Simon Beckett certainly didn’t mention Everest to me,” Nicole said, as she began on a slice of plum-cake.
CHAPTER X
“O brave new-world
That has such people in’t.”
The Tempest.
A few days later Nicole and her mother—Barbara had pleaded excessive boredom at the prospect and had been let off—set out to return their neighbours’ calls.
Nicole carried a card-case which she had unearthed from somewhere, and was very particular about what her mother should wear.
“The new long coat with the grey fur, Mums; it has such a nice slimifying effect—not that you need it. What a blessing that we are sylphs, you and I. Wouldn’t you hate to feel thick, and to know that you had a bulge at the back of your neck? . . . You really are ridiculously young, Mums. You could wear your hair shingled, for the back of your neck is the nicest thing I ever saw, almost like a child’s; and your little firm face is so fresh—only the eyes shadowed a little. And not one grey hair! How have the gods thus guarded your first bloom, as the poet puts it?”
Lady Jane, standing before the looking-glass pulling a small hat over her wavy hair, laughed at her daughter.
“All this flattery because I’ve consented to go with you and call! Or is there something more you want?”
Nicole stood beside her mother looking at the reflection in the mirror.
“We might easily be taken for sisters, Mums. In fact, I might be mistaken for the mother, for there is something stern in my visage that ages me. . . . How nice it is that now mothers and daughters can dress alike—the same little hats, long coats, and unimportant dresses. At one stage of the world’s history you would have worn a bonnet and a dolman, Madam, and I should have had a sailor-hat tilted up behind (see old Punches) and a bustle. What we have been spared!”
“Come along, then, and get our visits over. I’m ready.”
As they mounted the long street that led from the shore to the villas on the top of the brae, Lady Jane remarked, “I should think every one will be out this fine day.”
Nicole pinched her mother’s arm. “Don’t say it so hopefully; you’re as bad as Barbara. I want them all to be in. . . . Do let’s speak to this woman; she’s a friend of mine, a Mrs. Brodie.”
They were passing a little house, the doorway a few steps under the level of the street, with two little windows each curtained with a starched stiff petticoat of muslin, and further darkened by four geraniums in pots. A large, cheerful-looking woman was standing at the door, holding a baby, while two slightly older children played at her feet. She greeted Nicole with a broad smile, and when she said, “Mrs. Brodie, this is my mother,” she gave an odd little backward jerk of the head by way of a bow. They admired the baby, and Lady Jane asked how many other children she had.
“Just the nine, no mony if ye say it quick eneuch,” and Mrs. Brodie laughed loudly at her own joke. “Ma auldest’s a laddie; he’s leevin’ the schule gin the simmer holidays. Then comes three lasses and the twins, an’ thae three.” She looked at the two playing gravely at her feet with a broken melodeon, then she chirruped to the baby, who leapt and plunged in her arms like a hooked trout.
“Ay,” said his mother encouragingly, “I ken ye’rs a wee horse. I ken fine ye’re a wee horse. By! ye’re an awfu’ ane.”
Lady Jane’s eyes met those of Mrs. Brodie over the head of “the wee horse,” and she said, “You’re a happy woman, Mrs. Brodie, with your children all about you.”
“Ay, I mind ma mither aye said a wumman’s happiest time was when her bairns were roond her knees, an’ she gethered them under wan roof when nicht fell. I’m thrang eneuch, guid kens, but it’s hertsome wark.”
She nodded to the mother and daughter as they left her, remarking that they were getting a fine day for their walk.
Miss Symington was in, they were told, when they had rung the bell at Ravenscraig, at which intelligence Nicole cast an exultant glance at her mother.
There was no one in the drawing-room, and the housemaid lit the gas-fire and left them. The room had an unused feeling; no books lay about; in one of the big bow windows there stood on the floor an aspidistra in a yellow pot.
“It looks lonely,” Nicole said, eyeing it.
Miss Symington came in, apologising for having kept them. She was dressed to go out, and looked oddly bulky in her coat and skirt and round felt hat beside the mother and daughter in their slim long coats and close-fitting hats.
It was obvious at once that if there was to be any conversation it would have to be made by the visitors.
Nicole, poising her card-case between the tips of her fingers, smiled gaily into the somewhat unresponsive face of Miss Symington and began to talk. She and her mother tossed the ball of conversation deftly to each other, appealing often for confirmation to the shadowy third, putting remarks into her mouth until that lady began to feel that she shone in company.
As they were leaving, “You have a nephew,” Nicole said.
“Alastair,” said Miss Symington.
“Yes, Alastair. He and I made friends on the rocks the other day. Is he in? I expect he’ll be out this fine day?”
“He goes out every afternoon from two to four.”
“Perhaps some day you would let him come to tea with us? My mother likes boys—don’t you, Mums?—and Alastair is such a lamb. He must be a great delight to you.”
Alastair’s aunt seemed surprised at this assertion.
“I do my best for him,” she said, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand boys. I would never think of asking a boy to come to see me for pleasure.”
Lady Jane leant forward, smiling. “Do bring Alastair to tea with us, Miss Symington, and we’ll all try to amuse each other. Which day? Wednesday?”
“I’ve a Mothers’ Meeting that afternoon.”
“Thursday, then?”
“Yes, thank you. We shall be very pleased, though I don’t see why you should be bothered having us. What hour?”
“Oh,” said Nicole, “shall we say four sharp, then we’ll have time to play after tea. That’s fine.”
As they walked down the gravel-path Nicole said, “I’m so glad I brought the indoor fire-works left from our last children’s party. I nearly gave them away, not thinking that Kirkmeikle might produce a small boy. . . . Miss Symington’s a nice woman, Mums, you think? Very, very well-meaning and decent.”
Lady Jane looked back at the house as they went out of the garden gate into the road.
“It
