Nothing to Report, page 6
Mary Morrison said to herself as she watched the taxi out of sight, “Well, I hope to goodness that’s going to be a success.”
(ii)
Mary Morrison, seated at her writing desk, lifted the receiver from her telephone, and the voice of Catha Rollo, sounding very close, exclaimed, “Button! when are you coming over to see us?”
“I’ve been delicately waiting to be asked,” explained Mary. “I thought you might be in some confusion still, and not needing visitors.”
“Could you come to lunch to-day?” asked Catha. “We should be alone. This is to say, every single room is full of men drinking tea out of tin mugs, and saying what they’d like to tell the Führer and his Nasties.”
Mary thought rapidly, and replied, “I’d love to, if you don’t mind my not arriving until about twenty to two, and leaving at three sharp.”
Catha’s voice said, “That’ll be perfect, for Albert has just introduced a young man looking like the poet Keats, in a pull-over, who says that he wants to do things to power plugs in my sitting-room all morning. One-forty, then.”
Mary replaced the receiver, and applied her attention once more to her morning’s post. All her letters this morning had been suitable for storage in the pigeonhole of her desk blandly labelled “Difficult.” But the one over which she had been knitting her brows as the telephone bell rang was marked “Urgent” in block capitals. Her late brother’s wife invariably wrote in haste, on royal blue notepaper, with weakish ink. She further obscured her meaning by eschewing all stops except exclamation marks, underlining conjunctions and leaving out essential letters and even words. By the time that she had puzzled out an epistle from her sister-in-law, Marcelle, Mary’s strongest feeling was usually exasperation.
“Dear Mary,” she read now,
“Thank you so much for your cheque and you cannot think how much ye appreciate all ye tongue in bang.” “No,” decided Mary, “that can’t be right.” Gripping her brow, she flicked over the page and found, “Flowers at my flat.” “She’s got the things I sent for her birthday. That’s all right,” said Mary aloud. But the next line brought disillusion, “should have told you I was going away few days.” “Oh dear!” exclaimed Mary regretfully, “and I’d put in two dozen of those new jonquils. I suppose they simply died in the unopened basket. And she said in her last letter that owing to hard times she was never able to go away, even for week-ends. . . . However, she seems grateful.”
Mrs. Morrison was grateful. On the third page of her letter she came to her point. “Such difficult times,” read Mary, “and poor Rosemary quite impossible . . . stay on in L. and be bombed . . . so feel that as deceased wife of your only brother. . . .” “She can’t mean that,” frowned Mary. “She must mean only wife of your deceased. . . . No, that wouldn’t be right either. Oh! good heavens!”
“Accept your long-standing invitation to come down to Willows, then we could have a chat about my staying on in Event of War,” read Mary. “You, I know, will be so busy with yr hospital work out all day v. likely but loneliness alas! no novelty to me and if I cld have a south room on ground floor no matter how cottagey! Expect you will keep on running yr car so would not feel utterly cut off from civilization. . . . See there is a train arriving Went 12.50 Saturdays.”
“Marcelle wants to come to live here for the duration!” announced Mary to her elder Siamese cat who had just entered the room noiselessly, and stared back at her with cold aquamarine eyes before heartlessly resuming elaborate cleansing of his hind legs. In the same moment the telephone bell rang again.
“Westbury Green 250,” replied Mary. “Oh! Mrs. Gibson. Yes, this is Mary Morrison speaking. Good morning. Yes, I got your letter. Only this moment, though, as it had been addressed ‘Lower Merle’ and we’re ‘Went’ here. Yes, about your daughter. No, I’m terribly sorry, I can’t take her as a Member yet. The rule is that all Members must be over seventeen. Next September. Well, that means that she’s only just over sixteen-and-a-half, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, I can only take her as a Probationer. She’s taken her exams, at school. That’s splendid! Yes, I’m sure she is. Will you explain to her, and tell her that I shall hope to enrol her as a Member in September? Yes, I know, but you see she can’t be just yet, because of her age. I shall be delighted to enrol her as a Probationer and see her at our meetings, though. No, I’m afraid she must not, because you see the rule says that Members must be over seventeen years of age. She will have to get Probationer’s uniform. Yes, I daresay she does, if she’s as tall as that, but you see she has to enter her date of birth on a form. Well, I don’t know much about the other voluntary women’s services. Oh! Dorothy Yarrow looks after them, I believe. You could always ask her. But I should doubt if anything could take her until she’s seventeen. Oh! yes, so do I with all my heart. I thought the news looked a trifle better this morning, didn’t you? Oh! no, she couldn’t be sent abroad till she’s over twenty-one. Just one moment. I’m being interrupted. . . .”
The interruption was caused by Doris, as spokesman for the driver of the railway delivery van, which had halted outside the parlour windows, turning day into night.
“The man says, please, miss,” said Doris in her customary gabble, “w’ere’s ’e to put the grand piano?”
“The what?” asked Mary.
“’E’s got a grand piano for Willows. It’s addressed to you, miss,” said Doris, enjoying the sensation her words were creating.
“This must be some mistake,” breathed Mary. But the label produced by Doris was indeed inscribed in a familiar handwriting.
“I expect there’s something about this in a letter I haven’t opened yet,” said Mary. “Tell Saunders to put it in the garage. No! there’s Mr. Tony’s two-seater in there till Sunday! I’ve got a committee in here at twelve. . . . Look here, you’ll just have to tell them to put it in the passage temporarily. We shall just have to squeeze past it until I’ve found out why it’s come and how long it’s staying.”
The letter from Mrs. Thomas Morrison’s daughter, Rosemary, explained the grand piano in its postscript. Rosemary’s epistle, which was blessedly short and legible, although evidently composed under stress of strong emotion, stated in a large round hand that, as Mummy was now quite impossible to live with, could Auntie Bee “have” Rosemary until she had completed her training at the Dramatic Academy, and got a good engagement with a touring company? “I hope,” said the postscript, “that you won’t mind my sending down my fencing things and piano now, as Mummy said last night that she might be shutting up this flat at any moment and leaving London for an unknown destination.”
(iii)
The drive over to Crossgrove through country scenery in the height of its spring beauty, soothed and heartened Mary. When she dismounted from her car to open the first gate leading to her old friend’s new home, she felt a pang of unfamiliar, childish excitement. When she resumed her seat, she discovered that her heels were infested with small stones, partially coated with a glutinous black mixture. She looked at the surface of the drive and said to herself, “I suspect Tim.” The old yellow gravel ribbon of road through these undulating fields, although full of pot-holes, had certainly been picturesque. The park itself was not particularly interesting. It was somewhat sparsely dotted with budding oaks, and a few chestnut and white cows glared at her resentfully as she sped past them. At the second gate she collected more small stones, and clambering back into her seat, kicked one of her ankles, leaving a long black smear on a silk stocking. But a minute later she came in sight of a line of giant sentinel yews stretching straight across the approach as if set to guard some treasure. She passed between them, and found herself under the very eyes of Crossgrove, in a small grey-flagged courtyard, entirely surrounded by yew hedges. Her spirits rose as she returned the friendly gaze of four and twenty large round-headed sash windows, lighting lofty rooms, panelled in wood.
There were signs of a struggle in the hall, where spring sunshine caught many reflections from polished black oak. Two saddles, a dog’s lead, a gun-case, a glazed chintz sewing-bag and a bottle of embrocation were grouped around a circular pottery bowl filled with drooping cowslips. Catha Rollo’s inordinate fondness for pets, whom she left to the care of others, was a leading feature of her character, and Mary was not surprised that the silhouette of the butler advancing towards her was followed by that of a liver-spotted Dalmatian wriggling her quarters ecstatically.
“Well,” said Mary to her slightly harassed-looking hostess, as she unfolded her table-napkin, “how do you like it? Personally, I am more than satisfied.”
“We like this room very much,” said Catha, glancing around. “In fact, we think now it’s really the best room in the house. It’s got perfect proportions, so two people dining in it don’t look silly, while you can seat two dozen. I’m not enamoured of the mantelpiece—bulbous Cupids morbidly conducting oxen to a funeral. The Fox and Grapes one in my room is much more amusing. Have you noticed that these are the chairs that we got together at that sale, and they are exactly right for date? The curtains, I need not point out, are Tim’s study ones. That’s why they’re covered with British lions, and a foot too short. I wish his room was ready. It is wretched for him having to come back after a long day in London, to sit in an all-white saloon amongst alabaster vases of lilies. But we shall get into my little room to-night. It’s a crashing disappointment, so far, but when a few dogs have sat on them, I daresay the covers and cushions won’t look so smug.”
Mary agreed that this seemed likely, and asked how Sir Daubeny liked his new home.
“We took it because of the shooting,” explained Catha, “so I hope that may prove all right. I’m sorry to say we’ve had words already about the drive. I see you’ve collected some of it on your stockings. I shall tell him. Elizabeth had a roll in it, dressed in a woolly white coat and shorts, on her way to play squash, on a bicycle, on our first morning here.”
“It’ll settle, I expect,” suggested Mary. “Please say nothing about my stockings. I hope to be invited here again.”
“The kitchen is part of the original Elizabethan house,” continued Catha. “Its walls and floors are all crooked, like yours at Willows. Unfortunately, the kitchen-maid set down thirty plates on one of the dressers, just as we drove up to the doors on Friday. It fell forward, and hit another dresser. She got out of the way in time, but by an extraordinary chance, a two-pound pot of jam on the top of the second dresser got loose and hit the under-housemaid on the side of the head. She’s in the Cottage Hospital now with slight concussion. The Matron sounded such a nice woman on the telephone. I expect you know her.”
“I do,” nodded Mary. “She’s got fuzzy toffee-coloured hair and gold-rimmed pince-nez, and conceals the iron hand under the velvet glove.”
“She sounded rather like that,” agreed Catha. “Well then, yesterday an errand boy, with a heavy basket of groceries on his handlebars, took the corner of the new bit of drive too fast, and whizzed into the lake instead of up to the backdoor. However, Albert fished him out, and nothing was lost except a hundred boxes of matches. I don’t think anything else has happened as yet, except that a number of people with the most intimidating names and addresses have called already—mostly while I was out, I am thankful to say. Remind me, when we get into my little room, to show you their cards, and ask you all about them.”
“I certainly will,” said Mary severely, “and I am sorry to hear you say that you are glad that you were not here when they came. It will be your duty, for Elizabeth’s sake if not for your own, to spend several long, fine afternoons paying these people back in their own coin. If you don’t begin by doing this thoroughly, the rumour will spread that Lady Rollo is always in London, or a little queer in the head, and people will ask Tim and the boys to shoot and then wash their hands of Crossgrove. How is Elizabeth?”
“You will see for yourself in a few minutes,” said Catha. “She is having an early lunch somewhere miles away with some people who want to show her a mare which they think might suit her.”
“Tony told me I should be surprised when I saw her,” said Mary. “But even so, I was surprised.”
“No, dear, she’s not pretty,” said Catha brightening, “but even as a mother I can’t help admitting that I think she’s a nice-looking little thing. It’s wonderful how much difference eighteen months in Paris has made to her. I don’t altogether like her eyebrows, do you? They’ve left her too little, I consider. Though when I look at Tim’s, I see her point. And then, when she has just emerged from the hairdresser, her little head reminds me of my old astrakhan coat. However, when I remember how terrifyingly sallow and skinny my poor little black monkey was at thirteen, I feel that I have nothing of which to complain. I used to tremble for her. Of course I could not foresee that by the time she was due to come out, it would be quite correct to be the size of a pea. She’s naturally sweet-tempered. I do hope she may have a happy life. . . . As a matter of fact, I rather drove her out to lunch to-day, because I thought that Violet might be coming here. I shall have Violet here, of course, but if possible I do not want Elizabeth to meet her as yet. I want Elizabeth just now to meet people of quite a different type from those who, I feel in my bones, surround poor Violet.”
“It must be fun having a débutante daughter,” said Mary hearteningly.
After lunch the friends made a tour of the house, in so far as it was possible, and Mary admired again the oaken central staircase, with balustrades of much elegance and variety, which had been part of the original structure. In her secret soul she was not favourably impressed by the long saloon, which Catha had decorated entirely in chalk white, with a view to a dance for a débutante. Even on this day of spring sun the room looked cold and formal, and when Catha switched on the lights concealed within six cut-glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, Mary caught a glimpse of herself and her friend in a full-length mirror, and noticed that she looked eighty-five and Catha eighty.
“And now,” said Catha, “since we can’t get into Tim’s study, I think we may consider that we’ve completed our tour, and have coffee in my little room before a stroll in the garden.”
Mary, looking up at the ceiling of ornamental plaster above them, said, “I’ve seen the painting from which this was taken. It’s Aurora strewing flowers before the chariot of Apollo, and it’s by Guido Reni and it’s in the Rospigliosi Palace in Rome.”
Albert, who had been hovering around his mistress unhappily, withdrew, evidently appalled by so much erudition.
“There,” said Catha, two minutes later, emptying into Mary’s lap a shower of visiting cards. “Now please tell me who all these people are, and which of them I shall like. You’re not in a draught, are you?”
“No,” said Mary. “It’s beautifully warm in here. But do shut that window if you’ve got a cough.”
“I thought you had one,” said Catha, sounding puzzled.
“You’ll like this couple,” began Mary, reading from the first cards found by her. “Sir James and Lady Wilson—locally known as our Ambassador and Ambassadress. That all happened so, long ago that scarcely anybody alive can attest to the fact. He’s rather deaf and lame now, but a perfect lamb. Lady Wilson is one of those little shrivelled-up, well-born Scottish ladies, with enough spirit for ten. It always gives one a slight shock to discover that she’s not a spinster or a widow, and does not live brewing tea in a pension in Florence, or controlling missionaries. They have no children, but are very good to young people, and often have clean-looking subalterns and young men from the Foreign Office to stay. It is my duty to warn you that although Lady Wilson has a heart of pure gold, she is not at her best at the Bridge table.”
“Thank you,” said Catha. “‘Miss Catha Taylor, The Rectory, Westbury,’ is, I imagine, the Rector’s sister. I must have put him in the basket. . . .”
“Rather a trial,” sighed Mary, “and would not be so nice to you if you were Albert’s mother—if you take me. You will be opening the Fête this summer, dear. New residents always have to. Poor Dorothy did, the year her husband got into Parliament. She’s particularly young and attractive-looking, and it was pure good-nature on her part, as Westbury is not in Rolfe’s constituency. The next year Mr. Taylor arose to introduce Norah Blent, who’s quite our age, and said, ‘This year we are fortunate in having our little gathering opened by one of the Younger Set.”
“I remember now,” sighed Catha. “I put him in the basket because I was in when they came. And I am opening the Fête. And we’re having it here, because the Rectory garden is so dull and they have no maids at all. I felt truly sorry for them. Don’t let us meet our troubles half-way. Tell me about Major and Mrs. Albany Mimms and Miss Rosanna Masquerier and Lady Norah Blent.”
“Oh, dear,” mourned Mary, “I suppose all the duds and oddities always do turn up first.”
A sudden blast of music, which lasted for half a minute, startled both ladies into dumbness. They watched fascinated while a young man crawled out on all fours from behind the sofa on which they had been sitting. He said, after coughing apologetically,
“The Radio-Gram is now ready for use, madam,” arose to his feet, and flitted from the room.
Catha broke the ensuing silence by saying triumphantly, “He is like Keats, isn’t he? And now I know what it was that Albert was trying to say to me before we came in here. And neither of us has got a cough, thank goodness.”
(iv)
“How did you enjoy the Grand Military, Elizabeth?” asked Mary.
Elizabeth Rollo screwed up her eyes in the effort to remember something which had happened five weeks ago.
Since she was seventeen and very slight, she looked a charming little figure of fun attired in jodhpurs, and a jersey with a polo collar.
“Oh! it was lovely, Auntie Bee,” she said. “I think it was the loveliest thing I ever went to. I never enjoyed a day so much in my life. You see, the sun shone the whole time, and there was a band playing up in a kiosk on a hillock covered with spring flowers, and we had a stuffing lunch in Daddy’s club tent, and Daddy gave me a ten bob note, so that I could have a bet on every race. . . .”
