The Bazaar and Other Stories (30 page)

 

When Betty returned to the tent, very cross, Miss Singleton was
kneeling down on a mackintosh, draping the front of the tea stall
with loops of pink muslin. She seemed to be getting on nicely, her
sou’wester was pushed right back in creative excitement and Betty
knew she had disturbed her from nothing but spite. Betty was glad
when Captain Winch, who had been waiting behind Miss Singleton,
sly as a magpie, slipped quietly off with her box of pins.

 

Now that the little matter had been put right, Mrs. Bude spent a
wonderful morning. She had the stall to herself; the others would
not arrive till this afternoon. Hers was not a very good head,
⁵
she
was over-susceptible to colour; as more and more flowers were
carried in, her manner, Paula observed, became really foolish. You
would have thought this a private festival. Shaking her sweet-pea
into jugs she hummed, she sang; she sorted her roses out into
shades, contrasted them, massed them. With a sense of delicious
guilt
⁶
she touched their petals – she knew now, but could not
explain, why women went wrong – “They’re so sweet, they’re so
dark,” she said – no, they were pale too: it was not that. She
thought, “I should make quite a florist,” dipping her face into the
sweet-pea. The flowers filled the warm, damp air of the tent; they
curved yet had wide wings. She flushed and her hands tingled – “I
wish I were like you; I wish I were you.” Here were the delphiniums
with no nonsense about them – Mrs. Bude collected herself and put
the delphiniums in Norman
⁷
jugs – and carnations she thought of
wiring into sprays: she pictured pearls and a bare shoulder. She
hummed, she sang, she had her own pins: no one interrupted her.
She covered the front of the stall with Denniston’s green crêpe
paper and pinned on pink letters she had cut out at home with “Buy
my Pretty Posies.”

 

Lady Potter, passing, thought the idea charming, but frowned:
she could not help feeling annoyed with Harold and Paula. Every
time the telephone rang Paula sprang in through a window and
could be heard pounding across the library. And Harold certainly
needed a father’s guidance. Already he had offended Captain Winch,
and now from some misdirected idea of hospitality he kept coming
out to offer the Vicar whiskey when the Vicar was busy pegging
down tapes for the potato races. “What about clock golf?” Harold’s
friend kept saying tactlessly, standing by. The Vicar was already very
much upset about Mrs. Space and had had a long talk with Lady
Potter about her, wondering whether anything could be done.

 

Mrs. Bude fetched a Mrs. Bird and a Miss Brown to look at her
flower stall. Mrs. Bird said, “You really have great taste,” and Miss
Brown said that she was artistic. So Mrs. Bude went back with them
to admire the fancy stall. A nightdress case covered with pink bows
was arranged in the centre, for Lady Hottenham to buy.
⁸
If Lady
Hottenham did not buy the nightdress case
⁹
it would have to be
raffled. “But her daughter is engaged to be married,” said Miss Brown
optimistically.

 

Meanwhile, the sky had lightened, the rain stopped. Lady Potter
went in to lie down for an hour before lunch. Mrs. Bude, plucking
shreds of fern from her dress, went home to dinner.

The sun came out a little way; only this was needed, the tents began
to steam. Soon steam seemed to be going up from the whole garden;
passing between the rhododendrons up the avenue, in a dull glitter,
you would have thought you were in the tropics. To the empty
paddock, trampled already as though it had been the scene of a
rodeo, luncheon sounds came out from the diningroom, where Lady
Potter, economising her forces, ate with her mouth shut but Harold’s
friend laughed loudly.

 

Mrs. Bude, in sprigged crêpe de chine, was the first to appear again.
She walked in and out of the tents, inordinately happy. She was not
a vain woman, but only her reluctance to miss Lady Hottenham’s
arrival tore her from her looking glass. Mr. Bude
¹⁰
had not noticed
her appearance, but she was, as a matter of fact, very smart. She
wore a lace hat, she had exchanged her spectacles for a pair of
rimless pince-nez and touched up her nose with white
papiers poudrés
.
She wore white kid gloves, though she knew she would have to take
them off. She was forty-two, but excitement filled her and a kind of
holiness, as though this were a wedding day. Her look, craning a
little, ready for admiration, went from stall to stall: round the empty
tents her goodness of heart went with her like a companion.

Mrs. Armitage came in; they smiled gaily and glanced at each
other’s dresses. Then all the other helpers began to come up the
avenue. Soon the band was playing selections from

The Mikado
.
¹¹
“It
is very loud,” said Mrs. Armitage, “we shall hardly hear ourselves
speak.” But she smiled with gratification. At the first of the Hall
steps they could see Sir Harold helping Lady Hottenham out of her
car. She was warm and rather crushed-looking, in a good deal of
lace, as though she had not been properly packed. Paula came out
in a chiffon dress, without the least air of pleasurable anticipation.
Lady Potter, upstairs, thought it was too bad of Lady Hottenham to
be so punctual.

Lady Hottenham declared the bazaar open on some duck-boards
covered with a red rug under a plane tree at the corner of the
paddock. The crowd

¹²
was, naturally, silent and a large number of
people stood round in a semi-circle. Gentlemen, with an idea that
the ceremony was religious, bared their heads. The bazaar was in
aid of the cottage hospital. “It often seems to me,” said Lady
Hottenham, “that health is happiness . . . I often think this is very
true. Lives of great men all remind us that we should do something
for the unfortunate. The unfortunate are in our midst: your beautiful
cottage hospital is not a mile from here. I passed it on my drive here
this afternoon and thought how gay it looked with those nice
geraniums, and yet how helpful to the unfortunate. I see that besides
the stalls with their artistic needlework and tempting array of, er, of
cakes and all sorts of needlework, which I hope to visit, there are
many sideshows and entertainments provided. Even cokernut shies:
I am sure we all love to shy a cocoanut.
¹³
I am sure we shall all spend
a very gay afternoon, while keeping in mind the dear cottage
hospital. I have much pleasure in declaring the bazaar open.”

They all clapped; tears came to Mrs. Bude’s eyes and she split the
sides of her white kid gloves. Gertie Lewis, in a pink sash, stepped
forward to present a bouquet. She ducked, and Lady Hottenham
kissed the brim of her bonnet. The band played

Samson and Delilah
¹⁴
and they all streamed back to the tents.

Lady Hottenham admired the nightdress case but bought two
dozen guest towels. “It is all so tempting,” she said, and bought some
white net squares to put over milk-jugs, that were already bespoken.
Paula Potter accompanied her, carrying a basket; they moved on to
the flower stall. Here trade was not very brisk; Mrs. Bude had sent
the two Miss Gibbses away because it embarrassed her to stand all
three in a row, looking out for customers.” I should like to take this
whole stall home as it stands!” exclaimed Lady Hottenham raptur
ously. “Buy my Pretty Posies,” Lady Hottenham read aloud. “How
nice,” she added, and asked if they sold vegetables. She bought two
bulb bowls and trailed off, murmuring. Hot brown light came
through the canvas roof of the tent; Mrs. Bude’s patent leather shoes
began to pinch: she sat down on a chair behind the stall, her face on
a level with the sweet-pea. Her thoughts took coral pink wings and
began to fly far away. She had a half-crown and a florin in one
saucer, seven pence halfpenny in the other.

¹⁵
How odd, she thought,
if this were my livelihood.

Paula Potter made over Lady Hottenham to Harold, quite un
scrupulously, and ran away by herself behind the tents. “It’s absurd,”
she muttered. She tripped over a tent peg and swore; when she
looked up there stood her young man, crimson, opening and shut
ting his mouth at her like a fish.

“I have nothing to say,” said Paula icily.

 

“I know,” agreed the young man. “But look here – ”

 

“This is a bazaar. I believe I did once mention we were going to

have a bazaar. Not of course that you could be expected to read a
letter. But still I believe I did once happen to mention a bazaar. This
is the bazaar now; it’s going on: these are the tents.”

“I know. But look here – ”

 

“I expect you just thought we were going to live in tents. I expect
if I had happened to mention we were going to live in tents you
wouldn’t – ”

 

The young man, raising his voice, said: “But I came down – ”

 

“We can’t brawl here,” said Paula. It was now ridiculous to reflect
that she had spent, this morning, seven and six on telegrams. She
turned and walked
¹⁶
quickly away, tripping over more tent pegs,
feeling wonderfully cheerful. “I shall always,” she thought, “remem
ber the bazaar with affection.”

 

The young man, after a glance at her disappearing green heels,
walked placidly in the other direction. He had the afternoon before
him. It was now ridiculous to reflect he had just spent twenty-five
shillings on a train fare. He found Harold’s friend and asked him to
give him a drink.
¹⁷
Miss Jolley Has No Plans for the Future
^“
I
have no idea,” she said. “I haven’t had time to think yet.
The experience has been awful, but has showed me what true friends
I have. Yes, that was Miss Kisby I left the court with. She is a sweet
girl, we were friends at school . . . Well you might, of course, but
she’s rather shy. She came out in all the photographs with her arm
up . . . Well, I am rather. I could hardly expect to be otherwise, I
suppose. I don’t get knocked up easily, but of course there are limits
. . . No I suppose I oughtn’t, that’s what they’ve all been saying. But
at the moment, though it may sound funny, I don’t seem to notice if
I’m alone or not.”

She got up and straightened a pleated parchment lampshade.
“Things seem to get to look all wrong,” she said, “while one’s away
. . . Oh thanks. Yes,

¹
perhaps I will,” she said, accepting a cigarette.
“There ought to be some in the flat, but I don’t know.” Laughing
with a good deal of bravado, she added: “To tell you the truth, I’d
got out of the way of it lately . . . Yes, I
would
rather not. I’m sure
you see how I feel. I might feel I could talk to you if you were just
a friend, but I don’t want any more to go into the Press. I must
simply put all thought of him out of my mind . . . No, my feelings
are
not
unchanged. They are very much changed. I don’t know who
got hold of the idea that they were unchanged. I never said so and
when Miss Kisby showed me the bit in the paper I was very much
annoyed. At a time like this it seems to me that people rout
²
round
in the most unscrupulous way, and put down all sorts of things that
have never been said. I
never
said that my feelings for Mr. Wallace
were unchanged, and I’m quite certain Miss Kisby didn’t either.
Unless she was so shy that I
³
misunderstood what she meant.

“Well, I’m sorry if the other would look better in your paper, but
I simply cannot pretend. I’m not that sort of girl. I would have been
prepared to stand by Mr. Wallace to the end, but he betrayed my
trust and upset me very much. So that naturally my feelings have
changed. If you must bring in Mr. Wallace’s name in connection
with mine in your paper, which I should prefer you not to, I should
prefer you to say that I would be returning Mr. Wallace’s ring
immediately if he were allowed to receive parcels in – where he is.
As it is, I shall lodge it with the bank till he – till he

is
allowed to
receive parcels . . .Yes, it was a nice ring, pearl and amethyst . . . Yes,
we bought it together . . . Yes, he was free with money. Of course I
had no idea –
⁴

“Yes, I have got some. I haven’t had time yet to – Anyhow, there
isn’t an open fireplace in this flat. I must take them round to Miss
Kisby’s: her flat’s more old-fashioned . . . No, that’s out of the
question. No, I simply couldn’t possibly really. No matter for how
much . . . No, not even for twice that. Yes, I know girls do, but I do
think there are limits. I never have been able to see how they could.
Besides – No, please don’t go on; you really will upset me . . . No, I
suppose there

was
no harm in your just asking. I know many women
do . . . No, not for five
thousand
.

“Well, if you care just to

see
an envelope. Or I may have a quite
social note or two, when we first met, you see . . . How sticky this
lock’s got. I wonder if damp affects locks. This flat’s been shut up,
you see . . . No, I can really, thank you . . . Yes, it is a remarkable
writing. I always have thought so. Yes, writing does make a differ
ence, doesn’t it. A difference to how you feel when you get a letter.
But I remember a friend of mine who knows about handwriting said
I ought to be careful. She didn’t like the g’s. But nothing anyone says
makes any difference, does it. I mean, when you feel like I did.

“Oh, are you putting down that about the g’s? . . . Photograph an

envelope
? Oh all right, if you want to. All right, I suppose if you want
to . . . Here’s one when I was in
⁵
Brighton. George Street, Brighton.
That’s three g’s. That was one of the first . . . No, I shan’t want it
back: that’ll make one less to burn. I don’t know why I always kept
the envelopes too . . . I’ll put the rest away . . . No, please