Henry Green
Nothing
ON A Sunday afternoon in nineteen-forty-eight John Pomfret, a widower of forty-five, sat over lunch with Miss Liz Jennings at one of the round tables set by a great window that opened on the park, a view which had made this hotel loved by the favoured of Europe when they visited London.
He did not look at the girl and seemed nervous as he described his tea the previous Sunday when Liz had to visit her mother ill with flu so that he had been free to call on Jane Weatherby, a widow only too well known to Miss Jennings. It was wet then, did she remember, he was saying, so unlike this he said, and turned his face to the dazzle of window, it had been dark with sad tears on the panes and streets of blue canals as he sat by her fire for Jane liked dusk, would not turn on the lights until she couldn't see to move, while outside a single street lamp was yellow, reflected over a thousand rain drops on the glass, the fire was rose, and Penelope came in. Jane had cried out with loving admiration and there the child stood, no taller than the dark armchair, all eyes, her head one long curl coppered next the fire and on the far side as pale as that street lamp or as small flames within the grate, and she was dressed in pink which the glow blushed to rose then paled then glowed once more to a wild wind in the chimney before their two faces dark across Sunday shadows.
"Then you're to be married" Jane had cried and so it was he realized, as he now told Miss Jennings, that the veil of window muslin twisted in a mist on top of the child's head to fall to dark snow at her heels, with the book pressed between two white palms in supplication, in adorable humility, that all this spelled magic marriage, heralded a bride without music by firelight, a black mouth trembling mischief and eyes, huge in one so young, which the fire's glow sowed with sparkling points of rose.
"Oh aren't you lucky" Jane said "you sweet you?" but the infant said no word.
It was then he fell, he told Miss Jennings, He had gone on his knees. Not direct onto the floor, he explained. No, he used one of those small needlework cushions women put about a room and the fact was Penelope had made no objection when he suggested the ceremony should take place at once. There was a cigar band handy in the ashtray for a ring and he had, he swore it, looked first at Jane who'd only said "Why not then darling?" Thus it is he explained to Miss Jennings that the great mistakes in life are made. And it was Jane, he went on, had called out "Wilt thou take this man?" while the little girl stayed agreeably silent, had continued "for richer or poorer, for better or for worse" fight through her own remembered version of the service. Or perhaps Jane had altered the words to make it unreal to herself, Mr Pomfret did not know he said. But the harm was there.
He came out of his description to find Miss Jennings laughing.
"Oh my dear" she gasped "you should never be allowed to play with small children. Particularly not little girls!"
"I know, I know" he said.
He objected that Jane had not cried and went on to explain that so soon as this mock ceremony ended with Penelope flown to her mother's arms he'd taken it all a fatal step forward and asked the child to sit on her husband's knee.
"You see they made an absolute picture" he explained.
"You know what Janie's eyes are with that wonderful blessing out of the huge things."
"Well?" Miss Jennings demanded when he paused.
"Just look at the man over there Liz I ask you" he temporized. "Where was I? Oh yes" and went on to describe Penelope's little face buried in Jane's bosom. He'd made a further invitation on which Jane did not call him to order, then suddenly, he said, it broke, there was a great wail came out with a "Mummy I don't want" after which nothing was any use, all had been tears.
"I nearly sobbed myself. Oh the blame I had to take!
No but seriously you can't think it wrong of me Liz?"
"Are you seeing a lot of Jane these days?" Miss Jennings wanted to be told.
"She's supposed to lunch here this very afternoon" he answered. "Which is as much as I ever see her, once in a blue moon, except when you choose to go sick-nursing."
"Mother isn't often" she began.
"My dear what's come over you" he interrupted "I wasn't serious. No but do look over that man again! Well as you can imagine" he proceeded "it's gone on ever since.
Whenever I ring I get the latest the child has imagined, she simply never seems to sleep now at all isn't it awful, and the little boy who comes to tea with her quite heartbroken; Liz do say you don't think it was dreadful of me!"
"What man did you mean?"
"Over there with a wig and the painted eyebrows."
"Oh no how disgusting. But I can't see anyone even remotely like! Well go Oho This story of yours begins to amuse me rather, darling."
"There's no more. But look here Liz you can't think it was indecent can you now?"
"Not a very nice thing after all."
"But I couldn't tell how she would react to sitting on my knee could I?"
"You should never have married her."
"Yes but Liz she didn't once in practice settle on my knee."
"That's not the point dear. Now Jane won't ever hear the last!" Miss Jennings sniffed. "Well you said she was due and here she comes. We've simply talked her into the room!" Liz made a face as he craned to see Jane.
"Still Dick Abbot" Mr Pomfret remarked of the man with her. "Hello there." He waved. With a great smile and one or two nods that seemed to promise paradise, Mrs Weatherby changed course, made her way between tables to kiss Liz, to lay with a look of mischief and delight between John's two palms a white hand which he pressed as had her own child the imaginary psalter.
The two women greeted one another warmly.
"And how's Penelope?" he asked in his most indifferent voice.
"She's just a little saint" the mother answered. "Oh weren't you wicked! I suppose he's confessed to you Liz?
Isn't it simply unbelievable!" But she was smiling with great goodnature.
"Have you heard about poor old Arthur?" John inquired.
" Arthur Morris, no" Jane said, her face at once serious, the eyes great and fixed.
"Only a simple nail in the toe of his left shoe" John told them. "A small puncture in the ball of the foot. But they've had to take the big toe off and now he's dangerously ill." He looked up at Jane. Her eyes grew round.
"Oh no" she said, then began to shake. She was soon helplessly giggling without a sound. Then it spread to Liz who clapped a hand over her mouth above blue eyes that watered with silent laughter.
"They may even have to amputate the ankle" he added smiling broadly now.
"His ankle?" Jane cried, a tremor in her voice. Miss Jennings' shoulders began to heave. "Forgive me I can't help myself. Dick have you heard?" Mrs Weatherby called out and turned around as though the escort must be close behind. He was nowhere near.
"But how rude of Richard" she exclaimed, serious again at once.
Dick Abbot at that moment was in conference with a youthful-seeming creature dressed up in the gold braid of a hotel porter and who turned away to bully a headwaiter in white tie and tails.
"Table trouble" John said.
"I ought to be on my way I suppose" Mrs Weatherby announced, then began her farewell smile. "Good-bye darlings" she murmured, as if to promise everything again.
"The Japanese do" Mr Pomfret explained to her back.
"Do what good God?" Miss Jennings demanded.
"They all laugh even when their very own are at death's door. It's nerves. You don't think that dreadful surely?
Once Jane starts I've as much as I can do to stop myself."
"She's rather sweet" Liz said "though I say so as shouldn't."
He seemed to ignore this.
"The young don't laugh" he complained.
"I do, I can't help it" she said.