Читать книгу East Is Always East - Pamela Wynne - Страница 9

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John Maxwell belonged to two clubs. One where you could take women and one where you couldn’t. In the one where you could, the dining-rooms were soft with little tables with shaded rose-coloured lights on them. The tables were not too close together either. John had been in earlier that morning to choose one well away in a corner. Close, although not too close, to a gay little sparkling fire. He was also going to have a special dinner. He stood and chatted to the head steward, consulting him as to what he should have.

The head steward was helpful and delighted inwardly to think that Mr. Maxwell was at last bringing a lady to dine there. More than a couple of female relatives with this fine-looking gentleman had never been seen, meditated the head steward. And the ordinary dinner had been good enough for them, although Mr. Maxwell was always very particular about his wines. But to-night he was going to have champagne and a special dinner. “Being a lady, I doubt if she will appreciate anything too dry, Morton,” he had said. “And a pint bottle I am afraid will be enough. But mind it’s cold,” and then John Maxwell had gone away.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Metcalfe, after seeing her two girls off at Waterloo, had rushed straight to Shaftesbury Avenue. So ashamed of herself that she dared hardly think what she was doing, she had decided to buy herself a new dress. Up to the very last minute she had determined to wear the black one that she wore every night at the hotel. It was nice, and very becoming, but now that evening frocks were long it was not really long enough. Mrs. Metcalfe suffered tortures of indecision before she decided to buy herself a new one. The girls would wonder so dreadfully where she had got it from, and why. But Mrs. Metcalfe at last did not care. This was to be her evening and the evening of the man that she adored. She was going to look nice if she never again spent another penny on herself. The shop in Shaftesbury Avenue rose nobly to the occasion. Mrs. Metcalfe was always a success in shops because she was so humble and anxious to be helped. The beautifully-got-up lady who ran the shop scented romance and became very interested indeed. The result was charming and very inexpensive considering how nice it was. A little frock in panné ring velvet that clung where it ought to cling and flowed out where it ought to flow out. Patterned all over with little soft pale flowers. No sleeves, and that frightened Mrs. Metcalfe dreadfully until a darling little coat to match was produced. A little coat with a soft upstanding fur collar. Mrs. Metcalfe’s eager little face peeped out of the collar like a soft little owl’s face out of a hollow in a tree. The lady in the shop stood back a little way and was delighted. Women of forty were much more interesting to dress than girls of twenty, she decided. Especially when they had kept their figures as this one had done.

So that was all very delightful and Mrs. Metcalfe, clutching the dainty flowered box that contained the garment, got on to a bus and went home again. She left it in her bedroom and then went out again to have a cheap lunch somewhere. Lunch in the hotel, and a very nice one at that, was three shillings.

After her extravagant morning one and sixpence for lunch, including a tip, was all that she could allow, thought Mrs. Metcalfe, wishing that she had decided to go into a Corner House while she was near one, and now knowing that she must content herself with an ordinary Lyons.

However, the lunch was very nice. Anything would have been nice with the glow of joys to come that was stowed away at the back of Mrs. Metcalfe’s mind. Only the afternoon to get through, and then after a very early tea she could have a bath and begin to get ready. They were going to start from the hotel at half-past six, so as to have loads of time for dinner. “Don’t have anything to eat for tea or you won’t be able to manage dinner at seven,” said John laughingly as he happened to meet Mrs. Metcalfe on the stairs that morning on his way to the Museum.

“No, I won’t,” said Mrs. Metcalfe solemnly. As she went on up the stairs to her room she wondered if all women at her age had the capacity for such extreme joy as she had. Surely those two lovely girls of hers whom she was just going to see off at Waterloo couldn’t know this rapture of anticipation, this tingling excitement of something heavenly in store, that she had at the moment.

Although perhaps they could. Half an hour later both came into her room carrying their neat little suitcases with their faces all excitement and anticipation. Although April looked the happier, thought Mrs. Metcalfe, stopping to give a second glance at herself in the glass because Flavia had told her that her hat was just a little too far down over her eyes.

“It’s made it just perfect for me, knowing that you are going to have a happy evening too,” said April tenderly, waiting, however, until Flavia had gone on down the stairs, to say the words.

“Precious child,” said Mrs. Metcalfe. And as she felt April’s soft kiss on her face she wondered whether anything could quite equal the love that a mother felt for a child who really understood her. Yes it could, only in a different way, decided Mrs. Metcalfe, back in her bedroom again after seeing the girls off and buying the dress in Shaftesbury Avenue and having lunch at Lyons’, and now preparing to have a lie down until four o’clock. The dress and little coat to match it hung triumphantly on a hanger in the pale September sunshine. Heavenly, thought Mrs. Metcalfe, getting on to the bed and eyeing it rapturously from there. The sun would take out the few creases that remained from its hasty journey in the flowered box. Now she must try to go to sleep, she thought, rolling resolutely on to her side and closing her eyes, and knowing that there was not the remotest chance of going to sleep because she was far too excited.