Anglo-Saxon Attitudes (53 page)

'Well, you
are
one only by marriage.'

'Yes, and that's such a long time ago. Don't bother about me if you want a drink,' she said.

As Gerald was pouring himself out a whisky, the bell rang and Mrs Salad was shown in. Gerald looked at Dollie to see the effect of his surprise. Dollie jumped up from her chair and took the old woman's hands. 'Mrs Salad!' she cried. 'How very nice.' All the same, Gerald couldn't be sure of her reaction.

The old woman was dressed as usual, but though her movements were more shaky, her make-up seemed less profuse and less erratic. 'Ah! you look lovely, Miss Dollie,' she croaked. 'Not changed at all. Or hardly much.'

'That sounds more truthful, Mrs Salad. But you look very well too. How is your rheumatism?'  Dollie asked.

'Arthritis, dear,' Mrs Salad corrected. 'It's only the dregs that has the rheumatism.'

'Well, arthritis, then?'  Dollie said. Gerald was not quite sure if her tone was sharper.

'Very bad,' said Mrs Salad. 'Mr Rammage says to put the onions on the 'ands. But I don't do it. It's kind of 'im to make the suggestion, but 'e doesn't reckernize that those 'ands 'ave been kissed by more than peers.'

To Gerald's surprise there seemed to be no smile on Dollie's face, she simply said, 'Well, I don't really think onions would do much good. I suppose it prevents you sewing much.'

'Oh no!' Mrs Salad said, accepting a second glass of brown sherry. 'Nobody's doin' the birds and flowers now. It's all the contemporarery. My grandson Vin and Mr Rammage, they showed me. 'Igh colours it is - the reds and the yellers - and the circles and squares. I brought a 'andkerchief I done for you, Miss Dollie.' As she handed it over, she repeated with a superior smile, 'Ah yes, the birds and the flowers 'ave 'ad their day.'

The handkerchief was decorated in scarlet and daffodil yellow, but the forms were significant probably only to Mrs Salad herself.

'Your skin's very white, dear,' she said, peering at Dollie's neck. 'They're not doin' that now. It's all the buffs and the 'igh yellers.' Her eyes took on a distant reminiscent look. 'Funny, the changes,' she said. 'My brother Len married a mulatter. Smooth her skin was but all a light brown. We didn't reckon to like it. My white coffee, 'e called 'er, but 'e couldn't sweeten 'er temper. Ah well!' she sighed. 'Other days, other stays, they say. But you'd not remember the whalebone, dear.'

Mrs Salad rambled on, and every so often she tried by looks or innuendoes to imply the old relationship between Gerald and Dollie, but somehow Dollie appeared not to notice Gerald while Mrs Salad was there. At last Gerald plucked up courage to say, 'Well for me Miss Dollie hasn't changed at all, Mrs Salad.'

'Ah!' the old woman said. 'You'd need to say that, for you took what there was.'

It was the only time that Dollie laughed out loud. 'Good heavens, Mrs Salad,' she cried, 'what an old moralizer you are. You're worse than me.'

Shortly afterwards the bell rang. 'That'd be my grandson come to fetch me.'

Vin was dressed in the perfection of quiet black and oyster-grey silk tie. His hair seemed to have been arranged rather higher than usual. It only required a stuffed bird or a model ship to be the height of fashion at the court of Marie Antoinette.

'This is Vin, Miss Dollie. 'E's a lovely boy. This is Miss Dollie, Vin. You've heard me talk of'er.'

Perhaps Vin was nervous, for he turned to Dollie and said, 'I'm sure you look quite marvellous.'

Dollie was quite put out. 'Your grandmother looks well,' she said.

Vin swayed his hips a little as he stood in front of Dollie. 'Oh yes, Granny keeps marvellously,' he said, then in a confiding whisper, he added, 'I try to keep the slap down a bit, you know. I wish I could get rid of that filthy old eye-veil.'

Before the Salads departed, Vin said to Gerald rather petulantly, 'Well, I must say you didn't take much notice of my advice about that Larrie Rourke. We were all very sorry to hear about Mr John Middleton, of course.'

'Thank you,' said Gerald. 'Yes, I owe you an apology and gratitude for trying to warn me.'

Vin was still somewhat reserved. 'It was only what duty demanded, I'm sure,' he said.

As they were leaving, Gerald felt very warm towards them both. 'Let me know how you get on. And keep out of trouble.' He turned to Vin. 'And that means both of you,' he said.

Vin smiled. 'I'm sure we try to,' he said. 'We're more the domestic nowadays really.'

When they went into dinner, Dollie said, 'Gosh! I've got an appetite. I feel as though I'd been playing Mrs Dale for an hour. You are a terrible snob, Gerrie,' she added. During dinner she asked, 'Was that Vin one of those pansy boys?'

Gerald blushed slightly. 'I rather fancy so,' he replied.

'Funny,' she commented, 'I've never associated Mrs Salad with
them.
Of course, it's just what she needs really.'

As they drank their coffee, she asked, 'If I put on my hat and coat, could we go to the cinema? I don't fancy the evening round the fire. I so seldom get to London.' And as they were driving up to the West End, she suddenly remarked, 'I've grown into a terrific prig. I hope you realize that, Gerrie.'

The Salads were having a particularly domestic time that evening, for Vin was giving a party. Mrs Salad had her guest - old Emmie, a hippopotamus-like old woman with only one eye. Many of Vin's guests came in costume with plenty of slap. Mrs Salad and old Emmie sat side by side with huge gins. They thought everything was lovely. When Vin did his dance number with the muslin strips, Mrs Salad said, 'I don't know what my gentleman would say.'

'That's the Professor,' Vin told the company; 'you don't know the half of my friends.'

Just at midnight, as Vin was doing his Marlene Dietrich turn, Frank bounced in. 'That'll be enough of that noise,' he said. Somehow or other he was persuaded to stay, however, and at three o'clock he was seated between the two old women, drinking an equally large gin and gossiping happily. Someone had put a crown of silver stars on his bald head. 'Well, I must say,' Vin cried, 'you do all right, Frank. It's the fairy godmother
and
the pumpkin with you.'

The same might also have been said for Rose Lorimer as she sat between two old readers some mornings later beneath the great dome of the British Museum reading-room. She was wearing a hat trimmed with water-lilies; her old fur coat, once more in use, seemed bulkier than ever. Ranged on the desk before her were copies of
Crockford'
s,
the
Catholic Directory,
and the
Methodist Handbook.
She had been uncertain about the
Baptist Handbook,
but she had decided by now that the Baptists were probably not in the conspiracy. To all the other clergymen she was busy addressing poison-pen letters. As she was descending the steps of the Museum, she saw Father Lavenham coming in. She crossed over towards him, still with her vague smile.

'Ah! Dr Lorimer!' he cried.

Rose said nothing. She merely swung her two heavy shopping-bags - one, two - against each of his shins. Despite the pain he felt, Lavenham managed to suppress any cry and the incident passed unnoticed. Unfortunately not all the recipients of the letters were equally forbearing. Police investigations were started, and it was only through the tact of the university authorities that criminal proceedings were avoided. The poor lady was certified, and, by some strange freak of the National Health service, confined in an asylum near Whitby. There for many months she gazed upon the hated ground where, at the famous Synod, the true, the Celtic Church had met its defeat.

It was not long before the newspapers got on to Gerald and, soon after, Dollie in her Cotswold cottage was besieged by visits and telephone calls from journalists. Gerald persuaded her that they could better withstand the attack together and he went to stay at her cottage.

One morning, after they had jointly routed a peculiarly pertinacious woman journalist, Dollie said, 'Well, this
is
a lark, Gerrie, and no mistake. I
am
enjoying it.'

Gerald smiled back at her across the chintz-covered sitting-room. A few minutes later he said, 'Yes. We get on so well. It seems silly not to make something more permanent of it.'

Dollie went to the window and looked out on to the little garden where the October sun was shining lustily upon the Michaelmas daisies. 'All the same,' she said, 'I think we'll have a fire.'

'Well?'  Gerald asked. 'I wasn't suggesting anything...' His remark faded away.

'Bed?'  Dollie said. 'I didn't suppose you were. That
would
be a Fred Karno show at our age.'

'I didn't even mean,' Gerald explained, 'my giving up the flat or you the cottage. Just something a bit permanent.'

Dollie had lit the fire; she now knelt before it with a newspaper. 'It just wants to draw,' she said. 'It wouldn't do, Gerrie. I'm sorry, old dear. We'd get on each other's nerves in no time. I'm awfully set since I gave up the drink, you know. And hard. Hard on myself and on others. And a bit pi about things too in a sort of way. Oh! I enjoy life and I'm no nuisance to others, which is about as much as you can ask from an old woman who was brought up as I was. I'd like to come and stay with you when I'm in London. And I'll be glad to see you here as a visitor. But I couldn't
live
with anyone for the world. And nor could you. Only you won't admit it.'

Gerald said, 'I'm a very lonely person, Dollie.'

'No you're not,' she cried, 'you thrive on being on your own. But you won't leave anything or anybody alone. Look at the way you fuss about your family. You deserve all the rasgreatlyrries you get from them. And you won't forget the past. Oh! I grant you the Melpham business. That was different. You
had
to act there. But it's over now. You've got to move on.'

'I feel,' said Gerald, 'as though I had moved back when I'm with you. Look at the other evening with Mrs Salad. We might have been back at Fitzroy Square.'

Dollie got up and pulled down her skirt, then she said angrily, 'That's the only time I've felt disgusted with you since I've seen you again. Oh! I'm not saying anything against Mrs Salad. She's the same pathetic, cunning, dirty old thing that she always was. And quite an old dear too. Naturally we put a halo round her head in those days. We were in love. But to try to build all that up again. Really, Gerald! you've got to grow up.' She sat down and began to read the paper.

Here's something rum,' she cried a few minutes later. 'Look at this.'

Gerald read - 'Man's body to be exhumed. Echo of recent Civil Service scandal. A Norfolk coroner yesterday ordered the exhumation of the body of Harold Cressett. Mr Cressett died suddenly a fortnight ago at Cromer. Death was certified by a doctor as due to a disorder of the bowel. The expropriation of Mr Cressett's market-garden led to a recent inquiry into Civil Service mismanagement. As a result of the findings of the commission of inquiry a high-up civil servant was severely reprimanded and posted to the Ministry's branch department at Bangor.'

'Well,' said Gerald, 'the mill grinds slowly.'

The next morning he received a letter from Inge, forwarded on from Montpelier Square.

Dear Gerald [she wrote], Here in Marlow the sun shines, the roses bloom and yet soon we shall burn the wicked traitor Guy Fawkes. I love the English customs. Johnnie already walks a little. One! two! with Thingy's arm. Soon he will be walking. One! two! three. Then we shall have again to fight. To win back his good career. Is England mad now that she wants to lose splendid men because of nasty, dirty little lies? But he will get back his career. With Thingy's arm.

Why do I write to you? You do not deserve to be forgiven for the wicked things you said. But so is not my way. I want all smiles and happiness. Poor little Kay is not so. She cannot forgive you. She will not hear your name. She must not be judged. It is because she has the poor little hand. Cripples are always so - bitter. But now I will tell you about her. Donald is come here and there will be no divorce. And they are so happy and so pleased with old Thingy who has brought them this happiness that they are together again. Now they will live here and Thingy will have Baby with her. Sometimes Donald has said wicked things like another silly boy I know. But Donald is a good boy and I have forgiven him. But he is also bitter - he is a poor orphan. He is most bitter at things you have said. How you have said that you do not like him for a son-in-law. So please you must not come here, Gerald, for some time, because everything is happy and I do not like to have things which are not pleasant. ...

Gerald tossed the letter across to Dollie.

'So John will get back his career with her arm,' she commented as she read it. 'Does that mean they will appear on T.V. together? There's never been a mother and son act, has there? After all, it wasn't Wee Georgie Wood's
real
mother, or was it?'  She looked at Gerald across the Oxford marmalade and the coffee percolator. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,' she cried, 'don't make that hurt face. You've known all this for years. Accept it.' She paused. 'You do really, of course. You're glad to be free of them but you've got this tommy-rot about loneliness on the brain.' She laughed. 'Look,' she said, 'I'll tell you about someone who loves you. There's a girl come down to live here - one of those arty creatures. She's married to a painter. They've taken a perfectly  insanitary cottage outside the village with no proper lav and no light, and painted it all colours of the rainbow. Anyhow it seems she's very fond of
you.'

'What's her name?'  Gerald asked.

'Adams,' Dollie said. Gerald looked blank.

'Elvira Adams.'

'Oh! Elvira!' Gerald cried. 'How is she?'

'Blooming, I should have said. She's pretty, but too fat. I met her at tea, and when she heard the name Stokesay, she revealed that she knew you, said how much she admired you, how she wished you'd met in different circumstances, and she wanted to apologize because she's behaved awfully badly to you.'

Gerald looked very pleased. 'Didn't she tell you she was Lilian Portway's granddaughter? No, I suppose she wouldn't. She never liked Lilian.'