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Dedication

TO MY FATHER

Book One

BOOK ONE

1928

Chapter I

I

“No, not really,” Mary was saying. “No, it didn’t really help things much.”

The doors were ajar. Anne, sticking entertainment-tax stamps on to green and orange tickets, listening to her mother’s rich lazy ironical voice, frowned.

Mary was describing over the telephone, for the twentieth time, the awful scare they’d had at last week’s concert, with the Spanish Quartet. The ’cello and second violin—poor little things, they were almost in tears—had left their parts of the Dohnányi locked up in a hotel at Victoria, and when Mary had gone round there in a taxi with only a quarter of an hour to spare, while they played the Schubert, she’d had the most terrific job persuading the staff to let her into the rooms. And, of course, it had all been very funny. Very, very funny, thought Anne, frowning. Very funny indeed.

“Ah, well; ah, well. That was just one of the awkward bits.”

How Mother loves all this. And why shouldn’t she? Anne’s eyes moved round the attractive little room, with stacks of papers everywhere, the Breton armoire, the Steinlen poster on the wall, the bed, the dressing-table, the shelf of yellow paper-bound books, the gay chessboard curtains at the windows. Rather like the inside of a caravan. At night you went to bed on the camouflaged divan surrounded by the day’s débris—letters, newspapers, press cuttings, other people’s musical instruments, tennis rackets, and usually a little dirty crockery or a few beer glasses which had escaped notice in the wash-up after a picnic meal. And this is my home, Anne thought.

The truth was, she was still feeling a bit peevish at having had to move into the music-room, because of a Central School student whom Mary had invited in to sleep for the next fortnight, until she could get digs. The bed in the music-room had hot pipes running along the wall beside it. One woke up in the morning half-stewed. Why couldn’t the wretched girl have known beforehand and made her own arrangements? But nobody ever knew anything beforehand here. Always these last-moment decisions, rushings out to get food, collect people for a party. Always this atmosphere of living in a railway station—just for the sake of living in a railway station. Anne yawned. But I quite see what fun all this is for Mary.

“Yes. We were bidden to a rich supper at the Gowers’. My dear … I ain’t proud, ’cos Ma says ’tis sinful—but of all the … yes, you’ve said it.…”

Not that she didn’t work, harder than any office clerk, at her endless letters, which she answered in a great sprawling hand full of spelling mistakes. And the hours she spent at the Gallery, on a hard chair. And then having to sally out in the evenings to studio parties, concerts, shows at clubs, in order to meet, amidst the crush in the artists’ room, some person who might, remotely, be “useful.” Never tired, always ready to dance, drink, give imitations of Sir Henry Wood or Harriet Cohen, help cook somebody else’s dinner, sing:

Late one night, at the theatre,

See him sitting in the stalls,

With one hand upon his programme——

Your Mother’s wonderful, they said. Anne had heard it all her life. Your Mother’s wonderful. It was quite true.

And feeling this, Anne smiled with real affection at Mary, who appeared in the doorway, smiling, her hands full of papers, wearing an apron, a cigarette in her mouth.

“Did we send Mrs. Gidden her membership card?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“She’s just written to say she hasn’t got it.”

“Wait a minute, then, I’ll look it up … yes, we did.”

“The bitch!”

With indolent, unhurried movements, Mary added her papers to the pile on the table, selected others, copied an address into the members’ book and strolled out.

The truth is, thought Anne, just avoiding sticking two stamps on to one ticket, I don’t belong here. I’m not one of the Gang.

Yes, she’d felt it often. At charades, only a week or two ago, when they’d done the Ballet scene, and Edward had literally stood on his ear for about fifteen seconds. She’d found herself watching them, as though they were strangers. The curious thing is that Maurice belongs. It isn’t merely a question of not being arty.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of Mary. Not simply that. Though, of course, I am, slightly. She’s awfully good to me. No, much more than good—really decent. Perhaps I should get on better as a lady. Living with Aunt Lily. God forbid.

I shall never be a tenth of what Mother is, thought Anne. And I don’t want to be.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer wants two guest-tickets for a daughter and friend,” called Mary from the next room.

“Right you are.”

“I think the friend must be that plaintive little thing we saw at the Aeolian.”

“Very likely,” Anne called back, reaching for the tickets and entering them in the book.

If one had to criticise Mary, one could say nothing, absolutely nothing. She was above criticism. But must you always—Anne could sometimes have yelled out—must you always be so tolerant? Had Mary ever, during her whole life, had any really absurd, old-fashioned, stupid prejudice? Had she ever hated anybody? Had she ever really felt anything at all? One could hardly imagine it. Her utmost commendation of anyone: “That’s a good number.” Her utmost condemnation: “Your taste, not mine.” She laughed things away—Bolshevism, Christian Science, Lesbians, the General Strike—“Not really very cosy,” or, “I couldn’t really fancy it meself.”

I suppose I ought to go into a convent. A year ago Anne had seriously considered becoming a hospital nurse. She’d made enquiries, even tentatively mentioned it to Mary. And it was Mary’s indulgent, ever so faintly amused smile that had made her feel: No, never. She couldn’t. She could never face the Gang, who, with their little jokes, could turn it all into just one more new sort of game. The questions they’d ask. “Isn’t it frightfully thrilling?” “Isn’t it simply terrifying?” “Isn’t it tremendous fun?” I suppose I’m just being romantic and schoolgirlish. I used to want to be Joan of Arc. It’s all Sex. Good old Sex. I’m being screamingly funny. But I do long, long for someone who hasn’t got this tremendously highly developed sense of humour. She thought at once of Eric. No, Eric wouldn’t laugh.

There was the telephone again. Mary in the doorway, smiling: “For you.”

Anne got up, felt herself beginning to blush, frowned, walked through into the other room. Should she shut the door? Damn it, no.

And as she picked up the receiver, her voice seemed to go suddenly out of her control. Smooth, false, clear as crystal, she drawled:

“Hullo, Tommy. How goes it?”

The anxious little voice at the other end made her smile faintly to herself.

“Oh, my dear, did you? But how too thrilling.… How too splendid.… But that sounds most exciting. I’m sure I should love it.… Wait a minute, my dear, I’ll just look and see. I’m not absolutely sure.…”

She turned, to catch sight of her flushed cheeks in the mirror. Should she? Would it be amusing? Oh, well, yes. She sighed. Not exactly from boredom. Tommy always made her feel—responsible.

Out of bravado, she looked into the other room, where Mary was getting on with the tax-stamps.

“Is there anything special on, this evening?”

“No, I don’t think so. I shall probably look in on Georges’ little do. I might catch Hauptstein there.”

“And you’re sure you can manage with the rest of the stuff for to-morrow?”

“Perfectly, thank you, my dear.”

Mary smiled. Anne explained, with sudden exasperation:

“I’m going out to the theatre. With Tommy Ramsbotham.”

“Give him my love.”

Their eyes met. Unwittingly, admiringly, Anne grinned at her Mother, thought: You think you’re so jolly sly, don’t you?

“And do try,” said Mary, “to find out something more about the second Mrs. Ram’s B.”

“I don’t expect Tommy knows much.”

“Perhaps the whole thing’s just another Chapel Bridge fairy story.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like our Ram.”

*   *   *

And in due course Anne was plunging into a simple but very smart frock, touching her lips with red, powdering, slipping on her new shoes—the complete box of tricks. It was like packing up a parcel of presents for a child. Oh, she felt thirty-five at least—so sophisticated, so chic, so wearily false, so benign, so maternal, so—good God, yes—so tolerant. She peeped at herself in the glass. Whisked downstairs.

She knew the whole programme. It had been repeated so often. Tommy loved doing things in style. It was no good fussing, or telling him that he was spending all his pocket-money. He did so enjoy it. Am I a fearful cad? she’d often asked herself, looking round some quite grand restaurant. She decided that she was, and had better get slightly tight. Of course, at the theatre, it would be stalls. She sat beside him, watching a revue, simply trembling in her eagerness to be amused, to show that she was amused. And how he laughed when he saw she was laughing. And if he started laughing first, he looked back, as it were, holding out his hand, imploring her to follow. And then came the interval, when he said very negligently:

“What do you think of it?”

“I think it’s absolutely marvellous,” she’d say, beaming super-gratitude at him, as though he’d written book and music and was taking all the parts.

“Not too bad, is it?” She could hear his joy, his pride in the revue ring like a telephone bell through his drawl.

And then she’d ask him about the office and whether the work was very hard and how he liked it. And he began to tell her, carefully and seriously, suddenly breaking off with:

“You’re absolutely certain I’m not boring you?”

Her tone crossed its heart, kissed a dozen testaments. She simply couldn’t be sufficiently positive:

“My dear, I think it’s most frightfully interesting.”

And then they’d go on to the little place he took such pride in being a member of. His only regret was that it wasn’t naughtier. It had never once been raided. And here she was soon beautifully muzzy, giggling up at him as they swayed about the room. Now she didn’t care if she was a cad or not. Part of the wall was made of looking-glass. She kept catching sight of herself. Really, she had to admit, those eyes were pretty striking—and how really exquisitely I dance. She sparkled at him. He was flushed with happiness. In the taxi coming home she’d fairly ask for it. He kissed nicely. Life is so terribly complicated, she thought, stroking his hair. I suppose I oughtn’t to be doing this. Why the hell not? Oh damn, we’re in the King’s Road already.

“I say, Anne, you are marvellous.”

“Good old Tommy.”

When they arrived at the mews she generally had enough sense to insist on his keeping the taxi and going straight back to his digs. Otherwise, he got maudlin. To make up, she kissed him in front of the driver. I am a harlot, she thought.

And next morning, of course, there’d be the usual reaction. It wasn’t fair. If he were just an ordinary young idiot—and she’d met plenty. But Tommy was different. He really adored her. What a pleasing thought. She couldn’t help grinning as she pronounced the word mentally to herself. But no, it wasn’t fair. It would be almost better if she were just a harpy, luring him on. But I am fond of him, Anne thought. That’s what makes it so immoral. I blow hot and blow cold. If only the poor darling hadn’t given himself away so completely. He would put all his cards on the table. He was utterly reckless. He liked to humiliate himself. And that made it so much worse for her. This fatal feeling of security made her tease, patronise him. She behaved vilely. And she knew that he went home and brooded over every word she’d uttered, wondering: Now what, exactly, did she mean by that?

The worst moments were his proposals. That was really the most exquisite misery. She suffered for him—pins and needles, daggers. While he explained his prospects. Gerald didn’t care much about the business. And if he, Tommy, worked, it was only a matter of time—“I know it wouldn’t be much of a life for you, up there,” he said. Sometimes she thought him quite shameless, playing on her pity. He was so dreadfully constant. She felt that she’d really been his only love from the cradle—Gatesley was practically that—and would be till the grave. If only he’d flirt with another girl and I got to hear of it, Anne thought, I might be honestly jealous. Yes, I should be. And then we should have got somewhere. But Tommy had no guile. He just lay there and waited to be stepped on.

*   *   *

As the bus turned into Cambridge Circus, Anne saw him faithfully waiting, under the shelter of the Palace Theatre. And suddenly she had a most unpleasant, apprehensive, sinking feeling—worse than she’d ever felt before. It was as if she were going bad. She was neither chic, false, modern nor benign.

Oh hell, she thought—I’m afraid I’m not going to enjoy this evening at all.

Chapter II

II

THE little Society to which Major Charlesworth and Mrs. Vernon both belonged met once a week throughout the winter months. Every week it visited some monument or relic of old London—a church, a city hall, an Elizabethan gateway in the corner of a Thames-side goods yard. Its members were chiefly oldish single women, young board-school teachers with pince-nez, an occasional clergyman, scholarly and querulous, asserting himself at lectures—earnest, curious, simple people, making their rambles into a little cult, mildly pertinacious, not daunted by the jokes of draymen or the stares of guttersnipes, determined to see everything, but glad of their tea.

Ronald Charlesworth admitted to himself that he felt out of place amongst them. The obvious slight pleasure of the spinster ladies at having a military gentleman in their ranks added to his embarrassment. But he wasn’t going to be put off. As a young man he’d stood a good deal of chaff from his brother officers because of his fondness for museums, art galleries, old bookshops. Now that he was retired, middle-aged, with the War over, he could indulge his hobbies in comfort. Every week he was to be seen, at the back of the crowd—because, with his height, he could see over them easily—slightly stooping, his beautifully shaped jaw somehow recalling that of a warrior in a Japanese print, listening to what was said with a proud, delicate humility, his hands crossed like a martyr’s on the crook of his perfectly rolled umbrella.

Ronald’s friendship with Mrs. Vernon had begun quite naturally, the first time she had attended one of the Society’s meetings, some months ago. The effusive lady who organised the Society’s affairs had introduced them. They chatted about the place they had come to visit, their eyes asking the question: But why are you here? Neither looked the part of archæologist.

In appearance Mrs. Vernon was no more than thirty, and yet a curiously mature air of sadness and quietness surrounded her, so that he knew, after a few moments, that she must be ten or fifteen years older. She seemed sad, even though she laughed and smiled and talked in a rapid eager way about old pictures and old buildings. Since he had known her, she had been dressed always in black, which accentuated the fairness of her hair and skin and gave her sometimes absolutely the look of a child.

After the Society’s meetings came always the question of tea. Sometimes the places they visited would provide it, free or at a shilling a head; sometimes they had all to make for the nearest confectioner’s. At such times, Mrs. Vernon and Ronald naturally drew together, recoiling, without snobbery but by natural instinct, from the rest of the party. They had plenty to talk about. First and foremost, their mutual hobby. Ronald was surprised at her knowledge. It was not great, but it was much greater than he would have expected from a woman. And her feeling for the Past, for the romantic aspect of History, charmed him.

From archæology, they passed over many topics. He discovered that Mrs. Vernon painted; had painted, rather. She had done nothing, she said, for years. Thus it came about that she asked him to her flat, to tea. The portfolios of water-colour sketches she showed, with many apologies for their faults, made him insist that she ought to have kept it up.

“I haven’t cared to,” she answered, smiling sadly, “since the War.”

And at that moment, though she hadn’t made the faintest movement, Ronald noticed on the mantelpiece a silver-framed photograph of a man in uniform. Mrs. Vernon had never spoken to him of her husband. Himself so sensitive, he recoiled immediately, blamed himself for his clumsiness in paining her with his questions. But she, as though guessing this and wishing to reassure him, had continued:

“My husband was an artist, too. He was far better than I am. I should like to show you some of his work.”

How beautifully, he felt later, she had said this.

*   *   *

Though they met often, their friendship grew slowly. But it did grow. Ronald was as shy as a schoolboy. He foresaw or imagined the approach of a snub and drew back long before it reached him. He showed Mrs. Vernon his flat, his small collection of etchings, his few valuable books. They went together to hear lectures at the National Portrait Gallery and the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Lonely himself, having few friends even at his Club, suffering often from the after-effects of enteric fever, which he had developed during the Boer War, Ronald yet thought of Mrs. Vernon’s life as being lonelier still. At times, he pictured her as a sort of nun. She seemed so serene and calm. Once she had told him smilingly that her maid had given notice and been gone a week. She had been living, she said, on fruit. She liked it. She was in no hurry to get another. Ronald had been seriously alarmed. He was sure that she would be utterly careless about food, perhaps forget to eat altogether. She might make herself really ill. She looked as fragile as air. Yet he dared not say anything, lest he should seem to intrude upon her life. It was only by casual and tentative questions that he later ascertained that another maid had been found. Going to tea with Mrs. Vernon a few days after this, he saw the new maid for himself and was infinitely relieved.

For some time he had no idea that Mrs. Vernon had a son. When she did at length refer to him it was quite casually, and yet Ronald felt at once that behind her assumed indifference there was a tragedy. She spoke about something he had done as a boy, and it was as if she were talking of someone who had died. Evidently there was some shady business. Perhaps he’d forged a cheque. Probably worse. Was living in disgrace. And it must have broken his mother’s heart. Ronald was a mild man, but he felt himself utterly without mercy in his judgment of that young bounder, who’d behaved so vilely to her. The only thing that could be said for him was that he had the decency not to show himself.

She had spoken to Ronald on more than one occasion of an old house in Cheshire where, he gathered, she had stayed for some years since her widowhood. It was the house of her husband’s people. She showed him some of her water-colour drawings of it. And now, she said, this house was shut up and empty, in the hands of caretakers. When she spoke of it, her eyes had tears in them.

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