Westwood (10 page)

Grantey wanted the story from the beginning, and she also asked interested but inoffensive questions as to why Margaret was on the Heath that evening, and seemed interested in the story of the Steggles’s move.

‘Stanley Gardens; why, that’s just down at the back of us,’ she said, wiping Emma’s fingers. ‘Mr and Mrs Challis, Mrs Niland’s parents, live in that big house I expect you can see from your back windows. Westwood, it’s called.

‘I can see it from my bedroom,’ said Margaret, and then, hardly believing her ears, she added, ‘Do excuse my asking, but it’s such an uncommon name; is Mr Challis any relation to Gerard Challis, the dramatist?’

‘That is Mr Challis; he is a play-writer,’ said Grantey, wiping Barnabas’s fingers in their turn. ‘I expect you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, yes!’ breathed Margaret. The circle was even more charmed than she had supposed.

Grantey said no more, but firmly put two wedges of cake, made by herself, first upon Emma’s plate and then upon Barnabas’s. No living soul had ever heard her express an opinion upon Mr Challis and his works.

Margaret felt this reticence in the air, but she naturally assumed that Grantey was silent because Mr Challis’s plays were immeasurably above her head. And she herself did not want to speak just at the moment. She was too moved; almost awed. Gerard Challis, the writer of those beautiful, beautiful plays, lived on the hill that overlooked her back garden! And she was sitting at the same table with his – yes, of course, they were his grandchildren; but he was still young,
she had seen a photograph of him. That striking face; so intellectual! Oh, what a lucky, lucky chance had led her to the Heath that evening! Oh what a marvellous place was London, where famous painters dropped their ration books at one’s feet, and one’s bedroom windows were unconsciously viewed every morning by the spiritual eyes of famous dramatists! Why, there are people who would give a year of their lives to be sitting where I am now, thought Margaret.

‘Grandpa’s going to give me a trike for my birthday,’ observed Barnabas.

‘Ganpa?’ said Emma, looking questioningly at Grantey.

‘Granpa; yes, that’s right, dear. Eat your cake,’ said Grantey, and just then the telephone began to ring downstairs.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Grantey, going off to answer it. ‘Now you show Miss Steggles how nicely you can behave.’

‘Grantey? Oh, you are there, then; goody,’ said Mrs Niland’s voice. ‘Listen, is Mr Alex in?’

‘Not yet, Miss Hebe; at least I haven’t seen him.’

‘Well, I’ll be back about half-past six and I’m bringing Earl and Lev. You can stay and bath the children for me, can’t you?’

‘If I can be back by seven, Miss Hebe.’

‘Oh, ring up Mamma and explain. And Stubbles’ll help you; she’d adore to. Listen, don’t forget to tell Mr Alex I’m bringing Earl and Lev. Good-bye, Grantey dear.’

‘Good-bye, Miss Hebe.’ Grantey replaced the receiver and went upstairs.

There is a certain class of mother who cannot go out on an hour’s merry-making without finding upon her return that some disaster has befallen her children. If she goes out to stand in a fish queue or to hunt for long woollen stockings, all is well, and she returns to be greeted only by the customary remark, ‘Have you brought anything exciting?’ But should she dare to lunch with an old friend or go to the pictures, she invariably opens the front door to be met with the dreaded words, ‘Now don’t flap, but I’ve got a sore throat,’ or ‘I fell down at netball and my knee absolutely poured with blood,’ and even as she gobbles down the lunch or feverishly watches the picture with one eye on the clock, her revelling is darkened by forebodings which invariably turn out to be too well-founded.

But Mrs Niland did not belong in this category.

‘There!’ said Grantey, reseating herself at the table. ‘That was Mrs Niland. How’d you like to be nurse again after tea, Miss Steggles, and help me bath these two little beings?’

It was said with gracious condescension which a less infatuated person would have found intolerable, but Margaret felt only grateful pleasure.

‘I’d love to,’ she exclaimed, smiling affectionately at the children, who remained unmoved, ‘if I might just ’phone up Mother and say I may be a bit late.’

‘Oh, you’ll be back by seven; I’ve got to leave here myself sharp by half-past six and we’ll catch the bus outside Jack Straw’s Castle; it only takes about ten minutes,’ said Grantey decidedly. ‘We’ll go together; two’s better than one in the old blackout.’

‘I’ve been in the blackout,’ boasted Barnabas, ‘when I went to Robin Campbell’s party. It
wasn’t over until
seven o’clock
, and me and Stephen were the
very last
. Robin had to push us out of the front door.’

‘You’ll be asked there again, I should think,’ observed Grantey. ‘Now, Miss Steggles, if you’re sure you won’t have any more, I’ll just get these few washed up and then we’ll have a quiet game before bedtime. That’ll be nice, won’t it. No, thank you, I can manage; you just stay here and keep an eye on them.’ She had been packing the tray while she talked, and now went out of the room with it. Barnabas was pulling Emma along the floor on a rug, and both seemed to be enjoying it, so Margaret went over to a little window at the other end of the room. It overlooked the small paved garden. She felt peaceful as she stood there, gazing out at the roofs and chimneys whose dull colours were warmed by the red light of the winter sunset. The rays poured into the nursery and gave its miniature blue and white furniture the special, charmed look that belonged to this house, and the slightly uneven floor and ancient sash windows possessed the same glamour.

Suddenly a door opened in the wall and a hatless man came through into the garden, shutting it after him. She recognized him as one of the two she had seen on the Heath that evening; it was Alexander Niland himself! He was unusually tall, and had a high round forehead and his dark hair was thinning on the top. He looked up even as she was staring down at him, but immediately glanced away again, and she could see that his mouth was deeply dimpled at the corners. He crossed the garden and went through another door immediately under the window. He’s gone up to the studio, she thought, and slowly released the fold of the curtain which she had been grasping.

She was disappointed. His baldness was disconcerting enough, but an appearance of slight oddness and of deficient health, which was noticeable even at that distance, was more so. She had been unconsciously anticipating something like the disdainful leonine beauty of Augustus John, of whom she had seen photographs in
Vogue
, and she was still inexperienced enough to expect famous makers of beautiful works of art to be themselves physically attractive. But she had no time to think any more about what she had seen, because the door opened and he came into the room.

‘Hullo,’ he said, smiling and looking round on them all. His voice was pleasant but in no way striking.

‘Hullo, Daddy,’ said Barnabas, ‘come and give me a ride.’ Emma, whose face was red with excitement and pleasure, looked up at her father and laughed as she waved her legs above her head.

He glanced at Margaret, who was standing awkwardly by the window, but without curiosity; he seemed to take her for granted. In fact he supposed that she was some friend of Grantey’s who was spending the afternoon there, but Margaret, flustered at being in the presence of a genius and anxious to do the right thing, at once came forward and said in a voice which nervousness made overemphatic – ‘How do you do?’ (She hesitated for a second, too nervous to say his name.) ‘I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Margaret Steggles and Grantey – I’m afraid I don’t know her other name’ (with a little laugh) ‘asked me to stay to tea. I found your wife’s ration book’ (
oh Lord, that sounds all wrong
) ‘on the Heath and I only brought it back this afternoon. I expect you’ll think I’m awful, keeping it nearly a month like that, only it was in the pocket of a coat I hadn’t worn since I got back to Lukeborough, and I only found it when we came back to London. I do hope it didn’t put you out awfully, my keeping it so long, I mean,’ and she stopped abruptly and laughed again.

She had not intended to ramble on so incoherently, but when once she began to talk she had found it impossible, from embarrassment, to bring her remarks to an end. He listened with a slight
smile, but without much attention or interest.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said at last, sitting down and beginning to pull Emma backwards and forwards by her legs while she squealed with delight, ‘I think Grantey saw to it, she does all that sort of thing for us. Don’t worry about it, really,’ he added, as Margaret once more started eagerly to say something, and she checked herself and stood looking down at him as he played with the children, while her cheeks burned with self-consciousness and annoyance. She hardly knew herself what she had expected him to say or how she had wanted him to behave, but his casualness irritated her in the same way that Mrs Niland’s had done, and in his case she was not charmed by his appearance, and she was also angry with herself for having talked so much and so disconnectedly.

Yet, as she watched him holding the laughing Emma above his head, and swinging Barnabas round and round, she began to feel that charm which the sight of a man playing with little children always exercises over a woman, and her irritation gradually subsided. Once, when the children’s shrieks grew very loud, he glanced across at her and laughed, and she thought how much more impressive his face became when it was animated and how like his large, slightly dim violet-grey eyes were to those of Barnabas, although the child’s were so clear.

‘That’s enough, that’s enough,’ he said presently, standing up and letting Barnabas slide all the considerable way down from his chest to his feet. ‘And you’d better calm down, too, Emma, or I shall have Grantey after me.’

‘Is your wound hurting?’ demanded Barnabas.

‘It is rather,’ said his father, smiling again at Margaret. She smiled in return and wondered what the child meant.

‘Is it bad? Is that why you can’t play with me and Emma any more?’

‘It isn’t very bad, but I want to go and read the evening paper.’

‘Why do you?’

‘Because I do.’

‘It’s an awful, silly, lousy old paper. Gosh, it is lousy,’ said Barnabas.

‘Yes, well, all right. Don’t say lousy. Good-bye,’ and he waved to them all and made for the door.

‘Will you come and see me in the bath?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes.’

‘And see Emma in her bath?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise honour bright?’

‘Perhaps. I’ll see.’

He went out of the room, and Margaret heard him stop to speak to Grantey as he passed her on the stairs, Well, she thought, sighing, I’ve seen him and spoken to him, which is more than I thought I’d have the luck to do when I started out this afternoon, but I can’t help it; I
am
disappointed. He’s so ordinary.

‘There we are, all clean and paid for,’ said Grantey, bustling in. ‘Now, how about that game before bedtime? Miss Steggles, do you know any nice games?’

Margaret recalled her wandering thoughts with difficulty. To tell the truth, she was beginning to be a little tired of the children’s company, and to feel need of adult society. Young children are the most exhausting creatures in the world, even to those who find them interesting as well as
lovable; and Margaret, although her youthful energies were well fitted to sustain the pressure of ceaseless noise and demands for attention, was not sufficiently happy or at ease in her own heart to be able to give that calm and undivided application of herself to the children’s needs which the successful nurse or mother gives. She felt a sudden irritation.
How long before they’ll be in bed?
she wondered, but the thought was immediately followed by the sobering one,
And then I shall have to go home
.

As she helped to draw up chairs to the table upon which Grantey had placed a large bright box filled with counters and games, she was thinking how strange it was that Mr Niland should want to read the evening paper, just like all the ordinary men who were not geniuses who travelled in the Tube every day. How could he paint beautiful pictures if he were not always thinking beautiful thoughts? And how could he think beautiful thoughts if he liked – as he presumably did – reading the tediousnesses and the horrors in the evening paper? She abandoned the problem, and gave her attention to the game.

A little later she was still more tired of the children’s company, for Barnabas turned extremely naughty just before being put into the bath, and began to scream, and Emma joined in. Side by side they sat in the bath, with tears rolling down their crimson, distorted faces, while the flannel manipulated by Grantey travelled swiftly but thoroughly over every inch of them, and Grantey herself kept up a low sarcastic commentary upon their behaviour, rhetorically demanding of them at intervals what Miss Steggles would think of them. Margaret handed warm towels and was kept busy between the bathroom and the night nursery, where a rosy lamp was dimly burning and the stove was alight and the two white beds stood side by side. She was charmed by the room, which looked like a night nursery out of
Peter Pan
or
Now We Are Six
, but as she remembered Barnabas’s contorted countenance and the shrieks of Emma, she felt that she understood those mothers who go out at night and leave their children locked alone in the house.