The Juniper Tree (16 page)

It was very different to last year’s visit, when Gertrude and I had been so happy together sitting under the juniper tree and eating delicious picnics in our Burning Bush Restaurant, with the magpies overhead watching us with their clever eyes and the cock bird sometimes coming down and helping himself to the most unexpected morsels of food, smoked salmon and ham or, to our dismay, chicken if he got the chance, which seemed like cannibalism to us. Now I used to sit there by myself, just to be quiet, really. There were still a few yellow poppies under the apple tree and I’d identified them from one of Gertrude’s botany books and learnt that they were called
meconopsis Cambrica
and were natives of the mountains of western Europe, but sometimes found in valleys.

I spent the second week’s holiday at home with Tommy. I redecorated the shop with Mary Meadow’s help and so enjoyed her company. We took Tommy to Chessington Zoo and she fell in love with an orang-outan with a most compelling personality and a look of great wisdom. Mary said, ‘He reminds me of Bernard,’ which slightly annoyed me because I could see what she meant. On fine days I sometimes took Tommy for bicycle rides sitting in her little seat behind me. We had picnics in the local parks and a favourite place – Teddington Lock.

I used to look forward to Stephen’s letters from New York; but now I put them on the mantelshelf and forgot them for several days. I was thinking of Bernard all the time. I loved him so much, but was content as long as I saw him two or three times a week and we sometimes touched each other or sat very close. Of course, he didn’t feel like this about me, but he was fond of me and my presence seemed to give him some sort of comfort: also he felt that I was partly his creation, that he had moulded me. This was true, he and Gertrude had both moulded me, Gertrude unconsciously. In a book of D. H. Lawrence’s poems they had given me I came on these lines:

‘And how I am not all except a flame that mounts off you

Where I touch you, I flame into being: but is it me or you?’

That is how I felt for Bernard, as if he were a flame. But I wasn’t a flame to him.

It was a long time since I’d seen my mother and our only communication had been the harsh telephone conversations we sometimes had. Then she arrived in her red Rover one Saturday afternoon towards the end of summer. She was accompanied by her shadow, Mr Crimony, carrying parcels that could be presents. Tommy ran to the shop window crying, ‘Mister Chimney is coming with lots of presents, quick, open the door!’ I was wrapping up some Crown Derby plates a customer had just bought, so I told Tommy to open the door herself. She flung her arms round Mr Crimony’s legs, ignoring my mother, which upset her and put a strain on the visit which took a little time to wear off.

The presents consisted of a large fluffy cream cake, a large fluffy toy dog for Tommy and a fuchsia in a pot for me. Tommy was delighted with the rather vulgar toy and said it was exactly like Fizz and that was to be his name.

Mother snapped, ‘That’s a silly name for a silly dog. I can’t think why you waste your money on such rubbish, Charlie.’ Then, half way through tea, when we were all sticky from the sweet cream cake, she produced an envelope from her bag and gave it to Tommy.

She tore it open, then said sadly, ‘But it’s only a little book without pictures,’ and handed me a small blue post office savings book. There was only one entry but it was for a hundred pounds, a handsome sum for a child to start a savings account with. I repeatedly thanked my mother, but Tommy wasn’t impressed and much preferred the fluffy dog, which pleased Mr Crimony.

After tea we sat in the garden because it was inclined to be dark in the room behind the shop and there seemed to be too many people in it. This year I’d planted a lot of snap dragons I’d grown from seed and the roses had done well, particularly a climbing white one that smelt very sweet, but all mother could see was the buses dashing past, only the tops of them over the tall gate, and they made a wooshing sound like sea waves and the lorries a sound like lions roaring – I’d grown used to the noise. Mother still had her job in the travel agency and offered to arrange a cheap off-season holiday for me; but I had already had my holiday and didn’t want another.

Mr Crimony and Tommy took fluffy Fizz for a walk on the Green, frequently stopping by trees so that he could lift his leg as she had seen the real Fizz do. When we were alone mother immediately started to ask questions about Bernard. I told her about Joan Webb because I thought it would amuse her; but she was quite shocked to hear that he was now living alone with two señoritas. ‘Good-looking girls, you say. Catholics, I suppose, so at least he won’t be able to marry one of them without a lot of trouble. Do you see him often? However much he loved his wife, I don’t think he will stay a widower for long. Such a handsome man, and wealthy too. Oh, you say he is coming this evening? Why didn’t you tell me before?’

Mother hung about as long as she could, hoping to see how we behaved towards each other, but Mr Crimony started fretting for his supper. There were herrings waiting in the fridge at home: ‘You can’t expect me to eat them in the middle of the night. That’s asking for indigestion,’ he said petulantly. So they drove away in the red Rover; but still Bernard didn’t come.

At about eight he phoned to say he was on his way. He had been delayed by a domestic crisis, but would be with us as quickly as possible. By this time Tommy had fallen asleep in a chair, still clutching her vulgar dog. When Bernard did arrive, he appeared very distraught and bundled us into the car, laying Tommy, who was still asleep, on the back seat. He said crossly, ‘Isabel has gone, so there won’t be a meal waiting unless Catalina has prepared something. I’ll tell you about it when we get home.’

I said regretfully, ‘Things seemed to be working so well with the two girls,’ and we didn’t speak again until we reached Richmond. It was as if we were breathing tired air.

When we entered the house I hurried upstairs with Marline in my arms and put her to bed without washing her and she still had some of her clothes on, but she was so deeply sleeping I didn’t want to disturb her. She was still clutching the fluffy dog. When I went downstairs Bernard was waiting for me in the hall and we walked into the drawing-room together. The room was in disorder and there was a strong smell of cigarette smoke combined with stale wine, although one of the windows was open. Then I saw the overflowing ashtrays and a half-empty bottle standing on the inlaid rosewood table and another lying empty on its side in a little pool of dark wine. Bernard said, ‘Disgusting, isn’t it? I came home early and that’s what I found. There were three men, one of them a waiter I’d seen here before, and Isabel, all of them sitting round the table playing cards and drinking my precious Château Lafite-Rothschild 1962. The waiter was fully dressed in his waiter’s clothes but the other two had their shirts and ties hanging over the back of their chairs and were wearing vests. There they were, sitting in Gertrude’s drawing-room in their revolting vests. I told them to leave the house immediately and, I must admit, they gave me no trouble, one even apologized for entering the house uninvited. It was Isabel who was really troublesome, screaming at me in Spanish, then practically having hysterics, while the two men quietly dressed, bowed politely and left the house. It was like some horrible film.’

I interrupted, ‘But where’s Catalina? She hasn’t gone too, has she?’

Bernard looked bewildered. ‘I suppose she’s still in her room. I sent her up there when Isabel was trying to make her leave the house with her and poor Johnny was screaming his head off and the women shouting above it. The waiter boyfriend did his best to calm them, eventually escorting Catalina and the child from the room, giving them little pats as he did so as if they were dogs. It took about an hour to get Isabel out of the house and she had to be practically carried to the boyfriend’s car, but when she was safely shut in, the man turned to me and said coolly he was sorry about the wine but he’d replace it as soon as possible, and we parted on quite good terms.’

I went into the kitchen to prepare a simple meal of some kind and found Catalina wearing a tragic tearstained face. She ran to me like a child and sobbed in my arms, then we went to the drawing-room and opened the french windows wide to the evening air and gave the room a quick clean and mopped at the wine-stained carpet. Within an hour the three of us were eating an omelette and an appetizing salad in the kitchen. We finished off the wine too. Bernard said it was a fabulous French one that he gave to very special art dealers and was not meant to be drunk in the kitchen and he looked round with interest. I think it was the first time he had eaten in his kitchen.

Chapter Twenty-One

O
n Monday morning Bernard and I went to Mrs Vic’s domestic agency, but after waiting for a few minutes he said he was very busy at the gallery and disappeared, and I was left to face Mrs Vic alone. She was an elderly woman with piled-up white hair and a very straight back. As I was talking to her I found I was straightening mine. In time I became quite at home at Mrs Vic’s, but I found that first visit rather intimidating. She kept trying to make me accept young mothers with one or two children and I knew Bernard was very against this. He said he didn’t want the house turned into a crèche and he didn’t want any pets either.

In the afternoon four women called about the job, some overlapping. The most attractive applicant had a small son of four dressed in red. He was a lively child and ran round and round the lawn until his bright brown hair became wet with sweat, then worked the gentle swing up to such a pitch that he was in danger of going over the top. Bernard would never have stood him; but I was sorry to see them go because I knew they lived in a cramped bedsitting-room.

There was a handsome Spanish girl, very like Isabel, but I felt we didn’t want any more señoritas for the time being. We needed someone rather stodgy.

The last two were both experienced cook-housekeepers and they had references to prove it. They were both around forty-five and had good figures and dull faces, but there was one difference; one was a spinster and the other divorced. The spinster was free to start work immediately, so I chose her, although her round face had a slightly spiteful expression, and on the whole it wasn’t a bad choice.

Her name was May Jones and she was always known as Miss May and, to the children, Missy May. I stayed for a week to settle her in, and she wasn’t difficult to settle, then I left her to Bernard. He had no complaints except that she wasn’t very good with Johnny, and I often had to spend my free Mondays with him when Catalina met her friends in London.

One funny thing happened soon after Miss May arrived. Isabel’s
novio
the waiter called at the house one afternoon with two bottles of Château Lafite-Rothschild 1962 for Bernard. We could hardly believe it. But it was really an excuse to see Catalina again. Isabel was forgotten and they became serious
novios
and in her spare time Catalina embroidered initials on double sheets and flower-decorated towels of all sizes.

Early in October I began to ponder about Johnny’s birthday on the ninth. It should be a happy day for the little boy although it was the first anniversary of his mother’s death and would be a terrible day for his father. I bought him a handmade engine of brightly decorated wood, which he would be able to pull about in a month or two’s time. He was already standing but preferred crawling to walking. Summoning my courage, I showed Bernard the toy engine, half expecting him to pounce on me for being interfering; but he was grateful to me for mentioning the subject and said he needed my help. So on the Monday before the ninth we went to Harrods’ toy department together and rather enjoyed ourselves, though I had to restrain Bernard from buying the most unsuitable presents for a boy of one year – tricycles and bicycles and construction sets, for boys of at least ten. I had to steer him towards teddy bears and musical boxes and multi-coloured balls. Bernard chose a very large teddy bear (quite a bit larger than Johnny and too big for him to play with, but I hadn’t the heart to say this), a very decorative hobby horse, a spinning top, balls of all sizes and, as we were leaving, a large jumping frog.

From Harrods we went to Bernard’s gallery, a slightly awesome place where people spoke in soft voices. From the street one saw only one dark painting in the window, a painting of dark, sorrowing figures of long ago, but inside, in the main gallery, there were some arresting Spanish paintings by Antonio Clavé and two small Mirós and, what pleased me very much, a painting by Tapies, an artist that Bernard had taught me to love and understand. While Bernard conducted his business a good-looking assistant wearing a beautiful suit, stood talking to me. I had met him several times in the gallery and once at Richmond and he never seemed quite real to me, but I liked him in a superficial way. Bernard was in a cheerful mood and, when his business was finished, took me out to lunch. Over lunch he told me that he had decided I was to learn to speak French properly. French was one of the few things I’d learnt from my mother, but hers was much better than mine and I could only speak in a stilted way. It was arranged that a French woman was to call at the shop two evenings a week and the course was to be very thorough, but, as a reward when it was finished, Bernard would take me to Brussels to see the gallery he was buying a partnership in. He said he wanted me to see it so that we could talk about it together and that it would mean something to me. In fact, I could go there quite often if I was interested. My chatter would keep him awake when he was driving.

Johnny’s birthday was all I hoped it would be and Bernard was there for the cutting of the cake and main present-giving. Miss May had made the cake and, of course, came to the tea. I was pleased to see how well she fitted in – she treated Bernard in a friendly but impersonal way which suited him. The presents were unwrapped by Marline and handed to Johnny, who was delighted with everything, including the crumpled paper wrappings, although he didn’t know what they were, but the present he liked best was a small mechanical bird that fluttered its wings and pecked the ground when wound up – a present from Marline. Naturally he didn’t quite understand about blowing the candles out, so Marline helped him with that too. When the tea was over, Bernard carried him round the nursery showing him the presents and helping him stand on his strong feet. Actually I think he gave his first steps that day. It was difficult to see because it was over so quickly, but Bernard always said he did.