The Beautiful Visit (13 page)

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning my father treated me as though the night before had never happened; and I was grateful to him.

I also had leisure to reflect that he was after all not deliberately trying to thwart me, that he was obeying a code laid down by generations; and in a flash of understanding I realized how
poverty must strengthen it.

Agnes’s sympathy fell sweetly on my ears when we had lunch together. She never stored things up as I did, but felt most thoroughly and strongly any feeling she had until it was finished,
and had no false pride about admitting the change of her mood. ‘Oh, I felt like that yesterday, but least said soonest mended,’ she would say and I profited by the buoyancy of her
nature.

A week later, I started taking two children out for walks in Kensington Gardens every afternoon. They lived in a large crimson house in our road, and were part of a big family. My mother had met
them, in the midst of various charitable functions. The two mothers arranged the walks. I went to see the other mother, who said that she must pay me for the time and trouble. I became proud and
stupid and refused the offer saying that I liked walks and it was no trouble. I think I had a subconscious desire to make the job of my parents’ choosing unsatisfactory to myself, to render
it amateur and ladylike and so nurse a grievance.

‘Nonsense, my dear,’ she said. ‘I shall have to pay a governess. You can talk French to them if it makes you feel any better about it.’ I thought of the endless
limitations of my French and we both laughed. It was finally arranged at the rate of two shillings an afternoon. The children were a boy and a girl aged seven and five. Their names I remember were
William and Anne. I grew fond of them and nervously proud of my responsibility. Of course it was boring at times: William would become without warning exceedingly unmanageable, throw stones at the
ducks and put his boots in the water, or throw them at me if I attempted to pull him away from the edge. Anne was a good little thing, content to walk sedately telling me the most astonishing
lies.

‘Are you tired?’ I asked her one day.

‘Not much. But I walk seven miles you know every morning.’ She also said she had hot strawberries for tea every day. I believed her in the beginning; the little pink face with the
candid blue eyes, and the quiet convincing calm of her manner made her difficult to disbelieve: until one day when she announced that Nanny slept with a big axe in her bed to chop off their heads
if they were naughty; and that some being called Mr Sykes rode her tricycle round the nursery at night.

‘That cannot be true,’ I implored William aghast.

‘Oh no. She just says that.’

‘It is quite well true.’ She shrugged her minute shoulders and walked on, quelling any moral reasoning upon which I might have embarked.

On wet days I played with them in their schoolroom. The Victorian house had large rooms with high ceilings, and dark flamboyant wallpapers, except in the children’s quarters, which were in
pale green paint. The schoolroom had ‘Scenes from History’ pictures stuck in a frieze on the walls and glazed. I remember officers, standing almost bolt upright on their horses (which
were invariably rearing), as they urged on their men to relieve some fort or other; the picture being decorated with little orange sparks surrounded by puffs of smoke which represented the shells
bursting. There were the Crusaders; the Battle of Bosworth; the Battle of Hastings, with Harold staggering, an arrow exactly in the middle of his eye; the signing of Magna Charta; Canute in an
enormous chair with the waves rippling delicately over his big pointed feet; Agincourt; Henry VIII surrounded most improbably by all his wives at once; Queen Elizabeth prancing over Raleigh’s
cloak; Charles II hiding in an oak tree in bright sunlight; Nelson dying, ghastly pale by the light of a flickering lantern – I have forgotten the rest, but I was fascinated at the time. The
children, of course, had grown up with them, and never looked at, or even saw them. The elder children were at schools, but there was a baby in long white lace clothes, and a child of three, both
in charge of a Nanny. The family was well-to-do; the father having managed some industry in the north, and settled in London when his fortune was made. They had wonderful teas, I remember.

On Sundays the children walked with their parents, and I was free. I met them once on a Sunday and was for some reason incredibly embarrassed; they seemed like different people although they
were perfectly friendly.

I planned to give my mother a length of silk for a dress, as thick and heavy as it was possible to buy. I knew that I could not bear to buy clothes for myself after my cruel outburst on the lack
of them. After one visit to the shop I realized that it would be another month before I had the necessary sum.

My family never inquired about Agnes Tate, and as I did not bring her home the friendship prospered on the few hours allotted to it. (Agnes had only her lunch hour to spare.) I had met at the
library a young man with pale hair and a lisp. I had not liked him, his voice and his choice of words being too intellectually effusive for my young Spartan mind, but he had been kind about books,
selecting, encouraging and asking my opinion, in a manner which I later realized could only be described as woman to woman.

Agnes had laughed at me with careless admiration. We had to be very careful not to talk too much while she was working, as it displeased Mr Simmons, who would sidle towards us like a crab,
scratching his right ear where he kept his pencil.

And then something happened in the middle of this calm.

We were sitting in the park, Agnes and I, eating cherries.

‘Why don’t you come out on the spree one night?’ she said.

‘With you?’

‘With me and some friends. Unless you like to bring anyone yourself.’

I knew she meant a man and there was no one to take.

‘I’d love to,’ I said guardedly. ‘Where would we go?’

‘Might go to a show and have a bit of supper. Or walk in the park. You leave that to me.’

I was rather frightened. ‘I haven’t anyone to bring.’

‘Don’t you have any friends?’

‘They’re in the country, except you.’

‘Oh
me
. I meant men friends. Funny idea keeping them so far away. Tell you what. I’ll ask my friend to bring a friend.’

‘I don’t need one. I could go with you.’

‘Go on, you are awful. Wouldn’t my friend be pleased! He works in a big place. He’ll find someone.’

‘What about my family?’

‘Tell them you’re going to a concert. Something fancy.’ She imitated someone playing the violin. ‘That’ll fetch them. They won’t know.’ A sense of
adventure seized me.

‘I’ll tell them I’m going out with a friend I met in the country.’

‘That’s it,’ she said and looked at my watch. ‘Oo, I must be getting back. I’ll let you know.’

Two days later she said it was all right for Thursday night, if that suited me. We were to meet in the Gardens at seven o’clock under Queen Victoria’s statue. ‘Arthur is
bringing a friend,’ she said. ‘They work together. I said you wanted a bit of fun and didn’t get out much. His friend’s older than Arthur, he knows his way about.’

I was filled with vague misgivings.

‘What’ll you wear?’

‘I don’t know. What shall you wear?’

‘I’ll wear a skirt and my new piqué. And I shall take a coat. I trimmed my straw last week and father’ll lend me some gloves. Don’t dress too fine,’ she
added, rather anxiously.

‘I haven’t got anything fine. Would a cotton frock be all right?’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Pale green. Trimmed with white. I haven’t a hat though.’

‘I’ll lend you one. I’ll bring it tomorrow. You’ll have to put something on it.’

‘Oh Agnes, you
are
kind.’

‘You’ll have me embarrassed next. You’d better get a green ribbon to match. It’s a dove straw.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Arthur doesn’t know yet. He’s asking his friend. It’s much better to let the men plan. After all, they pay.’ The financial aspect had not occurred to me.

‘Will it cost very much?’ I faltered. Surely it could not be right to let a completely unknown man pay for my supper.

‘They can manage. After all they choose to do it. They get something out of it too. Arthur’s friend hasn’t got a friend and he wants to meet you. I told Arthur what you were
like.’

What had she said I wondered.

‘Is Arthur in love with you?’

‘Goodness me what a leading question,’ she giggled. ‘We’ve passed an evening in the park from time to time.’

Passed an evening in the park. And we were meeting in the park. Still Agnes would be there. It must be all right really. I went home planning what to tell my parents.

She gave me the hat next day, and I spent an anxious half hour choosing ribbon. Wide green petersham, and, as an afterthought, a strip of artificial daisies. I showed them to Agnes, who
approved.

‘Tell you what. I’ll trim it for you. I like doing it.’

I was filled with gratitude.

It was Tuesday evening. I told my mother that a girl I had met at the Lancings’ had asked me to a concert and supper.

‘Did she write to you?’

‘No, I met her, quite by chance in the street.’

My mother was appeased and I was delighted with my easy success.

Wednesday passed in a fever of anticipation. Agnes brought me the hat and told me that Arthur’s friend was called Mr Harris, Edward Harris, and that we were going to a musical. I had no
idea what a musical was, but did not dare display my farther ignorance.

‘Then we’ll have supper,’ she said. ‘Arthur says they’re going to do it in style.’

On Thursday I took the children up to Queen Victoria’s statue and sat beneath it, hardly able to believe that in a few hours’ time I should be there under such different
circumstances. The day was very fine and hot with a threat of thunder. Suppose it should rain. The afternoon crept by loaded with doubts and fears. I took the children back, and was unusually
helpful to my mother in order to pass the time.

‘Where is your friend staying?’ she said suddenly.

‘I am meeting her in the park.’

‘If you do not know where she lives, you may need a cab home. Have you money?’

‘No – yes.’

‘Which do you mean?’

‘I have money.’ My mother said nothing, but when I went to my room, I found three shillings on the dressing-table. I brushed my hair and wished that I could wear my pink frock. There
was a little sick feeling of excitement, and I found it impossible to stop shivering as I stared at the frock, my shoes, a handkerchief and the hat. I must conceal the hat; put it on when I was
away from the house. My mother would be sure to ask where I had bought it, and then when it disappeared mysteriously after this evening, she would want some explanation. It was oppressively hot. I
had no face powder. I tried some talc in the bathroom but it turned me a greenish white, and meant washing my face again.

At a quarter to seven I slipped out of the house, calling good-bye to my mother. Her voice, shouting, ‘Don’t be late’, floated away from me. At the corner, I put on my hat and
fastened it by two immense hatpins with white heads. Then lifting my skirts I ran up Victoria Road, until the heat and my age reminded me to stop. It would be better to let the others arrive first.
Ten to seven . . . I had plenty of time. I walked along, alternately feeling the back of my hair, tucking in any stray wisps, and looking down at my frock. An old man who was airing his dog,
watched me anxiously. I felt his eyes on the back of my head after I had passed, and looked round. He was standing facing me. I should never have turned back. When he saw me he stared at the
pavement, grunted and continued his walk. I hastened up the Broad Walk, emptier than in the day time, but sprinkled with couples, slowly pacing, their faces turned to each other. There was a tall
ragged boy pulling a cart on iron wheels. He looked at me and grinned. ‘Don’t be late for ’im. ’E mightn’t wite.’ I flushed angrily. Horrid little boy.

I arrived at the statue at two minutes to seven. There was no one there: I was early after all. I sat down and smoothed my gloves, beset by anxiety. Suppose Agnes had been laughing at me and had
never intended to come.

Seven o’clock struck. There was one yacht becalmed on the pond. People were beginning to drift towards the entrance of the park. Agnes was too good-natured to deceive me so cruelly. Would
they come from the right or the left? I must not look too eagerly for them. Two minutes past seven. Time slept. I watched the sky, a golden blue, the white-edged clouds scalloped like lace, the
great trees heavy with green, the biscuit-coloured paths stretching in every direction and accentuated by the low black railings over which William loved to jump, the coarse green grass worn bare
in patches, the line of pink may trees planted each side of my bench and filling the air with a rich common sweetness . . .

‘Hullo,’ said Agnes.

I looked up. She was standing before me, a young man on either arm. She introduced us. ‘You were day-dreaming,’ she said. ‘Make room for us.’

They sat down, Arthur one side and Edward on the other. ‘We’re going to Gilbert and Sullivan.
The Mikado
. You know.’

‘How lovely.’

The two young men seemed tongue-tied, Arthur blushing whenever Agnes looked at him and Edward staring straight in front of him with his arms folded. Edward was obviously older than the others,
and was possessed of a fine black moustache and grey eyes which caught mine from time to time. Once he took out a purple silk handkerchief with which he blew his nose, whereupon Agnes jumped and
said he gave her such a fright. We laughed and the situation settled itself. Agnes talked to Arthur and I was left to Edward. We both made strenuous efforts, but we were desperately shy. He, I
think seeing my awkwardness, replied to my questions with patronizing little bursts to prove that it was more than his own. I asked him about his job and whether he liked it, and he said it
‘was all right for the time being’. He asked me whether I had ever seen
The Mikado
, and was pleased when I said no; assured me that it was quite amusing, and said that he knew a
nice little place for supper afterwards.