Tea & Antipathy (18 page)

Hugh Tweak wiped his eyes. “Stamped right on it,” he murmured reminiscently.

The evening wore on. Daisy Goldbrick and Maud became involved in a cozy conversation in a corner. I looked surreptitiously at my watch; it was nearly one in the morning. At any minute they'll start to leave, I thought, and we can go to bed. My calf muscles and my shoulders were aching from my heavily laden treks up and down the stairs.

“I return to Switzerland tomorrow,” Hugh said, while Jordan filled his glass again. I thought hopefully that he really ought to get some sleep. “I'm guiding a tour of Bell Telephone people round Switzerland.”

“Yes, Americans,” Maud said to Daisy. “A group of Americans.”

Everybody began to flag except Maud and Hugh; Daisy and Basil were the first to leave. “Goodbye,” Maud said to Daisy, with a hand-squeeze and an affectionate look. “I'll call you.”

“Had you met Daisy before this?” I asked Maud, when they had left.

“Heavens, no,” she said, rather disdainfully. “I never saw the woman before.” She turned with some enthusiasm to Nini. “My dear,” she said, “I should so much like to show you and your husband some sights.”

Walter and Nini had been to London many, many times.

“That would be nice,” Nini said.

“Do give me a ring tomorrow,” Maud said, “and we'll set something up. I should like so much to see you again anyway, and I think I can show you a few things you aren't likely to see otherwise.”

“What is it you do?” Hugh asked Walter, who replied that he taught English in a college. “Oh, that's interesting,” Hugh said. “Tell me, is Shakespeare ever taught in schools in America?”

The next time I glanced at my watch, openly this time, I saw that it was nearly four o'clock. The conversation had dulled down considerably; they all looked tired except Maud Tweak, but no one seemed ready to go home. I knew that Nini and Walter wanted to stay to the last and talk about everybody,
but why didn't the rest of them leave? Jordan shot me a look of despair. It was a Friday night, and he had been up since seven.

Finally, after another fifteen minutes or so, Walter gave up and rose to leave. All the others shot up with him. We babbled goodbye in the hall; Walter said something I didn't catch and everyone around him shouted with laughter. Maud Tweak clutched her husband's arm. “Oh, Hugh,” she cried, “they're laughing at your umbrella!”

Actually, they were laughing at something else, but I thought it was rather interesting that she should have thought this. It seemed to me to reveal a somewhat defensive state of mind.

We finally crawled into bed at five a.m., more dead than alive.

I kept dreaming that Maud Tweak, with an enormous bouffant head, was trying to stamp on my foot. I was very restless and got up about ten with a splitting headache. The sky was overcast, everything looked gray. There were dirty dishes, full ashtrays and smudged cups and saucers everywhere.

W
E ATE OUR USUAL BREAKFAST
of delicious croissants and instant coffee, surrounded by debris. The street outside looked even gloomier and more gray than usual. About ten-thirty, the phone rang. It was Maud Tweak, sounding impatient. “Look,” she said, “those friends of yours, the Watchucallits. Yes. Well, are they coming round today or not? They said something about wanting me to show them the city.”

“I haven't heard from them,” I croaked.

“We took them round last night after we left you,” she said, “and showed them Fleet Street at night. I think they liked it; it's the sort of thing tourists love. In any case, I'm going to the hairdresser's; I shan't be back until about two. Have them call me, will you?”

I hung up and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen again. Jordan was just finishing his second cup of Nescafé.

“That was Maud Tweak,” I said. “I hate her.”

The phone rang again. After a moment I crept painfully back up the stairs. This time it was Nini.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I'm awful,” I said.”How are you?”

“We're fine. A little tired. You know your friend Maud Tweak drove us all around after we left you.”

“How was it?”

“Well, it was boring because everything was shut. But why are you awful?”

“I'm tired.”

“Oh?” she said, with a rising inflection. “Why?” She was a speech therapist with a strong interest in psychiatry. I knew her wheels were turning.

“Because I got to bed at five. Because there are dishes everywhere. It's raining….”

“Do you want us to help you with the dishes?”

“No, thanks. I'll manage. I've got to go now because Jordan is leaving. Oh—Maud Tweak will be at home after two this afternoon. She wants you to call her.”

Jordan was now upstairs, combing his hair in the mildewed back bathroom with the hole in the ceiling. “I'll come back early and help you finish up,” he said. “I must just get some stuff out of the way. I'm pretty sure Basil is going to buy in.”

“He didn't say anything last night?”

“I could tell he was having a good time,” Jordan said. “Anyway, if he doesn't buy in …”

The phone rang again, worsening my headache.

Suddenly we were very popular.

It was Walter this time. He sounded concerned. “Anita!” he cried. “Are you all right?”

“I have a headache.”

“Well, Nini is worried. She said you sounded really desperate. We want you to let us hop in a cab and come over and do the dishes for you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Nini is worried about you.”

“All I have is a headache.”

“Well, then, why don't you come out with us? We're going to the Portobello Road. Have you been there yet?”

“No,” I said, sounding pathetic. “I mostly go to Harrods.”

“Then you must come with us. Mark can look after the children.” I decided to go and arranged to meet them there. I told Jordan I would be at his office by two o'clock.

It was raining in the Portobello Road on that Saturday morning. It was cold too, and dark, more like November than July. Stalls had been set up in the street and there were a good many people bartering and discussing antiques of all kinds. Most of them seemed to be late Victorian or more recent—the antiques, not the people. On every side we heard, “Now in dollars that would be …”

“It's fascinating here, isn't it?” Walter said. “So quaint.” Appraising furniture, china and jewelry was his avocation; his father had had an antiques shop.

“Ur,” I said, vaguely. My head still ached; I was cold and depressed.

“They expect you to bargain,” Nini said. She stopped at a stall and picked up a broken doll with staring china eyes. “How much?” she said, to a tall youth with one gold earring and a sort of sheepskin slung over his shoulder.

“Two pounds.”

“That's ridiculous,” Nini said. “It's not worth it.”

“Make an offer,” the youth said reasonably.

“What do you want it for?” I asked.

“Seven shillings,” Nini said. The youth smiled sarcastically. “It's broken anyway,” Nini said.

We drifted away into a shop with rugs.

“Oh, look,” I said, trying to perk up a little, “Oriental rugs.” I pointed at one.

“I'll get it for you,” Nini said, and darted away.

“I don't want it,” I said to Walter, who shrugged.

Nini became involved in a heated discussion with a fat man at the rear of the shop. He
looked
Victorian: I expected to see a pile of bones and rags in a corner. She darted back.”I can get that for you for sixty dollars,” she said, pointing to a large torn item. “It's a steal.”

“How would I get it back in the plane?'' I asked nastily. “Carry it on my head? Anyway I haven't got sixty dollars. Anyway I don't want it.”

The fat man came near, hovering. “Well?” he said, as we left.

“Too much money,” Nini snapped at him.

We began to walk through the outdoor stalls again. Walter picked up a horn glass, one of a set of six, all cracked.

“My goodness,” he said. “Horn glasses.”

“What would you do with them?” I asked. I had decided to be difficult. I felt like it.

“Well, you see,” he explained, “they're made out of horn. That's interesting. Of course,” he added regretfully, “they're chipped somewhat.”

“Would you
drink
out of them?” I asked. The sky was very dark and low; drifts of water blew across our faces.

“My goodness,” Walter said. He set them down gently.

A moment later Nini cried out in delight. She had come upon a green velvet bellows; it was small and heart-shaped. The velvet was faded and rotting in spots. When she squeezed it a weak puff of dust wheezed out.

“It's charming,” Nini said.

All down the street, people were pawing over these broken remains. We heard music and looked up: a very small, fragile
old man was pushing a wicker baby carriage down the sidewalk, or pavement. He was wearing a sort of nineteenth-century ball costume: a black stovepipe hat, a long, swallow-tailed black coat, very narrow black trousers and little black pumps on his tiny feet. An ancient gramophone, perched on the foot of the baby carriage, was grinding out a dim tune. In the carriage, with only his head protruding from a tattered blanket, was a small brown and white dog.

“Oh, Walter!” Nini cried. “If only we had our camera!”

“Oh, we forgot it,” Walter said.

“That's always the way,” I said, looking at my watch. “Gracious, it's after one. I told Jordan I'd meet him at the office.”

“But you don't want to leave now,” Nini said. “We haven't seen anything yet.”

I could spot another baby carriage coming toward us: this one was being pushed by a hugely fat woman and was emitting scratchy music; I could hear it already. I made my escape and arrived at Jordan's office, where I found the children, without shoes. They had gone out into the street to look at something, and Eric had shut the door, which locked behind them. So they had taken a cab to the office. We all took another cab back to Baldridge Place, where the older boys leaped over puddles in their socks, and Jordan carried Eric into the house. He didn't weigh much.

We cleaned up the rest of the mess and then sat drearily watching television while the rain dribbled outside, and no one came down the street. Every Saturday afternoon half of a movie was shown on the TV, usually a Western. Today, the announcer said, it was “Barbara Stennick in
Kettle Queen of Colorado
.”

T
HE FOLLOWING SUNDAY
, we were scheduled to take a train to the countryside again to be entertained by the citizenry. This time it was Dampton, Bucks, to spend the afternoon with the Bilkingtons, friends of the Foyles. The houses in Dampton were larger than those in Cramley where Rose Emily lived, although constructed, like Rose Emily's, of orange brick and set on narrow lots, each house the same distance from the street. The Bilkingtons had three children: a girl, Stephanie, who was Mark's age, and two little boys, Rodney and William.

Mrs. Bilkington met us at the door; she was attired in smart tweeds. I had used my head for once and was wearing what in Chicago we always referred to as “a fall suit.”

“I see you know what to wear,” Mrs. Bilkington said approvingly.

The house was much bigger than poor Rose Emily's. We stepped into a spacious entrance hall, decorated with a large framed photograph of the Queen in voluminous blue robes, walking somewhat in advance of the Duke of Edinburgh, similarly robed. She was glancing at him over her shoulder, evidently saying something and looking rather annoyed.

“We took that photograph last month,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “You can see we were very close to her.” The Bilkingtons drove us about the area, showing us William Penn's tomb,
which we were surprised to find was in England, and people playing cricket.

“It's a boring game,” Mr. Bilkington said sadly. “They just stand around in those white clothes and then change positions every time someone hits the ball. There's really nothing to see.”

After that we all went back to the house for tea: little sandwiches and tea with milk, and then little cakes and tea with milk. I had discovered to my disappointment that taking tea at four or five o'clock, a custom that I had always admired as particularly civilized when I read about it or saw it in English movies, made me feel odd and spoiled my appetite for dinner at eight, or even ten, or in fact at any hour. The Bilkingtons poured a lot of sugar in their tea and spread jam on everything. I had a considerable sweet tooth myself, and had noted with approval the many appealing candy bar commercials on television in the late evening, and the fact that candy and cakes were sold in the legitimate theaters.

On our previous trip to England as tourists, we sat at the theater in front of a couple who ordered pastry during the intermission, or interval. This couple, a man and woman in their middle fifties, shared their plate of cakes with a rapture that we found charming. “Oh ooh,” the lady cried, “oh, halve this one, it's
too
good!” “Oh yes,” her companion cried, “but do halve this one—look, it's full of cream!” “Oh, it's so terribly good,” she responded, “oh, do halve this one, mind the chocolate.” “Ooh, mm,” he said.

We were entranced with this little episode, and afterward told each other and anyone else who would listen, that it demonstrated the impressive ability of the English to derive enjoyment from the simplest things in life: English men, in particular, since we could not imagine an American male gasping and cooing
over a plate of cakes. ‘They
enjoy
things,” we said. “They know how to draw the last drop of pleasure from their experiences.”