road. ‘What’s to be done for them?’ asked Chrissy.
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s to be a meeting at the Conway Hall next week, “Charity versus Challenge”. Sidney Webb is to speak – for what that’s worth. You ought to come.’
Frances nodded. ‘I might.’
‘Only, you won’t.’
‘I’m not sure I believe it’ll help, that’s all.’
‘You’d rather stay at home, scrub a lavatory pan or two.’
‘Well, lavatory pans must be scrubbed. Even the Webbs’, I expect.’
She didn’t want to talk about it. What was the good? In any case, she couldn’t quite tug her mind free from the music. The tune came more faintly as the man turned a corner, the last few strands of it like the fine but clinging threads at the edge of a piece of unhemmed linen.
Roses are shining in Picardy
,
in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flow’ring in Picardy, but
—
‘There’s Stevie,’ said Christina.
‘Stevie? Where?’
‘Down there. Just coming.’
Frances leaned, peered over the sill, and spotted the tall, rather handsome figure making for the entrance of the building. ‘Oh,’ she said, without excitement. ‘No school for her today?’
‘The school’s shut for three days. Some naughty boys broke in and flooded it. She’s been at her studio instead. She has a new one, in Pimlico.’
They remained at the window for another few moments, then returned, in silence, to their places on the floor. The electric fire was grey now, ticking again as it cooled. Soon there were footsteps out on the landing, followed by the rattle of a latch-key being put into the lock of the door.
The door opened almost directly on to the room. ‘Hullo Stinker,’ said Christina, as Stevie appeared.
‘Hullo you,’ Stevie answered. And then: ‘Frances! Good to see you. Your day up in Town, is it?’
She was hatless and coatless and smoking a cigarette. Her short dark hair was brushed back from her forehead, completely against the fashion; her outfit was plain as a canvas overall, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, showing off her knobbly hands and wrists. But Frances was struck, as she always was, by the dash of her, the queer panache, the air she had of not caring if the world admired her or thought her an oddity. She had a hefty satchel over her shoulder, which she let fall with a thud as she approached the armchairs. She looked at the fire and the toasting-forks, smiling but wary.
‘What’s the idea? A nursery tea?’
‘Isn’t it shaming?’ said Christina. Her manner had changed with Stevie’s arrival, had become arch and brittle in a way Frances knew and disliked. ‘When poor Frances comes to see us she has to bring her own tuck. Aren’t we lucky she’s so clever! Swap you a slice for a couple of cigarettes?’
Stevie fished in a pocket for her case and lighter. ‘Done.’
She helped herself to a piece of the loaf, then sat down in the velveteen armchair, her knee just touching Christina’s shoulder. Her fingernails were dark with clay, Frances could see now, and there was a dirty thumb-print like a bruise at her left temple. Christina noticed the thumb-print too, and reached up to rub it away.
‘You look like a chimney-sweep, Stevie.’
‘And you,’ said Stevie, surveying with satisfaction Christina’s unpressed clothes, ‘look like a chimney-sweep’s trollop.’ She took a large bite of cake. ‘Aside from your hair, that is. What do you think of it, Frances?’
Frances was lighting a cigarette. Christina answered for her. ‘She hates it, of course.’
Frances said, ‘I don’t hate it at all. It’d cause a stir on Champion Hill, though.’
Christina snorted. ‘Well, that’s a point in its favour, in my book. Stevie and I were in Hammersmith last week. The stares I got were out of this world! No one said a word, of course.’
‘No one would, to your face,’ said Stevie, ‘in a place like that.’ She polished off her slice of cake and licked her dirty thumb and fingers. ‘I
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s to be a meeting at the Conway Hall next week, “Charity versus Challenge”. Sidney Webb is to speak – for what that’s worth. You ought to come.’
Frances nodded. ‘I might.’
‘Only, you won’t.’
‘I’m not sure I believe it’ll help, that’s all.’
‘You’d rather stay at home, scrub a lavatory pan or two.’
‘Well, lavatory pans must be scrubbed. Even the Webbs’, I expect.’
She didn’t want to talk about it. What was the good? In any case, she couldn’t quite tug her mind free from the music. The tune came more faintly as the man turned a corner, the last few strands of it like the fine but clinging threads at the edge of a piece of unhemmed linen.
Roses are shining in Picardy
,
in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flow’ring in Picardy, but
—
‘There’s Stevie,’ said Christina.
‘Stevie? Where?’
‘Down there. Just coming.’
Frances leaned, peered over the sill, and spotted the tall, rather handsome figure making for the entrance of the building. ‘Oh,’ she said, without excitement. ‘No school for her today?’
‘The school’s shut for three days. Some naughty boys broke in and flooded it. She’s been at her studio instead. She has a new one, in Pimlico.’
They remained at the window for another few moments, then returned, in silence, to their places on the floor. The electric fire was grey now, ticking again as it cooled. Soon there were footsteps out on the landing, followed by the rattle of a latch-key being put into the lock of the door.
The door opened almost directly on to the room. ‘Hullo Stinker,’ said Christina, as Stevie appeared.
‘Hullo you,’ Stevie answered. And then: ‘Frances! Good to see you. Your day up in Town, is it?’
She was hatless and coatless and smoking a cigarette. Her short dark hair was brushed back from her forehead, completely against the fashion; her outfit was plain as a canvas overall, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, showing off her knobbly hands and wrists. But Frances was struck, as she always was, by the dash of her, the queer panache, the air she had of not caring if the world admired her or thought her an oddity. She had a hefty satchel over her shoulder, which she let fall with a thud as she approached the armchairs. She looked at the fire and the toasting-forks, smiling but wary.
‘What’s the idea? A nursery tea?’
‘Isn’t it shaming?’ said Christina. Her manner had changed with Stevie’s arrival, had become arch and brittle in a way Frances knew and disliked. ‘When poor Frances comes to see us she has to bring her own tuck. Aren’t we lucky she’s so clever! Swap you a slice for a couple of cigarettes?’
Stevie fished in a pocket for her case and lighter. ‘Done.’
She helped herself to a piece of the loaf, then sat down in the velveteen armchair, her knee just touching Christina’s shoulder. Her fingernails were dark with clay, Frances could see now, and there was a dirty thumb-print like a bruise at her left temple. Christina noticed the thumb-print too, and reached up to rub it away.
‘You look like a chimney-sweep, Stevie.’
‘And you,’ said Stevie, surveying with satisfaction Christina’s unpressed clothes, ‘look like a chimney-sweep’s trollop.’ She took a large bite of cake. ‘Aside from your hair, that is. What do you think of it, Frances?’
Frances was lighting a cigarette. Christina answered for her. ‘She hates it, of course.’
Frances said, ‘I don’t hate it at all. It’d cause a stir on Champion Hill, though.’
Christina snorted. ‘Well, that’s a point in its favour, in my book. Stevie and I were in Hammersmith last week. The stares I got were out of this world! No one said a word, of course.’
‘No one would, to your face,’ said Stevie, ‘in a place like that.’ She polished off her slice of cake and licked her dirty thumb and fingers. ‘I
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