Francie: Off to London Read online

  “But Francie, don’t you like anything at all about England? Don’t you care for the countryside, for out-of-doors?” asked Penelope wistfully. “I’d hate to think you were hating us. I did have such a wizard time in the States.”

  “Oh, of course there’s a whole lot of England I like. I love the riding more than anything. I exaggerated; I’m just homesick, I guess.” Francie sighed. “To be absolutely frank with you, Penelope, I miss all the boys, that’s what’s worrying me most. Don’t you ever want a date? Why are all these girls so, well, indifferent to dates and men and all that? Why, you know perfectly well that any female back home who didn’t have her Saturday night date just wouldn’t rate at all.”

  Penelope’s face took on the uneasy expression that Francie had learned to associate at Fairfields with any mention of dating.

  “Yes, I know. But they don’t go in for all that until later on, in England,” she said. “Not until school’s over, or anyway only during hols. Thinking very much about boys is soppy. That’s how the English look at it.”

  Francie said in amazement, “But that’s absolutely mad! What’s wrong with boys? Why, half the world is boys!”

  “I know,” said Penny, “but they don’t think of that. It—it’s just considered soppy.”

  “What’s soppy? What’s wrong with dates? In Jefferson—”

  “It’s different here, Francie. It’s no use arguing with me about it; I didn’t make the rules. I’m only trying to explain the difference,” said Penelope reasonably. “I don’t mean girls here live in a nunnery, necessarily. We go to parties sometimes; we dance with men. Only, as long as we’re at school we’re supposed to keep our minds on—shhhh.” The games mistress had blown her whistle shrilly, demanding silence. The girls all stood at attention.

  Suddenly there came a break in the austere routine. As a special treat for having got the highest scholastic average, Francie’s form was allowed to go up to town, to attend a production of Richard the Third. Her classmates were wildly excited at the prospect, and Francie herself was interested, though she would have liked to be blasé. “After all it is something to see a first-class English Shakespeare production,” she admitted to herself.

  To her shocked chagrin, she found that the girls were expected to wear their uniforms for the expedition; it nearly spoiled the entire idea for fastidious Miss Nelson. But since none of the others seemed to dread appearing like that in the great metropolis, Francie allowed herself to be comforted. It wasn’t as if Glenn or any of the other men in her life would be there to see her, anyway. (She giggled as she thought of their faces if they could witness one of the school outings.) Their traveling aunt for the day was to be Miss West, a rather prim member of the staff. Francie learned the other details from the girls’ excited talk. They would catch the ten o’clock train for London, and that meant changing trains once on the way. They would arrive just in time for luncheon before the matinée, and it would be a scramble then to catch the five-forty-five train down to the country and school again.

  “Lunch in a restaurant will be great fun,” said Wendy Hardcastle, her face shining with naïve hope. “I hope it’ll be a decent one; I do get fed up with this eternal Thames mud and worms we get.”

  Francie, having long since learned that these words referred to chocolate custard and spaghetti, merely said gloomily, “It’ll be awful wherever we go. I was hungry all the time when we were staying in London at the hotel.”

  “Oh yes, isn’t the food frightful in those places?” said Wendy agreeably. “Mummy says she simply hates staying in town.”

  “The chief snag is, there’s nothing to do about it,” said another girl. “One place is as bad as another, even the posh hotels.”

  “That’s exactly it.” Francie spoke eagerly. “At home in Jefferson, we can always fill up somehow, at the corner drugstore or somewhere. We can go in anywhere and order a double malted, practically any time of the day. Here, if you asked for a double malted nobody would know what you meant. Even if you ask for a glass of plain milk—”

  “There was a war, Yank,” said Jennifer. “We didn’t have the time America had to stock up on food; we were busy defending you people.”

  At that moment something happened to Francie. She felt as if all the warm blood in her body had rushed to her head; she heard herself saying in a tired voice, which managed to be very rude though it was quiet, “Oh, do shut up, Jennifer. Nobody was defending anything but himself and his own rights in the war, so do shut up, will you? I’m so fed up with all that gup you give out with all the time.”

  Certainly it was strange, and a stranger thing happened then: Jennifer actually did shut up. The other girls looked at each other in amusement.

  “That’s the stuff to give the troops, Francie,” said Wendy approvingly. “It doesn’t do any harm to show your teeth once in a while.”

  Francie flushed with surprise and pleasure.

  Westers, as the girls disrespectfully called their traveling aunt behind her back, decreed when they set forth for their treat that there was to be no special visiting of relatives in London on anyone’s part, since there was no time for it. Aunts, cousins, even fathers living in the city would only interfere with the program, and must be ignored.

  “After all, you saw your people, most of you, at half-term,” she said. “Frances’ father has very kindly written to ask if he can’t give us all lunch”—the girls cheered shrilly—“but I’m sure he wouldn’t enjoy it,” she went on firmly, “in the time available, so we have thanked him and refused. Some other time when we’re not so rushed, Frances, I’m sure we would love it, and it’s most kind and noble of him to have suggested it. Most men would be terrified.”

  “That’s quite all right, Miss West,” Francie replied. “It’s not important.”

  Nor was it, for distances in England seemed very small to her. A trip of sixty miles or so to London was, after all, nothing to an American girl.

  “He’ll probably invite us again some other time,” she added.

  “I do hope so,” said Miss West. “We’re so fond of your father, and it was thoughtful of him to arrange that that ham be sent. All the way from his office in New York, think of it! We are lucky; I don’t suppose there’s another school where they’ve had their fill of ham, for ages.”

  “I’m not so frightfully keen on ham,” murmured Jennifer.

  “No? Then why did you gobble yours the day we had it, and ask for more?” asked Penny, pouncing.

  “Now, girls.”

  They rode in to catch the train in the school station wagon, which Francie had learned to call a “utility brake,” though she couldn’t get used to the words. There were eight of them, nine if you counted Miss West, and when the train steamed in to the platform and they climbed aboard, it was discovered that there were no completely empty carriages. Therefore the girls had to distribute themselves throughout the coach. They giggled and whispered in the process as if, thought Francie a bit sourly, they were straight out of kindergarten. She felt agonizingly conspicuous. She had no doubt that everyone on the train was looking at her, thinking she had no more sense than these other badly-dressed chits. With cold deliberation she hung on to Penny’s arm; Penny was all right; she could be trusted to act like a lady instead of snickering and bouncing about in a childish manner. If observers should happen to look again at those two, after their first disgusted glance at the whole party, they might realize that here at least were two young women who knew how to behave in public. Haughtily Francie sat down in the carriage Penny found, and tried to pull her skimpy skirt further over her knees.

  The train gathered speed. In another compartment, she knew, Westers was sitting with two of the other girls, reading The Spectator. She had seen them settled in before finding her own seat. Penny and Francie were sharing their carriage with a man in naval uniform and a middle-aged woman with a kerchief on her head. For all her good intentions to retain an adult dignity, Francie’s high spirits began to get the better of her; i
t was exciting, after all these weeks, to be on her way somewhere, and outside the train windows the sun, for a wonder, was actually shining down on the green fields. The girls began to whisper and laugh; and the kerchiefed woman smiled in sympathy. Out of the corner of her eyes Francie saw the naval officer smile. It wasn’t a broad grin, but it was definitely a smile.

  The train stopped at the next station and the woman got out. As they started up again, the man leaned forward. “Off to London for a spree?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Francie readily, glad to be asked, “we’re going to see Richard the Third.”

  “It’s most exciting,” added Penelope, who loved the theater with passion. “I can hardly wait.”

  “It’s very well done,” said the naval officer. “I saw it last week.”

  “We were lucky to get tickets,” said Francie, “it’s such a hit.”

  “You’re Yanks, aren’t you?”

  “Not her,” said Francie, indicating Penny. “Only me.”

  “I’d have said you both were. I know the States very well,” said the man.

  Eagerly Francie explained about Penny and her ghost of an American accent. She had to do all the talking, for Penny had suddenly become quiet and ceased to speak for herself. This would have struck Francie as odd if she had noticed, but her attention was taken up with this man who knew her country.

  “Quite adventurous,” he said when she told him about her visit in England. “You don’t find it all easy going, do you?”

  “Well—” It was on the tip of her tongue to pour out all her troubles, but just before she spoke Francie happened to glance at Penelope. Penelope was looking stiff, practically frozen. Whatever ailed her, Francie wondered; was there something about this man she herself hadn’t noticed? “It’s not so bad,” said Francie vaguely. “What do you say, Penny?”

  “Oh, not bad. Not bad at all,” said Penny. She seemed to thaw just a little. “I was afraid to come back at first,” she admitted. “I remembered things that would take a lot of getting used to all over again, especially the winter—windows never fitting and all that.”

  “Ah yes,” said the naval officer, laughing. “That central heating you have over in the States; it’s a shocking thing the way it undermines one’s morale.”

  “But after the first few days,” continued Penny, “I didn’t notice discomforts any more. All my earlier experience came to the rescue, I suppose.”

  The officer told them something of his own experiences in Boston and New York. They were in the middle of an animated conversation about some of their favorite movie stars when suddenly there came a peremptory knock on the glass of the corridor door.

  “Francie! Girls!”

  Apparently paralyzed by horror Miss West was unable to slide back the door for herself. She could only call through the glass. It was the sober-faced Penny who got there first and opened it, though the man was close behind her to help. Whatever ailed Miss West, however, the traveling aunt was determined to control herself. She said in chilly-sweet tones, “You may join us in our carriage now, girls; there is plenty of room.”

  “Oh, is there? Good.” Francie jumped up. “Well, it’s certainly been swell meeting you,” she said to the navy man over her shoulder. To her surprise, he looked amused and winked at her in conspiratorial fashion. For the first time, Francie realized all might not be well for herself.

  Miss West led them back to her carriage, her face grim.

  “Whatever’s the matter with old sourpuss?” whispered Francie to Penelope behind her.

  “We were talking to a strange man,” Penny said. “I knew we shouldn’t have, but I got so interested. It’s not allowed, you know.”

  “But what possible harm—” Francie began, only to have her friend shush her as they reached their seats opposite Miss West. The other girls were silent. Miss West was silent. Perforce, Francie and Penelope were silent, and that uneasy silence remained until the train pulled into London and Miss West had to scurry about to round up her flock. Once only during the ride had Francie caught the eye of Wendy Hardcastle; Wendy rolled her eyes to heaven and grimaced.

  Off the train and hurrying toward the barrier where the tickets were collected, Francie hung back in order to apologize for the crime she had evidently committed. She was really innocent, not knowing she had done anything wrong. It wasn’t, Francie fumed, as if the naval officer had been cheeky or anything; he hadn’t tried to pick her up; he’d behaved like an uncle. And even if he had tried to pick her up, reflected Francie, she was old enough to take care of herself. Nevertheless something was obviously very much the matter with old Westers.…

  “I’m awfully sorry, Miss West,” she began, “but I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Why, at home in Jefferson—”

  “That will do, Frances; this is neither the time nor the place for a talk. We’ll discuss your extraordinary behavior later, if you don’t mind.”

  Francie gasped. Never in her life had she been so snubbed; it was like falling into icy water. Her face burned and she had to swallow vigorously; from sheer shock she was about to burst into tears right there in the station, in front of all the other girls. She battled fiercely to avoid this last humiliation. By the time she had caught up with the group she had won the battle; her tears were blinked back.

  All chattering and laughing except Francie, they made their way to the restaurant Miss West had chosen, and started on their lunch. Francie tried to eat. She stared at her plate in dumb agony, her mind far away. Once she glanced up and caught Penelope’s gaze from the other end of the table; Penny looked as chastened as though she and Francie had really done something wrong. And after that Francie felt even worse.

  Oh dear, why had she ever come to England? How could she bear to remain, after this? Her companions were such fatuous little idiots, too—their chattering, high voices rang in her ears as they spoke in their jargon that had only recently become comprehensible to her.

  “Anyone want some booze?”

  “Bags I. With you with that squash!”

  “Buzz the bread along, will you, Wendy?”

  “Thanks a ton. I say, what super chicken!”

  In the middle of the last course—watery ice cream—something seemed to hit the American like a sledge hammer. She wasn’t Francie any more; she was just a burning impulse to get away from Miss West and the girls. Hardly realizing what she did, she bolted from the table and out toward the entrance. Taken by surprise, Miss West could only watch her flight. No doubt she thought Francie had gone to the lavatory to have a good cry; at any rate she turned back to her flock without trying to pursue the one erring lamb.

  Francie ran down the Strand, past the jumbled shop windows, making detours around people who were in less of a hurry than she was—girls in tweed coats, men carrying attaché cases, families with children; they glanced wonderingly at the girl running along the city street as if her life depended on haste.

  Fortunately she could remember her father’s office address. When an empty taxi nearly ran over her she hailed it and fell into its shabby leather seat. She paid the fare from her pocket money, which, as were the other girls, she was carrying tied in her handkerchief, and then she ran into the office, right past the reception clerk. If Pop wasn’t there, she resolved, she would sit down and wait, even if it took hours for him to come back.

  Pop was there, just about to go out to a late lunch. His mind was on oil and its international distribution. He blinked in surprise to see his daughter walk quickly through the door, her school hat pushed back on her head and her eyes red with tears.

  “Why, hello, honey. I thought you weren’t going to—”

  She blurted out, “Pop, listen, I can’t bear it any more, I can’t, honestly! Let me go back home.” She sat down in the nearest chair and cried openly. Her father began to speak, changed his mind, and lit a cigar instead, keeping his eyes turned away from Francie until she had stopped sobbing.

  “Now then,” he said, “let’s have it. What’s hap
pened?”

  “We came up to London for that treat, you know, Richard the Third.”

  “Yes,” said Pop. “I remember. Why aren’t you there with the others?”

  “Well, on the train—” She told him the whole story of her gay but innocent conversation with the naval officer, trying to describe fully the unreasonable attitude of Miss West. But her words seemed inadequate; she couldn’t express the true humiliation of that scene on the station platform. Her voice died out plaintively.

  “Well now,” said Francie’s father after a pause, tipping off his cigar ash. “It seems to me you’ve been a little hasty, Francie. That teacher didn’t understand the way you look at things, that’s so, but you didn’t give her much of a chance. After all, she was doing her job, and she does have to stick by the rules. Now why don’t you go back and have a good long—”

  “It isn’t only old West,” she cried impulsively. “It’s everything. I hate it all, I really do, Pop. Why can’t I go home? I know Aunt Norah isn’t there but I could stay with Ruth till she got back. Please let me, Pop, please.”

  “I knew you were a little bit spoiled,” said Pop slowly, “but I never knew you were a quitter.”

  “I’m not!” cried Francie in loud tones. “You don’t dare call me a quitter!” The last vestige of tears was gone from her eyes; she was furious. But Pop was angry too, in a cold way. She had never seen him so angry before.

  “I don’t know what else you’d call it,” he said. “The very first time you run into a little disagreeableness, you turn around and beat it. What is that if it isn’t quitting?”

  “It’s the system,” protested Francie, twisting her hands together. “It’s all so new. And they never give in one inch. They’re always so sure they’re right. They—”

  “All right, all right, so they think they know it all. What of it? Can’t you understand that attitude? Don’t you ever stop to think you might be wrong, sometimes? Now listen, Francie.” He put down his cigar and leaned over the desk, talking earnestly. In spite of her troubles, Francie was impressed.