The Beautiful Visit (16 page)

‘But what would you
like
?’ I persisted. ‘Would you like children?’

She blushed faintly. ‘Of course. Two boys and a girl. I should call them Anthony, Richard and Margaret. I should like to live in the country as it would be better for their
health.’

So she too had dreams, was not entirely composed of the divine resignations which I had confused with emptiness of mind.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘What else? What would your husband be like?’

Her face darkened a moment in the effort of concentration, and she said, ‘I’m not sure. Fair, I think, but I don’t know.’ She gave it up.

‘But you can’t plan your children without a husband.’ I was shocked.

She gave me a startled look and said, I have not planned them. That’s only what I think sometimes. What do
you
want?’

‘I want to write a book and get married.’ That was the second time I had been asked, the second time I had answered. ‘I’m not sure about children,’ I went on
hurriedly. ‘I’d want to be sure of being married first.’ It was her turn to be shocked.

‘When you are married you expect to have children.’

‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘I’d have them later. I like one thing at a time.’

‘You are not likely to have twins.’ She smiled at her joke. I don’t think she ever laughed. I think she liked my helping her, and her ascendancy over all household matters. She
had no one to whom she could show this talent, which obviously meant very much to her.

I went with her on the day that her things were sorted and priced by the Bazaar committee, comprised almost entirely of women. The Bazaar was to take place in a vast house, dark with panelling
and draughty along mosaic floors. The stalls were placed round the edges of three large rooms. Two workmen were hammering a small platform, on which the Princess who was to open the Bazaar must
stand. The noise was terrific. The hammering and shouting of the men; the excited babel of the women exclaiming over their handiwork; the heat and the rustle of endless tissue paper; and the buzz
of bluebottles round the lead-encrusted windows made the scene one of indescribable confusion. There was also an inexplicable smell of bananas and turkish delight.

My sister seemed happier arranging her stall by herself, so with a murmured excuse I slipped away to wander round the rooms. The stalls were made of wooden trestle tables with large white cloths
sweeping down to the floor, the corners pinned neatly back. Two women were straggling, scarlet-faced, with a huge pumpkin which they were trying to set up in the middle of their table. The pumpkin
wobbled and finally rolled, ponderously juicy, to the floor. There were wails of dismay.

There were packing cases filled with tiny pots of jam; I read Apricot and Strawberry on the labels. A thin earnest creature with a hook nose and brilliant black eyes was painting signs on strips
of shiny white paper in one corner of the first room. ‘This Way to the Teas’; I read. ‘Bran Tub sixpence.’ ‘Jumble’ (in black and yellow). There were little
streams of bran like chicken food and the tub had red and green crêpe paper tied round it. There were heaps of raffle tickets on tables; pins and labels, and gaunt pairs of scissors attached
to some piece of furniture by string so that one had to crouch to cut anything. Tricks of that kind were what the feminine mind calls ‘Organization’, I learned. There was a tray of
lavender bags belonging to an odious little girl of about fifteen, who was trying to sell in advance to the kind, harassed stall holders. An anxious young curate was engaged in trying to
disentangle the lines of a bunch of fishing rods: ‘Isn’t it dreadful, Mr Beard? I packed them
so
carefully.’

In the third room I found a woman writing in a notebook. ‘Three dozen, no four dozen teaspoons (eighteen Lady Bellamy) in brackets what
can
that mean?’ Everyone appealed to
Lady Bellamy, who flitted to and fro on incredibly thin elegant feet with a silver pencil pointing outwards in her hand, ordering, directing and admiring her host of followers.

The shadows lengthened on the street outside as the hours passed with no appreciable inroad made on the confusion. A curious way to spend a hot June day. I helped as much as I could, but it was
difficult when one knew nobody’s names and the help depended very much on a thorough knowledge of them. I carried things to people, counted, sorted, pinned labels, tied parcels, wiped cups
and saucers; and simply stood holding one end of string, or with my finger on a knot. By the evening I was more exhausted than I had ever been before in my life.

The following day was the Bazaar itself, of which nothing need be said except that the sum raised was two hundred pounds odd, and that considering the time, energy and patience employed, I think
every penny was earned many times over. It did occur to me going home afterwards that it, would have been simpler to have had a collection for the money, but seeing my sister’s tired,
satisfied face I was not sure.

I had bought nothing at the Bazaar. There was at last enough money to buy the material for my mother’s dress. My sister, who now knew of the plan, accompanied me to the shop for the
purpose of helping to choose. I was faced with bales of material and choice seemed unbearable. There were three possible reds and I was at last able to decide only when on presenting them to my
sister she rejected them all on the ground that red was an unsuitable colour.

‘Grey,’ she said. ‘Or a good dark blue would be far more becoming.’

Instantly I was determined on red. I wanted to make my mother rich and gay and full of colour.

‘The blue wears better,’ said the shopman, sticking his head out and staring at me. My sister agreed that one did not get tired of dark blue as one did of red.

‘You don’t get tired of it because you never really like it,’ I said. ‘You can’t have any feelings about dark blue. I’ll have this one.’ And I selected
the richest red.

‘She never
wears
red,’ moaned my sister wringing her hands over the stuff.

‘How many yards?’ asked the assistant pausing and blinking his eyes.

‘Six,’ said my sister.

‘I’ll take seven,’ I said grandly.

‘Can you afford it?’ whispered my sister in a frenzy.

‘Of course. I’ve got enough for the trimming as well.’

I showed her a bulging purse, from which a half-crown fell out.

‘Dear oh dear,’ said the assistant, darting after it. I could not take my eyes off the silk.

‘Could we have a snip to match the trimmings?’ I heard my sister ask. She was being very kind. I had completely disagreed with her and she was still being kind. I squeezed her
arm.

‘What’s all that for?’ she asked.

‘I’m excited. Let’s choose the trimming.’

‘Why not let Mother do that herself ?’

‘It’s my present. I shall choose all of it.’

‘Well you have to pay first.’

‘You do it,’ I said and handed her the purse. I could never count change and I felt slightly sick at the amount of money I was spending.

We chose a pale tea-coloured lace, ruffled at the edges with a coffee ribbon to draw it up. When it was over I had five shillings left.

‘When shall you give it to her?’

‘After supper. In the evening.’

‘Can you wait till then?’

‘Of course. You could,’ I retorted.

‘We’re not the same about waiting,’ she replied quietly, and for a second I wondered what she meant.

The day went slowly and I tortured myself with the fear that my sister had been right, that my mother would not like red, or would not want a frock. After tea my mother began discussing my
clothes. My father was trying to read the paper, a thing he never did well, as his arms were short, and the paper crumpled and folded the wrong way when he tried to turn the pages. He grunted and
battled miserably and finally left us with some withering remark about the way women took no interest in outside events but thought only of clothes.

‘You should have money enough to buy a couple of nice cotton dresses.’ I could see that she was anxious at having shown no interest in the paper and embarrassed about the money I
earned. She could not get used to the idea. I mumbled something about the frocks I possessed doing quite well, and she looked up in relief. ‘Ah, you’re saving your money like a good
careful girl,’ she said.

After supper I gave it to her. ‘What is it?’ she asked nervously, smiling into my eyes.

‘It’s for you, a present.’

She gave a little gasp and bent over the string; then looked up uncertainly: ‘From you?’

I nodded.

‘You shouldn’t,’ she murmured enraptured.

I had never known how much presents meant to her and my heart beat wildly with a painful excitement. Her fingers trembled over the string until I could no longer bear it. ‘I’ll
help.’ We laughed and the string was undone. I sat back on my heels and watched her unfold the brown and white paper until she could see the red silk. She stared at it a moment unbelieving,
touched it with her fingers, gave it a little pat, then suddenly lunged forward and shook it out in beautiful rich folds.

‘Red,’ she cried. ‘Red,’ and rubbed it softly against her face.

‘It’s silk,’ I said. I was anxious that she should miss none of its beauty.

She became quickly aware of me again and said, ‘Is this from you? All this red silk?’

‘Seven yards,’ I said. ‘For a dress. You do like it, don’t you?’

She turned her head away from the stuff. ‘Darling, it’s a wonderful present. You shouldn’t have done it. You must have spent so much. All your money. It’s
magnificent.’

‘These are the trimmings.’ I gave her the second parcel. I wished now that I had put them together; I found it hard to watch her, she made me feel her pleasure almost too sharply.
But she undid the trimmings quite quietly, and laid them on the stuff.

‘Do you think they will look all right?’ I said falsely. I was sure that they were perfect.

‘I haven’t worn red for years,’ she said, with a hint of doubt.

‘Would you have preferred dark blue?’

‘No. I – like this very much better. Thank you, darling. It is very sweet of you.’ She put her arms round me and kissed me, once, and then again, as though it wasn’t
enough.

‘Will you have it made up soon?’

‘I’ll have it done in time for Daddy’s concert.’ She only said Daddy when she was happy and unselfconscious. The present was a success.

‘She likes red,’ I told my sister triumphantly.

‘I shan’t know you,’ was my father’s comment to her. He was unaware of the quick little look of pain that she gave him.

A few evenings later, I believe it was a Sunday, I was repairing music for my father on the dining-room table. My mother was mending as usual and my sister was leaning over me sorting the
battered sheets of Brahms. It had been very hot all day and now there was a faint breeze swaying the tassels on the old green curtains. My father came in with an evening paper which he read in
unusual silence. There was an organ grinder in the street outside, stopping and starting again with a violent animation as though he could never have stopped.

‘Anything in the paper, dear?’ asked my mother dutifully.

‘Some Archduke or other has been murdered at . . .’ he paused, ‘at Sarajevo. That’s it. Sarajevo.’

‘Oh dear.’

The organ grinder stopped and there was peaceful domestic silence.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I do not think I was very concerned about the growing unrest in Europe. Indeed I do not think anyone was seriously disquieted.

I clearly remember my father’s agitation over his concert, or rather the concert where his Symphonic Variations were to be performed: his fits of indigestion and depression affected us
all. One followed very closely upon the other, infecting the household with nerves and despair. As the work had never been published, the parts had to be copied; and, when the time grew near, he
became anxious at the prospect of too little rehearsal. We all suffered the mixture of anxiety and irritation that prefaces a first performance of any kind. The weather was oppressive.

On the morning of the concert, I upset a vase of water on my father’s piano. I shall never forget the frightened fluster for dry cloths, and his almost venomous rage. When the damage had
been as much repaired as was possible, and I was creeping out of the studio, he called me back. He was standing by the piano, his fingers tapping the damp blotched case. He did not look at me.

‘How came you to be so incredibly careless?’

‘I’m very sorry, Father.’

‘I don’t understand it. You have always been brought up to respect a piano. You must have known that it was courting disaster in attempting to slide a heavy vase full of water across
it.’

As there had already been an inquest on how I had done it, and why, this was almost more than I could bear.

‘I didn’t do it on purpose, Father.’

‘I can’t understand it,’ he repeated still drumming his fingers. His hand looked yellow in the light. I was starting to go when he turned on me with a kind of concentrated
ferocity and said, ‘Purpose. What do you know about such a thing? Whether you ruin my piano or not is surely a business entirely within your control. You’re not a fool. If you had cared
enough this wouldn’t have happened. What do you mean by “Purpose” – yours or God’s?’

‘I didn’t mean to do it. That’s what I meant. I didn’t want . . .’

‘You didn’t care,’ he accused. I could hear his breath coming in sharp little gasps. I remembered his concert and it saved me from losing my temper.

‘I honestly think the piano will be all right.’

‘Sit down. I must make you understand this. What you do, what you are, is entirely a matter for you to decide. You are responsible for your future. Nothing else. No one else. If you care
to do things, or not to do them, it is possible . . .’ He was walking about the room picking up small objects, a pencil, a postcard, and throwing them down on a different table. ‘You do
not seem to me aware of this. Some people think that we are controlled by some destiny or fate. It’s utterly untrue. Utterly untrue. Whether we succeed, or fail, our perseverance and the
direction we pursue is us. We finish by living the life we have made for ourselves.’ His voice stopped suddenly and I realized that he was torturing himself, revealing even to me his own
tragedy of failure, a failure because he saw it like that, and a tragedy because to be a failure made him so unhappy. I knew that he needed me to go up to him, touch him, perhaps kiss him; to say
something, that would give him some false assurance that I had not understood him, to comfort and deceive. But the old familiar sick hatred for my surroundings and the people trapped in them with
me, rose with such violence that I left the room without a word.