The Brontes Went to Woolworths (9 page)

And what would she make of that £250 left in Toddy’s Will to Nicholls? Or of Toddy’s mistrust of Saffy as a suitable friend for us?

And what would she say to the mushroom story, in which her husband got a ‘naughty’ fit and refused one morning to go to the Law Courts and hibernated in a burrow, and, for more complete protection against discovery and interruption, fixed a mushroom to his wig?

That sort of tale we recognise as fantastic. We know how to be reasonable . . .

Meanwhile, there was the spadework of the situation to get through, and I wondered how long it would actually take to bring her up to the point at which I had arrived long since, so that we could all start level.

One must curb impatience and be, if possible, careful. For the time, one must be ludicrously formal as though one said ‘How do you do’ to mother. I am rather good at that kind of thing. It’s a horrid bore, because it involves a lot of doing of things you dislike, tactical planning, personal adaptation and looking ahead.

And thus, by dint of effacing myself behind her stall, wrapping awkward parcels in scanty paper, and fetching Lady Toddington a cup of slopped bazaar tea, and generally behaving like a lackey, I did that which I had set myself. She ‘took a fancy’ to me, asked me what paper I represented; and at that point I had to do another job and become slightly vulgar, as talking of one’s achievements always seems to me to be.

She said, ‘It’s wonderful what all you girls are doing now’ in that comfortable sort of voice which non-combatants are able to use. And she called it ‘gurls,’ but then, of course, I had known she would . . .

Towards the end of the afternoon, while she was counting up the wages of sin, I succeeded in saying, ‘Isn’t Sir Herbert going to look in?’

‘No. He’s going on to a dress rehearsal.’

At this, I struggled with an insane impulse to exclaim, ‘Why wasn’t I told of it?’ or ‘He never said so.’

Toddy at a rehearsal? A
dress
rehearsal? M’m . . . the Garrick Club . . . that might account for it. In my confusion I hardly realised the disappointment. But the idea of Toddy, sitting sternly among a crowd of actresses nervous to roping point and patting their curls all over him, was rather sweet. The family would adore it.

I answered at random, ‘I love dress rehearsals,’ and indeed I have been to many. I prefer life in its shirt sleeves. And then the absolutely incredible thing happened.

She asked me home to dinner.

Luckily, I go very white when in the least tired or excited, and this seemed to smite some maternal chord in Lady Toddington in spite of the lack of ‘s.’ or ‘d.’ as
Who’s Who
tersely describes offspring.

I sat within two feet of the brass warming-pan, and for the first time saw the street from the right side of the window-boxes, and felt like Alice on the mantelpiece.

We had iced consommé, salmon mayonnaise, vanilla soufflet and a pineapple, so that Toddy was evidently properly looked after, as far as creature comforts go.

(
To give Mildred her due, she does see to his comforts
. Which of us had said that?)

During the meal I put some of my cards on the table: told her about my visits to the Law Courts, which she took placidly, saying she thought they were dull and the ventilation ‘shocking,’ and just as I was going to put down another card a small dog trotted in and she hailed the creature as ‘my Mingy,’ and I thought, ‘That dog is born to be my curse,’ for he (or she) was the sort of dog that actresses bring to rehearsals.

I said, ‘Is he your dog, or Sir Herbert’s?’ and she answered, ‘Mine, isn’t he, a boy!’ and to me, ‘Sir Herbert hates him.’

I thought, ‘We’ll soon get you out of speaking like that, my woman!’

‘Sir Herbert.’ To me! To anybody, if it came to that. Oh. So Toddy hates him. He would, of course. And I glanced at her face for concealed resentments and found none; only a business-like acceptance. Well, they have been married for forty-six years . . .

And then she garnered us all into the drawing-room and I said I admired it, which was the truth, and that I was enjoying my coffee, which was a lie. It was a good blend but servant-made. The room’s proportions are charming, long and high-ceiling’d, one of those Georgian rooms still left, thank God and beauty, in London squares. And the night was blue and very calm and warm.

There was a crystal chandelier ringed with electric candles whose light fell on a piano, the lid of which was covered with silver frames and sundry other sins against the Holy Ghost, and Lady Toddington asked me if I played, and unfortunately I do, so that meant fifteen minutes reft from eternity while I deliberately soothed her with Co-Optimism and the more melodious refrains from current revues. I took a chance on the strong probability of the Moonlight Sonata being dismissed by her as Very Nice, and soon had her humming and tapping by a sentimental syncopation I had composed myself as parody of the popular trend.

It was something in the air
That made her do it.
Something in the air . . .

I rambled, with the full allowance of Jazz breaks. And then Toddy came in.

Half an hour later, Lady Toddington was saying, ‘You must come to see me again.’ Always a crucial sort of remark, as it may mean anything or nothing. But she added, ‘Come to my next At Home. Thursday.’

Sir Herbert opened the front door for me. He couldn’t know, of course, how many times he had escorted me to the top of the road, and suddenly I was aware of a faint sweetness, and it was Sheil’s violets begging to be remembered. I surrendered, appalled, and gave them to him. I said, ‘These are from Sheil, my sister. She is eleven and a great admirer of yours.’ (Faugh!)

For a second he played true. His face relaxed its formality which I, of all people in the world, had been responsible for. ‘How very dear and charming of her. My most grateful thanks.’

I have no recollection but one of getting home. That was that I drew my case from my bag and was taking out a cigarette, when the mental mist lifted, and I saw the policeman on point duty looking at me in an interested manner.
I had expected mother and Katrine to fall upon me like vultures, but the essential improbability of the evening smote them to momentary silence. So might the family of Joan, ruminating over the evening meal of bread-soup and
crêpes
, greet her return after the angelic interview. Poor Sheil had long been asleep. I was all for waking her and serving her the cream of the news, but mother said no, which helped
to bring us down to earth.

‘She’ll never forgive us,’ I warned. That was probably true, but the real reason was that I was in an agony of impatience myself. Sheil has often betrayed me into inveighing with her against the common sense of ‘the grown-ups.’She knows, too, so well! that there are some things one must have at once, and that to wait for them, even five minutes, spoils everything.

I once bought mother a large pear, and, burning for her pleasure, rushed home to present it. She happened to be telephoning, and said, ‘Just a minute, darling,’ and left me there, deflated, thwarted, my pleasure gone. And when I told Sheil, years later, she said promptly, ‘I should have thrown it out of the window.’

Sheil and I nearly always love the same things. This was at the root of her blind, advance adoption of Toddy in the weeks that followed the Jury summons. Sheil is not very used to seeing her familiars and playfellows in real life, and was enchanted at the extra bonus when allowed to pay a visit to the Law Courts with the governess. She sat, it seems, drinking him in, and horrified Miss Chisholm, the predecessor of Miss Martin, by unwrapping one of my photographs of his lordship in Court and frankly comparing it with the aloof, seated figure. Going home she said, ‘He is
very
pretty, and yawns like tiny jam tarts.’ And Miss Chisholm, who had seen an old, frail man in pince-nez, austerely putting people in their place, told her not to talk nonsense. Why must children have governesses? They trample, in their business-women’s shoes, upon a thousand delicate flowers a year, and sow such boulders in exchange. The Chisholm was a thoroughly good sort, and a perfectly deafening bore. After that, Sheil refused to admit that Toddy’s name was Herbert, and christened him Austen Charles. It was, she said, the right name for him with a face like that. And I agree. Mother said she hoped Sheil wouldn’t grow up to write novels of the type she calls ‘lofty leg-pulls.’

And even that, said Miss Chisholm, was not all. When he whom she described as ‘the Judge’ had concluded his six minutes’ summing up Sheil had applauded heartily. That was my fault for forgetting to tell her that it wasn’t the same as a theatre. Sheil, if I know her, sensed the drama of it, just as I do, and she wanted, the dear! to support the old firm, but it was no good. Miss Chisholm was troubled at being made conspicuous, and sensibly dreading a repetition of that agony, she suggested that mother should ‘speak’ to Sheil.

And when we three were alone and Miss Chisholm had retired to remove her business-like shoes, mother obliged. She hoisted Sheil on to her lap, gave me her spare hand and said, ‘Did Toddy say anything, or did he just look at you over his glasses? The old pet!’

‘I think he did that, but afterwards I expect he and Nicholls rushed away to grin in Austen’s room,’ answered Sheil.

Katrine had come downstairs, too, to hear. I began to tell them, snatching about at random in a hurry, for I don’t talk or explain well, and never did.

‘Toddy is very like himself. I saw the top of his head for the first time. It’s only the tiniest bit bald and he looked very silvery and sweet and younger than in his gown, and he didn’t stay very long and talked about the rehearsal
’

‘
Which
one?’ implored poor mother.

‘(Oh, one he’d been to. I’ll tell you about that, later). And he seemed quite knowledgeable about the stage and I can’t see yet whether his teeth are false
’

‘(They must be, at his age.)’

‘(I don’t know. Look at Grandpa). Well, then he was rather funny about the bazaar, and said, “Aren’t they horrible?” and he was much more kind of
all there
than we make him.’

‘Well, you couldn’t really expect the poor old dear to be quite the antick creature we say he is
’

What I meant was that Toddy, from a negative, had developed into a print, and inevitably during our half-hour together he had spoken out of character, and shown himself to be possessed of his own personality as against the semi-fit that we had allotted him. I had expected this, but the little shocks were no less real . . . Telling it all took a long time, and even then the real business only began when we dispersed to our bedrooms. Said mother from hers, in the Toddington voice, ‘Deirdre!’