A Tale of Two Families (8 page)

‘Oh, she still does those. Nice things on toast.’

Baggy and Prue enumerated these until they couldn’t think of any more. Dickon racked his brains for some topic that would really interest his grandfather, then realised he wouldn’t find one. The trouble was that the old man had drawn into himself. Why, exactly? He was obviously more comfortable than he had ever been with the Poor Clares. (And the Poor Clares, Dickon was glad to think, were more comfortable than they had ever been before. He often felt disturbed because his own family was richer than Prue’s.) Oh, no doubt all that was wrong with Baggy was just increasing old age.

The light was fading. Prue said, ‘Shall I put the lights on and draw the curtains for you, Baggy?’

‘Yes, I suppose it’s time.’ He always hung on to the daylight as long as he could. ‘But you’d better let me draw the curtains. You have to pull strings.’

He went to a window, then said, ‘Hello, here’s a taxi. Some girl appears to be arriving.’

Dickon, joining him, said, ‘That’s no girl. That’s my grandmother.’

‘Fran does have a girlish figure,’ said Prue, then raced after Dickon who was already on his way to the front door.

Baggy followed, more sedately. By the time he reached the door they were getting Fran’s cases out of the taxi and she was paying the driver. Baggy stood watching, wondering if it was right for any woman of Fran Graham’s age to look so young – or, anyway, to dress so youthfully. Looked quite nice, though. Fran was always so well turned out. His wife had admired her – but been a bit dubious about her. What was the word Mabel had used? Was it ‘fast’? You never heard that word now. Anyway, Mabel had accused herself of uncharitableness; after all, they didn’t know anything and Fran had always been so pleasant to
them. Still, he’d never felt quite at ease with her. He said to himself now, ‘She comes from a different world.’ Then he stepped forward to greet her.

Fran said, ‘Baggy, darling! How lovely to see you.’ She embraced him warmly which embarrassed him, but he was pleased when she added, ‘You’ve got to help me – they’re trying to put my rent up. I’ve brought my lease to show you.’

Once she was in the hall the rest of the family were soon milling round Fran. She was escorted to the Long Room and discouraged from pouncing on the sleeping Penny. June said, ‘If she wakes she’ll be the end of all conversation. And she needs her sleep if she’s to grow. You can play with her tomorrow, Mother.’ May unearthed the fact that Fran had had no dinner. ‘But anything will do. A sandwich or just a piece of cake.’ May decreed soup and cold chicken.

‘And champagne, of course,’ said George, making for the refrigerator.

Fran did not protest. She knew it would be useless; also she liked champagne.

May, on her way to the kitchen, called to June. ‘Show Mother the lilac grove before it’s quite dark.’

‘I’ll see that tomorrow,’ said Fran firmly. ‘Now I want to consult Prue and Dickon about something, before we plunge into George’s champagne. Can they show me my room?’

Her grandchildren, carrying her cases, escorted her upstairs.

‘Mother put you at the back of the house,’ said Dickon, ‘so that you could see the lilac grove.’

Really, that lilac grove! Her daughters had mentioned it in every letter since the move to the country. But she said enthusiastically, ‘Oh, lovely! Well, this
is
a charming room. What a pretty chintz! And a chaise-longue. I love a chaise-longue in a bedroom.’

‘Mother got it at a country house sale,’ said Dickon. ‘Did you really want to consult us or were you just making grandmotherly noises?’

‘I
never
make grandmotherly noises. I want to ask you about my skirt length. On your honour, both of you. Is it too short?’

Prue said at once, ‘Not a bit. You look a dream. That lovely tweed!’

‘Now don’t be perfunctory, darling. This is a case where it isn’t kind to be kind, if you know what I mean. I did think this skirt was all right but your Aunt Mildred has rather shattered me. She says it’s not decent at my age.’

‘She would,’ said Prue. ‘Seeing that she wears full skirts down to her ankles.’

‘Well, she’s the picturesque type, isn’t she? But I must admit she had me worried. Dickon? And I’ll respect you for life if you tell me she’s right.’

‘Swish about a bit.’

‘It’s too tight to swish but I’ll waggle my hips.’

‘They’re too slim to waggle,’ said Prue enviously.

Dickon, after a full minute’s consideration, said, ‘It’s all right, Fran, truly – because you have such superb legs. They must be among the great legs of this century.’

‘But what about my knees? It’s knees that give one’s age away.’

‘Well, you’re only showing glimpses of them. Hold your skirt up a bit. Ah, now I see what you mean. Look, Prue, they’ve gone the smallest bit knobbly.’

‘I’d swap mine for them any day. I’m terribly ashamed of my fat legs.’

‘But it’s a lovely soft youthful fatness,’ said Fran, ‘and you’ll slim down at any minute. I do know my knees are better than most mature knees but still…’

Dickon interrupted her. ‘You’re absolutely all right – but not one eighth of an inch higher, Fran darling. I’ve a theory that women get kind of drunk about skirt lengths and go higher and higher.’

‘Well, I’ll promise not to. Thank you, Dickon. I shall regard your opinions as the last word on the subject.’

‘Shall I unpack for you?’ said Prue.

‘No, we mustn’t keep your uncle’s champagne waiting. Oh, I’ve some presents for you. Remind me, before we go to bed.’ When would that be? She’d had something of a day and the turned-down bed was inviting. ‘How pretty that spotted muslin canopy is – not that it’s really spotted muslin nowadays – all nylon or something. You wouldn’t believe the materials that have vanished since my childhood.’

‘There’s Father calling,’ said Dickon.

Fran enjoyed her supper and hearing about the delights of living at the Dower House and cottage, but she declined being shown anything. ‘Not until tomorrow. I shall be fresher then.’

‘You’re as fresh as a daisy now,’ said George, plying her with more champagne.

‘How about just a whiff of the lilac grove?’ said May. ‘It’s rather fun by torchlight.’

‘
Tomorrow
.’ Blast that lilac grove. Of course she’d once had a thing about lilac but that now seemed to her light years ago.

‘Tell us what you thought of America,’ said Robert. He liked and admired his mother-in-law and felt sure a comment she had to make would be interesting.

‘Oh, Robert, I’m so sick of all the travelling I’ve done that I don’t even want to talk about it. But it’ll ooze out by degrees. How’s the novel? June’s letters made it sound most exciting.’

‘Still germinating,’ said Robert, suddenly wondering if he could put Fran in it. She still seemed so astonishingly young.
(Girlish? No, too sophisticated for that. Mildred was the elderly girl type – and highly embarrassing.) Could he have an old, old character whose youth was miraculously preserved, as if in amber? Not that Fran, in her early seventies, was all that old, but certainly older than she looked. Then she closed her eyes for a second and, without their liveliness, age had a temporary victory. He whispered to June, ‘I wonder if your mother’s tired.’

‘Oh, she’s never tired.’

And indeed, she was now chattering as gaily as ever, asking George if he enjoyed being a commuter. But when she learned how early he had to get up she at once said, ‘And here I’m keeping you up! To bed with all of us.’

Robert was pleased with his perspicacity. She was tired all right. He countered George’s ‘Nonsense, the night’s still young’ with ‘Well,
I’m
going to London tomorrow and if I don’t get a full night’s sleep I’m hopeless. Home, June and Prudence!’

Fran surreptitiously glanced at her watch. It was barely eleven; with any luck she’d get a full eight hours. She hurried her goodnights but remembered to make a date with Baggy, to discuss her lease – ‘If there is anything to be done I must do it soon.’

Baggy agreed eagerly. Really, a very pleasant little woman and still quite pretty. You couldn’t make out if her hair was fair or silvery. No doubt she did something to it.

For all her hurrying, it was well after midnight before Fran had unpacked and unearthed Dickon’s present and one for him to give to Prue in the morning – ‘And don’t wake me up when you leave with your father. I’m a hag if I don’t have my sleep out.’

‘Goodnight, dearest hag,’ said Dickon, embracing her. He considered her an ace of grandmothers.

She was in bed at last, under the nylon draped canopy. Really, that canopy! Positively bridal. Not that her own bridal bed had
been anything like this. Brass, she remembered; highly unromantic. But one hadn’t been a romantic bride. She put the bedside light out. God, she was tired. Mildred was enough to tire a rhinoceros. How soon must one break to May that Mildred simply had to be invited – and for a solid stay, while her ghastly boarding house was redecorated. Well, no need to think of that now. No need to think of anything else tonight. Nothing, absolutely nothing more could be demanded of one tonight.

But it could. She had left the window too wide open and that breeze, so delightful on her face now, could give her neuralgia by the morning or even a stiff neck. Get up, woman!

She closed the window all but a crack and made her way back to bed, bumping into the frilled dressing-table stool. May had gone to town over this bedroom. Dear May, dear June, dear all of them. A pity Prue and Dickon were going back to school but there were Hugh and Corinna to look forward to. And Mildred needn’t come yet.

She composed herself to sleep… ‘And love it was the best of them, But sleep worth all the rest of them’… how often she remembered those lines just before falling asleep, and she hadn’t the faintest idea who wrote them or what they came from.

Fran, waking soon after six-thirty, realised that the stirring of the household had awakened her. She heard doors open and close, bath water running, Dickon’s voice – instantly hushed by his mother’s ‘Quiet, darling, we shall disturb Fran.’ Well, they
had
disturbed Fran and Fran must expect it every morning unless she could acquire the knack of sleeping through noises occasioned by George’s early morning start. Did he really need to get up at six-thirty? Yes, she supposed so, in order to bath, shave, breakfast, drive to the station, spend an hour on the train, and be in his office, say, by nine-thirty. Well, well, poor George – and poor May. But she’d never seen them looking happier.

She stretched, then relaxed. It looked like a sunny day – or was it just that the background of the curtains was yellow? Her eyes followed the delicate pattern of green leaves on them. Of course she wouldn’t be able to sleep again…

She slept until her small travelling alarm clock went off at 8.45. May had undertaken to bring breakfast at nine o’clock and Fran never liked even her daughters to see her before she had given her appearance some little help. She was back in bed in a decorative bedjacket before May arrived with the tray.

‘How pretty you look,’ said May. ‘I knew those bed draperies would suit you. I do hope we didn’t disturb you.’

‘Indeed you did and it was heaven being me and not you. I’ve put in nearly a couple of hours more sleep. They say you need less sleep as you grow older but I seem to need more. How can you bear to get up so early?’

‘Oh, we’re used to it now and we can sleep late at the weekends – though even then, we get up fairly early. This move to the country’s done all I hoped it would, Mother. George’s
goings-on were due to the fact that he was bored. Not that they ever amounted to anything, of course.’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Fran heartily. If May wanted to cover up, then cover up May should.

The heartiness had been a shade histrionic. May shot her mother a dubious look, then said, ‘Well, anyway, he hasn’t spent a night in London since we moved down here.’

Fran’s memory travelled backwards around half a century. Surely ‘goings-on’ weren’t necessarily a night-time occupation? But George might be too busy for afternoon dalliance.

May continued, ‘Of course the great thing is that I’ve stopped nagging and wanting him to stay in every night. I even shunt him off to Robert and June sometimes. He loves having them always available. Oh, everything’s worked out splendidly.’

Fran, wading into bacon and eggs with considerable pleasure, said, ‘You mustn’t give me a breakfast like this every morning. I shall put on pounds.’

‘Nonsense, darling, you never do – and neither do I, thank God. June ought to watch herself. Still, it suits her to look fairly opulent – if that’s the word I mean.’

‘It sounds right for her now. She’s certainly looking her best. I dare say it’s a relief not to have Baggy. Is he a cope?’

‘Not in the least,’ said May, with brisk pride. ‘I make sure he has everything he needs but I don’t fuss about him the way June did. And I’m sure he prefers my way because he co-operates so splendidly – makes full use of his room, comes punctually to meals and then clears out from under one’s feet. And he amuses himself, goes for his walk every morning at ten-thirty.’ A bell rang below. ‘That’ll be the asparagus – it was coming up in a taxi. Excuse me, Mother dear.’

Fran had a mental picture of a taxi-borne stick of asparagus imperiously ringing the doorbell. Well, she must get up, and
hurry her bath, if her talk with Baggy wasn’t to make him late for his walk. Old people didn’t like their regular habits interfered with – at which thought, she sighed. She never linked herself with ‘old people’ but her dislike of hurrying her bath was distinctly elderly. She also disliked sharing a bathroom – so much to-ing and fro-ing of her sponge bag.

But it was a nice, large, sunny bathroom – with a fireplace in it! Once, in her very earliest childhood, she had seen a fire alight in a bathroom, snow against the window pane… pleasant memory.

She found Baggy waiting for her in the hall. He said, rather tentatively, ‘Perhaps you’d come into my room? The bed
is
made.’

‘Oh, I’m longing to see that room. May’s letters have made it sound superb.’

‘Well, there’s a fine floor.’

Fran eyed the sea of parquet warily; so easy to slip on. ‘Yes, this really is magnificent.’

‘May wanted me to have rugs but I said not.’

‘Quite right.’ Rugs on parquet were more slippery than parquet – and nothing short of close-carpeting would help this room much. And one would need to cram the shelves with books. Nothing was more furnishing than books and more unfurnishing than empty bookshelves. As for Baggy’s truly terrible furniture! But she was able to say truthfully, ‘What a wonderful roomy wardrobe.’

‘That’s an old friend.’

‘And there’s your bathroom.’

Baggy regretted the door had been left open. The least said about that bathroom the better.

By contrast with the sunny bathroom upstairs this one struck Fran as positively polar. She said involuntarily, ‘Needs a bit of cheering up, Baggy. Coloured towels would help.’

‘May offered me some but I thought they’d be too fancy for a man. It
is
a chilly bathroom.’ Then he felt guilty. Mustn’t criticise when so much had been done for him. Even to his grandchildren he hadn’t actually said anything against the bathroom. Still, he went on, ‘Those tiles have a cold smell. Sounds silly, but they have.’

Fran sniffed the tiles. ‘I think the trouble is that they just have an unsmell – the whole bathroom has. Bathrooms ought to smell of something nice, like bath salts.’

‘Yes, I liked it when June used those. But a man couldn’t.’

‘Of course he could, though bath oil would be better. I’ll get you some pine bath oil – good for rheumatism.’

‘Are you much troubled with that?’

‘Never,’ said Fran firmly. ‘I’m a bit stiff sometimes but I take no notice of it. Take notice of stiffness and it calls itself rheumatism. Get your mind off it and it goes away.’

‘Mabel used to say that. She was a great believer in Coué.’

‘Oh, Baggy, I haven’t thought of Coué for ages. What was it one had to say –“Every day, in every way…”’

‘“I’m getting better and better,” Mabel used to say it every morning.’

‘I shall try it tomorrow. How nice to be reminded of Coué.’

Baggy, pleased with himself, led her back to his room and settled her into his best armchair, then said, ‘Well, let’s have a look at that lease.’

He put his spectacles on and became very professional. She noticed that, though usually slow in his movements and reactions, he assimilated the lease in what seemed to her no time at all. Then he pronounced, ‘They’re within their rights. No doubt at all. Of course you might try bluffing a bit. Are all the flats full?’

‘No, they’re not. You see, they’re old-fashioned, but mine happens to suit me. Got good cupboards. Most of the new flats are just empty boxes.’

‘You could try a
doubtful
letter – say you’ll have to look around. You’ve got a month before you need to decide. I’ll draft something for you.’

‘Oh, would you, Baggy? I really am paying enough for such a tiny place – you could put two of it in this room. Not that I mind the smallness. Less to look after.’

‘And you travel a lot.’ Baggy’s tone implied respect for enterprise, though he wasn’t sure he approved of elderly gadding.

‘I’m through with it now. I want to put my feet up and take down my back hair, as my mother used to say. Funny how expressions linger on. I haven’t had any back hair since I was a child.’

‘Mabel had some. She used to use that expression. Well, we’re none of us getting any younger.’

Fran was suddenly annoyed with herself. She had, through her desire to be pleasant to Baggy, been joining him in his obvious acceptance of old age. She said, with much energy, ‘You’re not to say that. Back to Coué.’

Baggy chuckled. ‘Every day, in every way, I’m getting younger and younger?’

‘That’s going a bit far. But one can say that one doesn’t feel older than one did yesterday. Perhaps it’s best not to think about it at all.’

May came in with morning coffee for Baggy. ‘You’re to have yours with June, Mother, and you should go now or it’ll spoil your appetite for lunch. I’ll start you on your way.’

Fran found herself whisked to the Long Room and out through the French window. Ah, there was the lilac grove. She’d better go to town about it. ‘But it’s enormous, May. I never saw so much lilac.’

‘And there’s going to be every shade of mauve – it’s not fully out yet. You could get to the cottage through it but you might get lost – I haven’t time to take you. I’ll show you how to skirt it.’

She led Fran into the park. ‘There! You can see the cottage. That’s the Hall, over there. Now I must get lunch started.’

Fran thought the Hall impressive but gloomy. Strolling along the edge of the lilac grove she turned her attention to it. Well, she could admire it even if she couldn’t feel emotional about it. Actually, this wasn’t the kind of lilac she’d ever been emotional about. Her kind had been white, not mauve, and had had long stems with all the leaves stripped off. Flower-shop lilac. But this lilac probably smelt the same. She pulled a spray towards her. It didn’t smell as she’d expected it to – indeed, it mainly smelt like Baggy’s tiles, cold. Well, it wasn’t fully out yet.

Ah, here was the cottage. Some small, stiff tulips were growing against the black weather-boarding. Fran laughed delightedly as June came out to meet her. ‘Darling, it’s enchanting – like a Toulouse Lautrec can-can dancer, throwing up black skirts to show her frilly white drawers. Now I see why you had to have this exquisite black-and-white dog.’ She stooped to pat Penny who had followed June from the cottage.

‘Oh, she wasn’t chosen deliberately. And I rather wish she was less exquisite – I mean, tougher; I’m so afraid something will happen to her. I also wish Corinna hadn’t chosen a bitch; they’re murder to lawns. Look at all the brown patches.’

‘They’ll recover – and come up much greener than the rest of the lawn. Dear Corinna! Are she and Hugh still wasting their heaven-sent opportunities at the flat?’

‘Mother darling! You don’t deserve idealistic grandchildren.’

‘Well, I’m in favour of the young getting experience before they settle down.’

‘Let’s go in.’ June was apt to feel shocked by her dearly loved mother’s permissiveness – no, not shocked exactly; embarrassed. And she was thankful that Fran, though she would hint at the permissiveness of her own youth, never volunteered details. Robert could never understand June’s feelings about this. He would have been fascinated to hear about Fran’s goings-on in the twenties.

Penny was now looking up hopefully. ‘The creature wants me to carry her,’ said Fran, picking her up. ‘How nice she feels! It’s such ages since I let myself have a dog.’

‘You hardly could, the way you dash about.’ June steered her mother into the cottage. ‘Of course you mustn’t expect it to be as grand as the Dower House.’

‘Your red stair carpet’s pretty grand.’

‘May gave us that. I love seeing it through the open front door. This is the sitting room.’

Fran took her time before pronouncing. ‘It’s a great success. How well all your small pieces have fitted in.’

‘Yes, the scale’s right but they’re pretty cheap – they were all we could afford when we first married.’

‘They don’t look cheap. And I like your handwoven curtains. This room would be
too
pretty if you’d used chintz.’

‘May gave us the curtains – she’s been wildly generous. George too; he won’t accept a penny of rent.’

‘That must make things easier.’

Actually, it didn’t, as they’d lived rent free in Baggy’s house too. But the cottage cost less to run, largely because May paid for so many things: repairs, cleaning… and they had so many meals at the Dower House. ‘Oh, everything’s easier here,’ said June happily. ‘Come and see the kitchen while I get the coffee. And put that dog down. She’s heavier than she looks.’

‘But she loves being carried. She’s gone all limp.’

Fran nursed Penny while drinking coffee and praising the kitchen, but relinquished her before going to see the upstairs rooms. Those red-carpeted stairs looked steep.

She found the bedrooms a little bare. Some of May’s frilliness wouldn’t have come amiss here. But June had never been a frilly girl and, very possibly, simplicity was best in these tiny rooms. Fran continued to praise everything.

‘Are you equal to the stairs to Robert’s study?’ said June. ‘I’m afraid they’re really only a glorified ladder.’

Not particularly glorified, thought Fran, tackling them on all fours, but she was enthusiastic about the loft. ‘I’m sure Robert does wonderful work here.’

‘Well, he will. At present he’s apt to work in the garden. He’s still only thinking – apart from his reviewing.’

Fran, eyeing the piles of books on the floor, said, ‘As he hasn’t room for those on his shelves, couldn’t he lend some to Baggy?’

‘He offered to, but Baggy said there was no point in having books around that he didn’t read.’

‘They’d make his room look less bare. So would pictures.’

‘He didn’t bother to bring any. I must say the ones in his house were pretty frightful. Marcus Stone and Maude Goodman and the like.’

‘Mabel’s taste, probably. Poor Mabel – and poor Baggy.’

June looked worried. ‘You don’t think he’s unhappy?’

Fran, remembering all the years June had coped with Baggy, said hastily, ‘As far as I know he’s blissful. Is that the creature whimpering? Isn’t she allowed upstairs?’

‘She won’t face them – unless she’s carried.’

‘Let’s take her for a walk. You can show me that lilac grove. May said I’d get lost in it.’

‘So you easily could.’

They went down and Fran again picked up Penny, with considerable pleasure. Really, one had been dog-starved.

There was still the dining room to see and admire. Fran said, ‘Again your early-married furniture has fitted in splendidly. I’m beginning to think of you as a couple of newlyweds.’