Francie (11 page)

“That little girl?” asked Pop in surprise.

“Little?
She's a month older than I am! You never can tell, though, over here, can you? They look the same until they're married.”

“Oh good,” said Jennifer, greeting them more pleasantly than Francie had expected. “You've brought your racket, I'm glad to see. Isn't this spiffing weather?” Her eyes slid over the new costume and it seemed to Francie that their pupils narrowed vertically, like those of a cat. Jennifer still wore her school tunic, and Pop's mistake had been quite natural.

“So
good of you to come this frightfully long way,” Mrs. Tennison was saying. “Did you have a pleasant trip? No luggage in the van? Then perhaps we can go straight along to our poor old car—lunch won't wait very long, I'm afraid. And how was it in London? Wet? The girls will want to sit together, I suppose. Hop in, girls.”

Chatting brightly about the weather in all its permutations she stowed the bags away, with Mr. Nelson feebly trying to help. It wasn't exactly a poor old car, reflected Francie, it was just an unfamiliar shape to an American, high and steep for its wheel base. They rolled off, down the village street between a few shops and then cottages.

“I hope you won't find those parcels too knobby, Frances,” called Jennifer's mother over her shoulder. “One does one's marketing whenever one finds the opportunity.”

“And the petrol,” added Jennifer.

Francie felt shy and tongue-tied. Jennifer made no effort to break the silence between them, nor did her mother seem to expect any speech from the young people. Mrs. Tennison's was the only voice heard between the station and the house, and this seemed to be the normal state of affairs in the family. About a mile from the station the car turned into a cheerful hedge-lined driveway and drew up before a chubby-looking gray stone house with a tennis court. A Skye terrier rushed out at them from the door, yapping shrilly. The Tennisons said, “Be quiet, Bonzo! Bonzol Bonzo! Quiet!” several times with no appreciable effect. They unloaded the car of parcels and baskets, as well as the Nelson luggage, to the noise of his yapping.

“We can manage
perfectly
well,” said Mrs. Tennison in her bell-like tones. “No, really, Mr. Nelson, we can manage beautifully … It's awfully good of you. Just put them down on the table, if you don't mind. Coo-ee, Robert? Robert, are you there? We've arrived, darling.”

They lived very comfortably, Francie reflected in surprise. It was her first experience of an English home, and she had expected to find a smaller edition of Fairfields, like a public institution in miniature. Hadn't everyone at home warned her? She was relieved, yet felt she had strayed into the wrong book, or onto the wrong stage.

The room they gave her was cheerful, with shabby chintz curtains at the large windows and a huge old-fashioned wardrobe. The whole house had a pleasant, lived-in look, she decided, thinking of the dining room where she had just lunched. There, all the family china seemed to be on display, plates propped on the molding against the wall, and cups and saucers in a glass-fronted cabinet. There was a lot of silver around, too; teapots and jugs and saltcellars and things, out in the open all the time. Bread sat on the breadboard, and cheese under a cover on the sideboard, with jam in pots. Francie thought of Aunt Norah's house where the mechanics of eating were so carefully hidden away between meals. Yet after all, why should they be? They weren't shameful symbols after dinner, any more than when the family was eating.

Jennifer and Francie did the washing up after lunch, getting their hot water from a terrifying copper tank which Jennifer called a “geezer” but which was spelled “geyser.” Jennifer lit gas under it, at a jet that popped and spit, and then the water came down quite hot. “It's so much better since the Mater had this geezer put in,” she said to Francie, who was watching in frightened awe. “We're on the town main now and all this is wonderfully simple. After our old boiler system for hot water, it's heaven. That
never
worked.”

It wasn't exactly Francie's idea of heaven, but she had no intention of discussing such matters with Jennifer this early in the visit. Several months before she would have been unwise enough to describe Aunt Norah's plumbing, not as a boast but simply in a comparative spirit. She knew better now. The English were touchy. They were apt to take any mere statement of fact as a hidden insult. At any rate, Jennifer was.

Back in her bedroom Francie took the spread off the bed, folded it carefully, put on woolen bed-socks, and climbed under the quilt. Mrs. Tennison had suggested that she take a little rest, and this was by far the warmest place for it. The house
was
comfortable in most ways, but it was cold, though the Tennisons didn't think so. They had exclaimed all through lunch about the warmth of the day; it was all Francie could do to avoid her father's eye, though by this time the Nelsons were getting accustomed to hearing how warm the weather was, in spite of all the evidence.

Jennifer felt no need for a little rest, since she had not gone to the tremendous effort of making an hour's journey by train. Francie giggled as she thought of it; Mrs. Tennison was certainly awfully kind, but she had some odd ideas about young girls. She had sent Jennifer on an errand on her bicycle, to a neighbor's house. “In the country I feel no hesitation about letting her go alone,” she explained to Pop, as if an apology was in order. “Of course, London's a different matter entirely; I never permit Jennifer to wander about alone in London. I'm sure you feel the same about Frances.”

Pop had looked simply staggered. “She's got to have a chaperone, you mean?” he asked.

“Oh no. I'm not all that old-fashioned!” Mrs. Tennison laughed. “No, it's quite sufficient, to my mind, if Jennifer's accompanied by some young friend whenever she goes out. I'd feel no qualms about letting her go with Frances, for instance, the two girls alone. No qualms at all.”

“Girls are so independent nowadays,” added Jennifer's father. “A good thing too, in my estimation. Our parents overdid the coddling act, I always think.”

“Of course they did,” said Mrs. Tennison. “But this part of the country's perfectly safe,” she said emphatically to Pop. As if she feared that she had frightened him. “
Per
fectly safe.”

“How do you feel about tennis?” asked Jennifer, putting her head in Francie's door at three-thirty. “Just a game or two to warm up, before the others get here?”

“What others?” asked Francie drowsily. She had dropped off to sleep, after all, in the welcome warmth of the quilt.

“Mummy asked some people.”

Imagine calling your mother “Mummy” at Jennifer's age, thought Francie. But a lot of the other girls at school did, as well as Jennifer. It was another proof of their incurable childishness, she decided. She replied with manufactured enthusiasm, “Sa-well! Meet you on the court in two minutes.”

If Jennifer can be decent so can I, she said to herself as she tied her tennis-shoe laces. But the fact was, she didn't look forward to playing Jennifer, who was school champion. Tennis hadn't ever been Francie's best game; she wasn't bad at it, but she wasn't terribly good either. However, one must be a good sport, she reminded herself as she ran downstairs to the court, where Jennifer was tightening the net.

“Wizard court!” she said in surprised pleasure, jumping on it. “How lucky you are to have it right here.”

Jennifer was gratified. “It's not just luck; Daddy and Mummy are frightfully keen as well as me,” she said. “They keep it in shape and we're giving tennis parties all the time. We'll have to get your father out for a game or two.”

“Oh, Pop won't play tennis,” said Francie, swinging her racket. “He only fishes, and goes in for workouts in the gym in New York when he thinks he's putting on weight.”

“How odd. Typically American.” Jennifer's tone had taken on the old school tinge, that familiar, unpleasant intonation. I've done it again, thought Francie; just talking about New York must have done it. “Which side do you want?” Jennifer asked, changing the subject, and so they started the game.

It's never much fun playing somebody who is bound to win, unless your opponent plays with good humor. Jennifer didn't. The devil was in her; first she made Francie run all over the court, and when she tired of that she pretended she couldn't be bothered to play a decent game. She could beat Francie, she implied silently, with a hand and a foot tied behind her back. Demonstrating this, she grew careless and nearly lost a game. Then all of a sudden she snapped out of it and began playing sensibly. Francie guessed one of the parents had come out of the house to watch, but her back was to the door and she couldn't look around.

However, Jennifer's good behavior didn't hold up. She began sending over her serves with vicious force. Francie missed. Once, twice, once, twice—

“Hold on, there,” called a protesting voice she didn't recognize. “What
is
this? A private fight?”

Two strange young men in light trousers stood beyond the wire, laughing at them. One was tall, dark, and thin, and the other was medium-sized and very fair—he was rather cute, Francie decided. They were both nice but he was the cuter. “It's war,” she replied pertly, “but Jennifer attacked without any declaration.”

“D'you want the court?” demanded Jennifer of the youth who had spoken, preparing to walk off. “I've got to give Mummy a hand now, anyway.”

“Do take it,” urged Francie as the young men hesitated. “I couldn't possibly play any more, not till I've puffed a bit.”

Without more ado they accepted. She saw them hard at it as she carried tea cloth and plates in Jennifer's footsteps, out to the table on the lawn. They had completely dismissed the girls from their minds, she was interested to observe. For a moment when they first talked to her she thought she had seen a gleam of admiration in their eyes, especially in those of the blond boy, but she must have been mistaken. Never in her life, at any rate in her adolescent life, had she met boys who behaved like that, who didn't seem to care a bit whether or not she was there.

Nobody seemed to think of making introductions, but from a conversation she deliberately overheard between Pop and Mrs. Tennison, sitting on the lawn, she learned that the boys were named Peter and Mark, that Peter lived in the village where Mark, his friend (the cute one) was visiting him, and that both of them were constantly dropping in here to play tennis. Pop said casually how nice it was for Jennifer to have other young people around, an innocent remark that surprised and amused Mrs. Tennison.

“Oh, they've no time for
Jennifer
, Mr. Nelson! They're far too grand for such an unimportant little girl. They're grown up, you know—quite young men. They were both called up for the last year of the war, and now they're at Oxford.”

“No time for girls, eh?” Pop's eyes twinkled.

“I don't know about that, but certainly they've no time for children like our chicks, who are still in the nursery. Or ought to be.”

“I wouldn't say the nursery, exactly,” said Francie's father. “After what I've seen going on among young folks, I doubt they're as indifferent as you seem to think.”

Francie stole a glance at Jennifer as they carried plates of cake and sandwiches out to the tea table. Had she heard this exchange? Would she consider it in bad taste? But Jennifer's eyes were fixed on the sandwiches with what looked like genuine indifference to anything her elders might be saying.

“Shall I bring the brown sugar, Mummy?” she asked.

“No, my love, this will do nicely. You'd better go and tell the boys tea's ready.”

From her stiff little chair near the teapot Francie watched the three crossing the lawn toward the table. The dark boy, Peter, idly reached out as he walked and tugged Jennifer's hair, whereupon she struck at him and he caught her fist and held it off. Then Mark pretended to trip her up. Both boys teased her as if she were a large baby or a good-natured pet dog, and like a baby or a dog Jennifer reacted to it, half-laughing, yet nearly angry. It was strange altogether, thought Francie. Nobody behaved like that in her crowd at home; in fact she couldn't remember indulging in any play in the same roughhouse spirit since she was twelve years old. Again she was astonished, as she so often was at Fairfields, by the simplicity of Young England's pleasures.

“Yet Jennifer's not quite as childish as she looks,” she thought with a touch of spite. “She's liking it.” Jennifer sat down next to her mother and began dispensing bread and butter like a little lady. Her healthy color was higher than usual, and as Mark swallowed sandwiches she kept glancing furtively at him. Evidently Francie was not the only one who thought he was cute.

An instinct stirred in Francie which had been long asleep. Ruth would have recognized the danger signals in her eyes. Francie Nelson was on the warpath.

“If you want to put yourself across with somebody,” she had often said to Ruth, during long cozy chats in Jefferson over double chocolate malteds, “you've got to
mean
it. Be aware of the man. Concentrate. I can't tell you how to do it, exactly, but it works.”

Now Francie concentrated on Mark. She worked hard at it, without showing any effort. All afternoon she stalked him like an accomplished hunter; she watched him, laughed when he spoke, dropped her eyes if he happened to look at her, and then when he looked again met his gaze squarely. She would have described the process to Ruth as “Treatment A.” The first task, she knew, was to get past that ghastly indifference he seemed to wear like a coat of mail.

“I've done it,” she thought at last, with a thrill of satisfaction.

She had done it, as a matter of fact, too thoroughly. Not only Mark but Peter as well suddenly began to pay her attention. And as a special triumph, it wasn't the rather contemptuous attention they bestowed on Jennifer. Neither of them tweaked Francie's hair or took other liberties of that sort. Instead they talked to her as to an equal. They asked her if she had visited Oxford. They requested her opinion on the latest movie showing in London.