stay till the end of June, my dear. I have it in black and white.” This was true. Daphne realized how deliberately her letter of confirmation from the country had been extracted from her.
“My uncle has had some unforeseen expenses. My cousins were murdered by the Mau Mau, and their sons –”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but one just can’t be sentimental. It’s not like taking in ordinary lodgers. A Season is a Season, and one can’t get another girl at this time of the year. Look what I’ve done for you. Parties, the races, meeting important people … No, sorry, I can’t consider releasing you from the obligation. I’ve arranged a cocktail party at Claridge’s for you next week. After all, I don’t make anything out of it. Mercy Slater charges fifteen hundred to bring a girl out.”
This put Daphne off her stroke, it prompted her to haggle: “Lady Slater gives balls for her debs.”
Greta rapidly got in: “You surely didn’t expect the full deb process in your position?”
“Mole is calling for me,” Daphne said.
“I don’t want to keep you against your will, Daphne. But if you leave now you must compensate me fully. Then, if you want to go away, go away.”
“Go’way. Go’way, go to hell,” said the budgerigar, which had now risen to its perch.
“And then there’s the bird,” said she. “I bought it for you this afternoon. I thought you’d be thrilled.” She began to weep.
“I don’t want it,” said Daphne.
“All my girls have adored their pets,” Greta said.
“Come here darling,” said the bird. “Go’way, go to hell.”
Greta was doing a sum. “The bird is twenty guineas. Then there’s the extra clothes I’ve ordered –”
“Go’way. Go’way,” said the bird.
Mole arrived. Daphne placed a cheque for twenty pounds on the hall table and slipped down to his car, leaving him to cope with her bags. “You will hear from my solicitors,” Greta called after her.
Michael was hanging about in the hall. He took the scene calmly. He giggled at Daphne, then went to help Mole with the luggage.
They had been driving for ten minutes before they had to stop for a traffic light. Then, when the engine stopped, Daphne heard the budgerigar chirping at the back of the car.
“You’ve brought the bird!” she said.
“Yes. Isn’t it yours? Michael told me it was yours.”
“I’ll ring the pet shop,” she said, “and ask them to take it back. Do you think Greta Casse will sue me?”
“She hasn’t a hope,” said Mole. “Forget it.”
Daphne rang the pet shop next morning from the country.
“This is Mrs Casse speaking,” she said with a nasal voice. “I bought a budgerigar from you yesterday. So silly of me, I’ve forgotten what I paid you, and I’d like to know, just for my records.”
“Mrs Greta Casse?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t think we sold a budgie yesterday, Mrs Casse. Just a moment, I’ll inquire.”
After a pause another, more authoritative, person came on the line. “You’re inquiring about a budgerigar, Mrs Casse?”
“Yes, I bought it yesterday,” said Daphne through her nose.
“Not from us, Mrs Casse – oh, and by the way, Mrs Casse …”
“Yes,” twanged Daphne.
“While you’re on the phone, I’d like to mention the account.”
“Of course. How much is it? I’ll send a cheque.”
“Eighty guineas – that’s of course including the toy poodle.”
“Ah, yes. What exactly was the sum for the poodle? I’m so scatty about these things.”
“The poodle was sixty. Then there was an amount last October –”
“Thanks. I’m sure it’s quite correct. I’ll send a cheque.”
“You have stolen that bird, I know,” said Aunt Sarah that afternoon, giving the cage a shove.
“No,” said Daphne, “I paid for it.”
In the spring of 1947 Linda died of a disease of the blood. At the funeral a short man of about forty-five introduced himself to Daphne. He was Martin Grindy, the barrister who had been Linda’s lover.
He gave Daphne his card. “Would you come some time and talk about Linda?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Next week?”
“Well, I’m teaching. But when school breaks up I’ll write to you.”
She wrote during the Easter holidays, and met him for lunch a few days later.
He said, “I miss Linda.”
“Yes, I’m sure you must.”
“The trouble is, you see, I’m a married man.”
She thought him attractive and understood why Linda had always felt urgently about keeping her appointments with him.
In the summer she started to replace Linda as Martin’s lover. They met in London at weekends and more frequently in the summer holidays.
Daphne was teaching at a private school in Henley. She lived with Pooh-bah and a middle-aged housekeeper whom they had persuaded into service, the old servant, Clara, having died, and Aunt Sarah having been removed to a nursing home.
Mole had married, and Daphne missed his frequent visits, and the long drives in his car. Until she met Martin Grindy her life was enlivened only by the visiting art master at the school, who came down twice a week.
Martin’s wife, several years older than he, lived in Surrey and was always ill with a nervous complaint.
“There’s no question of a divorce,” Martin said. “My wife’s against it on religious grounds, and though I myself don’t share these principles I feel a personal obligation towards her.”
“Oh, I see.”
They spent their time in his flat in Kensington. There was a heatwave. They bathed in the Serpentine.
Sometimes, if his wife was specially ill, he would be summoned to the country. Daphne stayed alone in the flat or wandered round the shops.
“This
