The Morning Gift

Frances followed her reluctantly. Now it was going to be impossible to get out of an invitation to drink tea. Foreigners could never make it properly and she would probably be expected to eat something sickly with a spoon.

Mishak was digging his potato patch – and as he straightened and turned towards them, Frances was gripped by a fierce, an overwhelming disappointment.

I have come to fetch you, he had said to Marianne, opening his briefcase, lifting his hat, and she had imagined a dapper little man in an expensive overcoat, a man of the world. But this was an old refugee, a foreigner in a crumpled jacket and cloth cap, shabby and poor and strange. It was all she could do to force herself to approach him.

Leonie explained their errand and Mishak leant his spade against the fence.

‘Autumn crocus?’ he said. ‘Ruth told me how they grow under the cherry tree.’

He took the box, pushed aside the shavings. His hands, as he searched for the bulbs, were earth-stained, square and stumpy-fingered. Hands that planted and mended, that hammered and turned screws. Not really foreign; not really strange . . .

‘Yes,’ said Mishak, touching a bulb. ‘How I remember them!’ He didn’t even thank her; he only smiled.

The tea was excellent, but Frances could not stay.

‘I have to shop,’ she said wearily.

Leonie’s eyes lit up. ‘Where do you go?’

‘Fortnum’s in Piccadilly.’

‘Ah, that is a wonderful place,’ said Leonie wistfully. ‘You buy a dress?’

Frances nodded. ‘And shoes.’

‘What kind of shoes?’ It was Mishak who spoke, and Frances glared at him as shocked as if it was a tree which had dared to interest itself in her concerns.

‘The same as I always buy,’ she said testily. ‘Brown strap shoes with a side button and low heel.’

‘No,’ said Mishak.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Frances was unable to believe her ears.

‘Not strap shoes. Not low heels. Not buttons,’ said Mishak. ‘Fortunati pumps with a Cuban heel, in kid. From the Milan workshops; they use a different last.’

Leonie nodded. ‘He knows. He worked for many years in my father’s department store.’

Frances was in no way appeased. ‘Certainly not! I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve had the same shoes for years and I haven’t the slightest intention of changing now.’

‘You have a high arch; it is a gift,’ said Mishak. He felt in his pocket for his pipe, remembered that it was filled with the stumps of cigars which Ziller brought from the Hungarian restaurant, and abandoned it.

‘Anyway, no one sees what I wear up there,’ said Frances, still glowering.

‘God sees,’ said Mishak.

Ruth, coming in late from the university, heard about Miss Somerville’s visit and was instantly transformed.

‘Oh, what did she say? Tell me, Mishak – tell me everything she said! Did she talk about the garden?’

‘Yes, she did. They’ve had a hard winter, but the alpine gentians are almost out, and the magnolias.’

‘What about glassing in that bit of the south wall by the sundial? Is she going to do it? She wanted to see if she could grow a lapageria so far north – everyone said she couldn’t and you can imagine the effect that had on her!’

‘I believe she means to; yes.’

He exchanged a glance with Leonie. They had not seen Ruth look like this for weeks.

‘Oh, Mishak, it was so beautiful up there, you can’t believe it! It’s so clean and everything has its own smell, completely distinct, and the air keeps moving and moving. There must be more air there than anywhere in the world! Did she tell you whether Elsie has got on to the WEA course in Botany?’

‘No, she didn’t. Who is Elsie?’

‘She’s the housemaid. She’s really interested in plants and so nice! And what about Mrs Ridley’s grandmother – I told you about her – she was going to be a hundred in February.’ She looked up, suddenly afraid. ‘She’s still alive, isn’t she? She must be – she was so looking forward to her telegram from the King.’

‘We didn’t speak of her either,’ said Mishak.

‘I suppose the lambs will just be being born – John Ridley said the end of March. They’re like sheep in the bible up there, so clean, and you can hear them cropping the turf . . . And it’s full of rock roses; and the birds . . .’ She shook her head, but it wouldn’t go away; sometimes she thought it would never go away, the vision of blond grass and blue sky and the white horses of the sea.

‘But she told me about the little dog,’ said Mishak. ‘She’s keeping it and they’re calling it Daniel. She said I should tell you and you would understand.’

‘Daniel? Oh, yes – of course.’ So Miss Somerville had not betrayed her foolishness on the journey to the Farnes. ‘After Wagner’s stepdaughter – you know, Cosima von Bülow’s daughter, Daniella, only it’s a male, of course. Yes, that’s good! He looks like a Daniel – God help any lions if he gets into their den; he’s really fierce!’