The Beautiful Visit (12 page)

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’ve serious tastes, haven’t you? I should think that would be interesting.’ She flicked back the cover of the Memoirs.
‘But that other’s classic, isn’t it?’

‘Do you read much?’

‘I like a nice novel. But by the time I finish here I’m ready for a good time. I like a bit of fun in the evenings myself.’ She was called away by an old gentleman. ‘Back
in a minute.’

She had a fleeing bouncing figure as though she were set on springs. The wide belt at her waist pulled her in, so that it seemed she must spring out above it. She wore a white blouse with a
black ribbon at the neck, and a black ribbon at the back of her head. Her hair was very light brown, almost green, and sprang out round her face in enormous puffs. She had large pale blue eyes set
rather close together, and a mouth that reminded me of two little sausages. When she came back to me she smiled, and showed unexpectedly neat teeth with a gold stopping flashing a signal of
friendliness. She had great good humour about her. I remember her so well because we became close friends. We did not talk any more that day; she was busy and I was shy, but I was attracted by the
ease with which she did her work, and the evident satisfaction she had in her appearance.

Ten Weeks in Northern Italy
was written in the form of letters to her father by a very religious woman. The book was adorned with uneasy little pen drawings and filled with watery
raptures over the beauties of the landscape and buildings. After two chapters, I wondered how it was possible to see so much in so short a space of time. The Italians were regarded as odd and
amusing and I gathered that they were chiefly there to be admired for their picturesque appearance. Were all Italians picturesque, I wondered? Why did they not talk at all? I supposed that the
author knew no Italian. I left the book after the third chapter, with a confused impression of mountains, churches and lakes.

My mother made some efforts at that time to introduce me to people of my own age. There was a cousin called Mary who was very short sighted and sang. We never had much to say to each other. I
went to tea with her. She enjoyed the luxury of a sitting-room into which we self-consciously shut ourselves and talked about music and my father’s works, and her ambitions. I chiefly
remember the cloying hygienic smell of the lozenges she sucked, and the persistence with which one stuck to my handkerchief where I had hidden it.

I read the Memoirs to the end, feeling guilty about Northern Italy. They were very dull, and chiefly concerned the sayings of the Duchess and the occasional events which took place in her life;
which apart from the birth of an incredible number of children, were very few.

I went back to the library several times and talked to Miss Tate. She recommended me a good novel; about a nun in olden times, she said. I enjoyed it enormously. The nun had a unique capacity
for combining a truly noble spirit and the power to get what she wanted. She finally turned out not to be a nun at all, and fainted into the arms of a crusading knight, where she remained during
the last two pages of the book. I was much affected by the story but I felt sure that my enjoyment proved of how little use the book was to my education.

I asked Miss Tate to have tea with me in a teashop. I was afraid to ask her home lest it be a repetition of Michael. She talked a great deal about her life at home. Her father was a draper,
hence the selection of ribbons she wore on her white blouses; and her brother was in the army. She told me at first that her mother was dead, but later said that she had run off with a conjurer,
and nobody knew where she was.

‘Wasn’t your father terribly unhappy?’

‘I expect he was put out at first, but he has his life all right, just the same. There’s the shop and he plays bowls. He’s president of his club. Mother went off when I was ten
so I don’t remember her much and auntie came and brought us up, till she and father had a quarrel. She left then, and took all the spoons with her. Father was put out, they were a wedding
present from his sister and auntie went right back to Bexhill and never said a word. Still it was nice while it lasted.’ She very often finished a story with some gay enigmatic phrase of this
kind, throwing back her head and laughing afterwards, her gold stopping glinting and a tear in the corner of her eye. She asked me perfunctorily about myself and seemed impressed that my father
wrote music. She condoled with me easily about the dullness of my life and gave me the impression that she thought I was too good for it, that I had a devil up my sleeve which would betray itself
to her own admiration. ‘Go on now,’ she would say, ‘I bet you laughed.’ And ‘If only they knew.’ She asked me if I had ever been in love, and I lied and said
once but that he had gone away. I remember a sincere pang as I said this for something unknown. I asked her about herself and she bridled and said she liked a bit of fun, no harm in it; and for
some extraordinary reason I imagined her putting on her stockings. In spite of her appearance she had a delicate regard for her health and suffered from a series of unaccountable headaches, turns
and suffocations which always manifested themselves at some crisis in her life. ‘I felt awful,’ she would say rolling her eyes. ‘I didn’t know how I was going to get
through. Still you never know till you try.’ She would cram fat white hands into gloves, fumble with the buttons, and be getting along, leaving half a cake on her plate. Through her I became
acquainted with Charlotte M. Yonge and Dickens.

I wrote twice to Lucy and once to Deb, but received no reply.

It was early spring and my sister was engaged in organizing a stall for a Church Bazaar. The promise of a long but peaceful summer loomed ahead.

One day Miss Tate (whose other name was Agnes) said, ‘Why don’t you take a job? Or do you like it as you are?’

‘No.’ I said. ‘I’d love to work.’

‘
I
like it. Then you know where you are. When to work and when to play. Still they say all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ she laughed.

‘What could I do?’ I stared hopefully at her. She was so gay and sure, I depended on her exuberance.

‘Well, you might come here. Or wouldn’t you like it?’ She was very well aware that we lived in different ways and generally treated me with a kindly concern, never feeling very
sure that I could do things for myself. She liked and expected ineptitude.

‘Oh yes. Is there a place for me?’

‘The other girl left last week. Trouble at home.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh dear, some people. But Mr Simmons, he’s our manager, he’s on the look out.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Better ask your parents first. You don’t want trouble.’

‘They won’t mind,’ I said defiantly.

She eyed me protectively.

‘You ask first. Don’t want any nastiness, not with summer coming on.’

‘Summer?’

‘My father stops me going out in the evening if he’s put out.’

‘I don’t think mine would do that.’

‘You haven’t gone against them,’ she said wisely. ‘You talk it over. It’s nine to six, three-quarters of an hour for lunch. Saturday afternoon off. Two pounds a
week. I’d show you round. You’d soon pick it up, with an education.’

Two pounds! An enormous amount of money.

‘What a lot.’

‘Don’t make a mistake. Depends how far you have to make it go. You tell me tomorrow. Bye-bye.’

I went home with a beating heart. As soon as I was out of the shop I realized the wisdom of her remarks about my family. It would be terrible to have started and be ignominiously hauled back.
Two pounds. I would even be able to buy flowers. But supposing my father refused to allow me. I wondered how Agnes spent her money. Perhaps she had to buy her clothes with it. Well I could pay for
my clothes and surely my parents would be pleased. They could not object to my earning some part of my living. We were desperately short of money. My mother had darned my stockings herself, when I
was out, to make up for not buying me new ones; and when I had thanked her she had flushed and promised to afford them in a month. Perhaps if I earned enough money we could even paint the house
bright shiny cream like the others. I must choose a moment when my sister was not there. We sat through tea and cleared it away. My father went to his studio. My sister sat firmly in the room
embroidering a boot bag. I had decided to approach my mother alone. The opportunity did not come, and I grew more and more nervous and despairing of success.

My sister went to bed very early after supper: I think she read in her bedroom. But fate persisted against me and my father for once did not go to his studio, but elected to play patience with
me. For twenty minutes we played; I growing more and more distrait and stupid. Finally I dropped a whole pack of cards on the floor.

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked my father. I knelt, fumbling and groping to pick them up, and then I knew I must have courage to tell them.

‘I should like to start . . .’ My voice was cracked and squeaky. I began again with a deep breath. ‘I have been thinking that perhaps it would be a good thing if I had a job,
work of some kind.’ There was a short silence. They looked at me expectantly.

‘Well,’ I said. I remember sketching a feeble little gesture with my hands as I waited for their reply.

‘And what work would you consider taking up?’ My father was at his dryest and most sarcastic. I hated him then.

‘Of course I know that I cannot do anything. I haven’t been taught.’ I was speaking to my mother. The irony of placating her with my uselessness escaped me at the time.
‘But I thought there are things I could do, learn to do, that aren’t very difficult, if you had no objection to my trying.’

‘You have plenty to do at home,’ said my father.

‘No.’ I said. ‘I haven’t.’ The firmness of my voice surprised us all. ‘There is a vacancy in a library near here. I thought I might apply for it. Two pounds a
week. The hours are from nine until six with three-quarters of an hour off for lunch, and half a day on Saturday.’

‘How did you find all that out?’

‘Somebody told me.’

‘Have you been making friends with people who work there?’

‘One of them.’ I stared at my father defiantly. ‘I should like it very much. I could earn enough money to buy my clothes.’ My mother winced. ‘Or to buy anything we
wanted,’ I added ashamed that I had hurt her.

My father laughed. ‘My dear little girl, it’s out of the question. Poor though we are, I could not think of you slaving in a shop in order to relieve us.’

‘It wouldn’t be slaving. I should love it. Oh please let me go. I’m tired of doing nothing. I’m tired of trying to fill up my life with little events, and remaining so
useless. I should like to earn money and feel that I could do a proper job like other people.’

‘That is all very well, but I’m afraid that the job cannot be in a library.’

‘Why not? What is the difference between working there, and anywhere else?’

‘There is a difference,’ he reiterated stubbornly. ‘But perhaps we might find other work for you. Why do you not help your sister with her stall?’

‘Oh
that
. That’s not what I mean. It is done for fun. For charity. In a few weeks it would be over. I want a real job that would go on, where I could earn money.’

‘I’m afraid I cannot allow you to work in a library.’ He appealed to my mother. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I think it would probably be a mistake.’

‘You see, dear,’ he went on awkwardly to me, ‘the girls who work there are different from you. They would resent your coming there, they would feel that you did not need the
money and they would naturally resent it. It would not be fair.’

‘But we do need it.’ I was terrified of crying and the fear made me reckless and cruel. ‘We do need money. Our house is never painted. We never have new curtains or enough
clothes. We’re always having to consider before we buy things. We only have one servant and the house is too big for her to keep it clean. We don’t have holidays unless someone asks us
to stay. Tom and Hubert never bring their friends back here because it’s so dull and they can have better times somewhere else. We used to have parties with candles on the table and fruit in
a big dish. And concerts when people came. Soon no one will ask us to stay because they’ll have forgotten we exist. I’m getting older; I want to know things and see more people. This is
something for me, not you, you needn’t think about it.’

‘You are overwrought. Go to bed now and we’ll talk about it in the morning.’

‘You won’t, you won’t.’ My voice was shaking and I was crying. ‘You’ll forget, on purpose. Just because you’ve got some silly class prejudice
you’ll try to stop me going.’

‘You are being very thoughtless and unkind. We have done the best we can for you, and you are making the worst of it. I think staying with your rich friends in the country has had a very
bad effect on you.’

‘I am sure we could find a nice place where you could work,’ said my mother, and I saw how she was suffering from the situation and how desperately she wanted it to stop before I
could say more things that would hurt her and enrage my father.

I went to my room without a word, and sitting on my bed I heard the low hum of my parents’ voices below, rising and falling for a good two hours. I undressed. I was still and cold and I
knew that I had lost. The thought of complete rebellion never entered my head.

My mother came into my room that night, and bent over me.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Father was upset. He is very tired these days.’

I reached out my arms and hugged her, so fiercely that she was almost frightened although a little pleased.

‘I didn’t mean it about the clothes. I just said it because I wanted to go so much.’

The chance had slipped from my fingers on to the floor finally into the past. She sat on the edge of my bed and promised that she would find me something to do, stroking my hair nervously all
the while. She said that she understood how I felt, that she had been like that, and one of those unaccountable tales came out that one’s parents sometimes tell one, utterly inconsistent with
the idea one has of them and fascinating for that very reason. I loved her very much and she lulled me into acquiescence through the content I had in that feeling. But I went to sleep pondering on
the doctrine of ‘You shall not do what you like,’ wondering how many more people lived under its grey sinuous rule.