Something like that. Was that what she was doing now?
And she thought: ‘Yes, it’s exactly that. Just for this evening, just for this once, I want to be a woman, like other women, decking herself out, painting herself up to attract her man. I never wanted to before. I didn’t think I was that kind of person. But I am, after all. Only I never knew it.’
And her impression of Baldy was so strong that she could almost fancy him standing behind her, nodding his great heavy head in approval, and saying in his gruff voice:
“That’s right, young Laura. Never too late to learn.”
Dear Baldy…
Always, all through her life, there had been Baldy, her friend. Her one true and faithful friend.
Her mind went back to his deathbed, two years ago. They had sent for her, but when she had got there the doctor had explained that he was probably too far gone to recognise her. He was sinking fast and was only semiconscious.
She had sat beside him, holding his gnarled hand between her own, watching him.
He had lain very still, grunting occasionally and puffing as though same inner exasperation possessed him. Muttered words came fitfully from his lips.
Once he opened his eyes, looked at her without recognition and said: “Where is the child? Send for her, can’t you? And don’t talk tommy-rot about its being bad for her to see anyone die. Experience, that’s all… And children take death in their stride, better than we do.”
She had said:
“I’m here, Baldy. I’m here.”
But closing his eyes he had only murmured indignantly:
“Dying, indeed? I’m not dying. Doctors are all alike-gloomy devils. I’ll show him.”
And then he had relapsed into his half-waking state, with the occasional murmur that showed where his mind was wandering, amongst the memories of his life.
“Damned fool-no historical sense…” Then a sudden chortle! “Old Curtis and his bone meal. My roses better than his any day.”
Then her name came.
“Laura-ought to get her a dog….”
That puzzled her. A dog? Why a dog?
Then, it seemed, he was speaking to his housekeeper:
“-and clear away all that disgusting sweet stuff-all right for a child-makes me sick to look at it….”
Of course-those sumptuous teas with Baldy, that had been such an event of her childhood. The trouble that he had taken. The ?clairs, the meringues, the macaroons… Tears came into her eyes.
And then suddenly his eyes were open, and he was looking at her, recognising her, speaking to her. His tone was matter of fact:
“You shouldn’t have done it, young Laura,” he said reprovingly. “You shouldn’t have done it, you know. It will only lead to trouble.”
And in the most natural manner in the world, he had turned his head slightly on his pillow and had died.
Her friend…
Her only friend.
Once again Laura looked at her face in the mirror. She was startled, now, at what she saw. Was it only the dark crimson line of the lipstick outlining the curve of her lips? Full lips-nothing really ascetic about them. Nothing ascetic about her in this moment of studying herself.
She spoke, half aloud, arguing with someone who was herself and yet not herself.
“Why shouldn’t I try to look beautiful? Just this once? Just for to-night? I know it’s too late, but why shouldn’t I know what it feels like. Just to have something to remember….”
2
He said at once: “What’s happened to you?”
She returned his gaze equably. A sudden shyness had invaded her, but she concealed it. To regain her poise, she studied him critically.
She liked what she saw. He was not young-actually he looked older than his years (which she knew from the Press accounts of him)-but there was a boyish awkwardness about him that struck her as both strange and oddly endearing. He showed an eagerness allied with timidity, a queer, hopeful expressiveness, as though the world and everything in it was fresh and new to him.
“Nothing’s happened to me.” She let him help her off with her coat.
“Oh, but it has. You’re different-quite different-from what you were this morning!”