The Nutmeg Tree (3 page)

So Julia settled the matter in her mind, and for months on end (being extremely occupied and always hard-up) quite forgot she had a daughter at all.

It was only when Susan was in trouble that Julia's maternal instincts suddenly reawoke; but they did so to some purpose. Their immediate effect, as has been seen, was the embarrassment of two bailiffs, and the swindling of Mr. Lewis.

Chapter 3

1

The address from which Susan had written was
Les Sapins, Muzin, près de Belley, Ain;
and as soon as the flat was once more at her disposal Julia went through her clothes to see which, if any, were suited to such a destination. It was in the country, of course, like Barton, and probably much the same sort of place; only naturally gayer, through being in France. Julia spread out her three evening dresses and looked at them thoughtfully: there was a midnight-blue taffeta—its bodice all boned-up to dispense with shoulder straps—which a scarf or coatee would possibly make do; but over the other two—one white, the top consisting chiefly of a black velvet poppy; one green, with sequins—Julia shook her head; even in France, the Packetts wouldn't be as gay as
that
.

“I've got to look like a lady,” she thought. “I've got to
be
a lady.…”

The idea at once alarmed and braced her. It would be difficult, but she could do it. And on one point, indeed, Julia was more fortunate than she knew: her conception of the ladylike was as clear-cut, as lacking in ambiguous shades and small subtleties, as a dressmaker's diagram; and like a dressmaker's diagram, it was concerned with surface effects only. Nature's ladies were no ladies to Julia. They were good sorts, which was a very different thing. If you had suddenly asked Julia for a definition, she would probably have replied, Ladies never drink with their mouths full, and never pick anyone up. If you had asked her why not, she would have replied, Because they are ladies. If then, with discourteous persistence, you enquired whether one must wait to see a woman eating and drinking, or being given the glad-eye, before one could tell, Julia would have enlarged her definition. You could always tell a lady by her clothes. However smart, the clothes of a true lady never hit you in the eye; and if she suddenly wanted to change her underwear—you would of course have had to get this bit out of Julia before she became a lady herself—she always could.

In the end Julia decided to take single instead of return tickets, and to buy a new dinner dress with the money saved. She also purchased a linen suit, a Matron's Model hat, and three pairs of camiknickers. She had indeed plenty of these already, but all with policemen embroidered on the legs. And on the platform at Victoria, for almost the first time in her life, she bought a book.

It was
The Forsyte Saga
, and Julia chose it partly because it seemed such a lot for the money, and partly because she had often heard Galsworthy spoken of as a Good Author. She fancied it was the sort of book Susan would like to see her mother reading; and Julia's maternal affection was so strong (though admittedly erratic) that she read three whole chapters between London and Dover.

2

Ladies, when travelling alone, never speak to anybody; so it was with but a stately inclination of the head that Julia thanked a naval officer who steadied her on the gangway and a commercial traveller who set up her deck-chair. She had no difficulty in selecting an isolated position, for passengers were few; and with her coat over her knees, and the
Saga
open on her lap, she settled comfortably down to get on with Literature.

A schoolmistress in a mackintosh, reconnoitring for a sheltered spot, approached and paused.

“It's out of the wind here?” she speculated.

Julia inclined her head.

“Because I think,” said the schoolmistress—though more formally—“that we're in for a blow.”

Julia inclined her head again. The schoolmistress passed on. Julia then (with a brief interval while she watched a Daimler being swung on board) read three chapters of
A Man of Property
straight off the reel. If she found the going a trifle stiff, that rather pleased her than otherwise, for it confirmed her opinion that she was reading a really good book; and then, no one could possibly be more of a lady than its heroine. To have all that S.A. and never get any fun out of it! What could be more ladylike than that? So read, so mused Julia, a lady herself for all the world to see; and hardly lifted her eyes from one paragraph to the next.

She could not help noticing, however, a certain group composed of one woman and five men who stood leaning over the rail almost directly opposite her chair. It was the proportion of the sexes that attracted her attention. One woman to five men! Julia looked at her again, and saw nothing to merit such good fortune. She was short, plump, fifty if a day, with hair so violently golden, and lips so violently red, and such a drift of pale mauve powder on her nose, that not even an all-black ensemble could disguise her resemblance to a macaw. Julia really had to raise her eyebrows; but she also, before returning to her book, spared a glance for the five men. They varied in height from very tall to very short, but all had the same broad shoulders, straight backs, and narrow hips; there was even a vague likeness in their features, though the tallest (addressed as Fred) was also by far the best-looking. He was one of the handsomest men Julia had ever seen.

“I believe they're theatricals,” she thought; and at that moment happened to catch Fred's eye. It was light brown and boldly appreciative—just the sort of eye that Julia liked. But she did not respond. “None of that, now!” she adjured herself; and started doggedly on Chapter Eight.

Literature still kept its precarious hold on her attention when the boat, which had hitherto proceeded in a reasonable decorous manner, began to feel and transmit the increasing motion of the sea. The chops of the Channel were living up to their name, and more than one passenger stumbled hastily by, to contend with them below. Julia, in addition to many other useful qualities, had that of being an excellent sailor, and felt so little inconvenience that she decided to take a walk. Her feet were cold, and the empty decks offered space for brisk motion. A little unsteadily (in spite of her sea-legs) she walked twice up and down, then discovered that the other side would be more sheltered, and continued round. So far was she from seeking companionship that the sight of a group of five men would at once have driven her back, but that their attitudes—of bewilderment and dismay—at once drew her on. They were grouped, so far as she could discern, round a deck-chair; and as she approached a series of loud female groans told her that the victim, whether of accident or
mal de mer
, was their lady companion. She lay perfectly still, huddled in a lumpy mass, so that for one wild moment Julia imagined that the Daimler must have got loose and run over her. But it was seasickness only, as a sudden convulsion just then showed; and as a steward hurried up the group loosened and Fred detached himself. Julia's ladylike inhibitions melted like snow.

“If you want any brandy,” she said directly, “I've a flask in my bag.”

But he shook his head.

“She's had too much already. It's the pork.”

“She does seem bad,” murmured Julia sympathetically. The relief of opening her mouth, of returning to the common level of humanity, was so great that it brought with it a genuine flow of interest and concern. Julia, at that moment, not only would have given the sufferer her brandy, she would have held the sufferer's head. There were two men holding it already, however, and only sympathy was required.

“She
is
bad,” stated Fred. “That's Ma all over—all merry and bright till the last minute, then up it all comes and she thinks she's going to die.
They
—” he nodded over his shoulder at the four mourners—“
they
want to undo her stays; but she won't let 'em.”

“And quite right,” said Julia warmly. “The stomach wants holding together, not letting loose. You ought to do them up tighter.”

“You can't do Ma's stays any tighter—not without killing her. I don't know how she breathes as it is.” They listened a moment in respectful silence, as the lady's groans rose a sudden octave higher. “Wonderful lung-power, hasn't she?” asked Fred with gloomy pride. “She used to be able to sing ‘The Lost Chord' upside-down.”

“Theatricals?” asked Julia, pleased at her intuition.

With the neatness of a conjurer he produced his card. It was rather larger than usual, but then it had to be. “T
HE
S
IX
F
LYING
G
ENOCCHIOS
,” it announced: “T
RAPEZE AND
H
IGH
W
IRE
.
Daring, Thrilling, Unbelievable. The Koh-i-Noor of Aerial Entertainment
.” The first line was printed in red, the second in silver, the third in blue; so that altogether it was a very imposing affair.

Julia had scarcely looked her admiration when a second card slipped over the first. On a smaller area, chastely engraved, she read the name and address of Mr. Fred Genocchio, 5, Connaught Villas, Maida Vale.

“That's my personal one,” said Fred. “You keep it.”

Julia slipped it into her bag. She was slightly mortified at not having one of her own to give in exchange, and as Fred waited expectantly had to introduce herself by mere word of mouth.

“I'm Mrs. Macdermot. I'm going to join my daughter.”

“In Paris?”

“No, in Haute Savoie.” Julia was pleased about that: Haute Savoie sounded so much better—more travelled, more distinguished. She should really have said Ain, of course, but did not know how to pronounce it.

“That's rather off our track,” admitted Mr. Genocchio. “But then we only do Number Ones. We're opening to-night—just a hall show—at the Casino Bleu.”

“It's got very beautiful scenery,” continued Julia, who felt that Haute Savoie had not had its full due. “Mountains, and all that. I love scenery.”

“So does Ma,” said Mr. Genocchio. “Take her out to Richmond and she's happy as a sandboy.” He glanced over his shoulder again, evidently reawakening to his present troubles, and was at once beckoned back into the group. Not even the distressing sight that confronted him, however, could destroy his social sense.

“This is Mrs. Macdermot, Ma. She wondered—”

But Julia had by now realized her error.

“Packett,” she corrected firmly.

“Mrs. Packett, Ma.” Fred accepted the amendment without any show of surprise. “She wondered if she could be of any help.”

“No one can help me,” moaned Ma in her anguish. “I wish you'd all go away. I'm dying, and I know it, and they want to undo me stays.”

The five men looked first at each other, then at Julia. “Women!” that glance seemed to say.
“Women!”

“Well, they're not going to,” said Julia. “The tighter you are the better, and so I've been telling Mr. Genocchio.”

Mr. Genocchio's mother—for such she was—only moaned again. She was past all comfort, even the comfort of being let die in her corsets. “Go away!” she groaned. “Go away and leave me!”

There was evidently nothing to be done. For some minutes longer they stood sympathetic but impotent, like bystanders round a fallen horse. Then Fred slipped his arm through Julia's and drew her quietly away.

“She's right,” he said. “We can't do anything. We'd better go and get a drink.”

3

As they settled themselves in the bar Julia, her sympathies still engaged by so much distress, enquired whether the Sixth of the Flying Genocchios was Ma herself.

Fred shook his head.

“No. Ma doesn't fly: my old man was the sixth, and we still keep it on the card. Ma changes the number boards—you know—in tights. And between you and me, she's got past it.”

“I don't think they're ever what you'd call becoming,” said Julia tactfully. “At least not on a woman. A man with a good figure's different.”

“You ought to see our show,” said Mr. Genocchio.

With his neat conjurer's movement he produced as though from the air a fan of postcard-size photographs. All except one displayed the Six Flying Genocchios in various astonishing postures—cannoning in midair, pendant by the teeth; the card on top was dedicated to Fred alone. And he was superb: in black tights, against a light background, he showed as a long, slim, perfectly balanced triangle, flawlessly tapered from the broad shoulders to the narrow feet. Julia gazed in admiration; she had no need to speak, her eyes were eloquent.

“You'd better come to-night,” said Fred earnestly. “What time does your train go?”

“Eleven-forty,” said Julia; but she hesitated. That gap of five hours at Paris was already consecrated, in her mind, to her book: she had intended to sit in the First Class waiting-room, lost in a world of literature, while intrigued and intriguing Frenchmen vainly tried to get off with her. That, she felt, was how her journey should begin, for she had already shifted the starting-point to the Gare du Lyon. If she went to a music-hall with the Genocchios, that starting-point would have to be put off still further—till eleven-forty, in fact, which meant so much less time in which to work up her new rôle. Slapdash in everything else—and particularly in affairs of the heart—Julia nevertheless plumed herself on being a conscientious artist; and now these two sides of her character were at their usual game of Devil-pull-Baker. Then she looked at the postcard again, and the Devil won.

“All right,” she said. “But I'm not going to miss my train. My daughter will be waiting for me.”

His gratitude was cut short by the entrance of the four other Genocchios—three brothers and a cousin—who had followed their leader's example; and in the company of so many males Julia's spirits at once soared. Within five minutes she was the life and soul of the party. The warmth, the rowdiness, the pressure of Fred's knee against her own, all were equally agreeable to her; and only when Fred's hand went under the table as well did she suddenly remember about being a lady. It was hard, too, for those muscular fingers spoke a familiar and exciting language, to which her own cheerful flesh was only too ready to respond; but the spirit triumphed, and Julia rose.