Westwood (42 page)

‘Margaret’s cross,’ whispered Linda, who had been glancing up at her now and again from the corner of the table, where she was playing with some pastry, with a timid, puzzled expression.

‘No, my pet,’ said Margaret, shocked and remorseful, checking her violent movements and putting an arm for a moment about her shoulders. ‘Not a bit cross. I’m sorry I made such a noise,’ and for the first time she kissed the child’s cheek. She did so without thinking, only wanting to comfort her, and remembered to move more gently about the room, and not to frown; and presently Linda’s expression was tranquil again.

‘Dick,’ Margaret said nervously, while they were washing up after supper, ‘would you mind very much if I deserted you on Saturday and Sunday?’

He looked surprised, but not in the least annoyed.

‘Of course not, we can manage. It’s been awfully good of you coming over here night after night; don’t think I don’t appreciate it. As a matter of fact, I had a letter from Mrs Coates this morning’ (he felt in his pocket, but evidently changed his mind about showing it to her, for he withdrew his hand empty and looked slightly embarrassed), ‘and they think she’ll be out of hospital sooner than she supposed. About another ten days, they said.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Margaret, not feeling that it was at all good. She had become fond of Linda and – why not face it? – rather fond of Dick too; she was so sorry for him, and she liked the sensation of being useful and wanted, and did not relish the prospect of Mrs Coates’s returning to take charge again.

‘I don’t know what we should have done without you,’ he went on, putting away the plates he had dried. ‘We shall miss you this week-end. Where are you off to?’ he added, fixing his large, bright, tired eyes with a teasing expression upon her conscious face. ‘Pub-crawling?’

‘It’s Reg; he’s got forty-eight hours and Mother thinks it’s embarkation leave,’ she answered, ashamed to admit that she was going off for a week-end with some elegant and socially superior acquaintances.

‘Oh, is that it? Poor old Reg; so he’s for it,’ he murmured, hanging up the damp tea-towel. He had long, thin hands; sensitive and well-kept and matching his fine skin. ‘I’m sorry for your mother and father. It’s a filthy business.’

He went upstairs to say good night to Linda, who was being encouraged by Margaret to undress and wash herself at night, and Margaret went into the dining-room to put away the tablecloth, for they had been having supper in the kitchen. In her abstraction of mind over Reg and the Challises and Dick and Linda, she opened the wrong drawer, and was surprised to find a face gazing up at her. It was the photograph of a woman, and in one corner there was the sprawling signature, ‘Yours ever, Elsie.’ Margaret, with a glance over her shoulder, bent down and studied it more closely, for letters had arrived at Westwood-at-Brockdale addressed to Mrs Elsie Coates, and she knew that this must be she. It was half with the object of being able to give her mother (who was consumed with curiosity about Mrs Coates) a description of her personal appearance that she examined the photograph, but when she had finished doing so, and had shut the drawer again, her whole attitude towards Dick, and the house at Brockdale, and her own position there, and her mother’s views on the probable ambitions of Mrs Coates, had undergone a complete and rather disconcerting change; for Mrs Coates was not the faded matronly creature of her
supposing; Mrs Coates could not be a day over thirty-five and Mrs Coates was pretty.

At half-past four on Friday afternoon, Margaret, almost sick with nervousness, was standing outside the front door of Westwood-at-Highgate.

It had meant a rush to get away from school in time to meet the rest of the party at the house, and she had had high words with her mother about being away from home for her brother’s last week-end in England, but she was here! Here with her suitcase packed and only her very bright eyes to betray her painful excitement, and surely nothing could happen to stop her going with them now!

‘Oh, God, here you are,’ announced Hebe, who opened the front door to her. The remark was not as discouraging as it might have been, for the tone implied,
we’re all in this together and isn’t it a rigid bind
. ‘I suppose you realize you’ve got to carry Jeremy?’

‘Of course,’ answered Margaret, who hadn’t.

‘Oh, well, so long as my mamma made it clear. I’ll take him if he gets too awful. Cortway’s just bringing the car round. Mummy, give Margaret Jeremy, will you?’

Mrs Challis came forward smilingly, and put Jeremy, a large form in a linen suit who looked hopelessly wakeful and already inclined to dance up and down, into Margaret’s arms. She sat down composedly with him on the nearest chair, and he gazed up portentously into her face until she had to laugh.

‘I thought his Moses-basket would be even more of a sweat,’ said Hebe, also sitting down. ‘Thank God it isn’t a long journey. Barnabas, don’t
do
that to Emma.’

‘Why not?’

‘She hates it. How would you like it?’

Then there was silence for a little while. The front door stood open, and the brilliant sunlight of half-past two miscalling itself half-past four flooded into the hall, making the faded green and rose of the carpet seem dimmer, and the marble urns filled with blue delphiniums and white lupins look the cooler, by contrast. Everyone seemed slightly on edge with the heat and disinclined to talk. Mrs Challis, who was dressed in an exotically printed cotton suitable for wearing in the country and a fine straw hat, sat silently gazing first at her grandchildren and then at her daughter, whose clothes were also countrified and made of cotton; even her severe little hat was of the same stuff as her dress, stitched and starched to keep it in shape. Margaret’s own clothes were merely cool and inconspicuous.

‘Where’s Grandpa?’ demanded Barnabas, uttering aloud the silent question in Margaret’s heart; though she, of course, did not think of Mr Challis as Grandpa, and it came as a distinct shock to hear him thus described.

‘At the Ministry,’ answered Hebe, adding in a mutter, ‘he’s seeing to that.’

‘Isn’t he coming to see Great-granny?’

‘Gey-ganny,’ murmured Emma, busily picking at a button on her dress.

‘Yes, you’re going to see her,’ said Margaret, thinking it well to establish a link with Emma as
soon as possible. ‘Won’t that be nice? Come over and tell Jeremy all about it.’

Emma obediently came over and stood by her knee, gazing frowningly up at her from under a white muslin sun-bonnet.

‘Isn’t he going to see Great-granny?’ repeated Barnabas.

‘Presently,’ said Hebe, and stood up. ‘Thank God, here’s the car. Get in, will you,’ to Margaret. ‘I’ll bring the others.

It was such a disappointment to Margaret to hear that Mr Challis was not travelling with them that she went off into a day-dream as they all settled themselves in the big, slightly shabby car; which still seemed more impressive than any car she had ever been in because it had once cost a thousand pounds. She came out of her dream only when they were half-way down Highgate Hill, and Barnabas aroused her by kneeling up to look out of the window with his feet grinding into her lap. She glanced at Hebe and Mrs Challis, who were in animated discussion, and wondered if she were supposed to correct him when necessary. She had not quite enough courage. On the other side of her, Emma had now struggled up and was peering out of the back window, but she was so small and soft that her weight as she leant against Margaret’s shoulder was rather pleasant than otherwise. Barnabas continued to grind absently with his bony knees and Margaret suffered in silence. Suddenly his mother’s small capable hand reached across, and without looking round or interrupting her conversation, she pushed his feet aside.

‘You
must
slap him down,’ she commanded, giving Margaret a brief, cross smile, ‘or he’ll get away with murder.’

Margaret murmured something, and the rest of the journey was passed in a silent bodily struggle between herself and Barnabas, which ended in a draw, but with herself both heated and annoyed, while Jeremy already seemed to weigh three times as much as he had at first.

At the station, Cortway went to get the tickets while the Challis ladies strolled ahead of Margaret and the children towards the barrier, Mrs Challis occasionally glancing round with her vague, kind, brilliant smile to make sure that they had not all fallen between the train and the platform. Margaret was compelled to hold Jeremy with one aching arm, for she had to give the other hand to Emma, and Barnabas kept her heart in her mouth by skirmishing between the porters and the piles of luggage and other passengers. Like most children, he became ravenously hungry a quarter of an hour after leaving the house on any journey, and he now demanded tea.

‘Oh, but you
had
tea, Barnabas, before you came out,’ said Margaret, wondering if she dare let go of Emma’s hand to move Jeremy on to her other arm; the one holding him ached intolerably.

‘No, I didn’t. Did we, Emma? (
Say we didn’t
),’ he added in a hoarse, hissing whisper, and blew in her ear.

‘Don’t!’ shrieked Emma, coming to an abrupt halt and going scarlet in the face, and jerking away from Margaret’s hand.

‘I didn’t do anything, did I? a lovey,
precious
Emma?’ His voice was now sinister with false affection.

‘E’!’ said Emma, gazing indignantly up at Margaret. ‘Barney
bo
!’

‘Don’t do that, Barnabas,’ said Margaret firmly, taking advantage of the pause to move Jeremy (who was silently gazing down at the goings-on of his relations with every appearance of interest) on to her other arm.

‘I want some tea,’ repeated Barnabas. ‘We didn’t have any before we came out and if I don’t have tea before I go on a train I’m sick. Always. You ask Mummy.’

‘Great-granny will have a lovely tea for you, I expect,’ said Margaret, relieved to see Cortway
at the barrier with the tickets, and that their train was in.

‘Cawwy,’ demanded Emma, halting once more and flinging up her arms imploringly.

‘No, Margaret can’t carry Emma now, she must carry poor Jeremy because he can’t walk yet.’

Emma received this with a look of complete non-comprehension and repeated her request with a quivering lip.

‘I’ll carry you,’ offered Barnabas, flinging his arms round her and beginning to haul her upwards so that her garments slid up and displayed her stomach.

‘No, oh no!’ cried Emma, struggling. Margaret was looking wildly round for somewhere to lay Jeremy down while she parted them, when Cortway’s voice said authoritatively: ‘Here, here, what’s all this? You put her down at once; I never heard of such a thing,’ and Barnabas abruptly set Emma upon her feet.

‘Very kind of you but you’ll strain your inside,’ added Cortway. ‘It’s too hot for carryings this evening. You go along with Miss Steggles and see what a nice place in the train you’ve got. Good evening, Miss,’ nodding and touching his cap to Margaret. ‘You’ve got your hands full,’ and he moved off into the crowd, obviously intending to sit over the evening paper for half an hour with a pot of tea.

It is not necessary to describe the hour and a half’s journey – which included a change of train – in detail; those of our readers who are mothers will realize that it was made up of wrigglings, requests for food, drink, and excursions along the corridor, drawings in breath upon the windowpane, comments upon fellow passengers, promenades up and down the carriage and a brief fit of roaring from Jeremy. By the time Mrs Challis leaned across smilingly and said: ‘It’s the next station; cheer up!’ Margaret was limp and irritable, and wondering if Zita were cross with her again, for she had not come to the door to see the party off (Oh, well I can’t help it if she is, she thought with a sigh), and was becoming increasingly annoyed with Mrs Challis and Hebe, who only smiled or frowned absently at the children’s behaviour and seemed to have resigned them entirely to herself.

In the bustle of alighting at Martlefield and keeping her charges close to her side, she received only a vague impression that the station was very small, with one or two shabby buildings of creamy weather-boarding and some others painted a faded brown; that white and red hollyhocks were growing outside the stationmaster’s cottage at the far end of the platform, and that all was bathed in the radiant light of a cloudless summer evening, while beyond the station she caught glimpses of flat fields covered in the brilliant green of young wheat, with here and there a group of large elms. The air was full of sweet smells from warm grass and wild flowers, and as they came out of the tiny waiting-room on to the road, having exchanged greetings with the sturdy young woman who took their tickets, the first sight she saw was a field immediately opposite the station so thickly covered with buttercups that it really did look like a shining golden carpet. A placid white road wound away between the low hedges on either side of the station, and the only buildings in sight were a group of cottages at some distance along it. An aeroplane, alas, was passing overhead, but otherwise the scene was one of perfect tranquillity and she almost forgot her irritation in looking at it, while Seraphina exclaimed, ‘How heavenly!’ and Hebe silently removed her hat to let the faint breeze blow on her forehead.

They were the only passengers to alight here (indeed, the train had been getting steadily emptier for the last half-hour and had now gone ambling off into the flat green fields of Bedfordshire with apparently only the engine-driver and the guard and one or two children and old ladies aboard) and there had been no one to meet them on the platform, but now a voice exclaimed, ‘’Ullo! Evenin’, Mrs Challis,’ and they all turned to look at a smart governess-cart,
drawn by a cob and driven by a large smiling boy with red hair, which was drawn up in the scanty shade afforded by the station buildings.