The Hollow (20 page)

E
dward Angkatell stood hesitantly in the swirl of foot traffic in Shaftesbury Avenue. He was nerving himself to enter the establishment which bore the gold-lettered sign: “Madame Alfrege.”

Some obscure instinct had prevented him from merely ringing up and asking Midge to come out and lunch. That fragment of telephone conversation at The Hollow had disturbed him—more, had shocked him. There had been in Midge's voice a submission, a subservience that had outraged all his feelings.

For Midge, the free, the cheerful, the outspoken, to have to adopt that attitude. To have to submit, as she clearly was submitting, to rudeness and insolence on the other end of the wire. It was all wrong—the whole thing was wrong! And then, when he had shown his concern, she had met him point-blank with the unpalatable truth that one had to keep one's job, that jobs weren't easy to get, and that the holding down of jobs entailed more unpleasantness than the mere performing of a stipulated task.

Up till then Edward had vaguely accepted the fact that a great many young women had “jobs” nowadays. If he had thought about it at all, he had thought that on the whole they had jobs because they liked jobs—that it flattered their sense of independence and gave them an interest of their own in life.

The fact that a working day of nine to six, with an hour off for lunch, cut a girl off from most of the pleasures and relaxations of a leisured class had simply not occurred to Edward. That Midge, unless she sacrificed her lunch hour, could not drop into a picture gallery, that she could not go to an afternoon concert, drive out of town on a fine summer's day, lunch in a leisurely way at a distant restaurant, but had instead to relegate her excursions into the country to Saturday afternoons and Sundays, and to snatch her lunch in a crowded Lyons or a snack bar, was a new and unwelcome discovery. He was very fond of Midge. Little Midge—that was how he thought of her. Arriving shy and wide-eyed at Ainswick for the holidays, tongue-tied at first, then opening up into enthusiasm and affection.

Edward's tendency to live exclusively in the past, and to accept the present dubiously as something yet untested, had delayed his recognition of Midge as a wage-earning adult.

It was on that evening at The Hollow when he had come in cold and shivering from that strange, upsetting clash with Henrietta, and when Midge had knelt to build up the fire, that he had been first aware of a Midge who was not an affectionate child but a woman. It had been an upsetting vision—he had felt for a moment that he had lost something—something that was a precious part of Ainswick. And he had said impulsively, speaking out of that suddenly aroused feeling, “I wish I saw more of you, little Midge….”

Standing outside in the moonlight, speaking to a Henrietta who was no longer startingly the familiar Henrietta he had loved for so long—he had known sudden panic. And he had come in to a further disturbance of the set pattern which was his life. Little Midge was also a part of Ainswick—and this was no longer little Midge, but a courageous and sad-eyed adult whom he did not know.

Ever since then he had been troubled in his mind, and had indulged in a good deal of self-reproach for the unthinking way in which he had never bothered about Midge's happiness or comfort. The idea of her uncongenial job at Madame Alfrege's had worried him more and more, and he had determined at last to see for himself just what this dress shop of hers was like.

Edward peered suspiciously into the show window at a little black dress with a narrow gold belt, some rakish-looking, skimpy jumper suits, and an evening gown of rather tawdry coloured lace.

Edward knew nothing about women's clothes except by instinct, but had a shrewd idea that all these exhibits were somehow of a meretricious order. No, he thought, this place was not worthy of her. Someone—Lady Angkatell, perhaps—must do something about it.

Overcoming his shyness with an effort, Edward straightened his slightly stooping shoulders and walked in.

He was instantly paralysed with embarrassment. Two platinum blonde little minxes with shrill voices were examining dresses in a showcase, with a dark saleswoman in attendance. At the back of the shop a small woman with a thick nose, henna red hair and a disagreeable voice was arguing with a stout and bewildered customer
over some alterations to an evening gown. From an adjacent cubicle a woman's fretful voice was raised.

“Frightful—perfectly frightful—can't you bring me anything
decent
to try?”

In response he heard the soft murmur of Midge's voice—a deferential, persuasive voice.

“This wine model is really very smart. And I think it would suit you. If you'd just slip it on—”

“I'm not going to waste my time trying on things that I can see are no good. Do take a little trouble. I've told you I don't want reds. If you'd listen to what you are told—”

The colour surged up into Edward's neck. He hoped Midge would throw the dress in the odious woman's face. Instead she murmured:

“I'll have another look. You wouldn't care for green I suppose, Madam? Or this peach?”

“Dreadful—perfectly dreadful! No, I won't see anything more. Sheer waste of time—”

But now Madame Alfrege, detaching herself from the stout customer, had come down to Edward and was looking at him inquiringly.

He pulled himself together.

“Is—could I speak—is Miss Hardcastle here?”

Madame Alfrege's eyebrows went up, but she took in the Savile Row cut of Edward's clothes, and she produced a smile whose graciousness was rather more unpleasant than her bad temper would have been.

From inside the cubicle the fretful voice rose sharply.

“Do be careful! How clumsy you are. You've torn my hairnet.”

And Midge, her voice unsteady:

“I'm very sorry, Madam.”

“Stupid clumsiness.” (The voice appeared muffled.) “No, I'll do it myself. My belt, please.”

“Miss Hardcastle will be free in a minute,” said Madame Alfrege. Her smile was now a leer.

A sandy-haired, bad-tempered-looking woman emerged from the cubicle carrying several parcels and went out into the street. Midge, in a severe black dress, opened the door for her. She looked pale and unhappy.

“I've come to take you out to lunch,” said Edward without preamble.

Midge gave a harried glance up at the clock.

“I don't get off until quarter past one,” she began.

It was ten past one.

Madame Alfrege said graciously:

“You can go off now if you like, Miss Hardcastle, as your
friend
has called for you.”

Midge murmured: “Oh thank you, Madame Alfrege,” and to Edward: “I'll be ready in a minute,” and disappeared into the back of the shop.

Edward, who had winced under the impact of Madame Alfrege's heavy emphasis on “friend,” stood helplessly waiting.

Madame Alfrege was just about to enter into arch conversation with him when the door opened and an opulent-looking woman with a Pekinese came in, and Madame Alfrege's business instincts took her forward to the newcomer.

Midge reappeared with her coat on, and taking her by the elbow, Edward steered her out of the shop into the street.

“My God,” he said, “is that the sort of thing you have to put up with? I heard that damned woman talking to you behind the curtain. How can you stick it, Midge? Why didn't you throw the damned frocks at her head?”

“I'd soon lose my job if I did things like that.”

“But don't you want to fling things at a woman of that kind?”

Midge drew a deep breath.

“Of course I do. And there are times, especially at the end of a hot week during the summer sales, when I am afraid that one day I shall let go and just tell everyone exactly where they get off—instead of ‘Yes, Madam,' ‘No, Madam'—‘I'll see if we have anything else, Madam.'”

“Midge, dear little Midge, you can't put up with all this!”

Midge laughed a little shakily.

“Don't be upset, Edward. Why on earth did you have to come here? Why not ring up?”

“I wanted to see for myself. I've been worried.” He paused and then broke out, “Why, Lucy wouldn't talk to a scullery maid the way that woman talked to you. It's all wrong that you should have to put up with insolence and rudeness. Good God, Midge, I'd like to take you right out of it all down to Ainswick. I'd like to hail a taxi, bundle you into it, and take you down to Ainswick now by the 2:15.”

Midge stopped. Her assumed nonchalance fell from her. She had had a long tiring morning with trying customers, and Madame
at her most bullying. She turned on Edward with a sudden flare of resentment.

“Well, then, why don't you? There are plenty of taxis!”

He stared at her, taken aback by her sudden fury. She went on, her anger flaming up:

“Why do you have to come along and
say
these things? You don't mean them. Do you think it makes it any easier after I've had the hell of a morning to be reminded that there are places like Ainswick? Do you think I'm grateful to you for standing there and babbling about how much you'd like to take me out of it all? All very sweet and insincere. You don't really mean a word of it. Don't you know that I'd sell my soul to catch the 2:15 to Ainswick and get away from everything? I can't bear even to
think
of Ainswick, do you understand? You mean well, Edward, but you're cruel! Saying things—just
saying
things….”

They faced each other, seriously incommoding the lunchtime crowd in Shaftesbury Avenue. Yet they were conscious of nothing but each other. Edward was staring at her like a man suddenly aroused from sleep.

He said: “All right then, damn it. You're coming to Ainswick by the 2:15!”

He raised his stick and hailed a passing taxi. It drew into the kerb. Edward opened the door, and Midge, slightly dazed, got in. Edward said: “Paddington Station” to the driver and followed her in.

They sat in silence. Midge's lips were set together. Her eyes were defiant and mutinous. Edward stared straight ahead of him.

As they waited for the traffic lights in Oxford Street, Midge said disagreeably:

“I seem to have called your bluff.”

Edward said shortly:

“It wasn't bluff.”

The taxi started forward again with a jerk.

It was not until the taxi turned left in Edgware Road into Cambridge Terrace that Edward suddenly regained his normal attitude to life.

He said: “We can't catch the 2:15,” and tapping on the glass he said to the driver: “Go to the Berkeley.”

Midge said coldly: “Why can't we catch the 2:15? It's only twenty-five past one now.”

Edward smiled at her.

“You haven't got any luggage, little Midge. No nightgowns or toothbrushes or country shoes. There's a 4:15, you know. We'll have some lunch now and talk things over.”

Midge sighed.

“That's so like you, Edward. To remember the practical side. Impulse doesn't carry you very far, does it? Oh, well, it was a nice dream while it lasted.”

She slipped her hand into his and gave him her old smile.

“I'm sorry I stood on the pavement and abused you like a fish-wife,” she said. “But you know, Edward, you
were
irritating.”

“Yes,” he said. “I must have been.”

They went into the Berkeley happily side by side. They got a table by the window and Edward ordered an excellent lunch.

As they finished their chicken, Midge sighed and said: “I ought to hurry back to the shop. My time's up.”

“You're going to take decent time over your lunch today, even if I have to go back and buy half the clothes in the shop!”

“Dear Edward, you are really rather sweet.”

They ate Crêpes Suzette, and then the waiter brought them coffee. Edward stirred his sugar in with his spoon.

He said gently:

“You really do love Ainswick, don't you?”

“Must we talk about Ainswick? I've survived not catching the 2:15—and I quite realize that there isn't any question of the 4:15—but don't rub it in.”

Edward smiled. “No, I'm not proposing that we catch the 4:15. But I am suggesting that you come to Ainswick, Midge. I'm suggesting that you come there for good—that is, if you can put up with me.”

She stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup—put it down with a hand that she managed to keep steady.

“What do you really mean, Edward?”

“I'm suggesting that you should marry me, Midge. I don't suppose that I'm a very romantic proposition. I'm a dull dog, I know that, and not much good at anything. I just read books and potter around. But although I'm not a very exciting person, we've known each other a long time and I think that Ainswick itself would—well, would compensate. I think you'd be happy at Ainswick, Midge. Will you come?”

Midge swallowed once or twice, then she said:

“But I thought—Henrietta—” and stopped.

Edward said, his voice level and unemotional:

“Yes, I've asked Henrietta to marry me three times. Each time she has refused. Henrietta knows what she doesn't want.”

There was a silence, and then Edward said:

“Well, Midge dear, what about it?”

Midge looked up at him. There was a catch in her voice. She said:

“It seems so extraordinary—to be offered heaven on a plate as it were, at the Berkeley!”

His face lighted up. He laid his hand over hers for a brief moment.

“Heaven on a plate,” he said. “So you feel like that about Ainswick. Oh, Midge, I'm glad.”

They sat there happily. Edward paid the bill and added an enormous tip. The people in the restaurant were thinning out. Midge said with an effort:

“We'll have to go. I suppose I'd better go back to Madame Alfrege. After all, she's counting on me. I can't just walk out.”