They made a comic entrance together: Warrender good-naturedly self-conscious, Bertie Saracen revelling in his act of prima ballerina. He chasséd to right and left, holding aloft his votive offering and finally laid it at Miss Bellamy’s feet.
‘God, what a fool I must look!’ he exclaimed. ‘Take it, darling, quickly or we’ll kill the laugh.’
A spate of greetings broke out and an examination of gifts: from Warrender, who had been abroad, gloves of Grenoble, and from Bertie a miniature group of five bathing beauties and a photographer all made of balsa-wood and scraps of cotton. ‘It’s easily the nicest present you’ll get,’ he said. ‘And now I must enjoy a good jeer at all the others.’
He flitted about the room, making little darts at them. Warrender, a rather silent man, generally believed to entertain a long-standing and blameless adoration of Mary Bellamy, had a word with Richard, who liked him.
‘Rehearsals started yet?’ he asked. ‘Mary tells me she’s delighted with her new part.’
‘Not yet. It’s the mixture as before,’ Richard rejoined.
Warrender gave him a brief look. ‘Early days to settle into a routine, isn’t it?’ he said surprisingly. ‘Leave that to the old hands, isn’t it? ‘ He had a trick of ending his remarks with this colloquialism.
‘I’m trying, on the side, to break out in a rash of serious writing.’
‘Are you? Good. Afford to take risks, I’d have thought.’
‘How pleasant,’ Richard exclaimed, ‘to hear somebody say that!’
Warrender looked at his shoes. ‘Never does,’ he said, ‘to let yourself be talked into things. Not that I know anything about it.’
Richard thought with gratitude: ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be told,’ but was prevented from saying so by the entrance of Old Ninn.
Old Ninn’s real name was Miss Clara Plumtree, but she was given the courtesy title of ‘Mrs’. She had been Mary Bellamy’s nurse, and, from the time of his adoption by Mary and Charles, Richard’s also. Every year she emerged from retirement for a fortnight to stay with her former charge. She was small, scarlet-faced and fantastically opinionated. Her age was believed to be eighty-one. Nannies being universally accepted as character-parts rather than people in their own right, Old Ninn was the subject of many of Mary Bellamy’s funniest stories. Richard sometimes wondered if she played up to her own legend. In her old age she had developed a liking for port and under its influence made great mischief among the servants and kept up a sort of guerrilla warfare with Florence, with whom, nevertheless, she was on intimate terms. They were united, Miss Bellamy said, in their devotion to herself.
Wearing a cerise shawl and a bold floral print, for she adored bright colours, Old Ninn trudged across the room with the corners of her mouth turned down and laid a tissue paper parcel on the dressing-table.
‘Happy birthday, m’,’ she said. For so small a person she had an alarmingly deep voice.
A great fuss was made over her. Bertie Saracen attempted Mercutian badinage and called her Nurse Plumtree. She ignored him and addressed herself exclusively to Richard.
‘We don’t see much of you these days,’ she said and, by the sour look she gave him, proclaimed her affection.
‘I’ve been busy, Ninn.’
‘Still making up your plays, by all accounts.’
‘That’s it.’
‘You always were a fanciful boy. Easy to see you’ve never grown out of it.’
Mary Bellamy had unwrapped the parcel and disclosed a knitted bed-jacket of sensible design. Her thanks were effusive, but Old Ninn cut them short.
‘Four-ply,’ she said. ‘You require warmth when you’re getting on in years and the sooner you face the fact the more comfortable you’ll find yourself. Good morning, sir,’ Ninn added, catching sight of Warrender. ‘I dare say you’ll bear me out. Well, I won’t keep you.’
With perfect composure she trudged away, leaving a complete silence behind her.
‘Out of this world!’ Bertie said, with a shrillish laugh. ‘Darling Mary, here I am sizzling with decorative fervour. When are we to tuck up our sleeves and lay all our plots and plans?’
‘Now, darling, if you’re ready. Dicky, treasure, will you and Maurice be able to amuse yourselves? We’ll scream if we want any help. Come along, Bertie.’
She linked her arm in his. He sniffed ecstatically. ‘You smell,’ he said, ‘like all, but all, of King Solomon’s wives and concubines. In spring. En avant!’
They went downstairs. Warrender and Richard were left together in a room that still retained the flavour of her personality, as inescapably potent as the all-pervasive after-math of her scent.
It was an old-established custom that she and Bertie arranged the house for her birthday party. Her drawing-room was the first on the left on the ground floor. It was a long Georgian saloon with a door into the hall and with folding doors leading into the dining-room. This, in its turn opened both into the hall and into the conservatory, which was her especial pride. Beyond the conservatory lay a small formal garden. When all the doors were open an impressive vista was obtained. Bertie himself had ‘done’ the decor and had used a wealth of old French brocades. He had painted bunches of misty cabbage roses in the recesses above the doors and in the wall panels and had found some really distinguished chandeliers. This year the flowers were to be all white and yellow. He settled down with the greatest efficiency and determination to his task, borrowing one of Gracefield’s, the butler’s, aprons for the purpose. Miss Bellamy tied herself into a modish confection with a flounced bib, put on wash-leather gloves, and wandered happily about her conservatory, snipping off deadheads and rearranging groups of flowerpots. She was an enthusiastic gardener. They shouted at each other from room to room, exchanging theatre shop, and breaking every now and then into stage cockney: ‘Whatseye, dear?’ and ‘Coo! You wouldn’t credit it!’ this mode of communication being sacred to the occasion. They enjoyed themselves enormously while from under Bertie’s clever fingers emerged bouquets of white and gold and wonderful garlands for the table. In this setting, Miss Bellamy was at her best.
They had been at it for perhaps half an hour and Bertie had retired to the flower-room when Gracefield ushered in Miss Kate Cavendish, known to her intimates as Pinky.
Pinky was younger than her famous contemporary and less distinguished. She had played supporting roles in many Bellamy successes and their personal relationship, not altogether to her satisfaction, resembled their professional one. She had an amusing face, dressed plainly and well and possessed the gifts of honesty and direct thinking. She was, in fact, a charming woman.
‘I’m in a tizzy,’ she said. ‘High as a rocket, darling, and in a minute I’ll tell you why. Forty thousand happy returns, Mary, and may your silhouette never grow greater. Here’s my offering.’
It was a flask of a new scent by a celebrated maker and was called ‘Unguarded.’ ‘I got it smuggled over from Paris,’ she said. ‘It’s not here yet. A lick on either lobe, I’m told, and the satellites reel in their courses.’
Miss Bellamy insisted on opening it. She dabbed the stopper on her wrists and sniffed. ‘Pinky,’ she said solemnly, ‘it’s too much! Darling, it opens the floodgates! Honestly!’
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Florrie shall put it into my spray. At once. Before Bertie can get at it. You know what he is.’
‘Is Bertie here?’ Pinky asked quickly.
‘He’s in the flower-room.’
‘Oh.’