Something Light (19 page)

Pausing at the first—

“Where the boys keep their Vespas,” explained Mr. Clark. “They're at an age—as you must have gathered from the state of their rooms!—when they're mad about machinery. Of course both will eventually join me in publishing, but just at the moment they're mad about machinery.”

“I suppose most boys are,” said Louisa. “But they don't all get Vespas!”

Mr. Clark smiled, and led her on. Inside the second building, housed in a neat stall, stood what looked to Louisa a very superior pony.

Like the Queen of Sheba, she hadn't seen the half!

“Cathy's,” said Mr. Clark. “Cathy's Tomboy. She takes care of him entirely herself. I should tell you,” added Mr. Clark, with a pleasant mixture of pride and resignation, “that my daughter Catherine is mad about horses.”

Louisa wasn't entirely surprised. She'd read in more than one newspaper article of the rising generation's passion for horses. But the kindness and understanding of Mr. Clark, in actually providing his daughter with a pony of her own, struck her with uncommon force, and she looked all the admiration she truly felt.

“One does one's best,” said Mr. Clark simply.

“But
lucky
Catherine!” cried Louisa.

“I hope so,” admitted Mr. Clark. “Tomboy certainly takes up all her time … I wouldn't wish it otherwise,” he added—as it were defending his daughter from any breath of criticism—though heaven knew Louisa wasn't going to criticize—“isn't youth the time for enjoying oneself? I'm afraid you won't find Cathy as helpful in the house as she might be—but mayn't we forgive her, while she's young, and enjoying herself?”

Though he spoke no doubt unconsideredly, that word “we” fell like music on Louisa's ear. (Or perhaps because he
had
spoken unconsideredly?) As Mr. Clark put his hand in his pocket and brought out two lumps of sugar, as he gave one to Louisa, as Tomboy blew, and then gobbled, first into Mr. Clark's palm then into hers, Louisa felt herself already on the verge of acceptance as one of the family.

2

Everything still depended on the children. For all her quick optimism, Louisa remained thoroughly aware of this. If her three potential stepchildren didn't accept her, from no mere self-indulgence would Mr. Clark allow his happy home to be disrupted. Thus it was with the most anxious expectation that Louisa, some half-hour later, observed from her new bedroom window the return of Catherine, Toby and Paul.

They all came back together.

It might have been by chance; nonetheless the impression Louisa immediately received was subsequently to prove correct: an impression of unitedness. Whatever they were discussing, so quietly and seriously, as they crossed first the orchard and then the lawn together, they were evidently in complete agreement. They looked as though they were always in agreement, as though they hadn't quarreled since the nursery …

Catherine the eldest was tall, slim and blonde, and even in summer dress and jersey characterized by a horsewomanly neatness. Her long fair hair didn't hang in the fashionable elf locks, but was combed back and plaited in a door-knocker behind—the very thing to go under a hard hat. Nor was her sweater the fashionably baggy sort; it fitted from beneath the turned-down points of a white collar to the ribbing at a trim waist. However disheveled she might leave counterpane and dressing table, Catherine's personal neatness was indeed so striking, Louisa instantly resolved to let the room go hang, in case it was a kind of compensation.

Of the boys, Paul already reached towards his sister's poise, Toby was still rough as a puppy. Paul appeared to use brilliantine, Toby had a double crown. (Louisa's heart fell in two parts like a cleft apple—just the slightly larger half towards Toby.) Though stockier in build, both echoed Catherine's coloring—as all three probably echoed their mother's, Mr. Clark being so noticeably dark. As the trio of matching heads bent together they made a really delightful picture; which Louisa would have enjoyed still more if she hadn't received a further impression: that Catherine and Toby and Paul, joined in such earnest conference, weren't merely discussing, but
plotting
something …

3

On the surface at least, their reception of her at dinner was quite perfect.

“Catherine, Paul, Toby,” Mr. Clark introduced them cheerfully. “Children, this is Miss Datchett, who is going to see if she can put up with us, and keep us in order.”

The eyes of all three turned intelligently towards Louisa. What the deuce they were thinking she couldn't guess.

“But how
nice!”
said Catherine warmly.

Had she or hadn't she kicked Paul under the table? In any case, both boys were ready on their marks.

“You'll find my underwear in absolute chaos,” offered Paul. “To anyone who cares for darning, I'm an absolute gift.”

“I haven't had a clean vest for months,” offered Toby.

“Don't be silly, Toby,” said Catherine sharply. “Of course it isn't quite as bad as that, Miss Datchett, but we do honestly need you like mad. Perhaps I should do more myself—”

“No, no,” said Mr. Clark. “You have Tomboy to look after. Enjoy yourself while you can! Miss Datchett will see to things.”

“That's what I'm here for,” agreed Louisa brightly.

The three children looked at her again. Their eyes were really quite disconcertingly intelligent.
Yes; but is that ALL?
Louisa fancied each thinking, and to cover her nervousness plunged into chatter of pony clubs and praise of Tomboy.

“I'm told they're spreading all over the country,” babbled Louisa. “What a lovely soft nose he has!”

“Yes, they are, and hasn't he?” agreed Catherine politely.

“I half expected to find you out on him this evening,” observed Mr. Clark.

Catherine at once looked martyred.

“Tuesday's my first aid class, Daddy.”

Mr. Clark glanced proudly at Louisa. Mad on horses as she was, his daughter Catherine attended first aid classes. What conscientiousness, what self-sacrifice, his look implied, with Tomboy waiting in his stall! Indeed, Louisa thoroughly agreed.

“I don't suppose you boys were exactly
kept in
either?” said Mr. Clark—as it were bringing forward Paul and Toby for their meed of praise. (Though Cathy was her father's girl, obviously he tried hard to make no favorites.) “What was it tonight—the scouts?”

“No, sir; overhauling our Vespas at the shop,” said Paul.

“I'm glad to know you take such care of them,” approved Mr. Clark. “Those infernal machines, Miss Datchett, are overhauled at least once a week! However, it doesn't affect their schoolwork; they both get very good marks indeed, and I expect great things from them at the University.—Now, children: shall we ask Miss Datchett to give us our pudding?”

Louisa flushed with pleasure as Mrs. Temple deposited before her an enormous Spotted Dick.—She still glanced warily at Catherine and Toby and Paul, alert for any sign of resentment. It was practically taking a mother's place already! But all three returned her look with perfect cheerfulness, Toby volunteering that he liked the middle; and Louisa sank a knife happily into the warm, rich, yielding, domestic duff.

Chapter Twenty

1

Next day was one of the happiest of Louisa's life. Mr. Clark went off to work just as a breadwinner should, the boys were to lunch at school and Catherine took out Tomboy and a packet of sandwiches. Louisa, as soon as she had the house to herself, plunged into domesticity with all the joyous abandon of a dolphin released in the waves.

She had more qualifications for domesticity than might be imagined. Long years of being fond of men had made her an expert darner of socks, washer of woolen underwear, sewer-on of buttons. Even at Cannes, a good proportion of her time had been spent on René's and Kurt's and Bobby's drip-dry shirts. Now with happy anticipation she went methodically through the linen basket and extracted all smalls.

(“Laundry goes tomorrow,” offered Mrs. Temple, pinning on her hat. They had come to terms over washing up breakfast. Louisa knew better than to attempt Mrs. Anstruther's method with Karen upon any true-born Briton coming in to oblige; instead, she let Mrs. Temple talk. Mrs. Temple dwelt in a Council house which some might look down upon but for labor-saving no more to desire, also being a bare ten minutes off was why she could nip in to do breakfast and dinner without inconvenience, apart from fighting her way through wind, rain and fog. Mrs. Temple also achieved the necessary shopping through wind, rain and fog; she was quite a byword for it. “What the trades people'll think to see someone fresh come in, I'm sure I don't know,” said Mrs. Temple. “They won't see
me
come in,” said Louisa cheerfully. “Mrs. Temple, you're a wonder!”)

It was delightful, after the narrowness of Paddington, to have a whole separate kitchen to splash in.—Louisa's mood was such that she'd have rejoiced to find a copper; the kitchen at Glenarvon was too modern for that, but it wasn't modern enough for a washing machine: Louisa plunged to the elbows in authentic suds. She soaked, she squeezed; rinsed in two waters, rolled in towels; and at last staggered out with the clothes basket to peg in the open air of the orchard.

Only those who have perpetually dried smalls on radiators (or, at a pinch, above a gas ring) can appreciate the pleasure of pegging on an open-air clothesline. To Louisa, as she strung up the last sock—in the warmth of a summer morning, on green grass, under old apple trees—the moment was almost poetic in its beauty. Drops of moisture from Mr. Clark's long underwear sparkled on a dandelion like drops of dew; a gentle aroma of clean wool enhanced the scent of trodden grass. Somewhere up in the apple boughs a bird went tweet …

And every week it would be the same, thought Louisa happily.—She pulled herself up, with housewifely forethought: winter washdays would obviously be more rugged. But even on winter washdays she'd have a whole kitchen to dry in; would but exchange the scent of trodden grass for the warm smell of winter cooking. “‘
Where are the songs of spring? ay, where are they
?'” thought Louisa—an echo from K for Keats in B for Biography. “‘
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too!
'” Autumn was in fact quite far enough for her to look ahead; but she couldn't help seeing drops from Mr. Clark's long underwear sparkling upon—sugaring, so to speak—her first batch of mince pies.

“I'll put suet out for you!” Louisa promised the bird. She didn't know what sort it was, it might be the sort that wintered in Africa—but in any case there'd be robins. “Just pass the word round!” Louisa adjured the bird. “Suet on the house!”

So soft and warm blew the drying wind from the west, Mr. Clark came home to find her seated before a big basket of clean mending.

“My dear girl—!” began Mr. Clark; and checked himself. “My dear Miss Datchett,” he began again, “have you set to work already?”

“I'm enjoying myself,” beamed Louisa.

Mr. Clark stood quite still, contemplating her.

“It's something I never thought to come home to again,” he said solemnly. “I believe I'm going to be a very lucky man.”

2

Lousia still wasn't going to hurry him. On this point her mind was made up quite firmly. If she'd at the last felt scruples about hurrying Jimmy Brown (as it turned out unnecessarily, but that wasn't Louisa's fault), how much more scrupulous should she feel towards a man so in every respect more deserving? Louisa had never been at close quarters with a breadwinner before, so perhaps her reactions were exaggerated; but as Mr. Clark set out each morning to win bread for three children and four adults—besides Mrs. Temple there was a part-time gardener—Louisa's respect for him was something quite uncommon.—His actual setting out no doubt a factor: F. Pennon, for example, supported both a villa at Bournemouth and a flat in Gladstone Mansions, also Karen and Hallam, and Hallam's understrapper and all the help Karen could get hold of, and would soon have Enid on hand as well: but he didn't set out, he sat back. Mr. Clark worked at breadwinning six hours a day.

(“You should have a glass of sherry as soon as you come in,” Louisa told him, firmly.

“You really think so?” said Mr. Clark.

“It's there ready for you,” said Louisa, firmly.)

Actually it wasn't difficult, not to hurry. Every word and look of Mr. Clark's tacitly implied that the period of a week had become a dead letter.

All still depended, and Louisa knew it, on the children.

It was surprising how little they were at home. (Or not surprising, reflected Louisa uneasily? If they in fact couldn't stand the sight of her?) They seemed to keep roughly their father's hours; even Catherine departed daily with a packet lunch. Louisa was too wise to probe, but she was disappointed; with Cathy in particular she longed for nice cozy chats. As it was, as the days passed, she felt she knew her three potential stepchildren hardly better at all.

Only in the most general terms could she have summed their characters. Briefly, they were the opposite of juvenile delinquents.

Let it not be supposed for a moment that Louisa was disappointed. She would have been horrified and alarmed to find Paul and Toby carrying flick-knives, or Catherine smoking marijuana. But she did feel it would have helped her position had she been called on to smooth over some slight misunderstanding with their father, for instance, or to hear and soothe some tale of youthful frustration.—If Catherine hadn't owned a pony already, how eagerly would Louisa have pleaded with Mr. Clark to buy her one! The same went for the boys' Vespas: Louisa would have fought for the boys' Vespas tooth and nail—but there they were too, like Tomboy in his stall. In fact it was Louisa who was frustrated, no call made on her special
expertise;
and though this in a way was precisely what she wanted, after years of being a good sort she felt slightly lost.