O. Douglas - The House That is Our Own

A coat and skirt were also found, and Patty Tisdal assured her that if everyone was as easy to suit and pleasant to serve life would be a great deal happier for shopkeepers.

“That’s all I need,” said Kitty, as they left the shop. “I’ve got lots of things to wear up in the house. If it’s a hot summer, I can wear my thin dresses: they’re mostly white. What have you to get?”

“The tailor wanted to try on that tweed again, you remember? and when we finish with him, would you mind poking about with me until I pick up some ideas?”

“I’d love it,” said Kitty.

There are few things more satisfying to the ordinary woman than a good “poke” round shops, and the two friends spent a thoroughly interesting afternoon in Bond Street and Regent Street, finishing up with tea, and a visit to an exhibition of pictures by an artist new to Isobel.

“Don’t you know Peter Scott’s pictures of wild birds?” Kitty asked. “Rob found them first. He was passing here, saw one in the window, and went in. He came home almost as excited as if he’d been left a fortune, and took me to see them next day. There was one we specially coveted—wild geese leaving the marshes in a winter sunrise—and I bought it for his birthday. It hung over the fireplace in our living-room and Rob used to stand feasting his eyes on it. Have you that feeling about wild geese? To see them fly, to hear them cry, absolutely tugs at my heart-strings. The sound of a penny whistle, the smell of wood-smoke does the same. I can’t tell you why.”

Isobel was gazing at a picture.

“To me,” she said, “wild swans are even more romantic. Look at that—wild swans flying in a snowstorm. It’s the essence of every fairy-tale ever written. I love these pictures. If I’d a house of my own, I’d have a Peter Scott in each room.”

“Isobel, why don’t you? Have a house of your own, I mean?”

Isobel merely laughed and said, “Hadn’t I better wait and see how your venture turns out?”

“Cautious Scot!”

“Scot yourself! D’you know, Kitty, although I’m absolutely pure Scots by blood, I was born in England, and I’ve only once crossed the Border, to spend a fortnight with some people who had rented a shooting in Perthshire.”

“ ‘Breathes there the man with soul so dead’?” Kitty ejaculated, and went on, “I really am shocked. Don’t you want to go to Scotland?”

“I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but I never have had much desire. If I had anyone to go with me—but as I told you, I’ve no initiative. My friends were in London, and in London I’ve stuck. The only remarkable thing about me is my faculty for ‘staying put.’ But what about you? You live in London when you might just as well live in Edinburgh.”

“That’s true,” Kitty admitted. “The fact is, though I adore to think of Edinburgh, I prefer to live in London. Degenerate Scots, that’s what we are, both of us. But I’ve always gone to Scotland part of every year, so I’m a shade less degenerate than you!”

“Oh, well,” said Isobel, “I daresay Scotland can make shift to do without us.”

After dinner that evening Isobel persuaded her friend to sit in the lounge instead of going straight upstairs, and they settled down on a couch, Isobel with her knitting.

A few of the visitors were staying in for the evening, but quite a number, birds of passage, were going out to theatres.

One woman, standing by the fire finishing her cup of coffee, said to Isobel, “It’s so comfortable to see you sitting there knitting. I’d rather sit down beside you than go out to the play to-night.”

“What are you going to see?” Kitty asked.

“Some musical thing. I forget the name. We all felt we needed a little relaxation after last night at The Seagull . That was terribly dreary, though the acting was fine.”

When she had gone, Kitty said, “I’d like to see The Seagull . Will you come with me? It’s more than two years since I last saw a play. . . . Isobel, I’m almost ashamed of feeling so pleased about those new clothes. When we were out to-day in the sunshine, all the shops so bright, and so many people with happy faces, I felt almost light-hearted.”

“And why,” said Isobel, letting her knitting lie in her lap, “should you feel ashamed? It’s only natural. When you came back from France last October you were like a plant beaten to the earth by storms, you couldn’t raise your head or take an interest in anything. You had had a great loss, and you were physically and mentally exhausted as well. Now the normal, healthy person that is you is emerging. You enjoyed life before, and, gradually, you’ll come to enjoy it again. Would your Rob want anything else? Because he has gone forward into a new life, must you go mourning all your days? It’s not a case of forgetting. You won’t forget, but you owe it to yourself and to the people you live among, to make the best of what’s left to you.”

Kitty was silent for a minute, then she said:

“I daresay you’re right. But I’m pretty old to start again. I’m forty-five.”

“That’s no crime,” said Isobel stoutly. “I believe that very smart good-looking woman who spoke to us just now is every bit of forty-five, and I’m very sure she doesn’t think herself at all old. And you aren’t the type that ages. When you tried on those things to-day you looked a mere girl. All you need is something to interest you, then your face lights up. To me it’s far more attractive than a sort of stolid handsomeness, or wooden prettiness.”

“Isobel,” said Kitty, “you’re one of the world’s comforters.”

Table of Contents

What I admire most is the total defiance of expense.

Dr. Johnson

It was the middle of the next week before everything was settled and the flat Kitty’s. She had been getting anxious, fearing that her lawyer by over-caution was going to lose the chance, so it was with triumph that she ran into Isobel’s room one morning and announced that all was well.

Isobel looked as pleased as she was expected to.

“Now we can get on,” she said. “What a good thing it’s vacant and the painters can start at once.”

“Yes. Mr. Johnson says the lift-man or whatever he’s called, has the keys. Isobel, could you come with me now? There’s so much to see about.”

Isobel was writing letters, but she laid down her pen and said:

“Of course I’ll come. We’d better take a tape-measure and a pencil and note-book; you’ll want to measure and see how you can place your furniture. Isn’t this exciting?”

“Oh, isn’t it? Do you happen to know any good paper-hanger?”

“I don’t, never having required one, but the lift-man’ll be able to tell us who usually does up the flats. We’d better get ready.”

Isobel gathered her letters and put them tidily into a blotting book.

“I’m going to put a coat over an old frock that won’t mind grubbiness.”

“That’s wise. We’ll be messing about in cupboards and so forth. I’m all right, ‘dressed for drowning’ so to speak; this old rag won’t take any harm. Gracious! I feel like—I don’t know what I feel like!”

In a very short time they were ready; once outside, Isobel suggested that they should walk.

“It’s such a fine morning, and it isn’t very far and, as we approach it we can study the flat from all points, note the lie of the land, what shops are near, and so on.”

Everything and everybody that early April morning seemed to Kitty to be finding life amusing. The shop windows positively twinkled, the girls in the flower-shop at the corner were arranging spring flowers in a way to make the heart sing, the buses were swinging along as if they enjoyed doing it, even a blind man, standing with matches to sell, wore a smile.