Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

They were all here, all her things, her photographs, her album on the table, her set of Goss china, the yellowish globe of the world preserved from the schoolroom, the big cowrie shell that always stood beside it, the game of solitaire with one glass ball lost by Arthur at the age of seven — oh, her panic, then, that Arthur might have swallowed it! — the pen wiper and blotter combined, the court guide and gazetteer of 1907, everything, she had even saved the wicker fly-whisk which she had bought for Richard towards the end.

This single room held the record of Aunt Carrie’s life and in it Aunt Carrie could not bemoan her lot. No, she counted her blessings here and counted them gratefully. But meanwhile she was going for her little walk — ah yes. She advanced to the small square of mirror and put on her hat. She had bought her hat seven years ago and it was rather faded now perhaps, with a feather that was slightly emasculate. But still a perfectly good hat — black “went” with almost anything. Pulling on her gloves, she took her tightly rolled umbrella under her arm as though it were a gun. She swept her room with a final look: the half loaf of bread and the little jug of milk neatly stowed on the shelf, the tomato left over from yesterday beside them, the lid on the cocoa tin to keep out the damp, the gas ring safely turned out, the window open just enough to let in the air, no matches left lying about, everything tidy and in order. Satisfied, with her head in the air, Aunt Carrie went out.

She strolled along Linden Place into Westbourne Grove looking into the windows and admiring many of the articles in the shops. Then at the end of Westbourne Grove she turned into Merrett’s with an air of familiarity and purpose. Merrett’s was a delightful place, quite the best of the large department stores where it was possible to inspect and admire everything, simply everything. For half an hour Aunt Carrie moved about the aisles of Merrett’s, head to one side under the antique black hat, gazing at everything, even stopping once or twice to inquire the price. The assistants were civil to a degree — particularly gratifying since Aunt Carrie’s purchases in Merrett’s could never be extensive. Her financial position, on one hundred and twenty pounds a year, was perfectly secure, yet the fact remained that she could not be reckless. But this morning she was reckless. For some weeks she had kept her eye upon a letter opener, indistinguishable from real ivory and fashioned incredibly into a parrot’s beak at one end — how on earth do they do it? Aunt Carrie marvelled — oh, a gem of a letter opener, the price of which was ninepence. But this morning Aunt Carrie’s eyes widened with delight. The letter opener bore a little card marked Reduced to 6½ d . Good gracious! — such an opportunity, such a bargain! Aunt Carrie bought the letter opener, and saw it wrapped in green paper and tied with green string. There and then she decided she would give the letter opener to Hilda.

Pleased with her purchase, for it was a point of honour with her to buy something in Merrett’s once in a while, Aunt Carrie advanced to the lift. In the lift the girl attendant was dressed like a jockey and by pressing a button she went swishing up with Aunt Carrie to the top floor. “Reading, writing and rest-room,” called out the lift girl smartly. It was a beautiful room with cedar panelling and mirrors and agreeable chairs, full of newspapers and periodicals and ladies in the act of resting. And it was free, too, absolutely and unbelievably free.

As Aunt Carrie stepped out of the lift her umbrella, which she still carried like a gun, prodded the lift girl in the buttocks.

“Oh, pardon me,” Aunt Carrie cried, her feather quivering with apology. “Quite a mistake I assure you.”

“It’s quite all right, madam,” the lift girl answered.

Such civility!

An hour passed while Aunt Carrie read the papers. A number of ladies like Aunt Carrie seemed to be reading the papers. Perhaps the mirrors created an optical illusion, so many of the ladies were elderly, and a little pinched and clothed in faded black and eager to make the most of the free newspapers. In point of fact the papers were full of news this morning. The country was in a whirl of excitement. Mr. MacDonald had been to see the King again, the National Cabinet was making splendid statements and there was great talk of the coming election. Aunt Carrie was all for a National Government — it was so secure . There was an excellent article in the Tribune entitled, Don’t Let the Socialists Squander YOUR Money , and another in the Meteor, Bolshevism Gone Mad . Aunt Carrie read them both. She went through all the papers with great enjoyment — with the exception of one dreadful Labour rag which was full of distorted reports of destitution in the South Wales valleys. She had always had so little time for reading at the Law. She appreciated her leisure now.

The same lift took her down again and the same lift girl smiled at her. She was a pleasant girl that, indeed she was, Aunt Carrie hoped sincerely she would have promotion.

Outside Merrett’s, Aunt Carrie set her course towards Hilda’s flat, with the intention of delivering her present. She went, as usual, by Kensington Gardens. It was a pleasant road to the Gardens but it held a great temptation in the shape of Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. Aunt Carrie could seldom resist the delightful home-made cakes and biscuits and in spite of her unusual extravagance at Merrett’s she entered Ye Apple Blossom Pantry. The young lady knew her, smiled, went to the wire basket and took a twopenny iced cake which she placed in a paper bag.

“It looks like rain,” the young lady remarked, handing Aunt Carrie the bag.

“Oh, I hope not, my dear,” Aunt Carrie said handing the girl twopence. She now had the letter opener and the twopenny cake which, nibbled delicately, would make her tea a joy. Quite a morning’s shopping.

The Gardens were beautiful, the children in particular by the Round Pond were always adorable. To-day there was one, just a toddler, Aunt Carrie thought to herself, just a little toddler in a tiny red tailor-made coat who toddled and toddled and nearly toddled away from his nannie into the pond. The little love.

There were the sea-gulls too, which swooped and screamed for bread and bacon rind, oh, Aunt Carrie was thrilled by the sea-gulls. So much bread had been thrown to the sea-gulls that the edges of the Round Pond were fringed with floating bread, hundreds of pieces of floating bread. Cast your bread upon the waters, Aunt Carrie thought, but it was strange nevertheless to see all that bread gone to waste when, if that dreadful paper she had read in Merrett’s was to be believed, so many children went in want of it. But it could not be; it was a gross exaggeration; besides there was always charity.

Comforted, she walked down Exhibition Road. South Kensington was delightful, and Chelsea too, Carlyle and the mulberry-tree — or was it bush? Aunt Carrie neared Hilda’s flat. She greatly enjoyed visiting Hilda. Indeed, at the back of Aunt Carrie’s mind a vague hope lingered that Hilda might one day ask her to keep house for her. She saw herself in high-necked black admitting seriously ill and important people to Hilda’s consulting-room — the more gravely ill and important the better. Although Aunt Carrie had emancipated herself from the sick-room, sickness still retained a certain morbid fascination for her.

Hilda was in, the maid declared, and Aunt Carrie, smiling her special smile towards Hilda’s maid, the faintly ingratiating smile she had towards the servants at the Law for thirty years, followed her into the flat.

But here a shock awaited Aunt Carrie. Hilda was not alone and it sent Aunt Carrie into a perfect flutter to see that Hilda’s visitor was David Fenwick. She came to a full stop inside the door of Hilda’s room and her peaked face flushed.