Kitabı oku: «Towards Zero», sayfa 3

April 30th

‘Preposterous!’ said Lady Tressilian. She drew herself up on her pillow and glared fiercely round the room. ‘Absolutely preposterous! Nevile must be mad.’

‘It does seem rather odd,’ said Mary Aldin.

Lady Tressilian had a striking-looking profile with a slender bridged nose down which, when so inclined, she could look with telling effect. Though now over seventy and in frail health, her native vigour of mind was in no way impaired. She had, it is true, long periods of retreat from life and its emotions when she would lie with half-closed eyes, but from these semi-comas she would emerge with all her faculties sharpened to the uttermost, and with an incisive tongue. Propped up by pillows in a large bed set across one corner of her room, she held her court like some French Queen. Mary Aldin, a distant cousin, lived with her and looked after her. The two women got on together excellently. Mary was thirty-six, but had one of those smooth ageless faces that change little with passing years. She might have been thirty or forty-five. She had a good figure, an air of breeding, and dark hair to which one lock of white across the front gave a touch of individuality. It was at one time a fashion, but Mary’s white lock of hair was natural and she had had it since her girlhood.

She looked down now reflectively at Nevile Strange’s letter which Lady Tressilian had handed to her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It does seem rather odd.’

‘You can’t tell me,’ said Lady Tressilian, ‘that this is Nevile’s own idea! Somebody’s put it into his head. Probably that new wife of his.’

‘Kay. You think it was Kay’s idea?’

‘It would be quite like her. New and vulgar! If husbands and wives have to advertise their difficulties in public and have recourse to divorce, then they might at least part decently. The new wife and the old wife making friends is quite disgusting in my mind. Nobody has any standards nowadays!’

‘I suppose it is just the modern way,’ said Mary.

‘It won’t happen in my house,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘I consider I’ve done all that could be asked of me having that scarlet-toed creature here at all.’

‘She is Nevile’s wife.’

‘Exactly. Therefore I felt that Matthew would have wished it. He was devoted to the boy and always wanted him to look on this as his home. Since to refuse to receive his wife would have made an open breach, I gave way and asked her here. I do not like her—she’s quite the wrong wife for Nevile—no background, no roots!’

‘She’s quite well born,’ said Mary placatingly.

‘Bad stock!’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘Her father, as I’ve told you, had to resign from all his clubs after that card business. Luckily he died shortly after. And her mother was notorious on the Riviera. What a bringing up for the girl. Nothing but hotel life—and that mother! Then she meets Nevile on the tennis courts, makes a dead set at him and never rests until she gets him to leave his wife—of whom he was extremely fond—and go off with her! I blame her entirely for the whole thing!’

Mary smiled faintly. Lady Tressilian had the old-fashioned characteristic of always blaming the woman and being indulgent towards the man in the case.

‘I suppose, strictly speaking, Nevile was equally to blame,’ she suggested.

‘Nevile was very much to blame,’ agreed Lady Tressilian. ‘He had a charming wife who had always been devoted—perhaps too devoted—to him. Nevertheless, if it hadn’t been for that girl’s persistence, I am convinced he would have come to his senses. But she was determined to marry him! Yes, my sympathies are entirely with Audrey. I am very fond of Audrey.’

Mary sighed. ‘It has all been very difficult,’ she said.

‘Yes, indeed. One is at a loss to know how to act in such difficult circumstances. Matthew was fond of Audrey, and so am I, and one cannot deny that she was a very good wife to Nevile though perhaps it is a pity that she could not have shared his amusements more. She was never an athletic girl. The whole business was very distressing. When I was a girl, these things simply did not happen. Men had their affairs, naturally, but they were not allowed to break up married life.’

‘Well, they happen now,’ said Mary bluntly.

‘Exactly. You have so much common sense, dear. It is of no use recalling bygone days. These things happen, and girls like Kay Mortimer steal other women’s husbands and nobody thinks the worse of them!’

‘Except people like you, Camilla!’

‘I don’t count. That Kay creature doesn’t worry whether I approve of her or not. She’s too busy having a good time. Nevile can bring her here when he comes and I’m even willing to receive her friends—though I do not much care for that very theatrical-looking young man who is always hanging round her—what is his name?’

‘Ted Latimer?’

‘That is it. A friend of her Riviera days—and I should very much like to know how he manages to live as he does.’

‘By his wits,’ suggested Mary.

‘One might pardon that. I rather fancy he lives by his looks. Not a pleasant friend for Nevile’s wife! I disliked the way he came down last summer and stayed at the Easterhead Bay Hotel while they were here.’

Mary looked out of the open window. Lady Tressilian’s house was situated on a steep cliff overlooking the river Tern. On the other side of the river was the newly created summer resort of Easterhead Bay, consisting of a big sandy bathing beach, a cluster of modern bungalows and a large hotel on the headland looking out to sea. Saltcreek itself was a straggling picturesque fishing village set on the side of a hill. It was old-fashioned, conservative and deeply contemptuous of Easterhead Bay and its summer visitors.

The Easterhead Bay Hotel was nearly exactly opposite Lady Tressilian’s house, and Mary looked across the narrow strip of water at it now where it stood in its blatant newness.

‘I am glad,’ said Lady Tressilian, closing her eyes, ‘that Matthew never saw that vulgar building. The coastline was quite unspoilt in his time.’

Sir Matthew and Lady Tressilian had come to Gull’s Point thirty years ago. It was nine years since Sir Matthew, an enthusiastic sailing man, had capsized his dinghy and been drowned almost in front of his wife’s eyes.

Everybody had expected her to sell Gull’s Point and leave Saltcreek, but Lady Tressilian had not done so. She had lived on in the house, and her only visible reaction had been to dispose of all the boats and do away with the boathouse. There were no boats available for guests at Gull’s Point. They had to walk along to the ferry and hire a boat from one of the rival boatmen there.

Mary said, hesitating a little:

‘Shall I write, then, to Nevile and tell him that what he proposes does not fit in with our plans?’

‘I certainly shall not dream of interfering with Audrey’s visit. She has always come to us in September and I shall not ask her to change her plans.’

Mary said, looking down at the letter:

‘You did see that Nevile says Audrey—er—approves of the idea—that she is quite willing to meet Kay?’

‘I simply don’t believe it,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘Nevile, like all men, believes what he wants to believe!’

Mary persisted:

‘He says he has actually spoken to her about it.’

‘What a very odd thing to do! No—perhaps, after all, it isn’t!’

Mary looked at her inquiringly.

‘Like Henry the Eighth,’ said Lady Tressilian.

Mary looked puzzled.

Lady Tressilian elaborated her last remark.

‘Conscience, you know! Henry was always trying to get Catherine to agree that the divorce was the right thing. Nevile knows that he has behaved badly—he wants to feel comfortable about it all. So he has been trying to bully Audrey into saying everything is all right and that she’ll come and meet Kay and that she doesn’t mind at all.’

‘I wonder,’ said Mary slowly.

Lady Tressilian looked at her sharply.

‘What’s in your mind, my dear?’

‘I was wondering—’ She stopped, then went on: ‘It—it seems so unlike Nevile—this letter! You don’t think that, for some reason, Audrey wants this—this meeting?’

‘Why should she?’ said Lady Tressilian sharply. ‘After Nevile left her she went to her aunt, Mrs Royde, at the Rectory, and had a complete breakdown. She was absolutely like a ghost of her former self. Obviously it hit her terribly hard. She’s one of those quiet self-contained people who feel things intensely.’

Mary moved uneasily.

‘Yes, she is intense. A queer girl in many ways …’

‘She suffered a lot … Then the divorce went through and Nevile married the girl, and little by little Audrey began to get over it. Now she’s almost back to her old self. You can’t tell me she wants to rake up old memories again?’

Mary said with gentle obstinacy: ‘Nevile says she does.’

The old lady looked at her curiously.

‘You’re extraordinarily obstinate about this, Mary. Why? Do you want to have them here together?’

Mary Aldin flushed. ‘No, of course not.’

Lady Tressilian said sharply:

‘It’s not you who have been suggesting all this to Nevile?’

‘How can you be so absurd?’

‘Well, I don’t believe for a minute it’s really his idea. It’s not like Nevile.’ She paused a minute, then her face cleared. ‘It’s the 1st of May tomorrow, isn’t it? Well, on the 3rd Audrey is coming to stay with the Darlingtons at Esbank. It’s only twenty miles away. Write and ask her to come over and lunch here.’

May 5th

‘Mrs Strange, m’lady.’

Audrey Strange came into the big bedroom, crossed the room to the big bed, stooped down and kissed the old lady and sat down in the chair placed ready for her.

‘Nice to see you, my dear,’ said Lady Tressilian.

‘And nice to see you,’ said Audrey.

There was a quality of intangibility about Audrey Strange. She was of medium height with very small hands and feet. Her hair was ash-blonde and there was very little colour in her face. Her eyes were set wide apart and were a clear pale grey. Her features were small and regular, a straight little nose set in a small oval pale face. With such colouring, with a face that was pretty but not beautiful, she had nevertheless a quality about her that could not be denied nor ignored and that drew your eyes to her again and again. She was a little like a ghost, but you felt at the same time that a ghost might be possessed of more reality than a live human being …

She had a singularly lovely voice; soft and clear like a small silver bell.

For some minutes she and the old lady talked of mutual friends and current events. Then Lady Tressilian said:

‘Besides the pleasure of seeing you, my dear, I asked you to come because I’ve had rather a curious letter from Nevile.’

Audrey looked up. Her eyes were wide, tranquil and calm. She said:

‘Oh yes?’

‘He suggests—a preposterous suggestion, I call it!—that he and—and Kay should come here in September. He says he wants you and Kay to be friends and that you yourself think it a good idea?’

She waited. Presently Audrey said in her gentle placid voice:

‘Is it—so preposterous?’

‘My dear—do you really want this to happen?’

Audrey was silent again for a minute or two, then she said gently:

‘I think, you know, it might be rather a good thing.’

‘You really want to meet this—you want to meet Kay?’

‘I do think, Camilla, that it might—simplify things.’

‘Simplify things!’ Lady Tressilian repeated the words helplessly.

Audrey spoke very softly.

‘Dear Camilla. You have been so good. If Nevile wants this—’

‘A fig for what Nevile wants!’ said Lady Tressilian robustly. ‘Do you want it, that’s the question?’

A little colour came in Audrey’s cheeks. It was the soft delicate glow of a sea shell.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do want it.’

‘Well,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘Well—’

She stopped.

‘But, of course,’ said Audrey. ‘It is entirely your choice. It is your house and—’

Lady Tressilian shut her eyes.

‘I’m an old woman,’ she said. ‘Nothing makes sense any more.’

‘But of course—I’ll come some other time. Any time will suit me.’

‘You’ll come in September as you always do,’ snapped Lady Tressilian. ‘And Nevile and Kay shall come too. I may be old but I can adapt myself, I suppose, as well as anyone else, to the changing phases of modern life. Not another word, that’s settled.’

She closed her eyes again. After a minute or two she said, peering through half-shut lids at the young woman sitting beside her: ‘Well, got what you want?’

Audrey started.

‘Oh, yes, yes. Thank you.’

‘My dear,’ said Lady Tressilian, and her voice was deep and concerned, ‘are you sure this isn’t going to hurt you? You were very fond of Nevile, you know. This may reopen old wounds.’

Audrey was looking down at her small gloved hands. One of them, Lady Tressilian noticed, was clenched on the side of the bed.

Audrey lifted her head. Her eyes were calm and untroubled.

She said:

‘All that is quite over now. Quite over.’

Lady Tressilian leaned more heavily back on her pillows. ‘Well—you should know. I’m tired—you must leave me now, dear. Mary is waiting for you downstairs. Tell them to send Barrett to me.’

Barrett was Lady Tressilian’s elderly and devoted maid.

She came in to find her mistress lying back with closed eyes.

‘The sooner I’m out of this world the better, Barrett,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘I don’t understand anything or anyone in it.’

‘Ah! don’t say that, my lady, you’re tired.’

‘Yes, I’m tired. Take that eiderdown off my feet and give me a dose of my tonic.’

‘It’s Mrs Strange coming that’s upset you. A nice lady, but she could do with a tonic, I’d say. Not healthy. Always looks as though she’s seeing things other people don’t see. But she’s got a lot of character. She makes herself felt, as you might say.’

‘That’s very true, Barrett,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘Yes, that’s very true.’

‘And she’s not the kind you forget easily, either. I’ve often wondered if Mr Nevile thinks about her sometimes. The new Mrs Strange is very handsome—very handsome indeed—but Miss Audrey is the kind you remember when she isn’t there.’

Lady Tressilian said with a sudden chuckle:

‘Nevile’s a fool to want to bring those two women together. He’s the one who’ll be sorry for it!’

May 29th

Thomas Royde, pipe in mouth, was surveying the progress of his packing with which the deft-fingered Malayan No 1 boy was busy. Occasionally his glance shifted to the view over the plantations. For some six months he would not see that view which had been so familiar for the past seven years.

It would be queer to be in England again.

Allen Drake, his partner, looked in.

‘Hullo, Thomas, how goes it?’

‘All set now.’

‘Come and have a drink, you lucky devil. I’m consumed with envy.’

Thomas Royde moved slowly out of the bedroom and joined his friend. He did not speak, for Thomas Royde was a man singularly economical of words. His friends had learned to gauge his reactions correctly from the quality of his silences.

A rather thickset figure, with a straight solemn face and observant thoughtful eyes, he walked a little sideways, crablike. This, the result of being jammed in a door during an earthquake, had contributed towards his nickname of the Hermit Crab. It had left his right arm and shoulder partially helpless which, added to an artificial stiffness of gait, often led people to think he was feeling shy and awkward when in reality he seldom felt anything of the kind.

Allen Drake mixed the drinks.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Good hunting!’

Royde said something that sounded like ‘Ah hum.’

Drake looked at him curiously.

‘Phlegmatic as ever,’ he remarked. ‘Don’t know how you manage it. How long is it since you went home?’

‘Seven years—nearer eight.’

‘It’s a long time. Wonder you haven’t gone completely native.’

‘Perhaps I have.’

‘You always did belong to Our Dumb Friends rather than to the human race! Planned out your leave?’

‘Well—yes—partly.’

The bronze impassive face took a sudden and a deeper brick-red tinge.

Allen Drake said with lively astonishment:

‘I believe there’s a girl! Damn it all, you are blushing!’

Thomas Royde said rather huskily: ‘Don’t be a fool!’

And he drew very hard on his ancient pipe.

He broke all previous records by continuing the conversation himself.

‘Dare say,’ he said, ‘I shall find things a bit changed.’

Allen Drake said curiously:

‘I’ve always wondered why you chucked going home last time. Right at the last minute, too.’

Royde shrugged his shoulders.

‘Thought that shooting trip might be interesting. Bad news from home about then.’

‘Of course. I forgot. Your brother was killed—in that motoring accident.’

Thomas Royde nodded.

Drake reflected that, all the same, it seemed a curious reason for putting off a journey home. There was a mother—he believed a sister also. Surely at such a time—then he remembered something. Thomas had cancelled his passage before the news of his brother’s death arrived.

Allen looked at his friend curiously. Dark horse, old Thomas!

After a lapse of three years he could ask:

‘You and your brother great pals?’

‘Adrian and I? Not particularly. Each of us always went his own way. He was a barrister.’

‘Yes,’ thought Drake, ‘a very different life. Chambers in London, parties—a living earned by the shrewd use of the tongue.’ He reflected that Adrian Royde must have been a very different chap from old Silent Thomas.

‘Your mother’s alive, isn’t she?’

‘The mater? Yes.’

‘And you’ve got a sister, too.’

Thomas shook his head.

‘Oh, I thought you had. In that snapshot—’

Royde mumbled, ‘Not a sister. Sort of distant cousin or something. Brought up with us because she was an orphan.’

Once more a slow tide of colour suffused the bronzed skin.

Drake thought, ‘Hello—o—?’

He said: ‘Is she married?’

‘She was. Married that fellow Nevile Strange.’

‘Fellow who plays tennis and racquets and all that?’

‘Yes. She divorced him.’

‘And you’re going home to try your luck with her,’ thought Drake.

Mercifully he changed the subject of the conversation.

‘Going to get any fishing or shooting?’

‘Shall go home first. Then I thought of doing a bit of sailing down at Saltcreek.’

‘I know it. Attractive little place. Rather a decent old-fashioned hotel there.’

‘Yes. The Balmoral Court. May stay there, or may put up with friends who’ve got a house there.’

‘Sounds all right to me.’

‘Ah hum. Nice peaceful place, Saltcreek. Nobody to hustle you.’

‘I know,’ said Drake. ‘The kind of place where nothing ever happens.’

May 29th

‘It is really most annoying,’ said old Mr Treves. ‘For twenty-five years now I have been to the Marine Hotel at Leahead—and now, would you believe it, the whole place is being pulled down. Widening the front or some nonsense of that kind. Why they can’t let these seaside places alone—Leahead always had a peculiar charm of its own—Regency—pure Regency.’

Rufus Lord said consolingly:

‘Still, there are other places to stay there, I suppose?’

‘I really don’t feel I can go to Leahead at all. At the Marine, Mrs Mackay understood my requirements perfectly. I had the same rooms every year—and there was hardly ever a change in the service. And the cooking was excellent—quite excellent.’

‘What about trying Saltcreek? There’s rather a nice old-fashioned hotel there. The Balmoral Court. Tell you who keeps it. Couple of the name of Rogers. She used to be cook to old Lord Mounthead—he had the best dinners in London. She married the butler and they run this hotel now. It sounds to me just your kind of place. Quiet—none of these jazz bands—and first-class cooking and service.’

‘It’s an idea—it’s certainly an idea. Is there a sheltered terrace?’

‘Yes—a covered-in verandah and a terrace beyond. You can get sun or shade as you prefer. I can give you some introductions in the neighbourhood, too, if you like. There’s old Lady Tressilian—she lives almost next door. A charming house and she herself is a delightful woman in spite of being very much of an invalid.’

‘The judge’s widow, do you mean?’

‘That’s it.’

‘I used to know Matthew Tressilian, and I think I’ve met her. A charming woman—though, of course, that’s a long time ago. Saltcreek is near St Loo, isn’t it? I’ve several friends in that part of the world. Do you know, I really think Saltcreek is a very good idea. I shall write and get particulars. The middle of August is when I wish to go there—the middle of August to the middle of September. There is a garage for the car, I suppose? And my chauffeur?’

‘Oh yes. It’s thoroughly up-to-date.’

‘Because, as you know, I have to be careful about walking uphill. I should prefer rooms on the ground floor, though I suppose there is a lift.’

‘Oh yes, all that sort of thing.’

‘It sounds,’ said Mr Treves, ‘as though it would solve my problem perfectly. And I should enjoy renewing my acquaintance with Lady Tressilian.’