‘Don’t worry, old fellow. I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll wait for you by the front door.’
Herbert burst into an arpeggio of song as he bashed his way noisily out of the studio door.
‘Is that all right, Ruth? Do you mind my going?’
‘Of course not, Titus.’
‘You know, Ruth . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I will be back.’
‘Of course, Titus . . . goodbye, then, or more appropriately, goodbye now.’
Titus gently kissed her, and as he left the studio Dog went back to Ruth and pushed his muzzle into her lowered face.
25
At Mrs Sempleton-Grove’s
TITUS JOINED HERBERT on the outside steps and they made their way down quiet side roads, past rather mean little terraced houses with blankets at windows, and broken panes of glass, peeling paint and neglected children looking out. From these dreary houses they turned at the end of the road and the whole house-scape changed to an elegance of white-painted houses, each front door painted a different colour and window boxes, a fantasy of colour and plant, set off like jewels by the whiteness of the bricks. An orderly world, at least from the outside, beautiful and cared for.
‘Well, it’s not far, old boy. I don’t think I’ll stay long – she won’t care anyway. She doesn’t fancy me – I’m a bit old hat – long in the tooth or what have you, but she’ll be an experience anyway.’
‘I’ve met many rich women, you know.’
‘I dare say you have, old boy. Still you never know, you never know.’
They made their way down a cul-de-sac, which was bounded by a very large four-storeyed house with an imposing portico and steps leading up to the front door, wrought-iron grilles at the windows, and a brass door knocker shaped like a tropical fish.
‘Here we are, old boy,’ said Herbert, as he tugged at the bell-pull, which sounded on the other side of the door with an imperiousness worthy of a dowager.
The door was opened by a youngish dark man, dressed in black tights and a black leather jacket. He was small and lithe, with the body of a dancer, and possessed what Titus thought was a rather withdrawn dignity, until he spoke, and his voice was high, thin and nasal.
‘This is Henry, Titus,’ said Herbert.
‘She’s expecting you,’ said Henry, with a rather unpleasant leer. ‘Go on up, ’erbert’ll take you. I’ve ’ad ’er malarkin’ about all day – spent the morning looking for a dress, upstairs, downstairs, in and out the window, she accused me of pinching it, as near as. Two hours, I was, lookin’ for the thing, and then you know what? She’d got it on all the time. I said to ’er, I’ve got better things to do than go looking all the morning for a dress you’re wearin’, but she said she thinks she’s in love. Well, you’ve a treat in store, Titus, and no mistake.’
Saying this, Henry did a little pirouette and a twist and a turn and, with an elegant gesture of his hands, pointed the way upstairs.
The hall was pale, the carpet was pale. The walls had alcoves in which were dark paintings, ornately framed. Huge vases of flowers, a spinet and a harpsichord, and delicate small tables of rosewood were scattered with consummate taste, and a lack of anyone loving or caring for them. A museum of taste and money, but no home.
A curved carpeted staircase with wrought-iron banisters led upstairs, and Herbert, whose exuberance seemed to have disappeared, led Titus up the staircase to the third door, on which he knocked.
A rather husky-dusky voice was heard. Whatever it said was not intelligible, but obviously enough for Herbert to obey its order.
He pushed open the door. The house seemed full of silence.
‘Come in, Titus,’ he said, in a voice so subdued that it was not recognisable.
They entered a very large room with four windows of excellent proportions which reached from floor to ceiling. This room was also full of furniture of great beauty and rarity.
The husky voice spoke again and at first Titus couldn’t make out where it came from. At the far end of the room was an enormous painted screen, which almost made another room, and Titus traced the voice to behind the screen.
Herbert led him over, then said, ‘I’ve brought Titus Groan to see you,’ and gently pushed Titus behind the screen.
Propped up on an ornate chaise longue, shaped rather like a royal barge, was Mrs Sempleton-Grove, with her feet crossed.
Titus saw a woman whose beauty seemed to be draining away almost by the minute. He thought she was about seventy years old, with bright yellow hair dragged back into a ponytail and little curls arranged with disorder on her forehead, and drifting like gossamer around her ears. Black eyelashes of an inordinate length and thickness fluttered as she lifted her eyes (which were of a surprisingly pale blue) to Titus. She didn’t speak, but gestured to him to sit on a frail gold chair that stood at the end of the chaise longue. She took no notice whatsoever of Herbert, who, with all personality dead as the bee when its sting has gone, drifted out of the room as silently as a priest reading his breviary. Titus sat without speaking and looked at his hostess more closely. She was dressed most inappropriately in what looked like a little girl’s pink blouse with big puffed sleeves and incongruously she picked up a large pair of knitting needles and began to knit with what Titus could only think was more show than expertise.
‘Well . . . I’m in love, you see,’ said Mrs Sempleton-Grove, or that is what Titus thought had been said, for her voice was husky and slurred, as though from drugs or drink.
‘Ring the bell, Titus.’
Titus looked around for a bell and found one at the side of the marble mantelpiece. He walked to the other end of the room and pushed the bell. He heard no sound, but his quick perception obviously satisfied Mrs Sempleton-Grove, for she made no remark as he regained his frail golden chair.
‘Oh, do give me my reticule,’ she said, pointing to a large oblong bag of gros point, which lay by her feet at the end of the chaise longue. As he handed it to her she let fall her ponytail, and her rather sparse hair drifted untidily around her face, not adding to the youthfulness that was being so desperately nurtured. She sought in her reticule and after a few moments of objects being stirred round and round as though they were ingredients of a stew, she brought forth a small hairbrush, a large comb, blue ribbon and a silver hand mirror.
Titus watched, as he had watched other women of all ages and degrees of beauty. Mrs Sempleton-Grove brushed her lacklustre hair and pulled it into two bunches on either side of her face, and round each bunch she tied a blue ribbon, which might have been entrancing on a small girl.
As she finished, the door opened and a trolley appeared, rattling cups and plates. Henry manoeuvred it with evident distaste, rather as some men might on having to steer a pram containing their offspring reluctantly past their erstwhile drinking companions.
‘Don’t say thank you, then,’ he said, as he left the trolley, becalmed, by Titus’s side, and with a pout went to the door. Before closing it completely he put his head round the corner and stuck his tongue out.
‘Do pour the tea, Titus, and I’ll have some of that chocolate cake, and can you bring that cushion and put it behind my back too.’
Titus did all these things. It didn’t worry him in the least. Spoiled women were usually rapacious in their demands, particularly if they wanted something in return.
She didn’t suggest he should have some tea, or cake, but sat silently sipping and eating her own.
‘Herbert tells me you might sit for me.’ At least that is how Titus interpreted the rather blurred sentence addressed to him.
He really couldn’t be bothered to say yes or no, or why or when, so he stayed silent, which did not discomfort Mrs Sempleton-Grove at all.