The day of the Montdore House ball came and went, but there was no sign of Polly’s baby. Aunt Sadie always used to say that people unconsciously cheat over the dates when babies are expected in order to make the time of waiting seem shorter, but if that is so it certainly makes the last week or two seem endless. Polly depended very much on my company and would send a motor car most days to take me over to Silkin for an hour or two. The weather was heavenly at last, and we were able to go for little walks and even to sit in a sheltered corner of the garden, wrapped in rugs.
‘Don’t you love it,’ Polly said, ‘when it’s suddenly warm like this after the winter, and all the goats and hens look so happy?’
She did not give me the impression that she was very much interested in the idea of having a baby, though she once said to me,
‘Doesn’t it seem funny to have talcum powder and things and boring old Sister waiting about, and all for somebody who doesn’t exist?’
‘Oh, I always think that,’ I said, ‘and yet the very moment they are there, they become such an integral part of your life that you can’t imagine what it was like without them.’
‘I suppose so. I wish they’d hurry up. So what about the ball – have you heard anything? You really ought to have gone, Fanny.’
‘I couldn’t have. The Warden of Wadham and Norma went – not together, I don’t mean, but they are the only people I’ve seen so far. It seems to have been very splendid, Cedric changed his dress five times, he started with tights made of rose petals and a pink wig and ended as Doris Keane in Romance and a black wig, he had real diamonds on his mask. Your mother was a Venetian youth to show off her new legs, and they stood in a gondola giving away wonderful prizes to everybody – Norma got a silver snuff-box – and it went on till seven. Oh, how badly people do describe balls.’
‘Never mind, there’ll be the Tatler.’
‘Yes, they said it was flash flash all night. Cedric is sure to have the photographs to show us.’
Presently Boy strolled up and said,
‘Well, Fanny, what d’you hear of the ball?’
‘Oh, we’ve just had the ball,’ said Polly, ‘can’t begin all over again. What about your work?’
‘I could bring it out here if you like.’
‘You know I don’t count your silly old embroidery as work.’
Boy’s face took on a hurt expression and he went away.
‘Polly, you are awful,’ I said.
‘Yes, but it’s for his own good. He pretends he can’t concentrate until after the baby now, so he wanders about getting on everybody’s nerves when he ought to be getting on with Paddington. He must hurry, you know, if the book is to be out for Christmas, he’s still got Souppes to do. Have you ever met Geoffrey Paddington, Fanny?’
‘Well, I have,’ I said, ‘because Uncle Matthew once produced him for a house party at Alconleigh. Old.’
‘Not the least bit old,’ said Polly, ‘and simply heavenly. You’ve no idea how nice he is. He came first to see Boy about the book and now he comes quite often, to chat. Terribly kind of him, don’t you think? Mamma is his chief hate so I never saw him before I married – I remember she was always trying to get him over to Hampton and he would never come. Perhaps he’ll be here one day when you are, I’d love you to meet him.’
I did meet him after that, several times, finding his shabby little Morris Cowley outside Silkin when I arrived. He was a poor man, since his ancestor, the great duke, left much glory but little cash, and his father, the old gentleman in spats, had lavished most of what there was on La Païva and ladies of the kind. I thought him friendly and very dull, and could see that he was falling in love with Polly.
‘Don’t you think he’s terribly nice?’ said Polly, ‘and so kind of him to come when I look like this!’
‘Your face is the same,’ I said.
‘I really quite long for him to see me looking ordinary – if I ever do. I’m losing hope in this baby being born at all.’
It was born, though, that very evening, took one look, according to the Radletts, at its father, and quickly died again.
Polly was rather ill and the Sister would not allow any visitors for about ten days after the baby was born, but as soon as she did I went over. I saw Boy for a moment in the hall, he looked even more gloomy than usual. Poor Boy, I thought, left with a wife who now so clearly disliked him and not even a baby to make up for it.
Polly lay in a bower of blossom, and the Sister was very much in evidence. There should have been a purple-faced wailing monster in a Moses basket to complete the picture and I felt its absence as though it were that of a person well known to me.
‘Oh, poor –’ I began. But Polly had inherited a great deal of her mother’s talent for excluding what was disagreeable, and I saw at once that any show of sympathy would be out of place and annoy her, so instead I exclaimed, Radlett-fashion, over two camellia trees in full bloom which stood one each side of her bed.
‘Geof. Paddington sent them,’ she said. ‘Do admit that he’s a perfect love, Fanny. You know, Sister was with his sister when she had her babies.’
But then whom had Sister not been with? She and Boy must have had some lovely chats, I thought, the first night or two when Polly
