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Authors: Stella Gibbons
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grew fainter and fainter until she heard it no more.
Stars looked in at landing windows, lamplight shone through the branches of a flowering tree in the Square, making every blossom and leaf into some fantastic tropical butterfly. Distant traffic droned, paused, droned on again, as it climbed Highgate Hill. My flat, thought Christine, pausing to look out of her landing window over dark sleeping roofs and the rounded masses of sleeping trees, my home. Mine.
Cries about hot-water bottles,
Vick
, boiling baths, that wonderful stuff that man in Paris put Fabia on to, and a final landing colloquy between Fabia and James about the pathetic and extraordinary behaviour of that poor ass, Peter, floated up to her until past midnight, breaking in on a wakefulness due to the excitement that she had felt, and controlled, throughout the day. Into the small hours, it seemed to her between waking and sleeping, she heard the light gay murmur of their voices and, surely once there was singing, and a scatter of applause. They keep all hours, she thought drowsily, as she at last fell asleep.
Chapter 7
MISS MARRIOTT REMAINED invisible throughout the quiet Sunday that followed. But on Monday morning she appeared in the kitchen at nine o’clock, looking dewy, fresh and cold-less.
“Is there any coffee?” she asked, smiling a little at Christine.
“I have got it all ready to make. But I was just wondering who would be coming down … Mrs. Traill said would I give you all breakfast for the next few days, just while you’re settling in …”
“Divine,” Miss Marriott said lifelessly, sitting down at the table and beginning to fidget with the cups. ‘Oh, I think everybody’ll want coffee.”
Christine was about to measure the powder from a tin into the first cup when there came a low shriek and an arresting hand.
“
Not
that muck out of a tin! Haven’t we any
real
coffee?” Enormous sapphire eyes swept the kitchen distractedly, coming to rest on Christine’s face.
“There is half a pound. I did get some. Mrs. Traill said to get it but I thought it’ud save time.” Christine was slightly flustered and thinking that she had excuse to be.
“And don’t boil the milk. Scald it. It spoils the flavour to boil it. And sugar. Yes, sugar—two teaspoonfuls—for once.” Miss Marriott sighed and her voice died away.
Nervy, thought Christine, piecing together the fragments of gossip overheard, and shovelling coffee beans into the patent grinder fixed to the wall. Looks older by daylight, too. She concentrated on the grinding, resisting a temptation to count the strings of pink beads that filled the scooped-out neck of Miss Marriott’s black suit. Her eyelashes were black this morning, as well.
“Hullo, darling. Better?” Clive Lennox came in, smiling absently at Christine while bending over Miss Marriott. She opened her eyes long enough to rub her cheek against his, then shut them again, and Christine approached with a cup, saying, “Your coffee, Miss Marriott,” with an intonation unconsciously modelled on that of a butler she had seen in some film. Antonia groped for it, and drank.
“Oh …” she sighed, cradling improbably long fingers about the cup, “that’s good … that’s very good,” nodding at Christine. “Yes, I’m better … I hope I’ll be better still at five this evening, when that little bastard’s numbers are out of the way.”
“The first-night feeling. Don’t I know it,” Clive muttered.
“No. No, it isn’t like that now, Clive. It used to be, but at least then I did know I had a clear field; some numbers would just be more of a hit than others. But this time—that little so-and-so’s first show, and sharing it with him—it’s all so
muddly
. I do loathe him so, and his horrible little jackets all over pearly-king buttons.”
She waved away the bread which Christine was holding towards her and rested her head on her hand.
“Better eat something. Can’t face up to things on an
Stars looked in at landing windows, lamplight shone through the branches of a flowering tree in the Square, making every blossom and leaf into some fantastic tropical butterfly. Distant traffic droned, paused, droned on again, as it climbed Highgate Hill. My flat, thought Christine, pausing to look out of her landing window over dark sleeping roofs and the rounded masses of sleeping trees, my home. Mine.
Cries about hot-water bottles,
Vick
, boiling baths, that wonderful stuff that man in Paris put Fabia on to, and a final landing colloquy between Fabia and James about the pathetic and extraordinary behaviour of that poor ass, Peter, floated up to her until past midnight, breaking in on a wakefulness due to the excitement that she had felt, and controlled, throughout the day. Into the small hours, it seemed to her between waking and sleeping, she heard the light gay murmur of their voices and, surely once there was singing, and a scatter of applause. They keep all hours, she thought drowsily, as she at last fell asleep.
Chapter 7
MISS MARRIOTT REMAINED invisible throughout the quiet Sunday that followed. But on Monday morning she appeared in the kitchen at nine o’clock, looking dewy, fresh and cold-less.
“Is there any coffee?” she asked, smiling a little at Christine.
“I have got it all ready to make. But I was just wondering who would be coming down … Mrs. Traill said would I give you all breakfast for the next few days, just while you’re settling in …”
“Divine,” Miss Marriott said lifelessly, sitting down at the table and beginning to fidget with the cups. ‘Oh, I think everybody’ll want coffee.”
Christine was about to measure the powder from a tin into the first cup when there came a low shriek and an arresting hand.
“
Not
that muck out of a tin! Haven’t we any
real
coffee?” Enormous sapphire eyes swept the kitchen distractedly, coming to rest on Christine’s face.
“There is half a pound. I did get some. Mrs. Traill said to get it but I thought it’ud save time.” Christine was slightly flustered and thinking that she had excuse to be.
“And don’t boil the milk. Scald it. It spoils the flavour to boil it. And sugar. Yes, sugar—two teaspoonfuls—for once.” Miss Marriott sighed and her voice died away.
Nervy, thought Christine, piecing together the fragments of gossip overheard, and shovelling coffee beans into the patent grinder fixed to the wall. Looks older by daylight, too. She concentrated on the grinding, resisting a temptation to count the strings of pink beads that filled the scooped-out neck of Miss Marriott’s black suit. Her eyelashes were black this morning, as well.
“Hullo, darling. Better?” Clive Lennox came in, smiling absently at Christine while bending over Miss Marriott. She opened her eyes long enough to rub her cheek against his, then shut them again, and Christine approached with a cup, saying, “Your coffee, Miss Marriott,” with an intonation unconsciously modelled on that of a butler she had seen in some film. Antonia groped for it, and drank.
“Oh …” she sighed, cradling improbably long fingers about the cup, “that’s good … that’s very good,” nodding at Christine. “Yes, I’m better … I hope I’ll be better still at five this evening, when that little bastard’s numbers are out of the way.”
“The first-night feeling. Don’t I know it,” Clive muttered.
“No. No, it isn’t like that now, Clive. It used to be, but at least then I did know I had a clear field; some numbers would just be more of a hit than others. But this time—that little so-and-so’s first show, and sharing it with him—it’s all so
muddly
. I do loathe him so, and his horrible little jackets all over pearly-king buttons.”
She waved away the bread which Christine was holding towards her and rested her head on her hand.
“Better eat something. Can’t face up to things on an
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