The House That is Our Own. O. Douglas
the ‘to let’ that’s the difficulty,” said Isobel, who was sitting with her work-basket beside her, placidly mending. “Everything is for sale, and you don’t want to buy.”
“I don’t indeed. Even if I could afford to, what’d be the use of buying? It’s different for people with children—and even they wouldn’t buy a flat. What places we’ve seen! Are there really people who would live in a basement, always in artificial light, and be willing to pay £150 a year for the privilege? And these terrible new blocks like penitentiaries, with every new gadget, I grant you, but mere boxes! Personally I don’t know any cat-slingers, but if any exist they couldn’t indulge their hobby in these mansions. There’s no room for a pet; even a canary would feel itself de trop.”
“What about the one in Westminster?” Isobel asked. “It had quite good rooms.”
“But only two of them—one good living-room, one bed-room, an excellent bathroom, and a cupboard of a kitchen. It would mean never having a friend to stay, and, worse than that, no resident maid. Besides, I don’t like to eat in the room I sit in. What I’d like in Westminster would be one of those little old houses, but they again have basement kitchens, and, anyway, are seldom to be let. No, the only thing I can see myself in is that flat in Sloane Street, and it’s too expensive.”
“Have you thought it over carefully, and calculated what it would cost to run?” Isobel asked, looking with satisfaction at the eager face opposite to her, and thinking how beneficial a week of house-hunting had proved.
Kitty rescued a reel of silk and returned it to the work-basket.
“Yes,” she said, “I have, and I’m afraid I daren’t attempt it. My old nurse used to say of people who had too large and expensive a house, ‘I doubt it’ll burn them, not warm them,’ and there’s a lot of truth in the saying. Of course, in a flat you know more or less where you are. The rent covers everything in the way of taxes and, generally, central heating and constant hot water.”
Isobel nodded. “Compared with other flats we saw, I thought the Sloane Street one very reasonable. I liked the whole look of it. There was something so old-fashioned and settled-looking about everything, the entrance, the staircase, the lift. I am sure the people in the other flats are everything that is quiet and respectable. You wouldn’t like neighbours who entertained till all hours. And the rooms are large and airy—I expect your furniture would look just right in them—and the neighbourhood is so pleasant.”
“Temptress!” said Kitty. “You know quite well I’m simply longing to get that flat.”
“Well, go to your lawyer and lay it before him. He should know just what you can afford. Go this very morning. The flat may be snapped up any minute. If you like I’ll meet you somewhere for lunch, and we might look at some other places, supposing Mr. Johnson turns down your flat. But I don’t believe he will. I’ve a feeling in my bones that you were meant to live there.”
“Bless you for that,” said Kitty, rising with alacrity. “I’ll go now, this very minute. Where shall we meet?”
“Would Marshall’s be all right for you? And when we are out, what about getting some clothes? You said yourself you needed them, and to my mind there’s no tonic like a new hat.”
“If I get my flat,” said Kitty, “I shan’t ever again be able to afford any personal adornment. It’ll be old clothes indefinitely for me.”
Isobel folded up the garments she had mended, and said, “Shall we say one o’clock at Marshall’s luncheon-room? I’ll try to get a table at a window. Come right up, will you?”
It was nearly half-past one when Isobel, at her table in the window saw a small figure come in, glance round, and, on catching sight of her, come quickly forward.
“She’s got it,” said Isobel to herself.
“So sorry to have kept you,” Kitty began breathlessly, “but I couldn’t help it. Isobel, it’s all right. Mr. Johnson thinks I can just manage it, and he’s sending to see about it this afternoon. I’m not pretending that he was very keen about it, and he says they must find out exactly what state it’s in before anything’s settled, but . . . yes, anything you like. I’m too excited to eat. You know, although Mr. Johnson’s rather like a tortoise to look at, he’s really quite decent. I was surprised that a dry-as-dust old lawyer could be so human. He actually seemed to understand how much it meant to me, and I’m pretty sure he’ll manage to arrange it. It’s a blessing I spent almost nothing all winter, for I’ve a good deal lying. Perhaps I’d better get some clothes as long as I have any money. How good these sweetbreads are! I didn’t know I was so hungry.”
While they ate, the conversation circled constantly round the flat.
“I thought,” said Kitty, “that I’d examined every bit of it, but when Mr. Johnson asked me questions I found I knew practically nothing. I could tell him about the size and shape of the rooms, and their outlook, but I’d entirely neglected to notice the plumbing, what sort of kitchen stove there was, and so on. It was very shaming to be found so unpractical! Of course, I’ll need fresh paint everywhere, whether I pay for it myself or not, and I would like running water in the bedrooms—but I fear that’s beyond me. At least, Mr. Johnson says it is.”
“And I suppose he ought to know,” said Isobel. “Well, before you start squandering all you possess, let’s go and look for clothes. I want some myself, and it’s the perfect day for shopping, with a hopeful blue sky and a brisk feeling in the air.”
As they got up to go, Kitty said, “I believe you love clothes, Isobel?”
“Well, hardly that; but I confess clothes are a great interest to me. I don’t spend a great deal of money, but I spend quite a lot of time planning my wardrobe, and getting everything in keeping. And you know how fond I am of knitting, so I can copy jumpers that are too expensive to buy; and I can make blouses and underclothes. It’s lucky for me that I’ve fairly clever hands, for work fills hours that might otherwise be very dull.”
Kitty surveyed her friend. “Yes, you always look expensive—or is exclusive the word I want? I only wish I had your gift. I like good clothes, but I’m not clever about them. There is one thing, though, about being small and rather plain, one is inconspicuous. No one notices what one wears. You are rather like a city set on a hill.”
“What an awful thought! But you are very far from being either plain or dowdy, Kitty. All you need is to be more clothes-conscious. No, not self-conscious, quite the opposite. When you’re sure your clothes are right you can forget all about them. When you’re wrongly dressed you’re miserably aware of it all the time. Clothes psychology is rather an interesting thing. Let’s see what ‘Christine’ has to-day—round here in Hollis Street. She generally has something amusing.”
“Christine,” Isobel explained, “was run by a young woman, a friend of her own, whose husband had lost his health. She had to make a living for them both, and having a flair for clothes, had joined with another woman in taking a shop.
“Joyce Peyton supplied the capital, and Patty does all the work,” Isobel finished.
“Joyce? Patty? Then who is Christine?” Kitty asked.
“Nobody. Only a name to trade under. I’ve known Patty Tisdal for years. She and her husband are such a devoted couple, and they’ve had awful luck. It’s hard for him, poor chap, to lie on his back and see his wife work. He helps, though, in every way he can, keeps the books, and that’s really a big help, for neither Patty nor Joyce has any head for figures.”
When they reached the shop Mrs. Tisdal was just finishing with a customer, and in a few minutes joined them, greeting Isobel with pleasure.
“My dear, it’s ages. Have you been away?”
“No, only leading my usual blameless life in Queen’s Court. Patty, this is my friend Mrs. Baillie, also at present in Queen’s Court. Have you time to show us some things, which we may,