XII

THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS

By now, the trappings of Christmas had made their way from the shops into private houses. In the Pollitts, a hundred front doors had opened to welcome bundles of holly and mistletoe, with their trails of dropped berries, soon to be squashed on carpets. Mantelpieces were decorated with calendars and cards that fluttered or fell in a draught. Drawers and odd corners were filled with gifts, gay gummed labels, coloured string, wrapping-paper, boxes of crackers and festive novelties. Store-cupboards were crammed with delicacies in cartons and tins and jars. The great orgy of spending was under way, though the great orgy of consuming was yet to come.

Nor did this spirit of enterprise confine itself to the privacy of the home. It had a public aspect. The nice Americans who lived in the Terrace, and had given the firework party on Guy Fawkes Day, were the first to hang a big garland of holly and mistletoe, tied with red satin ribbon, to the knocker of their front-door, while if one was lucky enough to have a view of their small garden at the back of the house, one could see them decorating a well-grown Christmas-tree with fairies, gnomes, butterflies, glass ornaments and coloured lanterns, all guaranteed to stand the English climate. Mrs Muller described it minutely to Miss Tredennick, who struggled into her sitting-room to inspect it. On the floor below, Dorothy whiled away many happy moments in the same fashion. Justin, from his bedroom window, had a glimpse of its higher branches waving above the level of three garden-walls, but the sight increased his seasonable gloom. Only the Mullers in their basement-kitchen had no view of it at all.

However, Ten Pollitt Place was not altogether eclipsed. Those who peeped down through the area railings could see, in the Mullers’ sitting-room, a miniature version of a very Protestant Crib, with the chief emphasis on the animals, and illuminated by fat Swedish candles. Mrs Muller would have liked a garland on the front door, but Miss Tredennick feared it might damage the paint.

But it was Dorothy who gave the house its cachet. Inspired by the Americans’ example, she asked Robert to fix up a small Christmas-tree on the balcony, for the benefit of anyone passing by in the street. As always, he was only too glad to have an excuse for using his hands, and did the work well. The tree was lit up by minute electric lights which went off and on and changed colour in rotation. A disadvantage was that the carol-singers made a bee-line for the house and loitered by it long after they had exhausted their repertoire. Miss Tredennick told Mrs Muller to give five shillings—in five separate instalments—to singers who showed real talent. If they showed none, instead of getting a penny to go into the next street, they got a scolding for the inadequacy of their performance. Miss Tredennick had said, ‘I will not be blackmailed by mere cacophony,’ and Mrs Muller had to translate the dictum as best she could. Poor Justin, who was the chief sufferer from these assaults, was capricious in his reactions. Sometimes he opened his window and shouted, ‘Stop that filthy row!’ while at other times, if the singers looked really cold and miserable, he darted out with an offering of half a crown. Dorothy, who was enchanted to see their eyes turned upwards to her Christmas-tree, would throw down a sixpence from the balcony. This often led to scuffles in the gutter.

She had now settled her programme for the five nights round Christmas. On the Friday, she was to take a married couple and a spinster to the theatre, after which the four of them were to have a light supper in the spinster’s flat. (Robert couldn’t come. He said that there was to be a party at the Research Station, and that he was more or less bound to be there. He could have got an invitation for Dorothy, of course, but he knew it wasn’t in her line. She would hate it.)

On Saturday, Christmas Eve, she was to lunch with Susan, who was coming up for the day, at Garrows, who were remain­ing open till three o’clock that afternoon. In the evening, nothing—in other words, she would be spending it alone with Robert. Perhaps he would take her out to the West End to see the decorations. (Justin, who had thought of asking her and Robert to his cocktail-party that night, had decided against it. It might involve him in too many smiles and chats when he met the Fawleys in the hall.)

Sunday, Christmas Day. A tedious journey and a still more tedious luncheon—or ‘dinner’, as she knew the meal would be called—with some friends at Hackfield. They were really Robert’s friends, not hers. He would talk to the husband about motor-car engines and probably retire with him to the built-on garage, to lend a hand at some messy repair, while she would have to sit and listen to her hostess explaining how she made her atrocious cakes. In the evening, another blank.

Monday, the first Boxing Day. A little party at Number Ten in the late afternoon. She had scraped up seven rather incom­patible acquaintances, one of whom was nearly deaf and re­fused to wear an appliance, but any guests were better than none. It would have been intolerable to let the festive season go by without giving some sort of entertainment at home. Besides, it provided a good excuse for titivating the drawing­-room.

Tuesday, the second Boxing Day. The married couple whom she was taking to the theatre on the Friday were giving a theatre-party in their turn. The show began early, and the treat included supper afterwards. Robert, who had been asked, refused to go with them to the theatre, but after great pressure from Dorothy (herself greatly pressed by her hostess who had an unrequited fondness for Robert), he agreed to come on to the supper. Yet even this concession was qualified. They mustn’t wait for him if he was late, and so on. ‘But, darling, why should you be late?’ Oh, there was a film about a sub­marine he’d thought of going to see, and it didn’t begin till nine-thirty. But surely he could go to the film any night? They might go to it together. No, it was technical. She would be bored by it. Had it not been for her new policy of appeasement, they might have had a little row over this.

She sighed, with the lukewarm satisfaction of a general, who hopes he has deployed to best advantage the somewhat second-rate troops at his command.