse was to bound away into the greenery like a stricken animal and never come out of it again.)

‘Mutt!’ burst forth Hilda the instant they were out of earshot. ‘What’s going on here, anyway? I didn’t know you knew Marcus!’

‘That isn’t Marcus; it’s Mr Challis.’

‘Your playwriter, who lives at that big house? Boloney! It’s my Mr Marcus; I’ve known him for ages.’

‘Well, he’s both of them, that’s all.’ Margaret had no desire to talk, or to hear any more; the shock was so great that she felt stunned.

‘
And
married,’ said Hilda, significantly. ‘He told me he wasn’t. (The old monkey!) Oh – p’raps he’s a widower?’

‘No, Mrs Challis is alive.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Lovely,’ answered Margaret, and her tone and look increased Hilda’s indignation.

‘Lovely, is she? Then what right has he to go on like that, when he’s got a “lovely” wife of his own?’

‘Like what?’ said Margaret faintly, shuddering.

‘Oh – carrying on,’ said Hilda vaguely, suddenly remembering that Mutt had a crush on this Mr Challis – Marcus – whatever he called himself. Poor old Mutt, she must be feeling awful; she took things so hard, and fancy having a crush on that phony old twister.

‘Did he make love to you?’ suddenly asked Margaret in a voice so full of anguish that Hilda instinctively bent down and urged Barnabas, who was holding her hand, to ‘go on with Emma, son, we’ll be there in a minute.’ Barnabas, who was not yet at the stage when he took an interest in grown-up conversations, obediently went ahead with his mind busy with thoughts of tea, and Hilda turned to Margaret.

‘Look here, Mutt, we must get this straight. I picked him up in the tube last autumn; he lent me a torch in that awful fog, and I’ve been going out with him ever since, off and on. And you say he’s Mr Challis the playwriter, who lives at that house where Finkelwink lives? What’s his other name?’