Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont (10 page)

Saturday afternoon seemed a heartless time of the week to Mrs Palfrey, and made no better by the approaching gloom of Sunday. The callous traffic swept down the Cromwell Road and crowds poured into and out of Gloucester Road station, like bees about a hive. The young sped by – sometimes shying from her slow progress only just in time, carrying their Union Jack
bags full of groceries, or their arms full of French bread for the Saturday-night parties.

She was glad to turn off the busy road. In these side streets no one was about. It was a strange, dead world. No sound came from the houses: nothing was happening.

Mrs Palfrey was trying to walk off a stiffness in her hip, but it would not be walked off. It seemed, instead, to be settling in, locking her joint, so that every step was consciously achieved. She realised that she never walked now without knowing what she was doing and concentrating upon it; once, walking had been like breathing, something unheeded. The disaster of being old was in not feeling safe to venture anywhere, of seeing freedom put out of reach.

Her fall had deepened her uncertainty. And there was no husband to take her arm across a road, or protect her from indignity when she failed. I can have a little rest when I get there, she promised herself. And perhaps he will offer me a cup of tea.

But when she did get there, Ludo was out. It was Saturday afternoon, and Harrods – in those days – was shut. She had felt certain of his being at home.

It was bitterly cold – ‘raw’, as Summers had put it -and when she had knocked on the door a second time, she stood in the area for a minute or two, sheltering against a damp wall. She dreaded her homeward journey and the recrossing of the Cromwell Road.

She set down her parcel by the door, wrote a note for Ludo, and pushed it under the door, as there was no
letter-box. In the dingy, late afternoon light, she could see how neglected the house was, with flaking paint and peeling plaster. It was probably years since anyone had cleaned the basement window.

There’s nothing for it, she thought grimly. She had to get back, and there was only one way of doing it. The afternoon had turned out differently from how she had imagined it, and what had seemed at one time a good idea, seemed now to have been a foolish escapade. But if I can’t take half an hour’s walk, she thought fretfully, and set her lips together and shook her head a little.

Up the steps she plodded. At least now she was free of her parcel. I might see an empty cab, she thought; but this was really only an encouraging talking to herself, for one never did see an empty cab when it was desperately needed.

In Hereford Square, some of the trees bore tiny buds. She realised that she had never desired the spring as she desired the one ahead. It would bring, she believed the end of her aches and pains, renew her freedom, lift her spirits. She was talking to herself again. She kept these thoughts going, and her feet moving, and the young hastened past her with Saturday night ahead of them, and all that that entailed. It was in their eyes, their walk, the swing of their hair.

I feel like an orphan, Ludo thought, going home. I’m quite alone, and might as well face it.

His mother had continued gently to deplore his having left the repertory company; but she had done it in a vague way as if simply trying to show interest in and give advice to a stranger. At four o’clock she had toasted him an early crumpet, leaving, he noticed – having followed her to the little kitchen – seven others for her to share with the Major when he returned from Twickers. When she had done that, she had begun to get restless. She went off and changed her dress, came back and plumped up cushions which badly needed it; she blew some dust off the top of the clock and checked its time with her wrist-watch; she carried away the empty chocolate-box.

‘I hope they won,’ she said.

‘Who was playing?’ Ludo asked.

‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.’

In her impatience, she had not toasted the crumpet enough, and Ludo thought that eating cold tripe might be rather similar, though possibly less harmful.

‘You don’t drink tea, do you?’ she had said, as if she knew something about him.

He walked round the room while he chewed, went and looked out of the long window at a little paved garden below.

Why do I bother? he had wondered, wishing that he had not wasted the fare just to be made so unwelcome and probably get indigestion. At that point, as if guessing his thoughts or, more likely, trying to urge him on his way, she had rummaged in her handbag and fished out a crumpled note. Eyeing it hopefully, he had
none the less thought, Even her pound notes look scruffy.

‘You can buy something for your supper,’ she said. Tor I can’t imagine what you’re living on, not having a job.’

Before she could begin again, he said, ‘What with Grannie’s money, I think I’ll be able to manage for another month or two. I don’t spend much, but every little helps.’ He put the note in his pocket and moved to the door. He had been paid off, and it was only fair to go. He thought of a nice parcel of fish and chips, and then a long stint at his novel.

He was still thinking of work when he came out of the Gloucester Road station and saw all the young people milling about, beginning to get busy about their Saturday-evening pleasures, gathering noisily like the starlings in Trafalgar Square at dusk: all the air was full of their jostling excitement. He thought wistfully of Rosie, and imagined her coolly preparing herself for the fray.

Feeling – and it was unlike him – a little sorry for himself, and the loneliness he had himself imposed, he tucked his warm parcel of fish and chips inside his jacket and hurried down the road, keeping his hands in his pockets.

And someone had called on him, although no one ever did. For a wild moment, when he picked up the lumpy parcel, he thought of Rosie, and knew at once there could be no reason for doing so. Inside, on the doormat, was Mrs Palfrey’s note.

It was a very nice sweater, he decided. Because he was cold, he put it on at once. The sleeves were a little too long, but no matter. Really, he was quite touched, and pleased and grateful, too. I must do something about her, he thought vaguely. Go to see her. Or perhaps write. Yes, write. Writing’s best. He began to lift things, looking for a stamp.

A
T the beginning of March, there were a few still, sunny days; for the month, as usual, came in like a lamb and would, no doubt, go out like a lion.

There were other signs of Spring – mauve crocuses out in the gardens (the starlings had shredded the yellow ones to pieces) and a faint haze of buds on some of the trees.

Mrs Post put her small hair combings out of the window – London birds, she had read, were short of nest-building materials.

Summers set out two folding chairs at the top of the flight of steps, and on one of these Mr Osmond would sit, looking down at the traffic, and with a word for everyone who came and went. He was crowned with glory in these days, for the tail-end of one of his letters to the
Evening News
had been printed. It was about foreigners receiving free medical treatment in England, which he personally was not prepared to subsidise. He carried the clipping about in his note-case. ‘What about this, eh?’ he had asked the manager, had pointed with a shaking finger at his name – R. Osmond, Claremont Hotel, London, S.W. ‘Not a bad little advertisement for you.’ Mr Wilkins’s smile had been inadequate, Mr Osmond thought. It had not shown gratitude. ‘Of course, they left out the best part,’ he said, ‘about the
doctor I was forced to have attend me in Paris. But I believe that is their wont. I have a copy of the original letter if you would care to read it.’

‘Some time, some time,’ Mr Wilkins said, and he clicked his fingers at the hall porter whose attentions he required more than Mr Osmond’s.

There were other signs of winter’s being over than crocuses and garden chairs. Mrs Palfrey felt better in herself, as she put it when writing to her daughter, and twice a day she was able to take a little walk in the hinterland of the Cromwell Road, or she sat for a little while on one of the seats in the gardens of the Natural History Museum, watching the pigeons.

And Lady Swayne arrived from the Cotswolds on her annual visit. Mrs Palfrey had not met her before, but she was well known to the other residents. About this time every year she came to London for various affairs of business and pleasure, to have the dentist go over her old grey teeth, to see Parson & Gunnell, her solicitors, to get her corns pared, be measured for shoes, and to buy elastic stockings in Wigmore Street. She inflicted herself on old friends, and went to the theatre. About the Claremont she condescended dreadfully, and talked of staying at Brown’s Hotel in erstwhile days.

‘Not to worry though,’ she said robustly. ‘It’s cheap and cheerful here.’

After all, thought Mrs Arbuthnot resentfully, ‘it’s our
home,’
and title or not, she considered Lady Swayne had bad manners.

Mrs Palfrey, the others noticed, was rather gathered
in by Lady Swayne, who was pleased to find someone new to admire the photographs of her elegant grandchildren, and of her garden in Burford with its topiary and its stonework. One was of a bow-legged old gardener standing beside a bed of delphiniums to demonstrate their height.

During her London fortnight, she went the rounds, and was envied. She lived in a busy whirl. As the others made their way in to dinner, she was always going in the opposite direction towards the swing doors, dressed in a long brocade dress with her fur coat over it and carrying a purse done in
petit-point
which Mrs Post had often gushingly admired. Summers had to spend a great deal of time out in the Cromwell Road, trying to get taxis for her.

In the mornings, she would hand round theatre programmes to the residents, or describe food, or drop names, as if sparing a few crumbs for the famished. ‘You really
should
see it,’ she told Mrs Arbuthnot. ‘It’s an absolute scream. Rather naughty, you know; but in a wholesome way, of course. One really
couldn’t
take exception.’ It was many years since Mrs Arbuthnot had seen a play, and she knew that she never would again.

‘I fear my friends will kill me with kindness,’ Lady Swayne told Mrs Palfrey. ‘I suppose it’s because I come for such a short stay, while
you
are in London all the time and the parties can be mercifully spread out. I must confess that I should sometimes like to let up a little, to have a nice quiet evening as you do; but, oh dear, no: no one will hear of it. “It will be another year
before you come again,” they say, “so we must make the most of you while you’re here.”
The Marjorie Swayne Festival
Oscar Barrington jokingly called it. I expect you’ve heard of him. He’s a famous critic on the
Sunday Times.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Palfrey firmly. She had intended to be friendly, but began to feel that she had had enough. ‘I take the
Observer.’

‘Do you!’ Lady Swayne’s light tone and the flicker of her eyelids seemed to say, ‘Here’s a queer fish indeed.’ ‘I’m afraid
we
gave
that
up at the time of Suez.’

That was another irritating mannerism – all of her most bigoted or self-congratulatory statements, she prefaced with ‘I’m afraid’. I’m afraid I don’t smoke. I’m afraid I’m just common-or-garden Church of England. (Someone had mentioned Brompton Oratory.) I’m afraid I’d like to see the Prime Minister hanged, drawn and quartered. I’m afraid I think the fox revels in it. I’m afraid I don’t think that’s awfully funny.

Some days after finding Mrs Palfrey’s parcel outside his door, Ludo (having thought better about writing a note) turned up at the Claremont, wearing the very sweater, and having a bunch of violets in his hand. He was on his way home from work, and he had bought the flowers from a flower-stall, in Knightsbridge.

‘Oh!’ Mrs Palfrey breathed out, and she took the bunch in her trembling hands, and gazed at it. There
were little drops of water among the violets to keep them from wilting, a cold, faint scent when she held the bunch to her nose. She sniffed – not prettily – but as if she were snuffing up something for her health’s sake.

It was hanging-about hour in which – the menu already noted – one waited for dinner; Mrs Burton getting ‘very-nicely-thank-you’, as Mrs Arbuthnot put it, and Lady Swayne supposed by all to be putting on her brocade.

‘Would you join me for dinner?’ Mrs Palfrey asked Ludo. ‘Oh, the sleeves are far too long. It’s hopeless.’

‘It’s most beautifully warm, and I like it.’