Читать книгу The House That Is Our Own - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Walter de la Mare

A week later the two friends sat together in Isobel’s room. Spring had made appreciable progress in the week; the crocuses were all aglow in the gardens opposite, the buds on the lilac bushes were swelling, the birds busy with their nests.

Kitty’s plans had also made some progress.

“It’s been a most agitating week,” she was saying. “If I look as battered as I feel I must be rather a sight. Who’d have thought it was such a difficult business to find a house to let.”

“It’s the ‘to let’ that’s the difficulty,” said Isobel, who was sitting with her work-basket beside her, placidly mending. “Everything is for sale, and you don’t want to buy.”

“I don’t indeed. Even if I could afford to, what’d be the use of buying? It’s different for people with children—and even they wouldn’t buy a flat. What places we’ve seen! Are there really people who would live in a basement, always in artificial light, and be willing to pay £150 a year for the privilege? And these terrible new blocks like penitentiaries, with every new gadget, I grant you, but mere boxes! Personally I don’t know any cat-slingers, but if any exist they couldn’t indulge their hobby in these mansions. There’s no room for a pet; even a canary would feel itself de trop.”

“What about the one in Westminster?” Isobel asked. “It had quite good rooms.”

“But only two of them—one good living-room, one bed-room, an excellent bathroom, and a cupboard of a kitchen. It would mean never having a friend to stay, and, worse than that, no resident maid. Besides, I don’t like to eat in the room I sit in. What I’d like in Westminster would be one of those little old houses, but they again have basement kitchens, and, anyway, are seldom to be let. No, the only thing I can see myself in is that flat in Sloane Street, and it’s too expensive.”

“Have you thought it over carefully, and calculated what it would cost to run?” Isobel asked, looking with satisfaction at the eager face opposite to her, and thinking how beneficial a week of house-hunting had proved.

Kitty rescued a reel of silk and returned it to the work-basket.

“Yes,” she said, “I have, and I’m afraid I daren’t attempt it. My old nurse used to say of people who had too large and expensive a house, ‘I doubt it’ll burn them, not warm them,’ and there’s a lot of truth in the saying. Of course, in a flat you know more or less where you are. The rent covers everything in the way of taxes and, generally, central heating and constant hot water.”

Isobel nodded. “Compared with other flats we saw, I thought the Sloane Street one very reasonable. I liked the whole look of it. There was something so old-fashioned and settled-looking about everything, the entrance, the staircase, the lift. I am sure the people in the other flats are everything that is quiet and respectable. You wouldn’t like neighbours who entertained till all hours. And the rooms are large and airy—I expect your furniture would look just right in them—and the neighbourhood is so pleasant.”

“Temptress!” said Kitty. “You know quite well I’m simply longing to get that flat.”

“Well, go to your lawyer and lay it before him. He should know just what you can afford. Go this very morning. The flat may be snapped up any minute. If you like I’ll meet you somewhere for lunch, and we might look at some other places, supposing Mr. Johnson turns down your flat. But I don’t believe he will. I’ve a feeling in my bones that you were meant to live there.”

“Bless you for that,” said Kitty, rising with alacrity. “I’ll go now, this very minute. Where shall we meet?”

“Would Marshall’s be all right for you? And when we are out, what about getting some clothes? You said yourself you needed them, and to my mind there’s no tonic like a new hat.”

“If I get my flat,” said Kitty, “I shan’t ever again be able to afford any personal adornment. It’ll be old clothes indefinitely for me.”

Isobel folded up the garments she had mended, and said, “Shall we say one o’clock at Marshall’s luncheon-room? I’ll try to get a table at a window. Come right up, will you?”

It was nearly half-past one when Isobel, at her table in the window saw a small figure come in, glance round, and, on catching sight of her, come quickly forward.

“She’s got it,” said Isobel to herself.

“So sorry to have kept you,” Kitty began breathlessly, “but I couldn’t help it. Isobel, it’s all right. Mr. Johnson thinks I can just manage it, and he’s sending to see about it this afternoon. I’m not pretending that he was very keen about it, and he says they must find out exactly what state it’s in before anything’s settled, but ... yes, anything you like. I’m too excited to eat. You know, although Mr. Johnson’s rather like a tortoise to look at, he’s really quite decent. I was surprised that a dry-as-dust old lawyer could be so human. He actually seemed to understand how much it meant to me, and I’m pretty sure he’ll manage to arrange it. It’s a blessing I spent almost nothing all winter, for I’ve a good deal lying. Perhaps I’d better get some clothes as long as I have any money. How good these sweetbreads are! I didn’t know I was so hungry.”

While they ate, the conversation circled constantly round the flat.

“I thought,” said Kitty, “that I’d examined every bit of it, but when Mr. Johnson asked me questions I found I knew practically nothing. I could tell him about the size and shape of the rooms, and their outlook, but I’d entirely neglected to notice the plumbing, what sort of kitchen stove there was, and so on. It was very shaming to be found so unpractical! Of course, I’ll need fresh paint everywhere, whether I pay for it myself or not, and I would like running water in the bedrooms—but I fear that’s beyond me. At least, Mr. Johnson says it is.”

“And I suppose he ought to know,” said Isobel. “Well, before you start squandering all you possess, let’s go and look for clothes. I want some myself, and it’s the perfect day for shopping, with a hopeful blue sky and a brisk feeling in the air.”

As they got up to go, Kitty said, “I believe you love clothes, Isobel?”

“Well, hardly that; but I confess clothes are a great interest to me. I don’t spend a great deal of money, but I spend quite a lot of time planning my wardrobe, and getting everything in keeping. And you know how fond I am of knitting, so I can copy jumpers that are too expensive to buy; and I can make blouses and underclothes. It’s lucky for me that I’ve fairly clever hands, for work fills hours that might otherwise be very dull.”

Kitty surveyed her friend. “Yes, you always look expensive—or is exclusive the word I want? I only wish I had your gift. I like good clothes, but I’m not clever about them. There is one thing, though, about being small and rather plain, one is inconspicuous. No one notices what one wears. You are rather like a city set on a hill.”

“What an awful thought! But you are very far from being either plain or dowdy, Kitty. All you need is to be more clothes-conscious. No, not self-conscious, quite the opposite. When you’re sure your clothes are right you can forget all about them. When you’re wrongly dressed you’re miserably aware of it all the time. Clothes psychology is rather an interesting thing. Let’s see what ‘Christine’ has to-day—round here in Hollis Street. She generally has something amusing.”

“Christine,” Isobel explained, “was run by a young woman, a friend of her own, whose husband had lost his health. She had to make a living for them both, and having a flair for clothes, had joined with another woman in taking a shop.

“Joyce Peyton supplied the capital, and Patty does all the work,” Isobel finished.

“Joyce? Patty? Then who is Christine?” Kitty asked.

“Nobody. Only a name to trade under. I’ve known Patty Tisdal for years. She and her husband are such a devoted couple, and they’ve had awful luck. It’s hard for him, poor chap, to lie on his back and see his wife work. He helps, though, in every way he can, keeps the books, and that’s really a big help, for neither Patty nor Joyce has any head for figures.”

When they reached the shop Mrs. Tisdal was just finishing with a customer, and in a few minutes joined them, greeting Isobel with pleasure.

“My dear, it’s ages. Have you been away?”

“No, only leading my usual blameless life in Queen’s Court. Patty, this is my friend Mrs. Baillie, also at present in Queen’s Court. Have you time to show us some things, which we may, or may not, buy? How’s business?”

“Brisking up,” said Patty, smiling at Kitty, “at the thought of the Coronation. Not that it’s been at all bad all winter; we can’t complain. Come and see what I’ve got, Mrs. Baillie. Isobel, I never really thanked you for helping me out with that order for jumpers at Christmas-time. It was good of you insisting on the money going to the girl. It would have meant a big loss to the poor thing.”

“It was nothing,” Isobel said. “Is the girl stronger now?”

“She never looks well, but she’s never failed me except that once when she went down with influenza at Christmas.”

“Well!” said Isobel, “be sure and let me know if ever I can help you out. I love knitting jumpers, and sometimes I get a brain-wave and devise something new. If the girl—what’s her name, by the way? Alice Parsons—well, if she cared to come and see me any time, I might be able to pass on to her some ideas. That’s to say, if she’s not above taking a hint.”

“I’m sure she’d be only too glad, she admired what you made immensely. I’ll give her your message”; then, turning to Kitty, Mrs. Tisdal remarked, “Isobel’s a great helper.”

Before Kitty could reply, Isobel broke in, “And now what about clothes? Wouldn’t a frock and light coat be most useful to you, Kitty?”

Patty Tisdal considered. “Must it be all black, or could you wear this?”

She brought a soft black frock, the top lightly embroidered in white silk, saying, “The little frills give the fullness you need, and the coat is rather pretty.”

Kitty hesitated. “It looks expensive, and I can’t afford——”

Mrs. Tisdal whisked round the price ticket. “It’s just in,” she said. “Twelve guineas. Is that too much?”

“I thought it would have been more,” said Kitty. “May I try it on? And I’d need a coat and skirt of sorts, wouldn’t I, Isobel? I’ve only got this coat, and it’s too heavy for summer.”

Isobel agreed. “Yes, a well-cut coat and skirt is a great standby. And you can step into it, lucky woman.”

Mrs. Tisdal told an assistant what to bring, and led the way to a fitting-room.

The frock was found to need very little altering, the coat nothing.

“It’s very pretty,” said Isobel. “Are these birds embroidered on the top? Rather a nice idea. Now, what sort of hat, I wonder?”

Hats were forthcoming, and one carefully chosen, smart, without being dressed-up: a hat for almost any occasion.

Kitty turned herself round before the mirror until she had seen herself from every angle, and then gave a satisfied sigh.

“I look nicer than I thought possible,” she said.

A coat and skirt were also found, and Patty Tisdal assured her that if everyone was as easy to suit and pleasant to serve life would be a great deal happier for shopkeepers.

“That’s all I need,” said Kitty, as they left the shop. “I’ve got lots of things to wear up in the house. If it’s a hot summer, I can wear my thin dresses: they’re mostly white. What have you to get?”

“The tailor wanted to try on that tweed again, you remember? and when we finish with him, would you mind poking about with me until I pick up some ideas?”

“I’d love it,” said Kitty.

There are few things more satisfying to the ordinary woman than a good “poke” round shops, and the two friends spent a thoroughly interesting afternoon in Bond Street and Regent Street, finishing up with tea, and a visit to an exhibition of pictures by an artist new to Isobel.

“Don’t you know Peter Scott’s pictures of wild birds?” Kitty asked. “Rob found them first. He was passing here, saw one in the window, and went in. He came home almost as excited as if he’d been left a fortune, and took me to see them next day. There was one we specially coveted—wild geese leaving the marshes in a winter sunrise—and I bought it for his birthday. It hung over the fireplace in our living-room and Rob used to stand feasting his eyes on it. Have you that feeling about wild geese? To see them fly, to hear them cry, absolutely tugs at my heart-strings. The sound of a penny whistle, the smell of wood-smoke does the same. I can’t tell you why.”

Isobel was gazing at a picture.

“To me,” she said, “wild swans are even more romantic. Look at that—wild swans flying in a snowstorm. It’s the essence of every fairy-tale ever written. I love these pictures. If I’d a house of my own, I’d have a Peter Scott in each room.”

“Isobel, why don’t you? Have a house of your own, I mean?”

Isobel merely laughed and said, “Hadn’t I better wait and see how your venture turns out?”

“Cautious Scot!”

“Scot yourself! D’you know, Kitty, although I’m absolutely pure Scots by blood, I was born in England, and I’ve only once crossed the Border, to spend a fortnight with some people who had rented a shooting in Perthshire.”

“ ‘Breathes there the man with soul so dead’?” Kitty ejaculated, and went on, “I really am shocked. Don’t you want to go to Scotland?”

“I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but I never have had much desire. If I had anyone to go with me—but as I told you, I’ve no initiative. My friends were in London, and in London I’ve stuck. The only remarkable thing about me is my faculty for ‘staying put.’ But what about you? You live in London when you might just as well live in Edinburgh.”

“That’s true,” Kitty admitted. “The fact is, though I adore to think of Edinburgh, I prefer to live in London. Degenerate Scots, that’s what we are, both of us. But I’ve always gone to Scotland part of every year, so I’m a shade less degenerate than you!”

“Oh, well,” said Isobel, “I daresay Scotland can make shift to do without us.”

After dinner that evening Isobel persuaded her friend to sit in the lounge instead of going straight upstairs, and they settled down on a couch, Isobel with her knitting.

A few of the visitors were staying in for the evening, but quite a number, birds of passage, were going out to theatres.

One woman, standing by the fire finishing her cup of coffee, said to Isobel, “It’s so comfortable to see you sitting there knitting. I’d rather sit down beside you than go out to the play to-night.”

“What are you going to see?” Kitty asked.

“Some musical thing. I forget the name. We all felt we needed a little relaxation after last night at The Seagull. That was terribly dreary, though the acting was fine.”

When she had gone, Kitty said, “I’d like to see The Seagull. Will you come with me? It’s more than two years since I last saw a play.... Isobel, I’m almost ashamed of feeling so pleased about those new clothes. When we were out to-day in the sunshine, all the shops so bright, and so many people with happy faces, I felt almost light-hearted.”

“And why,” said Isobel, letting her knitting lie in her lap, “should you feel ashamed? It’s only natural. When you came back from France last October you were like a plant beaten to the earth by storms, you couldn’t raise your head or take an interest in anything. You had had a great loss, and you were physically and mentally exhausted as well. Now the normal, healthy person that is you is emerging. You enjoyed life before, and, gradually, you’ll come to enjoy it again. Would your Rob want anything else? Because he has gone forward into a new life, must you go mourning all your days? It’s not a case of forgetting. You won’t forget, but you owe it to yourself and to the people you live among, to make the best of what’s left to you.”

Kitty was silent for a minute, then she said:

“I daresay you’re right. But I’m pretty old to start again. I’m forty-five.”

“That’s no crime,” said Isobel stoutly. “I believe that very smart good-looking woman who spoke to us just now is every bit of forty-five, and I’m very sure she doesn’t think herself at all old. And you aren’t the type that ages. When you tried on those things to-day you looked a mere girl. All you need is something to interest you, then your face lights up. To me it’s far more attractive than a sort of stolid handsomeness, or wooden prettiness.”

“Isobel,” said Kitty, “you’re one of the world’s comforters.”