The Bazaar and Other Stories (44 page)

 

“When he might be racing round hell in his motor car.”

 

She only gave Oswald a tolerant smile. “I admit that I couldn’t
sleep,” she said. “All Cousin Janet’s moths kept me awake: their
wings made such a flutter behind the glass, till I had to get up and
take them off their pins. But after that
I
still couldn’t stay in her
room, so I put my fur coat on and stood in the gallery. Then I admit
I remembered all about Cousin Aloysius and the pulley. I wondered
what you’d think if I went and knocked at your door; after a few
more minutes I didn’t care what you did think, so I started off round
the gallery. Then, at the top of the staircase, I met Patrick. He
looked so nonchalant. He gave me a sort of jolly slap on the
shoulder, and – ”

 

“And said?”

 

Verena looked suddenly scared, and suddenly flat. She said: “I
can’t remember; I can’t remember a thing. – We, he – I don’t know.
I think we sat on the stairs . . . I remember waking in Cousin Janet’s
bed and seeing the housemaid pulling the curtains back. I said
‘Merry Christmas’; she did not take any notice.”

 

“And the moths?”

 

“The poor moths were all back again on their pins.”

 

When Oswald shrugged, pursed his mouth up and did not say
anything, Verena threw him an agonised look of doubt. “I did
not
dream Patrick,” she rather too quickly said.

 

“At any rate, you were lucky to sleep at all . . . I take it, however,
that you mean to stay on? Do do so, by all means; I leave the whole
field to you.”

 

“Oh, you make me feel so awkward. I’d forgotten the money.”

 

“I shouldn’t do that, Verena. Patrick kept it in mind.”

 

“Oswald, how
dare
you! Oh, I am disappointed.
¹⁵
I thought last
night we were getting on so well . . . It’s dreadful to fight at breakfast
on Christmas morning – especially with
them
looking at us. And you
can’t bolt off like this; it’s going to look so funny. What will Cousin
Meta say?”

 

“I shall never know,” said Oswald, getting up and pushing away
his chair. “As a matter of fact,” he said – he stopped and stared at his
cousin – “I doubt whether Cousin Meta
will
ever say anything,
because I increasingly doubt whether Cousin Meta exists at all.”

 

Verena shot up and wildly put her hand on his arm. “Then who
wrote to invite us? Who keeps on sending those notes down? Who
sent these Christmas cards?”

 

“Ask the servants.”

 

“They would think we were mad. Or what do they think?”

 

“They never speak: we don’t know.”

Though Oswald kept speaking of going up to pack, he lingered on
in the morningroom with Verena. Irritated though he had been at
breakfast by the thought of this modest, trim, little woman having a
dream lover – and that a rip and a sponge who had killed himself
in a race – the touch of feminine softness she had acquired this
morning appealed to him. He even toyed with the idea that Cousin
Meta – if indeed she

“Oswald – but I – ”
were
living – might be throwing two young
people, to be her co-heirs, together with some romantic design. She
might wish them to continue the family . . . In the rich and un
prepossessing morningroom – in which the family smell, now
familiar, came from the curtains, and pomade-patches showed on
the backs of the armchairs – Oswald gave his cousin a series of close
looks. The unspeakable night he had passed made her living
presence, this morning, most unexpectedly grateful;
¹⁶
the rational
irritation he’d felt at her talk of Patrick was, moreover, enhanced by
real prickings of jealousy. “Verena,” he said, sitting down by her
armchair, “we either see Cousin Meta, or we both clear out.”

 

“I shall take you along with me,” Oswald said in his firmest
masculine tone.
Women in Love
J
oanna’s decision to sell the cottage came hard. Weekend
cottage in principle, it stood for the inner, warm continuity of her
life. The place was old; it stood in a pocket of unspoilt country, not
much more than an hour away from London – set in a rambling
garden, in part orchard. Ramshackle when she had taken it over, it
showed, by now, Joanna’s improvements – result of carefully savedup money, sensible “planning” and loving thought. The few rooms
were full of her treasures – favourite books wedged into the one
or two shelves, antiqued ornaments picked up one by one (some
chipped or cracked, so, low-priced, but the dearer for that).

Few who encountered Joanna during the working week might
have realised her life had this secret core. In the city office, where
she held a responsible position, she would have struck one chiefly as
efficient – equable in her dealings with others, reserved in manner.
She was thirty-five, in a quiet, strong way goodlooking. Friends
outside the office, who knew her better, had at least some idea what
the cottage meant to her – some of them had visited the place, for
she would have felt it wrong not to share this pleasure. There was
no doubt, however, that, at weekends, her happiest hours were spent
alone. Here, solitude satisfied her completely. The parlour, with its
outlook on to the garden, had the atmosphere taken on by a room
which is in an intense relationship with its owner.

Each Friday evening, when she unlocked the door, came in, lit
the oil lamp and knelt down to put a match to the fire, a beloved
reality resumed for her.

She put the cottage down on house-agents’ books. The first
Friday evening after she had done so was one in April. Now,
kneeling by the hearth, watching flames crackle up among the
twigs, she heard herself wonder (thinking aloud), “How many
evenings more?”

The telephone rang. It was a friend, Margaret, who, only just
back from a holiday, had only today heard Joanna’s sad news.

Was
it
true? Yes, said Joanna, it was. The ensuing flood of condolence was
of the kind she found least easy to bear. – “Please, Margaret, don’t:
I’m trying to toughen up!” But
why
was this necessary? the friend
wailed. Joanna explained: her father’s sudden death had, it was
found, left her mother exceedingly badly off. Money must be found.
Joanna’s brother and sister, both married, were hard put to it raising
families – they would want to help, but it wouldn’t be fair to let
them. Joanna’s only capital was the cottage: it
must
be sold.
¹

Yes, there had been some enquiries already. Tomorrow, Saturday
afternoon, the first “order to view” people would be coming.
Wouldn’t Joanna find that painful – showing them round – the
friend wanted to know. “Well, one’s got to go through with a thing,”
said Joanna briskly. She ended the telephone conversation as soon
as might be.

In through the open door from the kitchen wandered a big tabby,
guardian of the place in Joanna’s absences. “

Never had a Saturday April afternoon been sunnier.
You
’ll stay, I suppose,”
said Joanna, picking him up. “And be nice to ‘them’ . . . I hope they’ll
be nice to you.”

The mantleshelf clock stood at half-past three when Joanna heard
a car draw up at the gate. Through the window she saw it – an open
sports car, this year’s model. The couple who got out came eagerly
up the path to the cottage, looking round them. Joanna, squaring
her shoulders, went out to bring them in.

Three became a crowd, filling the parlour. The girl, about
twenty-three, was slender, pretty, sophisticatedly at ease, delightful
in somewhat “London-y” country clothes. The tall man seemed
about ten years older: there was something simple, serious, at the
same time striking about his face. He was somewhat diffident – as
though, once face-to-face with Joanna, and in what was (to him) so
much

her
ambience – he disliked his role of possible purchaser. The
girl, on the other hand, showed an almost electrified vivacity – “Oh,
weren’t they really
heaven
, the garden daffodils!” Joanna sized the two
of them up (rightly) as an engaged couple. The girl’s name, it
transpired, was Tonia, the man’s, Andie.

Tonia roved round the parlour, assessing everything –

no
fear of
“making free” inhibited her! “What a find!” she exclaimed, taking an
old china jug from a shelf in an alcove, turning it over – “though, of
course, it has got a crack!” She glanced up at the ceiling: “Awfully
low
,” she said, “though I do quite see, that’s part of the charm.” She
knocked her fist against a partition wall – “I suppose one could
knock this through? What’s next door? We’d need
one
big room.”

“I don’t call this small,” said Andie.

 

“Oh but, darling, think – we’ll give heaps of parties!”
“
You
’ve rather liked to be quiet here, I should think?” the man said

suddenly to Joanna. Standing, arms folded, impassive, she briefly
nodded. “I should think,” he said – betraying in tone and manner
more wistfulness than he probably realised – “this was an ideal place
to be quiet

in
?” His eye followed Tonia’s flittings with a blend of love
and exasperation.
²

The girl fiddled open the latch of the kitchen door, said “May I?”

 

– and, not awaiting an answer, disappeared through it. From offstage, her voice continued to come. “Andie –
the
most olde-worlde
brick-floored kitchen! . . . Oh, here’s the bathroom, off it –
rather
peculiar? . . . Here’s where the stairs begin.
I
’m going up: I must see!
I can’t, simply, wait!”

Her steps could be heard, click-click, up the small bare stairs.
“Come on – what are you doing?” she called back.

 

The man made no movement to follow. Remaining with Joanna
in the parlour, he offered her a cigarette, lit it for her. Now, at the
sound of Tonia’s
³
step in the bedroom above them, his eyebrows
twitched. “I’m afraid,” he said, “Tonia’s making a bit free? Patience is
never her strong point. Hope you don’t mind?”

 

“On the contrary,” said Joanna, “I’d much rather you looked round
the place, as you like, as though I weren’t here.”

 

“In ways, I expect you’d as soon not be?”

 

Touched by his understanding, she bit her lip. “I thought,” she
explained, “I probably
should
be, to answer questions.”

 

“I see. Well, thank you.” He half-laughed. “What ought I to ask?”

 

“I’ve got a list of
answers
, here,” she smilingly said, “if that’s any
help to you?” She produced the list – which had been waiting,
folded, under the clock – and ran her eye down it. Her voice took
on an “armoured,” businesslike tone. “The price I’m asking, I take it
the agents told you?” He nodded: she ticked
that
off . . . Next – if
you
did
want the cottage – when would you want ‘possession’?”

 

He said: “We’re getting married next month.”

 

“Good,” she said with a nod.
⁴
“Then, that would mean ‘at once’?”
“But what about you?”

 

Turning her face away, she said, gruffly: “The sooner
I
’m out, the
better.”

 

Diffidently he said: “You have
got
to go?”

 

“Mm-mm.”

 

“Then I see, in a way. No point in dragging things out.” Fumbling
his hands together, inter-knitting his fingers, staring at them, he
said: “Though I’m sorry, somehow.” He glanced at the row of books,
the bowl of primroses on the table. “You seem the one who
ought
to
be here.”

 

She kept her eyes, implacably, on the list. “Rates . . .” she con
tinued. “Water . . . Transport – as you’ve got a car, that probably
won’t concern you.
I
go and come on the bus: it stops at the corner
. . .” Her voice trailed off.

 

Tonia, down again from upstairs, could be heard crossing the
kitchen, whistling. She stood in the doorway. “There’s a vast great
cat asleep on your bed,” she said to Joanna, “I suppose
you
don’t
mind?”

 

“Bobbin?” said Joanna. “He’s not supposed to.”

 

The girl cried, to Andie: “Up there, it
could
be made rather lovely!
Attic ceilings, and wee little diamond windows. We could have an
enormous four-poster,
yards
of chintz. – I expect birds twitter around
like anything, in the mornings, don’t they?” she asked Joanna – “and
sing, and everything?” To Andie she said: “You and I’d love waking
up to that!” She seated herself, as she spoke, on the arm of the big
chair in which he was sitting – she slid an arm round his neck,
leaned her cheek on the top of his head, let her hair fall over his
face. “And one sees,” she told him, “the top of that marvellous
flowering apple tree.”

 

“Pear,” said Joanna. “Apple trees blossom later.”

 

“Go up and look, you lout!” Tonia lovingly said to Andie, pulling
one of his ears. “See for yourself. Our nest – that is, it possibly could
be. My heavens, one would imagine you didn’t care!”

 

He heaved himself out of the restful depths of the chair – if
chiefly (or so he gave the impression) in order to disengage himself
from her. He walked away into the kitchen; but not upstairs –
instead, he made his way out into the garden. Through the parlour
window, Joanna and Tonia saw him, pottering aimlessly, placidly,
hands in his pockets.

 

“
Why
do I love him so madly, when so often he’s such a dis
obliging pig?” Tonia cried out suddenly to Joanna.
⁵
“We’re supposed
to be going to be married – I suppose he told you?”

 

“So I had assumed,” said Joanna coldly. “He did, as a matter of
fact, say so just now. Why?”

 

“Why are we going to be married? – you well may ask me! It’s a
thing I’ve started to ask myself.”

 

“I did not mean that,” said Joanna sharply. “I meant, merely, what’s
that to do with me?”