The Ladies of Missalonghi (18 page)

Before they set out for Byron he had taken her across the clearing and round its bend to where he intended to build his house. The waterfall, she discovered, fell so far that on a windy day it never reached the valley floor, spinning away instead into nothingness, and filling the air with clouds of rainbows. Yet there was a huge pool below it, wide and calm until it poured through a narrow defile and became the cascade-tortured river, a pool the colour of a turquoise or of Egyptian faience, opaque as milk, dense as syrup. The source of all this water, he showed her, was a cave below the cliffs, out of which issued a very large underground stream.

“There’s an outcropping of limestone here,” he explained. “That’s why the pool is such a bizarre colour.”

“And this is really where we’re going to live, looking at so much loveliness?”

“Where
I
will live, anyway. I doubt you’ll be here to see it.” His face twisted. “Houses don’t get built in a day, Missy, especially when they’re built single-handed. I don’t want a horde of workmen down here, pissing in the pool and getting drunk on Saturdays and then telling any curious bystander what’s going on in my valley.”

“I thought we had a bargain, not to mention my condition? Anyway, you won’t be building single-handed, you’ll have my hands as well,” said Missy cheerfully. “I’m no stranger to hard work, and the cabin is so small it won’t keep me busy. From what the doctor said, it makes no difference whether I lie in a bed or work like a navvy – one day it will happen, that’s all.”

At which he took her in his arms and kissed her as if he enjoyed kissing her, and as if she was already a little precious to him. They finally set out for Byron somewhat later than originally intended, but neither of them minded.

Octavia and Drusilla were in the kitchen when Missy walked in unannounced. They stared at her in astonishment, trying to take in the full glory of that outlandish scarlet lace dress, not to mention the huge lopsided hat with its graceless plume of scarlet ostrich feathers.

She hadn’t turned into a beauty overnight, but there was certainly an eye-catching quality about her, and she held herself too proudly to be mistaken for a trollop. In fact, she looked a lot more like a sophisticated visitor from London than one of the inhabitants of Caroline Lamb Place. There was also no doubting that the colour suited her down to  the ground.

“Oh, Missy, you look lovely!” squeaked Octavia, sitting down in a hurry.

Missy kissed her, and kissed her mother. “That’s nice to know, Auntie, because I admit I feel lovely.” She grinned at them triumphantly. “I came to tell you that I’m married,” she announced, waving her left hand under their noses.

“Who?” asked Drusilla, beaming.

“John Smith. We were married yesterday in Katoomba.”

Suddenly neither to Drusilla nor Octavia did it matter a scrap that the whole town of Byron called him a jailbird, or worse; he had rescued their Missy from the multiple horrors of spinsterhood, and he must therefore be loved for it with gratitude and respect and loyalty.

Octavia positively leaped up to put the kettle on, moving with more flexibility and ease than she had in years, though Drusilla didn’t notice; she was too busy looking at her girl’s convincingly massive wedding ring.

“Mrs. John Smith,” she said experimentally. “Why, bless my soul, Missy, it sounds quite distinguished!”

“Simplicity usually is distinguished.”

“Where is he? When is he coming to see us?” asked Octavia.

“He had some business or other in Byron, but he expects to be done later this afternoon, and he wants to meet you when he picks me up to take me home. I thought, Mother, that to fill in the day, you and I might walk into Byron. I have to buy groceries, and I want to go to Uncle Herbert’s to choose some materials for me to make into dresses. Because I am done forever with brown! I won’t even wear it to work in. I’m going to work in a man’s shirt and man’s trousers because they’re a great deal more comfortable and sensible, and who’s to see me?”

“Isn’t it lucky that you bought a Singer sewing machine, Drusilla?” asked Octavia from the stove, too happy at the way things had turned out to worry about the trousers.

But Drusilla had something so important on her mind that neither Singer sewing machines nor trousers could loom larger. “Can you afford it?” she asked anxiously. “I can make for you for nothing, but the materials at Herbert’s are so expensive, especially once one gets away from brown!”

“It seems I can indeed afford it. John told me last night that he was going to put a thousand pounds in the bank for me this morning. Because he said a wife shouldn’t have to ask her husband for every little penny she needs, nor account for every little penny she spends. All he asked was that I didn’t exceed the allowance he makes me – a thousand pounds every year! Can you imagine it? And the housekeeping is separate from that! He put a hundred pounds into an empty Bushell’s coffee jar and says he’ll keep it replenished, and doesn’t want to see the dockets. Oh, Mother, I’m still breathless!”

“A thousand pounds!” Octavia and Drusilla stared at Missy in thunderstruck respect.

“Then he must be a rich man,” said Drusilla, and did some rapid mental gymnastics in which she saw herself finally able to cock a snook at Aurelia and Augusta and Antonia. Hah! Not only had Missy beaten Alicia to the altar, but now it began to look as if she might also have made the better bargain.

“I imagine he’s comfortably off,” temporised Missy. “I know his generosity to me suggests real wealth, but I suspect it’s more that he’s a truly generous man. Certainly I shall never, never embarrass him by overspending. However, I do need a few decent clothes –
not
brown! – a couple of winter dresses and a couple of summer ones is all. Oh, Mother, it’s so beautiful down in the valley! I don’t have any desire to lead a social life, I just want to be alone with my John.”

Drusilla looked suddenly troubled. “Missy, there’s so little we can give you for a wedding present. But I think, Octavia, that we could spare the Jersey heifer, don’t you?”

“We can
certainly
spare the heifer,” said Octavia.

“Now that,” said Missy, “is what I call a handsome wedding present! We would love the heifer.”

“We ought to send her to Percival’s bull first,” said Octavia. “She’s due to come on any time now, so you won’t have to wait long for her, and with any luck she’ll give you a calf next year too.”

Drusilla consulted the clock on the kitchen wall. “If you want to go to Herbert’s as well as to Maxwell’s, Missy, I suggest we make a start. Then we might be able to fit in a bit of lunch with Julia in her tea room, and tell her the news. My word, she’ll be surprised!”

Octavia twitched herself gently, and experienced no pain. “I’m coming too,” she announced firmly. “You’re not going without me today of all days. If I have to crawl on hands and knees, I’m coming too.”

Thus in the late morning Drusilla strolled through the shopping centre with her daughter on one arm, and her sister on the other.

It was Octavia who spied Mrs. Cecil Hurlingford on the opposite side of the road; Mrs. Cecil was the wife of the Reverend Dr. Cecil Hurlingford, Byron’s Church of England minister, and everyone went in fear and trembling of her tongue. “Dying of curiosity, aren’t you, you old besom?” muttered Octavia through her teeth, smiling and bowing so frostily that Mrs. Cecil thought the better of crossing the road to see what was what with the Missalonghi gaggle.

Then Drusilla completed the routing of Mrs. Cecil by suddenly shouting with laughter and pointing one shaking finger in Mrs. Cecil’s direction. “Oh, Octavia, Mrs. Cecil hasn’t recognised Missy! I do believe she thinks we’ve got one of the Caroline Lamb Place women in tow!”

All three of the ladies of Missalonghi dissolved into laughter, and Mrs. Cecil Hurlingford tottered into Julia’s tea room to get away from so much unseemly mirth, all apparently directed at
her
.

“What an uproar!” crowed Octavia.

“The bigger the better,” said Missy, entering Herbert Hurlingford’s clothing emporium.

That whole experience was a terrific tonic, between Uncle Herbert’s flabbergasted imitation of a codfish when Missy proceeded to buy men’s shirts and trousers for herself, and James’s tongue-tied terror when she proceeded to buy lengths of lavender-blue taffeta, apricot silk, amber velvet, and cyclamen wool. Recovering somewhat after Missy left him to go to James, Herbert debated as to whether he should relieve his feelings by ordering the hussy from his premises; then when she paid for her purchases in gold, he changed his mind and humbly rang up the sale. Staggering as Missy’s visit was, he really only had half a mind to pay to it and her, for the other half was occupied in wondering what was going on up at the bottling plant, where the extraordinary meeting of shareholders was taking place. The shopkeeping Hurlingfords had despatched Maxwell as their representative, acknowledging that Maxwell had the best and bitterest tongue, and understanding that he would fight as hard for them as for himself. Business must go on as usual, after all, and if the bottling plant and its corollary activities like the baths and the hotel and the spas was going to go west, then the shops became more important than ever to their respective owners.

“You may deliver these to Missalonghi this afternoon, James,” said Missy grandly, and slapped a gold sovereign down on the counter. “Here, this is for your trouble. And while you’re about it, you can go into Uncle Maxwell’s and pick up my grocery order as well. Come, Mother, Aunt Octavia! Let us go to Aunt Julia’s for lunch.”

The three ladies of Missalonghi swept out of the shop more royally than they had swept in.

“Oh, this is such fun!” chuckled Octavia, whose walk was just about normal. “I have never enjoyed myself so much!”

Missy was enjoying herself too, but less simply. It had been a shock to find the promised thousand pounds had actually been deposited for her, and even more of a shock to be treated with great civility by Quintus Hurlingford, the bank manager; John Smith had instructed him to pay Missy’s withdrawals in gold, since the deposit had been in gold. A thousand pounds!

Well, she had her dress materials and her shirts and her trousers, and several pairs of pretty shoes into the bargain. She really didn’t need anything else. If she kept a hundred pounds of that amazing thousand, it would be more than enough to last her until her allowance was replenished at this same time next year. After all, when had she ever owned more than a shilling or two? She would therefore use the bulk of her allowance to buy Mother and Aunt Octavia a little pony-and-trap. The pony wouldn’t eat the place out the way a bigger horse would, they could manage its harnessing with ease, and never again would they have to walk anywhere, or humble their pride by begging that a conveyance be sent for them. Yes, they should go in style to Alicia’s wedding in a smart pony-and-trap!

The hundred pounds Julia had realised from the sale of her shares was already being spent; half the tea room was roped off, and two workmen were toiling at stripping and sanding.

Once she ceased apologising for the mess, Julia gathered her wits together sufficiently to absorb the full splendour of Missy’s outfit. “It’s a superb dress and hat, dear,” she said, “but isn’t the colour a little
lairy
?”

“Definitely lairy,” admitted Missy, without shame. “But oh, Aunt Julia, I am so sick to death of brown, and can you name a colour further from brown than this? Besides, it suits me, don’t you think?”

Yes, but does it suit my tea room? was the question Julia burned to ask, then decided it would be unpardonable to criticise her benefactress. And due to the renovations there weren’t many patrons today; she would just have to hope no one would decide she had thrown open her doors to the likes of Caroline Lamb Place. Oh! That must have been what Mrs. Cecil Hurlingford was gobbling about! Oh, dear! Oh, dear dear dear!

In the meantime she had ushered the ladies of Missalonghi to her very best table, and shortly thereafter served them an assortment of sandwiches and cakes, and a big pot of tea.

“I’m going to have a striped paper on the walls in cream and gold and crimson,” she said, sitting down to join her guests, “and my chairs will be re-upholstered in a matching but brighter brocade. I’m having the moulding on the ceiling picked out in gilt, canaries in gold cages, and pots of tall palms everywhere. Let Next Door” – her head tilting scornfully towards the wall she shared in common with the Olympus Café – “compete with
that
!”

Drusilla’s mouth was open to unburden herself of the news that Missy was married to John Smith and that John Smith was a rich man rather than a jailbird, when Cornelia Hurlingford erupted through the doors and descended upon them, her various scarves and ribbons trailing behind her like moulting feathers from a peacock’s tail.

Cornelia and Julia lived together above the Weeping Willow Tea Room, which Julia did not own outright. She paid a large rent to her brother Herbert, who regularly assured her that one day she would have paid enough, between the rent and what her house and five acres had fetched, to buy the premises.

As well as sharing their living arrangements, the two maiden sisters also shared and relished every morsel of information their public occupations garnered, but mostly Cornelia, the less excitable of the two, could wait until Chez Chapeau Alicia closed its doors for the day; Alicia did not permit her to leave the shop while ever it was open. Obviously whatever she had to impart was urgent enough to run the risk of incurring Alicia’s wrath, and so bursting was Cornelia with her news that Missy’s scarlet outfit got no more than a cursory glance.

“Guess what?” she gasped, plumping herself down on a chair and forgetting she was supposed to be the formidably elegant and snooty sales dame of a formidably elegant and snooty one-off millinery establishment.

“What?” asked everyone, well aware of these various facts, and therefore prepared to be tremendously impressed.

“Alicia ran off with Billy’s chauffeur this morning!”

“
What?
”