Westwood (18 page)

The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close as Margaret walked quickly through Highgate Village. It was a Saturday, and she was anxious to find a plumber to attend to a dripping tap in the kitchen which had suddenly increased its flow to such an extent that Mrs Steggles had become alarmed. The air was clear and intensely cold; the sun had almost disappeared behind a bloom of opal clouds, but the windows still flashed back its scarlet light and the houses, the pavements, the spire of the church, were pale and clean in the radiance. Margaret’s fingertips ached with cold as she hurried absentmindedly on. She had come up another turning than the one leading past Westwood, but (as always when she came to the village) her thoughts were busy with the house as she pushed open the door of the ironmonger’s.

An elderly lady was at that moment being courteously attended to by the proprietor. She was explaining about the particular type of knob which she required to be fitted on the door of her coal-cellar.

‘We’ll do our best, madam,’ said Mr Hudson, smiling and nodding and taking it all in. ‘I can’t promise to have a man there until Tuesday but we’ll do our best to get it done before.’

‘And remember I want a
china
knob,’ said the elderly lady impressively for the fourth time;
‘not one of those metal things, they bang against the wall when my maid opens the door to get the coal, and get dented, and that loosens them, of course, and then …’

Margaret’s attention wandered and she began to look dreamily round the shop, but she was still far from the peace of middle age, which has learned to enjoy gardening more than people, and people were what interested her, not wheelbarrows and secateurs. There was only one other person in the shop besides herself and Mr Hudson and the elderly lady; a small dark woman wearing a bright red beret. Her face was so alive with impatience that it did not occur to Margaret whether she was plain or pretty, and she was actually standing on tiptoe with eagerness; swaying slightly in her desire to attract Mr Hudson’s attention away from the elderly lady, and soundlessly opening and shutting her lips as if rehearsing the sentences which would burst forth the instant the elderly lady should cease to speak.

Margaret watched her with interest which quickly changed to indignation when, the elderly lady having concluded her remarks and turned away to leave the shop, the little woman darted forward in front of Margaret before the latter could take her turn and immediately burst into a flood of speech about an electric-fuse.

Mr Hudson listened smilingly, apparently unaware that Margaret had been supplanted, and even glancing at her once or twice to confirm his own amusement as the little woman’s foreign accent became more pronounced, but Margaret listened with a graver face than usual, for she was annoyed.

‘I’ll do my best, Miss Mandelbaum,’ said Mr Hudson at last, interrupting the flood of broken English, ‘but I can’t promise. I’ve got –’

‘But it iss for der party! Mrs Challis iss gifing a party dis efening!’

‘I know – very awkward, and I’m sorry. But it’s the week-end, you know, Saturday afternoon. My man’s out on a job.’

‘Dere will be no lights in der hall und der drawingroom! Cortway hass gone to see his mother, and so he cannot mend it. Dere iss no one at home now but me and Mrs Grant, und we do not know how.’

A thrill ran through Margaret, whose attention had already been caught by the name ‘Challis,’ and she gazed eagerly at the little woman. She must be from Westwood!

‘Well, if my man comes back before half-past five, I’ll send him along, but I can’t promise, Miss Mandelbaum.’

‘I suppose,’ put in Margaret, in her deep voice to which the last weeks had given a new authority, ‘that that goes for a tap that wants a new washer, too?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ smiled Mr Hudson. ‘It’s the week-end, you see. These things always seem to happen at the week-end, don’t they?’

The little woman flashed a despairing smile at Margaret and flung out her hands.

‘Dere iss a party to-night, it iss at der big house in Simpson’s Lane, Westwood, under der fuse he has blown out. Dis afternoon he blow out. It iss a party for Mrs Niland who hass had her baby –’

‘Oh, indeed! I’m glad to hear that. Is it a little boy or a little girl?’ interrupted Mr Hudson pleasantly.

‘It iss a little boy. But Mr Hudson, if you do not mend dis fuse, dere will be no light in der hall and der drawing-room!’

‘Well, I’ll do my very best,’ promised Mr Hudson, ‘and for you, too, madam,’ to Margaret. ‘If my man comes back to the shop before he goes home I’ll try and get him down to – what was it, did you say?’

Margaret told him about the tap and gave her address, but she found difficulty in concentrating upon what she was saying because she had suddenly thought of a plan which would provide her with the perfect excuse for getting inside Westwood, and she was afraid that the little foreigner might hurry away before she could put it into execution.

Miss Mandelbaum was gazing tragically at the unruffled Mr Hudson with half a dozen expressions a minute passing over her face. She opened her mouth to begin again.

‘I’m so glad Mrs Niland has got her baby,’ said Margaret boldly, smiling at her. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting her at Lamb Cottage a few weeks ago when I took back her ration book; I found it on the Heath. She’s a charming person, isn’t she?’

There! The sentence was out, and she congratulated herself upon having a foreigner to say it to. She was not nervous of foreigners, and besides, she could see at a glance that this one was emotional, friendly and easily impressed.

Miss Mandelbaum nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, she iss charming. Zo!’ – smiling archly – ‘it iss you who find der ration book! Oh yess, I hear all about it from Mrs Grant. You are Miss – no. It iss a difficult name and I do not remember.’

‘Steggles. Margaret Steggles.’

‘Miss Steggles.’ She stumbled over the pronunciation. ‘And I am Zita Mandelbaum.’ She held out her hand, which Margaret took, and they exchanged a firm shake, smiling at one another. ‘How do you do,’ said Zita, laughing, and Margaret too laughed excitedly. She felt herself already within the walls of Westwood.

Some other customers entered the shop at this moment and she took advantage of Mr Hudson’s preoccupation with them to say in a lowered tone to Zita:

‘Look here, I can mend a fuse. Would you like me to come and have a look at yours?’

Zita’s face brightened so quickly that Margaret was afraid Mr Hudson might notice it.

‘You can mend a fuse!’ she cried. (Margaret was all the time moving towards the door and Zita was following her.) ‘But how wonderful! (I cannot do dose sings; I am der artist-type, I do not know machinery.) But of course you must come! We go now, dis minute! I take you dere,’ and she opened the door and almost pushed Margaret out of it.

Ah, you needn’t ‘take me there,’ I know the way; I’d know it blindfold; I’ve been there in dreams, thought Margaret ecstatically, as they hurried through the village, Zita chattering all the way. A red glow lingered in the west and below it, visible between the houses, there were woods of a dim, cold blue. A host of seagulls flew overhead on their way to the water in the north where they roosted each night, slowly moving their long wings which the rays of the sun, still shining in that upper air, touched with gold. Margaret’s head was filled with thoughts of the past, and strains of music, and dreams of London’s history. The vast city lying in the valley was blue; amethyst, sapphire, turquoise and a strange grey-blue that lay between spires and terraces and made them spectral. White smoke from the trains puffed and rolled up into the still, icy air. In a moment I shall be inside Westwood, she thought.

Simpson’s Lane was a narrow ancient thoroughfare between the village and Archway Road, steep and unfrequented, with the wall which surrounded the spacious gardens of Westwood running its entire length on one side, and some old cottages and lofty trees on the other.

Westwood, though partly hidden behind its wall, dominated the landscape because it stood upon the lane’s highest point.

There was no one in sight as the two girls approached. The light was still clear, because there were no clouds in the sky, and the house appeared dark yet distinct against the glow; among the leafless trees and in the recesses of evergreen foliage lingered gem-like colours born of the winter mists and light.

‘Here we are –’ cried Zita, and pushed open the delicate iron gate of Westwood.

The proportions of the house and the drive were so planned that, on the instant of stepping through the gate into the garden, the visitor experienced a sensation of privacy and solitude as if he stood before some mansion set deep in a park, though in fact the garden in front of the house was not large. Margaret was so conscious of this feeling of retirement that for the moment she could think of nothing else, and followed Zita, who was hastening along the path encircling the oval lawn of grass so ancient and close that it resembled moss, without looking at the house – whose outward appearance, indeed, she knew by heart.

But as they approached the door, which was set in a porch supported by four Ionic columns and approached by three hollowed shallow stone steps, she glanced upwards at the bust of the goddess or amazon which stood above the portico, with lovely weather-worn countenance turned a little sideways as if she were listening, and a delicate happiness filled her heart. It was so different to look at Westwood from outside its gate, and to stand here, upon its steps, surrounded by lines and curves of lawn and wall and window which were all perfect, and all beautiful, no matter whence they were viewed! She was surprised, too, by the comparative smallness of the house: although it consisted of a tall building in the centre flanked on either side by two smaller wings and had eight long windows in the central façade, the impression produced upon the eye was neither overpowering nor stately; the prevailing impression was one of elegance; that quality which the contemporary world is forgetting as rapidly as it is losing the power to create it.

‘Ach! Here he is!’ exclaimed Zita, turning to smile and hold up the key, and she fitted it into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

Square, low-ceiled and lovely was the hall, and again (thought Margaret, hesitating for a moment upon the threshold) unexpectedly small compared with the impression given by the exterior of the house. As her eyes wandered thirstily from detail to detail she became unable to attend to Zita’s chatter, and only wished that she would be quiet, so that the beauty of the white marble mantelpiece adorned with plumed scrolls and swags of fruit and flower supported by cupids might make its full effect upon her. Doors opened off from the hall, and there was a carpet in dim hues of rose and red and green: she saw chairs of fragile design adorned with harps, or bows, or loops of shining wood; mirrors reflecting their own gilt candle-holders; and many large brown branches and exotic striped leaves in white vases – and there, in the farthest corner, was something – oh, why was Zita hurrying her away, across the hall with its faint odour of cold marble and wood smoke, before she could gaze at
the staircase
?

‘It iss in here,’ said Zita anxiously, flinging open a door covered with green baize and revealing a narrow dark passage that smelled of cooking. ‘I go first, you come after. Be careful, Miss Steggles, pliss, there iss bump in the floor,’ and she turned on the light.

There is a point at which age, in a house that is still occupied, ceases to exert a spell and becomes faintly disgusting. This phenomenon is usually accompanied by dirt, which may serve to explain it, but sometimes it occurs when an ancient house is clean, and then there is no rational explanation. Margaret experienced a revulsion of feeling as violent as her first delight as she hurried after Zita through the corridor, and although the walls were white-washed and there was drugget upon the floor, the unevenness of the latter and certain cells and caverns which they passed upon their way, with the concavities of worm-eaten wooden staircases above them, made her long for the open air.

‘Here are der fuses,’ said Zita, stopping in front of a row of boxes along the wall and switching on another light.

Margaret opened the nearest box and cautiously took out the first fuse container, hoping to find that the trouble would not be anything more complicated than a burnt-out wire, which she knew how to replace.

‘Have you any fuse wire, five amp?’ she demanded in a brisk professional voice.

‘I haf no idea,’ said Zita gaily, ‘I do not know what dot is, but I will go and look.’

At this moment, as if attracted by the sound of their voices, a figure appeared at an open door at the end of the passage. Margaret glanced up and perceived with some dismay that it was Grantey.

‘Zita? Is that you down there?’ she called, peering at them. The light from a hidden window shone coldly upon her white apron and some shelves of green and gold plates. ‘What are you doing?’

‘We mend der fuse!’ Zita called back. ‘It iss Miss Steggles. You remember her? (Podden me that I say
her
, Miss Steggles, I wish to improve always my colloquial English.) She says she knows you and Mrs Niland.’

Grantey, to Margaret’s increasing dismay, said nothing to this but at once advanced briskly down the passage. Margaret took out a third container and carefully examined it.

‘So it’s you,’ exclaimed Grantey, halting beside them and grimly surveying Margaret. ‘Where did Zita pick
you
up?’