Tea & Antipathy (10 page)

“What a pleasant place,” Cynthia said, looking around.

“It is pleasant,” I said, looking at the fat man. “But an awful lot of phonies come in here.”

“I don't see any,” Cynthia said.

“What delicious pineapple juice,” Althea remarked.

“I saw the most charming thing today,” Cynthia said. “A woman was pushing a pram down the street with a little boy in it. I heard her say, ‘You've been naughty. Now you can't have a sweetie.'” She chuckled. “Isn't that darling? ‘A sweetie.' In
America,” she went on, her voice dropping, “in America he'd have been given a huge sack of sweets just to
be
naughty.”

“I can't remember when I've tasted such delicious pineapple juice,” Althea said.

“Why don't you move back here, Cynthia?” I asked, when I was able to talk.

“I should like very much to do that,” Cynthia said. “But it would have to be under the best possible circumstances. Financially,” She sipped delicately at her drink. “I should certainly,” she went on comfortably, “be happier back here, where people are civilized and know how to behave properly. Everywhere I go here I'm pushed and shoved by American tourists.”

“It has a lovely flavor,” Althea said. “The juice.”

“Aren't you an American?” Jordan said to Cynthia.

She laughed. “Of course not. I'm English.”

“But you became an American citizen.”

“Oh, yes, I became an American citizen, but I'm English.”

“But you took an oath to uphold America, to defend it, to defend American institutions. They made you a citizen. That makes you an American.”

Cynthia thought it over.

“I suppose I
am
an American citizen,” she said. “But I'm English.”

“Would you like another pineapple juice?” Jordan asked Althea.

“Oh, you're so kind,” Althea said. “Oh, aren't you kind. I don't want another one, because it does queer things to my digestion, but I think you're awfully kind. Thank you so much, but I really don't want another one. I loved it, it was delicious, but I don't feel that I want another one. But you are kind.”

She took a small book and pencil from her bag. “I should like to take you and the boys to Derry & Toms,” she said. “It has a famous roof garden. I should like to take you there on a Saturday morning.”

“Oh, Derry's is beautiful,” Cynthia cried. “It's ever so much nicer than Marshall Field's. It has a famous roof garden, growing miles above the city.” Althea named a day in July and wrote it down. “I'm going away; I shall be back then. I know it seems distant, but these things are on you before you know it.”

“We have to go,” Cynthia said. “We'll miss the last bus.”

“You've got bags of time,” Jordan said, employing an Anglicism.

“I can't bear the prospect of missing the bus,” Cynthia said, rising.

We walked to the bus stop through the chilly evening.

“The children would love to see Sydney,” I said, knowing it was hopeless. “They're awfully lonely.”

“Oh, I'll keep in touch with you,” Cynthia said. The big red bus came into view. We said a warm goodbye to Althea. “You know my parents are getting older,” Cynthia called, getting on the bus. “I can't be here to look after them. It's awfully sad. Goodbye, thanks for the drinks.”

O
N SUNDAY
we were set to visit with Pat Foyle's family in Cramley. “The children can play with other children,” Jordan said. “That's what they need. And you'll enjoy getting out of London. It's nice in Cramley.”

We had been invited to come for tea, so we left about one o'clock. It wasn't raining or cloudy as it had been all week; pale Sunday sunlight streamed about us. We left from Marylebone Station; it was old and airy, rather like a Victorian birdcage. I liked it, in a pale Victorian sort of way.

A man and a woman and some teenagers were in the coach with us. Halfway there they began to giggle loudly and play hide and seek behind the seats. Once in a while one of them fell down. Sometimes it was the woman, who looked to be in her fifties.

“I suppose Pat will be there,” I said. “He wouldn't be working on Sunday.”

“Well, he might be,” Jordan said. “Of course with this situation the chances are he won't.”

“What situation?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you? I thought I told you. He's living with some other woman in a neighboring town. It's been going on for a couple of weeks. Rose Emily is awfully upset.”

“What are we going there for?” I said, agitated. “How can we inflict ourselves on her at a time like this?”

“What do you mean?” Jordan said. “She's fine.”

Rose Emily was waiting at the station, a tall handsome woman in a wrinkled skirt and bare legs. “We'll have to walk home,” she said. “Pat's got the car, of course.” Two children were with her. “This is Judith and this is Charles,” she said. Judith was about ten and had long black hair and piercing eyes. Charles, about Eric's age, was small and wiry; he peered at us through a heavy thatch of hair. “Run along,” Rose Emily said to the children.

She grasped Jordan's arm and drew him ahead, talking to him animatedly. Some of her sentences drifted back to Mark, Bruce and me on the quiet air. “Simply don't
understand …”
she said, and “ … told him repeatedly …” We climbed through hedges and across fields. Weeds waved about our knees. “They're trying to put council housing in this field,” Rose Emily called back to me. “We're fighting it tooth and nail. Wreck the field and the dreadful people…. Dropped in this morning and took them for ice cream,” she said to Jordan.

All the houses in Cramley were built of the same brownish brick; they had small-paned windows and a weathered look, although they seemed to be relatively new. Rose Emily's house had a large garden with flower beds and vines. The living room had sliding doors opening onto the garden, and a little 1930ish
moderne
fireplace with a painting of cows hanging over it. There was a sagging sofa covered with a vaguely Spanish throw.

“I'll show you the kitchen,” Rose Emily said, “and we'll carry the tea things out. We'll be much nicer outside today.”

The kitchen was extremely small, and festooned with washing. We fought our way through damp sheets and towels and emerged with trays of chipped crockery. I had brought a cake.

“Perhaps you don't like tea?” Rose Emily said to me. “Many Americans don't. Would you like milk or lime juice?”

Tortured by thirst, I chose lime juice, forgetting that it would come from a bottle straight from the warm cupboard. Sweet and sticky, it clung to my dry throat as it went down. We all crouched around a low table. The air was very damp and warm, and quiet. Very quiet.

“I just love cake,” Judith said, staring at me with her piercing black eyes. “I love most things. I love to eat. Mummy says I have a wonderful appetite. Don't I, Mummy?”

“Yes, you do, dear,” her mother said.

“There's almost nothing I don't like to eat,” Judith said. “I love everything. Charles is picky. Isn't he, Mummy?”

“Yes, he is, dear.”

“Let's go play,” Charles said to Eric. His accent was distinctly different from his mother's and sister's.

“Yes, go play,” Rose Emily said dreamily. “But mind the flowers. Mind the bushes. Mind the currants.”

“Perhaps they oughtn't to play,'' I said. “They might step on something.”

“Oh, ducky,” Rose Emily said, “don't fuss so. Not to worry. They're fine.”

“It's lovely for us to get out of the city,” I said. “The children have nowhere to play there.”

“I used to dislike tomatoes,” Judith said. “But I like them now. Mummy and I could never decide why I disliked tomatoes. We thought perhaps it was because of the pips.”

“I disliked tomatoes when I was a child,” Rose Emily said. “But I'm not sure now why.”

“I think it was the pips, Mummy,'' Judith said.

“Yes, perhaps it was because of the pips. Charles! Mind the currants! Mind the blackberries!”

“I'm sure it's the pips,” Judith said. “They get in your teeth and slide all over your tongue. It's horrible having tomato pips in your teeth. Look, Mummy, they're stepping on those vines.” She stood up; her face turned crimson.

“Get out of those vines, you horrid, horrid boys!” she shrieked.

Eric stood still and stared at us, startled. Charles seized the opportunity to dump a bucket of grass clippings over his head.

“Stop that, Charles, you fool,” Rose Emily said mildly. “He picks up disgusting habits,” she said to us, “from his hideous little pals at the state school.” She smiled brightly at me. “Jordan tells me you just got your degree.”

“Yes,” I said, “in English literature.”

“Milton lived near here,” she said. “He wrote most of
Paradise Lost
near here. His house is just over the way.”

“My goodness, “I said. “I'd love to see it.”

“Oh, it's so exciting that you got your degree,” Rose Emily said. “It's marveys really. Did you write a thesis?”

“No, I took an exam. From Chaucer to the present….”

“Oh, Chaucer!” Rose Emily said. “I've always wanted to read Chaucer, but they wouldn't let us read it unexpurgated at school. They didn't let you read it all, did they?”

“Well, yes,” I murmured. “Graduate school …”

“Really? They let women? Charles! Mind the bushes! Charles!”

“Oh, look what they're doing, Mummy,” Judith said. She leaped to her feet. “They're stepping all over the flowers. They're naughty, horrid boys!”

She rushed at Charles, who ducked lithely away.

“Oh, children,” Rose Emily said, giving me a big smile. “I really am awfully glad to meet you at last,” she said. “We're all so fond of Jordan.” She gave him a big smile too. “We just think Jordan's so much fun. We really enjoy him.”

I murmured gratitude.

“He's not the least bit American,” Rose Emily said.

“Do you mean,” I said, trying to make a joke, “he's un-American?”

“I mean he's not American. You know. One meets Americans, one really feels pushed to the wall. They push, you know.” She gave all of us a big smile. “But Jordan's different. He's not pushy.” At this point Bruce, who had been sitting next to me in a frozen stupor similar to Mark's, rose uncertainly to his feet. His face was beet red and his cheeks were swollen; his eyes were filled with tears, and in an agony of shyness and outrage, he kept them on the ground. “Lots of English people are pushy too,” he said, in a strangled voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Rose Emily said.

“Bruce,” I said weakly, “we don't speak … We …”

Jordan put his arm around Bruce, and Judith, from the bottom of the garden, gave a piercing scream. We all turned; she was writhing on the ground, crying and screaming and clutching her leg.

Rose Emily flew to her. “My baby!” she cried, “What is it?”

“Charles,” Judith shrieked, “Charles.”

“What has he done, Judith?”

Charles appeared to have climbed a tree. Rose Emily half carried Judith to the tea table.

“Oh, that dreadful wretch Charles,” Judith said. “It's his fault.”

“Oh, Charles,” Rose Emily cried, “what have you done?”

“I kicked his bicycle and hurt my leg,” Judith sobbed. “It's all his fault.”

Mark made a sort of choking sound.

“Oh, Charles, do be careful,” Rose Emily said.

Charles climbed down from the tree, and began to pry up the sewer lid that was under our feet.

“Look,” he said, in a rich Cockney, ‘”ere's the sewer, I'll show you.” It was the sewer all right.

“I think,” Jordan said, “if we're going to get the six o'clock train, we really ought to help you clear away now. We can have a leisurely walk to the station. We don't mind waiting there.”

“No, that's right,” I said. “I mean I hate to rush.”

“Yeah,” Mark said, his first word of the afternoon.

We fought our way through the wet laundry again and deposited the crockery.

“You must take your cake back with you,” Rose Emily said to me. “There's some left.”

“No, that's for you,” I said grandly.

“Oh, thanks awfully,” Rose Emily said. “It's super cake.”

“You're not all that tall when you stand up,” Judith said, staring at me. “You're short.”

“Charles!” Rose Emily shouted, “Put down that sewer lid! Look out for the bushes! Julia goes to France in August,” she said to me, “and then perhaps I'll ring you. I may come in town with Charles.”

“Oh, that would be nice,” I said. Eric was standing next to me, trying to scratch the grass clippings out of his collar.

We began our trek back across the fields and over the hedges. Charles climbed trees and jumped over walls and threw pebbles at Eric, who was sucking his thumb. Rose Emily walked on ahead with Jordan and snatches of her conversation floated back to us. “Taking my money,” she said, “and not a cent … Definitely starting proceedings, and yet I feel….”

Mark walked beside me, his arm protectively around Bruce. “Oh, boy,” he said softly.

W
E ROSE VERY EARLY
on Monday, our first day at day camp. Jordan took us in a cab to the South Kensington—he and Mark kept calling it South Ken—underground station. He made inquiries, handed me a little colored map and he and Mark rushed off. The children and I waited on a platform with several large bearded men in turbans who looked like extras in an old Ronald Colman movie, and a knobby Buddhist priest carrying prayer beads. It was a long ride to West Ruyslip, but we all felt cheerful because at least we were going somewhere and not just wandering around looking for happiness.