In the morning there was a violent incident in the florist's next to Richmond Station. A woman in a jade green velvet hat and a black coat with beaver trimming entered the shop a few minutes after it had opened. Alma was selecting blooms for the window. She recognized Lydia Baranov from her photographs. The face had lost the girlish softness of Trilby at the Theatre Royal, Windsor, and the fragility of Dora Vane in
In bed the night before, Alma had slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook. If she had hoped to find some portrait of Walter as a younger man, on his wedding day, or in a soldier's uniform, she was disappointed. It was exclusively a record of Lydia's life in the theatre, most of it pre-war. She had brought it back this morning in a canvas shopping-bag, covered with a knitted scarf in case of rain. It was hanging on the trellis behind her.
Alma was used to being treated as a menial by customers, particularly women. To them she was a shopgirl. She expected them to sniff the flowers and ask how much they cost without a glance in her direction. She expected them to tap their gloved fingers on the counter when another customer was being served. She expected them to pick over the bunches they had chosen and insist that certain blooms were replaced with fresher ones. But she was unprepared for Lydia Baranov.
It was firmly in Alma's mind that she was going to the surgery at lunchtime with the scrapbook. She was going to hand it personally to Walter.
So when Lydia swept in and demanded her book, Alma hesitated.
'Which book do you mean, madam?'
'Don't you dare be insolent to me.'
'I'm sorry, madam, but I don't recall meeting you before.'
Lydia said as if she were speaking to an imbecile, 'My husband Mr Baranov left it here yesterday evening.'
Alma knew she would have to hand it over. She turned to get it. She realised with disquiet that she would have to explain what it was doing in her shopping-bag. She was about to say that she had put it there this morning with the aim of delivering it to Mr Baranov's surgery, when Lydia grasped her by the arm.
'What have you got there? What on earth is my book doing in that shopping-bag?'
Without waiting for an answer, she wrenched the bag from Alma, snatched out the scrapbook and flung the bag and scarf across the shop. They hit a vase of gladioli in the window and tipped it over. Water streamed across the floor. Lydia paid no attention to it. She grabbed at Alma as she came round the counter to pick up the vase. She gripped the collar of her blouse and forced her against the counter.
'It's obvious what you've been up to. You took my book home last night to look at it. That's a violation, an invasion of my privacy. It was a vile, disgusting thing to do.' She slapped Alma hard across the face.
When Mrs Maxwell, the owner of the shop, arrived at 10.15, the vase of gladioli was replaced on its pedestal in the window. The floor had been wiped over with a cloth. She complimented Alma. A few minutes' work with a cloth and bucket in the morning freshened the shop for the rest of the day. It was always worth the effort. Mrs Maxwell looked at Alma and saw that her cheek was pink. She decided that the girl was blushing. It had long been a maxim of Mrs Maxwell's that a word of praise was the best bonus an employer could award.
Alma was saying nothing. She was determined not to mention the incident with Lydia Baranov. She had suffered humiliation and assault, but she did not need sympathy. A short time after Lydia had slapped her face and left the shop with her scrapbook held to her chest, Alma had felt a sensation that was not unpleasant. The blood had risen to her cheek to fill the capillaries. The stinging was subdued by a stimulating glow. Alma had concluded that Lydia was a desperate woman who had lost her husband's love.
When things were quiet in the shop, Alma was expected to assemble sprays and wreaths in the room at the back. Towards lunchtime she was wiring sprigs of holly into a funeral cross when she overheard a voice she knew. Walter Baranov was speaking to Mrs Maxwell in the front of the shop.
Alma waited breathlessly.
Mrs Maxwell looked round the door and told Alma that a gentleman had asked to see her about a personal matter. There was a note of censure in her voice. She said Alma had better take an early lunch.
It was hardly credible that a few minutes later she was strolling in the sunshine on Richmond Green with Walter. She kept snatching glances at familiar things to be sure that it was true: the pigeons on the cricket square, the line of elms, the green dome of the theatre, the alleyways between the tall Georgian buildings.
There was strong concern in Walter's voice. The strain showed in the taut muscles of his cheeks and neck and the way his usually square shoulders were slightly hunched. Yet he remained dignified, the more attractive to Alma for taking on this burden of apologising for an offence that was not his own. i came as soon as I could,' he told her. 'Lydia — my wife — spoke to me on the telephone at the surgery. She said she struck you. Is that right?'
She answered as calmly as she could, ‘I think she was very upset. She saw her scrapbook in my bag. She must have assumed I had taken it home to look at it.'
'I know, I know — but she should never have slapped your face.' He turned towards her and almost touched her arm with his left hand in a gesture of concern. 'Are you all right?'
'Perfectly. I was more shocked than hurt — embarrassed, really.'
'She didn't damage your clothes? I believe there was water spilt.'
There wasn't any damage, and I haven't mentioned it to anyone.'
'That's more than we have a right to expect. Miss Webster, I don't know how to thank you enough.'
With the sudden recklessness of a true woman of spirit, she said, 'You could call me Alma.'
He half-turned and their eyes met for a moment. He looked startled, jolted out of his prepared demeanour. He was definitely intrigued. As if to restore the proper conventions he quickly brought his hands together. 'Look here … Alma … I want to explain how this ghastly thing could have happened. It's the very least I can do.'
'There's no need.'
'I insist. You must do me the honour of dining with me. Is tomorrow night convenient? I believe there's a good French restaurant on the Hill. It should be quiet. We can talk in confidence there.'
Her heart raced madly, yet she managed to accept with dignity. She told him her address and he promised to call for her. His eyes were shining now and his bearing seemed more jaunty. He raised his hat and strode away in the direction of the station.
Alma continued walking across the Green, yielding at last to that quivering excitement, that unutterable joy that she had only ever known before as the printed words on a page. What marvellous compensation for a slapped face! She had an invitation to dinner with the man she loved. The fact that he was married simply added to her triumph. She had done nothing underhand. Whatever followed was the price Lydia would pay for her breach of decorum.
Humming softly, she walked back to the hairdresser's in Duke Street and made an appointment. When she got back to the shop and Mrs Maxwell remarked that she disapproved of her assistants receiving gentlemen friends at the shop, Alma replied evenly that it was most unlikely to occur again.
10
Walter came to the house at 7.30 next evening. Alma had asked the housemaid Bridget to stay late enough to admit him. At her dressing table she heard the voices downstairs. She dabbed her neck with essence of stephanotis. She stood up and smoothed the line of her tawny yellow crepe charmeuse gown. She fingered her necklace of dark amber beads. She was ready. It was the most momentous evening of her life, and she was calm and in control. Such serenity in a woman would surely be a revelation to Walter.
She put her cape around her shoulders and went downstairs to greet him. Bridget had poured him a pale dry sherry. He was studiously formal. He took a step towards Alma and bowed his head and called her Miss Webster. The pale blue of his eyes was a shade deeper this evening. In the white tie of evening dress he could have been a concert pianist or a diplomat. A ruby was inset in each of his gold cufflinks.
He had reserved a table in the Black Grape, only fifty yards down the Hill. She passed it every morning when the shutters were down. Sometimes in the evening when she returned from work there were candles alight at the tables and she could see silver salt and pepper pots and red napkins shaped like water lilies. She had never been
