The Garden Party, and Other Stories
was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People
pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father,
then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old
sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were
there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing
under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to
say good-bye.
“There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s father, giving
grandma another strapped-up sausage.
“Thank you, Frank.”
“And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And your other tickets?”
Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips.
“That’s right.”
He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked
tired and sad. “_Mia-oo-oo-O-O!_” The second whistle blared just above
their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the
gangway?”
“You’ll give my love to father,” Fenella saw her father’s lips say. And
her grandma, very agitated, answered, “Of course I will, dear. Go now.
You’ll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now.”
“It’s all right, mother. I’ve got another three minutes.” To her
surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in
his arms and pressed her to him. “God bless you, mother!” she heard him
say.
And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn
through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, “God
bless you, my own brave son!”
This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them,
swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a
mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going.
“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache brushed
her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat.
“How long am I going to stay?” she whispered anxiously. He wouldn’t
look at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, “We’ll see about
that. Here! Where’s your hand?” He pressed something into her palm.
“Here’s a shilling in case you should need it.”
A shilling! She must be going away for ever! “Father!” cried Fenella.
But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their
shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through
the air and fell “thump” on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled.
Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from
them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see
with all her might. “Was that father turning round?”—or waving?—or
standing alone?—or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew
broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady,
pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was
nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging
in the air, and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills.
The freshening wind tugged at Fenella’s skirts; she went back to her
grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the
two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on
them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an
intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were
moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a
bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her
hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave
herself a soft shake.
“And now, child,” she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, “I
think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you
don’t slip.”
“Yes, grandma!”
“And be careful the umbrellas aren’t caught in the stair rail. I saw a
beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over.”
“Yes, grandma.”
Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their
pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of
surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a
little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood
staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the
stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a
tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and
skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the
high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a
terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on
each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all
about the swan-necked umbrella.
At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going
to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They
were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled
of paint and burnt chop-bones and indiarubber. Fenella wished her
grandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An
immense basket of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them
and touched the top one delicately with her finger.
“How much are the sandwiches?” she asked.
“Tuppence!” bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork.
Grandma could hardly believe it.
“Twopence _each_?” she asked.
“That’s right,” said the steward, and he winked at his companion.
Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she whispered primly to
Fenella. “What wickedness!” And they sailed out at the further door and
along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nice
stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her
collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. She seemed to
know grandma well.
“Well, Mrs. Crane,” said she, unlocking their washstand. “We’ve got you
back again. It’s not often you give yourself a cabin.”
“No,” said grandma. “But this time my dear son’s thoughtfulness—”
“I hope—” began the stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long,
mournful look at grandma’s blackness and at Fenella’s black coat and
skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose.
Grandma nodded. “It was God’s will,” said she.
The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to
expand.
“What I always say is,” she said, as though it was her own discovery,
“sooner or later each of us has to go, and that’s a certingty.” She
paused. “Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know
it’s no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out.”
Grandma shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. We’ve got a few wine
biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana.”
“Then I’ll give you a look later on,” said the stewardess, and she went
out, shutting the door.
What a very small cabin it was! It was like being shut up in a box with
grandma. The dark round eye above the washstand gleamed at them dully.
Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her
luggage and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here?
Already her grandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the
strings, she fixed each with a pin to the lining before she hung the
bonnet up. Her white hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back
was covered with a black net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with
her head uncovered; she looked strange.
“I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear mother crocheted for
me,” said grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage, she took it out and
wound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced at her
eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then she
undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else
underneath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and grandma
flushed faintly. Snip! Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed a
sigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and
carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by
side.
By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her
flannel dressing-gown grandma was quite ready.
“Must I take off my boots, grandma? They’re lace.”
Grandma gave them a moment’s deep consideration. “You’d feel a great
deal more comfortable if you did, child,” said she. She kissed Fenella.
“Don’t forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when we are
at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am an
experienced traveller,” said grandma briskly, “I shall take the upper
berth.”
“But, grandma, however will you get up there?”
Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw. The old woman gave
a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered
over the high bunk at the astonished Fenella.
“You didn’t think your grandma could do that, did you?” said she. And
as she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again.
The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in the
bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn
down those stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If
everything had been different, Fenella might have got the giggles....
At last she was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded
from above a long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently,
gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was grandma
saying her prayers....
A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and
leaned her hand on grandma’s bunk.
“We’re just entering the Straits,” she said.
“Oh!”
“It’s a fine night, but we’re rather empty. We may pitch a little.”
And indeed at that moment the Picton Boat rose and rose and hung in the
air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and
there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenella
remembered she had left the swan-necked umbrella standing up on the
little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma remembered
too, at the same time.
“I wonder if you’d mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella,” she
whispered.
“Not at all, Mrs. Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to grandma,
breathed, “Your little granddaughter’s in such a beautiful sleep.”
“God be praised for that!” said grandma.
“Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And grandma was
still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell
asleep.
But she hadn’t been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up
again to see something waving in the air above her head. What was it?
What could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it. They
seemed to be feeling about for something; there came a sigh.
“I’m awake, grandma,” said Fenella.
“Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?” asked grandma. “I thought it was this
end.”
“No, grandma, it’s the other. I’ll put your foot on it. Are we there?”
asked Fenella.
“In the harbour,” said grandma. “We must get up, child. You’d better
have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move.”
But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp was still burning, but
night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that round eye she
could see far off some rocks. Now they were scattered over with foam;
now a gull flipped by; and now there came a long piece of real land.
“It’s land, grandma,” said Fenella, wonderingly, as though they had
been at sea for weeks together. She hugged herself; she stood on one
leg and rubbed it with the toes of the other foot; she was trembling.
Oh, it had all been so sad lately. Was it going to change? But all her
grandma said was, “Make haste, child. I should leave your nice banana
for the stewardess as you haven’t eaten it.” And Fenella put on her
black clothes again and a button sprang off one of her gloves and
rolled to where she couldn’t reach it. They went up on deck.