A Daughter's a Daughter Read online

  She paused before going on.

  ‘There’s the wish to be possessed as well as the wish to possess. Is it a case of maturing late? Or is it some inherent lack of the adult quality? One knows very little still of the human personality.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ann, uninterested in generalities, ‘you don’t think I’m a possessive mother?’

  ‘I’ve always thought that you and Sarah had a very satisfactory relationship. I should say there was a deep natural love between you.’ She added thoughtfully: ‘Of course Sarah’s young for her age.’

  ‘I’ve always thought she was old for her age.’

  ‘I shouldn’t say so. She strikes me as younger than nineteen in mentality.’

  ‘But she’s very positive, very assured. And quite sophisticated. Full of her own ideas.’

  ‘Full of the current ideas, you mean. It will be a very long time before she has any ideas that are really her own. And all these young creatures nowadays seem positive. They need reassurance, that’s why. We live in an uncertain age and everything is unstable and the young feel it. That’s where half the trouble starts nowadays. Lack of stability. Broken homes. Lack of moral standards. A young plant, you know, needs tying up to a good firm stake.’

  She grinned suddenly.

  ‘Like all old women, even if I am a distinguished one, I preach.’ She drained her glass of buttermilk. ‘Do you know why I drink this?’

  ‘Because it’s healthy?’

  ‘Bah! I like it. Always have since I went for holidays to a farm in the country. The other reason is so as to be different. One poses. We all pose. Have to. I do it more than most. But, thank God, I know I’m doing it. But now about you, Ann. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just getting your second wind, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you mean by my second wind, Laura? You don’t mean –’ She hesitated.

  ‘I don’t mean anything physical. I’m talking in mental terms. Women are lucky, although ninety-nine out of a hundred don’t know it. At what age did St Teresa set out to reform the monasteries? At fifty. And I could quote you a score of other cases. From twenty to forty women are biologically absorbed – and rightly so. Their concern is with children, with husbands, with lovers – with personal relations. Or they sublimate these things and fling themselves into a career in a female emotional way. But the natural second blooming is of the mind and spirit and it takes place at middle age. Women take more interest in impersonal things as they grow older. Men’s interests grow narrower, women’s grow wider. A man of sixty is usually repeating himself like a gramophone record. A woman of sixty, if she’s got any individuality at all – is an interesting person.’

  Ann thought of James Grant and smiled.

  ‘Women stretch out to something new. Oh, they make fools of themselves too at that age. Sometimes they’re sexbound. But middle age is an age of great possibilities.’

  ‘How comforting you are, Laura! Do you think I ought to take up something? Social work of some kind?’

  ‘How much do you love your fellow beings?’ said Laura Whitstable gravely. ‘The deed is no good without the inner fire. Don’t do things you don’t want to do, and then pat yourself on the back for doing them! Nothing, if I may say so, produces a more odious result. If you enjoy visiting the sick old women, or taking unattractive mannerless brats to the seaside, by all means do it. Quite a lot of people do enjoy it. No, Ann, don’t force yourself into activities. Remember all ground has sometimes to lie fallow. Motherhood has been your crop up to now. I don’t see you becoming a reformer, or an artist, or an exponent of the Social Services. You’re quite an ordinary woman, Ann, but a very nice one. Wait. Just wait quietly, with faith and hope, and you’ll see. Something worth while will come to fill your life.’

  She hesitated and then said:

  ‘You’ve never had an affair, have you?’

  Ann flushed.

  ‘No.’ She braced herself. ‘Do you – do you think I ought to?’

  Dame Laura gave a terrific snort, a vast explosive sound that shook the glasses on the table.

  ‘All this modern cant! In Victorian days we were afraid of sex, draped the legs of the furniture, even! Hid sex away, shoved it out of sight. All very bad. But nowadays we’ve gone to the opposite extreme. We treat sex like something you order from the chemist. It’s on a par with sulphur drugs and penicillin. Young women come and ask me, “Had I better take a lover?” “Do you think I ought to have a child?” You’d think it was a sacred duty to go to bed with a man instead of a pleasure. You’re not a passionate woman, Ann. You’re a woman with a very deep store of affection and tenderness. That can include sex, but sex doesn’t come first with you. If you ask me to prophesy, I’ll say that in due course you’ll marry again.’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t believe I could ever do that.’

  ‘Why did you buy a bunch of violets today and pin them in your coat? You buy flowers for your rooms but you don’t usually wear them. Those violets are a symbol, Ann. You bought them because, deep down, you feel spring – your second spring is near.’

  ‘St Martin’s summer, you mean,’ said Ann ruefully.

  ‘Yes, if you like to call it that.’

  ‘But really, Laura, I daresay it’s a very pretty idea, but I only bought these violets because the woman who was selling them looked so cold and miserable.’

  ‘That’s what you think. But that’s only the superficial reason. Look down to the real motive, Ann. Learn to know yourself. That’s the most important thing in life – to try and know yourself. Heavens – it’s past two. I must fly. What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘I’m going out to dinner with James Grant.’

  ‘Colonel Grant? Yes, of course. A nice fellow.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘He’s been after you for a long time, Ann.’

  Ann Prentice laughed and blushed.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a habit.’

  ‘He’s asked you to marry him several times, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all nonsense really. Oh, Laura, do you think perhaps – I ought to? If we’re both lonely –’

  ‘There’s no ought about marriage, Ann! And the wrong companion is worse than none. Poor Colonel Grant – not that I pity him really. A man who continually asks a woman to marry him and can’t make her change her mind, is a man who secretly enjoys devotion to lost causes. If he was at Dunkirk, he would have enjoyed it – but I daresay the Charge of the Light Brigade would have suited him far better! How fond we are in this country of our defeats and our blunders – and how ashamed we always seem to be of our victories!’

  Chapter Two

  1

  Ann arrived back at her flat to be greeted by the faithful Edith in a somewhat cold fashion.

  ‘A nice bit of plaice I had for your lunch,’ she said, appearing at the kitchen door. ‘And a caramel custard.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had lunch with Dame Laura. I did telephone you in time that I shouldn’t be in, didn’t I?’

  ‘I hadn’t cooked the plaice,’ admitted Edith grudgingly. She was a tall lean woman with the upright carriage of a grenadier and a pursed-up disapproving mouth.

  ‘It’s not like you, though, to go chopping and changing. With Miss Sarah, now, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I found those fancy gloves she was looking for after she’d gone and it was too late. Stuffed down behind the sofa they were.’

  ‘What a pity.’ Ann took the gaily knitted woollen gloves. ‘She got off all right.’

  ‘And happy to go, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, the whole party was very gay.’

  ‘Mayn’t come back quite so gay. Back on crutches as likely as not.’

  ‘Oh no, Edith, don’t say that.’

  ‘Dangerous, these Swiss places. Fracture your arms or your legs and then not set proper. Goes to gangrene under the plaster and that’s the end of you. Awful smell, too.’

  ‘Well, we’ll hope that won’t happen to Sarah,’ said Ann, well used to Edith’s gloomy pronouncements, whic
h were always uttered with considerable relish.

  ‘Won’t seem like the same place without Miss Sarah about,’ said Edith. ‘We shan’t know ourselves, we’ll be so quiet.’

  ‘It will give you a bit of a rest, Edith.’

  ‘Rest?’ said Edith indignantly. ‘What would I want with a rest? Better wear out than rust out, that’s what my mother used to say to me, and it’s what I’ve always gone by. Now Miss Sarah’s away and she and her friends won’t be popping in and out every minute I can get down to a real good clean. This place needs it.’

  ‘I’m sure the flat’s beautifully clean, Edith.’

  ‘That’s what you think. But I know better. All the curtains want to be took down and well shook, and them lustres on the electrics could do with a wash – oh! there’s a hundred and one things need doing.’

  Edith’s eyes gleamed with pleasurable anticipation.

  ‘Get someone in to help you.’

  ‘What, me? No fear. I like things done the proper way, and it’s not many of these women you can trust to do that nowadays. You’ve got nice things here and nice things should be kept nice. What with cooking and one thing and another I can’t get down to my proper work as I should.’

  ‘But you do cook beautifully, Edith. You know you do.’

  A faintly gratified smile transformed Edith’s habitual expression of profound disapproval.

  ‘Oh, cooking,’ she said in an off-hand way. ‘There’s nothing to that. It’s not what I call proper work, not by a long way.’

  Moving back into the kitchen, she asked:

  ‘What time will you have your tea?’

  ‘Oh, not just yet. About half-past four.’

  ‘If I were you I’d put your feet up and take a nap. Then you’ll be fresh for this evening. Might as well enjoy a bit of peace while you’ve got it.’

  Ann laughed. She went into the sitting-room and let Edith settle her comfortably on the sofa.

  ‘You look after me as though I were a little girl, Edith.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t much more when I first came to your ma, and you haven’t changed much. Colonel Grant rang up. Said not to forget it was the Mogador Restaurant at eight o’clock. She knows, I said to him. But that’s men all over – fuss, fuss, fuss, and military gentlemen are the worst.’

  ‘It’s nice of him to think I might be lonely tonight and ask me out.’

  Edith said judicially:

  ‘I’ve nothing against the colonel. Fussy he may be, but he’s the right kind of gentleman.’ She paused and added: ‘On the whole you might do a lot worse than Colonel Grant.’

  ‘What did you say, Edith?’

  Edith returned an unblinking stare.

  ‘I said as there were worse gentlemen … Oh well, I suppose we shan’t be seeing so much of that Mr Gerry now Miss Sarah’s gone away.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you, Edith?’

  ‘Well, I do and I don’t, if you know what I mean. He’s got a way with him – that you can’t deny. But he’s not the steady sort. My sister’s Marlene married one like that. Never in a job more than six months, he isn’t. And whatever happens it’s never his fault.’

  Edith went out of the room and Ann leaned her head back against the cushions and shut her eyes.

  The sound of the traffic came faint and muted through the closed window, a pleasant humming sound like far-off bees. On the table near her a bowl of yellow jonquils sent their sweetness into the air.

  She felt peaceful and happy. She was going to miss Sarah, but it was rather restful to be by herself for a short time.

  What a queer panic she had had this morning …

  She wondered what James Grant’s party would consist of this evening.

  2

  The Mogador was a small rather old-fashioned restaurant with good food and wine and an unhurried air about it.

  Ann was the first of the party to arrive and found Colonel Grant sitting in the reception bar opening and shutting his watch.

  ‘Ah, Ann.’ He sprang up to greet her. ‘Here you are.’ His eyes went with approval over the black dinner dress and the single string of pearls round her throat. ‘It’s a great thing when a pretty woman can be punctual.’

  ‘I’m three minutes late, no more,’ said Ann, smiling up at him.

  James Grant was a tall man with a stiff soldierly bearing, close-cropped grey hair and an obstinate chin.

  He consulted his watch again.

  ‘Now why can’t these other people turn up? Our table will be ready for us at a quarter-past eight and we want some drinks first. Sherry for you? You prefer it to a cocktail, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, please. Who are the others?’

  ‘The Massinghams. You know them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Jennifer Graham. She’s a first cousin of mine, but I don’t know whether you ever –’

  ‘I met her once with you, I think.’

  ‘And the other man is Richard Cauldfield. I only ran into him the other day. Hadn’t seen him for years. He’s spent most of his life in Burma. Feels a bit out of things coming back to this country.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Nice fellow. Rather a sad story. Wife died having her first child. He was devoted to her. Couldn’t get over it for a long time. Felt he had to get right away – that’s why he went out to Burma.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘Oh, that died, too.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘Ah, here come the Massinghams.’

  Mrs Massingham, always alluded to by Sarah as ‘the Mem Sahib’ bore down upon them in a grand flashing of teeth. She was a lean stringy woman, her skin bleached and dried by years in India. Her husband was a short tubby man with a staccato style of conversation.

  ‘How nice to see you again,’ said Mrs Massing-ham, shaking Ann warmly by the hand. ‘And how delightful to be coming out to dinner properly dressed. Positively I never seem to wear an evening dress. Everyone always says, “Don’t change.” I do think life is drab nowadays, and the things one has to do oneself! I seem to be always at the sink! I really don’t think we can stay in this country. We’ve been considering Kenya.’

  ‘Lot of people clearing out,’ said her husband. ‘Fed up. Blinking government.’

  ‘Ah, here’s Jennifer,’ said Colonel Grant, ‘and Cauldfield.’

  Jennifer Graham was a tall horse-faced woman of thirty-five who whinnied when she laughed. Richard Cauldfield was a middle-aged man with a sunburned face.

  He sat down by Ann and she began to make conversation.

  Had he been in England long? What did he think of things?

  It took a bit of getting used to, he said. Everything was so different from what it was before the war. He’d been looking for a job – but jobs weren’t so easy to find, not for a man of his age.

  ‘No, I believe that’s true. It seems all wrong somehow.’

  ‘Yes, after all I’m still the right side of fifty.’ He smiled a rather child-like and disarming smile. ‘I’ve got a small amount of capital. I’m wondering about buying a small place in the country. Going in for market gardening. Or chickens.’

  ‘Not chickens!’ said Ann. ‘I’ve several friends who have tried chickens – and they always seem to get diseases.’

  ‘No, perhaps market gardening would be better. One wouldn’t make much of a profit, perhaps, but it would be a pleasant life.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Things are so much in the melting-pot. Perhaps if we get a change of government –’

  Ann acquiesced doubtfully. It was the usual panacea.

  ‘It must be difficult to know what exactly to go in for,’ she said. ‘Quite worrying.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t worry. I don’t believe in worry. If a man has faith in himself and proper determination, every difficulty will straighten itself out.’

  It was a dogmatic assertion and Ann looked doubtful.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said.

  ‘I can assure you that it
is so. I’ve no patience with people who go about always whining about their bad luck.’

  ‘Oh, there I do agree,’ exclaimed Ann with such fervour that he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘You sound as though you had experience of something of the kind.’

  ‘I have. One of my daughter’s boy friends is always coming and telling us of his latest misfortune. I used to be sympathetic, but now I’ve become callous and bored.’

  Mrs Massingham said across the table:

  ‘Hard-luck stories are boring.’

  Colonel Grant said:

  ‘Who are you talking of, young Gerald Lloyd? He’ll never amount to much.’

  Richard Cauldfield said quietly to Ann:

  ‘So you have a daughter? And a daughter old enough to have a boy friend.’

  ‘Oh yes. Sarah is nineteen.’

  ‘And you’re very fond of her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She saw a momentary expression of pain cross his face and remembered the story Colonel Grant had told her.

  Richard Cauldfield was, she thought, a lonely man.

  He said in a low voice:

  ‘You look too young to have a grown-up daughter …’

  ‘That’s the regulation thing to say to a woman of my age,’ said Ann with a laugh.

  ‘Perhaps. But I meant it. Your husband is –’ he hesitated – ‘dead?’

  ‘Yes, a long time ago.’

  ‘Why haven’t you remarried?’

  It might have been an impertinent question, but the real interest in his voice saved it from any false imputation of that kind. Again Ann felt that Richard Cauldfield was a simple person. He really wanted to know.