There must have been a side to him, thought his mother, that we never knew. Well, of course, that was only natural. Parents cannot expect to know every side of their children.
As for Viola, she may have loved Teddy, but there is no doubt, thought Mrs Wither, that she jumped at the chance of making such a good match, marrying into a comfortably-off family with a big house and a certain position in the countryside. That was a big step up for a little shopgirl in Chesterbourne. It would have been very surprising, even rather shocking, if Viola had refused to marry Teddy.
The car stopped outside the station.
Saxon opened the door for Mrs Wither and handed her attentively out, and she hurried through to the platform, for the train was in.
And there was tall Viola, in one of the newest-shaped hats somehow looking not quite right, with her very pale, soft curls straggling under it. She came down the platform lugging a big suitcase in one hand and holding on to her new hat with the other, peering about for someone to meet her.
‘There you are, Viola,’ said Mrs Wither encouragingly, catching at her arm, and Viola stooped and gave her a clumsy kiss.
‘Hullo, Mrs Wither.’
Her voice was a little deeper than most women’s; not much, but enough to make it admired had she moved in circles where such differences are noticed. Nevertheless she was no siren, but a would-be-smart girl of twenty-one, in a cheap black coat and skirt, a pink satin blouse, and gloves with fussy cuffs. She was pale, with narrow eyes of a soft grey, a childish mouth with small full lips half parted, and pretty teeth. She did not look quite a lady, which was natural; as she was not one.
‘Did you have a comfortable journey?’
‘Oh yes, thanks, ever so comfy.’
‘Your trunk has come.’
‘Oh, marvellous.’
They walked out to the car, Viola towering a head and shoulders over Mrs Wither, and Saxon, touching his cap, took the suitcase. With lowered eyelids he settled the case beside the driver’s seat while the ladies got in at the back: and they were off.
‘Ripping the country looks,’ said Viola.
‘Yes, that’s all the rain. As I always say, it is tiresome at the time, but, after all, it does bring everything on so.’
‘Yes. It’s ever so pretty.’
‘And how are you, in yourself, I mean?’ pursued Mrs Wither dutifully. ‘No more colds?’
‘Oh no, thanks awfully. I’m quite all right again.’
‘And did you manage to settle everything satisfactorily in town – your flat, and the furniture, and the cats?’
‘Oh yes, thanks awfully. Geoff did it all for me, you know, Geoff Davis. My friend Shirley’s husband.’
Mrs Wither nodded. She felt a little awkward. Not only had she not seen Viola since the funeral, and had therefore had time to let strangeness grow up again between herself and this daughter-in-law whom she had never got to know well, but the flat was an embarrassing subject. It was because Viola had not been able to let the flat that she had not been able to come to The Eagles until more than three months after Teddy’s death. She had kept on writing to her in-laws, putting off her arrival because of the flat, until Madge, in her blunt outspoken way, had said that it was as plain as a pikestaff that the girl did not want to come at all.
Then there had been more delay over the cats.
Teddy had been exceedingly fond of the cats, Sentimental Tommy and Valentine Brown (named after characters drawn by his favourite author, Sir J. M. Barrie) and that was why Viola had felt it her duty to find a first-class home for them. This took time, because both were enormous, full of crotchets, set in their ways, and hearty eaters. They also refused to be separated, immediately falling into a rapid decline if anybody tried it on. Viola, with Shirley’s help, had at last landed them in a roadhouse near St Albans which believed in the personal touch.
But it had all taken time: and Mrs Wither, catching the note of embarrassment in Viola’s voice as well, wondered for the hundredth time if she really did not want to live at The Eagles.
If she did not, it was very wrong and ungrateful of her.
‘Shirley Davis? I think I have heard you mention her before, have I not?’
‘Oh, hundreds of times, I sh’d think. She’s my best friend, you know. She was at my wedding.’
‘I remember her perfectly. A very striking-looking girl.’
With dyed hair, thought Mrs Wither, for that shade of red could never be real.
Some uninteresting conversation about the flat followed while the car got slowly through the narrow crowded streets of Chesterbourne. Viola answered Mrs Wither’s remarks politely and sensibly, but it was plain that she was thinking about something else; and when at last the car passed a small draper s shop on the corner of the High Street she leaned right out of the window, exclaiming, ‘Oh, there’s the shop! How lovely to see it again,’ and craning still further as the car drew away from Burgess and Thompson, Ladies’ Outfitters, ‘Oh! there’s Catty! At the door, matching something!’
Mrs Wither said nothing, the usual method in the Wither ménage of showing someone that they had dropped a brick; and Viola slowly drew herself into the car, leaned back, and rolled the fussily cuffed gloves into a ball. She said nothing, either.
After the little pause, Mrs Wither thought this a good moment to make the speech she had prepared about being glad that Viola was coming to live with them, and how she must try to feel that The Eagles was her real home.
It did not occur to Mrs Wither to apologize for the lack of nightlife, or of any life, at The Eagles, because it did not occur to her that a young widow needs life. Mr Wither had said that Viola must come to live with them because, if she did not, she would get into a muddle with Teddy’s money. Also, the Wither cousins would Say Things. That was why Viola was coming. Mrs Wither felt that she was doing her duty in making the little speech, but she did not much like Viola (so young, so pleasure-loving, rather common) and was secretly dismayed that she was going to live at The Eagles.
She was trying not to mind Viola’s having been a shopgirl. It was not Christian to mind; Tina did not mind. But poor Madgie minded; she demanded what the devil would everyone say up at the Club? and it was for Madgie’s sake that Mrs Wither had gently repressed Viola when she stared at the shop out of the car window.
In reply to Mrs Wither’s speech, Viola gave her a quick nervous glance and a little smile, and Mrs Wither leaned back more comfortably now that duty was done, and the embarrassing incident over.
Mr Wither was working out figures in his den when they got home, but Tina was on the doorstep, smiling and waving, and she hurried down to kiss Viola as Saxon opened the car’s door.
‘It is nice to have you, Vi,’ putting her arm about her sister-inlaw’s waist; ‘I am so glad.’
Her eyes filled. She did indeed feel warmly fond of Viola, and grateful to her, because Viola’s arrival meant that there would be someone different to look at and think about.
And then Viola was a widow; mysterious, unguessable state! so different from that of all the other women under Mr Wither’s thumb at The Eagles.
Perhaps, too, Viola would ‘stand up for herself’?
Not that Tina enjoyed scenes; after a stern and scrupulous examination of her feelings about scenes she could look the book on feminine psychology in its eye and swear that scenes made her feel ill; but she felt that someone ought to make a few at The Eagles. They would clear the air.
Tina thought vaguely about scenes as she sat on Viola’s bed, watching her comb the untidy curls just touching her shoulders.
‘Is your hair naturally curly?’
‘Just a bit, but it’s permed, of course. Shirley says it’s awful. It won’t keep tidy.’
‘Isn’t hair a nuisance. I’m awfully disgruntled with mine; I tried to change the parting this morning but it looked so woeful that I had to give it up. I ought to go to town, really, and have a new perm. Mine has quite grown out. I used to go up once a fortnight, a few years ago,
just for a wash and a set.’
‘Don’t you now?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ asked Viola idly, wondering what was for lunch.
‘Haven’t the energy.’
This was not true. The answer was Mr Wither; it always was Mr Wither when someone at The Eagles was unable to do what they wanted to do.
‘How old are you?’ asked Tina abruptly, staring at her sister-in-law as she stood in the white blaze of April sunlight.
‘Just twenty-one,’ with a shy, cheerful smile. ‘Shirley says I’m a regular babe.’
‘Is she older than you?’
‘Oh, lord, yes; keep it under your hat, but she’s getting on for twenty-seven.’
‘Dreadful!’ said Tina wryly. ‘Isn’t she married?’
‘Oh yes. Been married three years. She’s going to have a baby in December.’
‘Oh, my dear, how lovely for her! She must be pleased.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact she’s a bit fed-up. You see, it may mean giving up her job.’
‘Oh, she has a job as well?’
‘Yes. She’s awfully brainy. She’s secretary to some old boy. She gets a jolly good salary.’
‘And what does her husband do?’
‘He sells cars. He works in a car saloon in Golders Green, where they live, and Shirley works down in the City.’
‘A husband, a job, and a baby,’ murmured Tina, staring at the floor. She stood up abruptly. ‘Well, I must go and powder my nose for lunch. Got everything you want?’
The gong went while Viola was staring round her room.
It was furnished with large white elephants from the rest of the house, and draughts whistled under the door and between the window sashes and from the cracks in the old boards, but it was so big and the windows showed so much sky that the general effect was pleasing.
Viola could not help wishing that it had been smaller, with pink curtains instead of brown serge ones; in fact, she wished that it looked just like the little room over the shop where she used to sleep before she was married, but as she had been wishing, ever since her marriage, that all her bedrooms were that little pink one, she was used to the wish and took its presence for granted.
If only I had someone to talk to! she thought, running down the stairs.
Mr Wither greeted her with reserve, Madge waved at her boyishly. Mr Wither was afraid that she might begin at any minute to cry about Teddy, and as he did not care to risk this by talking to her, he let Tina chatter to her during lunch.
But afterwards, ah! afterwards! The hellish fire had been banked up just before lunch by Mr Wither’s own hands, the prospectuses of several safe and highly recommended investments were arranged neatly upon the desk, a flat, depressed little old cushion had even been found by Mr Wither from somewhere in the den and arranged, how cosily! in the large arm-chair. When Viola sat down, Mr Wither planned to pat the cushion and ask her if she were quite comfortable. And then the little talk would begin.
Mr Wither had been looking forward to it for days. He was so busy planning just what he would say and wondering exactly how much money Viola had that he looked up with a start when asked if he would take cheese, realizing that lunch was over.
He shook his head, waving the cheese away. Now was the moment.
He leaned over the table to Viola (who was, he observed, wastefully putting a whole ball of butter on only a quarter of dry biscuit), fastened his mournful bloodhound’s eyes upon her, and breathed in a low mysterious tone,
‘You and I must have a little talk.’
Viola was very frightened. When people came at you like that and spoke of a little talk, it always meant something awful about which you had to make up your mind, and which would prevent you from enjoying anything for days because you would be thinking about it. Teddy had been the one for little talks; Viola usually had one from him every ten days, so she knew all about them.
She gave her father-in-law one wide, startled look from her usually half-shut eyes, then gazed down at her plate, muttering, ‘Yes, Mr Wither.’
‘Soon,’ persisted Mr Wither, leaning further over the table. ‘No time like the present, eh? and get everything settled.’
She nodded.
‘Now,’ said Mr Wither triumphantly, rising to his feet and beginning to move towards the door. ‘In my study.’
But even as he moved, the corner of his eye was caught by an improper gleam of white in the garden, and he turned to look out of the window.
Daisies, eleven of them, in the middle of the lawn, looking untidy. Saxon had been instructed that morning to get them up, but he had not. He ought to have; he must be spoken to again: and Mr Wither, turning round from the window, found that Viola was not there.
Neither was Tina. Neither (oh, base!) was Mrs Wither. Only Madge sprawled at the table, buttering an unnecessarily big wedge of bread.
‘Where is Viola?’ cried Mr Wither.
‘Gone to get a handkerchief.’
‘But we were going … she did not say …’
‘Yes she did, only you were looking out of the window and didn’t hear.’
‘And your mother … Christina?’
‘Mum’s gone to see Saxon about the daisies, she said. Tina wants to wash her hair or something.’
Mr Wither walked in silence from the room. At the door he paused, saying,
‘When Viola returns, say that I am waiting for her in my study.’
But Viola, locked in one of The Eagles’ three lavatories with a copy of Home Chat, did not return until, from its window, she saw Mr Wither set out for a walk, with bowed head, smacking at things with a walking-stick. He wore a little check cap, shrunk in the annual rains, that matched his trousers, and a mackintosh, and he went off towards the wood, where he could be peaceful and think about money undisturbed.
Then Viola went up to her bedroom and spent the afternoon unpacking, with Tina’s help.
Tina was awfully kind; she admired all Viola’s clothes (though in fact her own were better, because she had a certain choiceness of taste which her sister-in-law lacked) and helped her to re-set her curls. Nevertheless, by teatime Viola felt miserable, because the house was so quiet and everybody in it was so old.
All the afternoon, shadows of the beautiful white clouds floated quickly over rooms filled with well-kept, ugly furniture; at night the rising moon would draw her stealthy, dreary rays slowly across mahogany claw-foot tables and enormous sideboards. It must be awful here at night, thought Viola. So quiet.
Nothing in the house seemed to have changed, or grown, for fifty years. Mr Wither, despite his dislike of spending money, believed in buying The Best when he did spend it, because The Best was the cheapest in The End; but unfortunately The Best lasted such a long time that The End never came, and Mr Wither’s furniture, at fifty years old, was as good as the day he bought it, and entirely lacking the personality given to furniture by a busy, vivid family life.
No one scuffed the Wither furniture with their boots when they came home tight from a party, or scratched it during a charade, or used it for making an aeroplane or a cage for bears. No one left cigarettes to burn long scars on its edges or put wet-rimmed glasses down on it. There it stood, superior and glossy, and twelve big rooms full of it weighed upon young and probably silly spirits.
Time seemed slowed to half its usual pace by the heavy ticking of an old clock in an alcove, the faint smell of furniture polish, the meagre clusters of flowers in thin glass vases, and the dull shine on well-polished wood. Three middle-aged religious maids kept all this glory going; with their faith, the wireless, and their disapproval of almost everything, they were well content.
Viola was frightened, as well as depressed. She dreaded to meet Mr Wither at tea after her flight from him at lunch. She did not dare to look at him as the party took their places round a small fire in the huge pallid drawing-room and Mrs Wither began to pour out; she gazed down at her plate, but presently she became aware of a creaking towards her, and Mr
Wither saying:
‘Did you forget our little talk? I quite wondered where you had run off to.’ And Mr Wither laughed, an alarming sound.
She glanced at him and nodded, dumb with nervousness.
‘Ah well, another time, perhaps,’ creaking back again. ‘I expect you will be busy for a few days, settling down, will you not?’
She nodded, and no more was said.
But in Mr Wither’s bosom, till now only mildly disapproving of his daughter-in-law, a strong suspicion and disapproval had been planted.
The hellish one had consumed a bucket of coal all for nothing, the arrangement of the prospectuses, the curves of the cushion – all had been wasted. Worse, Mr Wither had been done out of his little talk, and he still did not know how much money Viola had. She had now been under his roof for nearly five hours, and she was the only female in that situation about whose income Mr Wither was ignorant.
It was all most annoying. Mr Wither stared into the smouldering fire, chewed a very small tea cake, and decided that a firm hand must be taken with Viola.
After tea (good lord, was it still so early?) Viola went upstairs again to her room. No one asked her what she was going to do until dinner time. Noises from a bathroom suggested that Tina was washing her head; Mrs Wither and Madge had merely disappeared. She shut her door, crossed the room listlessly, pushed up the heavy window and, balancing herself on the sill, gazed out across the view.
It was a beautiful evening. The wind had fallen and the sun gone down behind coral-red clouds. The air was mild, and scented by new leaves. One star was out; among the woods, already dark, a thrush was singing.
It was all enough to break your heart and Viola began to cry.
Girls of nineteen may be put in two classes: those who assume that they will marry immediately and those who fear that they will never marry at all. Viola Thompson, only daughter of Howard Thompson, part proprietor of Burgess and Thompson, Ladies’ Outfitters, had belonged in the latter class.
She had a poor opinion of her own charms, and when Teddy Wither fell in love with her she was more embarrassed and distressed than flattered.