Tea & Antipathy (15 page)

While I was putting the book in a safe place, Jordan phoned to say a plumber was coming the next day. “I called a place in Chelsea. It says Plumbers and Decorators. I guess it's all right.”

“Thank God,” I said. There was moss growing on the downstairs bathroom floor.

“I don't know what's wrong with these people here,” Jordan said, referring to the office. “One of the ladies has an upper-class accent and she keeps ordering the others around. She sits and tells them to get things for her.”

“I suppose they do it.”

“Yes, how do you know that?”

“Oh, I just sort of know.” A month in the British Isles was giving me all sorts of knowledge. I kept thinking about all those English novels I had read, and all the English movies
I had seen. I remembered how we had thought that opening a business in England was a splendid idea; we might want to move there someday….

The next day was the last day of camp. I went with the boys to West Ruyslip on the underground. That took an hour. I left them there and set off for North Lambeth to retrieve Eric's sweater and raincoat. This trip took more than an hour. I sat next to a young man in sneakers. He had a large duffel bag with him, with a Canadian flag on it.

“I'm just going back,” he said, sniffling. “I was on my way to France and I forgot my passport. Now I have to go all the way back and get it. I'm a Canadian,” he said unnecessarily. “I live in Montreal. I'm going to spend the summer in Europe. What do you think of London?”

“Well…”

“They don't like you because you're an American. Americans are hated everywhere. That's why I have that flag on my bag. I don't want to be mistaken for an American. It's so damp here,” he said, sneezing. “I caught a cold. I've been here a week and I caught a cold, and now I have to go to France. After that I'm going to Germany and Austria, and then I'm going to Italy, to Rome. I have an audience with the Pope.” He sneezed again.

“It sounds interesting,” I said. “You're lucky.”

He nodded without enthusiasm. “I wish it was over,” he said.

He leaped up, seized his bag, waved at me and charged out. I travelled the rest of the way to North Lambeth in silence. When I finally got there, I found the police station after several
errors and climbed the stairs to confront a man in a glass cage, like a movie theater cashier. Since I knew the day and even the hour of the loss, the man went straight to a cubby hole and redeemed the items, wrapped in brown paper and tied with heavy string.

“Oh, good,” I said, reaching for the parcel.

The policeman held onto it. “We charge two shillings a pound of the worth of the item,” he said. “It's a reward to the driver for turning it in.”

It became clear to me why the driver had not stopped when Bruce called to him, and why he had not checked the seat after his juvenile passengers.

“Would you say the items are worth ten pounds?” the man asked.

“No,” I said churlishly. “I got them at Marks and Spencer.”

“All right, five pounds?”

They weren't worth five pounds, or roughly twelve dollars, but I couldn't remember what I had paid for them. I ended up paying nine shillings in a state of total confusion and feeling like a liar.

“It's to reward the driver,” the policeman called after me, “for his honesty.”

I walked back about five blocks to the underground and travelled hastily to Baldridge Place to see what the plumbers were doing. They said that the trouble stemmed from the Children's Bathroom, unheated, but with darling decals of Little Bo-Peep and Little Mary Quite Contrary all over the wall, which was peeling. The tub had a telephone shower, an awkward contrivance that you hold in your hand. Since it was the only shower in the house, Mark and I had used it to wash our hair.

The plumber said that the bathtub drain was defective and the tub was not properly caulked. We had never filled the tub, but of course the telephone shower emptied into the drain, so we decided that that was what was causing the leak. We were rather suspicious of the toilet, too, so we called the entire Children's Bathroom out of bounds. It did have an airing cupboard (“There's your airing cupboard,” Mrs. Stackpole had said proudly), an entity I remembered from my days of reading Elizabeth Bowen and Rosamond Lehmann. Apparently some hot water pipes travelled through it, and you were supposed to put things in there to dry them out. It was fully as damp as the rest of the house; maybe a little damper.

We were now reduced to one bathroom: ours. Since it was on the second floor or two flights up from the basement kitchen by American count, we were all rather put out, especially since Eric always had to go to the bathroom during meals and television programs and he refused to go up alone because of Hamlet's father, and also because of the wax Queen Mother, whose beady little eyes seemed to follow him still.

T
HE SATURDAY MORNING
rolled around when we had arranged to meet Althea on the roof of Derry & Tom's department store. When I arrived with the children at the appointed time of eleven o'clock, Althea was there with her sister, a plain, pleasant person in a dark raincoat. Althea apologized for asking us to meet so early; the roof closed at one o'clock on Saturday.

We bought tickets from a woman ticket taker stationed at a table near the elevator, or lift, and walked quickly through the garden to the restaurant. There were bushes, flowers and trees growing amid fountains, stone benches and Tudor archways, high above the city.

“You haven't seen anything like this before, have you?” Althea asked.

“No, I haven't.”

She smiled. “I daresay it's the only one of its kind in the world,” she said.

The restaurant was light, airy and very clean. We adults ordered croissants and coffee, which was very good; Bruce and Eric had milk with their croissants, and Mark had a chocolate sundae, produced to his satisfaction without any problem. This time, I thought gratefully, we were in luck. It really was a charming restaurant. Althea said that during the week, salads
were served there for lunch. She said this was an American innovation that was beginning to catch on.

“How have you been getting on?” Althea asked me.

“Well,” I said, “there isn't very much to do, and the weather's been awful. We've had some trouble with the landlady. Actually,” I said, surprising myself, “I wish we could get away for a while. I'd like to go somewhere. I'd like to go to Paris,” I said, dreamily. “I was there once for five days; it was so beautiful. And the food … but of course you've been there. I mean you're so near to France.”

“Oh, dear no,” Althea said. “I've never been there. I've never been out of England. I wouldn't go there, I wouldn't dream of it. All those foreigners, all those strange customs.”

I looked at her. “It's a very common English attitude,” her sister said, smiling. “You'll find it's not at all unusual.”

“I should like to go to America,” Althea said. “I'd enjoy that. But those foreigners. Oh, dear, no, I couldn't stand it.”

“Well,” I said, “anyway, I'd like to go somewhere. But travelling is so expensive.”

“Why don't you go to Devon and Cornwall?” Althea suggested. “It's beautiful.”

“Oh yes,” her sister said. “Devon. It's lovely there. Motor down, and travel through.”

“You'd love it,” Althea said. “You really should see the English countryside.”

After we finished lunch, it was twelve-thirty.

“We'd better hurry,” Althea said. “The roof closes at one.”

We all went out into the gardens and Althea began to point out flowers and little pools with fishes in them. We followed her. Suddenly a Boy came up, with a snub nose and a funny accent, like a Boy in Dickens.

“Excuse me, Madam,” he said to Althea. “But the roof is closed now.”

“No, it isn't,” Althea said. “It closes at one, and it's only twenty-five to.”

“Well, excuse me, Madam,” the Boy said, “but you have to go down now.”

“Look at this precious statue,” Althea said. “It's a copy of one in Florence.”

She began to walk about in a carefree sort of way, and we followed her nervously, with the Boy beside us. Her sister hung back near the elevator. Or lift.

“Here, Madam,” the Boy said. “Come on then.”

“Don't take any notice of him,” Althea said to me. “It's like this
every
week.” She stopped to admire a stone arch with a sort of face carved into it.

“It's all authentic, you know,” she said to Mark. “It's all copied from authentic things in old gardens.”

“Madam,” the Boy said.

“Isn't it lovely?” Althea asked. She turned to the Boy. “It's no good following us about,” she said. “We're going to stay. Look at those people, they're still eating. How can the gardens close?'' She gestured toward the restaurant, where we could see people sitting at umbrella tables on the wide veranda. I couldn't help thinking she had a good point there.

“You've got to go down now,” the Boy said stubbornly. “Silly old clot,” he murmured.

“What's wrong with them?” the ticket taker said shrilly, gathering up her belongings. “Inconsiderate, I call it.”

“Well, they won't come,” the Boy said. The elevator door was open; the elderly male operator stood at the ready, looking irritated.

“It's no good waiting,” Althea said. “We're not going yet. It's not even ten of.”

“Listen, Madam,” the Boy said, “I'm going to call the guards. How would you like that?”

“Oh, go away,” Althea said. “My friends from America want to see the gardens.” The children and I were miserably pacing behind her, casting longing looks at the elevator, or lift. The sun shone brightly down on us; palm trees waved in the breeze.

“What do you think of these palm trees?” Althea asked.

“Now get out of this,” the Boy said angrily. “I've ‘ad enough. Come on, get out of it.”

“Althea,” I said.

“Well,” Althea said. She stopped and looked around. “We've seen enough.” She turned to the Boy. “We're going because
we're
ready,” she said with dignity. “We've seen enough. But it's not one o'clock yet. I know the roof closes at one.”

“Oh, get out,” the Boy said.

We got into the elevator with the silent operator, and were taken down. The Boy came with us.

“Now leave the store,” he said, when we got out.

“Oh, shut up,” Althea said.

We walked through parts of Kensington with Althea, seeing Holland Park and lovely little alleys with shops in them.

“There's the Commonwealth Institute,” Althea said, pointing to a really beautiful modern building. “You must take the children there, they have movies.”

Eric bought a carton of milk at a milk machine and we parted from Althea and her sister.

When I got home, I phoned Jordan, who was at the office, still struggling with Pressclips U.K. “Basil Goldbrick is definitely in, I think,” he asserted, without much conviction.

“Well, thank God for that,” I replied fervently, thinking that we might then be able to leave town for anywhere.

“Listen,” he said tensely, “I think we should give a party.”

“Urk,” I said. He had mentioned this before.

“I know. But after all, Basil and Daisy have taken me out for dinner several times and we do have the house and I think we should use it. Besides, Walter and Nini will be here.” That was true: Walter and Nini were friends from Chicago, who were going to spend a few days in London before pushing off for Holland, Nini's native land.

“All right,” I said.

Jordan invited Basil and Daisy and Maud Tweak and Margaret. He also invited Albert, who couldn't come, and a couple of public relations people, who could. This was Saturday and the party was set for the following Friday evening. Walter and Nini arrived on Monday, and we went to dinner with them. They appeared in our musty entrance hall, relics of Chicago. I felt as though I were seeing them under water.

Life in general had taken on a strange dream-like quality. Every day we rose, washed and ate, and then the boys and I went out and wandered around: we went to Harrods or we went to Selfridge's on some trumped-up errand like buying a school satchel; if the sun was shining we went to Regent's Park and the children travelled around and around the pond in a motor boat. Sometimes we went to Hyde Park so that they could play ball or dabble their feet in the Serpentine, a remarkably filthy stream. In the evening I would take home a little roast or some terrible steak or fatty hamburger or excellent fish and cook it on the New World while soot dropped from the old chimney. I would wash the dishes watching people's legs go by the kitchen window; the glasses were always streaky and faintly coated with
grease. I tore my stockings on the orange crate benches Mrs. Stackpole had provided for kitchen dining, and every Thursday we remembered to wind the boiler so it would not blow up.