Sleep in Peace (71 page)

“And where are my Blackshaw shares? I should like to see them,” demanded Madeline as she raised herself from her pen, in a lively ringing tone.

The banker looked at Laura, who drew out from her satchel the pink certificate, and laid it on his desk. Smiling with prim indulgence, bowing gently, the banker handed it to Madeline:

“And now,” he said, “we proceed to our second piece of business. I am bound to inform you, Miss Hinchliffe, Miss Madeline Hinchliffe I should say, that the shares you propose to sell to your brother may very well continue to increase in value, though there is, of course, a certain element of risk in all industrial holdings. In the opinion of the bank you might be well advised to retain your holding in Messrs. Armistead and Hinchliffe. If, therefore, you wish to postpone the transaction in order to consider it further, that is certainly desirable; if not, however, I have here the necessary transfer for you to sign.” He drew towards him a paper dotted at the right hand side with a series of small red circles. “But there is no need at all,” he emphasised, “for you to sign it to-day. In the opinion of the bank.”

He paused, startled by the sudden sound of ripping paper.

Madeline, standing by the fire, was gleefully tearing the scrip of her Blackshaw shares across and across, and committing the shreds to the flames.

“Madeline!” cried Laura, stunned.

“It's all right, Auntie Laura,” said Madeline in her strong rich
voice. “Don't be alarmed. I don't want these shares and I don't want to make any money out of them: I've looked forward to this day for years, I've always meant to do this.”

“The twenty-first century casting the shackles of the twentieth,” murmured Frederick.

“I've never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the banker, throwing himself back in his chair, confounded. (The clerk behind him had turned quite pale with horror.) “It's unheard of!”

“It's perfectly stupid and senseless!” shouted Geoffrey, losing his temper. “What do you think you're at, you silly kid? You can just pay the firm half a crown to have the certificate re-registered, that's what you can do.”

“I can but I shan't,” said Madeline cheerfully. “I've destroyed the shares, and you needn't send me dividend warrants or whatever the things are called, because I shall destroy those too. I don't believe in legacies, I don't believe in shares, and I want no share in Blackshaw Mills.”

“Miss Hinchliffe,” said the banker in a tone of icy contempt: “you have committed an extremely silly, ill-advised and meaningless act.”

“It may be silly,” replied Madeline equably, “but it isn't ill-advised because nobody advised me, and it isn't meaningless. If you knew the history of our family, believe me, you wouldn't call it meaningless. On the contrary it's profoundly symbolic.”

“It's perfectly useless,” said the banker. “You are still the registered owner of the shares, and in future the dividend warrants will be sent to you.”

“I shall destroy them,” said Madeline firmly.

“What's the use of that?” raged Geoffrey. “That capital exists and must receive its dividend. I shall simply have to lay the money aside. Am I right, sir?” he appealed.

“Perfectly correct,” said the banker, inclining his head. “There may, of course, be some time limit—I must consult on that point. Now, Miss Madeline Hinchliffe,” he went on in a patient persuasive
tone, as if he were speaking to a child: “I gather you do not wish to profit by these shares yourself.”

“I do not!” said Madeline with emphasis. “I hate Blackshaw Mills with all my heart for the suffering it caused my father.”

There was an embarrassed pause. Grace exclaimed softly, Frederick flushed and shifted in his chair.

“Then why not allow your brother to profit?” said the banker, looking down his nose. “Why not sign this transfer? He will pay you twelve shillings and sixpence for every share.”

“I don't wish my brother to profit,” said Madeline, her grey eyes ranging Geoffrey up and down. “Why should I?”

The banker sighed. “But you will receive,” he began again patiently.

“I'm not wanted here any more,” interrupted Madeline, “so I'll say good-bye. Anyone who likes to come to Chelsea to dinner will be welcome.”

“You silly young donkey, you can't throw, away thousands of pounds like that,” cried Geoffrey angrily, attempting to detain her.

“Why not? It doesn't do you any harm, does it? Then where's your grumble?” said Madeline in a contemptuous tone, throwing off his hand.

“Of course it does me harm! I lose the voting power,” began Geoffrey.

“Ha! Power!” said Madeline, pulling out her scarlet gloves. “How does voting power fit in with the new Corporate State, eh?”

“You know I gave that up long ago,” muttered Geoffrey.

“You gave up the letter but not the spirit,” suggested Madeline.

“Well, we'll talk about it later,” said Geoffrey, trying to regain his control.

“I think not,” said Madeline.

She looked round at all the astonished middle-aged faces confronting her, gave a loud happy gurgle, and withdrew.

“So I should advise a Counsel's Opinion,” concluded Grace.

“Shall I see you at Blackshaw House this week, Auntie Laura?” said Geoffrey.

“Yes—I'm going to Hudley to-night,” said Laura.

“Good,” said Geoffrey. “Then we can arrange about a meeting of directors to discuss this affair.”

Clicking his heels in a military manner he raised his hat as their taxi drew away; then swung round and strode down the street at a fine pace without a word to his father, who was left alone, gazing regretfully after him. . .

“Well! What did you think of that?” demanded Laura as they rolled away towards Grace's conference. “Madeline tearing her shares, I mean.”

“I thought it was typical of the modern exhibitionist young person,” pronounced Grace with cool precision. “Flamboyant but meaningless, and productive of the maximum amount of trouble for other people.”

“Really!” said Laura, amazed. “You surprise me. I envied her with all my heart. I admired her action. To be quite truthful, I even experienced a base jealousy, because I hadn't done it myself.”

Grace stared. “Well, you're an artist. What sort of an artist is Madeline, by the way?” she said. “She's never in when I go to Frederick's.”

“I haven't the least idea,” said Laura. “I've never been there. I've never seen any of her work. But how she must have suffered at home, Grace,” she exclaimed, “to cause her to feel such bitterness about the mill! And I never knew! She was always so calm, so stolid! We shall never understand the next generation.”

“And they don't understand us,” said Grace, a tinge of bitterness in her tone.

“That's very true,” admitted Laura. She thought, suddenly, of herself hearing Mr. Armistead's anecdote about Henry Hinchliffe's courtship, glimpsing the kind of people Mr. and Mrs. Hinchliffe were, long after they were dead. She sighed. Perhaps in some year to come, when she and Grace and Gwen and Frederick were dead, Madeline might hear, with surprise and compunction, some similarly illuminating anecdote, say about Edward. Or perhaps she might never hear of Edward at all—what did Laura, for instance, know of the life of her Aunt Mary, Mr. Armistead's sister?

“You see, I live amongst this generation of young people constantly, Laura,” said Grace, readjusting her spectacles and taking out her notes of the address she was to give at the conference. “They think nobody ever had such terrible childhoods, such complexes and inhibitions, as they have. They think nobody ever rebelled against the previous generation before.”

“So did we,” murmured Laura.

“Quite. But that doesn't make it any less irritating,” grinned Grace.

The taxi drew up in Tottenham Court Road, and Laura and Grace dismounted. In the entrance lobby of the hall where the conference was being held, two women were waiting with anxious faces, which cleared when they saw Grace. It seemed her address on the Teaching of History was due to begin in a couple of minutes. They rushed upon her eagerly and drew her away; Laura was left with a lesser official, who asked if she would care to hear Miss Hinchliffe's address.

“I'm afraid I can't stay for the whole hour,” lied Laura, looking at her watch, “but I should just like to hear the opening sentences, if I may. I've never heard Miss Hinchliffe lecture, though we've been friends for more than a quarter of a century.”

“Come round here,” urged the official sympathetically—her
opinion of Laura had risen on hearing of her twenty-five years' friendship with Grace. She hurried Laura round to a side door with glass panels, where, between masking palms, diagonally across the large well-filled hall, a reasonably good view of the platform could be obtained. The Chairwoman of the Conference had just finished a short speech of introduction, and Grace was rising; the solid and well sustained applause which greeted her gave Laura a vicarious pleasure. Grace looked handsome, elegant, authoritative, but a little desiccated; she raised her fine head and began to speak. Greatly daring, the official turned the handle and furtively stood the door ajar about an inch. Grace's clear cool tones became audible:
the continuity of human experience
, Laura heard. Then several women sitting near, uneasily conscious of a pervasive draught, turned towards the open door; the official perforce closed it and withdrew.

Laura left the building in a very sober mood. She still laboured under the strong impression of the scene in the banker's office. To have witnessed a scene of revolt, a liberating explosion, with Grace present, and Grace not revolting, not even approving—that was strange. Grace no longer on the side of rebellious youth! Yes, that was strange. Had there not been, too, something in Geoffrey's manner as he bade his aunts farewell, as if he were waiting impatiently for the termination of Grace's remarks? As Frederick used to wait for the termination of Mr. Hinchliffe's? Were Grace's ideas as stale to Geoffrey as Mr. Hinchliffe's platitudes to Grace? It seemed to Laura that she had that afternoon witnessed the transfer, not of power perhaps but of initiative, from generation to generation. The word now lay with Madeline.

She realised that Madeline was the most interesting person in London to her, and that she had already decided to accept her invitation to her father's flat.

Frederick's address proved to be that of a spacious Georgian mansion which had been converted into flats. Laura found a bell labelled with his name and pressed it; there was a pause, then the door, uttering a mysterious click, swung open without human aid. Laura was glad to find this mechanism, which always gave her a childish pleasure, at the entrance to a dwelling she was approaching with such eager anticipation. For the more she thought about it, the stronger the response which Madeline's absurd but striking action with the scrip awoke in her heart; she was eager to make the acquaintance of this new niece, to relieve her jealousy by assuring Madeline that her revolt coincided with Laura's own. She climbed the wide stone stairs, found that the door marked
Hinchliffe
stood open, waited a moment, then since there was no one in sight, walked in.

She found herself in a small angular hall with cream-coloured walls broken by several doors. One of these, at the further end of the hall, stood open, and voices emerged from the room behind it; Laura made her way towards the sound. She went slowly, for the doors she passed were painted a hyacinth blue so deep and rich that she could not forbear pausing to enjoy the colour, while an odd modern decoration in tempera, a jumble of purple planes and green curves, with a horrific black and yellow eye in the right distance, looking like the drop-scene for
Les Présages
, also claimed her attention. At length, however, she came to the open door and looked in.

She saw a large high room, lined with low bookcases, with long high windows; a long refectory table came down the centre of the room towards her, a printing press stood to the left; on the right close to a window was a smaller table, full of wooden blocks standing up in rows like dominoes. Beside the door a large ottoman, covered with heaps of drawings, and ink roller, a bottle of petrol, and a sheaf of damp newspapers, showed the orderly disorder
of a place where real work is in progress. Laura sniffed the air eagerly and felt completely at home; she leaned against the door and took a delight in silently observing the details of the scene. Madeline was sprawling over the small table on the right, leaning on her elbows, one foot wound round her other ankle; a tall young man bent over her shoulder; Frederick with a book in his hand sat by the hearth in a Shetland chair. Madeline looked handsome; she had removed her gloves and coat—they lay in an untidy heap on the ottoman by the door—and her strong young body showed its firm lines in a red blouse, short sleeved and open at the throat, and a scanty blue skirt fastened with a zipper; blue espadrilles shod her feet, their broad blue ribbons emphasising the shapeliness of her ankles. To Laura she appeared in profile; one thick loop of tawny hair, one apple cheek pressed by strong fingers. The young man had his back to the door.

“Is this your auntie's book?” he was saying. To Laura's amusement and surprise, his accent was extremely Yorkshire; he said
booook
and rhymed
aunt
with
bant
.

“Yes. As a matter of fact it isn't at all bad,” said Madeline, turning a page of
Industrial Landscape:
“For what it is. But of course she's essentially an illustrator. Every picture tells a story. It could all be done far better by the camera, you know, Kay.”

Laura, seared by humiliation, backed out of the room and crept away along the hall. She thought of concealing her presence and withdrawing from the house at once undiscovered, but something tenacious, something proud, in her rejected the cowardice of this plan; besides, she could not repress an artistic curiosity, a desire to know more of the critic who thus rejected her. Trembling, passing one hand nervously over her mouth, she lifted her other hand and drew the fingers in a timid tattoo across the panel of the outer door. “If they don't hear,” she told herself, “I'll go.” At the same time she remained sufficiently detached to take an ironic view of her own confused action; she knocked; yet she knocked lightly; yet she knocked; eager to spare herself the ordeal of meeting her
niece, but not able to do so without the support of some slight approval from her conscience.
Wouldst not play false And yet wouldst wrongly win
, Laura told herself scornfully. At that moment the young man came striding down the hall to admit the caller. Laura stared at him.