SATURDAY MORNING AT VIOLETTE
1
Alix rode from South Kensington to Clapton in the warm mid-June night on
the last bus. She had been at a birthday party in Margaretta Terrace,
S.W. Bus 2 took her to the Strand end of Chancery Lane. Here she left
her companion, who had rooms in Clifford's Inn, and walked up Chancery
Lane to Holborn, and got the last Stamford Hill bus and rushed up Gray's
Inn Road and then into the ugly, clamorous squalor of Theobald's Road,
Clerkenwell and Old Street. The darkness hid the squalor and the dull
sordidness of the long straight stretch of Kingsland Road. Through the
night came only the flare of the street booths and the screaming of the
very poor, who never seem too tired to scream.
At Stamford Hill Alix got off, and walked down Upper Clapton Road, which
was quiet and dark, with lime-trees. Alix softly whistled a tune that
some one had played on a violin to-night at Audrey Hillier's party. The
party, and the music, and the students' talk of art-school shop, and the
childish, absurd jokes, and the chocolates and cigarettes (she had eaten
eighteen and smoked five) were like a stimulating, soothing drug.
A policeman at the corner of Spring Hill flashed his light over her and
lit her up for a moment, hatless, cloaked, whistling softly, limping on
a stick, with her queer, narrow eyes and white face.
She turned down Spring Hill, which is an inclined road running along the
northern end of Springfield Park down to the river Lea. It is a
civilised and polite road, though its dwellings have not the dignified
opulence of the houses round the common.
Alix stopped at Violette, and let herself softly in with her latchkey.
Violette was silent and warm; the gas in the tiny hall was turned low.
The door ajar on the right showed a room also dimly lit, with a saucepan
of milk ready to heat on the gas-ring, and a plate of Albert biscuits
and a sense of recent occupation. It is very clear in an empty room by
night what sort of people have sat and talked and occupied themselves in
it by day. Their thoughts and words lie about, with their books and
sewing.
There were also in this room crochet doylies on the chairs and tables, a
large photograph of a stout and heavily-moustached gentleman above the
piano (Mr. Tucker), a small photograph of a thin and shaven and
scholarly gentleman over the writing-table (Professor Frampton), some
Marcus Stones, Landseers, and other reproductions round the walls, two
bright blue vases on the chimney-piece, containing some yellow flowers
of the kind that age cannot wither, dry, rustling, and immortal, 'Thou
seest me' illuminated in pink and gold letters, circling the picture of
a monstrous eye (an indubitably true remark, for no inhabitant of the
room could fail to see it), and the _Evening Thrill_ and _The Lovers'
Heritage_ (Mrs. Blankley's latest novel) lying on the table.
Alix sat on the table and smoked another cigarette. She always smoked
far too many. She was pale, with heavy, sleep-shadowed eyes. She had
talked and smoked and been funny all the evening.
One o'clock struck. Alix turned out the gas and went up to bed, quietly,
lest she should disturb the family. She crept into the bedroom she
shared with Evie, and undressed by the light that came in through the
half-curtained window from the darkened lamps in the street.
The faint light showed Evie, asleep in her lovely grace, the grace as of
some lithe young wild animal. Alix never tired of absorbing the various
aspects of this lovely grace.
She got into bed and curled herself up. Between the half-drawn window
curtains she could see the tops of the Park trees, waving and fluttering
their boughs in a dark sky, where clouds drove across the waning moon.
Footsteps beat in the road outside, came near, passed, and died. The
policeman trod and retrod his allotted sphere, guarding Violette while
it drifted drowsily into the summer dawn, which broke through light,
whispering rain. Alix dreamed....
In Flanders, the rain sloped down on to men standing to in slippery
trenches, yawning, shivering, listening....
2
Evie pulled back the curtain, and the yellow day broke into Alix's
dreams and opened her sleepy eyes. She yawned, her thin arms, like a
child's arms, stretched above her head.
'Oh, Evie,' said Alix. 'Can't be morning, is it?'
'Not half,' said Evie, collecting her sponges and towels for her bath.
'It's last night still.... Whatever time did you get back, child?' (Evie
was a year younger than Alix, but more experienced. In her pink kimono
dressing-gown, with her long brown plait down her back, and her face
softly flushed from the pillow, she looked like the blossom a hazel-nut
might have had, had it been so arranged.)
'Twelve--one--two--don't know,' Alix yawned, and pulled the bedclothes
tight under her chin. 'Think I was too tipsy to notice.'
Evie, coming back from the bathroom, woke her again. She lay and
watched, between sleepy lids, Evie dressing. Drowsily she thought how
awfully, awfully pretty Evie was. Evie was lithe and long-limbed, with
sudden, swift grace of movement like a kitten's or a young panther's.
She had a face pink and brown, fine in contour, and prettily squared at
the jaw, eyes wide and dark and set far apart under level brows, and
dimples. Of the Violette household, Evie alone had charm. Except on
Saturdays and Sundays she trimmed hats at a very superior and artistic
establishment in Bond Street. There was a certain adequacy about Evie;
she did but little here below, but did that little well.
Alix sat up in bed, one dark plait hanging on either side of her small
pale face, her sharp chin resting on her knees.
'I must do it sometime, mustn't I?' she said, and did it forthwith,
tumbling out of bed and staggering across to the washstand for her
sponge and towel. She dropped and drowned her dreams in her cold bath,
and came back cool and indifferent. Through the open window the summer
morning blew upon her merrily; it was windy, careless, friendly, full of
light and laughter.
3
In the dining-room, when Alix came down, were Mrs. Frampton, who was
small, trim, fifty-three, and reading a four-page letter; Kate, who was
inconspicuous, neat, twenty-nine, and making tea; and Evie, who has
already been described and was perusing two apparently amusing letters.
Mrs. Frampton looked up from her letter to say, 'Good-morning, dear. You
came home with the milk this morning, I can see by those dark saucers.
You ought to have stayed in bed and had some breakfast there.'
Mrs. Frampton was very kind. She also was very early in going to bed:
anything after midnight was to her with the milk.
Kate said, having made the tea and turned out the gas-ring, 'We're all
late this morning. If we don't commence breakfast quick I shall never
get through my day.'
They stood round the table; Mrs. Frampton said, 'For what we are about
to receive,' and Kate said, 'Some bacon, mother?'
'A small helping only, love.... Such a nice long letter from Aunt
Nellie. Fred and Maudie have been staying with her for the week-end, and
the baby's tooth begins to get through. Aunt Nellie's rheumatism is no
better, though, and she thinks of Harrogate next month. Do you hear
that, Kate?'
Kate was critically examining a plate.
'Egg left on it _again_. If I've spoken to Florence once I've done so
fifty times, about egg on plates. I'd better ring for her and speak at
once, hadn't I, mother? She'll never learn otherwise.'
'Do, love.'
Kate rang. Florence came and Kate said, 'Florence, there's egg on this
plate again. Take it away and bring another, and recollect what I told
you about soda.'
'Oh dear me, dear me,' said Mrs. Frampton, who had opened the paper.
'Just listen to this. One of those Zeppelins came again last night and
dropped bombs on the East Coast, killing sixteen and injuring forty.
Now, isn't that wicked! Babies in the cradle formed a large proportion
of the fatalities, as usual. Poor little loves. You'd think those men
would be ashamed, with all the civilised world calling them baby-killers
last time.'
'They're just inhuman murderers,' said Kate absently. 'I expect they're
dead to shame by now.... This bacon is somewhat less streaky than the
last. We must speak to Edwards about it again. I shall tell him we shall
really have to deal with Perkins if he can't do better for us. Another
slice, Evie?'
'Some more toast, love,' Mrs. Frampton suggested to Alix. 'And a little
preserve. You don't eat properly, Alix. You'll never grow strong and big
and rosy.... Kate, this tea isn't so nice as the last. A touch raspier,
it seems. What do you think?'
'I prefer it, mother. It has somewhat more taste. But if you think it's
too strong....'
'No, love, I expect you're right. Is it the one-and-ninepenny?'
'One-and-eight.'
Evie giggled over her correspondence.
'And who have _you_ heard from, Evie?' asked her mother, looking
indulgently at her pretty younger daughter.
'Floss Vinney, for one. She's got some more blouse patterns, and wants
me to go round again and help her choose. There's one a perfect treat
she was thinking of last week; she thinks it'll make up to suit her, but
it won't a bit; it's fussy, and she's too fussy already, with that
frizzy hair. It would suit me nicely, or you, Alix, but it'll smother
Floss. I told her so, but she wouldn't believe me. She thinks Vin will
like her in it, but I bet he doesn't. Though, of course, you never can
say _what_ a man will like, they're so funny. Oh dear, they are comic!'
Evie gurgled over some private experiences of her own: she did not lack
them.
'Floss usually looks very nice in her clothes,' said Kate with
deliberate heroism, because, for reasons, she disliked to think so.
Alix, hearing her, passed her the jam (preserve, Violette called it)
impulsively, without being asked; and as a matter of fact, Kate, eating
bacon, did not want it. Mrs. Frampton, moved doubtless by some sequence
of thought known to herself, said, 'They say those Belgians in the
corner house eat ten pounds of cheese each week. Edwards' boy told
Florence. Just fancy that. Not that one grudges them anything, poor
things.'
Kate said, 'Mr. Alison' (the vicar of the church she attended) 'says
those corner Belgians have been very troublesome indeed lately. They've
all quarrelled among themselves, and all but the wounded young man and
his mother think the wounded young man is well enough to go to the front
now, and he will slam the doors so, and two new ones have come, so
they're packed as tight as herrings (but they say Belgians always _will_
overcrowd), and the one that lost her baby on the journey has found it
again, and the others aren't pleased because it cries at nights, and
they all say they don't get enough to eat. The vicar's had no end of
bother with them. And now two of them say they won't stay here, they'll
go off to Hull, where Belgians aren't allowed. The vicar reasoned with
them ever so long, but they will go. They say they have uncles there.
I'm sure it's very wrong if they have. It does seem sad, doesn't it?'
The lack of discipline among this unhappy people, she meant, rather than
the uncles at Hull.
Mrs. Frampton said, 'To think of them behaving like that, after all
they've been through!' She scanned the paper again, having finished her
small breakfast.
'Here's a German in Tottenham Court Road strangled himself with his
window cord. Ashamed of his country. Well, who can blame him? We must
leave that to his Maker. Now listen to this: Lord Harewood says
Harrogate is a nest of spies. Quite full of German wives, it is. Fancy,
and Aunt Nellie going to take the baths there next month. Lowestoft too,
and Clacton-on-Sea. I'm sure I shall never want to visit any of those
East Coast places again; you'd never know whom to trust; not to mention
all these airships coming, and being put into gaol if you forget to pull
the blinds, and having your dog confiscated if he runs out by night....
Girl robbed her grandmother; she spent it all on dress, too. Fancy, with
all the distress there is just now. Home Hints: Don't throw away a
favourite hat because you think its day is over. Wash it in a solution
of water and gum and lay it flat on the kitchen dresser. Stuff the crown
with soft paper and stand four flat-irons on the brim. But clean the
irons well first with brick-dust and ammonia. The hat will then be a
very nice new shape.... Here's a recipe for apple shortcake, Kate: I
shall cut that out for Florence.... Dear me, how late it gets! We must
all get to our day's work.... Have you heard news from your mother, Alix
dear?'
'Yes.' Alix had two letters before her. 'Mother writes from Athens.
She's been interviewing Tino (don't know how she managed it); trying to
get him to sit on a council for Continuous Mediation without Armistice.
I gather Tino thinks it a jolly sound plan in theory, but isn't having
any in practice. That's the position of most of the neutral governments,
apparently.'
As none of the family knew what Continuous Mediation without Armistice
meant, the only comment forthcoming was, from Mrs. Frampton, 'Your
mother is a very wonderful person. I only hope she isn't getting
over-tired, going about as much as she does.... You've had some news
from the front too, haven't you?'
'Yes,' said Alix. 'A friend of mine has just got wounded. He's being
sent home.'
'Oh, my dear, how unfortunate! Not seriously, I trust?'
'No, I shouldn't think so. A nice blighty one in the hand, he says. He
seems quite cheery about it. He tried to return a bomb to the senders,
and it went off just before its proper time. It happens often, he says.
It must be difficult to calculate about these time-bombs.'
'A dreadful risk to take, indeed! It's his left, I suppose, as he
writes?'
'He dictated it. No, not his left.'
'The right? Dear me, now, how sad that is. It so hampers a man. What
used he to work at, love?'
'He paints.'
'Well now, isn't that a pity! He must learn to paint left-handed when
the war's over, mustn't he? But I hope his hand will be quite well again
long before then. It's given you quite a shock, dearie, I can see.
You've gone quite pale. Would you like a little sal-volatile?'
'No thank you, Cousin Emily. It's not given me a shock a bit.... Do you
want me to do the lamps, Kate?'
'Well--I don't know why you should. Evie's nothing to do this
morning....' Kate looked doubtfully at her sister, who said promptly,
'Oh, hasn't she? That's all you know. I'm for a cutting-out morning.
Thanks muchly, Alix; I'll do the dusting if you'll do the lamps.'
4
Kate retired to domestic duties in the back regions.
Evie, before doing the dusting, took up the _Daily Message_ and glanced
through the feuilleton. It had been the same feuilleton for many weeks.
It was always headed by a synopsis and a list of characters: 'John
Hargreave, a strong, quiet man of deep feeling, to whom anything
underhand is abhorrent. Valerie Lascelles, a beautiful girl of nineteen,
who loves John. Sylvia, her sister, exactly like Valerie in face, but
not in character, for she is shallow and hard and lives abroad, the
widow of a foreign count. Cyril Arbuthnot, a smart man about town,
unscrupulous in his methods, who sticks at nothing.' No wonder Evie
found it interesting.
Then she flicked competently round the drawing-room with a duster,
calling to Florence to clear away quick, because she wanted the table
for cutting out.
Alix did the lamps in the pantry.
Mrs. Frampton did accounts and wrote to Aunt Nellie, in the dining-room.
Florence cleared away, also in the dining-room.
Kate looked in in her hat and coat, with the little red books that come
from shops on a Saturday morning.
'I'd better get in a new tongue, I suppose, mother. The one we have will
scarcely be sufficient for Sunday.'
'Yes, dear. Get one of the large ones.'
Kate went bill-paying.
Evie extracted incomprehensively-shaped pieces of brown paper from the
pages of _Home Chat_, a weekly periodical which she took in, and began
her cutting-out morning.
Alix returned from the lamps and said, 'I'm going out for the day with
some people. I may go on to Nicholas in the evening, very likely.' (It
may or may not have been before mentioned that Alix had a brother of
that name.)
'Very well, dear. Bring your brother or some of your friends back with
you afterwards, if you like. I'm sure it would be very nice if they
stopped to supper. Our supper's simple, but there's always plenty for
all. And the Vinneys are coming round afterwards, so we shall be a nice
party. I asked them because they've got that cousin, Miss Simon, staying
with them, and I thought they'd be glad of an evening's change for her.'
'That fatty in a sailor blouse,' Evie, who observed clothes, commented.
'I should think they'd be glad of a change _from_ her. She's a
suffragette, and talks the weirdest stuff; she's as good as a play to
listen to.... I shouldn't think your brother'd get on with the Vinneys a
bit, Alix.'
'Probably not,' said Alix. 'He doesn't with most people.'
Evie looked as if she shouldn't think he did.
'What's the name of that new floor-polish, to tell Aunt Nellie?' said
Mrs. Frampton, pausing in her letter.
But, as Kate was out, and as it was neither Ronuk nor Cherry Blossom
(suggestions of unequal levels of intelligence from Evie and Alix), she
had to leave a space for it.