Westwood by Stella Gibbons

Author:Stella Gibbons
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Vintage Digital
Published: 2011-08-03T21:00:00+00:00

18

There was not an empty seat in the house. Margaret leant her arms upon the green velvet of the balustrade and gazed down through the brilliant air into the stalls, where the party that had a warm personal interest for her was just settling into its seats. There was Mrs Challis, laughing and looking over her shoulder at the dark American soldier whom Margaret had met at Hampstead, and next to her sat Hebe in a pink and white dress that suited her pale dairymaid’s looks, and next to Hebe was the other American, Earl, and Hebe was letting him have too many of her dimples, thought Margaret; and why was she not sitting next to her husband, whose figure (so different from his father-in-law’s) was betrayed by tails and a white tie? He was the last of the row and sat gazing good-naturedly about him like a self-sufficient small boy at a party.

I don’t mean a thing to any of them, thought Margaret. They’re all very kind to me (except Hebe) but they wouldn’t notice if they never saw Struggles again. Still, if anyone had told me a year ago that I should go in and out of Gerard Challis’s house as I pleased, I simply wouldn’t have believed it, and I mustn’t expect too much. What a pretty theatre this is.

The jade-green, cherry-red and silver in which the theatre was decorated had nothing in common with that confused dark gold which glows forth from theatre interiors on the canvases of Sickert; indeed, one of the older dramatic critics had already observed that this place always made him think of a ladies’ hairdressing saloon; nevertheless, the colours and light made a silvery background for dresses which the many lovely women present had evidently put on in honour of Gerard Challis. The scene had not, of course, the brilliance of a pre-war first night at which the Smarty and the Arty were both represented, but there was a feeling of anticipation in the air, an excitement that expressed itself through the collective voice of the audience in a thrilling hum, while piercing through this steady background of sound came the gay sweetness of Viennese waltzes played by a small and perfect string orchestra.

‘Der music iss goot,’ said Zita, who had been listening intently. ‘Und you hear how they play as if dey are a machine. Thot is clever. I think thot is his idea – Mr Challis.’

‘How?’ breathed Margaret, half turning.

‘Yes. I think he mean the music to say – this woman Kattë is like a Viennese waltz; she iss so gay and lovely, but she is a nothing.’

Margaret nodded, looking at her and thinking how the vividness of her own outlook upon life had increased since she had known Zita, and how impossible it would be for herself, for any Englishwoman, to pare away all softness in her personal appearance until she had achieved the stinging smartness of Zita in her grey and orange striped dress, with her hair sleeked down like a wet black shell and an orange messenger-boy cap over one eye.

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