back. ‘My dear Baby, don’t be such a little fool; it’s years too old for you,’ brushing her timid question aside. ‘No, Louise,’ to the attendant; ‘something much more simple, in white’; and then, turning round to Uncle John in irritation: ‘Well, what are you gaping at? I suppose you’d like to see the child dolled-up like a tart?’
She had never heard Mummy speak like that in her life before. Quickly, shamefully, she whispered: ‘Yes, let me have the white; it looks very nice,’ hating it in her heart: the band at the waist, the thick shoulder-straps, so school-girlish; but she would wear anything if it would change the expression on Mummy’s face, so hard, with peeved lines at the corner of her mouth.
And then, when Mummy was not looking, Uncle John had whispered in her ear: ‘It’s a damned shame! You’d look lovely in the velvet, lovely,’ smiling at her, patting her hand, as though they were allies, ranging himself on her side as it were, furtively, like an accomplice. ‘If you want anything, come to me,’ he had told her later that day, pulling her into a corner, glancing over his shoulder through the crack in the door. ‘Don’t worry your mother, just come along to me.’ And for a moment she had felt like laughing, he was so much the tabby cat, sleek and well fed, purring slightly and arching his back. ‘Thank you, Uncle John, you’re a lamb,’ she said, kissing him impulsively; when, to her surprise, he went dark red, hesitated a moment, then kissed her back. ‘We’re going to be friends, aren’t we, Baby?’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘But we always have been,’ she answered, feeling, for the first time in her life, shy and uncomfortable, as though he were a stranger.
The days which should have been filled with joy and new interests passed slowly, like the old school holidays, and, for all the change, she might still be the child at the pension . Mummy made excuses for the many invitations they received. ‘Later on, perhaps,’ she would say vaguely, and then go off with Uncle John alone, leaving her to ring up a school friend and spend half a crown at the Plaza.
Christmas Day was spent with Granny in the country, as usual: a heavy mid-day lunch, followed by a walk in the rain in the afternoon; and Boxing Day was relieved by the Circus and a cousin to dinner. But after that the week stretched dully on until New Year’s Eve. Surely nothing would happen to spoil that? Mummy’s funny mood would leave her; Uncle John would be himself again. There was to be a big party at the Savoy; a party given entirely for her, when everyone would know she was grown up and a child no longer. Most passionately she prayed that it would be a success, this, her first party, and Mummy would be the old Mummy, careless and affectionate, proud of her daughter so like a younger sister; and she would wear her new dress, even if it were a little too full, a little too young. ‘Please, God, let everything be all right,’ she whispered at bed-time, rocking on her knees in a fervour of faith; and, going to the window, pulled aside the curtain, where bright in the sky a star shone, as she would shine, fairer than the others, on New Year’s Eve.
Mummy went to bed early the night before the party. She had her dinner taken up to her on a tray. She felt tired, she said, worn out. She hoped she would be better by to-morrow, but, really, if she wasn’t, the whole thing would have to be put off, even if it meant disappointing Baby. Better that than the whole house down with ’flu. Her throat was sore, and it might easily be ’flu. One could not be too careful, this time of the year. Her daughter kissed her good-night and wandered, disconsolate, into the drawing-room.
She sat down at the piano and played softly, for fear of disturbing Mummy. It couldn’t be going to be ’flu, not suddenly like this, the night before the party. Sometimes she wondered if Mummy behaved like this on purpose, and, for some
She had never heard Mummy speak like that in her life before. Quickly, shamefully, she whispered: ‘Yes, let me have the white; it looks very nice,’ hating it in her heart: the band at the waist, the thick shoulder-straps, so school-girlish; but she would wear anything if it would change the expression on Mummy’s face, so hard, with peeved lines at the corner of her mouth.
And then, when Mummy was not looking, Uncle John had whispered in her ear: ‘It’s a damned shame! You’d look lovely in the velvet, lovely,’ smiling at her, patting her hand, as though they were allies, ranging himself on her side as it were, furtively, like an accomplice. ‘If you want anything, come to me,’ he had told her later that day, pulling her into a corner, glancing over his shoulder through the crack in the door. ‘Don’t worry your mother, just come along to me.’ And for a moment she had felt like laughing, he was so much the tabby cat, sleek and well fed, purring slightly and arching his back. ‘Thank you, Uncle John, you’re a lamb,’ she said, kissing him impulsively; when, to her surprise, he went dark red, hesitated a moment, then kissed her back. ‘We’re going to be friends, aren’t we, Baby?’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘But we always have been,’ she answered, feeling, for the first time in her life, shy and uncomfortable, as though he were a stranger.
The days which should have been filled with joy and new interests passed slowly, like the old school holidays, and, for all the change, she might still be the child at the pension . Mummy made excuses for the many invitations they received. ‘Later on, perhaps,’ she would say vaguely, and then go off with Uncle John alone, leaving her to ring up a school friend and spend half a crown at the Plaza.
Christmas Day was spent with Granny in the country, as usual: a heavy mid-day lunch, followed by a walk in the rain in the afternoon; and Boxing Day was relieved by the Circus and a cousin to dinner. But after that the week stretched dully on until New Year’s Eve. Surely nothing would happen to spoil that? Mummy’s funny mood would leave her; Uncle John would be himself again. There was to be a big party at the Savoy; a party given entirely for her, when everyone would know she was grown up and a child no longer. Most passionately she prayed that it would be a success, this, her first party, and Mummy would be the old Mummy, careless and affectionate, proud of her daughter so like a younger sister; and she would wear her new dress, even if it were a little too full, a little too young. ‘Please, God, let everything be all right,’ she whispered at bed-time, rocking on her knees in a fervour of faith; and, going to the window, pulled aside the curtain, where bright in the sky a star shone, as she would shine, fairer than the others, on New Year’s Eve.
Mummy went to bed early the night before the party. She had her dinner taken up to her on a tray. She felt tired, she said, worn out. She hoped she would be better by to-morrow, but, really, if she wasn’t, the whole thing would have to be put off, even if it meant disappointing Baby. Better that than the whole house down with ’flu. Her throat was sore, and it might easily be ’flu. One could not be too careful, this time of the year. Her daughter kissed her good-night and wandered, disconsolate, into the drawing-room.
She sat down at the piano and played softly, for fear of disturbing Mummy. It couldn’t be going to be ’flu, not suddenly like this, the night before the party. Sometimes she wondered if Mummy behaved like this on purpose, and, for some
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