The Nutmeg Tree Page 3

  “You’d better come to-night,” said Fred earnestly. “What time does your train go?”

  “Eleven-forty,” said Julia; but she hesitated. That gap of five hours at Paris was already consecrated, in her mind, to her book: she had intended to sit in the First Class waiting-room, lost in a world of literature, while intrigued and intriguing Frenchmen vainly tried to get off with her. That, she felt, was how her journey should begin, for she had already shifted the starting-point to the Gare du Lyon. If she went to a music-hall with the Genocchios, that starting-point would have to be put off still further—till eleven-forty, in fact, which meant so much less time in which to work up her new rôle. Slapdash in everything else—and particularly in affairs of the heart—Julia nevertheless plumed herself on being a conscientious artist; and now these two sides of her character were at their usual game of Devil-pull-Baker. Then she looked at the postcard again, and the Devil won.

  “All right,” she said. “But I’m not going to miss my train. My daughter will be waiting for me.”

  His gratitude was cut short by the entrance of the four other Genocchios—three brothers and a cousin—who had followed their leader’s example; and in the company of so many males Julia’s spirits at once soared. Within five minutes she was the life and soul of the party. The warmth, the rowdiness, the pressure of Fred’s knee against her own, all were equally agreeable to her; and only when Fred’s hand went under the table as well did she suddenly remember about being a lady. It was hard, too, for those muscular fingers spoke a familiar and exciting language, to which her own cheerful flesh was only too ready to respond; but the spirit triumphed, and Julia rose.

  “I’m going to have a look at Ma,” she said. “It’s too bad, leaving her all alone.

  But she only made matters worse. As she went up the companionway a movement of the now pitching boat sent her almost off her feet. Julia staggered back, and but for the strong arm of the trapeze artist would have lost her balance. Fred had followed her up, and was holding her in an embrace so unnecessarily warm as to leave no doubt of his sentiments. He had fallen for her, flat; and Julia, always honest with herself, had no doubt that she could very easily have fallen for him. But she restrained herself nobly; perhaps The Forsyte Saga, which she still held under her arm, and which was pressing painfully into her ribs, lent her moral strength. In any case, instead of squeezing Fred back, she drew a little away.

  “If you don’t behave yourself,” she gasped (for the boat was very lively indeed), “I shan’t come tonight. I told you before, I’m going out to my daughter.”

  “All right,” said Fred regretfully.

  He understood. He was a perfect gentleman. Removing his arm from her waist he gave her no more support (hand under elbow) than the motion of the boat absolutely required. So, decorously, they went up on deck to the chaperonage of Ma.

  Julia was sad. She felt that if only things had been different, they could have had a really lovely time.

  4

  In the Paris train, which was three-parts empty, the Genocchios, with Julia, occupied two adjoining compartments. In the first lay Ma, who after being supported through the Customs had immediately collapsed again, and who was still being ministered to by Joe, Jack, Bob, and Willie; the other, Julia and Fred had all to themselves. This situation was less dangerous than it seemed, for every now and then one of the lesser Genocchios would come in to report progress, or to smoke a cigarette; but even in their solitary interludes Fred’s behaviour was now impeccable. He talked quietly and seriously, chiefly about money, and displayed a most becoming family pride. The Genocchios, he would have Julia know, were no mere buskers; Italian by origin, they had come over, if not exactly with the Conqueror, at any rate in the reign of Charles II. They had play-bills to prove it. There was a play-bill bearing their name in the Victoria and Albert Museum. He, Fred, as a nipper, had been taken to see it by his father and uncle—both notable artists; and it was his own grandfather who had actually presented it. There wasn’t another family in the profession—except, of course, the great Lupinos—who could show a record to touch it. Julia listened entranced, nor did her interest wane when from the past Fred worked up to the present. He spoke of money in the Bank, of a freehold house at Maida Vale; for in addition to being artists, the Genocchios were also shrewd. Not one, in two hundred years, had been buried by the parish. They had had their ups and downs, of course (and what family hadn’t? Look at the Bourbons!); but for the last century neither a roof of their own, nor money in the Bank, had ever been lacking.…

  “You must make grand husbands,” said Julia sincerely.

  “We do. And when we marry, we stick. No chopping and changing. Why, Ma wouldn’t be with us now, if Dad hadn’t died six months ago. She couldn’t seem to get over it, and then she took a fancy to come along, and we thought it might brighten her up. But it was a mistake,” finished Fred gloomily. “Her stomach was always a bit weak.”

  He relapsed into silence, evidently preoccupied with professional troubles. Julia, to distract him, enquired after the rising generation; but his gloom only deepened.

  “Bob and Willie are married all right, but they’ve only a couple of girls between them. Nice bright little kids too, but apart from the name you don’t often get a woman acrobat first-class. They’re learning dancing.” Fred sighed. “I ought to marry myself. But there was a girl, six years ago …”

  Julia pressed his hand. She couldn’t help it, and he took it as meant.

  “She fell into the net all right, but something twisted. I think she wished there hadn’t been a net. Anyway, she died three months after, and for a bit I hated the whole business.”

  “I wonder you didn’t chuck it,” said Julia.

  “Chuck it?” He looked at her in surprise. “Of course I didn’t chuck it. But it upset me, if you know what I mean. I don’t say I’ve never looked at a woman since, because I have; but marrying ’em was different.”

  “I don’t suppose,” said Julia gently, “she’d have wanted you not to …”

  “She didn’t. Just when she was going, she said, ‘Give my love to your wife, Fred’—just like that. Here, I didn’t mean to upset you!”

  For Julia was already weeping. No considerations of complexion had ever been able to restrain her tender heart, and the tears mingled with her rouge until Fred’s handkerchief was patched with pink. When at last she blew her nose she looked five years older, but Fred did not seem to mind. He put one arm about her shoulder and tried to dry her eyes himself.

  “No,” sobbed Julia. “You go and see to Ma. I want to do my face.”

  He went at once—the perfect gentleman. Once alone, Julia’s tears rapidly ceased, leaving her only pleasantly purged by emotion, and she settled down to her vanity-box with a single mind. There is no doubt that she was enjoying the journey exceedingly: her grief, perfectly genuine while it lasted, was but an extra incident in a thoroughly interesting, variegated trip. She wouldn’t have missed it. Even the hasty renovation of her face was amusing to her, and she exchanged her more subdued (or Packett) lipstick for a new Kiss-proof in flamingo red. The effect was striking, but when Mr. Genocchio returned he did not appear to notice it.

  “I’m worried about Ma,” he said sombrely. “She’s still heaving.”

  Julia looked up with concern.

  “And what’s more, when she stops heaving, she’ll go to sleep. That fool Joe’s been filling her up with cognac like pouring it into a flask. If you ask me—” he flung himself down on the seat—“she’ll have to disappoint.”

  “Well, she’s not really part of the show, is she?” asked Julia, in an attempt to console. “I mean, it’s not like you dropping out.”

  “She gave us a breather. You can do with a breather in our act. Besides—I know you wouldn’t think it to see her now—Ma’s good. She’s got a good smile, and a sort of way with her. Twinkle in her eye and so on. You’d be surprised the hand she gets.”

  “It’s experience does it,” said Julia
rather ambiguously. “Can’t you get someone at the theatre?”

  “We might, but there’s not much time, and they hate anyone giving trouble. It’s no use worrying. If she’s all right she’s all right, and if she isn’t—”

  “If she isn’t, I’ll have to help you out myself,” said Julia.

  The words were scarcely past her lips when she knew they were a mistake. There are occasions when one should refrain from well-doing, and this was one of them. When you are going to join your daughter—at any rate, when you are going to join such a daughter as Susan—you shouldn’t step aside into borrowed tights. But already Fred was grasping her hands in almost excessive gratitude, and from his fingers into hers ran a peculiar thrill. It was the thrill of theatrical excitement, the thrill of the-other-side-of-the-curtain, to which she had so long been a stranger, and which (as she now realized) she had so sorely missed. “Just this once!” Julia told herself. “Just this one last time, before I’m too old!”

  So it was that, instead of going on to the Gare du Lyon, Julia got out at the Gare du Nord.

  Chapter 4

  1

  Standing on a chair before the inadequate dressing-room mirror, Julia took a good close-up look at her legs. It was so long since she had seen them in tights that she felt both curious and apprehensive—especially as the tights worn by Ma were definitely outsize. But if Mrs. Genocchio was stout, she was also short, and the material was very elastic. By judicious pulling-up Julia had achieved an adequate degree of tautness, and the reflection in the mirror now set her doubts at rest. Stilted on the two-inch heels of her own silver shoes, Julia’s legs rose strong and shapely to the silver loincloth; and if they weren’t quite in the mannequin class, they had nevertheless an appeal of their own.

  “Men don’t care for toothpicks, anyway,” said Julia complacently.

  With some precaution, on account of her heels, she got down from the chair and took her upper half in turn. It was lightly covered by a sort of bathing-dress top, black like the tights, and a silver bolero. A headdress composed of black ostrich feathers, springing from a silver tiara, completed the costume; and whoever designed it (thought Julia) must have had a great deal of taste.

  There was a rap at the door; she sprang away from the mirror and took up a nonchalant pose in a good light.

  “It’s me: Fred,” called Mr. Genocchio.

  “Come in!” called Julia.

  Her heart was suddenly beating fast. Suppose he didn’t like her? Suppose he thought her too … plump? With passionate repudiation she cast a backward glance over all the French pastries she had ever eaten. Why had she eaten them, when she always knew they’d be her ruin? On one occasion, to amuse Mr. Macdermot, she had consumed four éclairs running.… “He ought to have been ashamed!” she thought bitterly; and if her agitation seems excessive, it must be remembered that Julia lived ever for the moment, and that this moment was wholly Fred’s.

  She need not have feared, however. Fred’s face, as he stood in the doorway, was positively goopish with admiration.

  “You’re wonderful,” he said at last.

  “So are you,” said Julia earnestly.

  For no photograph could do him justice. A photograph could give only the sheen of his black tights, not the play of muscles beneath; only the statuesque beauty of poise, not the fluid beauty of movement. Fred walked across the room like a black panther; and as she gazed in admiration Julia all unwittingly acquired something she had long coveted. She acquired a scrap of culture, and if she did not recognize it as such, that was because what one looks for among Good Books one does not expect to find in the dressing-room of a music-hall. But so it happened: having filled her eyes with a best in its kind, Julia could not then turn them on a second-best without knowing it for what it was.

  “I’ve too many bits and pieces,” she stated, looking at herself in the mirror.

  Fred stared in astonishment.

  “You’re grand. What don’t you like?”

  “All these.” Julia slipped off bolero and headdress and held them behind her back. “They’re beautiful, Fred, but I feel I ought to be neater.…”

  Side by side they gazed at her reflection; but, without the counterbalancing feathers, Julia’s hips, emphasized by the silver loincloth, now looked disproportionately large. She shook her head.

  “I haven’t the figure for it,” she admitted sadly. “I’d best leave it alone.”

  “Your figure’s grand,” said Fred. And he meant it. He looked at her with heartfelt admiration. As Julia replaced her headdress he said suddenly, “This place where you’re going—is Mr. Packett there too?”

  “He’s dead,” said Julia. “He was killed in the war.”

  “You must have been an awful kid to get married.”

  “Sixteen,” said Julia. “He was an awful kid to get killed.”

  “He was a hero all right,” said Fred.

  Julia nodded without speaking. His sympathy was sweet to her, but she had a suspicion that the spirit of her late husband might not be appreciating it. Sylvester never had liked her friends: when they tried to tell him how brave he was, he used to bite on his thumb and walk away. His shade was probably biting on its thumb now, and Julia, to placate it, hastily changed the subject.

  “Isn’t it nearly our call, Fred?”

  “About four minutes to go. Nervous?”

  “Just a bit. It’s as soon as I see you bowing?”

  “As soon as you see us bowing you come on and change the card—just take the top one off. You can’t go wrong if you try.”

  He grinned at her encouragingly, and Julia suddenly laughed back. For the next hour at least they were bound to each other, they were comrades, they were fellow members of a troupe that was also a family. For the next hour she was to be, not Mrs. Sylvester Packett, but the sixth Flying Genocchio.…

  “Allez-oop!” cried Julia; and the call-boy knocked on the door.

  2

  Though Julia’s legs might not conform to modern mannequin standards, they were greatly to the taste of the patrons of the Casino Bleu. Her second appearance was welcomed with acclamation, and in spite of all resolutions to the contrary she could not help casting a few glad-eyes over the crowded hall. After all, she owed it to Fred to do her best; and her best was very good indeed. There was a bonhomie about her, a willingness to give and receive pleasure, which at once brought her into contact with the audience; and as the turn advanced that contact grew more intimate. Gentlemen here and there shouted personal and appreciative remarks, and Julia’s French, though scanty, was sufficient for her to keep her end up. “Vive la France!” she called back: “Vive l’amour! Cherchez la femme and many of them!” It was not wit, of course, in the classic sense, but it passed for such to her now numerous admirers, and each time she came on the exchanges grew longer and more uproarious. As for Julia, the feel of the boards under her feet, and the smell of a theatre in her nostrils, and the sound of applause in her ears, all combined to intoxicate her. Like every good actress, she was a little above herself; her personality had swelled to more than life-size; and only a sound professional conscience kept her from stealing the show. The instant she saw the troupe in position she dived for the wings; not till the last wave of applause had ebbed did she reappear. Even so, she felt qualms.

  “I can’t help it,” she murmured to Fred, in a moment when he was not performing. “I know I shouldn’t have answered, but I didn’t think.”

  He had no breath to reply—as Julia knew by the superb expansion and contraction of his chest—but his smile said everything. It was all right, he didn’t mind; and when at the end of the turn she took her call with the rest his arm slipped through hers and clipped it tight to his side.

  “You were grand!” he murmured, while the curtain swung down and up; and at the touch of his cheek, as he whispered, a delicious thrill ran like wine through Julia’s body. This, this, she thought, was life! The fouled air was like balmy breezes to her: the people in the audience—good a
nd bad, clean and grimy—were her friends, her kindred, the partakers of her joy. As far as Julia ever felt a communion with nature, she felt it then. And if the nature thus communed with was exclusively human, and therefore (as is commonly believed) less pure, less elevating, than the inanimate, that was the fault of circumstance. The trees and mountains were waiting for her in Savoy.

  3

  Three hundred miles away old Mrs. Packett sat up and looked at the time. It was half-past ten; she had gone to bed too early. Susan always made her grandmother go to bed early when there was to be anything special next day—and then when the next day arrived, made her stay in bed late.

  “Silly foolishness!” said old Mrs. Packett aloud. She stretched herself out between the cool, lavender-smelling sheets: her old body felt tough and vigorous—a bit stiff in the joints, but quite capable of sitting up till a reasonable hour. She had been a trifle nervy that afternoon, no doubt; but who wouldn’t, with a resurrected daughter-in-law hanging over one’s head. Hadn’t she a strange young man practically living in the house already? “I didn’t come here to entertain a house-party,” thought Mrs. Packett crossly; “I came here for rest and peace and Susan’s French.” But Susan was for once being unreasonable: instead of getting quietly on with her Molière she must needs go and fall in love, and adopt ridiculous martyred attitudes, and write ridiculous letters to a parent she had hardly seen! Mrs. Packett no longer feared Julia; Susan (as no one knew better than her grandmother) was past the malleable stage; but a positive invitation more than any normal woman could resist …

  “I let Susan domineer,” thought Mrs. Packett. “It’s a bad habit for both of us.” Then, involuntarily, she smiled; Susan’s domineering was very sweet. It made one feel—wanted. It kept one up to the mark. Susan was very particular, for example, about her grandmother’s hats; she always made straight for the model department, and would look at nothing under two guineas. Once, for a plain black straw with a velvet ruche, she made the old lady pay five. “It’s the line,” Susan had explained. “It makes you look like a Romney.” Mrs. Packett always submitted. She still had a tendency to woolly jackets, and to bits of embroidery on the chest, but her hats were admirable.…