The Innocents (8 page)

It wasn't coffee I offered her, but sherry; actually from the bottle I'd opened for Doctor Alice. I have to make my sherry last!—but I was anxious to ingratiate myself with Cecilia in every possible way. Yet the nettle had to be grasped, and as soon as she was seated again, I grasped it.

“Of course you must realize,” said I, “Antoinette isn't quite like other children?”

Cecilia paused to take a cigarette from her beautiful gold case; then snapped open her lighter.

“Of course she's terribly shy …”

I waited.

“If you mean almost mute—which isn't in the least the same thing as retarded—she was already having speech-therapy tuition from Miss Swanson. Didn't you hear me tell her father,” added Cecilia rather righteously, “we should have left her behind? By now she'd be talking quite normally—or at least could have told me hello!”

I refrained from saying that Antoinette could additionally pronounce the words vermin, pepper, rucksack and tureen. Normal talk, that is, in Cecilia's sense, social talk, had small use for any one of them, except possibly pepper, in alliance with smoked salmon; tureen has disappeared along with large Victorian families, rucksack is overspecialized and vermin altogether out of court.

“I suppose we all make mistakes,” said I.

“Not that I'm blaming you, not for a single moment,” Cecilia reassured me generously. “It's just one of those things that sometimes seem to happen, and now we must just pick up the pieces.”

Whereupon it developed that Antoinette, as soon as in New York, would not only be put into speech-therapy class again, but probably into analysis as well.—I looked over my shoulder into the garden; the artichoke-tops, though there was no wind, stirred a little, as though some small animal moved below. How to analyze mole or hedgehog, thought I, into any acceptably human behaviour? Yet I myself knew Antoinette not merely animal; all she needed to become fully human was simply time, and endless love, and endless patience, and no sudden uprooting—here I saw her as rather vegetable—from familiar ground …

It was now more than ever that I missed Doctor Alice. I felt she was the only person who could have made Cecilia see reason—or rather who might have bullied Cecilia into behaving reasonably. If my friend had been alive, to say, “
I
,
a qualified doctor, watched your daughter for two years, she is developing absolutely as fast as can be hoped, I warn you any sudden change of treatment or circumstances will be disastrous for her,”
then, I felt, Cecilia must have been influenced—especially if (in these imaginary conversations) I let Doctor Alice employ the curt, almost hectoring tone of voice she used to intimidate overweight pregnant mothers or anti-vivisectionists. But there was no one now with sufficient authority to intimidate Cecilia. The new (old) doctor had never set eyes on Antoinette.

So I suggested to Cecilia that after coming back amongst us after so long an absence, and obviously giving everyone so much pleasure at seeing her again, she should stay at least two or three weeks longer, and then have another word with the airline.

“As I shall in any case!” said Cecilia, suddenly abstracted and frowning. “Somewhere on the way across they lost me a spray of orchids from the freezer!”

With sudden hindsight I realized what of course had been the one thing lacking to complete Cecilia's image the day before. (Indeed I learned afterwards from Miss Holmes that Mrs. Cook, always an iconoclast, had actually exclaimed, “Wot, no orchids?”—but fortunately not loudly enough to be generally heard.)

“Besides,” I went on, “though Antoinette obviously adores you already—” I was glad Antoinette wasn't present, to fix me with her searching eye again, but I was only doing my best for both of us—“for any child it's a very sudden change.”

“You mean she should come and stay a little with me at Woolmers first?” responded Cecilia, quite reasonably.

“And have her cot in your room,” said I.—It was by night Antoinette most needed the reassurance of familiarity, and her cot at least would be familiar, while she learned familiarity with a mother.

“But of course!” exclaimed Cecilia, seeming rather taken by the idea; and added that she'd just love to see Tony say her prayers, in her nightdress.—It was obviously no moment to explain the futility of such expectations, Cecilia not yet being conditioned, as I was, to equate “vermin” with Amen; however by reminding her how exhausted she must still be after her flight, and how much in need of some further nights' unbroken rest, which with a small child in the same room was scarcely possible, I succeeded in postponing Antoinette's transference to Woolmers for a day or two more, even if it meant Cecilia's staying on a whole week.

“And even if I'm to be bored to death by that old sailor-man?” grimaced Cecilia—obviously referring to the Admiral, who'd apparently managed to bore her to death over a first breakfast at separate tables.

Then naturally she wanted to see Antoinette. I knew the child was back, and now in fact felt glad of it; I did not wish Cecilia to fancy any dog-in-the-mangerishness on my part. However as we went into the garden I remarked that the child was probably hiding—she often hid, and it sometimes took quite a while to find her. “Hide-and-seek? But that's perfect!” cried Cecilia. “Isn't it just what we must do, play together, while we make friends?—Count up to ten, Tony,” she called lovingly, “then Mummy'll come and find you!”

That Antoinette couldn't count up to three was immaterial—though again I was dismayed by the scope of Cecilia's expectations—since she certainly knew how to hide. After several fruitless darts and dashes, however methodically Cecilia quartered the ground her quarry remained unflushed. The artichokes stirred again, but only at Cecilia's investigation, as so did the saplings on the terrace above, whence only a pigeon clattered out. With more patience, I dare say Cecilia might have discovered the secret route back to the house by way of the old coal cellar, but after about ten minutes she tired.

“Yoo-hoo, baby, I give you best!” called Cecilia. “Come out now and let Mummy hide!”

“I'm afraid she won't,” I explained. “It's a very strict rule; you have to find her.”

The idea of Antoinette playing any game whatever, especially according to rules, was naturally less surprising to Cecilia than to myself actually advancing it. Cecilia just laughed, and said she'd better go back to Woolmers to make sure of her room for a further week. The place being half empty, this was indeed superfluous, but I refrained from saying so.

As for Antoinette, she had been sick amongst the cinders. What extraordinarily touched me was that for the first time she had also attempted to clean up the mess herself—or rather to conceal it, by scraping more cinders on top. We were a grubby pair enough, we both needed a thorough wash, before we ate our lunch together in peace!

2

Mrs. Brewer was extremely apologetic about coming back so early, but had thought it better, on account of Bobby. The Parrishes were her next-door neighbours, and Bobby, who now spent most of his time at Ipswich, was home on holiday—or that was how his mother put it, as though it were from a boarding school, not a hospital, her luckless son from time to time reappeared. She was always crazing Doctor to let her have him home for good, commiserated Mrs. Brewer, and sometimes for weeks it answered well enough; but then he'd have another of his bad turns, perhaps two or three running, and have to be sent back …

“And it looked like he was starting one straight across the fence,” said Mrs. Brewer, “so I brought Miss away.”

I was only glad she had acted so sensibly. Antoinette was frightened enough already.

Yet to describe her as actually frightened by Cecilia would no doubt be an exaggeration. She disliked, even feared, any stranger—Janet Guthrie a rare exception; what was unfortunate was that the counterbalance of Cecilia's beauty weighed with her not a whit. What Antoinette found beautiful, or at least appreciated, was the grotesque—Kevin's squint, the hairy, warty old chin of Mrs. Bragg; she was like an art critic too besotted with Brueghel to see merit in the classicism of an Ingres, and thus Cecilia's universal
laissez-passer
of loveliness for once, with her own daughter, didn't advantage her.

8

1

But Cecilia was to stay a week at least, and I felt it a small victory; at the same time, having as it were promised her, offered as a bait, a social
succès fou
, was rather dismayed when I looked at my diary to see absolutely no Outdoor FêTe or even Garden Party imminent for her to shine at. Before June is always a dull patch. All I had down, actually for a couple of days later, was the Women's Institute Auction in the Church Hall.

Which was really no more than a Jumble sale, only our village prefers the higher excitement—particularly our Old Age Pensioners, bidding in pence for the odd cup or plate; they do not want them for themselves, but to make presents of, which surely reflects great credit on human nature. I must possess at least a dozen cracked saucers so gifted to me, and very useful they are to put under a plant-pot, though not of course while watering. Sounder kitchenware and ironmongery fetch shillings, and garments with any wear left in them; whatever might fetch pounds goes to the proper Auction at the Estate Agent's. Thus I looked in the afternoon before simply from general nosiness, and was quite astonished to discover, tossed down on the Garments trestle, something really attractive.

It was an Oriental robe, or caftan, of thin lavender-and-purple striped silk which Colonel Packett (father of Honoria), had brought back with him from somewhere in the Empire, and which often figured in our Nativity Plays; he having recently died, I could only imagine it somehow cast up from the detritus of his effects. Honoria had made a very clean sweep. I didn't blame her, after years of polishing Benares brass trays when all she really enjoyed polishing was a stirrup. No one could blame Honoria, especially when I add that her father also kept Persian cats needing to be as regularly brushed as the trays to be polished. Though I cannot say I like Honoria, her punctual performance of all daughterly duties, in addition to running a riding stable, commanded my respect, and had I been a tycoon indeed I would have had no hesitation in hiring her.

To return to the caftan.—As I have said, nothing in our Jumble ever fetches more than shillings; but the garment was in itself so pretty, and could so easily do duty as a summer dressing-gown, I mentally determined to bid if necessary up to a guinea for it. In fact I was trying it on when I heard behind me the swish of Paul Amory's rubber-tired wheelchair.

He manages it with such wonderful skill one scarcely thinks of him as incapacitated at all, but rather as preferring a special, personal form of locomotion.—“Just as well!” observed Mrs. Brewer darkly: her implication, which indeed she did not hesitate to put into words, being that otherwise not a young woman in the place would be safe from him. This I am sure was unjust; Paul Amory is devoted to Betty; but at the same time he is very good-looking. Just before his hair needs cutting I am myself sometimes reminded of Byron. However what I even more admired about him was the courage and resolution with which he painted almost the worst water-colour landscapes I have ever seen.

“Ah!” said Paul, looking at me (and the caftan).

“It's agreeable, isn't it?” said I.

“Actually I'd an eye on it for Betty,” said he. “She saw it this morning.”

Of course everyone sees everything beforehand, but for a moment I was put out. Then I reflected how far more suitable the pretty, thin, voluminous garment to a pregnant young wife, especially with the summer coming; and said I'd just been trying it on in memory of Colonel Packett—there is nothing so foolish the young won't believe of the old—and had no intention to bid.

“Though you may have to go up to a pound,” I warned (judging by my own impulse).

“I'll go up to thirty bob,” declared Paul. “Betty's taken a fancy to it.”

“Don't be too eager,” I warned again, “and you may get it for ten!”

A moral dilemma ever attendant on our Jumble sales is whether to push the bidding up (so benefiting the Women's Institute) or let knock-down prices benefit one's neighbours. Mrs. Cook, for example, should never have got away with an electric kettle for seven-and-six. The proper Estate Agent sales are of course different—at one of which, I am happy to recall, in one of my tycoonish moods I outbid a London dealer for a Georgian silver sugar-bowl, and Georgian silver has gone up ever since. However I had no fear of Paul's being outbidden, if prepared to go above a pound; and didn't even bother to be there—see one Jumble, see all!—but stayed at home in the garden with Antoinette.

We were still at peace. The day intervening, Cecilia, after first her journey and then so much emotion, had to spend recuperating absolutely in bed; as I learned not only from Jessie (Mrs. Brewer's niece) but also from a note in Cecilia's own hand—
“Darlings both, forgive me, I'm just so tired!”
—pushed through my letter-box at mid-morning. Obviously it wasn't delivered by our postman, whose deliveries are strictly at eight-thirty and then at one. Mrs. Brewer said she'd seen the Admiral about.

2

Not that the Thursday had been entirely tranquil so far as I myself was concerned. We all knew Mrs. Bragg was failing, because for several Sundays running no milk had been stolen; but on Thursday just after breakfast our policeman arrived with a long face and asked if I'd mind going round till the undertaker sent a pro.; it didn't seem right she should be left, he explained, on account of the cats. “There's quite a comfortable chair,” he added encouragingly, “and I've sprinkled a bit of disinfectant about …”

It was just as well. I am hardened to the disagreeable frowst of old people's sickrooms, where the first response to illness is often to close every window; but the stench in Mrs. Bragg's cottage was so to speak vintage. The whiff of her coat in the High Street but hinted at it. But at least it might be said that it wasn't old Mrs. Bragg herself, even in death, who stank, the smell of cat overriding all others.