Something Light (10 page)

Number Ten moistened his lips.

“It looks nice, Miss Datchett?”

Louisa swallowed a curse and lied.

“I thought you might like to see,” explained Number Ten. “Not to bother you!” he added carefully. “There is no hurry!”

It had been Louisa's intention to reach Broydon Court by lunchtime and get in a first free meal; but she'd probably be late as it was …

He made a little joke.

“I do not suppose them
waiting
for these, at the shops!”

Louisa spent half the afternoon peddling beechnuts. Fortunately she had no doubt where to offer them—only in the most homespun, the most arty and crafty of
boutiques
would they be so much as looked at. Louisa took a bus to Chelsea. Fortunately again, in each of the establishments she had her eye on she found a man in charge; Louisa with true nobility let it be assumed that her horrible wares were of her own fabrication. (Actually, against a swatch of tweed or hand-woven linen the boutonnières didn't look so bad; the potential tiara or carcanet Louisa wisely wrote off altogether.) She returned with the box half-emptied and twenty-one shillings in cash; banged on Number Ten's door, thrust remainders and takings into his hands, refused to be played to on the flute, and at last got down to filling, once again, her airline giveaway bags.

Thus she didn't get any lunch at all; and didn't reach Broydon until nearly five.

4

It was a queer sensation, to Louisa, to be staying at Broydon Court.

In her youth, the Court had been an ultimate symbol of luxury. Once a fine seignorial mansion, and still removed by the breadth of the Common from Broydon's more commercial paths, the Court was widely believed to accept no inmate under the rank of retired colonel. (A genuine retired admiral set the tone.) To book a table for dinner there the local aspirant required certain influence. Naturally neither Louisa nor anyone she knew had ever set foot inside the place; its glories were bruited among the commonalty by such other infra dig characters as chambermaids or tradesmen, from whom a fascinated public learned that each bedroom had its solid mahogany suite, that the kitchen used a pint of cream a day, and that the cellars were kept full of champagne.—A gardener with a boy under him, too grand in the ordinary way for gossip, mentioned to his friend the chemist not only vineries, but pineries; and though this might be a harking-back to the past, the exotic odor of pineapple undoubtedly persisted, haloing Broydon Court with a quite uncommon aura.

Thus to find the whole establishment slightly tatty was to Louisa at once a relief and a disappointment.

“Miss Datchett? How prompt you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Brent.

“I'm fitting you in,” explained Louisa.

They passed through the lounge.—It was so large, and so gloomy, it reminded Louisa of Gladstone Mansions. But there are shades of gloom—the chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt, the murk of a bad family portrait; the gloom of the Broydon Court lounge definitely reflected the latter. Only one resident was visible, and she an ancient dame playing patience at a balding card table.

“Haven't you still got the Admiral?” asked Louisa impulsively.

Mrs. Brent looked surprised.

“Admiral Colley? Do you know him?”

“Not
well,”
admitted Louisa. “I'd still like to see him again.”

“So you will,” said Mrs. Brent, regarding her with new respect. (Perhaps things hadn't entirely changed, at Broydon Court.) “Though I'm afraid you'll find him,” she added, “rather inclined to say things he doesn't
mean
. Rather
silly
things, you know, about the food …”

Evidently the grub had gone off too, thought Louisa regretfully; it would still be free.—There was mahogany in the bedroom all right. There was so much mahogany, indeed, Louisa had hardly room to turn round. But she recognized her slightly ambiguous status, and after all could have been put a floor higher. She was only on the third.

“And as soon as you come down,” promised Mrs. Brent, “I'll have Ivor and Ivan ready to meet you. You'll find their kennel at the back—”

“Splendid,” said Louisa.

Mrs. Brent paused. Between the moment of Louisa's telephoning, and the moment of her arrival, Mrs. Brent had had time to think; and like many other people who had anything to do with Louisa, had perhaps discovered a need for—fuller explanations.

“Do you
really,”
asked Mrs. Brent, “need a whole
week?
Just to photograph two dogs?”

Louisa smiled.

“Just to
snap
them, of course not. What
I
'm after—besides of course the straights—is probably the most difficult damn shot on earth. If I can get your dogs in action, together—romping together—we can have a full-page spread in any paper you like. I'm not sure
Country Month
's even good enough—”

“
I
only thought of getting them in at all,” said Mrs. Brent, quite astonished.

“I'm not sure they couldn't be syndicated,” mused Louisa.

“Syndicated?”

“Which would do me a lot of good too,” said Louisa frankly. “And
that's
why I'm prepared to give a week.”

She pulled it off all right. Whether or not perfectly convinced, Mrs. Brent was at least silenced; Louisa had successfully established her base.

5

The next step was obviously to reconnoiter.—It must be said at once that Louisa had no intention of wasting the next precious hour on Ivor and Ivan. What she intended was to catch Jimmy Brown just before he shut up shop—say at ten to six; it was now nearly half past five, and she reckoned on a twenty minutes' walk to the High Street. The situation presented certain difficulties, however; though she could probably avoid the kennels (at the back), what further fuller explanations would be needed, of her truancy!

Yet she couldn't endure to wait. She had only a week—and was besides naturally anxious to see what Jimmy looked like.

After a little thought, Louisa hit on a bright idea. It involved her slipping away at once, without even renewing her make-up; it involved her reencountering a long-lost love while carrying a parcel of liver: but strategically speaking, it was pretty bright.

Chapter Ten

1

From an island in the middle of the High Street, parcel of liver in hand, prudent Louisa first took a good look at the shop.

There could be no doubt of its prosperity. Fresh green paint framed the large window, and on the fascia threw into bold relief the name of James Brown painted in white. Behind immaculate glass the range of spectacle frames, limited in Louisa's day to gold, silver and tortoise shell—or hadn't even steel its humble place?—now displayed the laminated in every color, the
diamanté
and even the bamboo. The sign that jutted from above was still the traditional pair of spectacles; but here too, what advance! The lenses weren't merely, in broad daylight, illuminated; the light went on and off …

Two customers came out while Louisa watched.

She waited however a moment longer. It was almost six. A head-scarved, plumpish figure—“Honestly, she could
do
with a foundation garment!” thought Louisa—emerged and made off towards a bus stop. Behind the glass door a taller, a masculine silhouette reached up to pull the blind.

Louisa's hands felt slightly damp—but it might have been the liver. She completed the crossing at a run, and found the door—could it be symbolically?—still unlocked.

2

The years had improved him. He still wore glasses, but no longer so pebble-lensed, and framed with appropriate dignity. His long gangling figure had filled out, giving his height importance. (“Taller than I am!” thought Louisa gladly; she wouldn't have to wear flat heels.) In sober but well-cut suit—shirt fresh and tie positively fashionable—there stood Jimmy Brown, all, and far, far more, than Louisa had hoped.

The blind rattled up.

“Louisa! For heavens' sake,
Louisa!”

“Hi,” said Louisa.

It had been an anxious moment for her; but there was no mistaking his pleasure. It equaled, it overtopped his astonishment, as he stood beaming down. Louisa was so rarely beamed down on, this alone, if he'd been a perfect stranger, would have attracted her to him at once.

“This is amazing,” declared Jimmy Brown earnestly. “I was thinking of you only this lunchtime, passing the Library.—And now, dammit, it's Thursday!”

Louisa thought fast. Actually for the last twenty-four hours she'd been so living in the past, she picked up both reference and implication almost instantaneously.

“Ibsen night?”

“What a memory you've got!” exclaimed Jimmy admiringly. “Actually we're reading
Pygmalion;
I'm Higgins. But never mind that now! What are you
doing
here, Louisa?”

Even before she answered—and never was answer readier—her thoughts had raced again. Reading circles, naturally, go round in circles: ten years earlier, Jimmy'd been no more than a Bystander. Now he was Professor Higgins! Yet with this increased stature went no diminution of steadiness; steadily he'd stuck to the Circle, steadily, now, in the midst of whatever emotional excitement, he recalled the evening's commitment …

“It's a job,” explained Louisa (how truthfully!). “I'm photographing Mrs. Brent's borzois. She's putting me up at the Court.”

“I
say!”
marveled Jimmy. “I always knew you'd do well, Louisa, but I'd no idea you were such a swell as all that!—How long for?”

“Perhaps a week …”

“Then that's all right, I shan't have to chuck Higgins. Can you give me tomorrow night instead?”

“I'd love to,” said Louisa.

“Then we can talk. Now, I'll just have a look at you!” said Jimmy Brown.

Feeling positively nervous, Louisa advanced into the shop and turned to face him.—It was so lined with mirrors, his little shop, from every angle a Louisa was reflected back; as were also a couple of gleaming counters (on one of which she hastily deposited the packet of liver) and three or four smart little chairs with yellow seats and chromium legs. The days of H. Brown's fumed oak and steel rims seemed dead indeed …

Which reminded her.—Louisa had been if anything rather fond of old Mr. Brown, but how infinitely preferable that Jimmy should be his own master!

“Your father—?” she suggested delicately.

“Passed on. Both,” said Jimmy. His tone was exactly right; he sounded sad, but not heartbroken. His eyes were still on her fiery head. “And your own people here, Louisa?”

“Passed on too.”

His glance dropped to her bare, ungloved left hand.

“No, I'm not married yet!” smiled Louisa.

“That's rum,” said Jimmy seriously. “I've always thought of you as married. In fact, I shouldn't have been surprised if you'd been married two or three times.”

Louisa felt a momentary dismay.

“Do I look as dashing as all that?”

“To be frank, yes,” said Jimmy. “As you always did, Louisa! I suppose you just haven't been able to make up your mind.”

Well, there were advantages in looking dashing after all, thought Louisa. (She'd have liked to point this out to Mrs. Anstruther. Or did Jimmy count as a man at the top? In Broydon, probably yes; a circumstance to please her too.) But there was now a question she urgently needed to put herself; though she knew Jimmy wasn't married either, it suddenly struck her, considering his altogether improved appearance and personality, that he might well be engaged. Even after a week's tuition from Enid, Louisa had still a few scruples; she couldn't see herself cutting out some dewy-eyed fiancée …

She chose her words with care; not to betray what information she already possessed.

“If it comes to that, what about you?”

He paused so long before replying, she had time to envisage the dewy-eyed in detail—petite, brunette, with slightly prominent front teeth; probably due (being both ladylike and a bit silly) to read Miss Eynsford Hill to his Professor Higgins. But how groundless her fears! He was actually fabricating a witty compliment.

“I've been waiting for a girl with red hair and long legs,” said Jimmy. “They don't seem to grow here any more.—Will you call for me again tomorrow, Louisa?”

“You bet,” breathed Louisa.

He hesitated.

“If I don't walk back with you now, it's because I do rather want to run through my part,” said steady Jimmy Brown.

3

In the drive of Broydon Court, as Louisa had half anticipated, stood Mrs. Brent flanked by Ivor and Ivan Cracarovitch.—At this, her first view of the latter, Louisa was immediately and favorably struck by a resemblance: not between dogs and owner (Mrs. Brent, unlike Mrs. Meare, was obviously in the wrong class), but between Ivor and Ivan and Kurt and René at Cannes. The soft cravats of hair about their throats, their long, elegantly loose trousers, recalled so distinctly the appearance of René and Kurt under wraps after bathing, Louisa felt on terms with them at once.

“My dear Miss Datchett—” began Mrs. Brent ominously.

“Liver!” said Louisa.

Was it René she addressed, or Kurt? Louisa couldn't at this point distinguish. In any case, both nosed appreciatively at her hand.

“Say you want it!” instructed Louisa.

Two plumy tails quivered avidly.

“Then you shall have it!” said Louisa.—“My dear Mrs. Brent,” she added smoothly,
“never
be introduced to a strange dog empty-handed! I've been all the way to the High Street, I've been to two shops, but I'm sure you'll agree that it was time well spent!”

She pulled it off again.

Louisa was in fact to get on very well with Ivor and Ivan Cracarovitch; even though she never bought them any more liver.