Indeed, as Monica went to bed, she was astonished to recall how the facts which she had given to Peggy, without being in the least distorted had been, by some instinct of caution deep within her, edited. Was it Peggy’s fault? No, she had been very friendly, though in a way which was new to Monica — a way which suggested that she was glad to hear anything which she was told, but was not really seeking information and was not, perhaps, deeply interested. Was it something about England, which made real truth and real revelation impossible? Had that dreadful week on the Atlantic really drawn such a broad line between herself and her past? She was uneasy and puzzled until she went to sleep.
[FOUR]
Mr Miles Peter Andrews was the most elegant young gentleman that Monica had ever encountered in the flesh, yet he was not really what she would have called a snappy dresser — not as Alex and Kevin were, certainly. Cheerful Frederick Boykin had brought her from Marylebone Road by taxi to Fetter Lane, off which, in Plough Court, were the offices of Jodrell and Stanhope. She now sat in the private room of the junior partner, who looked at her in a weary, lawyer-like fashion, which made Monica feel that he could see right through her. As a matter of fact, Mr Andrews knew next to nothing about her, and was trying to get his bearings. This was the girl from Canada, referred to his firm by — who was it — a Canadian firm called Snelgrove, Martin and Fitzalan, of some place called Salterton. It would have astonished the members of the Bridgetower Trust if they could have known how much in the dark Mr Andrews was about everything connected with their protégée. Mr Snelgrove, who had been entrusted with all the arrangements, had spoken importantly about “our opposite number in London — fine old firm”, as though Jodrell and Stanhope were in almost daily contact with his own office. It may even have been that Mr Snelgrove believed this to be — in a large, general way — the truth. But the fact was that on only one former occasion had Jodrell and Stanhope ever done any business in London for Snelgrove, Martin and Fitzalan of Salterton, and that had been many years ago, when Miles Peter Andrews was at Maryborough. He had been given Monica to look after because, as the junior, he got all the odds and ends, and perhaps also because his wife was musical in a well-bred, desultory way. Mr Andrews caressed his handsome moustache and blinked sorrowfully across his table at Monica.
“Your first visit to London, Miss — ah — Miss Gall?”
“Yes, sir. I came down from Liverpool yesterday afternoon.”
All things considered, it was unfortunate that Monica called him “sir”, though she did so from the best of motives; she thought she should be polite, and Mr Andrews was in roughly the same relationship to her as her former boss at the Glue Works — a man of power on the other side of a desk. But the word spoke volumes — volumes perhaps of untruth, but nevertheless, volumes — to Mr Andrews’ English ear. He allowed his fine eyes to fall to the file which Mr Boykin had laid on his desk. There was not much in it, but a letter from somebody called Matthew Snelgrove made it clear that Miss Monica Gall was the beneficiary of a trust which was empowered to pay for her musical education. Mr Snelgrove, for all his assumption of familiarity with Jodrell and Stanhope, had not thought it necessary to tell them that the yearly income from about a million Canadian dollars might be spent on this project. So Mr Andrews drew his own conclusions from the fact that he had been called “sir”, and also from Monica’s style of dress, which he knew to be neither smart nor expensive. When he spoke again his tone was distant, though kindly.
“Well, Miss Gall,” said he, “we must make you as comfortable as possible, mustn’t we. Our Chief Clerk, Mr Boykin, has arranged digs for you at a very good address — a Mrs Merry in Courtfield Gardens. She knows that you are a music student, and I believe she has made some special arrangement about noise. Now, as to money: we are empowered to pay all your fees for instruction, and any large bills; they can be rendered here, without reference to you. But you’ll need money for ordinary expenses. What do you think you’ll need? By the month, let’s say?”
“I — oh, I wouldn’t have any idea,” said Monica. “I don’t know anything about what it costs to live here. I’m not very good at English money yet. What would you think?”
“I don’t suppose it will be very long before you know other students, and music students aren’t very flush of money, as a usual thing. You wouldn’t want to be above or below the average. Would five pounds a week do it? Say twenty-five pounds a month? That’s three hundred a year, you know; very handsome, really, and all your big bills paid.”
Monica, who knew nothing about it, agreed that this was so, and Mr Andrews thought so, too, for a girl of the sort who called him “sir”.
“Now as to teaching,” he continued, “I see that is all to be in the hands of Sir Benedict Domdaniel. He will tell you what to do, and we shall pay the bills. I see here that Boykin is writing to Sir Benedict today, to say that you have come, and you will undoubtedly be hearing from him very shortly. So there really isn’t anything more to discuss, is there? Except, of course, that if you need any help, or anything like that, get in touch with us. I’m away rather a lot, so you’d better ask for Boykin.”
Mr Andrews rose to his impressive height, and turned out the very faint gleam of geniality which had illumined his large blue eyes. Monica was shown out into Plough Court by Mr Boykin, who assured her that he would see that she was moved to Courtfield Gardens that very afternoon.
[FIVE]
“You’ll be wanting a few sticks, won’t you?” said Mr Boykin. He sat on Monica’s trunk, which he and a disgruntled taxi-man had just dragged and boosted up three flights of stairs, getting his breath and surveying her new quarters.
“Semi-furnished was the wording of the advertisement,” said Mrs Merry. Her manner was not defensive, but there was a hint in her voice that, if hostility should arise, she was ready for it. “I naturally expected that the young lady would want to have her own things about her. It was never mentioned to me that the young lady was from the Dominions.” Mrs Merry contrived, in this statement, to make it clear that in her view being from the Dominions was the sort of thing which a tenant would conceal for as long as possible.
Unquestionably Monica would be wanting a few sticks. There were no carpets on the floors and no curtains on the windows. The bedroom contained a single bed, a washstand upon which stood a very large jug in a basin, and a very small clothes-press in the Art Nouveau manner, with a bit of looking-glass let into the front of it. The sitting-room was furnished with one of those day-beds upon which it is uncomfortable to sit and even more uncomfortable to lie, a large discouraged pouffe covered with grubby cretonne, and a dirty, scarred little object which was probably once described as “a handy smoker’s chairside table”. There was nothing else.
The rooms were small and the distemper on the walls had been marked and scuffed by many tenants. Outside the windows, two feet from the glass, was the decorative balustrade which ran across the face of the house — a kind of fence with bulbous stone palings — so that it was easy to look out at the sky, but very hard to see down into the street.
“There are facilities for light housekeeping, as you see,” said Mrs Merry, opening the door of a small cupboard in which, indeed, there was a very old, scabby gas-ring and some shelving. She unveiled this wonder as though it clinched the desirability of her rooms.
“And when may we expect the piano?” said she.
“I’ll have one sent round when Sir Benedict gives the word,” said Mr Boykin. Mrs Merry thawed a little at the mention of a title.
“I shall have to hold you responsible for any damage done in moving the instrument upstairs,” said she. Adding, to Monica, “You’ll be able to make as much noise as you like up here; there’s nobody on this floor in the daytime, and rarely anyone downstairs.”
“That’ll be great,” said Monica, who was thoroughly unnerved by Mrs Merry, and anxious to placate her. If Mrs Merry wanted noise, she would promise noise.