The Loving Spirit (43 page)

‘Oh! I don’t know, Mother - the girls are very jolly, most of them. And I don’t feel a bit ladylike - what a ghastly expression anyway, like commence.’

‘Commence? I don’t understand, what do you mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

After two months at the Army and Navy Stores, Jennifer became sick of stockings, and amused by the advertisements of ‘Nippy Chocolates’, she spent three weeks as a waitress in Lyons, only to be dismissed for her number of breakages. This distressed her not at all, and her next job was that of sales-woman or advertiser to a firm who were about to launch a new type of carpet-sweeper upon the market. Jennifer was obliged to go from house to house with a small dispatch case filled with leaflets, a note-book, and a fountain pen, and after ringing the front-door bell engage the bored householder in a sparkling conversation as to the merits of the ‘No-Dust’ carpet-sweeper, without which no home is complete.

Unhappily the ‘No-Dust’ sweeper failed to make an impression in the homes of England, and Jennifer was once more without a job. She had saved money enough now to indulge herself in some way. Her mother suggested a good, serviceable fur coat, and Grandmamma a leather-bound edition of the works of Sir Walter Scott, but Jennifer had no particular wish for either. In a moment’s madness she nearly bought the model of a full-rigged ship, displayed in the window of a curiosity shop, and then closing her eyes and hurriedly walking away she found herself opposite an office with a brass plate on the door - ‘Typing and Shorthand Taught. Private Lessons.’

Jennifer went inside, and arranged to take the full course which included book-keeping and accounts. This would give her something to do until Easter.

In spite of this she was not happy. Always there was something lacking. It seemed to Jennifer that there must be more in life than the things she had known, there must be more than this occasional laughter, these little sorrows, this common irritation, that evidence of good-will - the dull or funny incidents of day to day. There was no depth of satisfaction in them, no real comfort.

Depression hung heavily upon her and the sensation that she belonged nowhere. She had no corner in the atmosphere of the boarding-house, she could not adapt herself to that way of thinking and living.

London was still the bleak city she had hated as a child, the boarding-house was still the cheerless shell of a home that held no welcome.

It seemed to her that there was no way of escape.

After Christmas a newcomer arrived at No. 7 Maple Street. He was a man of about sixty, whose profession was vaguely understood to be ‘something in the City’. His manners were almost too faultless, his choice of expressions correct to the last degree of verbosity, and he became the brightest and most glorious feature of the boarding-house. His name was Francis Horton. Jennifer loathed him at first, but soon decided he was too ridiculous to be of any consequence, and watched with amusement the approval he met at headquarters.

‘Such a distinguished person,’ said Grandmamma, ‘quite
comme il faut
, my dear Bertha. Really one of the old school.’

He was soon admitted into the intimate sanctity of the boudoir.The evenings were not complete without Mr Horton sitting between the two women, while Jennifer crouched in a rocking-chair by the bookshelf. His manner towards them was at once deferential and familiar, eager to assure them of his infinite respect, yet mingled with the spice of male superiority.

‘Well, ladies,’ he would begin in his smooth, silken voice, too carefully modulated to be natural,‘and how have you spent your day? Mrs Parkins, allow me to arrange that cushion for you - h’m? No trouble at all, I assure you, a positive pleasure. Well now, here we are, all assembled. Tell me what you have been doing.

‘Oh! it’s been very quiet as usual, Mr Horton,’ said Bertha.

‘I do my best, you know, that everything shall run like clockwork. ’

‘I am sure you do, Mrs Coombe. You think of everybody before yourself. What pretty work this is - can a mere male be permitted a glimpse?’ He bowed gallantly towards her, and fingered the piece of embroidery in her hands.

Bertha laughed, and pulled it away, a new note of affection in her voice.

‘Really, the curiosity of you men . . .’

Jennifer glanced from her book, noticed her mother’s silly gesture and the bold, rather swimming expression in Mr Horton’s pale blue eye.

She lowered her head, hot and uncomfortable, wishing she had not seen.

‘What’s that? What’s that? What did Mr Horton say?’ Grandmamma leaned forward in her chair.

‘I perceive that Mrs Coombe is an excellent needlewoman, dear lady. So rare an accomplishment these days. “A stitch in time,’ h’m? You know the old saying. And what is Miss Jennifer about? What is our silent one doing in her secluded nook? I fear your daughter is a great book-worm, Mrs Coombe.’ He shook his head in mock reproof.

‘It’s no use trying to make Jenny sociable, we have long given up that hope,’ sighed her mother. ‘There are no manners in the younger generation. Put down that book for once, dear, and make yourself agreeable.’

‘Yes, come along Miss Jennifer, and join our cosy little circle. “All work and no play,” h’m? You know the rest?’ He over-laughed, and flushed slightly at the temples.

He disliked Jennifer. He was afraid she considered him a middle-aged fool.

‘I am always alarmed, Mrs Parkins, that your granddaughter will take down my remarks with this shorthand of hers.’

‘Take down your . . . with her hands? What’s that, Mr Horton? What’s that?’

‘You misunderstand Mr Horton, Mamma. He was afraid Jennifer will write our conversations in shorthand.’

‘Oh! I see, of course. Yes, what nonsense it is, this typing and the rest of it.’

Her misunderstanding had caused a little flutter in the circle. Jennifer stared straight before her, biting her cheeks to contain her laughter. Mr Horton was once more bending towards her mother, twisting his absurd moustache.

‘Isn’t it marvellous how time flies - but really, really marvellous? Do you know, I have already been amongst you five weeks today?’

‘What’s that? What’s he been doing with you for five weeks?’

‘I have been your resident, Mrs Parkins, dear lady, nothing more nor less than your proud resident. I was just saying so to Mrs Coombe. Delightful, quite delightful. À propos - excuse my poor French - à propos I am in favour of making some small celebration. I propose a little party, just us four, you know, and a visit to the theatre.’

‘Theatre? Nonsense, nonsense, I’m not up to going to a theatre, Mr Horton. Actors don’t speak clearly these days.Take Bertha, Mr Horton, take Bertha.’

‘Mrs Coombe, would you honour me?’

‘Oh! delicious. Jennifer, you will come too, of course.’

‘Thanks, terribly, but I’d rather not. I - er - I think I’m getting a cold. Such a nuisance.’ Jennifer lowered her eyes.

‘Then it will be you and I alone, Mrs Coombe? You have no objection, I hope.’

Jennifer saw that her mother was blushing. She felt a little sick. She pushed back her chair, and moved once more towards the bookcase.

‘Ah! Miss Jennifer, you don’t approve, I see.’ The silken voice followed her across the room.

‘I promise you I will take great care of your dear mother; she will be a very precious trust, and she will be all the better for a little amusement.’

‘As long as she’s amused,’ said Jennifer brightly, ‘it’s not my affair.’

As she left the room she heard his voice continuing: ‘What kind of piece would you care to see? I enjoy a humorous performance myself. I always appreciate clean, healthy humour.’

As time went by the celebration became a weekly event. Jennifer was never asked again. Day by day she watched the intimacy gradually increase between her mother and Mr Horton. She watched his effort at gallantry, and her self-conscious acceptance of it. She noticed his methods of singling her out for especial attention, and her change of manner whenever he entered a room. She saw the beginning of his air of proprietorship, the authority that crept into his voice, and her way of asking his opinion on any subject, of relying upon his advice.

She was an unwilling witness of their glances and of their conversations. She could scarcely bear to sit in the same room when they were together for the embarrassment and the boredom that they caused her. Her mother must be a fool to feel any affection for this man. She made herself out a martyr too. Jennifer overheard her.

‘My life has been full of ups and downs,’ she had said. ‘My poor husband never understood the sacrifices I made for him. I gave him the best years of my life. He gambled away our early savings, and I knew years of great wretchedness. Then he was a little more fortunate, and offered myself and the boys some sort of a home. We spent twelve years, as you know, buried in the depths of Cornwall. I never grumbled, because I believe in making the best of everything always. The people were kind in their fashion, but of course they were an entirely different class, you understand.’

‘You poor, dear thing,’ he said, taking her hand.

‘My happiness was wrapped up in Christopher and the children, to see that they were content prevented me from thinking of myself.’

Jennifer hurried away. It was beastly, nauseating. She could not bear it.

How could Mother speak about Daddy in that careless, off hand way, when he had slaved and toiled for her. Given him the best years of her life! What about Daddy? He had given her nothing apparently. He had stood by making no attempt to understand her.

Poor darling - poor darling, and all she could remember was a fair head on a pillow, and a figure raising his arm to wave to her from the bottom of a hill. . . .

Daddy . . . Harold . . . Willie. All gone, all forgotten as though they had never been, and Mother mouthing at this stranger with his silly sheep’s eyes.

Perhaps she was hoping to marry again. After all, why not? Nobody forced her to remain a widow.

Obviously that was what was going to happen. She would become Mrs Horton, the wife of this fool. Her mother who was fifty-five. Revolting, horrible picture . . . How could women, after they had loved one man, ever think, look, at anybody else? Even if their husbands had been dead for years they must remember. It was sordid, unattractive. She tried to imagine what the future state of things would be like. Perhaps they would move to another part of London. Mr and Mrs Francis Horton, and she, Jennifer, his stepdaughter. Odious sense of familiarity. ‘Your mother and I have decided, my dear ...’ The three of them sitting round the breakfast table.

‘Another cup of tea, Francis?’

‘Thank you, Bertha love, I have had sufficient.’ His beastly smile of possession, aware of himself, and she fluttering, tremulous, eager to please.

And Jennifer condemned to watch them, conscious of the falsity of the whole position. She could not imagine how she would act under the circumstances.

The days passed, and nothing had been said. Jennifer began to look about her for another job.

She had just passed her nineteenth birthday. Apparently London was overcrowded with girls wanting to be typists; she almost despaired of ever finding a post. She would read the lists of ‘Wanted’ in the
Daily Telegraph
, but none of them seemed particularly suitable or worthy of notice. Life was rather a grind, and not so terribly amusing; she wondered why she was bothering at all. That idiot Horton had a tiresome way of seizing the
Daily Telegraph
before anyone else in the house, and reading it from page to page. She determined to prevent him by rising earlier in the morning, and running through the advertisements while they were waiting for breakfast.

The third morning that Jennifer did this she stopped half-way upon the stairs, a few steps from the drawing-room. The door was open, and she saw Horton with his arms round her mother. He had obviously just kissed her, and not for the first time. Her mother was patting her hair, and making a silly little face in the glass.

‘Francis, I think we ought to tell them,’ she was saying, ‘people will begin to talk.’

‘If you wish it, my Bertha, I propose that we make the announcement official at breakfast this morning.Wedding bells in the offing, h’m? What a sensation it will cause.’

‘I think Mama is expecting it, but I don’t know about Jenny.’

‘Oh!’ he laughed, ‘leave Jennifer to me. She won’t be any trouble, I assure you. A little firm handling is needed, that is all. We will soon be firm friends, you know. A father’s will, eh?’

‘Francis - how wonderful you are.’

Jennifer heard no more. She went upstairs and into her mother’s bedroom. She took the faded, rather dusty photograph of Christopher Coombe from behind its vase on the mantelpiece. Then she glanced out of the window at the rows of chimney-pots stretching over London. The bugle summons rang out from the barracks across the street. ‘Listen, Daddy,’ she said, ‘what do you suggest I do?’

 

 

‘ . . . And so, my very dear friends one and all, I have the extreme pleasure of informing you that your dearly-loved and respected hostess, Bertha Coombe, has done me the honour of consenting to become Mrs Horton.’

Cries of surprise, gratification, and polite approval came from the little crowd of boarders assembled in the dining-room. ‘Isn’t that just too romantic for words . . . we had no idea . . . heartiest congratulations . . . you’re a lucky man . . .’

‘I suppose you are all anxious to hear when the happy event will take place,’ he continued. ‘Well, I don’t mind admitting it will be soon, very soon. Naturally, I am impatient, and I trust my dear wife-to-be shares my sentiments.’

Bertha nodded, and smiled up at Christopher’s successor.

‘I do not propose to rob you of her for long. Just a three weeks’ honeymoon in some quiet corner, and we will continue to live here as before.’