The House That is Our Own. O. Douglas
with a sister, and she was saying to me just yesterday, when she looked in for a cup of tea, that she whiles feels herself in the way. You see, there’s a husband in the house and three girls, and, uch, you know how it is, when girls grow up. They’ll not take a word, and mebbe Jeanie’s too free with her advice. I’ll be seeing Mrs. Auchinvole (that’s her name; isn’t it a queer one?) this very day, for we’ve planned to go to the pictures to see Little Lord Fauntleroy; they say Freddie Bartholomew’s lovely, and if you like I’ll sound her about it and let you know.”
“That would be very kind,” Kitty said, and then rather hesitatingly added, “She can cook, I suppose, your friend?”
“Well, she cooked for her husband for twenty years.”
“Ye-es,” said Kitty, feeling that this was hardly a convincing testimonial. After all, the husband was dead.
Isobel, who by this time was starving, clinched matters by saying, “If Mrs. Auchinvole considers it, she could come and meet you here some day, and you’d find out all you want to know.”
Mrs. Gordon, who was also anxious to be about her own business, chimed in, “That’s it. Any time you were coming to see how things were gettin’ on you could let me know and I’d have her here. I’ll tell her about it, of course, and she can be turning it over in her mind. You’ll not want anybody till the flat’s ready, and the dear knows when that’ll be.”
“We’ll hurry them up,” said Gordon. “Would two-thirty be a good time for you to see the painter, always supposin’ I can get him?”
So it was arranged, and Isobel thankfully dragged her friend luncheon-wards.
“Where shall we go? The nearest? Come on then, for measuring in an empty house is the hungriest work I’ve ever tried. It’s the feeling of bareness, like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. I’ve been planning what I’d eat for the last hour.”
Kitty objected. “We’re not fit to go into a decent place.”
“We won’t look so bad when we’ve washed, and, anyway, nobody’ll look at us.”
It was as well that they were fortified by a good lunch, for they had an exhausting afternoon seeing the foreman painter, calling on Mr. Johnson to ask him about getting estimates for the plumbing work, and inspecting the stored furniture. Kitty was depressed to see her household gods looking so much less rich and rare than she remembered them, but Isobel pointed out that you couldn’t expect furniture that had been stored in the basement of a warehouse for two years to look its best.
She said, “Once the chairs and cushions have been thoroughly well beaten, and the cabinets and tables and so on washed and polished, you’ll begin to recognise them as your own. I can see you’ve a lot of most desirable things. I’m quite looking forward to seeing them adorn the flat. And they’re really in wonderfully good condition. I heard such stories about storing that I sold most of my things. When I see yours I wish I hadn’t, though mine perhaps were not worth keeping—solid, ugly Victorian stuff.”
As Isobel watched Kitty moving from one piece of furniture to another, as if greeting familiar friends, she knew how sad her heart must be seeing again the inanimate things that had been part of her happy married life. She knew, also, that it is not wise to allow oneself to indulge in unavailing regrets, so, after a little, she suggested that Kitty should tell the people in the warehouse that the furniture would be required shortly, and give directions about having carpets and rugs beaten, and curtains sent to be cleaned.
“You don’t want dirty things brought into your clean flat.”
“No,” said Kitty, still held by the past. “No. And I suppose they are dirty. Everything was bundled away in a hurry. I didn’t care at the time if I never saw them again. I’ve hardly ever thought of the poor things, and here they are, patiently waiting for me. Now I’m longing to have them all about me. And my books! I’ll enjoy putting them all back on their shelves, and reading bits out of one and another.”
“At that rate,” said Isobel, “you won’t get on very fast, but it won’t matter. Why should one be in a hurry getting into order when it’s such a pleasant process? Well, don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day? I think tea, and a rest before dinner, are indicated. You go at things with such force, my dear, that you wear yourself out.”
CHAPTER IV
A blessed thing it is for any man or woman to have a
friend, one whom we can trust utterly, who knows
the best and the worst of us, and who loves us just
the same.—Charles Kingsley
A new interest is a tonic, not only to the mind but the body, and it amazed Isobel Logan to see how the flat and its concerns made a new woman of her friend. Time, doubtless, had been at its healing work, she had been ready to emerge from the dark cloud, and it only needed the stimulating thought of a home of her own to give her back something of the joy of life that had once been hers.
She was now full of plans, and Isobel was there to encourage her in all her projects. With truth Isobel declared that she enjoyed it all immensely. Her life was not so full but that she was glad of a fresh interest, nor were her friends so numerous that she could afford to undervalue one who needed her.
While the plumbers and the painters were in the flat, the two friends worked busily, making curtains and new slips for cushions, and looking over household linen.
“You must remember,” Kitty said, “that I was married sixteen years, and though I always renewed my stock at the spring sales, the life of linen in a laundry is not a long one. I’d clean forgotten what I possessed. Look at that tea-cloth with the deep crochet border. It was given me by a woman I was able to help, at least, Rob got things put right about her pension—her husband was killed in the War—and whose family we took an interest in. I must try to find out what has become of her. I’ve lost trace completely of so many people. My own fault too, for our friends did their very best, writing, and even offering to come out, but we didn’t want them, and after a time I didn’t even answer their letters. There was nothing to say, no progress to report, and gradually, they got discouraged and dropped off.”
“Wasn’t that a pity?” Isobel asked. “Good friends aren’t lying about for the picking up. But I don’t wonder you gave up writing—the world to you was narrowed down to one sick man. You were living for him, and had no thought or interest to spare for outsiders. But you’ll have to try now to remake your world. You’re naturally sociable; you really like people.”
Kitty admitted she did. “Both Rob and I liked our fellow-men and we entertained a good deal in a very modest way. I would like to try to pick up some of the threads again. A lot of kind letters were sent to the old Hampstead address when Mr. Johnson put the notice of the death in the papers, but I hardly looked at them, and only a formal note of thanks was sent. I ought to have replied to each one myself. It would have given me something to do. I can see now how feeble it was to give way as I did. Other women lose their husbands and have to go out into the world to earn their living. It’s good to have to make an effort, and bad to have time to nurse one’s grief.”
“Remember,” said Isobel, “how tired you were, and over-strained. Two years of nursing and constant anxiety would wear out anyone. I think you were very brave, coming to an hotel among strangers and making no fuss.”
Kitty looked at her tall friend, and said:
“You sit there and sew placidly at my cushions, saying kind things to me that I don’t in the least deserve. How you could have been so patient with me I don’t know, but, anyway, it was you who helped me to my feet, and every day now I am getting more able to walk alone.”
“Well, don’t walk away too far; I don’t want to lose you. . . . Have you thought