Nightingale Wood (42 page)

The days grew ever darker; and presently it was Christmas morning.

CHAPTER XXIII

Spring was late that year and as usual it was delicious when it came, and enjoyed the more for its lateness.

Viola felt that she had really grown up during this endless, dark, sad winter, brightened only by an occasional letter from Shirley, busy with a baby son. Her father’s death, her widowhood, and the first dull weeks at The Eagles had never made her feel so old as had the silent, gloomy days between October and the end of March. She had heard no news of Victor; he might have been dead, and she continued to dream of him in a childish grieving way without trying, as she had at first with Tina’s help, to occupy her mind and control her feelings. She had grown thinner, and was quieter nowadays. Life seemed so hopelessly dull and sad, and it would go on like this for ever.

But March was going out, and the evenings were getting longer, with birds singing to one another from the tree-tops, and things began to happen.

Little Merionethshire, who had met Annie at the Staff garden party at Grassmere in the summer, ran into her on their mutual afternoon-off in Chesterbourne, and told her that the Springs were expected back at Grassmere the next day; and then all the maids would have plenty to do, because Mr Victor was getting married on the twenty-fifth, and though it was going to be in Town at St George’s where all the posh weddings were, Mrs Spring was going to entertain a lot before it came off, and Miss Barlow was coming down for a few days, and then there was Miss Hetty’s twenty-first on the eighteenth, so there’d be plenty to do. Run off our feet, we’ll be, said Merionethshire, nodding a black nob of a head on which a white beret just managed to balance. Annie then asked: And when shall we hear of
you
gettin’ married, Miss Davies? and little Gladys, who was the sort that causes young men to hang themselves, giggled and said: Never, catch her tying herself up like some girls, but she added hastily that it was not for lack of asking.

Annie repeated most of this conversation to Mrs Theodore. The maids were used to Mrs Theodore by now, she was a known quantity, and her youthful looks and air of wanting something to happen had been so toned down by The Eagles to a proper sobriety that the three felt justified in occasionally indulging in a decorous gossip with her.

The news revived all Viola’s misery. The twenty-fifth! less than a month away. Nothing could happen to stop it now. And it was to be in London; she could not even have the unhappy consolation of being there to see him for the last time. Not that I would, really, she hastily thought; I
could
put off going up to see Shirley until the twenty-fifth, of course, and go, but I’m blowed if I do. Tagging round after him. Besides, I should only howl, and everybody would see.

But she made up her mind that she would have the London evening papers for that day, and the morning papers for the following day, in case there were any pictures of the wedding; and after lunch she took the bus into Chesterbourne to order them from a newsagent. She did not want everyone in Sible Pelden knowing that young Mrs Wither up The Eagles had ordered the London papers from Croggs, the sweetshop-tobacconist-newsagent in the village; they would go on wondering why until they guessed.

It was Saturday, a grey day, but quite different from the grey of winter, for the air was soft and the low distant hills beyond the town were distinct and close, as though in a picture, and in all the budding woods and hedges the birds were – not singing, it sounded like an absorbed talking, a discussing and planning in sweet chirrups.

I’ll pop in and see Catty, thought Viola, getting off the bus outside the Clock Tower. It’s nearly a quarter to three, old Burgess’ll be having lunch, and she set off down the High Street, her spirits rising, despite her unhappiness, at the sight of the New Spring Millinery displayed in the shop windows and a sweet mysterious smell that wandered on the soft wind.

There was the usual jam by Woolworths’, and as she waited at the crossing, she glanced at a handsome car a little ahead of her in the traffic, and her heart leapt, for in it were Victor and Phyllis. The first thing she noticed was that both were sunburnt; the next was that they were unmistakably having a row.

Victor’s face suggested a thundercloud (it slipped into that expression easily these days) and Phyllis’s looked lightly, bitterly amused. They snapped remarks at each other, without turning round, while the car waited. Snap, snap snap snap snap snap, snap snap? went Phyllis’s mouth, and Victor’s retorted with three vicious snap snap
snaps
. Then the car moved on.

Viola could not help being very pleased. She and Shirley had noticed that people who snapped before they were married usually snapped afterwards, and if Victor and Phyllis snapped for two or three years, they might get a divorce. And then perhaps I could have him, thought Mrs Wither, going into Burgess and Thompson’s in a more hopeful mood, for her views on marriage, as on everything else, were primitive.

But then she caught sight of Miss Cattyman and forgot Victor, for Miss Cattyman was serving someone (fortunately old Mrs Buckle, who was half blind) with tears running down her face.

Miss Cattyman had been with Burgess and Thompson’s for fifty years. She had started with them when she was sixteen, and in a few days now she would be sixty-six. She remembered the firm, of course, long before Viola’s father had come into it; she could remember it when it was Patner and Hughes, and the girls had to work as long as Mr Patner wanted them to … long before Early Closing and all that came in … sweeping about the shop in trailing skirts that picked up the dust and straw blowing in from the unpaved High Street of Chesterbourne, and had to be brushed every evening before, dead tired, the girls crawled into bed.

Though poor Miss Raikes had died of consumption and tight lacing, and everyone was ashamed to show their feet in those days because they had deformed their toes by wearing shoes a size and a half too small, and as for the state their hair was in, Vi, you wouldn’t believe it even if I was to tell you – Miss Cattyman had not a good word to say for the present, and yearned for the past. Weekly shampoos, handfuls of silk and elastic to hold you together, early-closing, Woolworths – Miss Cattyman admitted that all these things were good, but the past was better. She gave no reasons about why it was; it simply was. The past was always better.

Yet Miss Cattyman enjoyed the present, even when, as just now, it was alarming. Miss Cattyman made a drama out of Burgess and Thompson’s, and had been doing so for fifty years. Instead of love, courtship, marriage, a home, children, literature and the arts, Miss Cattyman had had Burgess and Thompson’s, and had not missed any of the others. Every counter of the shop, every cupboard and box, had some memory for her, sweetened by thoughts of your dear father, Vi, and fifty years of faithful service.

So when Viola saw Miss Cattyman, who had a strong sense of her own dignity and public position, crying openly in front of a customer and Miss Lint, who had only been there twelve years, Viola knew that the worst had happened.

She looked up as Viola strolled in, and her face showed pleasure and relief. She began to roll up red, white and blue ribbons more rapidly, and Viola, smiling patronizingly at Miss Lint, who smiled spitefully back, sat down on one of the long-legged chairs and waited for Catty to finish with Mrs Buckle. The other assistants were at lunch. Once they used to have tea and buns in a den at the back of the shop; now they slipped out to the Bunne Shoppe or Lyons or, when they felt reckless, the Miraflor; and instead of buns and tea they had (tinned) prawn mayonnaise and coffee.

Glancing round the shop, Viola saw many signs of Mr Burgess’s drive towards efficiency. Those paper packets whose string had to be undone every time black woollen stockings or woven combs were wanted, had gone. The combs were displayed in a counter-case (that was new, too) and carelessly scattered over them were posies of primroses from Woolworths. As for the black woollen stockings, no one wore
them
any more; they had just vanished. The little wooden case on an overhead wire that used to fly along with bills and change had gone, too. Viola was rather sorry about the little overhead railway; it used to fascinate her when she was a child, and she had always longed to send her tiniest dolls for rides in it. But Catty, left in charge with Viola when everyone else was at lunch, would never allow this. There were smart green bags stamped ‘Burgess and Thompson: Everything for Ladies’ and Children’s Wear’ now, instead of the former ordinary brown paper and string that came out of a tin with a hole in the lid; the old worn brown oilcloth had been replaced by a green one and on a far counter (it used to be the Haberdashery, where Viola had cried on the night before her wedding) there was a display of small woollen garments and coloured shoes for the tots and kiddies, and a large Mickey to lull their tremors while being fitted.

I must say it all looks very nice, thought Viola placidly. There was a lot of old junk that ought to have gone years ago. Only I do hope they haven’t sacked Catty.

But as the door closed on Mrs Buckle and six yards of red, white and blue ribbons, and Miss Cattyman came over to Viola with her wrinkled face drawn with worry and grief, she knew that they had.

‘So glad to see you, Vi, dear,’ reaching up to take the kiss that Viola bent to give. She added with dignity, ‘Miss Lint, please carry on for me, will you. I’m going into the office to talk to Mrs Wither for a minute.’

Miss Lint nodded. She knew what had happened that very morning to Miss Cattyman, and was sorry. But how that Thompson girl did stick it on; you’d never think she’d been almost born in the shop, and worked there until she’d caught her precious husband.

Viola and Miss Cattyman went into the little office at the back of the shop, where Mr Burgess did the accounts and the girls took their fifteen minutes for tea of an afternoon, and Catty, sighing deeply, sat down, and looked at Viola.

‘Well, dear, it’s come. This morning,’ she said, throwing up her little withered hands and letting them fall (lightly as dead leaves) on her shabby black lap. ‘The sack
and
the bag to put it in. I’m to go at the end of this month. He’s
very sorry
, of course, hasn’t got a word to say against my work, thank him very much—’

‘Good lord, I should hope not!’ indignantly.

‘… but the truth is, Vi, I’m just getting too old for the job. That’s putting it very bluntly, but there you are; it’s the truth, and you can’t get away from that, can you? Oh, he was very
nice
about it, I will say that for him …’

Her expression changed, she leant forward, her old bluey-brown eyes glinting with amusement, and said in quite another voice, malicious, rich with relish:

‘J’ever see a bar of soap in trousers? Well, that’s just what he looked like when he told me, dear: a great, big, yellow bar of Sunlight Soap. Oh dear,’ wiping her eyes, which suddenly over-flowed, ‘I do feel so bad about it, Vi; of course I’ve always known it would have to come one day, but somehow I’d never really thought about it (you know), I’ve kept me health and me eyesight and always felt so young for me age, and I suppose I didn’t notice I was getting into an old woman, but it tells in the work. Other people notice it, if you don’t. But I do feel so bad about it, Vi; the years I’ve been here, and seen the town grow, and Woolworths come and everything and the time that wolf escaped … and your dear father, Vi,’ wiping again, ‘what he’d say I
don’t
know. He always promised me I’d die in harness, you know.’

Viola was silent; and there was a pause while Miss Cattyman sniffled and wiped. Viola was remembering the little laughs she and her father used to have about poor old Catty. Old hen, her father used to call Catty; a born old maid, Viola, and then strike an attitude and sing something about
lovely Letty
… Viola had forgotten … and the last line was
Letty died a maid unloved
… oh yes …
Her frozen heart her prison proved
… what years and years ago that seemed! And now her father was dead; and Catty was the only person who remembered the old life, and she loved Catty because Catty reminded her of her father and how happy they had been together.

Viola wiped her eyes; and wondered how she should get on to the subject of money. Catty was the purest natural snob;
ladies
did not work,
ladies
did not receive salaries, therefore Miss Cattyman’s salary must never be mentioned nor must its amount be known. This had been her attitude in 1887, and it was her attitude now. The world had changed beyond belief in fifty years; but still the amount of Catty’s salary was a secret to her most intimate friends. Viola, of course, knew that it was three pounds a week, because she and her father had discussed the raising of it to this sum (a handsome one for a head saleswoman, in a small draper’s in a small town) and Howard Thompson had had a battle about it with Mr Burgess.

At last Viola said casually:

‘Shall you keep on your room?’

‘I shall have to see, dear,’ retorted Miss Cattyman, a shade sharply. ‘Things will be very different, you know. Still,’ blithely, ‘I dare say I shall manage.’

‘Look here, Catty,’ blurted Viola, ‘I don’t want to butt in and you mustn’t think it’s cheek, I only want to help you so you mustn’t mind my asking … but … have you got anything saved?’

Miss Cattyman looked down at her greenish-black lap and was silent for a little while. Then she said quietly, ‘No – no, Vi, not very much, I’m afraid. That is to say, I really have very little. Mother’s illness, you know, and the funeral, that took all my savings at the time, and somehow since then I’ve never managed to get started properly again. And of course,’ perking up and speaking indignantly, ‘I always expected to die in harness. And so I should have, if some people hadn’t got it into their heads to turn everything upside down as though they were the D. of W. himself (though I for one shall always think of him as the
P
. of W., never could get used to his being called the K., he hadn’t the face for it,
I
always said; ought to have grown a beard
at once
, and then all this would never have happened) where was I? Oh yes, well, dear, you’re not to worry. I dare say I shall manage.’