Читать книгу East Is Always East - Pamela Wynne - Страница 7

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April was the first to notice that her mother looked more spry. But she kept her discovery to herself. By now both the girls had got to know Mr. Maxwell too. He had quietly taken for granted that as he knew their mother he would of course get to know them as well. They now very often sat together in the lounge after dinner to drink their coffee, although during the day they very rarely saw him. But that was because Flavia and April were nearly always out shopping. April sometimes felt conscience-stricken about it.

“We do leave mother most frightfully alone,” she said one day, as in a 79 bus they went careering off up the Brompton Road.

“She doesn’t mind. Besides, we must get our shopping done. We’ve only got three weeks now until we start. And mother gets so tired if we go in and out of shops all the time. It’s the only way to get what one wants, though,” said Flavia, frowning down her delicate nose to try to locate a smut that had impertinently lodged on it.

“Yes, I know, but still——” and then April fell silent. Certainly Madeline didn’t seem to mind, she reflected. Only that morning, for instance, she had asked her if she wouldn’t like to come with them. And she had said no, that she was busy. And when April had asked her how she was busy, she had turned a delicate pink and said vaguely that she had something to do at Harrods’. April had not questioned further, but for some reason a dreadful stab had seemed to penetrate her heart. What was there to do that Madeline could prefer to do that did not include her, she wondered? What was there that she herself would prefer rather than be with her mother? Her mother filled her horizon. She was only living for the moment when this dreadful ceaseless drive of shopping would be over and they could sit quietly on the deck of a big comfortable steamer. They had all three got lovely deck-chairs. Flavia would not be much in hers, reflected April with a little wry smile. But that would be all the better, because she and her mother could sit quietly together, talking if they wanted to talk and not if they didn’t. Just the same old lovely serene companionship of Pear Tree Cottage. How desperately April longed for it only she knew. But it would be here in three weeks, she thought, looking out on to the brown dried-up grass of Hyde Park and the ceaseless flow of traffic sweeping in at the big Connaught Gate.

And meanwhile Mrs. Metcalfe, having seen her children safely off for their day’s shopping, went up to her bedroom and sat down on the bed and stared straight in front of her. She, too, was going out to lunch, but not yet. She had some letters to write first. Also she had to decide which hat to wear. At the moment the hat was the more important of the two. Mrs. Metcalfe went to the shelf in her wardrobe and got all the hats out. She would wear the one that April had helped her choose. And the neat coat and skirt that went with it. Also the silver fox fur that she had bought in the July Sales. Mrs. Metcalfe dressed herself all up and stood in front of the glass and made silly little movements with her hands and feet. And then she suddenly tore off the close-fitting hat and flung it into a chair. She was a complete fool, she told herself passionately. As if he meant anything at all except just a delightful friendship. Men always had women friends nowadays; it was part of the new way of going on.

However, she was at Harrods’ dreadfully before the time he had said. But to conceal it she went and wandered about through the different departments. She was to meet him in the long gallery lounge on the top floor. “And if I am a few minutes late don’t be angry with me and go away,” he had said, smiling delightfully. “My time is not altogether my own, although very nearly so, thank Heaven.”

However, he was punctual. Before her, Mrs. Metcalfe diplomatically arranged. John Maxwell, smiling his quiet smile, wondered what this charming woman would do if she knew that he had seen her arrive half an hour too soon and take the non-stop lift to the top floor where they had arranged to meet! He himself at the moment had been doing some business in the banking section and had seen her come in through the big swing doors, hurrying like a child. She had stopped dead and stared at the clock, but all the same had made for the non-stop lift and gone up in it. He had laughed to himself as he turned to speak pleasantly to the clerk. That was what he loved about her, her childish spontaneity. And yet, did he love her? That was the bother, how was he to know? Love between two well-bred unattached people of opposite sexes should mean marriage. But did one undertake marriage with a widow with two grown up and beautiful daughters? Would it not be better to wait until the two beautiful daughters were married, which they certainly would be after a cold weather in India. Although, again, there was always the chance that the sweet mother of the beautiful daughters would be snapped up in marriage too. John Maxwell felt thoroughly unsettled as he glanced amiably through the brass grille to the young man behind it. As a rule he knew his own mind instantly. That was why, ten years before, he had ruthlessly broken off his engagement with a girl to whom he was devotedly attached. Her fault really: she had sent him by mistake a letter intended for another man. There might or might not have been anything at the back of it. But his trust and confidence in the girl were gone for ever. Her tears and protestations of innocence were utterly useless. He only gazed at her and asked her to keep the ring as the sight of it would only remind him of what he was anxious to forget.

After that John Maxwell steered clear of women. But Madeline Metcalfe attracted him deeply. Was it because he obviously attracted her? She was blushing delightfully as she came towards him.

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting,” she said nervously.

“No, you haven’t. You’re deliciously punctual. If only women always were,” said John, smiling down at her.

“I was early really. Half an hour too soon,” said Mrs. Metcalfe in a sudden burst of confidence. “I was so afraid of being late because I was looking forward to it so.”

“Were you really? How sweet of you to say so,” said John slowly. He suddenly made up his mind. “Don’t let’s have lunch here,” he said, “it’s dull. I mean, there’s no adventure about it. Let’s go somewhere else. Come along to the lift and we’ll think of a nice place while we go down.”

“Yes, but have you time?” Mrs. Metcalfe was hurrying along to keep pace with the tall man by her side.

“Loads of time. I’m fed to the teeth with research. We’ll get a taxi and go off somewhere. That is to say, if you have time, too,” said John, suddenly stopping short.

“Oh, yes, I’ve got nothing to do at all,” said Mrs. Metcalfe simply. She smiled with pleasure as they shot downwards in the lift, and crossed the wide hall to stand outside the big swing doors waiting for a taxi.

“Where would you like to go? Have you any pet place?” They were safely in the taxi now and John was looking at her.

“Well....” Mrs. Metcalfe hesitated. “It might not be grand enough for you: I mean, not the sort of place that you would like,” she explained. “But I have always wanted to go to one of those restaurants in Soho. Not a very expensive one,” she stammered.

“They are none of them expensive,” smiled John. “But the food is uncommonly good and one always feels rather out on the spree when one is lunching or dining in Soho,” he said. “Come along then, we’ll go to the Chantecler, in Frith Street. It’s unconventional but absolutely true to type. I’ve had many an excellent meal there.”

“Oh, how heavenly!” and then Mrs. Metcalfe sat silent. If only she did not feel suddenly so guilty, she thought. She had told the girls that she was going to Harrods’. Soho was not Harrods’, thought Mrs. Metcalfe, as the taxi buzzed along and then suddenly came to a standstill in a solid block of traffic.

“Well, still enjoying yourself?” John Maxwell was an intensely perceptive man. He glanced down at the woman by his side. Something was wrong. What? he wondered simply.

“I’ve just remembered that I told the girls that I was going to Harrods’. I didn’t say anything about lunch or you or anything,” faltered Mrs. Metcalfe, her eyes filling with stupid tears. “Fancy if they found out, they would think that I had deceived them.”

“Would you rather go back to Harrods’ then?” John’s eyes were clear and reflective. Marry this woman! Supposing he didn’t get the chance; how was he going to endure life any more?

“Do you think that I ought to?” said Mrs. Metcalfe miserably.

“No, I don’t,” said John frankly. “Take for example the ten to one chance that anything happened to the girls and they went to look for you there. They wouldn’t find you; the place is a rabbit warren. They would go to the hotel. And you will be back at the hotel very nearly as quickly from Soho as you would be from Harrods’. It’s further away, I admit, but only about ten minutes in a taxi.”

“Oh!”

“Satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Metcalfe simply. Not only satisfied but blissfully and completely happy, she thought wildly, wrenching her eyes away from his steady gaze and looking out of the window.

And John sat silent. Largely because there was nothing to say. He also sat and stared out of the window on his side. His thoughts also were in a whirl. Until about a week ago he had not dreamed of falling in love for a second time. Until an hour before that he had not thought of ever being in love sufficiently to risk the dreadful and irrevocable adventure of marriage. And now it abruptly seemed to him that anything else would be simply stupid. The delicious fun that he could have with this slender, well-bred woman for ever by his side. The gorgeous adventure, for instance, of a holiday spent abroad together. And then his thoughts suddenly fell rather flat. Abroad—of course, she was going abroad. And soon too: in three weeks. He would have to say something in a day or two. But not yet; it was too soon.

“Well, we’re nearly there. Too slummy for you?” The taxi was picking its way carefully through the narrow streets of Soho.

“Oh no, I love it. I’ve always wanted to come to one of these restaurants. There’s something so exciting about it.” Mrs. Metcalfe’s lips were parted a little. Her eyes were smiling and excited. She forgot that she was forty-three and a parent. “You see, I’ve always lived in the depth of the country,” she explained. “Both before I was married and after. This is almost the first time I’ve ever really been able to wander about London and enjoy myself.”

“I see.” John’s keen eyes were on the shop windows sliding past. “Here we are,” he said. He helped Mrs. Metcalfe out of the taxi and stood and paid the man, giving him obviously a good deal too much. Everyone was pleased and smiling, including the maître d’hôtel who welcomed them into the friendly low-ceilinged restaurant and showed them to a nice table in the corner. A fatherly old waiter came padding up and showed them the menu with an air of friendly anticipation. John glanced at it and then across the table at Mrs. Metcalfe. She had taken off her gloves and her delicate hands were folded together in her lap. She was looking about her with an air of expectancy.

“What would you like?” asked John.

“What is there?” inquired Mrs. Metcalfe, trying not to beam with pleasure, and failing.

“A great deal,” said John laughing up at the old waiter.

“You choose,” said Mrs. Metcalfe, also smiling at the waiter and wondering with a little leap of excitement in her veins if he thought that they were husband and wife.

“All right.” John ran his eyes down the gaily decorated card and made a careful choice. The waiter lingered.

“What will you drink?” asked John.

“Water,” said Mrs. Metcalfe promptly.

The waiter and John exchanged amused glances. John ordered a light lager for himself, and the waiter vanished.

“Ought I to have said that I would drink something?” asked Mrs. Metcalfe, feeling a little uncomfortable.

“No. Apparently they don’t scowl at you here if you drink what you like,” said John. “In some places they do. But I’ve soothed his wounded feelings by ordering some lager and we’ll have coffee at the end.”

“If I drink anything it always goes to my head,” said Mrs. Metcalfe apologetically.

“Then you are wise to avoid it,” said John, and he laughed across the table. When he laughed his eyes took on a very kind and friendly look. Mrs. Metcalfe saw the look and thought with a little pang that in three weeks’ time she would not see it any more. India suddenly looked menacing and unfriendly. Fancy if she had not had that letter from her brother they could have stayed on at the hotel almost indefinitely. She sighed and began to fumble with her bread.

“Why the heavy sigh?”

“I don’t know. I begin to feel that India won’t be so much fun as I thought it would,” said Mrs. Metcalfe.

“Really? And what makes you feel that?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Mrs. Metcalfe stupidly.

“Don’t you? I do,” thought John, and he felt inclined to laugh aloud from sheer delight and pleasure. The waiter padding up broke the rather difficult moment. The soup was delicious and just the right temperature. Mrs. Metcalfe found that she was more hungry than she had thought she was. He ate so nicely too: although she did not look at John she knew that he was eating nicely.

“Tell me what gave you the idea of going out to India?” The fish had come and gone and John sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Mrs. Metcalfe was a pleasant person to take out to lunch. She did not talk all the time.

“I just had the letter from my brother and the girls wanted to go,” said Mrs. Metcalfe simply.

“And what about you?”

“I don’t think I thought about it. Of course, if they want to go I do too,” said Mrs. Metcalfe.

“Exemplary mother.”

“No, don’t say that; I’m not in the least. You know I’m not,” said Mrs. Metcalfe, flushing. “I told you a long time ago that I did sometimes feel that I wanted someone of my own age to want to do just exactly the same things that I do. But I can’t have it. People of my age can’t. April does, almost entirely though. I adore April,” said Mrs. Metcalfe simply.

“Do you?” and somehow this little simple remark gave John Maxwell a feeling of discomfort. Mothers were sometimes like that about a child, especially if they were widows. Generally it was a son who sent them off the deep end, but of course a charming and sympathetic daughter might have the same effect. Everything made subject to the beloved child. And then the beloved child married, and either its wife or husband didn’t like you and your last state was worse than your first.

“April will marry and so will Flavia,” said John. “Both will probably get engaged on the voyage out and then where will you be?”

“Alone,” said Mrs. Metcalfe simply. “And you know, although it sounds a funny thing to say, I don’t think it will be very different to what it always has been with me. Human beings always are alone. No one really understands what one feels and thinks and longs for. Do they?”

“They might,” said John, and heaved a sigh of relief as the old waiter came triumphantly out of the spotless little kitchen at the back of the restaurant. That had been a near thing, he thought, as he shook some salt out of the queer little glass pot on to his chicken. Fancy if he had proposed then! At half-past one across a little table in a Soho restaurant. She would have refused him, of course, and quite rightly. He would have to be more circumspect until he had safely deposited her at Harrods’ again.

And he was. John Maxwell was a man of the world and had plenty of things to talk about. Mrs. Metcalfe listened and tried to be really interested and could not be. She had hoped that he was going to be personal and help her with advice and talk about the girls. But he would not talk about anything except plays she hadn’t seen, and things like the decadence of our modern art; the paganism, for instance, of that unpleasant Epstein idea of Night. Mercifully not the idea of anyone else, at least, no one that he had ever met, said John sardonically.

So lunch was, on the whole, not altogether a success. Mrs. Metcalfe felt depressed when at last she found herself in her bedroom again. And the hat had made her head ache. Too tight. She took it off and threw it angrily on the bed. She was old enough to know better, she thought, leaning forward so that she could see herself more clearly in the dressing-table mirror, and noticing with a pang how dreadfully grey her hair was getting over her ears.