One blustery evening last March I heard the doorbell ring. I was sitting over my fire reading a book about Japan which had just been published. It was part of my job, and an interesting part, to read the books as they came to Wentworth’s. Many of the books in Wentworth’s were old and dry, mere treatises upon the lands with which they dealt; but some were new and interesting, some had atmosphere, caught you up out of the grayness of London, warmed you, fed your hunger for beauty and strangeness and adventure.
The book about Japan had carried me to the land of cherry blossom; I came back to the land of wind and rain with a sigh of regret. I heard the wind howling round the chimney pots, the rain clattering on the window. The doorbell rang again, clamorously, urgently, and I got up to answer it.
I found Kitty standing on the mat, she was wearing a beautiful soft coat of caracal, and a small brown hat was perched coquettishly upon her fair wavy hair. Her eyes were shining, and she was breathing quickly as though she had run up the stairs.
“Kitty!” I said in amazement.
“I was afraid you had gone to bed.”
“I was reading,” I told her, opening the door wider.
Kitty came in; I smelt the strong scent she used as she squeezed past me in the narrow hall.
“Jeremiah takes up too much room,” she said laughing. “You should let me have him you know, I would pay you for him—”
“I like Jeremiah,” I said quickly. It was so like Kitty to offer to pay for something she wanted. (Silly of me to be annoyed, of course.)
Kitty went over to the window and pulled the blind aside. She peered out. “What a dreadful night!” she said, shivering a little.
“Are you staying in town?” I asked her.
“Needs must,” she replied. “I’ve lost the last train. The service to Hinkleton is absolutely rotten. I wondered if you could put me up, Charlotte. I’ve had a ghastly day chasing after an under-housemaid. You would think, with all this unemployment that they talk about, that it would be easy to find one.”
“Surely there must be plenty!” I exclaimed.
“I can’t find one,” she said. “And my head aches.”
I was surprised that she had come to me. She had not been inside the flat for years, I knew she thought it poky, and shabby, and inconvenient. Why hadn’t she gone to a hotel, she would have been much more comfortable in a hotel, and Kitty liked comfort. But, since she had come to me, I could not refuse to put her up. I did not really want to refuse. It was a break in the monotony of my life and I welcomed it. I told her that I would give her my bed and sleep on the couch in the sitting room. She demurred at this but only halfheartedly, and I saw that it was what she had expected.
I busied myself looking out clean sheets and pillow cases. The old Parsonage linen had come to me. It was getting thin now but it was beautifully fine and soft. Mother had prided herself upon her linen.
“May I telephone to Garth?” Kitty asked, taking up the receiver without waiting for an answer.
“Of course,” I said.
She got the connection quickly and I heard her speaking to him as I made the bed and found my best nightdress for her to wear.
“A dreadful day…Yes, of course, I have lost it…I couldn’t help it; I was chasing a wretched housemaid…No good at all…Well, I wish you would take on the job yourself…I’m here with Charlotte…Yes, in Charlotte’s flat. I’m spending the night here…Yes…No, she doesn’t mind the trouble. Charlotte will speak to you herself…Charlotte!”
She called me over to the telephone and put the receiver into my hand. I had no wish to speak to Garth, but there was something compelling about Kitty. She was determined that I should speak to him—I could see that. It was not till long afterward that I saw why she had wanted me to speak to him.
I stood there, feeling rather foolish, with the receiver in my hand. I had nothing to say to Garth, nothing. He was not Garth to me anymore; he had not been for years: he was Kitty’s husband.
“This is Charlotte,” I told him, “Kitty missed her train.”
“That was a pity,” the voice sounded a trifle dry.
“I shall like having her.”
“Good of you,” Kitty’s husband said. “I’m afraid it will be a trouble.”
“No trouble,” I assured him.
Kitty was peering out of the window again; she dropped the blind as I finished speaking and came back to the fire. I looked at her and saw that her cheeks were very pink, and her hand, which she had laid upon the edge of the mantelpiece, was trembling.
“Are you—is anything the matter?” I asked her anxiously.
“I have such a wretched headache,” she said. “Garth is so inconsiderate, he makes me mad. As if I wanted to miss the ghastly train.”
I filled a hot-water bottle and slipped it into the bed. It was all ready now, smooth, and white, and tempting. I prided myself on the smooth perfection of my bed-making.
“It looks nice,” Kitty said. “And what a pretty nightie! Don’t wake me early, Char.”
I told her that I breakfasted at eight and must be out of the flat by nine.
“That’s all right,” she said. “Just leave me to sleep and I can get up later when you’ve gone. I don’t know how on earth you can get up at that unearthly hour—I should be a wreck.”
“I have to,” I replied shortly.
“Rather you than me. It upsets me for the whole day if I have to get up early. Anyhow there is no need for you to wake me tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed,” I suggested.
“No, no—just let me sleep.” She laughed. “I was always a sleepy-head, wasn’t I, Char?”
“You won’t know where anything is.”
“I’ll find out. It will be rather fun. I’ll get up later—perhaps about eleven—and make myself a cup of tea.” She yawned. “Gracious, how tired I am! I could sleep for a week.”
“You don’t look tired,” I told her.
“Well, I am,” she said. “Dead dog tired.”
We kissed each other good night, and I left her to go to bed.
I was tired myself, and the couch was more comfortable than I had expected. I slept well. The time had passed when I could not sleep, when I had turned and twisted, suffering in mind and body, and longing for the dawn. I had passed through all that and had attained resignation and peace within.
The morning came all too soon; I rose at my usual hour and prepared my breakfast on the little table by the fire. I was very quiet as I went about my task, careful not to clatter the plates, nor to rattle the kettle when I put it on the stove. The walls of the flat were thin and Kitty must not be disturbed. I finished my breakfast and left it as usual for Mrs. Cope to clear. I put aside some milk for Kitty’s tea, and I managed to unearth a lemon from the recesses of my modest larder—Kitty always used to take lemon in her morning cup of tea, I remembered. Anyhow it was there and she could have whichever she liked. It was lucky about the lemon. I saw that there was enough butter in the dish and I put out the loaf with the knife beside it, and a pot of marmalade. Mrs. Cope would be finished by ten—she had another flat to “do” at 10:30—so she would probably have left before Kitty was ready for her breakfast. Kitty would manage now with everything put out conveniently; there would be no need for her to poke in my cupboard for what she wanted.
Mrs. Cope was coming up the stairs as I went down. We were so regular in our hours, she and I, that we usually met on the stairs or in the street. I told her about Kitty and warned her to be quiet. “Mrs. Wisdon had a bad headache,” I said.
“Pore soul!” said Mrs. Cope easily. “I’ll maike ’er a cup o’ tea laiter, shall I, Miss?”
The idea seemed good. I had not told Kitty of Mrs. Cope’s daily advent, but that didn’t matter. I would save Kitty the trouble of making tea for herself. Mrs. Cope could easily stay a little longer and make Kitty some tea—say about eleven. We arranged the matter like that, and I ran on to catch my bus.”