Patricia Wentworth: Latter End

Antony blew out a lazy curl of smoke.

“Oh, perfectly.”

“I do see her point, you know. She’s married Jimmy, but she hasn’t married his stepmother’s twins. What gets me is that she tries to have it both ways-makes Jimmy think she’s an angel to have Ellie there, and then treats her like a housemaid and works her to death. You know-” Julia’s voice fairly throbbed-“if I weren’t pretty strong-minded and a lot of other things which you think women oughtn’t to be, I’d probably be doing scullerymaid at Latter End myself.”

Antony blew another cloud of smoke.

“A very nice womanly occupation, darling.”

His glance travelled to the hands which lay in the lap of Julia’s old red smock. An ink-smudge not quite washed out made a blue shadow on the right forefinger. The nails, most beautifully shaped, were innocent of stain or varnish. The hands were innocent of rings. They were as nature had made them, and nature had made them well. They were not small, and they were not white, but they were very beautiful hands.

Antony said “No!” with great suddenness and explosive force.

“No what?”

“I forgot about your hands. Let all the women with hideous magenta nails go and be scullions-it would do ’em good! You’ve got the second-no, the third-most beautiful hands in Europe. The other two are on statues. And if you don’t take care of them, you’ll find yourself in the special hell reserved for people who destroy works of art.”

Julia said what she had never thought of saying.

“What a pity my face doesn’t match.” The words just came out of her mouth and left her feeling as if she had opened a door and let something escape.

Antony shook his head.

“You’d find it very inconvenient, darling-you’d probably get mobbed in the streets. Leave classic perfection to the museums. You wouldn’t be comfortable on a cold white pedestal. Let’s get back to business. When did you say you were going down to Latter End?”

“I didn’t say. I haven’t made up my mind.”

“What about going down with me on Friday?”

She was silent for a moment. Her cigarette ash dropped. She brushed it away with an impatient gesture and said,

“I suppose I could. I haven’t broken it to Lois yet.”

“Will it need breaking?”

She nodded.

“Yes, it will. I don’t generally stay there.” She was saying more than she meant to. “As a matter of fact I haven’t stayed there since Jimmy married her. We don’t-” she paused- “love each other very much.”

“You surprise me.”

He got a smouldering glance. She leaned forward and flung what was left of her cigarette into the fireplace, holding it like a dart and putting an extraordinary energy into the action.

“Do I? Very well then, you can have it straight! I hate her like poison!”

Ellie Street was laying the table for dinner. Because Antony and Julia were coming down she had taken extra pains with everything. The flowers were lovely in that old glass épergne-much prettier than silver-and everything had been polished until it shone. The bother was that she couldn’t polish herself. The Dutch mirror between Jimmy’s great-grandfather in a stock and his great-grandmother in a primrose satin Empire dress with a turquoise fillet in her hair showed her a very unsparing reflection of Ellie Street- washed-out cotton frock; washed-out, pinched little face without a scrap of bloom or colour; fair hair gone flat and mousy; poking shoulders; a step without spring. No wonder Ronnie watched his pretty nurse.

She must hurry up and get finished here, change into something decent, and do things to her face before Julia came. The bother was that she was too tired to care. The ten miles into Crampton and back just about finished her, but the buses didn’t fit, and she had to see Ronnie. Well, she had finished here, now, and there would be time to sit quite still for twenty minutes before she need dress. She stood back for a last look at the table.

There was a step in the passage and Lois came in.

“Oh-have you finished? I hope you polished the silver. It hasn’t been looking as it should.”

“Yes, I’ve polished it.” Ellie’s voice dragged.

Two years ago she had been a pretty, fragile girl with the prettiness, the porcelain tints, and the fragility of a Dresden figure. It is not a type of looks to resist fatigue and strain indefinitely. If the Dutch mirror had not flattered her, neither had it borne false witness. She was just the ghost of Ellie Vane as she fixed her tired blue eyes on Lois’ face and said,

“Yes, I’ve polished it.”

“Well, those spoons could do with another rub. And-oh, didn’t I tell you to use the big silver bowl for the flowers? Jimmy likes it.”

Ellie went on looking at her. At last she said,

“Lois, do you mind very much about the bowl? I don’t think I’ve got time to do the flowers again.” Her voice was like herself, gentle and very tired.

Lois’ delicate dark eyebrows rose.

“I should have thought you would be glad to do something for Jimmy. After all”-the pretty laugh rippled out-“he’s done a good deal for you and Julia. But of course if it’s too much trouble-” She walked over to the table and stood there pulling Ellie’s flowers about, spoiling them, scattering drops of water on the polished table.

Julia would have given battle. Ellie only looked, and said in an extinguished voice,

“I’ll do them again. Please, Lois-you’re splashing the table.”

When she went through into the pantry to get the silver bowl Mrs. Maniple was there.

“What is it, dearie? Aren’t you through? What you want is a good lay-down for half an hour before they come. You’ve just about got time.”

Kind old Manny. Ellie smiled at her gratefully. She must be quite old, because she remembered Jimmy being born, but she never looked any different or seemed any older than when Ellie and Julia used to slip into the kitchen for raisins and new hot jam, currant babies, and sugar mice. Manny made the most enchanting sugar mice, pink and green, with chocolate eyes. At five years old, a sugar mouse is heaven.

Mrs. Maniple put a fat arm round her shoulders.

“You run along up, my dear, and get yourself off your feet.”

“I can’t, Manny. Mrs. Latter wants the flowers in the silver bowl, and it will have to be cleaned. It hasn’t been used for months.”

The arm stiffened. Ellie stepped away.

“It’s no good, Manny.”

Mrs. Maniple held her tongue. If she couldn’t do anything else for Miss Ellie she could do that. The red-apple colour in her large, firm cheeks deepened to plum. She jerked her head over a billowing shoulder and called sharply,

“Polly! You come here!”

Then she took the bowl out of Ellie’s hands.

“Go on up with you, my dear. Polly’ll see to this, and I’ll see she does it proper. I’ll put the flowers in myself, and if they’re not right, you can coax ’em when you come down. And you take and put some colour in your cheeks, or Miss Julia’ll have my life.” Her jolly laugh followed Ellie along the passage.

She went up the back stairs because it was quicker. Manny was an angel. Something like a laugh came and went. Because she had said that to Antony once, and he had drawn a wicked picture of Manny in a stained-glass window with a voluminous nightgown bulging over her curves, and enormously strong wings just failing to hold her up.

She was going into her room, when Minnie called her. Minnie had the room which had been Miss Smithers’, and Ellie the one she had shared with Julia for as long as she could remember.

She pushed open the door and went in. Minnie Mercer was standing by the dressing-table doing up the brooch which had been her twenty-first birthday present from her parents, nearly thirty years ago. It had a monogram of two M’s intertwined in seed pearls, and the pearls were not quite so white as they used to be. It was her best brooch, and she was wearing her best dress in honour of Julia and Antony. It wasn’t quite so old as the brooch, and it had been very carefully preserved, but it had seen the war come in, and it had seen it go out. It could never have been what Minnie herself called “stylish,” and the rather bright blue colour was no kinder to the little thin face than was the skimpy make to the little thin body. But it was her best dress, and she took an innocent pride in it.