The Young Clementina (21 page)

“Diddles, this is Miss Dean,” she said.

“We've met before,” he said, smiling. “Miss Dean knows the best place to see the racin' from. And she knows a good horse when she sees him.”

Several other people who had seen me talking to the Bournesworths came up and introduced themselves, or were introduced. It was quite a social triumph, but, unfortunately, I did not enjoy it. My head buzzed with their names, and I wondered vaguely what it was all about. I saw that if I accepted the various invitations to tea or bridge or to “see the garden” which were being showered upon me, I should soon find myself involved in a social round for which I had neither the desire nor the aptitude. I struggled wildly as I felt the toils closing round me, assuring everybody that I couldn't play bridge and that I was very busy editing my brother-in-law's book.

“Are you rahlly?” inquired a sallow youth with an eyeglass whose name I had not caught. “Most int'resting job, what? I read his last book but it was too clever for me, what?”

“I've seen you out huntin', haven't I?” inquired a tall angular woman with a brown face and bright eyes—she was the woman who rode the chestnut, and I remembered that Sim had told me she was Lady Vera Hill.

“Yes,” I said. “You saved me from a duck-pond.”

There was a general laugh.

“You're lucky, Miss Dean,” said a thin man with a weather-beaten face. “Next time you follow Lady Vera she'll lead you into a bank with a thorn hedge on the top.”

Lady Vera took no notice of him. “Why didn't you enter that brown mare?” she demanded. “I noticed her at once. Fine action she has—and good hocks. I like good hocks.”

“You've pretty fair hocks yourself, Vera,” said the thin man, smiling with bared teeth.

“They're not too hairy,” she admitted gravely. “But you're interrupting, Harry. I'm talkin' to Miss Dean about her mare. You didn't think of enterin' her for the lightweights, Miss Dean?”

“I did think of it,” I said, “or rather my groom thought of it—but I hate anybody else riding her.”

Lady Vera looked at me with friendly eyes. “I know,” she said. “It's hell to see a stranger ridin' a horse you're fond of. I lent a man a mare once to ride in a 'chase and he pushed her to death. She came in first and fell down dead. I nearly killed the feller…nicest mare I ever bred. Come and see the stables one day, Miss Dean. I've got somethin' might int'rest you…geldin' just about your weight…”

I was hemmed in on every side. Geoff had disappeared and left me to my fate. It was not until the horn sounded for the lineup of the runners in the Ladies' Cup that I found an excuse to escape. I took to my heels and fled from them down the course toward the first jump.

“Good God!” exclaimed Geoff, appearing somewhat breathlessly at my side. “You should go in for a race yourself, Charlotte. You'd beat every horse in the country with your long legs.”

“Where were you?” I asked indignantly. “You said you would look after me if I came to the races with you.”

“I was watching,” he replied giggling feebly. “It was as good as a play. Hallo, here they come!”

They came down the course bunched together and were over the jump and away in a moment. Red Star was leading, but Sweet Molly was lying nicely and going easily. I felt a thrill as they passed, for, quite apart from the money I had staked upon Sweet Molly, she was a friend, and I wanted her to win for that reason. I knew, too, that Paula was going to back the mare, and the Felsteads were not too well off these days. Violet's illness had cost them a small fortune.

We watched the horses sweep up the hill and disappear.

“You can't see so well from here,” Geoff remarked sadly.

“I came here to escape. You know that,” I told him. “Why didn't you rescue me from those awful people? I hate people.”

“I told you they wouldn't snub you.”

“I only want to be left in peace.”

“They can't do that. It's snubs or kisses with that bunch. I guessed it would be kisses today.”

“How did you guess? I was never more surprised in my life.”

He looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, Mother's tune changed a bit,” he said, “and she's a good weather glass.”

“But
why?
” I demanded. “For heaven's sake tell me why. I've done nothing to change their tune or send their barometer up.”

“Wisdon's a hero now,” replied Geoff lightly. “And you're his sister-in-law. It's odd how far that goes with some people. Personally, I like people for themselves—I mean if you were the sister-in-law of a sweep—by the way I've got an invitation for you to tea at Fairways.”

“I've had enough invitations today,” I told him ungraciously.

“That's right. I hoped you'd say that. I told Mother she would have to call if she wanted to know you.”

“Geoff!”

“Well, I did. I'm just about as fed up as you are with the way people have behaved, only neither of us is going to show it.”

He broke off to watch the race (we had seen nothing of it until now). The horses were leaping the last fence and coming up the straight. Sweet Molly was lying second to a blue roan. Red Star was fourth.

“What the devil!” cried Geoff, gluing his glasses to his eyes. “My God, Red Star's all out! Not an extra ounce left in him. What possessed me to put a pony on the C 3 brute?”

“I told you Sweet Molly would win.”

“How like a woman—besides she's not winning, it's that blinking roan. I hate roans! Unnatural sort of beasts.”

There was a burst of cheering as the horses passed the post, but we were too far away to see which of the first two had won.

“It's that roan,” Geoff declared. “The devil is in all roans, they ought to be shot when they're foaled.”

I gave him my ticket and told him to go and make sure which had won, and collect my winnings if any. (I had only backed Sweet Molly to win, and not for a place.)

“Come on,” he said. “We'll put something on the Farmers' Race. That old chap on the hill said ‘Danny Boy.'”

“I'm not going near the enclosures,” I replied firmly. “And your money will be safer in your pocket.”

“All right, I'll meet you on the hill. I don't know why you object to be petted—you remind me of a bull-terrier bitch I had in Canada. She hated anybody to touch her.”

“Yes, I'm exactly like that.”

He went off smiling (quite undaunted by the loss of his money, which I knew he could ill afford), with his hat on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets.

I thought, as I watched him, how much I liked him. He would make a good husband for Clementina if she cared for him in that way. Personally I hoped she would. He was the sort of man who would suit Clementina, frank and cheerful and full of nonsense, with a sound core of understanding and tenderness. They were utterly unlike in every way, but they fitted in to each other wonderfully.

I sighed a little, and thought of Garth, and made my way slowly up the hill.

Paula Felstead came to tea with me the day after the race. She came to tell me all about it and how Sweet Molly had won the Ladies' Cup by half a head, and she was much surprised when I told her that I had been there and seen it with my own eyes and was eight pounds richer for the outing. Her surprise was natural, for she had tried her best to persuade me to go and I had refused.

“Well, I'm glad you went,” she said. “Even though it
is
slightly galling to find you prefer Geoff's company to mine.”

“But I don't. I would much rather have gone with you. The man wheedled me into going—I simply couldn't refuse.”

“He must be a champion wheedler,” said Paula. “I thought you were adamant.”

“I was,” I declared. “I didn't want to go. I only went with him because I was sorry for him—I felt I had been rather brutal.”

Paula looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “So you turned him down?” she said.

I nodded. “What else could I do? Clementina's only thirteen…I told the man he could come back in four years and we would see.”

“Char!” she exclaimed. “What on earth made you do that?”

“What else could I do?” I inquired, somewhat puzzled by her dismay. “Do you mean I should have sent him away altogether? I hadn't the heart to do that, and I really hadn't the right to do it, had I? If he is still of the same mind in four years—”

“But why four years?” she cried. “Why send the man away at all?”

“I didn't want him hanging about here looking miserable.”

Paula gazed at me in amazement. “My dear Char, I'm an interfering person, I know, but I can't let you make this dreadful mistake without a word. Geoff may never come back at all, have you realized that?”

“Of course I realized it. But what could I do? Clementina is only thirteen.”

“Clem can look after herself. There is no need to sacrifice yourself for Clem. If you care for Geoff—”

“Good heavens, what are you talking about, Paula?” I cried incoherently. “It's Clementina, not me at all—how could you have thought it was me? It's Clementina.”

“Clem?” she said incredulously. “D'you mean he's in love with Clem?”

“Yes, but he didn't put it quite like that. He is very fond of her, he thinks she is perfect.”

“Goodness!” said Paula. “How I should hate any man to be thinking of Violet in that way! But, of course, Violet isn't Clem. Violet is still a child, and Clem has never been a child; she has missed her childhood, poor lamb. I daresay an older man would suit Clem as a husband. She requires a lot of understanding.”

“That's what I thought—and I like Geoff,” I said.

“He's sound,” she agreed. “And not a bit dull (as sound people so often are), in fact he amuses me immensely. I'm very sorry about the whole thing. I thought it was you the man was after. He would have made you an excellent husband and there is plenty of time for Clem.”

“Whereas he was my last hope,” I added smiling.

“Don't be silly, you know what I mean perfectly well. The man's a fool.”

“You said just now he was sound.”

“In some ways,” she returned unblushingly. “Sound in some ways, but a fool to think of Clem when you are anywhere about.”

“I shall never marry,” I told her firmly. “So don't try to match-make for me, Paula. You see there was only one man…one man I ever cared for…and something went wrong…he's dead now.”

She looked up at me with clear, bright eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to be interfering, Char. I say things before I think.”

“But I like you to be interested. I never find you interfering,” I said quickly. “You're such a help to me with everything, with Clementina. I know nothing about children, you see, and—”

“Shucks!” said Paula smiling. “You have worked miracles with Clem. You understand her to the bone, and you know it, and are proud of it. Don't play the modest spinster aunt to me.”

“But you
will
go on being—being interested?”

“Oh, yes, I shall go on interfering,” laughed Paula. “I can interfere in any way I like except that I must not try to find you a husband—is that it?”

“That's it,” I said with a sigh of relief.

I was glad we had discussed the matter frankly, and that the misunderstanding had been cleared up. It was a horrible misunderstanding, but quite natural under the circumstances. I saw, now, how the neighborhood had construed Geoff's constant attendance at the Manor—Paula was probably by no means the only person in the County who had read a wrong meaning into Geoff's friendship for Clementina and myself and his fierce championships of our cause—everybody would say that he had proposed to me and I had refused him, that was obvious.

“Paula,” I said at last, “for God's sake tell everybody that there's no truth in the story. I don't want it to be even
hinted
that there was anything between Geoff and me. These tales have a way of spreading and cropping up years later. If Geoff comes back and wants to marry Clementina—”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I see what you mean. You don't want any malicious gossip about yourself and Clem's future husband. It would be—nasty. I'll do what I can to quash it. The worst of it is we can't tell them the truth—it will have to be all strictly platonic, and so few people believe in platonic friendship—I don't, myself, for that matter.”

“You must make them believe in it,” I told her earnestly.

She rose to go. “I always stay hours longer than I mean to,” she said as she seized her hat, which she had removed for comfort, and crammed it carelessly onto her head. “By the way, that reminds me, when are you coming with me to choose a new hat? I promised myself a new hat if Sweet Molly won.”

We arranged a day. Paula was less tied now that Violet was so much better, and, although I was working hard at the book, I did not grudge the loss of a day when it meant shopping with Paula. It was good for both of us to shake a leg loose now and then, she from nursing and domestic cares, and I from my book. After an outing with Paula I came back to my work with renewed vigor and a clearer judgment; she was an invigorating companion, she struck sparks from my mind. Her moods were as swift as an April day—from grave to gay, and from gay to grave—and they were as infectious as measles.

My dominant mood was one of sadness for Garth's untimely end; but no one is forever occupied with sorrow, and there is a kind of gaiety that goes hand in hand with sorrow. Sorrow stands aside for a while to make room for mirth, and then steps forward to take her victim in a stronger grip. It was like that with me. My heart was sad for the loss of my old-time friend, and the future looked empty and lonely when I dared to look at it at all, but there were times when I was possessed with a strange, almost hysterical gaiety, and this happened quite often when I was with Paula, and sometimes when I was with Geoff.

The day we had fixed for our trip to London was damp and mild. Paula arrived to fetch me in the car, which she drove herself with verve and a neat judgment. The London traffic never bothered Paula, and policemen were as wax in her hands.

“Do you mind, Char?” she asked. “Bob wanted me to take Banks, but I feel silly today, and Banks is so proper.”

“I always feel quite safe with you,” I assured her.

“Misguided woman!” she giggled.

She was sparkling with merriment and high spirits that day, and I soon learned the cause. Sir Maxton Grant had seen Violet and had been full of cheer. “He's never been like that before,” Paula said as she turned out of the gates of the Manor into the main road. “I've always thought him a melancholy individual—kind but melancholy. He's got a long face and red hair—a typical Scot—but yesterday he was quite lively and skittish…He says Violet will make a complete recovery…she is to have a quiet pony…Oh, Charlotte!”

She was quite mad that day—full of the most idiotic nonsense—and she infected me. We giggled like a pair of schoolgirls at the slightest provocation. At the hat shop she pretended to persuade me to buy a straw saucer which the assistant perched jauntily over my left eyebrow.

“Quite perfect,” she said gravely.

I looked in the mirror and burst out laughing in the assistant's face. My long-shaped brown face beneath the straw saucer was irresistibly comic.

“Paula,” I gasped, “I'm like a horse…those horses with little straw hats…It only wants two holes and two ears sticking through…”

The assistant snatched the hat off my head and replaced it with a brown mushroom straw. I thought it was quite nice, but Paula would have none of it.

“Never buy a hat that you think is quite nice,” she said, dragging me away. “A hat should be a tonic, not a head covering.”

“Aren't you going to buy one?” I asked, following her breathlessly out of the millinery department.

“No, I'm not. It wouldn't be safe,” she replied firmly. “If I were to buy a hat in this mood I should buy a mad hat and I could only wear it when I felt mad. I don't feel mad often enough to make it worthwhile. You want tumblers, don't you?”

I said I did, and after some trouble we found the china and glass department.

“I want a drinking trough for the dogs,” said Paula. Oldgarden swarmed with dogs of all sizes.

A fat, stolid young man came forward to serve us. “A drinking trough for a dog. Yes, Moddam. Would you prefer a plain trough or one with ‘dog' written on it?”

Paula looked at him gravely. “It doesn't really matter,” she replied. “My dogs can't read and my husband never drinks water.”

The young man looked at her disapprovingly; he was a very serious young man. We were so weak with repressed laughter that we staggered out of the department with our purchases unmade.

“I'm sorry, Char,” Paula said, wiping her eyes. “It is disgraceful of me to behave like this. I don't suppose you will ever come shopping with me again.”

“Shopping!” I echoed. “Do you call this shopping? We haven't bought anything yet and I can't possibly go back to either of those departments.”

“I'm mad today,” said Paula remorsefully, “quite mad. If you want to shop seriously we had better separate. I can't promise to be good because I know I couldn't be.”

“It's after one now and I'm starving,” I replied. “Laughing always makes me hungry. Did you ask me to lunch at your club, I wonder?”

“Dare we go to the club?” asked Paula. “Supposing I do something mad there, they might turn us out.”

It did seem a risk under the circumstances; we decided to lunch at a quiet restaurant where nobody would know us.

“They might think I was drunk or something,” Paula said, “and Bob would hate it so. I
am
drunk really, Char. Drunk with happiness, not wine. Supposing I get taken up for being drunk with happiness in charge of a car, what will the fine be?”

“Look out,” I told her. “We were nearly into that bus.”

“My dear, what a fuss you are! There was at least an inch to spare.”

“I like rather a bigger margin.”

“A miss is as good as a mile,” Paula said. “Don't worry, Char, it's my day out today, nothing horrid can happen. Do you ever have days like that when nothing can go wrong? And then there are the days when nothing can go right,” Paula continued. “When your hair won't lie down properly, and your stockings develop ladders at the worst possible moment, or your suspender breaks, and buttons fly off your gloves. When you say the wrong things to the wrong people, and spill coffee on your favorite frock, and break your reading glasses, and your cook asks for a raise—you know the kind of thing I mean,” said Paula, swerving to avoid a fat woman, who had darted off an island in the middle of the road without looking. “You know the kind of thing I mean. I always think on these occasions that my guardian angel is having a holiday.”

“He's on duty today, anyhow,” I told her curling up my toes as we swept down a one way street and swung to the right.

“Yes,” said Paula calmly. “That's exactly my point. I'm leaving it all to him. What about that little restaurant over there for lunch? It looks rather nice.”

We lunched at the little restaurant cheaply but amply. It was one of those little “arty” places that spring up all over London and endure for a while before they disappear as mysteriously as they came. The food was clean and good and the service adequate. Paula fell into conversation with the proprietor—who had appeared from the back premises to inquire whether we were satisfied—and elicited various interesting details about the restaurant business, and its peculiar intricacies. Wherever Paula went she made friends and gathered information—she was interested in everything and everybody, and her interest drew people toward her and opened their hearts. Her manner was always natural and sincere, and it rarely failed to evoke a natural and sincere response—she was never patronizing, never gushing, never subservient, she was always herself.

We dallied at the restaurant long after our simple meal was ended, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes while the proprietor bared his soul. He told us that his wife was an invalid and that he had borrowed money to start the restaurant so that she should have a home of her own. He told us that he rose at four every morning to buy his food at the markets, and that he superintended the cooking himself because he could not afford to engage a first class chef. He told us that his son had gone to Paris to study continental cooking and that he hoped to take him into partnership when he was sufficiently trained. Paula leaned forward over the little table and drank in every word. She was not pretending to be interested in the man's story, she
was
interested. She promised to recommend the restaurant to her friends, and to arrange for the man's invalid wife to have a fortnight at a convalescent home near the sea.