The New Moon with the Old (21 page)

Ought she to tip him? Well, not with her five-pound note. She said: ‘Thank you so much. I’m sorry I gave my last shilling to the taxi-driver.’

The page gave her a look of heartfelt sympathy. ‘Gee, miss,’ he said, speaking what he fondly thought was American. ‘I sure hope you get the job.’

She was about to explain that it wasn’t that kind of last shilling when the door was opened by an elderly, uniformed nurse. At that moment, a clock with a silvery but penetrating chime began to strike.

‘Hear that?’ said the nurse to the page in an ominous tone.

‘We had to wait for the lift,’ said the page, untruthfully.

The nurse now turned her attention to Clare and after a long critical look said: ‘Well, you can come in but he may be too tired to see you. Here you are, page.’ She handed him a coin from a bowl that stood on a table in the little entrance hall.

‘Thanks, Nurse.’ He gave Clare a parting smile before the door was closed on him.

‘Sit down, please,’ said the nurse and then left Clare alone in the hall. She counted the doors that opened into it: five, including the front door, all dosed and all somehow looking as if they would never open again. But in a few minutes one did and the nurse reappeared.

‘Mr Rowley will see you.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Just remember he’s ninety, dear. And don’t be surprised at anything.’

How would a gentleman of ninety be liable to surprise one? As she followed the nurse, Clare visualized him as frail, bloodless, emaciated, probably in bed. She must smile winningly, both out of kindness and because she wanted the job.

The sitting-room she was shown into was dimly gold. Yellow brocade curtains were drawn against the late afternoon sunlight and a bright fire was protected by a gilt fireguard. She took in cream panelling and formal French furniture. Then she was being presented to Mr Rowley, who rose to shake hands with her.

He was the largest man she had ever seen, tall, broad, with a massive head and a vast expanse of sallow-complexioned face. His hair, though she was later to see it was thickly streaked with grey, gave the impression of blackness. He wore a long, dark dressing-gown and as he stood there in the firelight he seemed to her a pillar of darkness. She had been feeling nervous. Now she experienced a tremor of fear.

He held her hand an unusually long time and relinquished it slowly, seeming to feel it with the tips of his fingers. He then apologized for receiving her in his dressing-gown, saying he had been about to take a nap. His voice was deep and he had a slight foreign accent. Having asked her to sit down, and sat down himself, he spoke to the nurse.

‘Now, if you please.’

‘This is a very pretty young lady, much the prettiest who has been to see us this week. She has soft, fair hair, very blue eyes and … I’d call them
delicate
features. She is wearing a long blue cloak—’

‘A blue cloak? That sounds delightful. What shade of blue?’

‘I’d call it a dark shade of powder-blue, Mr Rowley. And she has on a pale grey dress and grey gloves. None of the other young ladies wore gloves.’

‘I think I must
see
this young lady.’

‘Yes, I think you should, Mr Rowley.’

Clare was bewildered. She had not yet got over the shock of deciding Mr Rowley was blind. Now he was changing one pair of spectacles for another and the nurse was plugging in a modern electric fitting which looked most out of place in the room. Then the powerful bulb was switched on and focused on Clare. Blinking, she saw Mr Rowley’s face coming closer and closer until it, too, was lit by the dazzling light. It seemed the wrecked face of a giant, full of ravines, the skin coarse and pitted, the mouth a blackish wine-colour. Then the terrifying face retreated and Mr Rowley said: ‘We’re frightening her, Nurse. You should have warned her.’

‘Mr Rowley can see just a little,’ the nurse explained. ‘But it’s a great strain for him.’

‘Anyway, I now know you are a very pretty young lady indeed and I shall be able to picture your face while you read to me.’

Clare, who up to now had said nothing beyond, ‘How do you do?’ asked if he hadn’t better see if she read well enough.

‘Yes, perhaps I should. But I’m sure all will be well. You have such a quiet, pleasant voice – and I’m glad to say I’m not at all deaf. Nurse, please turn off that ugly, glaring light and let in the daylight. And give the young lady today’s paper.’

The nurse drew back the curtains of the wide window, revealing tree tops against the sky.

‘Just read what you like, my dear,’ said Mr Rowley.

Clare liked little in newspapers except the woman’s page and not always that. Feeling selection was beyond her, she began at what she felt was the beginning, the top left-hand column of the front page. As this dealt with world affairs it barely made sense to her but she managed to read half a column without stumbling. Mr Rowley then stopped her.

‘Yes, you read charmingly. You make the news so much less menacing than it always is. But I mustn’t let you go on or I may fall asleep and that would be rude – Nurse will tell you I always sleep from five to seven. I wonder if you would be willing to come back this evening to read to me – say at nine o’clock?’

‘I’d like to,’ said Clare. ‘The only thing is, I haven’t yet found anywhere to sleep.’

‘Nowhere to sleep? That sounds most alarming. She had better sleep here tonight, Nurse. She can use Mr Charles’s room. And … yes, I think it would be pleasant if she stayed here with us indefinitely. Will you please arrange that – if she’s willing?’ He smiled unseeingly in Clare’s direction.

‘Oh, most willing,’ said Clare, fervently.

‘Good. Until nine o’clock, then.’

He rose. The nurse steered him to the sofa, switched off the lights, and led the way out into the hall.

‘Now we must talk,’ she said. ‘Come into my room.’

The bedroom they entered was as formally luxurious as the sitting-room; the nurse’s possessions looked oddly at variance with their surroundings. She settled Clare into a brocaded armchair and herself into another.

‘He’s taken to you,’ she said, her manner both authoritative and conspiratorial. ‘I thought he might – I know his type of girl; not that we’ve had one for years. The girls just lately –
so untidy, hair like floor mops, and some of them not even clean. And very bad manners, most of them. He’s a dear old gentleman and he won’t be with us much longer. Are you prepared to put yourself out for him a bit?’

Clare said indeed she was and the nurse continued.

‘What he wants is two hours in the morning, two in the afternoons, and two in the evenings. Most girls won’t stand for it. Of course it is awkward, having your whole day broken up – I’ll admit that.’

‘I shouldn’t mind at all,’ said Clare. ‘If I could find somewhere fairly close to stay.’

‘Oh, he means you to stay here. Didn’t you hear him say so?’

‘But surely not for good?’

‘Oh, yes, dear – all found, lap of luxury. It happened once before with a pretty, nicely spoken girl, though she wasn’t really nice and I had my doubts about her from the first. With you, well I’m sure there’ll be nothing like that. Now about money: Mr Rowley’s solicitor sends someone every month or so to settle all bills. He’s just been so you’ll have quite a while to wait. But if you’re short I can help you out of my petty cash.’

‘I’m all right for now,’ said Clare. ‘How much do I get paid?’

‘Didn’t Miss Gifford tell you?’

‘If she did, I didn’t hear. We had such a rush.’

‘Well, I’ll ask her tomorrow when I ring up to say you’re fixed. I don’t know what the last girl got and anyhow you ought to get more as you’re going to live in.’

‘Don’t you mean less?’

The nurse shook her head. ‘Oh, I know you’ll get your board and lodging, but there’s no telling how long your hours will be if he’s got you right here on the premises. Anyway, don’t worry about the money. Mr Rowley’s very generous and very rich. Now where are your things for the night, dear?’

Where, indeed? For a blank moment she thought she had left them in the taxi. Then she remembered with relief. ‘The commissionaire took my suitcase.’

‘I’ll send down for it.’ The nurse went to the telephone. ‘Oh, your name, dear? I’ve forgotten what was on the card.’

‘Clare Carrington. Please call me Clare.’

‘Thank you, dear. I’m Nurse Brown. Just call me Nurse.’ She gave instructions for Clare’s case to be sent up, then went into the hall and opened the door of the suite. ‘Mustn’t let them ring the bell and disturb Mr Rowley. They know not to, between five and seven, but some of them forget, especially the pages. That reminds me: we tip for everything that’s brought up. If you’re on your own, just hand out a coin from the bowl, here – I call it the Beggars’ Bowl. And Mr Rowley never gives less than half-a-crown, even if it’s just a page with the evening paper. That won’t come up till after seven, when Mr Rowley’s awake.’

When the suitcase had been delivered, Nurse Brown took a key from the drawer of the hall table and conducted Clare to a room next door to the suite, explaining it was always kept for Mr Rowley’s grandson, Mr Charles Rowley. ‘Mr Charles, he’s always called, to differentiate between them. He’s abroad now. You’ll find a few of his things here but there’ll be plenty of room for yours. Take your time over your unpacking, there’s no need to come back to me till eight o’clock. Mr Rowley will have had his dinner by then and the night nurse will be putting him to bed. You and I can have our meal together and then you’ll be ready to read to him at nine. Have you a dinner dress with you?’

‘Yes, but it’ll be a bit creased,’ said Clare, opening her suitcase.

‘Never mind, he’ll like to know you changed into it and I can leave out the creases when I describe it. Now I’ll be off.’

Left alone, Clare looked around, enchanted. She much admired the grey and gold panelling, the green brocade
curtains, the wide, convoluted brass bedstead. The only indications of Mr Charles were some silk pyjamas in a drawer, a dressing-gown in the room-sized cupboard, and some shaving tackle and expensive toilet accessories in the large bathroom off the little entrance hall. There was, as in Mr Rowley’s suite, an atmosphere of formal luxury exactly to her taste, as was the idea of doling out half-crowns to pages who merely brought up evening papers. This was undoubtedly the life.

She unpacked and then decided to pass the time by having a bath. This proved an unnerving experience as the gleaming porcelain bath, the largest she had ever seen, was extremely slippery. Every attempt to lie back in it ended in a slide and frantic clutchings. (Bells on the wall beside it were marked ‘Maid’ and ‘Valet’. Would one, if about to drown, have the delicacy to summon a rescuer of the right sex?) She was easily capable of spending an hour in a bath but not if she had to sit bolt-upright. This bath, she felt as she clambered out, was strictly for washing in, not dreaming in.

She dressed, and praised herself for having packed her evening shoes. But there were many things she had forgotten, notably her dressing-gown. She must send a list to Jane and also let Richard know where she was. But not yet. She would write to no one, boast to no one of the marvellous good fortune that had come her way. To do so would be … unlucky? She only knew that for the present she must keep this, the first adventure of her life, entirely to herself.

It was now seven o’clock. Still with time to waste, she sat down intending to bask in a sense of achievement. But instead, she found herself remembering the moment when Mr Rowley’s face had come closer and closer, lit by the glare of the brilliant lamp. Such an old, old, terribly ugly man! She rebuked herself. No one could help age or ugliness and he was obviously generous and kind. She would overcome her repugnance and do all she could to please him.

The telephone bell startled her. Surely no one could be ringing her up?

It was Nurse Brown, sounding pleased and important. ‘Mr Rowley would like you to dine with him. Are you dressed yet? The dinner will be up any minute.’

Clare said she would come at once and hurried to the suite. The nurse, admitting her, said how nice she looked and then announced her with as much pride as if she had invented her.

‘Here she is, Mr Rowley, and wearing such a pretty dress – black chiffon.’

‘Chiffon? Yes, I remember chiffon. Allow me to feel it.’

Clare handed him a fold. He fingered it gently.

‘A delightful material. And black should suit such a fair young lady. Nurse tells me your name is Clare. I may call you that?’

‘Oh, yes – please.’

‘Thank you. Ah, here is dinner.’

It arrived with considerable clatter. One waiter wheeled in a laden trolley, another waiter followed with what looked like a portable oven. Silver dishes flashed. A vast amount of paraphernalia seemed needed to bring in clear soup, chicken and ice cream. Clare was supplied with lemonade; Mr Rowley drank water. Eventually the waiters left and Nurse Brown, declining Clare’s help, managed on her own, serving the meal (which she did not share) and cutting up Mr Rowley’s chicken. It was obvious that he could not see his plate clearly and Clare found it painful to see his occasional jabs at the tablecloth. She was thankful when dinner was over and the waiters had removed the table, oven, trolley and themselves.

Mr Rowley then said: ‘Tonight I shall sit up for a while and Clare shall tell us something of herself. Are your parents alive, my dear? How do you come to be on your own in London?’

Oh, she should have anticipated this! She should have had some story ready! But she knew that even given time she could not have invented a convincing one – as Merry could have done even at a moment’s notice. Clare often thought Merry’s imagination was another name for plain lying. She herself was extremely truthful, partly because not being truthful entailed a mental effort that was beyond her. Now, after a dismayed silence, she simply described the catastrophe that had hit the Carrington family – and saw Nurse Brown’s benign smile of sponsorship replaced by a look of alarm. Then the smile returned as Mr Rowley said: ‘And this happened only last week? My poor child! And now you are bravely facing the world alone? How fortunate you came to us! We must take good care of her, mustn’t we, Nurse?’

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Rowley.’

‘You must tell me more of this later, my dear. Now I must go to bed so that Nurse can go off duty. My night nurse will be waiting. Oh, if only there were two Nurse Browns in the world!’

Nurse Brown escorted him from the room and then returned.

‘He never likes his night nurse,’ she told Clare, complacently. ‘I’m always having to try a new one. Of course, they don’t have to do much – just help him to bed and look in on him every hour or so. They know to call me if he doesn’t seem himself in any way.’ She sighed. ‘My great fear is that he’ll pass on in the night when I’m not there. Oh, I want him to go in his sleep, when the end comes; it’d be easiest for him. But I’d like to be with him, even if he didn’t know I was. I’ve looked after him for ten years and I can’t remember when I last took a day off. Never feel right if I’m away from him.’

She picked up a menu, preparatory to ordering her own dinner; then said she didn’t really fancy anything. ‘Wonderful food, but you get tired of it. I’ll have bacon and eggs and a
pot of tea in my room, later – they won’t serve that until they’ve finished serving proper dinners. My word, that’s a sad thing about your father, dear, but it makes a new interest for Mr Rowley. You tell him all you can.’