The Complete Short Stories. Muriel Spark

Molly and Linda had been presented, it was true. And Daphne had seen photographs of her mother and Aunt Sarah beplumed and robed, in the days when these things were done properly. But they were decidedly not society women. Daphne mused often on Greta Casse, niece of a bishop and cousin of an earl, her distinctive qualities. She went to see Pooh-bah one weekend, and mentioned Greta Casse to a Miss Barrow, a notable spinster of the district who had come to tea. Daphne was surprised to learn that this woman, in her old mannish Burberry, her hands cracked with gardening, her face cracked with the weather, had been a contemporary of Greta’s. They had been to various schools together, had been presented the same year.

      “How odd,” Daphne remarked to Pooh-bah later, “that two such different people as Mrs Casse and Miss Barrow should have been brought up in the same way.”

      He gave a verbal assent, “I suppose so, yes,” but clearly he did not understand what she meant about it being odd.

      Back she went to Regent’s Park. Greta Casse arranged a dinner party for Daphne at a West End restaurant, followed by an all-night session in a night-club. About twenty young people were invited, most of them in their early teens, which made Daphne feel old, and she was not compensated by the presence of a few elders of Greta’s generation. Michael came, of course. Englishman though he was, Daphne could not take him very seriously.

      The party was followed by another, and that by another. “Can’t we invite Mole?” Daphne said.

      “Well,” said Greta, “the whole idea is for you to meet new people. But of course, if you like …”

      The bill for these parties used up half of Daphne’s annual allowance. Luncheons, at which she met numerous women friends of Greta’s, used up the other half. Daphne longed to explain to Mrs Casse that she had not understood what was involved by becoming her lodger. She did not want to be entertained, for she had merely counted on somewhere jolly to stay. Daphne had not the courage to put this to Greta who was so uncertain, precarious, slippery, indefinite and cold. She wrote to Chakata for money. “Of course,” she wrote, “when I’ve had my fun I’ll take a job.”

      “I hope you are seeing something of England,” he replied when he sent his cheque. “My advice to you is to go on a coach tour. I hear they are excellent, and a great advance on my time, when there was nothing of that sort.” She rarely took much notice of Chakata’s advice, for so much of it was inapplicable. “Do introduce yourself to Merrivale at the bank,” he had written. “He will give you sherry in the parlour, as he used to do me when I was your age.” On inquiring for Mr Merrivale at the bank, Daphne was unsuccessful. “Ever heard of a chap called Merrivale?” the clerks asked each other. “Sure it’s this branch?” they asked Daphne.

      “Oh yes. He used to be the manager.”

      “Sorry, madam, no one’s heard of him here. Must have been a way back.”

      “Oh, I see.”

      Daphne got into the habit of ignoring Chakata’s questions, “Have you been to Hampton Court?” “Did you call on Merrivale at the bank? He will give you sherry …” “Have you booked for a tour of England and Wales? I trust you are planning to see something of the English countryside?”

      “I couldn’t find that bootmaker in St Paul’s Churchyard,” she wrote to him, “because it is all bombed. Better stick to the usual place in Johannesburg. Anyway, I might not order the right boots.”

      Soon, then, she made no reply to his specific requests and suggestions, but merely gave him an account of her parties, pepping them up for his benefit. He seemed not to read her letters properly, for he never referred to the parties.

      Greta came back to the flat one afternoon with a toy poodle. “He’s yours,” she said to Daphne.

      “How utterly perfect!” said Daphne, thinking it was a gift, and wanting to express her appreciation as near as possible in the vernacular.

      “I had to have him for you,” said Greta, and went on to demand a hundred and ten guineas. Daphne ducked her face affectionately in the pet’s curly coat to hide her dismay.

      “We were so terribly lucky to get him,” Greta was saying. “You see, he’s not just a miniature – they’re slightly bigger – he’s a toy.”

      Daphne gave her a cheque, and wrote to Chakata to say how expensive London was. She decided to take a job in the autumn, and to cut out the fortnight’s motoring tour of the north with Molly, Rat, and Mole which she had arranged to share with them.

      Chakata sent her the money as an advance on her next quarterly allowance. “Sorry can’t do more. Fly has had a go at the horses, and you will have read about the tobacco crops.” She had not read about the blight, but a bad year was not an uncommon occurrence. She was surprised at Chakata’s attitude, for she believed him to be fairly wealthy. Shortly after this she heard from friends in the Colony that Chakata’s daughter and her husband who had gone to farm in Kenya, had been murdered by the Mau Mau. “Chakata implored us not to tell you,” wrote her friend, “but we thought you should know. Chakata is educating the two boys.”

      It was the middle of May. Daphne had engaged to be Mrs Casse’s lodger till the end of June. However, she telephoned to Linda that she was returning to the country. Greta was out. Daphne packed and sat down courageously with Popcorn (the poodle) on her lap to await her return, and explain her financial predicament.

      Michael came in first. He was carrying an empty bird-cage and a cardboard box with holes in it. On opening the box a bird flew out in a panic.

      “A budgerigar,” said Michael. “I expect they fly about wild where you’ve come from. They talk, you know. It’s frightened at the moment, but when they get used to you, they talk.” He giggled.

      The bird was perched on a lampshade. Daphne caught it and put it in the cage. It had a lavender breast.

      “It’s for you,” Michael said. “Mummy sent me home with it. She bought it for you. It says ‘Come here, darling’ and ‘Go to hell’, and things like that.”

      “I really don’t want it,” said Daphne in despair.

      “Peep, peep, peep,” said Michael to the bird, “say hallo, say hallo. Say come here darling.”

      It sat on the floor of the cage and moved only its head from side to side.

      “Really,” said Daphne, “I have no money. I’m hard up. I can’t afford your mother’s birds. I’m just waiting to say goodbye to her.”

      “No,” said Michael.

      “Yes,” said Daphne.

      “Listen,” he said. “Take my advice and clear out now before she comes back. If you tell her this to her face there’s bound to be hell.” He giggled weakly, poured himself a drink of brandy which his mother had watered, and said, “Shall I get you a taxi now? She’ll be back in half an hour.”

      “No, I’ll wait,” said Daphne, and ran her hand nervously through the poodle’s curls.

      “There was nearly a court action one time,” said Michael, “about another girl. Mummy was supposed to have given two balls for her, but she didn’t or something, and the girl’s people got worked up. I think Mummy spent the money on something else, or something.” He giggled.

      “Oh, I see.” Daphne went and telephoned to Mole and asked him to call for her when he left his office.

      Greta arrived, and when she had taken in the situation she sent Michael from the room.

      “I must tell you,” said Greta to Daphne, “that what you are proposing is illegal. You realize that, don’t you?”

      “I can give you a week’s money in lieu of notice,” Daphne said, “and a little extra.”

      “You agreed to stay till the end of June, my dear. I have it in black and white.” This was true.