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Authors: Stella Gibbons
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empty stomach,” said James Meredith, who came in humming and was the first to give Christine what she called ‘a proper good-morning’.
“James, I couldn’t. I’m having milk and sugar in my coffee, that will have to do. You’re both being so sweet, but honestly this morning it will just have to do.”
James shook his head.
“Bacon and egg, Mr. Meredith?” Christine enquired, feeling sure of her ground this time, and having received a beam and a silent and definitely conspiratorial nod in answer, set to work.
“I’ll take some coffee to the girls to wake them up,” he said in a moment, and while Antonia slowly drank her coffee and was persuaded by Clive to try a piece of toast, Christine made two trays ready.
She hoped that there wouldn’t be this fuss every morning, meals on trays, and people sitting about half-crying. Still, she hadn’t got to take anything upstairs and yesterday no one had come down to breakfast at all.
James went out, having deftly put everything onto one tray.
“… and his frightful, frightful old mum,” Antonia was sighing, “all bursting out of black satin and her shoes three sizes too small and short sleeves. Her huge arms make me feel quite ill—and Nigel said she was ‘wonderful’. Wonderful! I used to think Nigel had taste.”
Clive confined himself to fondling her long limp hand.
“She keeps hinting that one of us might be trying to marry him. As if we would, or he could. I really don’t think she knows anything about … anything,” glancing sideways under the eyelashes towards Christine. “She was one of those Ivor-worshippers—well, we all know what a darling Ivor could be—I’m not blaming the boy for his name—but—”
She got up slowly, a long, black, immoderately-slender shape topped with loops of hair neither silver nor gold, pressing distraught hands against the barely visible, scrupulously creamed wrinkles on her forehead.
“I want to see him design a suit. That’s all I want,” she sighed. “One suit—the kind of thing you wear to go shopping in, and put something on it if you go on to lunch with people. Lunch!” The hands came down, dropping to her sides. “All he’s ever heard of is high tea—with chips.”
Clive sat looking up at her, with distress and one or two other feelings gliding cloudily over his face.
“Nigel says—and I know it’s true, in a way—his name and his mum and that waify look and his accent are just handed to us on a platter so far as publicity goes—but when did Nigel Rooth’s want that kind of publicity or need it? ‘Beautiful clothes for gentlewomen’. Yes, I know it sounds corny now. Twenty years ago it didn’t.”
She gave a last gusty sigh, then glanced at the clock and uttered one of her subdued shrieks.
“I’ll only take twenty minutes, the worst rush is over,” said Clive soothingly.
“You are sweet. They said they’d only keep mine a week, and it’s already ten days, blast them. Thank you, love,” as she slipped her arms into the coat he held out.
“’Couldn’t let you go off without a word,” croaked Mrs. Traill, hobbling in on a pair of sandals that looked vaguely Javanese and carrying an empty cup. “Best of luck, honey.”
“Oh, I shall need it—” she shook her head at them despairingly.
“Bear up,” said Diana, following, and also carrying one. “All the luck in the world, pet.”
They called it after her affectionately, heartily, as she went out supported by Clive; then they sat down and pushed the cups hopefully at Christine and began to nibble fruit and toast. Both wore exotic and becoming dressing-gowns.
“It would be this week of all weeks, her car being laid up,” Mrs. Meredith said. “It must be the last straw.”
“Now, Diana! You
know
she welcomes
any
chance to flop on to Clive.”
Mrs. Meredith shrugged and did not answer, but James shook his head as he sat behind
The Times
.
“This psychological approach … now I should have said his driving
“James, I couldn’t. I’m having milk and sugar in my coffee, that will have to do. You’re both being so sweet, but honestly this morning it will just have to do.”
James shook his head.
“Bacon and egg, Mr. Meredith?” Christine enquired, feeling sure of her ground this time, and having received a beam and a silent and definitely conspiratorial nod in answer, set to work.
“I’ll take some coffee to the girls to wake them up,” he said in a moment, and while Antonia slowly drank her coffee and was persuaded by Clive to try a piece of toast, Christine made two trays ready.
She hoped that there wouldn’t be this fuss every morning, meals on trays, and people sitting about half-crying. Still, she hadn’t got to take anything upstairs and yesterday no one had come down to breakfast at all.
James went out, having deftly put everything onto one tray.
“… and his frightful, frightful old mum,” Antonia was sighing, “all bursting out of black satin and her shoes three sizes too small and short sleeves. Her huge arms make me feel quite ill—and Nigel said she was ‘wonderful’. Wonderful! I used to think Nigel had taste.”
Clive confined himself to fondling her long limp hand.
“She keeps hinting that one of us might be trying to marry him. As if we would, or he could. I really don’t think she knows anything about … anything,” glancing sideways under the eyelashes towards Christine. “She was one of those Ivor-worshippers—well, we all know what a darling Ivor could be—I’m not blaming the boy for his name—but—”
She got up slowly, a long, black, immoderately-slender shape topped with loops of hair neither silver nor gold, pressing distraught hands against the barely visible, scrupulously creamed wrinkles on her forehead.
“I want to see him design a suit. That’s all I want,” she sighed. “One suit—the kind of thing you wear to go shopping in, and put something on it if you go on to lunch with people. Lunch!” The hands came down, dropping to her sides. “All he’s ever heard of is high tea—with chips.”
Clive sat looking up at her, with distress and one or two other feelings gliding cloudily over his face.
“Nigel says—and I know it’s true, in a way—his name and his mum and that waify look and his accent are just handed to us on a platter so far as publicity goes—but when did Nigel Rooth’s want that kind of publicity or need it? ‘Beautiful clothes for gentlewomen’. Yes, I know it sounds corny now. Twenty years ago it didn’t.”
She gave a last gusty sigh, then glanced at the clock and uttered one of her subdued shrieks.
“I’ll only take twenty minutes, the worst rush is over,” said Clive soothingly.
“You are sweet. They said they’d only keep mine a week, and it’s already ten days, blast them. Thank you, love,” as she slipped her arms into the coat he held out.
“’Couldn’t let you go off without a word,” croaked Mrs. Traill, hobbling in on a pair of sandals that looked vaguely Javanese and carrying an empty cup. “Best of luck, honey.”
“Oh, I shall need it—” she shook her head at them despairingly.
“Bear up,” said Diana, following, and also carrying one. “All the luck in the world, pet.”
They called it after her affectionately, heartily, as she went out supported by Clive; then they sat down and pushed the cups hopefully at Christine and began to nibble fruit and toast. Both wore exotic and becoming dressing-gowns.
“It would be this week of all weeks, her car being laid up,” Mrs. Meredith said. “It must be the last straw.”
“Now, Diana! You
know
she welcomes
any
chance to flop on to Clive.”
Mrs. Meredith shrugged and did not answer, but James shook his head as he sat behind
The Times
.
“This psychological approach … now I should have said his driving
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