The Four Graces (17 page)

“You don't need it,” she told him.

He saw the implication at once. “Shan't I
ever
need it?” he inquired.

“Never,” said Sal confidently.

His eyes said all sorts of things. His voice said, “Everybody is looking at you; everybody is thinking what a frightfully lucky fellow I am. Oh, Sal, it was
dear
of you to come up to town and see me.”

“I didn't,” replied Sal, dimpling at him. “I came up to see Mrs. Pike. You're just a sideshow.”

“Who the dickens is Mrs. Pike?” asked Roddy in amazement.

Sal told him about Bertie and the Elements, and was delighted to find he shared her views on the subject. He was so interested and asked so many questions that she produced Mrs. Pike's letter from her handbag and showed it to him.

He read it carefully. “It's a horrible, selfish letter,” he declared. “She's a nasty woman. You mustn't go and see her, Sal.”

“I came up to London on purpose to see her,” Sal pointed out.

“I know, but you mustn't go.”

“She can't eat me.”

“She could be very unpleasant. I can't bear to think of her being unpleasant to you.”

“I'm not exactly looking forward to it—”

“Well, then,” said Roddy earnestly. “You don't want to go and I don't want you to go. That settles it.”

“Oh, no, it doesn't.”

“I say you're
not
to go.”

“But I must go,” said Sal, smiling.

Roddy was surprised. He had found Sal so amenable, he had found her not exactly soft, but certainly very gentle. He had made up his mind that she needed someone to look after her, and, of course, he was the person to do it.

“Nonsense,” said Roddy. “You aren't going. That's all.”

She smiled obdurately.

“I shall be very angry if you go,” declared Roddy.

“That
will
be a pity,” she replied.

He looked at her. She sat there smiling, defying his wishes, so soft and gentle and pretty—and so damned obstinate. “It's your chin,” said Roddy suddenly. “I never really noticed your chin before.”

Sal laughed.

“Little wretch!” exclaimed Roddy. “I'm going to have trouble with you—bags of trouble.”

“If you want a doormat—”

“I want you,” declared Roddy, suddenly grave. “Just you—always.”

They danced a little, and then they went and sat in a corner of the lounge because Roddy wanted to talk.

“Sal,” said Roddy. “We've got to think about the future. I shall be here at this course for another month, and then I shall get twenty-eight days' leave; after that it's Burma. Not just at once, perhaps, but any time. The twenty-eight days is embarkation leave, of course.”

“Burma!” exclaimed Sal in horror.

“I thought you realized I should have to go sooner or later.”

“Yes—but—”

“You wouldn't like a fellow who stayed safely at home and let other fellows go and fight for him, would you?”

Sal was sure she would like Roddy just as much if he stayed at home, so she said nothing.

“You know,” continued Roddy. “If it weren't for you I should be glad about it. I mean I'm pretty sick of training. It isn't much use training unless you're going to fight. Burma is the obvious destination for
me
, because I know the east. We'll be in Malaya before very long, and I could be useful there. And another thing: I can speak Japanese fairly decently. So you see…”

Sal saw, but was not convinced.

“Couldn't we be married soon?” asked Roddy anxiously.

“Wouldn't it be better to wait?” said Sal in a low voice. “I mean it can't go on much longer—the war with Japan. Father wants us to wait.”

“The Japs are queer devils. I don't see them giving in,” replied Roddy thoughtfully. “They'll go on fighting long after they're beaten—at least that's my opinion. It's about time I had a crack at the Japs.”

“Oh, Roddy!” said Sal. Suddenly, from being gorgeously happy, Sal had fallen into misery. Life—the whole living world—seemed to her insane and war the maddest part of the insanity. And Roddy shared this madness; he was looking forward to having “a crack at the Japs.”

“Couldn't we be married soon?” asked Roddy again. “It would mean an awful lot to me. You see, I've never had anybody belonging to me—never since I can remember. I've always been on my own. It's difficult for you to understand that, I know.”

It was difficult. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be absolutely alone, to have nobody at all who really cared what happened to you, to have no home to go back to when you wanted comfort and quietness. And because she loved him so truly she began to understand a little of what it meant to be Roddy. He seemed self-sufficient and master of his fate—the circumstances of his life had made him so—but beneath that outside crust he was just a little boy, needing love and sympathy. She was aware that other women had given him love (he had told her so), but they had not given him all she could give him, not friendship and understanding and the companionship of shared thoughts. She must give him all this and give it now. She wanted to.

Roddy had been silent, watching her face. It was very expressive. He said, “You're everything I've always wanted, Sal. You understand, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Sal. “Yes…and I want to marry you soon.”

“Sal!” cried Roddy. “Oh, darling—but what will your father say?”

“Father will understand,” she declared. She must make Father understand. It might not be easy, of course.

“How soon?” inquired Roddy eagerly. “I mean there isn't much time, is there? But of course you'll have to ask Mr. Grace. Will you ask him the moment you get home, and ring me up? How soon do you think it could possibly be?”

“In a fortnight,” said Sal, smiling at him. “A fortnight from today. Will that do?”

“Will it do,” repeated Roddy in amazement. “A fortnight today! But what about Mr. Grace? He said we weren't to be engaged for another three weeks, so—”

“We're engaged now,” replied Sal, turning the ring on her finger and looking at it affectionately.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Roddy. “This is absolutely staggering! For heaven's sake, let's get out of this place so that I can kiss you…”

Sal was sitting up in bed watching Addie cream her face. It was a lengthy business and quite interesting, but did it really do any good? All the Graces had beautiful skins, and Sal could not see that Addie's was any better, or for that matter any worse, than it ever had been.

“What happened about Aunt Rona?” asked Addie suddenly.

“Oh, well—” said Sal and then stopped.

“It was rather mean of you,” said Addie. “I think you might have been decent to her. The poor old thing is back at her flat now.”

Sal chuckled. “Poor old thing!” she exclaimed. “If Aunt Rona could
hear
you!”

“I'm sorry for her,” declared Addie. “There she is, living in a sort of gloomy twilight with all the windows boarded up. It isn't very cheerful for her.”

“But, Addie, she has hundreds of friends—”

“Oh, yes, she knows hundreds of people, but none of them seem keen to have her. She's a bit of a bore.”

“More than a bit.”

“You needn't listen.”

“Listen!” cried Sal. “You'd have to be stone-deaf!”

“I don't mind, really,” said Addie. “Of course I know some people
do
. Betty says she wants to stand on the table and scream.”

“Exactly my reaction,” said Sal, nodding.

“Oh, well, you might have stuck it a bit longer. She's been very decent to me; she gives me lots of things and she's very useful, really. I mean if I meet anyone and want to ask him out, I can always ask him
there
. She's always quite pleased to do anything like that for me, so I thought if you had her at Chevis Green, it would be paying her back a little.”

Sal smiled at Addie's idea of repaying kindness. “You might pay your own debts in future,” she suggested.

“Pay my own debts? Oh, I see…But how could I?”

“You might have asked her here.”

“Be your age!” exclaimed Addie contemptuously.

There was a short silence. Addie was now engaged in twisting little strands of hair into rings and pinning them carefully.

“Wouldn't
one
of the hundreds of people have her?” inquired Sal. “Hundreds of people with an average of fourteen bedrooms each—and not one available for Aunt Rona!”

“She's written to some of them,” said Addie. “But there's nothing doing so far. Of course she does exaggerate a bit. I mean she goes up to a person and says I knew your mother at Montreux, or I met your uncle in Rome, and the person can't escape. As a matter of fact, I've seen people pop into shops when they see her coming. It's quite amusing sometimes.”

“It must be,” said Sal dryly.

“She collects people like postage stamps—it's her hobby,” Addie explained.

“She sticks pins into them like butterflies,” amended Sal. “She's a human entomologist, that's what she is.”

“Well, I don't mind her, and she likes me because I take her advice—or at least pretend to take it. By the way, what happened, exactly? She came back with a long tale about Liz being practically engaged to a man and then finding he was engaged to somebody else.”

“It isn't true.”

“There must have been something in it,” objected Addie. “She couldn't have dreamt the whole thing. Who was the man, and what did he do?”

Sal had expected these questions. She said, “Roderick Herd. He came over from the camp at Ganthorne quite often and Aunt Rona got it into her head he was fond of Liz.”

“And he's engaged to somebody else?”

“Yes, to me,” said Sal.

Addie turned and look at her. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “That was a bit of a slipup for Aunt Rona!”

“People who talk most see least,” said Sal sententiously.

“So you're engaged! The first of the Graces! Sal tell me about it. Is it a secret?”

“Not really,” replied Sal. “At least it was supposed to be a secret, but we're going to be married in a fortnight.”

“How exciting! At Chevis Green, I suppose?”

“I suppose so,” said Sal.

“You suppose so?”

“It all depends,” explained Sal. “I mean Father may want us to wait.”

“Then it isn't fixed,” said Addie, somewhat disappointed. “I mean if it's fixed I could see about leave, couldn't I?”

“The date is fixed,” replied Sal firmly.

“Goodness!” cried Addie, looking at her in surprise tinged with respect and admiration. “It's like that, is it? I shouldn't have thought it of
you
. I mean I should have thought Liz might kick over the traces, but not good little Sal.”

“I know it's the right thing,” said Sal in a very thoughtful voice. “I
know
it's right. I'm twenty-five. If Father won't marry us, someone else will.”

“My hat!” exclaimed Addie inelegantly.

***

The Pikes lived in Bloomsbury. It was a street of tall, narrow houses, respectable and dreary. Mr. Pike worked on the railway and Mrs. Pike took lodgers—very respectable lodgers, of course. Sal had found her way to the house without difficulty; she had asked the policeman at Hyde Park Corner and he had told her exactly what to do. Now she had arrived, she stood on the doorstep for a few moments before she rang the bell, going over in her mind all she would say. Then she rang and Mrs. Pike appeared: a tall, big-boned woman with protruding teeth and pale blue eyes and curlers in her hair. She was not in the least the sort of woman Sal had expected to see, not sinister, not even very alarming. Indeed she smiled quite pleasantly when she saw Sal and led the way into the dining room where the remains of the lodgers' breakfasts were still upon the table and the odor of kippers was still in the air.

“I'm all be'ind this morning,” announced Mrs. Pike in apologetic tones.

“I expect it's difficult to get help,” said Sal sympathetically.

“Difficult ain't the word. And I'm full up, too—but you're in luck. The second floor back will be leaving tomorrow. It's a nice room, and quiet. I'll let you see it in a minute. Two-pound-ten a week, is my terms—take it or leave it. Bed an' breakfast, and if you want a bite of supper I don't mind cooking it for you if
you
bring it 'ome. You keep your room, of course, an' laundry's extra. Breakfast's at nine. If you want it sooner you get it yourself, that's my rule an' I don't alter it for nobody, not for the queen, I wouldn't. Most of the lodgers is out all day. That suits me best.”

Mrs. Pike had rattled it all off at a terrific rate, and now she paused for breath.

“I don't want a room, thank you,” said Sal. “As a matter of fact—”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Pike suspiciously. “You're collecting, I suppose. I don't give to nothing excep' the Red Cross, an' that was larst week.”

“It's about Bertie. I live at Chevis Green, you see, and—”

“Bertie's coming 'ome. I wrote an' said so. I've a right to my own child, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course. I just wondered if you had thought it out.”

“Thought what out?” inquired Mrs. Pike suspiciously.

“I wondered if you would have time to look after him, that's all.”

“'E'll be away at school all day so what looking after will 'e need? And 'e could 'elp, too. There's more to do in this 'ouse than one pair of 'ands can manage. A boy would be useful; 'e could run errands an' help wash the dishes, couldn't 'e?”

“I wonder,” said Sal thoughtfully. “He isn't eleven yet, is he? Boys of that age take a good deal of looking after. And what about his meals?”

“'E'll get 'is dinner at school. I've fixed that.”

“What about his breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” said Mrs. Pike doubtfully. “Breakfast's at nine in this 'ouse.”

“School is at nine, isn't it?” inquired Sal, seeking information.

“At nine, is it?”

“At nine—usually,” said Sal, nodding. “That means he'll have to have his breakfast at eight. Then he'll be back at five for tea, of course.”

“I don't know who'd give it him,” said Mrs. Pike thoughtfully.

Sal was silent. It was really very lucky indeed that Mrs. Pike had mistaken her for a prospective lodger.

“Well, I don't know,” said Mrs. Pike at last. “'E could be useful—the trouble I 'ave with girls nowadays! I daresay it would work out all right. It was you wrote to me, I suppose. You want Bertie to stay on with that Mrs. Element.”

“I want what's best for Bertie—
and
for
you
,” declared Sal, smiling at her in a friendly way for, thank goodness, it was true. Sal had come expecting to dislike Mrs. Pike, but there was something likeable about her. She was selfish, of course, but she was perfectly honest about it. There was no hypocrisy in her. She worked hard, and her house, though gloomy, was clean. That must take a bit of doing.

“Well,” said Mrs. Pike thoughtfully. “Well, I'll 'ave to talk to 'is father. It's the breakfast worries
me
. The morning's a bit of a rush as it is, an' I ain't a good riser, never was. Breakfast's at nine in this 'ouse an' I don't fancy getting up at cockcrow an' giving Bertie 'is breakfast at eight…an' tea at five wouldn't be easy, neither. It's the only time I 'ave to myself to do a bit of washing an' such like. Looks as if young Bertie might be more trouble than 'e's worth.”

Sal said nothing.

“You ain't leading me up the garden?” inquired Mrs. Pike, with a return of suspicion.

Sal shook her head. “I just thought things out,” she said. “You could ask at the school what time the boys have to be there. They would tell you. It would be a pity if you sent for Bertie and then found you couldn't manage.”

“That Mrs. Element would 'ave 'im back, wouldn't she?”

“I don't know,” said Sal. This was the only lie she had told, and she hated telling it.

“You don't think she would,” said Mrs. Pike, mistaking the cause of Sal's embarrassment. “Well, that would be a nice thing, I must say. If I found I couldn't manage an' Mrs. Element wouldn't 'ave 'im back. Where would 'e go?”

Sal could offer no suggestions.

Mrs. Pike deliberated for about a minute. It seemed a long time to Sal.

“What about 'er?” asked Mrs. Pike at last. “
She
wants to stick to Bertie. What's Bertie doing for
'er
that she's so set on 'aving 'im stay?”

Sal hesitated. It was a difficult question to answer, for she had decided it would be a mistake to speak of the affection that existed between Bertie and his foster mother. Jealousy was a queer thing and unpredictable in its effects. “It's quite different in the country,” said Sal. “Mr. Element works in a garage and has to be there early, so they all have breakfast together in plenty of time for school—and of course Mrs. Element isn't nearly as busy as you are. It's a different sort of life.” Sal rose as she spoke. “I won't keep you,” she said. “I'm afraid I've kept you back as it is.”

“I'll think about it,” said Mrs. Pike. “I won't pay nothing for 'im to be kept. That's flat.”

“I daresay that could be arranged,” said Sal hopefully.

They were at the door now. Sal held out her hand.

“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Pike. “I'm glad you came. I'll speak to 'is father, see?”

“Good-bye,” said Sal.

They shook hands solemnly on the doorstep.