The Flowering Thorn (33 page)

‘I'd quite forgotten!' thought Lesley, looking about her, as in a foreign land, with interest and enjoyment; and as in a foreign land she tried to store up every detail and incident—a chance grouping of roadmenders, a repartee from a 'bus—to take back to the Pomfrets. For she had indeed the advantage of most travellers in being certain of her audience; the Pomfrets would want to know
everything
, and so would the Brookes. So Lesley walked slowly, taking it all in, and being struck more than once by the particularly good-humoured expressions on the faces of the people she passed. Everyone she looked at seemed on the point of smiling, especially the pukka or pre-war sahibs then arriving at their clubs; and one at least of them almost stood still in her path. Lesley looked again; it was Graham Whittal.

“Uncle Graham!” she cried accusingly.

“My dear Lesley!”

“You told me you were going to be in Scotland! If this had been yesterday you could have seen Pat!” She half turned, and made a despairing motion towards Victoria. “When did you come back?”

“Last night,” said Mr. Whittal unhesitatingly. “If you're going shopping, may I come and carry for you?”

She accepted with pleasure, and directing his steps towards Piccadilly Circus began at once to describe with what flying colours Pat had passed the Doctor. As far as could be judged, he had absolutely nothing wrong with him; and though at lessons he might be a trifle slower than some children, good health, at that age, was obviously far more important. Didn't Uncle Graham think so?

‘Devonshire cream!' thought old Whittal.

It was the phrase that had come into his mind on first seeing her, before he realised who she was: an involuntary tribute to something charming and unusual on the Piccadilly pavements. There was a freshness about her, and an air of enjoyment—nothing like it, for setting off a pretty woman. ‘Devonshire cream!' had thought old Whittal. ‘Very refreshing!'

And even after the shock of recognition, the impression remained. The creamy-sunburned complexion, that look about the eyes that comes only from eight hours' sleep: the soft lower lip, and slight fullness under the chin; she had developed a kind, easy beauty that was extraordinarily grateful to the jaded eye.…

“But you'll see him at Christmas,” Lesley was saying. “I do hope it'll freeze! Let's cross over, Uncle Graham, and look in Fortnums'.”

He took her arm and piloted her through the traffic, Lesley entrusting herself to his guidance in a manner which he at once felt to be charming, womanly, and entirely new. In the old days, as far as he could remember, it had always been she who showed a tendency to guide
him:
yes, she used to grip him by the elbow and nearly land him under a bus.…

“
Ah!
” said Lesley, as they achieved the opposite pavement. And she glanced at him admiringly: he knew she did.

“When you've looked your fill,” he said, “we'll go in and have some coffee.” Her face under the curve of hat-brim—it was delightful! And his glance moving downwards, he noted with pleasure that in spite of nearly five years in the country she hadn't at all let herself go. On the contrary! She had lost her slouch, carried her head up and her shoulders back; as though no longer ashamed, thought old Whittal, of having a chest.

Lesley drew a deep breath.

“Do you know,” she said, “that when first I had the cottage I used to
shop
here?” She turned to watch the effect, so obviously expecting him to look shocked that he at once did so.

“Good God!” cried Mr. Whittal.

Lesley nodded.

“I did. I used to have things down all ready in dishes: I ate the things out and sent the dishes back again. It nearly ruined me.”

“But you stopped in time?” pleaded Mr. Whittal.

“Only just. And I know all the dishes
didn't
get back, because Florrie told me afterwards that Mrs. Sprigg used to lend them out all over the village.” She took a last look, and accompanied him inside. But the recollection of Mrs. Sprigg's perfidy appeared to have sobered her; and after ordering chocolate and a brioche, and drinking the best part of the former in silence, she asked suddenly,

“Why did you say you were going to be in Scotland, Uncle Graham? Didn't you want to see me?”

“No,” said old Whittal, with equal frankness; and to his extreme surprise saw her look neither annoyed nor astonished but merely a trifle more earnest.

“I should have thought you'd have wanted to see Pat,” she said simply.

“Pat? I never thought of him. All I knew was that I didn't want to see you.”

“But why?”

“Because the last time we met you had struck me as an extremely unpleasant young woman. My dear Lesley, you can't think how I disliked you. You no doubt disliked me too: you thought me an Early Victorian relic. But I can tell you one thing, my dear: if I hadn't been Early Victorian I wouldn't have lifted a finger to help you. What I did I did simply and solely because we were blood relations: which is a tie I believe your detached young modern doesn't recognise. Afterwards, on the other hand, I became quite advanced: I never wanted to set eyes on you again, and I determined that I wouldn't.”

There was a short pause.

“And yet here you are,” murmured Lesley at length, “giving me chocolate at Fortnums'.”

He nodded.

“That's because I have the strength of mind to acknowledge my errors. Not that it was an error, at the time. But now that I've confessed and repented—would it amuse you to come to the theatre to-night?”

“I'd love to,” said Lesley, “but not to-night, because Elissa's giving a party. And that reminds me—I've got to get a frock.”

Old Whittal looked at her.

“Get one like Devonshire cream,” he said.

CHAPTER TWO

In the end it was a shade nearer ivory; but it had the right smooth creaminess and the right golden tinge where a fold curved under: and old Graham Whittal not only chose it, unaided, out of a shop in Bruton Street, but paid for it as well. (The other thing he paid for that afternoon was a Nelson's Column in Goss to take back to Mrs. Sprigg.) Lesley accepted his bounty with unfeigned pleasure, and did her best to make him come and see it at Elissa's party; but he said he would wait until the night after, having encountered Elissa once previously, and feeling no desire to renew the acquaintance.

Dressing that evening after early dinner, Lesley was aware of a strange yet familiar sensation that was making the blood beat in her cheek. It was the feeling—how exactly she recognised it!—of the last half-hour before a party, and it always improved her looks. Well, that was fortunate, with Elissa and all Elissa's beauties set out in their array; but as Lesley looked in the glass, she did not feel dissatisfied. Her skin was sunburnt, but smoothly and agreeably so, just a shade or two deeper (save where the pearls at her ear made cheek and throat golden) than her Devonshire cream gown. The dark smooth waves, though still looser than five years ago, lay close and glossy after the visit to the hairdresser; and though her new scarlet lipstick was so good a match as to be almost imperceptible, it could not really mar (decided Lesley) the whole effect.

And that the whole effect was good, she knew by the way Elissa looked at her.

“Darling, you
have
put on weight,” said Elissa sympathetically. She herself was wearing blue, a deep, deep blue like the sky on a summer night; and when given time to arrange her thighs, looked as thin as a toothpick.

Without attempting any defence (for really there was none possible) Lesley took herself and her finery down to the drawing-room. It now had a bar in it permanently, and a bar-tender on occasion, and since this was an occasion
par excellence
, he was just reporting for duty as Lesley came down.

They entered together, and he at once offered to mix her something; but Lesley, no longer sure of her head, declined politely. He seemed a nice little man, very anxious to oblige, and in case her refusal had hurt him, she now said the first thing that came into her head. She said,

“I've just been seeing my small boy off to school.”

The bar-tender at once looked interested.

“Indeed, Madam? May I ask which?”

“Bluecoat.”

“Ah, that's a
good
school, that is,” said the bar-tender with enthusiasm. “A neighbour of mine, Madam, who works in an insurance office in the City, had the good fortune to get his boy there—very brilliant boy, I believe—and they tell me he's doing wonders.”

“How old is he?” asked Lesley quickly.

“Fourteen-and-a-half, Madam.”

“Oh, dear! Mine's not quite nine. Would they ever come across each other, do you think?”

“Well, as to that, Madam, of course I can't say; but if you'd like me to give you his name—”

Lesley would have liked it very much indeed, for a brilliant and really bigger boy—Jackson was only twelve—was just the person she wanted to keep an eye on Pat's career; but at that precise moment their conversation was interrupted by Elissa herself with a bunch of first arrivals. The barman was at once busy, Lesley swept away; and before she had time even to look at herself, the party had begun.

And never, thought Lesley, was such a party before.

Never in her life had she seen so many attractive women: never in her life met so many brilliant men. And not only brilliant, but charming as well; they came and talked to her one after another while she listened fascinated. Mr. Poullett in particular, could hardly tear himself away; he begged, he urged, he implored her with passion to come and look at his snakes.

“I'd love to,” said Lesley sincerely; and indeed the thought of Pat's missed opportunity went straight to her heart.

“When?” asked Mr. Poullett.

“The Christmas holidays, perhaps,” said Lesley.

And after Mr. Poullett came a man called Ribera (but he was obviously American), who spoke for a full fifteen minutes on modern Italian art; another man lectured on
Nacktkultur;
a third, with a small beard, on the history of the gold standard. Lesley drank one cocktail after another, and felt herself getting more and more intellectual: whenever she asked a question, they at once called it intelligent. At the end of an hour or two, however, she began to need air, and by a good deal of tact and a little swift movement managed to escape alone to the tiny balcony. But she had not even been there more than a few minutes, thinking restfully of the cottage and wondering how Pat slept, when a very tall man was suddenly standing beside her. She had noted him earlier as looking distinguished but cross, and was now relieved to observe the distinction predominate.

He said,

“Tell me what you're thinking about.”

“Rose-bushes,” answered Lesley truthfully.

Subtly his face changed.

“In that frock, of course,” he said; and there was a difference in his voice too, a sudden infusion of boredom.—‘Like picking up a book and finding you've read it,' thought Lesley vaguely. Then realising for the first time the implications of his remark, she woke up and defended herself.

“But I mean real rose-trees,” she explained, “not—not the conversational sort. Three Barbara Richards, one Etoile de Hollande, three Madam Butterfly, three Mrs. Barraclough, and a Rev. Page Roberts. Is that eleven or twelve?”

“Eleven,” said the man.

“Then I can have one more. Do you know anything about Julien Potin?”

“He's a sort of hybrid-tea. But why have another one? Wouldn't it be more original to have eleven?”

“At the place where I'm going,” explained Lesley, “they have them at so much a dozen—assorted, you know. I believe they practically throw one in. And it's silly to waste a rose bush just to be original.”

“You don't know how I agree with you,” said the man, quite fervently. “By the way—my name's Bentall.”

“The architect,” supplied Lesley. She had heard about him from Elissa. “Do you like cottages?”

“If they're old enough, I do.”

At once she told him all about hers, stepping back inside the room to make a comparison of floor-space, indicating with gestures of the hands the girth of its outside walls. Mr. Bentall said they sounded marvellous, and expressed so hot a desire to see them for himself that it was only common kindness to invite him, if ever he should be in Bucks, to pay them a visit.

“May I, really?” said Mr. Bentall eagerly. “What sort of a day? Sunday?”

A Sunday, agreed Lesley, would do very well.

“Next Sunday?” said Mr. Bentall.

There was no reason against it.

“Now tell me something else,” said Mr. Bentall. “I've twice offered to get you a drink, and both times you've refused. But if you
really
don't want one, why do you keep looking so anxiously at the bar?”

“I'm not,” said Lesley, stung. “I'm looking at the barman.”

“Then why him?”

“Because one of his neighbours has a brilliant boy at the Bluecoat School, and so have I. I mean—mine's not brilliant, he's only just got there; and I thought this other boy, who's fourteen, might be a good person to keep an eye on him. And the barman was just giving me his name when everyone came in.”

Just as the barman himself had done earlier in the evening, Mr. Bentall at once looked extremely interested.

“But Elissa tells me you're staying here,” he said. “Can't you catch him at the end?”

“I shall if I can, but he may slip away. They do, you know, when the drink begins to run out. And with all these people here I don't like to ask him now. He might feel it was unprofessional, and I'm sure Elissa would.”

“Well, I'll help to keep an eye on him,” promised Mr. Bentall. “Now tell me about your boy.”

“Oh, he isn't mine really,” said Lesley, conscious that she should perhaps have said that before, “I only adopted him. But I've had him nearly five years, and he went to school yesterday.
That
was really why I took the cottage, of course, and now it's mine I somehow don't want to leave it. When you see it on Sunday—”