The Eye of Love (14 page)

If questions unspoken hovered in the air, she didn't answer them. Mr Phillips could see that there'd been money spent, but he got no further. He still couldn't fathom a house with such a room in it, and a lodger in it as well. He couldn't make out what was what.

It was Martha who eventually, and unwittingly, gave him the clue; though not for some time.

2

Martha's own internal state, at this period of Mr Phillips' domestication, resembled an armed fortress—sentries posted, guns manned, boiling lead ready on the battlements; yet at the citadel calm. Behind her defences she was working well, and so long as she wasn't attacked intended no sortie; but if anyone, for instance, took her to the cinema again, she was prepared—dropping the dignity of metaphor—to be sick. In pursuance of her sensible policy, she gave fair warning. “I nearly
was
,” Martha informed Miss Diver gloomily, “last time. I told you before we went.”

There are certain possibilities before which every adult recoils. Miss Diver said something to Mr Phillips. “She doesn't
look
like a child with a weak stomach,” objected Mr Phillips suspiciously. It was very true; Martha didn't; still, there are certain possibilities et cetera. The point was in a sense shelved, since Mr Phillips didn't take Dolores to the pictures again either, the first visit turned out to be also the last; but Martha here undeniably won.

Her drawings, also, she withdrew as it were to the citadel—that is, whenever Mr Phillips was in the house she hid them in her attic. He had no second opportunity to look over her shoulder. This denied her the use of the kitchen-table at the week-end, but fortunately Mr Punshon kept his shop open all Saturday, and there on Saturday afternoons Martha regularly installed herself.

It was no hardship. Martha liked Mr Punshon's shop very well. There wasn't much room, she had to stuff herself between the end of the work-bench and a shutter hung with bunches of shoe-laces that tickled the back of her neck, but she enjoyed the craftsmanly atmosphere and worked well there; and Mr Punshon made no objection, so long as she didn't glare at the customers.

—“I didn't know I did,” said Martha, genuinely surprised.

“When they get in your light you do. Like a young Pachyderm,” said Mr Punshon, employing his favourite simile. “I won't say trade's suffered as yet; but any more females in the family way such as we just rubber-heeled may well get nervous how their basketful's going to turn out …”

Martha took the warning to heart. Thenceforward her amiable expression, in Mr Punshon's shop, occasionally covered exceedingly black thoughts, but rarely failed altogether. It was a useful piece of discipline such as she was all too unaccustomed to; for as Mr Phillips rightly pointed out, she had never really been disciplined at all.

“You must remember she's an orphan,” pleaded Dolores.

“I do,” said Mr Phillips.

For at least he had fathomed Martha. King Hal's Spanish rose, already declined into a landlady, had submitted also to decline into an aunt.

Mr Phillips' surprise at hearing Martha address her as Dolores hadn't been unmannerly—when was he unmannerly?—but it had been apparent. Miss Diver glimpsed a danger, however absurd, that he might jump to some wrong conclusion. She therefore casually referred, one evening, to her deceased brother (in the Civil Service), to her poor sister-in-law who had died so young (this was actually all Miss Diver knew about her late sister-in-law), and of course to Martha in so many words as her niece. Mr Phillips' attention was rewarding. The few questions he asked—“In what branch of the Civil Service?” enquired Mr Phillips. “The Post Office,” Dolores told him, rather shortly—but underlined a sympathetic interest. Dolores had no doubt but that she was believed; nonetheless, just to fix the relationship firmly in his mind, she bade Martha in future address her as Aunt.

“I think you'd better call me Aunt,” instructed Miss Diver.

Martha didn't protest. A little burst of protestation Miss Diver couldn't help feeling would have been in order—“
But Dolores suits you so much better
!” Martha might have wailed: even a flat refusal—“
I can't call you Aunt! I won't
!” Miss Diver would have forgiven. She was ready to comfort and persuade. But just as four years earlier, in the taxi going home from the funeral, Martha's reaction was unbecomingly placid.

“Aunt Dolores, or just Aunt?”

“Whichever you like,” snapped Miss Diver.

It struck her how little, in four years, Martha had developed. Even physically she looked much the same, she'd grown simply from a fat child into a stocky little girl, with no upshooting into grace, and her disposition had flowered no more. Admittedly she was useful in the house; admittedly, and importantly, she'd found Mr Phillips; but where was the harvest of affection her aunt so richly deserved to reap?—It was a point on which Mr Phillips was truly sympathetic.

“I only hope she appreciates all you've done for her,” said Mr Phillips gravely.

Dolores hoped so too; but there were few signs of it. It would be wrong to say that she had begun to dislike Martha, but she began to be discontented with her—perhaps unfairly, the child's affection never having been important to her so long as she possessed King Hal's, yet understandably, now that a kiss or a caress, spontaneously offered, would have a little warmed the chill about her heart. Miss Diver, living on the husks of love alone, found them but a Lenten diet.

She definitely, though it was her own doing, disliked her new title. Like the chattiness of the shop-people, like Miss Taylor's familiarity, the unromantic appellation was sadly abrading to the image of a Spanish rose.

3

With so much on her mind—remembering to call Dolores Aunt, also not to glare at Mr Punshon's clientèle, besides keeping guns trained in readiness on Mr Phillips—what wonder that Martha, setting down the latter's breakfast-tray, one morning made a slip of the tongue? She herself didn't notice it; but Mr Phillips did; and a few evenings later used it to his advantage.

In the meantime, Martha had been back to Almaviva Place.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

1

When Martha, in Almaviva Place, stood memorising the chestnut-tree, she had confidently expected to be able to put it on paper as soon as she got home; but this was not so. She couldn't get the two triangles, into which the whole tree should fit, in the right proportions. She put the attempt aside, but now and then took it out to look at; it bothered her to leave any piece of work unfinished. In the end, as she'd done with Ma Battleaxe's bedroom, she returned for a check on site.

This time her methods were more professional; she took her equipment with her. A single sheet of cardboard obviously wasn't rigid enough to draw on (and rub out on), standing up: but Martha laid five or six together, used ones, and so made a very satisfactory block. She took also her best pencil, a knife to sharpen it, and a good-sized hunk of bread. This last turned out to be a slight nuisance, since the crumbs attracted pigeons; otherwise, in the quiet cul-de-sac of Almaviva Place, she was undisturbed.

Martha propped her back against a convenient lamp-post, emptied her pockets, and set to work. It was a brilliant October morning, but the first cold snap; her hands were awkwardly cold. This difficulty Martha overcame by pulling down the wrists of her jersey inside her reefer-jacket and cutting slits to push her fingers through. Thus mittened, her hands warmed; only her feet froze. She looked about for something to stand on. In Alcock Road there would almost certainly have been an old newspaper about, perhaps even an old sack: Almaviva Place was unusefully well-kept. Martha considered; she knew her temperature would rise as soon as she started drawing, and her jersey was thick; so she removed her jacket and stood on that. It took her ten minutes or so to get comfortable, then she settled down for a good long spell.

It looked almost as though Fate was offering a second chance. If Mr Gibson had glanced from his office window, he might have seen her. But he didn't. He was too deeply engaged with old man Joyce, completing a survey of the first quarter's trading under the new régime.

2

Mr Joyce occupied, naturally, the chair behind the desk. Harry Gibson didn't mind. His welcome had been genuine—based not only on friendship but on gratitude to his friend for not dropping in more often. The illusion that he was still his own master might be an illusion and no more, but Harry Gibson had at least been allowed to cultivate it, and find what comfort he could in it, without the daily interference circumstance would have warranted.

He didn't mind seeing Mr Joyce go through the balance-sheets; as always, Harry Gibson felt the force of the old man's sympathy—a sympathy which naturally hadn't prevented the sinking of Gibson and Son without trace, nor the diddling of Son in the way of business, but which humanly speaking amounted almost to love. They were fond of each other! “What a damned queer turn-out it's been!” thought Harry Gibson.

Also, as far as the business went, he felt himself in good, if rapacious, hands. Rapacity in the way of business was something he understood; even appreciated. Harry Gibson sat content enough.

“Not so bad,” summed Mr Joyce at last. “For a beginning, not so bad!”

He got up, shaking himself like an old dog—also with the off-hand air of a knowing old dog who has just buried a bone. Harry Gibson read the signs and smiled.

“Also not such a bad bargain?”

“When do I ever make a bad bargain?” countered Mr Joyce. “A man like me cannot afford bad bargains.” He was at the moment putting on his overcoat bought because it was like Harry's; because he was so fond of Harry he wanted to look like Harry; he still wasn't giving anything away, in the way of business, to Harry. “But you know what?” added Mr Joyce. “Such a place as this I'd like to have myself. Not too big, not too small; just right. But for me it's back to Bond Street.”

On his way downstairs he dropped into the show-room for a word with Miss Harris and Miss Molyneux. They received him enthusiastically, and what he heard there pleased him: the little trickle of business was swelling to a little stream. Miss Harris indeed shouldn't have been there at all, she should have been in the work-room tacking up a canvas. “Which is the first, Mr Joyce, I really do believe, since old Mr Gibson's time,” marked Miss Harris—her excuses benevolently accepted. “How I wish he could see it!” “Perhaps he can, dear,” said Miss Molyneux, looking spiritual. “He'd get a shock if he saw the label,” said Mr Joyce; and left in a very good humour.

Outside he paused. It was always his habit to look over any piece of property with thoroughness; having noted the new brass plate properly cleaned, he stepped back and looked up to note the show-room blinds properly aligned, then walked round the corner to check the fitting-room windows at the side. (Properly curtained, nice clean net.) It was also in his mind to wave to Harry if Harry happened to be looking out of the office; but he wasn't. Mr Joyce paused a moment, quite disappointed, on the pavement of Almaviva Place; and thus chanced to observe, on the other side of the road, backed against a lamp-post, a stocky little girl making a drawing.

It was a sight to attract him at once. Friendly, inquisitive, fond of children, also fond of giving advice—how often in trouble with Miranda for stopping at a Guy or a one-man-band!—if the child had been merely skipping, Mr Joyce would have stepped across to count for her a bit. That she was drawing struck him (and it was the first time Martha so struck anyone) as a sweetly pretty sight. “A little artist!” thought old man Joyce benevolently; and unlike Mr Gibson three months earlier, crossed the road.

3

“By Gum!” said Mr Joyce.

It wasn't what he'd intended to say. He wasn't even addressing the child at all—upon whom he'd intended to bestow a few kind words and perhaps sixpence. Approaching from the rear, his eye fell on the drawing first; and what he saw so startled him, he simply pushed his nose over Martha's shoulder and stared as though the drawing under her fist had been hanging in a gallery.

His long haunting of art-galleries had given Mr Joyce an eye. He had a couple of Modiglianis, bought at a gallery in the Tottenham Court Road, that he was holding on to while the price went up and up. He stared. Only when Martha turned and scowled did his attention shift—it being impossible to ignore Martha scowling at close quarters.

“Did
you
do that?” demanded Mr Joyce—foolishly enough.

“I'm trying to do it
now
,” growled Martha.

With her usual defensive movement she pushed a forearm lion-cubbishly across the sheet. But she was holding six or seven sheets at once, and the cardboard was slippery; the motion fanning them out, they cascaded to the pavement—kippers in jugs, saucepans and casseroles (for they were all covered on both sides) and the kitchen-stove.

“By Gum!” repeated Mr Joyce; and again oblivious of the artist instantly squatted down on his heels to see better.

—There was always a touch of the street-arab about Mr Joyce. His ancestors had been used to trade on pavements. He squatted down, in his new check overcoat and his good custom-built suit, with as little self-consciousness as Martha would have done. A lady just then passing by he noticed as little as Martha did.

“You drew all of these?”

Martha nodded. She was still wary, but no longer savage. That spontaneous unselfconscious squat, so unexpected in an adult (and so like one of her own motions), roused hopes that this was a person of good sense. Martha was beginning to be rather hungry for criticism and appreciation—from a person of good sense. To put her hopes to the test, she pointed with one stubbily-shod toe at the drawing Mr Phillips had called a bird-cage.

“What's that?” demanded Martha sternly.