The Garden Party, and Other Stories
lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly
alive on bright crimson stems.
“O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She
crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt
they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.
“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever ordered so many.
Sadie, go and find mother.”
But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.
“It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they
lovely?” She pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday,
and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my
life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good
excuse.”
“But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura.
Sadie had gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. She put
her arm round her mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her
mother’s ear.
“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? Don’t
do that. Here’s the man.”
He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.
“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch,
please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?”
“Oh, I _do_, mother.”
In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last
succeeded in moving the piano.
“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything
out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?”
“Quite.”
“Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to
take these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—” Jose loved
giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always
made them feel they were taking part in some drama. “Tell mother and
Miss Laura to come here at once.”
“Very good, Miss Jose.”
She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in
case I’m asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try over ‘This life is
Weary.’”
_Pom!_ Ta-ta-ta _Tee_-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that
Jose’s face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and
enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.
This Life is _Wee_-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that _Chan_-ges,
This Life is _Wee_-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that _Chan_-ges,
And then. . . Good-bye!
But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more
desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully
unsympathetic smile.
“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed.
This Life is _Wee_-ary,
Hope comes to Die.
A Dream—a _Wa_-kening.
But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?”
“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the
sandwiches?”
“The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?” echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily.
And the children knew by her face that she hadn’t got them. “Let me
see.” And she said to Sadie firmly, “Tell cook I’ll let her have them
in ten minutes.”
Sadie went.
“Now, Laura,” said her mother quickly, “come with me into the
smoking-room. I’ve got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope.
You’ll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and
take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this
instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father
when he comes home to-night? And—and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go
into the kitchen, will you? I’m terrified of her this morning.”
The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how
it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.
“One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I
remember vividly—cream-cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?”
“Yes.”
“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks
like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?”
“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder.
“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and
olive.”
They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She
found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all
terrifying.
“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous
voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?”
“Fifteen, Miss Jose.”
“Well, cook, I congratulate you.”
Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly.
“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She
had seen the man pass the window.
That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their
cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.
“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook.
Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and
Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the
same, they couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very
attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra
icing sugar.
“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura.
“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried
back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.”
“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma
won’t know.”
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very
idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura
were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only
comes from whipped cream.
“Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I
want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such
awfully nice men.”
But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans.
Something had happened.
“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand
clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was
screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be
enjoying himself; it was his story.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.”
“A man killed! Where? How? When?”
But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his
very nose.
“Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of
course, she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name
of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of
Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his
head. Killed.”
“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man.
“Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They
were taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook,
“He’s left a wife and five little ones.”
“Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister’s sleeve and dragged
her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door.
There she paused and leaned against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified,
“however are we going to stop everything?”
“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you
mean?”
“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend?
But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura,
don’t be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody
expects us to. Don’t be so extravagant.”
“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside
the front gate.”
That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to
themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house.
A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the
greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that
neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a
chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage
stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their
chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so
unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans’
chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a
man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages.
Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to
set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might
catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls
sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out
with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see
everything. So through they went.
“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,”
said Laura.
“Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you’re going to
stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you’ll lead a
very strenuous life. I’m every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel
just as sympathetic.” Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just
as she used to when they were little and fighting together. “You won’t
bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,” she said
softly.
“Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She
said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I’m going
straight up to tell mother.”
“Do, dear,” cooed Jose.
“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass
door-knob.
“Of course, child. Why, what’s the matter? What’s given you such a
colour?” And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She
was trying on a new hat.
“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura.
“_Not_ in the garden?” interrupted her mother.
“No, no!”
“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and
took off the big hat and held it on her knees.
“But listen, mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told
the dreadful story. “Of course, we can’t have our party, can we?” she
pleaded. “The band and everybody arriving. They’d hear us, mother;
they’re nearly neighbours!”
To Laura’s astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was
harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura
seriously.
“But, my dear child, use your common sense. It’s only by accident we’ve
heard of it. If some one had died there normally—and I can’t understand
how they keep alive in those poky little holes—we should still be
having our party, shouldn’t we?”
Laura had to say “yes” to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat
down on her mother’s sofa and pinched the cushion frill.
“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked.
“Darling!” Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat.
Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her
mother, “the hat is yours. It’s made for you. It’s much too young for
me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And
she held up her hand-mirror.
“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at herself; she
turned aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.
“You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that
don’t expect sacrifices from us. And it’s not very sympathetic to spoil
everybody’s enjoyment as you’re doing now.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the
room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she
saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with
gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined
she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she
hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was
extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor
woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the