Chorus of father and mother: “When I was young——”
§ 5
It must be a dream.
If she ever had children of her own, would she say to them: “When I was young——”
She pondered....
CHAPTER XIX
AFTERWARDS
§ 1
UNFORTUNATELY her illness, whilst not serious in itself, left her with neuritis in her right arm. Until she should be rid of this, any restarting of concert work was out of the question. To play even a hymn tune with her right hand fatigued her, and all scale and arpeggio work was physically impossible. When she was quite recovered from all save the neuritis, she spent most of her time either reading or practising the left-hand parts of various concert pieces. This latter exercise, whilst not very entertaining to her in the musical sense, consoled her with the thought that her time was not being entirely wasted, and that when her right hand should come into use again her playing would be all the better for this intensive development of her left. Every day she visited a masseuse in the West-end and received an electric treatment for her arm which Dr. McPherson recommended.
Money began to be somewhat of a difficulty with her. Thinking always that her future was rosy with prospects and that her salary would be sure to keep constantly increasing, she had never troubled to save much, and had, indeed, been living slightly above her income ever since she came to “Elm Cottage.” She paid twenty-five shillings a week rent, seven and sixpence a week to Florrie, besides a weekly half-crown to a visiting gardener and a charwoman. She had heaps of incidental expenses—periodic tuning of the piano—her season ticket to town—heavy bills for music, dresses and furniture (which she was constantly buying)—her quarterly payment to the press-cutting agency—books, magazines, expensive laundrying, a fastidious taste in food and restaurants, all added to make her expenditure a few shillings—sometimes a few pounds—per month in excess of her income. During her illness, her income had been nil and her expenses enormous. The nurse wanted two guineas a week, Dr. McPherson’s bills were notoriously high, and in the case of a person like Catherine he would probably charge more than usual. Five shillings a visit was his fee, and for a fortnight he had come twice a day, and for the last three weeks once. The West-end masseuse was even more exorbitant: her fees were half a guinea for each electric treatment lasting about half an hour. Household expenses were becoming terrific. The nurse seemed to think that Catherine was a person of infinite financial resources: she ordered from the grocer, the butcher, the poulterer and the fruiterer whatever she had a fancy to, in or out of season, regardless of expense. She and Catherine took their meals together, and Catherine’s appetite was never more than half that of the nurse. So the weeks passed and the bills of the tradesmen went piling up and Catherine’s cheque account at the bank came tumbling down.
One morning the bill from Parker’s, provision merchant, High Street, Bockley, arrived by post. Catherine had expected a heavy sum to pay, but the account presented to her was absolutely staggering. It was for nineteen pounds five and fourpence. As Catherine looked at it she went quite white with panic. She dared not examine carefully every item—she was afraid to see her own extravagance written down. But as her eye swept curiously down the bill it caught sight of such things as: Port wane, half dozen, forty-two shillings; pair of cooked chickens, eight and six; two pounds of black grapes (out of season), fifteen shillings.... The bill took away all Catherine’s appetite for breakfast. From the writing-bureau she took out her bank pass-book: it showed that she had fifty-three pounds four and nine on her cheque account, and nothing on her deposit side. The situation became ominous. Out of that fifty-three pounds would have to be paid the grocer’s bill of nineteen pounds odd, the bills not yet forthcoming of the fruiterer, fishmonger, poulterer, butcher, confectioner, and dairyman (cream had been a heavy item in her diet). Plus this, small bills from the bookseller, newsagent, tobacconist and laundryman. Plus this, whatever Dr. McPherson had in store for her. Plus this, Madame Varegny, masseuse—her bill of costs. In March, too, would come the bill from the press-cutting agency, the piano-tuner, and the renewal of her season ticket.... All out of fifty-three pounds! Was it possible? ... And, of course, rent and wages to Florrie.... Things were evidently fast approaching a financial crisis.