‘Because he makes a scene otherwise,’ answered Lena.
‘He’s not a child.’
‘No. He’s a baby. He only feels grown up when other people do what he says.’
A tired looking girl, obviously much younger than she seemed, with a small round head and a small round face, nondescript hair and nondescript clothes, came out of the house. Barney introduced her as Monica Paget-Barlow. She smiled quickly, said nothing, seated herself on the top step and began to knit.
She was immediately followed by Guillaume and Florence. Guillaume was an elderly-looking man (though he also was probably younger than he looked), with long sparse grey hair and an air of unsuccessfully applied learning. His other name was announced as Cook. He was exceedingly untidy.
Florence was a slender dark woman of about thirty with short brown hair and a Grecian nose. She gave an impression of quietness and docility, which, like her appearance, was far from unattractive. She wore a tight shirt of dark-blue jersey-silk, which emphasised her slenderness and lack of figure, and dark blue trousers. Consciously or otherwise, the costume was well chosen to present her to advantage. She was introduced as Florence Cook, but probably was not. Griselda liked her at sight, and wondered what she found in Guillaume, supposing that she found anything.
‘We could hardly have a better day,’ said Guillaume in accents of deep anxiety. Before long Griselda perceived that it was his habitual tone. He spoke seldom and slowly and, though his words were commonplace, he appeared to worry very much over choosing them. Now he continued to stare at the sky, already almost colourless with heat.
‘Have you all got your lunches?’ enquired Barney.
Everyone had. Monica Paget-Barlow’s was contained in a round bundle, somewhat resembling a pantomime Christmas Pudding.
‘I could put some of the packets in my rucksack,’ suggested Peggy, who, though Griselda had sat on the step, still stood on the pavement.
‘Splendid,’ said Lena. ‘Many thanks.’ She extended her packet.
‘I don’t think you should do that,’ said Freddy Fisher to Peggy. ‘Or let me carry the rucksack.’
‘I’m used to walking with a rucksack.’
Florence was restraining Guillaume from offering their joint packet.
‘There’s Geoffrey,’ cried Freddy Fisher.
They watched him approach. He was entirely unencumbered. His dancer’s gait was exhilarating.
‘Hullo Griselda. Hullo everybody. Anyone got any lunch to spare?’
No one spoke.
‘I expect there’ll be things left over when the time comes. Where’s Lotus?’
‘Lotus!’ shouted Lena Drelincourt without moving and at the top of her very clear voice.
There was an expectant pause. But nothing happened.
‘Go and get her,’ said Lena.
Without either intending it, Barney and Kynaston looked at one another for half a second.
‘Shall I go?’ asked Freddy Fisher helpfully.
‘You go,’ said Barney and Kynaston, each to the other; and Freddy Fisher went.
The expectancy became a strain.
‘Where are we going?’ enquired Florence.
‘Epping Forest. Walk to the Dominion, Number Seven bus to Liverpool Street, train to Chingford,’ replied Kynaston. ‘There are Day Tickets.’
‘Tell us about the Forest,’ said Florence.
‘There are parrots.’
‘Anything else?’ enquired Lena.
‘Epstein at work,’ said Barney.
‘I know his work,’ said Peggy.
Suddenly Lotus appeared, followed by Freddy. It was as when the Conductor goes to fetch the Prima Donna. Everyone, moreover, stood up.
Lotus wore a black shirt buttoned to the neck, and a white linen coat and skirt, expensive, fashionable, and likely to remain clean for one day only, or for less. Alone among the women she wore silk stockings, and her shoes had the air of being specially made for her. By daylight, Griselda thought her lovelier than ever. Standing in the doorway with the dark passage behind her, she surveyed the party with her bright green eyes, looking through Barney, and over Peggy, until she saw Kynaston slightly concealed behind Guillaume.
‘Geoffrey,’ she said, ‘let us lead the way together.’
She looked like ‘Harper’s Bazaar’, but she walked like Boadicea. In fact, she could probably outwalk all of them, except Griselda, and (if the walk were far enough off the map) Peggy Potter.
On the Number Seven bus, Lotus sat with Kynaston in an empty front seat; Peggy with Barney; Monica with Guillaume; Griselda with Florence; and Lena by herself, peeling a large pear with a larger clasp knife, which had been dangling from her belt. There was no seat for Freddy, who volunteered to stand inside; where, the others being all outside, he paid all the fares. Monica and Guillaume travelled in silence. At the bus stop Monica had brought her knitting from the discoloured circular reticule in which it travelled, and had resumed work, hardly ceasing even in order to climb the stairs of the vehicle. She was producing a small tightly knitted object, the colour of a brown-green lizard, more brown than green. Guillaume seemed lost in sad thoughts.
‘He suffers a great deal,’ said Florence to Griselda, regarding with apparent fondness the blotchy back of his scalp. Her voice was sweet and quiet.
‘Why?’ asked Griselda.
Lena stopped peeling for a moment and cocked a faun-like ear.
‘He is a disappointed man.’
Lena resumed peeling.
‘Why?’
‘He is disappointed in the world. He is disappointed in himself.’
‘Can nothing be done?’
‘I do what I can. But I sometimes think he’s disappointed in me.’
‘That’s absurd. I mean I’m sure he isn’t.’
‘I am too small a thing really to enter into him.’
‘How long have you been together?’
Lena had finished peeling and begun eating, cutting the soft ripe flesh into precise sectors.
‘Twelve years. Since I was nineteen. He has been my life.’
‘I know how you feel.’
Lena glanced at Griselda sharply. Florence gazed at her for a moment, then said: ‘These picnics! Why do we go on them?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Griselda. ‘It’s my first.’
‘I wonder how many of us really enjoy them . . . I mean really. You know what I mean by enjoyment?’ She looked solemn, and a little timorous.
‘Yes,’ said Griselda. ‘I know what you mean by enjoyment.’
In the front seat, Lotus, early in the day though it was, laid her beautiful golden-red head gently on Kynaston’s shoulder; who squirmed slightly, then appeared to resign himself. The bus had only reached Holborn Viaduct. Barney and Peggy were talking about tactile values. Lena shut her big shining knife with a loud snap, and reattached the weapon to her person.
On the train they were unable to find a compartment to themselves and they had to pack in with a couple travelling from one side of London to the other, in order to spend the day with a married daughter. Even without Freddy, who was queueing for tickets, it was very congested on such a hot day. Monica’s knitting needles became entangled from time to time in the male stranger’s watch-chain.
‘Yuman personality,’ said the male stranger to the female stranger. ‘It’s sacred. You can’t get past that.’
‘We’re all as we’re made,’ said the female stranger.
‘No system of Government will change yuman personality.’
‘Either way it’s the same.’
‘Yuman personality is sacred.’
‘It bloody well isn’t,’ interjected Barney. ‘You try being a nigger in the deep south.’
‘Kindly refrain from using foul language in the presence of my wife,’ said the male stranger.
‘Behave yourself, Barney,’ said Lotus. ‘Or you can go home.’
‘No offence,’ said the male stranger. ‘Not really.’