The Brontes Went to Woolworths (22 page)

‘Now, now!’

‘She thought it “weird,” and resented being looked at by the villagers, and a red-haired boy who, I admit, was always drunk.’

‘Branwell Brontë,’ mused Sir Herbert.

I stared. ‘Branwell. Of course. I never thought of that.’

‘I could shake you! I must go to that Inn, next summer.’

‘Well . . . that’s all. Mother thinks that Charlotte and Emily came to see if Sheil was well again, but
I
think the attraction was Miss Martin. She didn’t fit in, either, as a governess.’

He joined his fingertips. ‘There is a third possibility.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that Charlotte and Emily were drawn to you, as a family, by a happiness they never had themselves?’

It may have been his voice, soft yet plangent, or the strain of going to him for help, but abominably enough, I felt tears coming.

‘Emily hit Crellie,’ I stammered. ‘Is it imaginable she’d come back to do that?’

He wheeled. ‘I think it is
exactly
what she would do. I’ve never forgiven her for the way she beat Keeper.’ He was going up and down the room so as not to see my face. ‘Very strong characters don’t change with death, Deirdre. At least, that’s my theory. If you believe they do, you must also believe in the extinction of the good. Extinction . . . m’m . . . I can’t accept extinction
’

Lady Toddington knocked and came in.

She took us in in a second, and on her face was the wife look, until Sir Herbert said, ‘We want you, Mildred.’ I had to look at her while the courtesies were observed, and after that she kept my hand in hers, and so we sat.

He told her the first part; relating it, as it were, in words of one syllable, and her eyes grew round, and at the end she said, ‘Well I’m bothered! But you never know, with old houses,’ which made me give a gasp of hysterical laughter and not dare glance at Toddy. And then it was time for me again.

It was amazingly difficult. The fear of a child was easy. ‘But Sheil knows that people sometimes return. There was father. It was the most natural thing in the world . . . she accepted it . . . Dion Saffyn . . . Miss Martin upsetting her
’

‘Can’t you tell her she dreamed the rest?’ said Lady Toddington.

Her husband smiled dryly. ‘Dear Mildred! This is assistance indeed!’ On her face was the hurt-baby look; the fading-out that I had seen before, and guessed before that. Then, she seemed to remember – that is the only way I can describe her expression – and, releasing my hand, bent forward and tweaked his ear, and he twinkled and shook and, on looking back, I think that it was happiness that inspired her, for she turned to me. ‘
What
was the name of that pierrot – the one that Herbert doesn’t approve of?’

I had to laugh. ‘Dion Saffyn.’

‘Um . . . look here, Deirdre (I’m calling you that, if you don’t mind). Can’t you make the Brontës like him – and Bottles, you know? Oh, how badly I’m explaining!’ But the audience of her life was listening. ‘I mean,
bag
them. Let them join in, too. If you can’t run away from them, run towards them. The kiddy must know, in her heart, that What’s-his-name and Bottles’ adventures are all made up, and we can make the Brontës just as real, and take the edge off the being frightened of them – shut up, Herbert!
’

‘I wasn’t dreaming of interrupting, my dear,’ answered Mr Justice Toddington humbly.

‘And I think we’ll have cocktails, now, because I’m not clever often, and it never lasts long, does it, Herbert?’

‘My dear, I take my hat off to you.’ He turned to me. ‘If I interpret her correctly, Mildred means that, for the little child, the fear was due to the fact that, as far as her experience went, Charlotte and Emily had no past. And that, in short, we must give them one.’

‘And a present as well; don’t forget that, Herbert.’

‘And a present. Quite so . . . m’m . . . dear me, London is quite filling up, as the gossip writers say! I trust that Emily will not try and control my diet. Her verbal parries with poor Mathewson should be epic.’

We sat, savouring this for a bit, and then I had to say, ‘Sir Herbert, there’s one more thing. I’m so sorry, but – you’re coming round, this evening.’

‘M’m? Oh, I see what you mean.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘Was it fixed up over the telephone?’

‘Mayn’t I come, too?’ Lady Toddington’s face fell. Greatly daring, I put my arm in hers. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ I ventured. ‘Now that we all know what to do, would you, perhaps – would it help if I gave you a few tips?’

She patted my arm. ‘No you don’t, my dear! Let’s all make our own mistakes, not anybody else’s.’

Sir Herbert was thinking. ‘But, Mildred . . . the Brontës . . . I could coach you up in them
’

‘Hark at him! Coach nothing! I think they were a couple of dreary bores. I shall say whatever I feel like!’

She tossed off her cocktail and looked wonderfully young.

25

Katrine and Freddie Pipson are in love. I take Crellie nearly every afternoon into Kensington Gardens to walk it off, and every now and again I re-read her letters.

‘MY OLDEST,

‘Once again I take pen in hand and hope you are the same. The provinces are plain Hell and the girls such ladydogs to me that, last night, I howled in the dressing-room, and took my things and made up in the WC next door. And even the limited rags one might be having Freddie Pipson won’t let me have. I am so pure that I shall surely burst. (I mean things like meals at hotels with parties; perfectly harmless.) Somehow, wherever I go, F. P. is there too, suggesting I shouldn’t.’

And

‘It’s simply awful to be so dry-nursed. Last night a party of naval officers took the stage box and sent us in a couple of bottles of beer each (I gave mine to dresser), and they invited us out
en bloc
and I wanted to go and F. P. suddenly came out of the stage door and put me into his car without a with-your-leave, and so on. He then apologised all the way home, and came out with one heavenly pipsonism after another I must save them all up for you. One of the gems of the collection was, “I’m well aware, Miss Katrine, that when you’re in Rome you must do as do does, but you, if you’ll excuse me, are an exception.” I said, “Don’t name it, Mr Pipson. The girls all think I’m living with you, as it is.” And he said, “Ah. I was afraid they might,” which left me stymied. I couldn’t say “How rude of you!” or “The pleasure is mine.” And he sighed and looked out of the window, and he would that his heart could utter the thoughts that arose in
him
Tennyson.’

And

‘ . . . I took your tip, and now often come out with the language the Gurls use, and Freddie Pipson heard me in the wings, and came up to me after the curtain and said he knew it was none of his business, and he was taking a liberty, but it distressed him to hear me, and he was sure my dear mother wouldn’t like it, and he felt to blame for putting me in such surroundings. I felt so awful that I told him why I did it, and he took my hand and squeezed it and said he knew, and bought me an enormous bunch of chrysanthemums – the adorable kind with mop-heads. And I’m falling for him with a sickening thud.

‘PS – There is a three minutes black-out at one part of the show, and my place is by Freddie for the next number, and if he’d been that kind, I might be going to be the happy mother of twins, by now. What a waste of perfectly good darkness!’

The worst of it is that, not only has one got the habit of sympathy with Katrine, but in many ways we are and think alike; so it’s hopeless to write and tell her to leave the show and not see Pipson any more. I wouldn’t, myself. Running away from love is never any good at all, to our sort. It only deepens the feeling, and it’s better to stay and wear it down.

‘Really, Deiry my lamb, my luck is right off. Freddie met me in the passage the other night, and I freely confess I was looking awfully nice – I’d have kissed me like a shot if I’d been a man – and then one of those
crises
, as Ironface calls them, arose in which the whole place was blotted out and there were only just us two, and then he looked at me in the unmistakable way and said to himself more than to me, “My dear,” and went into his dressing-room. (He was wearing a scratch wig and a low comedy dot at each end of his mouth, but some men are never ridiculous.) I’m the Captain of the Loyal Kitchen Rangers – with a vengeance.
Oh
, dear! The Brontës:
What
a moment! Tell me lots more about ’em. Poor old Martin! She was
the
original bromide, wasn’t she? I think if somebody would quite firmly and politely seduce her she’d feel lots better. There’s a rumour we’ll be in town for Christmas.’

If this is going on, I shall either go to Chatham myself, or talk to Toddy about it. It’s not Freddie Pipson that I don’t trust, bless him! Katrine doesn’t really understand men a bit, and would give them infinitely more in small change than the immoral type, out of the sheer happiness of her heart, just because she wants so little, where the other sort of young woman holds back everything, to grab everything, in the end.

‘ . . . Deiry,
could
one marry Freddie? I can see that he’s mine, all right. The thing is that he’s so awfully eligible – so unlike the usual men with wives being angry in the offing. And on the completely vulgar side, he’s rolling in money . . . ’

I could see how Pipson was filling her mind by the way she barely alluded to the Toddingtons. And I have done a mean thing: betrayed my good little friend, and he’d be the first to say I was right.

I wrote: ‘Katrine, my Plainest, it can’t be done. We are both born snobs and disbelieve in marrying out of our class, and sooner or later you’d begin to resent the situation. I’ve seen some of his relations, you know, in the dressing-room. One of them is called Sydney, and looks it, and he says “Naow” and “Haow” and lives at Herne Hill. Can you conceive being called Katrine by him? Or hearing him call Sheil Sheil? He’d have the right to. Pipson’s got a sisterin-law. She’s a small turn and a pestilent little tick. They’d come and spend Sundays with you. Could you bear Pipson as a surname? Katrine Pipson?