Something Light (21 page)

For a moment, she was undeniably tempted on her own account. Not only was the gesture uncommonly flattering; she'd flown only twice in her life before, to Cannes and back, and had adored it. (To whomever under B for Biography equated heaven with caviar to the sound of trumpets Louisa would confidently have recommended trying lunch in a jet.) But now, for once, she thought before she leaped.

Prudently.

Prudently Louisa attempted to visualize the reactions of her new-found, potential family to the sight of a helicopter descending on their back lawn—come to fetch herself, Louisa, to a cocktail party at Bournemouth.

Though with the children, especially Paul and Toby, it might send her stock up, Louisa fancied their father not caring for it at all.

In Mr. Clark's picture of a conscientious, home-loving helpmate—a picture Louisa hoped he was picturing—that helicopter, felt Louisa, was distinctly out of place.

Especially to take her to a cocktail party. (To a
lighthouse
would have been another thing; and had Louisa been a female surgeon. Louisa whipped out an appendix in parenthesis, but not seriously; had her oilskins off almost before she put them on.)

She sighed; but didn't weaken.

“Dear Freddy,” said Louisa, “try and get it into your head. I couldn't be fonder of you, but it's no go. Tell the Admiral to phone Moss Bros. about his uniform, lay on enough champagne for the party, and you won't have a care. But get it into your head: the voice
is
silent, also the hand is still. I'm very, very fond of you, Freddy; but it's no go.”

With which last words she cut the connection.

4

Unhappily, this act of prudence and sacrifice looked like being ill-rewarded. It was that same night that Louisa overheard the row between Catherine and Mr. Clark.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1

Louisa always went up to bed first; she punctiliously left the Clarks alone together whenever possible, in case they wanted to discuss her. It was rarely more than a few minutes, however, before Toby, then Paul, then Catherine came up too; and then ensued the cheerful sounds of a family settling down for the night.—There were no unnecessary inhibitions, Louisa was glad to note: not only did Paul march in on Toby soaking too long in the bath, Catherine marched in on Paul (and audibly pulled the plug out). A little Alsatia each night was the first-floor landing, a little riotous enclave within the bounds of a benevolent dictatorship; and Louisa loved to hear its rumor. There was nothing at Glenarvon she enjoyed more than hearing the children come up to bed.

On that Saturday night, she heard something else besides—from down below, in Mr. Clark's study. Paul had left the bath taps running for his sister; Louisa, when Catherine didn't come up, crossed the landing to turn them off; and the study door below was open.

Not this time—as once at Bournemouth—did Louisa deliberately eavesdrop. The ethos of the family was already sacred to her; as Catherine's voice rose, and the voice of Mr. Clark rose in answer, she loyally hurried back to her own room. All the same, she couldn't help catching a phrase or two. “But we don't
want
to have a home made for us!” cried Catherine. “Be quiet; Miss Datchett will hear you,” ordered her father …

Louisa crept into bed and put her head under the pillow. If there were to be any arguments, before the children finally accepted her, she wisely determined to know as little of them as possible.

And how loyally, and successfully, must Mr. Clark have defended her! Because at breakfast next morning Cathy couldn't have been more amiable.

2

“Marmalade, Miss Datchett?” asked Catherine sweetly. (Louisa shot Mr. Clark a grateful glance.) “Toby, pass Miss Datchett the marmalade!”

“Unless she'd rather have honey?” suggested Paul. “Was it you who got it for us in the comb, Miss Datchett? It's smashing!”

“Mrs. Temple
never
did,” said Toby.

Three fresh young faces turned innocently towards her like flowers to the sun.
“They've been talking,”
thought Louisa, with sudden insight. She saw them all talking and talking—probably into the small hours of that morning: Paul wrapped in an eiderdown on the foot of Catherine's bed, Toby squatted on the sheepskin rug and finally agreeing to accept her. How otherwise explain this more than even their usual courtesy?

“Unless it's part of a plan,” thought Louisa warily …

At least Mr. Clark had no such unworthy suspicions. (That is, Louisa hoped they were unworthy.) He basked in domestic sunshine; his glance, from his children to Louisa, was warm with self-congratulation. Whatever storm had raged the night before, to Mr. Clark the barometer was evidently set fair, glass rising; and if he didn't know his family, who should?

“Who's coming with Father to church?” inquired Mr. Clark pleasantly.

“But all of us, sir!” answered Paul at once.

“That will be very nice indeed,” said Mr. Clark. (Louisa fancied his eye to rest with particular pleasure on Catherine.) “And you, Miss Datchett?”

“I'd like to,” said Louisa sincerely, “very much. Only Mrs. Temple doesn't come on Sundays, and there's the dinner to cook.”

“Mightn't we have something cold?” suggested Mr. Clark.

Evidently the idea was revolutionary.—From the corner of her eye Louisa saw the children exchange a glance of mingled astonishment and gladness. Instantly—

“Or an omelette?” cooperated Catherine.

“Or bangers?” offered Toby.

“In any case, I don't see that we need leave Miss Datchett behind,” adjudged their father. “Whatever she provides I'm sure we shall find very acceptable.—All ready, then, at ten-forty-five?”

3

As she entered the Clark pew at St. Michael and All Angels, such was Louisa's happiness that she temporarily forgot every anxiety.

It was a splendid pew, well up in front, and she entered it immediately after Mr. Clark; with Toby and Catherine and Paul filing in behind, she felt just like one of the family. (“Every Sunday!” thought Louisa uncontrollably.) The fact that she hadn't her own prayer book was but a trifling fly in such precious ointment; and in any case there was a spare one on the ledge. Louisa had been brought up chapel, but she soon found her way about, and with genuine reverence and thankfulness joined vigorously in all parts open to the congregation …

During the second lesson—what a landmark in her career!—she said “Hush” to Toby. The footstool before him was the big old-fashioned kind, adapted to take a tophat; his fidgeting toe tip prized the lid open, so that it fell back with a gentle thud. “Hush!” said Louisa …

It was only during the sermon that her mind wandered. St. Michael and All Angels had an uncommonly broad aisle: all her talks with Enid Anstruther rushing back on her, Louisa absolutely couldn't help filling it with three pairs of bridesmaids. Even in crinolines, there'd be ample room; while for the cloud of white tulle about four foot clearance on either side …

What color for the bridesmaids? Pale amber?

“Not that I'd ever round up six,” thought Louisa, more practically; in fact Catherine's (if Catherine
would)
was the only name that came immediately to mind. Louisa cast a fleeting glance towards Pammy—towards Pammy and four other Pammies. “But they'd ham it!” thought Louisa—and in their place substituted Enid Anstruther as matron of honor in very pale blue. Undoubtedly Enid would do matron of honor quite beautifully—and why not F. Pennon to give away the bride?

Or the Admiral?—Freddy could provide the wedding breakfast, decided Louisa, there was nothing he'd enjoy more; she herself would make a better effect on the arm of Admiral Colley's full-dress uniform.

“He'll be hiring one anyway, for Enid,” thought Louisa. “He may just as well use it twice!”

To strains inaudible, except to herself, of the Wedding March, she stationed Mr. Clark by the front righthand pew—only two up, Louisa noted, from where they actually sat. To those joyful POM, POM, per-umph-um POM strains—

(“I'll ask Number Ten,” thought Louisa. And why not Mr. McAndrew? At least he'd look well, and he'd stood her a splendid lunch.)

—the small but exquisite cortège advanced: first Louisa in a cloud of white tulle, on the arm of Admiral Colley in full-dress uniform; then Enid in very pale blue and probably a hyacinth toque, followed by Cathy in an amber crinoline. (Which she could afterwards wear to dances, reflected Louisa—with already maternal forethought.) How to work in Paul and Toby? It was a pity they were too old to be pages; but perhaps they'd care to have a bang at ushering …

The sermon neared its end. Louisa was in fact just saying “I do” as they all stood up for the final hymn. She had experienced such happiness, she thoroughly regretted not having more than a shilling for the collection, but that was all she could find in her purse. The children, she observed, put in shillings too; their father a folded note.

Paying for the family!

4

Sunday dinner was almost a picnic. They didn't actually have it out of doors, but because Louisa decided on omelettes ate in the kitchen; the unusualness, the general sketchiness of which arrangement produced a picnicish euphoria. Catherine laid the table, Mr. Clark and the boys sat around watching Louisa crack eggs. And it was just as she began to beat that Paul suddenly answered the question so long present in her mind.

“I see Miss Datchett's is an expert hand,” observed Mr. Clark approvingly.

“Miss Datchett, who's going to serve?” asked Catherine.

“Are you putting in ham, Miss Datchett?” asked Toby.

“Look here,” said Paul, “why don't we all call her Louisa?”

Louisa naturally glanced first at Mr. Clark, before she beamed.—He accepted the look approvingly; approving her tacit submission to his judgment. His approval broadened to include Paul—and Catherine and Toby, who by their cheerful looks were obviously welcoming the idea.

“If Miss Datchett has no objection—” he began pleasantly.

“Indeed I haven't!” cried Louisa. “I'd love it!”

“—then on high days and holidays, and while you're all behaving yourselves, I think ‘Louisa' might be very well admissible—to us all,” said Mr. Clark.

5

What could have been more delightful, or more promising, or more thoroughly flattering to Louisa's hopes? Nothing. She still wasn't easy. Her experiences at Bournemouth and Broydon had taught her, all too painfully, to watch out for the stone in the snowball, the gunshot in the partridge, the horseshoe in the mitt.

The children's behavior to her was perfect—it always had been. Nor had she now to fear what they might be saying about her to their father. Their line was too plainly taken, and Mr. Clark the last man alive to countenance double-dealing. What she still needed to know was what they said about her among themselves—in Tomboy's stable, or while overhauling their Vespas, or late at night in Cathy's room …

As usual, that Sunday night, Louisa went up first. But almost immediately the pleasant sounds she'd grown accustomed to—the to-and-fro between bed- and bathroom, the subdued family chatter—followed. (No arguments tonight!) It seemed that the children were turning in early too; perhaps leaving Mr. Clark to do a little extra breadwinning.—Louisa cast a thought towards Henry Peel and his criminal neglect of proofs. Compared with Mr. Clark, what a feckless breadwinner was
there!
She wondered his wife ever got a night's sleep.—But this was merely a sidewind, so to speak, blowing lightly across the strong current of her own preoccupations. As soon as she heard Catherine leave the bathroom, Louisa ungratefully dismissed the Peels—to whom she owed her very presence at Glenarvon—completely from mind.

There is always one way of finding out what one wants to know, and that is to ask.

In a few moments of intense activity Louisa leaped out of bed, wiped off face food, applied powder, pulled on her zebra pattern housecoat, sprang between the sheets again, and not without a certain nervousness called through the door.

“Catherine!”

The padding footsteps halted.

“Catherine,” called Louisa nervously, “come in a minute, will you?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

1

If Louisa was nervous, Catherine wasn't. (Or didn't appear to be. Where the children were concerned, Louisa found herself thus perpetually hedging.) Catherine, in a blue woolly dressing gown, made straight for the foot of the bed and curled herself thereon as readily as if by nightly habit, while Louisa at the other end unnecessarily plumped pillows.

“Is it anything in particular,” inquired Catherine amiably, “or just a cozy chat?”

—For a moment Louisa was as tempted as she'd been by a helicopter. Cozy chats with Catherine were precisely what she longed for; why not have one now? A dozen suitable topics sprang to mind: the health of Tomboy, Catherine's chances at the pony-club gymkhana, Miss Lindrum's extraordinary ill judgment as to breeches—all these beautifully linked to Catherine's passion for horses—while by way of Catherine's own plaits the whole field of hair-dos enticingly opened. (“She ought to be brushing a hundred times each night,” thought Louisa. How delightful to dispatch Catherine for a hairbrush
now
, and chat cozily while she brushed!) But such pleasures, to be truly enjoyed, lay on the other side of the hurdle Louisa had deliberately brought herself up to.

“In the first place,” said Louisa, “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Well, of course,” said Catherine readily. (Louisa hoped she wasn't keeping her fingers crossed; as children give themselves absolution in advance when about to tell a lie.) “What about?”

“I don't know if your father consulted you,” continued Louisa bravely, “before I came?”