THE CHILDREN WERE SETTLED in front of the TV set watching some terrible programs the next evening, when Cynthia arrived with her friend Althea Bradgood. Althea was in her early forties, wearing a pre-war hairdo, no makeup and no-nonsense clothes. In order not to disturb the children, I suggested we go upstairs to the master bedroom, which had a stiff little eighteenth-century sofa. Cynthia had brought me some mints.
“I’m afraid Jordan isn’t back yet,” I said, shoveling several pounds of clean laundry off the sofa onto the floor.
“This place is just like home, isn’t it?” Cynthia said, eyeing the mess.
“I’m afraid Jordan hasn’t returned from Birmingham yet,” I said to Althea.
“Birmingham!” Cynthia cried. “Why would anyone want to go to Birmingham? It’s terribly vulgar.”
“Don’t tell me,” Althea said to me. “Let me guess. You’re a Pisces.”
“Althea is very interested in astrology,” Cynthia said.
“Oh, Pisces,” I said. “No, actually. Jordan is a Pisces. I’m a Virgo.”
“You can’t be,” Althea said.
I insisted I was.
“But you can’t be. You walk like a Pisces. You gesture like a Pisces. Your whole personality is Pisces.” She thought about it. “Two stars must have crossed. Something is wrong. You’re a Pisces. I never make a mistake.”
“Have a mint,” I said.
“Oh, you’re very kind,” Althea said, taking one.
“What have you been doing?” Cynthia asked me. “We went to the beach for two days. It was a lovely house, very lush. And last evening we went to a place called Crockford’s. Percival Epstein took us. It was very impressive. I believe many titled people go there. I saw many women with jewels all over them. Percival gave me twenty pounds and I gambled with it.”
“Did you win?”
She smiled. “It’s a very exclusive place, Crockford’s,” she said. “We had a delicious dinner. For lunch I went to a charming little place in Soho. My friends have been simply wonderful. They’re so loyal.”
“You’ll be sorry to leave,” I said.
“There’s nothing like getting home,” Cynthia said severely. “I’m always glad to get home.”
“That gesture you just made was pure Pisces,” Althea said to me.
“Oh, here’s Jordan now,” I said, peering out the window. “He just got out of a cab.”
Joyous noises drifted up the stairs, followed by Jordan, looking tired.
“I loved Birmingham,” he said, after greeting me and Cynthia, and being introduced to Althea. “It’s very alive. I mean there’s a real feeling of activity there, commercial activity. They’re rebuilding some of it. It’s very exciting.”
“I’m happy to say that I’ve never been to Birmingham,” Cynthia said merrily.
“Is your wife really Virgo?” Althea asked Jordan. “I feel she’s Pisces.”
“I’m Pisces,” Jordan said.
“Why don’t we all go over to the pub?” I said. “You must be hungry, Jordan. I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat here.”
“There’s nothing to eat here?” Cynthia asked.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “I sort of planned on going to the pub.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Jordan said. “I’ll have a sandwich there.”
“It’s only across the street,” I said to Cynthia, who looked rather downcast.
In the cozy pub, just on the comer of Baldridge Place across the street from Number Sixteen, a fat man, surrounded by admirers, was saying loudly, “ … and we had this delightful little mews flat. But when we came home from the theater one evening, there they all were, outside in deck chairs. Well, one needs to be rather frigid with people like that, doesn’t one?”
We slipped into chairs; several dogs looked at us suspiciously. “What a charming place,” Cynthia said. “I’d like a Scotch and soda. I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll have a gin anything,” I said, looking at the fat man and his admirers. “I’m not hungry either.”
“Just pineapple juice for me,” Althea said. “You’re so kind.”
“Nothing alcoholic?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t drink.”
Jordan went to the bar to get the drinks.
“You used to drink,” Cynthia said to Althea.
“Oh, I used to drink a great deal,” Althea said. “I drank and drank. But it wasn’t right and I knew it wasn’t right. Not just for religious reasons, although religious reasons count. But I gave it up at the same time that I gave up meat. We all drink too much,” Althea said to me. “British people drink too much.”
Cynthia stirred indignantly.
“I became disgusted,” Althea went on. “Seeing people being sick on the underground on Saturday night.”
“Who?” Cynthia asked.
“Lots of people. Many British people. I saw them being sick on the underground on Saturday night; it was most upsetting. I was sick myself; not on the underground of course. I waited until I got home.”
“I never saw anyone being sick on the underground,” Cynthia said.
“Oh, I did. Many times,” Althea responded firmly.
“I never heard anyone else say it,” Cynthia said.
“It’s one of the things which decided me to give up drink,” Althea replied.
Jordan returned with a tray of glasses and a sandwich for himself.
“What a pleasant place,” Cynthia said, looking around.
“It is pleasant,” I said, looking at the fat man. “But an awful lot of phonies come in here.”
“I don’t see any,” Cynthia said.
“What delicious pineapple juice,” Althea remarked.
“I saw the most charming thing today,” Cynthia said. “A woman was pushing a pram down the street with a little boy in it. I heard her say, ‘You’ve been naughty. Now you can’t have a sweetie.’” She chuckled. “Isn’t that darling? ‘A sweetie.’ In America,” she went on, her voice dropping, “in America he’d have been given a huge sack of sweets just to be naughty.”
“I can’t remember when I’ve tasted such delicious pineapple juice,” Althea said.
“Why don’t you move back here, Cynthia?” I asked, when I was able to talk.
“I should like very much to do that,” Cynthia said. “But it would have to be under the best possible circumstances. Financially,” She sipped delicately at her drink. “I should certainly,” she went on comfortably, “be happier back here, where people are civilized and know how to behave properly. Everywhere I go here I’m pushed and shoved by American tourists.”
“It has a lovely flavor,” Althea said. “The juice.”
“Aren’t you an American?” Jordan said to Cynthia.
She laughed. “Of course not. I’m English.”
“But you became an American citizen.”
“Oh, yes, I became an American citizen, but I’m English.”
“But you took an oath to uphold America, to defend it, to defend American institutions. They made you a citizen. That makes you an American.”
Cynthia thought it over.
“I suppose I am an American citizen,” she said. “But I’m English.”
“Would you like another pineapple juice?” Jordan asked Althea.
“Oh, you’re so kind,” Althea said. “Oh, aren’t you kind. I don’t want another one, because it does queer things to my digestion, but I think you’re awfully kind. Thank you so much, but I really don’t want another one. I loved it, it was delicious, but I don’t feel that I want another one. But you are kind.”
She took a small book and pencil from her bag. “I should like to take you and the boys to Derry & Toms,” she said. “It has a famous roof garden. I should like to take you there on a Saturday morning.”
“Oh, Derry’s is beautiful,” Cynthia cried. “It’s ever so much nicer than Marshall Field’s. It has a famous roof garden, growing miles above the city.” Althea named a day in July and wrote it down. “I’m going away; I shall be back then. I know it seems distant, but these things are on you before you know it.”
“We have to go,” Cynthia said. “We’ll miss the last bus.”
“You’ve got bags of time,” Jordan said, employing an Anglicism.
“I can’t bear the prospect of missing the bus,” Cynthia said, rising.
We walked to the bus stop through the chilly evening.
“The children would love to see Sydney,” I said, knowing it was hopeless. “They’re awfully lonely.”
“Oh, I’ll keep in touch with you,” Cynthia said. The big red bus came into view. We said a warm goodbye to Althea. “You know my parents are getting older,” Cynthia called, getting on the bus. “I can’t be here to look after them. It’s awfully sad. Goodbye, thanks for the drinks.”