To the North (23 page)

Pauline was alarmed but elated by the invitation. On the Saturday of the third weekend in June she set off across country by motor coach, in a dark-blue serge coat and skirt, in charge of the school matron who had relations near Cirencester. Unfortunately it was raining, bad weather was moving steadily south; the country looked steamy and roads ran like rivers. Though Lady Waters had promised Pauline her uncle, Pauline had heard nothing from him and did not know if he were really to be at Farraways. She was fascinated by Lady Waters, who made her blush. … At High Wycombe they changed coaches; Pauline ate a bar of chocolate, Matron ate Marie biscuits out of an envelope. They passed through woods, over ridges, through villages dark with rain; when
The Daily Mirror
was finished Pauline and Matron looked out through the streaming windows, pointing out objects to one another: they became very friendly. Pauline’s heart sank when at Cirencester Matron, looking suddenly common and kind in her large green hat, flopped from the coach to embrace her sister, while Pauline made her own lonely way to the car from Farraways.

The rain thinned and stopped; the car, clearing Cirencester, tore with a slick wet sound up the open road to Farraways: in the Daimler, massive as a conservatory awheel, Pauline, picking white fluff from her coat and skirt, felt more of an orphan than ever. At her feet reposed a moist parcel of turbot, a bottle of lime juice, a tin of cheese biscuits from the Cirencester grocer’s. After some miles, the chauffeur stopped to enquire if she were comfortable, but looked with tar greater solicitude at the turbot.

As the car took the turn of the drive Pauline, straightening her hat, saw the middle-aged stone house, porticoed, whose many polished dark windows had white frames. Before the front door a large lime dripped on to a lawn; just clear of the drops Lady Waters, in grey knitted wool, standing out on a duckboard, directed a gardener who was putting down numbers for clock golf. Stooping, Lady Waters herself stuck in the small red flag… . Pauline, seeing these preparations for her visit, felt very much excited, as though the candles were being lit on a birthday cake. The car pulled up; she was let out to kiss Lady Waters, who said reproachfully: “We have heard nothing definite from your uncle.”

“Oh
dear
,” said Pauline.

“However . . said Lady Waters. Smiling, she tipped Pauline under her anxious chin and led her towards the portico. Sir Robert, who had been looking out of the window, stepped back hastily in retreat. Light slipped through the clouds im-palpably parting to touch the bronzed hayhelds and distant silvery trees for one of those moments, disturbing and gracious, with which wet June weather is interspersed… . Pauline, feeling herself regarded with such kindness and so much disinclination to meet her yet, felt certain this must be Sir Robert. Lady Waters, however, said nothing; Sir Robert’s companion, further back in the study, was an ornithologist, of no possible interest to her.

“I have heard nothing, either,” she said, making a confidante of Pauline as they went upstairs, “of my niece, whom you know: Mrs. Summers. This weekend has been rather difficult. But we have a composer with us, of whom I expect you have heard— This is your little room, Pauline: it is quite tiny.”

“Oh, how cosy; it is divine!” cried Pauline, clasping her hands. The room was in fact very small: they stood in a kind of canyon between the high polished furniture. The window looked over the porch; through looped muslin curtains the lime breathed in, sweet and damp.

“Mrs. Summers will be next door, so you will not be lonely. You two are great friends already, I understand?”

“She
is
coming?”

“Her sister-in-law is in Paris, so it seems likely.” Lady Waters looked into the soap-dish, the ink-pot, the biscuit box: everything was in place. “You must not feel shy here,” she said. “This house has been home to so many young people; a great many little girls have slept in this very room. So you must feel quite natural with us. Are you fond of birds?”

Pauline wondered if they had an aviary. “
Very
,” she said.

“That will be very nice,” said Lady Waters, but did not give the context of the remark. Her eyes wandered, an expression of mild calculation came over her face: she was anxious to keep the ornithologist clear of Cecilia. “My other niece,” she said, “flew to Paris to-day—though she is not really my niece. Visibility looks to me poor to-day but it may have been different at Croydon; one never knows.”

“Never,” agreed Pauline. “How I dream of flying!”

“That may have nothing to do with flying,” said Lady Waters, looking at her with interest. At this point, however, the telephone rang downstairs; having looked back once to remark: “You remember your dreams, I hope?” Lady Waters left her young visitor. Pauline plunged the most vigorous of her blushes into soap and water and polished her cheeks to a high shine: discouraged by the allusion to shyness she wondered how to appear most natural. When the gong for lunch sounded she crept like a mouse to the stair-head, then pranced heavily down.

In the hall, however, her hostess was still at the telephone; she turned with an awful smile to enjoin silence. After some delays, Cecilia was through from London.

“I had thought,” Lady Waters was saying, “that he could motor you down.”

“I have no idea where he is: he may be in Siberia.”

“Siberia? But he wrote from St. James’ Court.”

“Then he must be there.”

“The child has just come.” (Pauline fled to the dining-room.)

“Oh, the poor little thing: does she speak?”

“My dear Cecilia, your call must be very expensive—would you mind telling me if you are coming or not?”

Cecilia hesitated, sighing audibly on the wire. A voice said: “
Thrrree
minutes!”

“Oh yes: yes, Georgina, I’d love to— No,
don’t
give me another three minutes!—The 3.55.” She rang off.

“There is no 3.55,” Lady Waters observed to the empty air.

It would end, of course, in a telegram and their sending the car to Cheltenham: Cecilia was a good deal of trouble to her relations: Georgina could see quite plainly, she never cared to commit herself in case something more amusing should turn up. This time, however, her hesitation and manner had been peculiar: one could be certain that something was in the air. Mentally all a-tiptoe, Lady Waters went in to lunch.

Her visitors, having assimilated each other imperfecdy, still had the odd air of objects picked up at random. Pauline was still much agitated by what she had overheard: “The child has just come”—what had Cecilia replied? Marcelle Veness, an unhappy woman composer who had lately quarrelled with her best friend and could speak to no one, gloomed at Sir Robert’s right hand: she had spent the morning hatless out in the rain. An apologetic white dog coasted round the chair-backs; he belonged to the house and desolated by too many departures dared form no more attachments, looking at newcomers with a disenchanted eye: a nervy luckless little white dog that yearned for a sweet routine. The ornithologist, who never cared much where he was, talked on loudly and happily to Sir Robert. Sir Robert, however, could not give his mind to his friend; looking kindly at Pauline he asked her if she liked birds.

“It must be a joke here,” thought Pauline; she laughed heartily.

Lady Waters really had had no reason to count on Julian for this weekend; regretfully but distinctly he had declined her invitation. So regretfully that Lady Waters, who had naturally mentioned Cecilia, saw at once that there must be something behind this and wrote again.
Should
he unexpectedly find himself free, she said, he must let her know; Pauline was expecting to meet him and would be much disappointed. Julian, whose weekend engagements were quite substantial, was surprised and could see no reason to write again: he was alarmed by this hint, not the first, of Cecilia’s relation’s tenacity, which could do him no good.

Not at once dismissing the matter he had telephoned to Cecilia, who was appalled. “On no account go,” she said, “the place is a morgue. Besides, there is nothing to do there.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind that… . Do I take it you won’t be there?”

“I may or may not.”

“I
could
go …”

“I see no reason why.”

Naturally, he was discouraged; Cecilia felt sorry later she had discouraged him. A weekend with Julian might have been pleasant—but not at Farraways. She was missing him these days; not that she saw him less but his absences seemed longer: the possibility of their ever falling in love remained, however, remote… . Dreading, she could not say why, this next weekend without Emmeline, Cecilia decided that she would suggest to Julian, when he should ring up again, to cut his engagements for Sunday and take her into the country: she would be more than willing to cut her own. But he did not ring up again. Reflecting how many friends she had that were more amenable she thought: “Really he is impossible: he is too touchy.” So before lunch on Saturday, in desperation, she telephoned to Georgina. She packed several books she never had time to read and a couple of old evening dresses she could not wear anywhere else: when she found the 3.55 did not exist she felt that life was against her and wept at Paddington. She telegraphed, begging Georgina to meet her at Cheltenham, knowing too well they all knew she had not cared to commit herself in case something more amusing should turn up.

When Pauline heard that Cecilia was really coming she recalled Dorothea’s frightful remark and blushed into her lime juice. In spite of all this, she began to enjoy herself: a promising sparkle pervaded the flowerless lilacs and there were delicious new peas for lunch. She stared at the damp-haired woman composer, not having seen a woman drink whiskey before; she ate gooseberry tart with short pastry and camembert with a delicious oozy inside; her skirt-belt began to tighten, a guarantee of repletion unknown at school… . The unhappy celebrity, face like a drowned mask, meanwhile stared out of the window: she asked herself why she was here and could not have said. She was wretched everywhere; it did not greatly matter. Her empty studio, the stairs up which no one came any more had become impossible: one was bound to be somewhere. She had an untroubled contempt for her hosts and could hardly see them; stretching a hand out she began to eat biscuits quickly; finished one plate and looked round for more. It alarmed Sir Robert to see this poor lady, one moment unable to swallow, bolting so many dry biscuits.

Roaming round the table in search of biscuits, the composer’s eyes of dark vacancy met Pauline’s, and, without brightening, fixed her. She had not seen Pauline before: the child seemed incredible. “Who are you?” she said languidly.

Everyone looked at Pauline, who choked and could not reply.

“Is she dumb?” Marcelle asked the table.

“Dear me, no,” said Robert, while his wife, pleased at this evidence of returning vitality in her patient, looked compellingly at Pauline. “Tell Marcelle who you are,” she said.

Marcelle did not cease to examine Pauline with distraught intensity. Wrapped thickly in a subjectivity through which the passions like taxi-lamps in a fog shed a murky glow, Marcelle could but be surprised when the mists thinned a moment, showing her something or somebody not herself. At such moments she had bought a dog because it was so like one, given someone a five-pound note because it was crackly or invited strangers to dine: it was her friends’ privilege to patch up, later, any ensuing awkwardness, to remove the great Dane that encumbered her studio, reclaim the five pounds or dismiss the expectant party… . Absorbed by Pauline she watched blush rise after blush, then looked down at the child’s tie. She said: “Do tell me why you are wearing that?”

“It’s our school tie.”

“You don’t think it’s becoming?”

“No.”

“You’re quite right,” said Marcelle. “How terrible!”

“What is terrible, Marcelle?” said Lady Waters. She hoped Pauline was gratified: years afterwards the child might remember how Marcelle Veness had told her about her tie.

“Oh, come,” said Sir Robert, “I think it is rather a pretty tie.”

“School was prison to me,” said Marcelle. “Do you have to do what they tell you?”

“…I don’t know.”

“But how can you not know?”

“Pauline cannot see herself,” interposed Lady Waters. “It is difficult for her to say.”

The ornithologist, man of one single idea who had not been listening, said impatiently to Sir Robert, “When do we start?” They were going out with field-glasses to the water-meadows, where they would stand for hours rooted and not speaking till they became to the objects of their observation as natural as willows. Or, drawing out foot after foot with a squelch they would advance step by step cautiously and as though by accident. For these meadows, strung in the rainy weather with pools and marshes, where in late spring fritillaries hang their delicate mottled bells, where young rivers barely emerged from the long fine grass, are pied with strange birds that flash over the water: the coot, the smew, the redshank, the common sandpiper; the yellow wagtail is numerous; there may be epoch-making appearances of the gargany, the ring ouzel or the red-backed shrike. … Sir Robert wondered if he ought to ask Pauline to come with them. But there were no glasses for her, she would get her feet wet and it would seem unkind to keep asking her not to talk.

Marcelle, having given her hostess one glance of contempt, let Pauline go and subsided: once more the mists closed in. The butler provide more biscuits, but having lost interest in them she left the table… . Pauline knew she should never feel safe again.

“She has a good deal of temperament,” said Sir Robert: even his wife looked put out. So far, Marcelle had been one of her few reverses: Georgina could but regret having carried her off. Alone in her studio scrappy with torn-up letters Marcelle, poor soul, had for days been afloat in whiskey: Georgina had bustled her out of it. Country air, some calm talks should do much for Marcelle. But she drank as much whiskey here and was even more unresponsive: she played the piano at midnight and said next day it was out of tune. “She’ll get wet again,” said Sir Robert, as Marcelle strode past the window. For the clouds, which she seemed to attract, had closed in; once more it was raining steadily.