The Bazaar and Other Stories (37 page)

godfathers
are
quite simple.”

 

“I see,” said Tom.

 

“What really causes a headache are these appalling godmothers.
³
I suppose even you will agree she can’t have about fifteen?”

 

This was too much. “Look,” he said, “Angela, either you calm
down, or go to bed. Fifteen godmothers! – are you running a
temperature?”

 

“There
are
fifteen expectant ones – at least. Oh, what a mess! I
shall have to tell you my past . . .”

 

She did. From the point of view of a young wife it was blameless,
from that of
⁴
a young mother, extremely awkward. The whole story
came out – Angela, it appeared, had been accumulating godmothers
for her first child ever since she had been a child herself. All her life,
she’d been sweet as she had been thoughtless. At her first school, for
instance, she had sworn eternal friendship with another little girl
called Boofie – Boofie’s being godmother, to the first child Angela
ever would have, had, naturally, gone along with that. At her second
school, she had signed on Eileen, and then Carmel (she could not,
now, remember their other names). Her Paris “finishing” year had
been signalised by a riot of lifelong friendships, each one sealed by
the same promise – in fact, if Angela kept her word, a Bolivian, an
American from the Middle West, an exiled Romanian aristocrat and
a West Indian heiress were all, shortly, due to be standing beside the
font. During her time round London, she had acquired several more
heart-to-hearts, all of whom, she’d been given to understand, had
since then been steadily laying in gifts for their godchild. She’d
also worked at an art school, where she became intimate with a
sculptress – (such an artistic influence upon future offspring had
been, of course, too good to be missed) – and had put in evenings
helping at an East End girls’ club:
there
she’d procured a godmother
of a quite different type – a selfless, inspiring social worker. Finally,
three or four women had been particularly sweet to her when she
got engaged – advising and helping her (she had no mother). She
had shown affection and gratitude in the good old way . . . For all
she knew,
all
these expectant godmothers remained lined up, waiting
for Nona Julia.

 

“I must have been mad,” moaned Angela, at the end of her story.

 

Tom tried not to look thunderstruck, but failed. “Do you still
know where all of them are?” he said.

 

“More the point is, do all of them know where I am? Now I think
of it, I do wish I hadn’t let you put that announcement of Nona Julia
in
The Times
. Oh, how I hate breaking promises! I can’t bear Nona
Julia’s having a mother who does that.”

 

“One could stretch a point, I suppose – ” Tom again began.

 

“ – But not
past
a point,” Angela cut in sharply. “No, she can have
three godmothers; just exactly three. What she cannot possibly do
is to have so many that the rest of the party can’t get into the
church. What would the Vicar say? He might stop the christening.
And Nona Julia’d never forgive us, never: she’d feel we’d made her
ridiculous at the very start. Oh, how I blame myself! – Tom, we shall
have to think.”

 

Tom, who had been thinking, fully agreed. He stared, waiting for
inspiration, at the golden tip of Angela’s shoe, shining in the dance
of the firelight. She, made sleepy by the very idea of thinking,
languidly stretched her arms above her head: the chiffon sleeves of
the
négligée
fell away. They both heard the log fire flutter, the little
gold clock tick. The Claybees’ Queen Anne house was deep in the
country: tonight, a soft dark wintry pre-Christmas silence wrapped
it round. Along the chimneypiece a whole parade of Christmas cards
was on view already. These
should
have reminded Angela of the
portentous imminence of the Christmas christening: instead, she
thought, “Why, cards get prettier every year! What a scrap-screen
these will make, for Nona Julia’s nursery!”

 

To celebrate young Mrs. Claybee’s first evening down, the long
low white-panelled drawing-room had been filled with flowers:
chrysanthemums, violets and hot-house crimson roses glowed and
curled in the light of the many lamps, their scent drawn out
deliciously by the heat. She longed to have Nona Julia here to enjoy
it all. At the thought of her daughter, Angela became lost in pride
and bliss. So completely had she forgotten the godmother problem
(now, like all other troubles, safely shelved on to Tom) that she
looked blank when he, clapping his hands to his head, shouted
triumphantly: “I’ve got it!”

 

“Oh yes, darling?”

 

“You write all their names down on little pieces of paper, I’ll shake
them up in a hat, then you shut your eyes and draw three.”

 

“Oh, but . . .”

 

“I daresay it sounds mad,” said Tom. “But whatever are we to do,
in a mess like this? There’s no way but allowing Fate to decide.”

 

“What I mean is, you don’t think it seems irreverent? After all,
godmothers ought to be
good
women.”

 

“These must all have seemed to you good, at one or another
time,” said Tom firmly, brooking no more discussion. Having
fetched her a pencil and yet another writing-pad, he disappeared in
search of one of his hats. He came back to find Angela scribbling,
and tearing strips. She looked up and said: “Somehow this makes me
nervous. Heaven knows who or what we may not be letting in! Oh
Tom, only think what some godmothers do and are. Look at fairy
tales – how do we know those are
not
true? Godmothers bring gifts,
they spin spells, they put wishes on little girls. Darling, we’re risking
bringing out of the past three people I may have completely for
gotten. Who knows what they mayn’t have turned into? Life does
queer things to people. Who knows what we’re letting loose on to
Nona Julia?”

 

Tom set his jaw and said nothing, simply held out the hat. She,
with a shiver, dropped in the twists of paper; he shook; she shut her
eyes and drew. She unfolded the three she had drawn, silently read
them, and, still in silence, passed them across to Tom.

 

“Well, that’s that,” he said, having read. The three names con
veyed nothing at all to
him
. “Do you know if they’ve, meantime, got
married? Do you know their addresses?”

 

“The first and second, I can find.” She paused, then stonily said:
“Not the third – I’ve lost sight of
her
, absolutely and completely.”

 

“In that case, we drop her out. – Like to draw again?” He once
more held out the hat.

 

She recoiled from it. “No!” she protested. “This has been quite
enough. A girl
is
only supposed to have two godmothers.”

 

“Two let it be,” said Tom.

That year, it was a white Christmas. Angela carried her daughter to
the window, to look out at snow for the first time; but the baby only
blinked, puckered up her face and rolled her head inwards towards
her mother’s breast. Perhaps the glare from the lawn, from the fields,
from the whole expanse of blue-whiteness glistening in the
sunshine, was too much? So Angela was enchanted all alone. Across
the snow ran tiny prints of birds’ feet; the boughs of the cedar were
draped with frosted lace; cherry-trees gave the illusion of having
come out in flower. Bending down her face over Nona Julia, she
murmured: “Oh, treasure, my treasure, what a christening morning!
The world is dressed up in white for you!” The air outside the
window was crystal, silent: silence seemed to be spangled with
echoes of carols, promise of Christmas bells.

Yes, this was Christmas Eve, and the christening day. The
Claybees had sent chrysanthemums for the church font – on

that
,
they implored the Vicar, let there be no prickly holly! They had sent
a sack of coal for the church furnace, so that the old stone building
might be warm right through. “We shall have to wrap up, wrap up
well,” Nurse muttered, bustling about all morning, airing Nona Julia’s
trousseau of fleecy shawls. The christening was to be at three
o’clock; the godparents had been bidden to a family lunch; the rest
of the party (“everyone”) was expected in church. Celebrations
would open upon the return home.

Everything was ready. On trays in the butler’s pantry waited rows
upon rows of polished champagne-glasses. Beyond yet another baize
door, yards of fresh butter-muslin stretched over plates of dainties,
sweet or savoury, everything from marzipan to caviare. The majestic
Christmas-christening cake stood apart, with a veil to itself. Best of
all, at the alcove end of the drawing-room soared Nona Julia’s first
Christmas tree – festooned with pink and silver, crowned by the
gilded cradle, topped by a star, slung all over with glittery horse
shoes, cupids. Tier upon tier poised its candles, eager to be lit.

In good time for lunch that morning, the godfathers’ car swept up
to the Claybees’ door. Of those two large, steady and cheerful men,
Gervase and Andy, it need only be said that they were so perfectly
appropriate to their roles, so outstandingly the ideal godfathers, as
to need no description. They were all drinking sherry in front of the
drawing-room fire when a second car hummed round the bend of
the drive: in a moment more, Lady Panderwaite was announced. A
tall, voluptuous brunette in a leopard-skin coat swam into the room
and threw herself upon Angela, whom she kissed thrice on both
cheeks, murmuring many things. Angela, once disentangled from
the embrace, threw an anxious glance over this first of the god
mothers, and was, on the whole, reassured – Lady Panderwaite, if a
trifle flamboyant, should not do badly. Romanian-exile school-friend
of Angela’s Paris days, she had since then married a wealthy British
explorer. Today she sparkled all over with jewellery, vivacity and
emotion: indeed, her gazelle eyes, set off by make-up, were at the
moment swimming with tender tears. “After all these years,” she
cried, “all these years!” Angela glanced at Tom, Gervase and Andy,
wondering how this would go down with them. She was glad to see
that, after a minute of being overpowered, they adjusted to Lady
Panderwaite, and soon liked her well.

“I cannot say,” added the lady, peeling out of her leopard to reveal
a clinging creation of

crème-de-menthe
green, “how much Angela’s
remembering of our solemn pact has meant to me. I would have
come to this christening from the end of the world, if necessary – as
it was, I have had to fly only five hundred miles. Yes, a broken
promise would be a terrible thing; it would somehow destroy one’s
illusions and break one’s heart!”

Angela, recollecting how many, many names had been left to be
tipped out of Tom’s hat into the fire (and, still worse, how each
name had stood for an ancient promise) avoided meeting Tom’s eye:
she could only suffer and blush. She said hastily: “I wonder where
dear Miss Hingham can be? I do wish we

had
insisted on sending the
car to meet her. – We have three different stations,” she told Lady
Panderwaite, “and she refused to tell us which one she’d be coming
to, or by what train. She has almost a mania about making her own
arrangements, being independent, not giving trouble. So often,
exactly that sort of thing
does
give trouble – supposing she never
turns up? Oh Tom, where can she be?”

As though by magic, the question answered itself – as, into view
of the windows came a lean, sturdy figure, footing it over the snowy
lawn. Miss Hingham, having taken a bus from one of the stations
part of the way, and a somewhat over-ingenious shortcut the rest,
was soon shown in, and removed her rabbit-fur stole. She was a
social worker best friend, from the East End club. She beamed
around at the company with her shy, kind, good face. “Bless you,”
she said to Angela, “and this dear, happy day! I’m so touched,” she
added, refusing a glass of sherry, “by your having kept your promise.
And, dear child, not only touched but pleased. So long as we stand
by our promises there will, I know, be always good in the world.”

All four godparents being assembled, lunch was announced.

When they set out for the christening, a few more snowflakes came
floating down vaguely through violet air. The three cars, cautiously
driven, crept in file through the lanes between the house and the
church. Sealed up in the leading car, in warmth and a swirl of fur
rugs, travelled Nona Julia, Angela and Nurse: Tom, trusting no one
else with these precious passengers, drove. Snowflakes melted like
kisses against the windows; white-powdered hedgerows slipped by
softly. Now and then the baby, contented, stirred in her shawls, or
opened unfocussed eyes in which were reflected the gleams of the
afternoon. Nurse held her, Angela pressing up close. For Angela, all
this was like a deep, sweet dream – a dream cut short by the halt,
by the car door’s opening,

⁵
by the scurry, umbrella-guarded, up the
short path from the church gate to the porch.

Inside the porch, nightmare set in, without warning. For,

who
was
this who stood in the shadows, waiting – and waiting with such a
fateful air?

A voice inside Angela told her. The Third Godmother . . .
Bright-coloured Lady Panderwaite, pale Miss Hingham, each
escorted by one of the two godfathers, stepped from their cars, were
ushered into the church, and made straight for their places beside
the font. It was here that the Unknown joined them. The wronglooking little figure – beret pulled down over wisps of brittle blonde
hair; “loud,” shabby tartan overcoat; preposterous scarlet bootees,
mock-fur gauntlets – edged its way into the forefront of the group
round the font, and there stood firm. Impossible to account for,
utterly impossible to displace by stares, frowns, murmurs or
courteous nudges, this cuckoo among the godparents held her
ground. Her small, pale, rather puffy face, mute of any expression,
looked ageless: she seemed neither young nor old. She greeted no
one, keeping her eyes cast down, till the moment when Nurse
uncovered Nona Julia’s head – then, she started forward, as though
expecting to take the baby into her own arms. Tom made an anxious
movement; Angela caught a breath. The Vicar glanced once over his
glasses, then shook back the sleeves of his surplice, opened his
book, raised his voice. The christening began. As though brought to
a halt by the holy words, the intruder stood with a frozen smile. Her
look, however, stayed fixed upon Nona Julia.