O. Douglas - The House That is Our Own

“I shouldn’t think of addressing her as anything else! The truth is, I’m an arrant coward with servants. My instinct is always to cringe. I can’t have had any slave-owners among my ancestors—slaves, more likely. Oh, Isobel! do you realise that we’ll probably see the drawing-room finished to-day?” Kitty gave a jump of excitement. “And that in another fortnight everything’ll be ready? I must say the painters have hustled to some purpose. I suppose it’s because they’ve got so many jobs this spring. And the plumbers have been most expeditious. I hope it doesn’t mean scamped work.”

“Not a bit. It only means that the Coronation is putting a spirit of youth into everything. Black as things look in the world, we can’t help believing that a new beginning will make a difference—and a Coronation is, in a way, a new beginning. I hope there’ll be the same lovely feeling there was at the Silver Jubilee. The world saw Britain rejoicing as one great family. How thankful we ought to be that King George was spared to see it, to know how his people loved him, to realise that the whole world held him in affection and respect. After all, it’s a wonderful thing to be good, just simple good.”

Kitty nodded. “We were in Lausanne at the time,” she said, “and read about it proudly in The Times . It made us feel exiled, lonely, like children kept away from a party.”

“All the same,” said Isobel, “I’d as soon be out of London next month. The traffic’ll be a real problem. Of course, it doesn’t really matter to people like you and me. We can walk where we want to go. It seems rather feeble not to try to see everything one can, but I do so hate crowds, and, even if I had a seat, I doubt if I’d ever push my way to it.”

“And you so large!” scoffed Kitty. “A midge like me is better at home. I’d rather see it comfortably in a cinema, anyway, but you are much younger and brisker than I am, Isobel, you shouldn’t evade things. I think you’re apt to.”

“I know I am, and more serious things than Coronation crowds. I’m inclined to be afraid of what life may do to me, and yet I know in my heart that the people who look for the easy way are very little use. . . . Is that your address-book, Kitty? I’m glad you’ve found it.”

“Yes. I’ve been looking over it, and almost every name is a reproach. How could I have been so regardless of their kindness! But they seemed so far away, and their sympathy and concern so futile. Now I see how wonderful it was that they should remember, and trouble to write. Some I don’t want much to see again, they were merely pleasant people to dine with, there was no tie between us. But others—Bridget Ker and her husband, Tommy and Mary Hibbert, Jessica Irwin—I must write and make my apologies, and ask them to come and see me when I’m settled.”

“And I’m sure,” said Isobel, “that they won’t think any apology necessary, they’ll be only too glad to know that you’re back in London. It won’t be easy, just at first, to meet friends out of the past. Who was your most intimate friend among the people you mentioned just now?”

Kitty thought for a moment. “We were intimate with them all, in a way, but I think, perhaps, Jessica Irwin was the one I felt nearest. She was left a young widow in the War with two babies to bring up, and as she lived quite near, I saw a lot of her. Echo, her girl, was just leaving school when we left Hampstead. She’ll be twenty now, and Fred was two years younger. I wonder what has happened to them!”

“A lot can happen in two years—or very little. I’m ceaselessly interested in people’s lives, not only my friends’—anybody’s. Don’t you ever sit in a railway carriage or a bus and try to imagine what sort of homes the people opposite have come from and are going back to, try to read from the expression on their faces if they are happy and contented, or miserably jealous and frustrated? I don’t suppose one is right once in a hundred times, for most faces reveal nothing, or give a false impression. Don’t you agree? I know a woman who has a positively war-like expression, heavy dark brows, and a scowl, and she is the kindest, gentlest, shyest creature, the adored of her husband and children.”

“Oh, I know,” said Kitty. “And another, with a sweet, rather pathetic expression and a gentle voice, is a back-biting, malicious little devil, who makes life a burden to her family circle and her friends.”

Kitty’s voice was so emphatic that Isobel was amused, as well as amazed afresh at the change in her friend. This vigorous, alert little person, she thought, must be the Kitty of Hampstead days, the Kitty Rob knew.

“Talking of people,” she said, “Patty Tisdal’s coming to dine with me to-night. One of Jack’s friends is spending the evening with him, so she can get away. It does her good to get into a different atmosphere once in a while. I haven’t taken seats for anything, for if she’s tired, she’d rather sit by the fire and talk, but if she feels like it, we could all three go to a cinema. That new thing with Paul Robeson in it is said to be good.”

“Yes, I’d like to see that. Isobel, d’you like pelmets? Or d’you think a valance looks better?”

“Well”—Isobel seemed to realise the importance of the question—“to my mind a pelmet is more suitable for a living-room, but a valance is better for a bedroom, less stiff, you know, and formal.”

“I think so too,” said Kitty. “What a blessing we managed to get such a good match for the drawing-room curtains; the difference won’t be noticed in the pelmet. There—that’s all I can do just now. It’s nearly luncheon-time, anyway. How quickly the days go when you’ve got lots to do! Can you possibly come with me to the flat directly after luncheon? There are several things to mention while the men are there.”

“Yes, I’ve a note of them. In another week Mrs. Gordon will be able to begin washing floors. I hope that by that time you’ll have settled with Mrs. Auchinvole. I don’t think you could do better, and you might do infinitely worse.”

“Oh, I know; and if she agrees to come, I’ll be very thankful. I don’t see why she shouldn’t be happy and comfortable, and it would be a boon to know that she had the Gordons to go to if I happened to be out of an evening. It is dull for one person to sit alone in a kitchen; I wouldn’t like it myself, and we must arrange what are called in advertisements ‘generous outings.’ I know she loves a good film.”

Table of Contents

That place that does contain

My books, the best of company is to me,

A glorious Court where hourly I

Converse. . . .

Beaumont and Fletcher

By the end of April the workmen had all gone, and Kitty’s possessions were piled in a shining, clean flat.

It was an intoxicating sight to the owner, and Kitty rushed from one object to another, exclaiming over each.

The men had laid the carpets, and put the glass and china into cabinets and cupboards. Now they wanted to know where the pictures were to be hung, and Kitty, almost dazed with excitement, tried to bring her mind to the subject.

“The Raeburn above the sideboard in the dining-room,” she decreed, and, as the men looked about in a puzzled way, “this one,” she said, hauling out the portrait of a young man in a stock. “It’s my great-great-grandfather when he was nineteen,” she explained to Isobel. “Doesn’t he look a lamb? He became a judge in the Court of Session. It’s the only family portrait I’ve got, except the water-colour drawings of my father and mother; they’ll hang in the drawing-room.”

“And the Peter Scott in the book-room,” Isobel prompted.

“Yes, and the mountains—Kinchinjinga and the Matterhorn and the Canadian ones. The Medici prints will go to the bedrooms. Will you look at the Infante Don Balthasar Carlos? Aged not more than six, and such a man, with his feathered hat, and long boots, and plump curveting steed! . . . That picture of Holyroodhouse and the two water-colours of Mull on this wall.” (They were in the drawing-room now.) “The Queen Anne mirror above the mantelpiece, with my parents on either side—pale gilt frames on the turquoise walls!”