Less Than Angels Part 9

'Oh, Professor, I'm sure many women must have been fond of you I' said Mrs. Foresight in a playful, flirtatious manner. If she had been carrying a fan she would surely have tapped his arm with it.

'Well, I think I can say that I have had my share of affection,' he mused, seeming to be unconscious of his audience.

'I expect Mrs. Foresight would like to see some of the applications for the Fellowships,' said Miss Clovis rathei sharply. 'Time is getting on, you know.'

'Ah, and how it is!' said Professor Mainwaring with a great gusty laugh, and, waving his hand in a friendly gesture to the young people, he escorted Mrs. Foresight and Miss Clovis out of the room.

'Excellent, my dear Esther,' he beamed, when Mrs. Foresight was washing her hands, ' to have those two in there, deep in discussion. A most happy touch, I could see that Minnie was deeply impressed. Mallow is very sound, you know,' he added, as if Tom were a fruit suitable for bottling, though it is doubtful if he would have recognized the a.n.a.logy. 'Ah, my dear Minnie, now what do you say to a little luncheon? You've had a tiring morning, but I hope you haven't been disappointed with what you have seen of our work here?'

'No, indeed, I've been most impressed. And that charming young couple, so obviously in love, well, the girl, anyway. Perhaps women show it more than men. Romance among all these books-however much education of women there is, you can't keep it out, can you... .' Her blue eyes bulged sentimentally.

'Is your chauffeur waiting down below, Mrs. Foresight, or did you tell him to call back for you?' broke in Miss Clovis.

'Oh, I expect he's waiting,' said Mrs. Foresight in the vague but confident tone of one who never has to worry about getdng to places or to rely on the uncertainties of public transport. 'Will you be joining us for lunch, Miss Clovis?'

'No, I am really much too busy,' said Miss Clovis, who had not been invited.

'Then perhaps we should go now,' said Mrs. Foresight, sounding relieved. She had not really taken to Miss Clovis, who seemed to her hard and unwomanly, always breaking in on what promised to be a rather delightful conversation with Professor Mainwaring with some grimly practical suggestion.

Mrs. Foresight's car, old-fashioned but of the best make and beautifully kept, was waiting in the street below. As they approached, the chauffeur stuffed the Communist newspaper he had been reading into his pocket, hurried to open the back door and, although it was a warm day, arranged a light rug over Mrs. Foresight's knees. Professor Mainwaring took his seat beside her, and dangled before her the names of a few expensive restaurants for her consideration. But in the end she chose the Ladies Annexe of his club, which was a learned and exclusive one and seemed to her to be on the threshold of those fascinating and unexplored academic circles which her late husband, with all his wealth, had never been able to penetrate.

The car moved off and went along rather slowly, as cars so often must in London. Mark and Digby, walking on the pavement, noticed Professor Mainwaring reclining against the pearl-grey upholstery, his hand on a silken cord, and with a silver vase of carnations nodding at his side.

'If he threw out a handful of coins, would you demean yourself by struggling for them in the road?' asked Digby.

'I don't suppose there would be any struggle,' said Mark. 'English people are embarra.s.sed at that sort of thing. Everybody would just look the other way and hurry on. We should have the field to ourselves.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Tom's going was a distressing business, both for Catherine and for Tom himself. Catherine had never quite under, stood why it was so much more painful to see a man in tears than a woman; it couldn't only be because they were supposed to be the stronger s.e.x. She had long ago learned that men could and did cry, but perhaps she had never recovered from the first shock of that knowledge or acquired any adequate way of dealing with the situation in the meantime. So must a mother feel when her son goes to school, she thought, and was immediately reminded of a song of childhood: Going to school, the cab's at the door, Mother is waiting to kiss me once more ; Father looks sad and gives me a tip, Poor little Maty is pouting her lip .. .

So strong did this impression become that she found herself humming the tune as she walked from room to room, gathering up Tom's possessions and helping him to pack them. She could no more prevent his going now than a mother could hold her child back from school.

They had spent a sleepless and unhappy night and in the morning Tom had said, with a sideways pleading glance at her, that he didn't feel awfully well and thought he might have a temperature. Perhaps the little boy had hoped that he might awake with a rash, to be diagnosed as measles or chicken-pox, thought Catherine, hardening her heart.

'You know I haven't a thermometer,' she said, 'but if you're really ill, of course you must stay in bed. I suppose we could unpack some of the things.'

'No, I suppose I must be all right really.' He glanced round the room. 'It seems to look just the same, even with my things gone, doesn't it.'

'Well, it won't look quite the same to me.'

'Oh, Catty, don't..

'It will be tidier, for one thing.'

He smiled weakly. ' You're so much braver than I am. I don't believe you mind all this at all.'

'I do mind. I was very fond of you, but we can't both be in tears.'

'Aren't you still fond of me? No, I suppose I can't expect that now-and you said I'd never really understood you.'

'Oh, that doesn't really matter-people make a lot too much of it. Who understands anybody, if it comes to that?'

'We haven't many interests in common.'

Catherine laughed. 'No, I suppose we didn't sit by the fire in the evenings doing fretwork or poring over our collections of b.u.t.terflies.'

'We mocked at each other's work,' said Tom rather hopelessly.

'That may be, but it surely isn't the point. You met Deirdre, that was what really mattered.'

'Oh, that: 'Well, we can't go into it now. We seem to have come to a parting of the ways, whatever the reason. Now look, I've mended all your socks and everything that could be washed is done. Are you going to get a taxi? I think you'll have to. Shall I go out and find one? Everything seems to be ready now.'

Catherine hurried from the room, almost in tears, but she had managed to control herself by the time she came back to say that the taxi was waiting below.

'What will you do now?' Tom asked.

'I'm having lunch with the editor of a magazine to whom I'm hoping to sell some articles, so I must get ready soon.'

'I hope she gives you a good lunch.'

'It's a man.'

'Do men edit women's magazines-what an idea!'

'Why not? Men do know something about women or at least like to form their tastes for them.'

'I suppose you'll write an article called "After he's gone", and make use of all this.'

'That might be a good t.i.tle-do hurry, the taxi's ticking away, you know.'

Tom hovered in the doorway still. ' I expect I'll go home for a bit later in the summer,' he said.

'Yes, do ; it would be a change for you. And ring me up sometime to let me know how you are. We might have lunch together or something.'

Tom's face brightened. 'Yes, that would be nice.'

'I'll carry down your typewriter. You're not going so very far away, you know-only ten minutes' walk. Give my love to Mark and Digby, and do be careful of that geyser in the bathroom.'

Catherine did not restrain her tears when she was alone and realized the truth of the saying that one felt better for a good cry. She washed up the breakfast things and then paced through the rooms, hoping and fearing that Tom might have forgotten something or that she might find some little unconscious relic to remember him by. The wastepaper basket was full of crumpled pages, rejected bits of his thesis, and there was an old typewriter ribbon, all mangled and twisted. So he had put a new ribbon into his typewriter before leaving her, Catherine thought, touched and amused, but the old one was hardly a reiic to be cherished. That would surely have been excessive sentimentality. She poked about idly among the papers and then drew out a sheet covered with large and rather childish handwriting.

'My own darling,' she read, 'this is going to be a silly sort of letter when I only said good-bye to you ten minutes ago, but whenever I'm not with you I feel like Scheherezade, if that makes sense, and so that's why I'm writing now,'

Poor Tom, Catherine thought, it had evidently not made sense to him, until he had asked her who Scheherezade was. She read through to the end of the letter with critical detachment, as if she were considering it as a piece of literature, then stood with it in her hand, not liking to crumple it up and throw it away again. She had known that men did not always keep letters as women did, but Tom was in some ways rather sentimental and she had the feeling that perhaps he had not meant to destroy it but had thrown it away by accident with his old bits of thesis. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now; it was not the kind of relic she would have cared to keep for herself, so she put it back into the wastepaper basket and then went to get ready for her luncheon.

The editor she was meeting was a good-looking fussy young man, who immediately noticed Catherine's eyelids, swollen with crying, imperfectly disguised with too much green eyeshadow. But her conversation was brittle and quite witty, and he judged that her approach would be detached and unsentimental which was the tone he aimed at in his magazine. He was pleased that she ate a good lunch, for he was fond of food and had taken trouble with the ordering of it. After they had discussed the articles she was to write, they talked about Siamese cats, cooking, and Victorian poetry.

'I've enjoyed this,' Catherine said.

'May I get you a taxi somewhere?' he asked, just like somebody in one of her stories.

'No, thank you, I shall meditate on top of a bus. I like doing that and I'm not in a hurry.'

The good lunch with c.o.c.ktails and wine had given her the courage to go home, and she began to look forward to taking oflf her high-heeled shoes and making a good strong pot of tea.

She sat on the bus, almost contented, looking out of the windows. It pa.s.sed the Law Courts and she noted with interest the little groups of people standing there, the wronged wife with a sensible-looking woman friend, the knot of relatives embittered over a disputed will. Then the bus stopped by a travel agency, its windows full of bright tempting posters. Spain, Portugal, Italy-dangerous, romantic, un-English: then Norway and Sweden-so clean and healthy: then France-which was just France, and Lourdes-a Pilgrimage by Luxury Coach. The bus moved away, leaving Catherine puzzling over this last announcement. A pilgrimage by luxury coach seemed a contradiction in terms. The bus gathered speed now, and they rushed past a church where a large poster announced what she hastily read as HOLY GHOST FATHERS-GRAND CENTENARY DANCE. But could it really have been this? Coming after the luxury pilgrimage, it was disturbing; the foundations of life seemed to be slipping. Am I imagining it, or is my mind unhinged by grief? she wondered. The bus began to crawl now, stopping at stops where n.o.body got on or off and waiting for the traffic lights to turn red; then it hurried again so that when she started to go down the stairs to get off it was like a perilously rocking ship and she nearly fell in her high-heeled shoes.

Nothing had happened since she went away. The rooms were tidy as she had left them. She took off her shoes and filled the kettle, then went to the window and stood looking out.

She had been there some time before she became conscious of a woman walking rather slowly along the opposite side of the street, peering at the houses as if looking for a particular number. When she saw Catherine she stopped and made as if to cross the road. Catherine drew back into the shadow of the curtain. A minute or so later her door bell rang. When she opened the door she found the woman she had seen waiting outside. She was in the middle fifties, well-dressed and good-looking, but with a worried, nervous expression and manner.

'Good afternoon,' she began. 'I wonder if you could tell me whether Mr. Mallow is in?'

'No, I'm sorry, he isn't here,' said Catherine, very much taken aback.

'Oh, I see. Well.. ,' the woman hesitated.

'I wonder if I could help you?'

'Are you Miss Oliphant, by any chance?'

'Yes, I am. Won't you come in?'

'It was really you I wanted to see, in a way.'

'Oh, do come in, then. I was just making some tea. I dare say you'd like some?'

'Thank you, that's very kind.'

They walked up the stairs together and Catherine indicated her front door. 'My flat is in there.'

'You will wonder what I have come for,' said the woman.

'Well, yes,' Catherine smiled. 'I don't think we've ever met before, have we?'

'No.' She paused and seemed to take a deep breath. 'You see,' she declared. 'I am Tom Mallow's aunt.'

Catherine's first instinct was to burst out laughing. She wondered why there was something slightly absurd about aunts; perhaps it was because one thought of them as c'ear, comfortable creatures, somehow lacking in dignity and prestige.

'Oh, yes, he told me about you,' Catherine ventured.

'I am Mrs. Beddoes. I live in Belgravia,' she explained.

'Yes, of course, I should have guessed that.' Tom's other aunt, his father's eldest sister, was a spinster who lived in a hotel in South Kensington. Clearly Mrs. Beddoes was the superior one-Belgravia and the married state had raised her up.

Tea was made and Catherine produced bread-and-b.u.t.ter and a plate of biscuits. She had no cake, especially not at a time like this, she told herself. n.o.body could expect it.

Mrs. Beddoes complimented her on her china. She seemed surprised to find that it was so nice, 'Oh, dear, it's all such a pity,' she burst out. 'I suppose I shouldn't be sitting here drinking your tea.'

'I have plenty, and you must have needed a cup-it's such a hot tiring afternoon. Do have a biscuit. I hope you like Bourbons. They always remind me of exiled European royalty, and that's one of those sad but comforting thoughts that one likes to have. Do you suppose they sit around in their villas at Estoril eating Bourbon biscuits?'

Mrs. Beddoes threw Catherine a startled glance but took a biscuit.

'There's something rather good about Osborne biscuits too, don't you think,' Catherine went on. 'Dull, solid and good-the Old Queen, I suppose. Were they named after the royal residence, do you think?'

'I suppose they may have been,' said Mrs. Beddoes unhappily.

'But I must stop my frivolous talk,' said Catherine, relenting. 'You came to see me about something.'

'Yes, I came here with a purpose.' Mrs. Beddoes put down her cup and seemed to gather up her courage. 'My sister, Tom's mother, asked me to call on him and report on his circ.u.mstances.' She lowered her voice and added, as if she were talking to a contemporary who was in no way concerned in the matter, 'You see, we had heard that he was living in rather a poor part of London with some-er-young woman, and it did seem such a pity.'

'Yes, I suppose it would seem like that.'

'He has been a great disappointment and worry to his family, you know. Taking up such a very odd career-we've never had such a thing in the family before. Going out to Africa and living in such a strange way...'

'And living equally oddly in London,' added Catherine sympathetically. 'Believe me, I do feel for you. Perhaps that hasn't happened before in your family, either?'

'Well, of course, one does not-cannot-know about that,' Mrs. Beddoes looked worried and Catherine remembered Tom telling her that she had a son about his own age. 'You see, Miss Oliphant, the whole thing is rather a surprise. You are not at all what I expected,'

'No, I dare say not. But women who live with men without being married to them aren't necessarily very glamorous, you know. They can be faded and worried-looking, their hands can be roughened with housework and stained with peeling vegetables . . ,' Catherine, looked down at her own, which were in this state. She had tried to keep them hidden during her luncheon with the editor, for she had not had time to improve them or put on nail-varnish.

'Yes, we had naturally envisaged.. ,' Mrs. Beddoes stopped, either because she was surprised at herself for producing such a curious word or because she did not like to say just what they had envisaged.

Catherine decided that it was perhaps unfair to let her go floundering on like this, so she refilled her cup and said in a friendly tone, 'Well, it hardly seems to matter now. Tom isn't living here any more. He left this morning,'

Mrs. Beddoes appeared confused, as indeed she was. Uppermost in her mind was a feeling of natural and understandable disappointment. The young woman seemed to be almost respectable and there was nothing in it, or no longer anything in it, after all. Then she noticed Catherine's swollen eyelids and had the feeling that she was intruding on a private grief and that it was concerned with her nephew. It was difficult to know what to say next.

'You sent him away?' she ventured.

'Not exactly-though women always like to think that they have taken the initiative in ending a love affair. But I may as well be honest. I think he waited to go.'

'My dear, I am sorry, believe me when I say that. But it was very wrong of you, you know, to live with him without being married. Don't you realize that?'

Catherine smiled. 'I see you are thinking the very worst.'

Mrs. Beddoes seemed uncomfortable again, and took up her furs and gazed into the bright gla.s.s eyes of the little animals' heads, as if they might help her.

'Well, one does usually think something of the kind, surely,' she said, on the defensive now.

'Yes, of course women do think the worst of each other, perhaps because only they can know what they are capable of. Men are regarded as being not quite responsible for their actions. Besides, they have other and more important things on their minds. Did you know that Tom was writing a thesis, for his Ph.D.?'

'How splendid,' said Mrs. Beddoes uncomprehendingly. 'He was always a clever boy. But he's been very naughty-I don't myself think that there should be different codes of behaviour for men and women, though of course that view was held, and in the highest circles.'