Nightingale Wood (21 page)

So, with all these ominous changes in mind, Mrs Wither quite agreed with Mr Wither when he said that it might be a good idea just to find out what Viola was going to wear that night, in case it was ‘unsuitable’. By unsuitable, Mr Wither meant likely to be stared at, cut very low with a very short skirt, red velvet with a lot of poppies on it, or something of that sort.

Mrs Wither knocked at Viola’s door.

‘Hullo?’ said her rather muffled voice. ‘Come in.’

She was washing stockings in her basin, a habit of hers that Mrs Wither much disliked; a row of them was hanging half-way out of the window and two pairs of gloves were pinned to the curtains.

She looked up and smiled. She had been crying.

Mrs Wither knew why. It was the anniversary of her father’s death, Tina had said yesterday. Mrs Wither thought it wiser not to refer to this. She began:

‘There you are, dear. I just wanted to have a little talk with you about tonight. (Those could always go to the laundry, you know … they take such a long time to dry here … Oh dear! they are dripping on the floor.’)

‘I’ll put down a newspaper,’ said Viola, and did.

‘Well, dear, now about tonight. What are you going to wear? I just want to make sure that our colour-schemes will not clash. Tina is wearing her brown, as you know, and Madge will be in green, and I shall be in wine-colour.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Viola, in that new cool tone she seemed to have acquired with the loss of her hair. She went rather pink but said no more. A bagful of advice from Shirley, and the knowledge that her new haircut was fashionable as well as startlingly distinguished, had hardened our Viola surprisingly. Inwardly, she might be the same girl; but outwardly she was not.

‘And what will you wear, dear?’ pursued Mrs Wither.

‘A frock,’ giggled Viola. ‘At least, it would look rather odd if I didn’t, wouldn’t it?’

Mrs Wither smiled painfully.

‘What colour?’

‘Well …’ Viola was wringing out a pair of stockings and sending splashes over the wall-paper. ‘As a matter of fact, it’s a surprise, so I hope you won’t think me an awful pig if I don’t tell you. I don’t want anyone to see it until tonight.’

‘A surprise! That sounds very exciting,’ said Mrs Wither gloomily. (Red. It was sure to be bright red, with a lot of spangles and cut disgracefully low).

‘Yes, it is,’ said Viola, smiling with happiness at the very thought of her frock.

‘Don’t you think, dear, you had better give me just a hint about the colour? Then the girls and I can be quite sure that we shan’t clash.’

‘Oh? that’ll be all right,’ off-handedly.

‘It is white, then? Or black?’

A smiling shake of the head.

‘Well, I must just possess my soul in patience,’ said Mrs Wither, getting up, with a tight smile. ‘I am quite longing to see this wonderful frock.’

‘Oh it’s
lovely
,’ said Viola, earnestly. ‘It’s a – no, I won’t tell you! You wait till tonight.’

Alone, she went over to the glass and began to comb the famous curls. She never tired of doing this, nor of studying her transformed face. Her chin was more pointed, her mouth pinker and prettier, her eyes and eyebrows darker below their ash-blonde crown. She had small shapely ears; now they showed. Her head was a good shape; that was displayed too. Her neck was longer and whiter than most girls’; that had an innings as well. Best of all, she no longer looked what Shirley called moist. She was demure yet gay, like a cherub on its night out.

And all because she had said casually to Shirley, as they sat finishing their black-currant jelly sundaes at the Corner House,
I must do something about my hair. I’m awfully fed up with it. Funny, only this morning, coming up in the train, I was thinking about that picture in Dad’s old Shakespeare I used to love when I was a kid, the one he always said I was called after, you know, the girl dressed like a boy with her hair in curls all over her head. That’s how I’d love to have mine done
. And Shirley had said, as casually,
Well, why don’t you? You’ve got a natural kink, haven’t you, and you could have it permed to help it. Let’s go and get it done after lunch
.

And after lunch they found a hairdresser with three hours to spare, off Oxford Street, and got it done.

Oh, please,
please
, let Him be there, and let Him dance with me.

Miss Barlow, thoughtfully rubbing a quiet but expensive toilet-water over her smooth arms at a quarter to eight that evening, in front of her mirror at Grassmere, thought what a bore this Ball was, and congratulated herself on having brought down for it a dress she had worn several times, which was not one of her favourites. There was no point in wasting a good dress on these people. No one would be there. Essex was a dowdy county; and the Dovewoods were frumps. Not an old title, six plain clever children, not much money, religious, a large, ugly, inadequately heated house. Who were the Dovewoods, that Miss Barlow should shine for them?

Bang! on her door.

‘Phyl! Can you do something to this tie for me? I’ve slaughtered two already.’

‘Of course.’ She unhurriedly put on a house coat, and opened the door to Victor.

He was in shirt sleeves and dress trousers, with a fresh white tie in one hand, and looked attractive, as a handsome man does in undress. There was an intimacy in the competent wifely way she took possession of the tie and began to adjust it that showed how old their friendship was and how naturally it would develop into marriage; anyone, seeing them thus, would have said that they were married already.

‘Keep still.’

‘You’re tickling.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What’s that stuff you’ve got on? It’s good.’

‘My perfume, do you mean?
English April
. I’m glad you like it.’

Her brown smooth fingers moved deftly, switching the white strip into a correct butterfly of a bow.

‘There. How amusing – your still not being able to cope with a tie.’

‘I can usually; only tonight, lady, I’m kinda noivous.’

He gave her a lightning kiss and went back laughing to his room. Phyllis was smiling, too, as she took off her coat and re-painted her lips. Victor was nice tonight. Sometimes he bored her, and sometimes he irritated her by coming the he-man, but tonight he was definitely attractive. As he laughed down at her, she was warmed by a sudden glow of feeling. She had been fixing ties for Victor since he was eighteen, and tonight she felt willing, even eager, to go on fixing them for him until he was sixty-eight. Good old boy; nice-looking, rich, go-ahead, first-class at his job and likely to get even better (and richer) as he got older. True, she had known him for so long that he was more like a brother than a possible husband, but at least she knew him thoroughly, and they liked the same things, the same sort of life. There would be no fear of their ending up after three years with a divorce. Phyllis took divorces for granted, of course; if a thing wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t; but she did not want her own marriage to end in one. Divorces were rather bad style, really; it was smarter and newer to have one husband for a long time and be seen about with him. Children were smart, too: but there were limits. I don’t spoil my figure for anyone, thank you.

All the same, it would be fun, being married to Victor.

The Ball began at eight o’clock, and the common herd, determined to have its money’s worth, was there on the tick; but the quality never arrived until nine or even later, thereby creating the impression that their lives were such a dervish whirl of gaiety that what was the Infirmary Ball to them?

To Viola, in a fever of impatience to get there and begin dancing, the Withers seemed to crawl through dinner (lighter than usual, because of the Refreshments they would take at the Ball); but at last it was over, and they all went out into the splendid light of evening, where the car waited with Saxon holding open the door. The green heads of the oaks on the other side of the road glowed above dark bushes in the drive, the sky was peaceful gold, the air smelled of wild flowers and dust. A cloud of gnats moved up and down, up and down. The ghostly moon was rising, huge in the east over the far-off sea.

The ladies settled themselves, Viola wrapped from neck to toes in a large old velvet cloak that had been Shirley’s which successfully hid the surprise dress. There had been a number of sour jokes because she wore the cloak during dinner. Mr Wither, exhaling a strong odour of moth-balls, seated himself with creaks, posed his hands upon his knees and counted the flock.

‘Where is Madge?’ demanded Mr Wither, resignedly.

‘She won’t be long, dear.’

‘She’s just saying good night to Polo,’ said Viola, and even as she spoke, a voice could be heard crying heartily: ‘Good dog! Good dog! Lie down, sir. Back soon,’ which manly words did not at all conceal the emotion in the speaker’s tone. Then Madge appeared at the double, looking enormous in bright green.

Tina made room for her. Tina was trying not to look at Saxon; and wondering if he thought she looked pretty in her chiffon dress of silver, brown and grey, like a moth.

‘Now, if we are all here, we may as well go,’ said Mr Wither awfully, putting back his watch into his pocket.

‘The Assembly Rooms.’ The car moved off.

‘Good heavens, it’s still afternoon! Are you sure it’s really nine, Victor? Hetty, is that bit of hair meant?’ Two cool fingers sharply pulled Hetty’s rat’s-tail. ‘That’s a good dress; I’ve seen it before, haven’t I?’

‘So have I yours; you had it last year,’ retorted Hetty, stooping into the car and raising her voice as Miss Barlow disappeared into the other with Victor. Hetty looked despairingly at the two faces confronting her: her aunt’s delicately painted, middle-aged, cheerful and tired; young Mr Andrew’s, a mere vacuity, so many insignificant features grouped meaninglessly upon a frame of bones. She wondered if his own mother would know him in a crowd. Then she wondered what would Dr Johnson have said of a face like that? The corners of her mouth went up and she felt better.

‘The Assembly Rooms,’ said Mrs Spring.

With Victor driving his own, the two cars moved off.

CHAPTER XII

When the Springs’ party arrived, the Ball was well away, and the rooms were full. Three hundred laughing, chattering people in their best clothes were there, exhilarated by swift movement to music and by the Dovewood Cup, which had been tasted by Mr Joe Knoedler and the Boys and pronounced, in amazed voices, to be not so bad. (Alcohol, in short, could be detected therein.)

The ladies went at once to the cloakroom to repair the ravages caused by the drive, while Victor and Mr Andrews, having parked the cars, awaited them in the vestibule.

The vestibule had yellow stucco columns, a shabby red carpet with settees to match, and busts of musicians all over it; the Rooms had been locally famous for a series of concerts during the 1880s. Behind the tall swing doors, Victor could see the dancers and hear the music swell and die as the doors swung open; and as he was staring idly, wondering if Knoedler’s Boys were coming up to scratch and how soon he could go home, he saw something familiar drifting past the glass panels. It was a girl’s head, covered with short fair curls.

There she is! he thought, recognizing her with an excitement that amused him. So she
is
local produce! Who’s that with her? No one I know. Rather a tick. Not tall enough for her. She looks a bit down. What a peach. I wonder who she’s staying with?

Viola was, in fact, a bit down. She had arrived at the Ball on tip-toe, quivering with happiness and excitement and longing to dance. The long wall-mirrors told her that she was transformed into a tall, silver-headed belle in a floating dress of palest blue pleated chiffon, with a dark-red sash like a little girl’s. Everyone was staring at her; lots of people had waved and said, ‘Hullo, Vi! I didn’t recognize you. I like your hair!’ and gone on staring at her as they danced away.

And Mrs Wither had approved her frock, after all, though she did say that it must be rather chilly, with no sleeves and no back and not much front, and even Mr Wither, revolving slowly in a corner with Mrs Wither on a square foot of floor, had said that it was pretty (he was so relieved that it was not red and very short and all over spangles, that he was prepared to like anything) and Tina had opened her big eyes exceedingly wide and said, ‘Hul-lo! and where did
that
come from? If that isn’t a Rose-Berthe, I don’t know anything about clothes,’ and Viola, hopping with glee, had said triumphantly that it
was
a Rose-Berthe, reduced in successive sales and sold at last to Shirley by a friend who kept a dress shop, and Shirley had sold it to Viola for – ‘Well, I haven’t any money left now, but never mind!’ and away Viola had skimmed, like a pale blue angel, and dived into the heart of the Ball … where there was no one romantic to dance with her.

There were only local boys, red-handed and would-be funny, or Doctor Parsham, sixty and stout, who said that such a lovely lady must spare him a dance, only the son of the chemist whose family had kept shop in the Market Place for two hundred years, who was contemptuous about the Infirmary Ball and well informed about slums in Glasgow, only a spotty young house-agent whose father had known Viola’s father, and a number of other persons of that sort.

The Withers did not at all like Viola dancing with these people, but they kept on coming up on the slightest excuses and asking her for dances and the music was so enticing, the floor so good, that she could not bear to sit out most of the dances, as Tina and Madge were doing; and as the Withers knew so few young men, they could not blame Viola if she found her own partners.

There was a number of young male gentry there, but, like Victor, they had come with their own parties and had to look after the girls in them. It was many years since local young men had occasionally cultivated the acquaintance of the Withers because of Tina, and now there was no reason why the Withers should know any young men so they did not. Viola was a widow; widows should not need young men, thought Mr and Mrs Wither, though it was true that no one would think Viola a widow, from the way she behaved.