[adapted]

by
Katherine Mansfield

And after all, the weather was perfect. They could not have had a better day for a garden-party even if they had asked for it. No wind, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue sky was covered with a soft gold mist, like it sometimes is in early summer. The gardener had been up since early morning, cutting the grass and sweeping it, until the grass and the flat dark circles where the daisy plants had been looked shiny. As for the roses, you could not help feeling that they knew roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everyone is sure to recognize. Hundreds—yes, really hundreds—had bloomed in one night; the green bushes bent down as if angels had come to visit them.

Breakfast was not yet finished when the men came to set up the marquee.

“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?”

“My dear child, there’s no use asking me. I’m decided to let you children do everything this year. Forget that I’m your mother. Treat me like an honoured guest.”

But Meg couldn’t possibly go and tell the men what to do. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green headscarf, with a dark wet curl stuck to each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk underskirt and a light jacket.

“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.”

Away Laura ran, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It felt so nice to have a reason to eat outside, and besides, she loved being the one to arrange things. She always felt she could do it much better than anyone else.

Four men in rolled-up shirts stood together on the garden path. They carried poles covered with rolls of canvas, and they had large tool-bags hanging on their backs. They looked serious and important. Laura now wished she wasn’t holding the bread-and-butter, but she had nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t throw it away. She blushed and tried to look serious and even a little bit short-sighted as she walked up to them.

“Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But it sounded so fake that she felt embarrassed, and stammered like a little girl, “Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?”

“That’s right, miss,” said the tallest man, a thin, freckled one. He shifted his tool-bag, pushed back his straw hat, and smiled down at her. “That’s about it.”

His smile was so easy, so friendly, that Laura relaxed. What nice eyes he had—small, but such a dark blue! And now that she looked at the others, they were smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smiles seemed to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a lovely morning! But she mustn’t mention the morning—she needed to stay focused. The marquee.

“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that work?”

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the bread-and-butter. The men turned and looked in that direction. A short, round man pushed out his lower lip, and the tall man frowned.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “Not easy enough to see. You see, with something like a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his friendly way, “you want to put it somewhere where it really catches your eye, if you know what I mean.”

Laura’s good manners made her wonder for a moment if it was polite for a workman to say something about catching the eye like that. But she did understand what he meant.

“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to be in one corner.”

“H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another workman. He looked pale and tired as his dark eyes looked across the tennis-court. What was he thinking?

“Only a very small band,” said Laura softly. Maybe he wouldn’t mind so much if the band was very small. But the tall man cut in.

“Look here, miss, that’s the place. By those trees. Over there. That will be perfect.”

By the karaka trees. That meant the karaka trees would be hidden. And they were so beautiful, with their wide, shiny leaves and bunches of yellow fruit. They looked like the kind of trees you imagined growing on a desert island—tall, proud, and quiet, lifting their leaves and fruit to the sun in silence. Did they have to be hidden by a marquee?

Yes, they did. The men had already picked up their poles and were heading to the spot. Only the tall one stayed behind. He bent down, picked a piece of lavender, brought it to his nose between his thumb and finger, and breathed in the smell.

When Laura saw that, she forgot all about the karaka trees. She was surprised that he cared about things like that—about the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would do such a thing? Oh, how wonderfully kind and thoughtful workmen were, she thought. Why couldn’t she be friends with workmen instead of the silly boys she danced with and saw at Sunday night suppers? She would get along much better with men like these.

It’s all because, she decided, as the tall man drew something on the back of an envelope—something that was to be tied up or left hanging—of these silly class differences. Well, as for her, she didn’t feel those differences. Not at all. Not even a little bit…

And now she heard the chock-chock sound of wooden hammers. Someone was whistling, someone called out, “Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” How friendly that sounded, how—the—the—— Just to show how happy she was, and to show the tall man how comfortable she felt, and how she didn’t care about silly rules, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-butter while she looked at the little drawing. She felt just like a working girl.

“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice called from the house.

“Coming!” Away she ran, across the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall, her father and Laurie were brushing their hats, getting ready to go to the office.

“I say, Laura,” said Laurie quickly, “you might take a look at my coat before this afternoon. See if it needs pressing.”

“I will,” she said. Suddenly she couldn’t help herself. She ran up to Laurie and gave him a quick little hug. “Oh, I do love parties, don’t you?” gasped Laura.

“Ra-ther,” said Laurie in his warm, cheerful voice, and he gave his sister a gentle squeeze and a little push. “Run to the telephone, old girl.”

The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear. I’d love it, of course. It will just be a simple little meal—just sandwich crusts, broken meringue shells, and whatever’s left over. Yes, isn’t it a perfect morning? Your white dress? Oh, I think you should wear it. One moment—hold on. Mother’s calling.” And Laura leaned back. “What, mother? I can’t hear.”

Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that sweet hat she wore last Sunday.”

“Mother says you’re to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.”

Laura put down the receiver, stretched her arms over her head, took a deep breath, stretched again, and let her arms fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and right after the sigh she sat up quickly. She stayed very still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was full of soft, quick footsteps and voices calling. The green baize door that led to the kitchen area swung open and shut with a quiet thud. And now there came a long, silly sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff wheels. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little light winds were playing chase—coming in through the tops of the windows, going out the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sunshine, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photo frame, playing too. Lovely little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She felt like kissing it.

The front doorbell rang, and she heard the sound of Sadie’s printed skirt brushing the stairs. A man’s voice spoke softly; Sadie answered, carelessly, “I’m sure I don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs. Sheridan.”

“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall.

“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.”

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Only lilies—canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, glowing, almost scarily alive on bright red stems.

“O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at that fire of lilies; she felt like they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her heart.

“It’s some mistake,” she said softly. “Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother.”

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

“It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they lovely?” She gently pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought—for once in my life I’ll have enough canna lilies. The garden-party is a good excuse.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. Laura put her arm around her mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother’s ear.

“My darling child, you wouldn’t want a mother who was always sensible, would you? Don’t do that. Here’s the man.”

He carried more lilies—another whole tray.

“Pile them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?”

“Oh, I do, mother.”

In the drawing-room, Meg, Jose, and good little Hans had finally managed to move the piano.

“Now, if we put this couch against the wall and move everything else out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?”

“Quite.”

“Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring something to clean these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—”

Jose loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel like they were acting in a play.

“Tell mother and Miss Laura to come here at once.”

“Very good, Miss Jose.”

She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I’m asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try ‘This Life is Weary.’”

Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta!