The Town in Bloom Read Free Page B

rebuffed; no doubt my problem was rooted in the past but it would have to be decided in thepresent – and quickly. And anyway, I didn’t approve of retrospection; hadn’t for years. Why exactly? Because it led to nostalgia? Or was my disapproval really funk? Some day I must find out.

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    On my first night at the Club I sat up in bed and wrote in my journal:
    I am here at last! I arrived this afternoon, at Marylebone Station so I only had a short taxi drive – I wished it could have been longer as it was thrilling to be driving through London all on my own. And it was such a lovely day. The trees here are further out than they are at home. Home! I haven’t one any more. That thought doesn’t make me feel sad. It makes me feel wonderfully free.
    This morning, because of my trunk, I had to take a taxi all the way to Manchester and we went past the house that was my home for fifteen years. I really think I should have been happier there these last months than at a dreary boarding house, but everyone said I must not stay on there alone. Already the new tenants are in, and someone was standing by the French window where Aunt Marion so often sat. There were still some late daffodils on the lawn. I always loved the garden – and the house, too. I used to think it an old, romantic house though it is really only Victorian. As we left it behind this morning I felt a pang for the past, but longbefore we got to the station I was again looking forward to the future.
    This Club – But before I describe it I want to pay a sort of goodbye tribute to Aunt Marion, to record my loving thanks for all she did. Looking after me ever since my parents died must have meant sacrifices, especially as she kept trying to save money out of her annuity so that she could leave me some. (Since I last wrote here I have heard I shall have about forty pounds a year.) I particularly want to thank her for taking me to so many theatres – in Manchester and on our wonderful trip to London when I was twelve – and for never discouraging me from going on the stage. Of course, she loved acting herself and only gave up her amateur work because of her heart, which was weak long before she let me know about it. I suppose I ought also to thank her for paying for the secretarial course she persuaded me to take as an insurance against failure. (I WILL NOT FAIL.) I hope she never knew how much I disliked the training – and I wish she could know that I loyally stayed on for three whole months’ to finish it. Well, thank you and good night, dear Aunt Marion, and when I make a success it will be in your honour as well as for my own.
    Now about this Club. It is rather a handsome building with a lot of heavy stonework; large and square, at a corner – quite an old house, I think. I had booked a room but there was some muddle and I had to sit in the hall while the receptionist tried to telephone the housekeeper , who couldn’t be found. Two girls came downstairs and the taller – she must be quite six foot –looked at me through a lorgnette (I never saw a young girl use one before) and said, ‘Do I understand that this small creature is bedless? If so, there is an empty cubicle in our village.’ (I found that by ‘village’ she meant one of the groups of cubicles into which some of the big rooms are divided.) The receptionist, who was very busy because she had to cope with all the incoming telephone calls, asked if I would take the cubicle just for one night, so I said I would. But I think I shall stay on in it because I like it very much and it is cheaper than a room.
    It is almost private as the partitions are solid and go up to within a foot or so of the ceiling. And I have a good big cupboard, a washstand combined with a dressing-table which has long drawers, a folding table and a chair. There is a large window (some of the cubicles don’t have windows) and from my bed I can see tall trees in the quite large Club garden. You would hardly know you were in