Sleep in Peace (29 page)

For Laura devoted herself conscientiously to the business of housekeeping, as it was understood in that place and time. After making the beds with Mildred (on Monday, washing-day, one made them alone) she dusted the bedrooms. On Mondays one gave them “a good dust”, on Tuesdays an “ordinary” one; on Wednesdays Mildred turned them out, Thursdays and Fridays were “ordinary” again, Saturdays “good”. On Sundays they received what Laura called “a flick”, but Mildred, disapproving such levity, regarded as “a tidy”. After finishing the bedrooms, Laura went downstairs.

On Mondays “a woman” came to help Mildred with the household washing, which was all done at home; sounds of the wheel of the new washing-machine which Gwen had just installed, and of the heavy old mangle, rose up piercingly from the wash-kitchen downstairs. Mildred, looking brisk and busy in her rosy
print dress, crossed the back garden back and forth between the green wooden posts, winding a white rope “line” round the pegs at their tops. Soon Mrs. Womersley came panting up the stairs, a large clothes-basket full of wet clean clothes grasped in her ample arms. Mildred, mounting a big unpainted buffet which creaked, a clothes-peg or two in her mouth, a damp clutch of garments in her hand, pegged these to the line, and soon a row of white linen ballooned and flapped in the breeze, or sometimes hung dismally flat in the still, sooty air. (“There's no druft today,” mourned Mrs. Womersley on these occasions.) The final act of this process was to raise the line to a peak in its centre by a long, slender clothes-prop, cut at one end into a V. It was considered beneath Laura's dignity to peg clothes out, but she was allowed to take them in, especially if a sudden flurry of rain brought all the women rushing to the rescue. Then everything became very dramatic; clothes-props were flung recklessly down, pegs flew in all directions, the women rushed into the kitchen, laden with piles of half-dry clothes so high that Mildred's prim face, Mrs. Womersley's red cheerful cheeks, Laura's bright dark eyes, were hidden behind them. The table grew full of clothes, Laura triumphantly rushed in with the last remaining laundry, a few forlorn teacloths and some woollen stockings. Mildred, rather cross, with pursed lips, sorted the piles of garments into their different categories; the “rack”, a kind of horizontal grid which lived usually suspended near the kitchen ceiling, was let down hurriedly on its creaking ropes, and the larger clothes spread there to dry. Meanwhile Mrs. Womersley panted up from the cellar with two “clothes-horses” of unpainted wood; these were carefully dusted, and laden with drying clothes. Laura liked Monday morning because of the drama of the washing, and because on Monday mornings she was busy. It was her duty to attend to the drying and ironing of the handkerchiefs, what Mildred called “the starch things”, and her own underclothes and blouses. Laura loved ironing, and did it well; to create that beautiful
smooth glossiness out of a chaos of creases, that was art, that was fun. Handkerchiefs and table-napkins had to be folded into lovely geometrical patterns; that was jolly too. At first Mildred would not allow Laura to iron the two weekly table-cloths which decked the long dining-table (one for breakfast and dinner, one for the more ceremonial tea); she would not admit that Laura was capable of managing their long, heavy folds. But one day Laura, greatly daring, folded and mangled and ironed the very best table-cloth all by herself, and it looked lovely; after that Mildred grudgingly yielded the management of all the starched linen to her. Yes, Laura liked Monday mornings; when Ludo and Papa came home to dinner one had scarcely finished one's work; one ran about, flushed and eager, setting the table, fetching up the cold beef from the cellar; on Monday mornings one was useful, necessary; there was a place for one in the world.

On Tuesday mornings one did the mending. Holes in socks, buttons off shirts; torn embroidery; torn sheets; patches under the arms of cambric camisoles. That was rather dull. As soon as it was finished, one Walked to town, where there were usually a few small shopping errands to be done for Mildred.

On Wednesday mornings there was nothing much to do; one rearranged the flowers, cut their stems and gave them all fresh water, then walked to town, where there were usually a few small shopping errands to be done for Mildred. On Thursday mornings there was nothing much to do; while Mildred turned out the drawing-room one usually made a pudding, then walked to town.

On Friday mornings Mildred baked; and Laura tried her hand at cakes and pastry. (Mildred of course washed up the bowls and pans.) Ludo was interested in Laura's cooking experiments, and treated them encouragingly; he ate half-boiled fowl, lumpy sauce, stodgy puddings and sad cake cheerfully, and noted each improvement with a flattering eye. Papa on the contrary was rather unhappy about Laura's concoctions; he sighed, and regarded his helpings dismally. Once he even threw his spoon down crossly
after a couple of mouthfuls, pushed his plate away and said: “I can't eat this stuff!” That very evening he actually proposed to send for Grandmamma to come and take charge of Blackshaw House, and for a few days this disaster seemed imminent. But Gwen, to whom Laura flew with the proposal, opposed it vigorously, and after a further few days' peevish grumbling from Papa, the matter was allowed to drop. Poor Papa was often rather peevish nowadays; his skin looked yellow, his shoulders stooped, his moustaches seemed thinner and less trim than of old; only when Gwen came to Blackshaw House did he revive his old sparkle. He seemed so oddly lacking in understanding, too. Ludo suggested that, since Gwen had a dress allowance, it was only fair that Laura should have one too; but Papa stared at him in amazement and said he had never heard of such a thing. So Laura's clothes and amusements continued to be dependent on Gwen's representations to Papa of what was proper, and on what she could squeeze out of the housekeeping money. This was not much, for Papa kept her very short of housekeeping money, and what he gave her he supervised, as though she were a mere child. It was odd, thought Laura mournfully; accounts, letters, arrangements of any kind, were the easiest things in the world to her, for she had spent the last eight years of her life learning how to deal with them, while housewifery was utterly unknown to her; yet Papa expected her to be able to cook like Mildred at once, and thought her incapable of the simplest division sum. Poor Papa!

On Friday afternoons one called for Gwen, walked to town, and did the week's household shopping.

On Saturday mornings there was nothing much to do; one arranged fresh flowers, and called for Gwen and walked to town.

On Sunday mornings, before breakfast, one went to Early Service with Ludo; after breakfast, and in the evenings, one went to Church with Ludo and Papa.

A vast amount of the week remained over when one had performed these duties, in which it was rather difficult to find anything
to do. One wrote letters to Grace, and received letters joyously in return. One played croquet in the garden with Ludo. One chose new clothes. One read the magazines Ludo brought home, and talked to him about their stories. One poured out coffee for Ludo and three of his friends, who came to Blackshaw House at regular intervals to play Bridge. One went to the theatre with Ludo, and sometimes to the moving pictures; one had tea, and spent the evening, with Gwen. Ludo seemed quietly happy, and beginning to take a greater share of responsibility in Blackshaw Mills; he not only installed the electric motors which Edward had urged, but suddenly, quite on his own, bought a second-hand motor-car. This was an immense delight to Laura, who had never been in a car before; she did not at all object, when it suddenly declined to go, to sit on a wall for half an hour while Ludo tinkered with its interior. At first even Gwen, excited by its novelty, waived its raucous voice and disreputable appearance and consented to go out in it, but then there came an evening when the car (as often before) declined to climb one of Hudley's considerable hills, and Ludo was obliged to push it round with Frederick's help and make the ascent in reverse gear. Laura was accustomed to this and merely smiled. Frederick thought it positively jolly. But Gwen was furious; she considered that she had been made a show of, her dignity publicly compromised; her cheeks burned, she rated Ludo unmercifully, and would not trust herself on the car's burst blue leather upholstery again.

As it chanced, Edward never saw this car; he was absent from Hudley while, so to speak, it flourished. Indeed Edward was very often absent from Hudley nowadays, and almost always absent from the Armistead circle; Laura had quite forgotten any expectation of seeing him. He visited Germany again, Canada, the United States; and when he was in Yorkshire, travelled the West Riding soliciting orders, or attended meetings of master dyers in other towns. Whenever he returned to Hudley he brought some new idea with him; so that when Ludo or Mr. Armistead announced
at the dinner-table: “Sir Edward's back again”—this was the nickname they now used to describe Edward's idea of his own importance—the other invariably replied: “Well, what is it this time?” Sometimes it was a new press, sometimes a telephone extension, sometimes a motor lorry to replace their horse-drawn dray, sometimes oil-driven engines. Whatever it was, the innovation seemed to be profitable; Messrs. Hinchliffe prospered exceedingly—there was a rumour that the Bradford Dyers' Association had invited the firm to join, and that Edward wanted to do so, but his father held him back. Mr. Armistead exclaimed when he heard this item, and flushed. After a few minutes' silence, he remarked in a rather bitter tone:

“Well, we've no need to grumble ourselves.”

It was true; business was brisk with the Armisteads and money pretty plentiful. Laura had expected a series of terrible scenes when the accounts for Gwen's wedding came in; but her father, after exclaiming angrily, pushing the bills away from his plate, questioning several items, scolding Laura for her extravagance with the butter as an outlet for his vexation, and so on, with a wince and a wrench paid them; the unpleasantness over this matter, to Laura's relief, lasted only for about a week. The Armisteads began to expand their style of living; Ludo, at last able to afford the uniforms and sword, fulfilled the desire of his heart and took a commission in the local Territorials; Ludo and Laura had a lovely holiday together in Port Erin that summer, and in the autumn Mr. Armistead proposed to take Gwen and Laura with him on his monthly business visit to London, as a treat.

Laura was so excited by this prospect that she could scarcely sleep. To go to London! To see Grace! For Grace, hearing of the excursion, promptly invited Laura to dine with her in Hall; students in their second year were allowed, she said, to give parties at a separate table, and she would collect her most cherished college friends to meet her Laura. To Laura, visualising it all excitedly as she tossed and turned in bed, seeing herself in London
University, talking to under-graduates, revelling in the feast of reason and the flow of soul, there suddenly came the disquieting notion; ought not her hair to be put up for this occasion? She consulted Grace; Grace in one of her emphatic postcards said: yes, it must be done. Laura, making a few tentative experiments with her hair before the glass, was interrupted by Ludo, who, sticking his head round the door with the information that tea was on the table and Papa waiting, took a sympathetic interest in her proceedings, as usual, and advised a visit to the hairdresser. She slipped her arm through his and they bumped down the stairs together.

“Go to-morrow morning,” advised Ludo. “It's time you ceased to be a flapper. I'll lend you the cash.”

(Ludo's innumerable loans to Laura were never repaid, though they professed to keep a strict account of the sums involved, and joked about them often.)

“Shall I tell Gwen?” said Laura dubiously.

“No!” said Ludo.

Accordingly next morning Laura approached the best Hudley hairdresser with her timid request. The man was well known to her, for she had visited him to have her hair cut and singed, regularly all her life, but she had never had her hair shampooed or dressed anywhere but at home, and did not know anyone who managed otherwise. However, he seemed not to regard her requirements as outrageous; he depressed her at first by finding her curly hair too short and wiry for adequate dressing, but he supplied her with a dark brown pad to supplement its deficiencies, and the final result—a roll like Grace's, neater if smaller—proved pleasing. The business had delayed her longer than she expected, and the buzzers were sounding for the afternoon's work as she at last turned towards Blackshaw House for lunch. But there was no Gwen awaiting her there with a cross face and a demand for explanation, so what did it matter, after all? A delicious sense of well-being and adventure flooded Laura's heart as she hurried
through the empty streets. She had crossed the boundary between girlhood and womanhood, she felt, and crossed it so easily, so successfully! Suppose, oh just suppose, all the other things were to happen to her too, and happen in the same simple, natural way: love, and marriage, and children and so on? Why not, after all? Her childish face was so bright with happiness when she burst into the dining-room that Ludo and Papa (who was looking gloomy) both smiled responsively.

“Come here and let me look at you,” cried Papa, holding out his arms.

He turned her round, back and front, smiling, and said: “So this is my little girl!”

“How do you like it, Papa?” asked Laura anxiously.

“It's very nice, it's very nice indeed,” said Papa with warm conviction. Ludo (as usual) said nothing, but he smiled, and Laura was satisfied.

“Really I think Laura might come to London for a day or two, after all,” continued Papa.

“After all?” cried Laura.

Papa cast down his eyes and spoke stiffly: “It seems your sister is not well enough to go,” he said.

“Is Gwen ill?” cried Laura. Aghast, she looked for enlightenment to Ludo, but for once Ludo failed her; he gazed steadily down his nose at his plate and did not speak.