The Bazaar and Other Stories (31 page)

don’t
start
that again. It really does upset me. You see, I
couldn’t
, possibly.

“No, I had

no
idea. I thought it was the Stock Exchange. It was all
very well for that beast to say in court that he didn’t see how a
business girl could be so stupid. But I’ve always worked for
publishers; I didn’t know about the Stock Exchange.
Did
I look a fool
in court? No one will tell me. I did think it was unfair to say that, I
did think it was unfair . . .

“Oh, thanks; it’s very nice of you to say so. I knew I had to keep
calm. And of course clothes

are
important. Miss Kisby lent me the
fur. I’m glad you thought it looked well . . . Oh, now you are being
personal! . . . No, I never have used much make-up; I suppose my
skin’s my best point. Do you know, I once saw Mr. Wallace looking
at the fur. He must have been surprised, because he thought he
knew all my clothes and wondered where I’d got it – Yes, that’s one
thing I
can
tell you about my future: I shall be buying a number of
new clothes. I’ve rather taken against all the clothes I’ve got now. I
suppose it’s natural, really . . .

“Yes, I know I could. But I

won’t make money that way
. Please don’t
re-open the subject. It’s really not in good taste –

 

“ – Oh the telephone! (I’m so jumpy!) Excuse me a minute, won’t
you . . . Hullo? Hullo, dear? . . . No I’m not, just now; someone’s
here . . . Yes . . . Yes it is as a matter of fact. But this really is the last.
I can’t bear any more . . . Yes, I know I said I wouldn’t but I forgot
and went to the door myself . . . No, not a word . . . No, of course
I wouldn’t . . . No, certainly not . . . My dear, don’t you
know
I
wouldn’t . . . Oh . . . Oh, aren’t you . . . Well, of course if your
mother says not. I know she thinks you’ve been doing too much
anyhow . . . No, I’m
not
hurt: don’t be so silly . . . No, I’ll be all
right
,
I tell you. I like being alone. Yes, I’ve got everything . . . Yes, I’ve got
aspirin . . . Yes, I could, but I don’t
want
to . . . Don’t be so nervy,
dear. Your mother’s right, you ought to go off to bed . . . Yes, do.
About nine. No, ten: I may sleep it out . . . Yes, I’m all
right
, dear
. . . I will . . . Nightie-night.

 

“That was Miss Kisby. She’s so unselfish, she worries. I’m afraid all
this has got her really upset. Her mother’s sent her to bed. It’s funny
the way people can’t understand that you
want
to be alone . . . Yes,
quite my best friend. Of course, working, as I have always been, one
doesn’t have much chance to make many
new
friends. Few but true
has always been my motto. I often think people who know a great
many people don’t discriminate much. Mr. Wallace used to tell me I
was unsociable. I don’t think I am really. And when I was knowing
him there wasn’t very much time.

 

“Of course, what came out in court about my character – I mean,
my character with regard to Mr. Wallace – well, you must know
what I mean – was a shock to a good many people, such as Mrs.
Kisby. You see, no one had any idea I was that sort of girl. I’d
always been so particular what I did. It must have been quite a
shock. I suppose it needn’t have come out really (I hadn’t realised it
would) if it hadn’t been for one thing Mr. Wallace said, and then the
Counsel’s taking it up like that. That is the sort of thing – I mean
about me and Mr. Wallace – that a good many people I know such
as Mrs. Kisby would take very hard. She
⁶
has stood by me very well
and encouraged Miss Kisby to, but I suppose it must naturally make
a difference to her now . . . Yes, I suppose people ought to have
a more modern outlook. But I can’t blame them really; I hadn’t a
modern outlook myself till just recently. Knowing Mr. Wallace made
me much more modern.

 

“However, if I take a
⁷
holiday now, as I am thinking of doing (yes,
I
can
tell you that; I am going to take a holiday), I daresay I may
make some new friends. That is said to be half the object of a
holiday, isn’t it. I should like a cruise, but I don’t think I can afford

 

– Yes, I
know
, but please
don’t
bring up that again. I’d rather stay
where I am than get the money like that. I’ve given you one
envelope.

 

“Yes, he
was
a great lover. But that’s my affair. If people want to
read love-letters they should get themselves lovers – Oh dear, what
am I saying? You see, this does upset me . . .

 

“No, I know you didn’t mean to. You’ve really been most con
siderate. I always did like the
Sunday News
. . . Oh, well . . . It’s funny
how one likes one paper more than another, isn’t it. I mean the news
is the same . . . I suppose it’s the feature articles. You know, I used to
wonder how people who got all over the papers felt. The times I’ve
spread the
Sunday News
on this floor. Mr. Wallace used to laugh; he
said I crawled on the news . . . Yes, he liked this flat quite a lot.
That’s his chair you’re sitting in, as a matter of fact. Yes, it really is
a nice flat: I’m glad to be back, naturally, apart from everything else.”
The Man and the Boy
T
he hotel terrace was a small restless place, where
people sitting stiffly at iron tables waited for other people who did
not come. Grey spear-top railings shut it off from the street, and the
bay-trees dotted about in tubs were white with July dust. The hotel
bus with three commercial travellers had just started downhill to the
morning Paris train; it was eleven o’clock; the freshness of morning
had spent itself. Tom sat at one table, Benjie sat at another: a bulldog
left chained by a French lady to the foot of a third table slavered
patiently, looking up whenever the swing door swung.

Benjie, a sullen, masculine-looking little boy with a falling fore
lock and unbuttoned grey shirt, leant on doubled elbows on the
table, gouging the gravel under his chair with one heel. Tom, a
sullen, masculine-looking young man, sat with his legs crossed,
frowning into his pocket book, pretending to do calculations. When
his eye lit on his stepson the frown deepened: Benjie’s naïve stupor
of uselessness showed them both up. There were twelve years in age
between them; they had the same dark good looks and were often
taken for brothers. Few people they met in hotels thought Tom and
Antonia were married: in her presence Tom had the glum nervy air
of a young lover not sure of his footing yet. He and Benjie now
made a picture of men waiting about. They were both active and
dumb and did not mark time gracefully: they were not women’s men.

The bulldog got up and walked heavily round the table yanking
its chain once more round the iron leg. The swing door let out
Theodore, in a panama hat,

Le Matin
¹
precisely folded under his arm

 

– a dapper, highly intelligent Frenchified Englishman of sixty or
so. Benjie and Tom both made a point of not seeing him. Since
Theodore joined the party ten days ago at Tours,
²
they had got very
good at this. Theodore, ignoring not being seen,
³
looked amiably
round the terrace, lighted a cigarette, strolled across and stood
midway between Tom’s and Benjie’s chairs.

“

Good
morning,” he said. “Antonia is awake; in fact she’s just
finished breakfast. She’d like a word with you both – about plans, I
fancy.”

Tom frowned at his calculations for just three seconds more.
Then he looked up and said, “There aren’t any, that I know. We’re
staying on till tomorrow.”

“This morning, she seems to think

“Well, we can’t,” said Tom. “I’m having things done to the car.”
⁴
perhaps not,” Theodore said
with his lucid kindliness. “The tummy’s better this morning and she’s
all for moving on. I must say, I don’t think much of this place
myself.”

Theodore raised his eyebrows. “That, my dear Tom,” he said, “will
be for you to explain . . . Morning, Benjie. Life not too good today?”
“Life how much?” said Benjie rudely.

said ‘Come, come, little chap, can’t you find something to

 

“At your age,” said Theodore, “I suffered unpleasant people who
do
?’ And
too well can I remember how totally it unnerved me – ”

“Do mad dogs?” said Benjie.

⁵
“Because that dog’s frothing. I
shouldn’t wonder if it got hydrophobia soon.”

 

“Dear me,” said Theodore. “Well, don’t let me keep you both. She
wanted to see you both. I think I shouldn’t – er – bump about much.
The nerves are still not too good.” He sat down and opened
Le Matin
comfortably, by this possessing the terrace so completely that Tom
and Benjie got up in sullen silence and filed through the swing door.

Antonia lay like lovely carved brown ivory against the blue-white
pillows; the jalousies of her room standing

⁶
ajar against the outside
glare. As they came in she turned with a vague voluptuous move
ment and held out her thin brown arms to Tom. Benjie walked
stolidly past the bed to the window: his manner said: “Rather you
than me.” Tom looked at the arms with a sort of animal irony, but
sat down within their reach on the edge of Antonia’s bed. She drew
his head down, knotting her hands at the nape of his neck. Mean
while, she studied his face with great dark eyes that had a heroic
wildness. She was a lovely young woman at thirty-three, the lines of
her face and body still excitingly pure.

“Still cross?” she said.

 

“No,” said Tom stubbornly.

 

“Well, you were. But I was a pig last night – Theodore says so.

But, you know, my tummy felt awful – full of tin rats.” She looked at
Tom’s eyelids and added: “Darling.”

 

“Better?” Tom said.

 

“Much. I thought we might move on – But, oh look, the post has

 

come and I’ve got all sorts of letters – Oh, Benjie: I’ve had a letter

 

from Godfather. He’s got a bicycle for you.”

 

“What’s the good of that here?”

 

“Don’t shout,” said Antonia, “come and talk to me properly. Oh,

 

he isn’t sending it out to here naturally. It will be there when we get

 

back. Now aren’t you glad? I thought you’d be so pleased.”
“If we ever do get back.”

 

“We must get your hair cut,” Antonia said, frowning thoughtfully

 

at her son. “Anybody would think you were an Italian, really.”
“Oh gosh, I don’t care.”

 

“Don’t say gosh, and read Godfather’s letter. Here – Darlings, I

 

think we might
⁷
move on today, don’t you? I don’t mind where; just

 

the next place.”

 

She had let Tom’s neck go so he now sat upright on the edge of

 

the bed with his arms folded. “We can’t move today,” he said. “I’m

 

having the car decarbonised.”

 

“Good heavens: what ever made you do that?”

 

“You know it had to be done.”

 

“But it was, before we started.”

 

“No, it wasn’t: I had everything fixed up, then you said you
⁸

 

couldn’t spare it and then there wasn’t another day.”

 

“So you simply went out this morning and fixed this up? It is my

 

car, after all.”

 

“You said last night you must stay in bed all today.”

 

“Yes, you did say that,” said Benjie. “Mother, I heard you.”
⁹
“Go out and stop them.”

 

“I can’t now; they started at eight o’clock.”

 

“They’re on it now,” said Benjie.

 

“Shut up, Benjie, you horrible little boy. And your shirt smells,

 

that’s the fourth day you have worn it.”

 

“God knows,” Tom said, “
I
don’t want to stop on here.”
“Why? What’s the matter with here?”

 

“Oh, it’s no worse than any other place.”

 

Benjie, back at the window, clicked the latch of the shutter. “All

 

places are holes,” he said.

 

“Tom, how can you bear to hear Benjie speaking to me like that!

 

– Benjie, go straight off and put on a clean shirt and don’t come near

 

me again till you don’t smell. You know I’m one mass of nerves. It

 

simply horrifies Theodore – ”

 

Benjie pressed one eye to the shutter. “It may interest you to

 

know,” he said, “that Theodore’s sitting on the terrace with a mad

 

dog.”

 

“Shut up,” said Tom. “Shut up and for God’s sake get out.” When

 

Benjie had gone he said: “How much further is Theodore coming

 

with us?”

 

“Oh, miles, I hope: he knows so much about churches.”
“I give him three days,” said Tom. “After that I go back to England

 

and Theodore can damn well look after the car.”

 

“No, you won’t do that,” she said kindly. “My lovely stupid, you

 

won’t.”

This town sat on a rock rising out of one of those plains of immense
France. A river doubles glinting past the foot of the rock: over the
river there is a steep drop. One flank shelves, with grey jumbled
roofs, yards, an embanked road for motors zigzagging down
between. Down where the road flattens there is a dusty faubourg,

¹⁰
across the river, linked to town by a bridge. A boulevard dark with
trees runs round the top of the rock, broadening out at the river side
into municipal gardens. A cathedral church of flamboyant gothic
gives the town interest: it is without charm – that quickness and air
of secret pleasure many little French towns have it quite lacks. It has
a limestone greyness and with the end of summer grows sluggish
and sinister: glare beats on its restless slate-grey trees; wind creeps
under the heavily dropping sky; straws blow about the cafés; dust
hardens one’s lips. Michelin gives three gables to the hotel – so here,
yesterday, Theodore, amateur of late gothic, directed Antonia’s party
across the plain from the more smiling, peach-coloured town of
Albi.