Dorothy Eden (62 page)

‘But what?’ she asked.

‘There’s nothing the matter, is there?’ Prissie said impulsively. ‘I mean, this is quite a lot of money to get in single notes.’

‘You think so?’ said Brigit politely. It was the first time she had used the grand lady act with Prissie, and she despised herself for doing it now. Especially when Prissie flushed and said defensively.

‘Well, to me it is. And I thought you were looking worried about something. You would tell me if you were worrying about anything, wouldn’t you?’

Prissie looked so earnest and anxious, her brow running into furrows, that Brigit relented.

‘I don’t see why I should bother you with my worries. And anyway this isn’t one. Now run along. Nurse Ellen will mind the children while you’re away. I may want you to post some mail for me later, too.’

Prissie was back within an hour, flushed and with moisture shining on her smooth dark hair. It was raining, she said, as she tumbled the bank-notes carelessly on to Brigit’s bed. She wouldn’t be able to take the children in the park, so perhaps Brigit would like them all to have tea round the fire in her room.

‘It would be company for you,’ she said, with her quick enchanting smile. ‘And besides it would give me a chance to get on with my dress. If I’m to allow your brother to take me out I have to be suitably clad. Shall I help you count that? I did it carefully in the bank, but just to make absolutely sure…’

‘No, no, it will be right,’ Brigit said quickly. ‘Yes, bring the children down. And your sewing. It will do me good.’

Nurse Ellen was upstairs with the children. There was just time, while Prissie was away, to pack the notes into the chocolate box she had emptied, and to quickly wrap the box into a parcel and address it. Mr George Smith, 15 Pelham Road, Hammersmith, she wrote, and wondered despairingly who this man was, and why he had had to do this horrible low-down thing. Though to have gone to the police would have been worse for Guy, anyway. Why, she wondered, hadn’t Mr Smith acted more quickly? It was now three weeks since the night of the accident. Probably he had been snooping about, finding out all he could about the house and its inhabitants, planning to whom to address his poisonous letter. Involuntarily Brigit glanced out into the misty afternoon, half expecting to see a figure lurking outside the gate, watching. She must have been watched ever since she had come home from the hospital. And there had been that burglar, about which the police had not yet a clue. Had he been the mysterious Mr Smith, actually invading the house itself? No, that must have been an unconnected crime. The whole thing made her feel as if she were enclosed in a mesh of nastiness. It wasn’t fair of Guy, first to have behaved so despicably, and then to have placed her in the vulnerable position of being the only person who would care enough about him to try to keep him out of trouble.

It was nice to have Prissie back with the children, Sarah tumbling about happily, and Nicky playing in a concentrated way with his building blocks, while Prissie, with yards of green silk spread over her knees, sewed and talked and sang, and told the children stories.

Brigit almost relaxed. The black worry in her mind eased. It was comfortable in the big room, with the rain bringing an early twilight, and the fire glowing. She drowsed a little, and woke to hear Prissie saying, ‘It was only years and years later that they found the true baby, the tiny little skeleton buried in the wall, while all the time the wrong baby had grown up and become king…’

Brigit roused herself.

‘Prissie, what
are
you telling the children?’

‘Only that old story about the skeleton of the baby found in Edinburgh Castle. I think it is fascinating. The poor little baby that died, and never got its rights.’

‘But Prissie—the children.’

Sarah, busily knocking down Nicky’s bricks, had obviously paid no attention at all to the story. But Nicky’s ears were almost standing out. What a pity he was such a sensitive child, and how could Prissie not notice the way these things affected him? She had had one experience with the pedlar doll.

‘I think everyone should know these things,’ she said serenely, re-threading her needle with the shining green silk. ‘I hate injustice.’ Then she began to sing softly, and in the midst of her song Fergus walked in. There was rain in his hair, too, and his lips, as he kissed Brigit, were cold, as if he had brought the rain into the room.

‘Fergus!’ she whispered happily. ‘You’re early.’

‘What are you all doing?’ he asked. ‘What’s Prissie up to, sitting there like a little queen?’

It was true, Brigit realized. Prissie did have a quaintly regal look, sitting on the stool with the shining silk spread about her and the children at her feet. She looked amazingly attractive. It was little wonder that she had drawn Fergus’s eyes.

‘I’m making a dress,’ she said and stood up and draped the material about her. Her small head rose proudly from the flurry of silk.

Fergus stared. Then he said, ‘You know what you look like, don’t you?’

‘I mean to,’ said Prissie composedly.

‘What are you talking about?’ Brigit asked. ‘Oh!’ She drew in her breath. ‘I know. It’s the portrait of my mother.’

With her quick change of mood Prissie flung down the silk and was herself again, eager and young. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mrs Gaye? I think that portrait’s terribly attractive, and I long to look like it. I won’t, of course, but I’m copying the dress as well as I can.’

‘Guy is taking Prissie to dinner,’ Brigit told Fergus, and was instantly aware of Fergus’s eyes fixed on Prissie speculatively. He doesn’t like it, Brigit thought in a flash. He’s thinking of Prissie looking like a little queen in all that shining silk.

‘Will he appreciate you looking like his mother?’ he asked ironically.

‘Fergus, don’t be silly,’ Brigit reproved. ‘Anyway, Guy doesn’t remember mother very much.’ She was going to add, ‘Fortunately,’ and only stopped herself in time. It was such a dreadful thing to have those bitter memories of one’s mother.

‘What’s this?’ Fergus asked, picking up the parcel on Brigit’s bedside table.

Brigit felt the colour draining out of her face. She had momentarily forgotten about that parcel. She hadn’t wanted to disturb Prissie, and hadn’t anticipated anyone, least of all Fergus, coming in and seeing it.

‘Oh—that’s something Prissie is going to post for me. Prissie, if you don’t mind. It isn’t too wet, is it?’

Prissie sprang up. ‘No, of course not. There’s a post office at the corner, anyway.’

‘Who is the mysterious George Smith?’ Fergus asked. ‘Wasn’t that the name of the brides in the bath murderer?’

‘Fergus, don’t be so idiotic!’

‘Well, wasn’t it?’

‘I believe it was. This, if you must know, is a child I knew in the hospital. I promised to send him something. It’s only a box of chocolates. But I do want it to go this afternoon.’

‘Come along then, Prissie,’ said Fergus. ‘I’ll come with you and see that you don’t step in a puddle.’

Prissie gave her quick delighted smile. ‘Oh, good! Shall we take the children? We can put on their macs. It will be some fresh air for them.’

Before Brigit could reflect that it would be practically the complete Gaye family going out walking, as they had done so often in the past, Nurse Ellen came in with her air of authority.

‘Out, all of you! Out! Doctor’s due in half an hour and I must see to my patient.’

Brigit welcomed her bustling intrusion. She let her think that her paleness and quietness was from exhaustion, and meekly submitted to a scolding.

‘The moment I leave you you try to do too much. Writing business letters, having the children underfoot, wrapping parcels. Nothing’s that important.’

‘What do you think the doctor will say, nurse?’

‘Why, that I’m not doing my job properly, I should think. Now let me wash your face and you can put on a bit of lipstick, and then close your eyes and rest.’

The lipstick and the face powder were no use, because when Nurse Ellen left her to rest she promptly began to weep. The tears slid childishly down her face and every time she mopped them up they came again. She was getting as wet as Prissie and Fergus in the rain would be. Why did she mind Fergus going out with Prissie? It didn’t mean a thing. It was only that she envied so much their ability to stride freely, while she lay here like a dead thing. And those horrid things that had happened had got on her mind. Burglary and blackmail. What would be the next thing beginning with ‘b’? She reflected idly, and the word that came into her mind was bitch. Oh, no, she thought, that isn’t a respectable word anyway. The Templars, for all their avariciousness and licentiousness, would not approve of a daughter of their family using a word like that. Even knowing a word like that. And of course it didn’t apply to anyone in this house.

Doctor Brown was not particularly pleased with his patient. Although he was cheerful and non-committal Brigit could sense his disappointment.

‘There’s no improvement, doctor?’

‘Oh yes, indeed there is. You’re better in yourself.’

Brigit cut him short. ‘Doctor, when will I walk again?’

‘Well, that’s not altogether possible to predict. The paralysis may cease tomorrow or it may hang on for another say three or four weeks.’

‘You mean I might never walk again?’

‘I mean nothing of the kind. I’m going to prescribe a tonic. Nurse, you might see that this is made up in the morning. Ah, Mr Gaye, come in. We’re doing very nicely indeed.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Fergus. ‘Have a drink, doctor. My wife can have a drink, can’t she?’

‘Yes, indeed. Do her good.’ The little doctor’s eyes took in the luxurious room, the bed with its carved headboard, the glowing fire, the flowers. ‘You’re very comfortable here. I wouldn’t mind having a long rest in a room like this myself.’

‘That’s exactly what I say,’ said Aunt Annabel, coming suddenly into the room, the big grey Persian tucked under her arm. ‘Brigit’s a lucky girl. And with the children nicely cared for, and all. Oh, Fergus, are you bringing drinks? Then Saunders must come. And perhaps Prissie would like a little sip of sherry, too. She’s so sweet with the children. My niece hasn’t a thing to worry about, doctor. Everything is organized. But tell me, doctor, what would one do for a cat that cries all the time? It literally cries. Obviously it has been badly treated from the time it was a kitten.’

Aunt Annabel, her grey hair shaken loose round her vague kind face, her large eyes full of earnestness, discussed the new cat that no doubt was going to keep them all awake with its mewing. Uncle Saunders came stamping in shouting, ‘Whisky for me, Fergus, my boy. Such a day I’ve had in the city. The market’s all gone to the pack. We’ll be selling up shortly. Annabel, put that deuced cat down. It’s got four legs, hasn’t it? Two more than you have, so let him use them. Well, Brigit, I don’t suppose you’d sneeze at legs like that yourself. Do you think she’s bluffing, doctor? She looks well enough. All this paraphernalia, nurses and so on, for a bit of neurotic fancy. Ah ha, Prissie my dear, who’s been putting colour in your cheeks? Pretty as a rose, eh?’

Did Prissie move nearer to Fergus? Brigit couldn’t tell for at that moment Fergus came over to her bedside and gave her hand a brief squeeze. Then he caught the doctor’s eye and said, ‘I think we might finish the party in the other room. Be back soon, darling.’

But Brigit was hardly aware of their noisy exit. She was so wrapped up in her own misery. The doctor had deliberately evaded her question. He had given her no clue as to when she could expect to walk again. Which meant that it might be never.

That treacherous voice that whispered in the night was right. It had said… Wait! There it was now, right this instant. Hoarse and sibilant and triumphant, directly from the cavern of the chimney. ‘Didn’t I say so! Didn’t I tell you you’d never walk again!’

‘Nurse!’ called Brigit. ‘Nurse, nurse!’ But before Nurse Ellen could reach her from her room next door the voice had gone, died away like a breath of wind.

‘What is it, ducky? Are you feeling bad?’

‘Nurse, did you hear a voice just then? From the chimney?’

‘I never heard a sound except your Uncle Saunders. From the chimney! Now, don’t be daft! Who lives up there except that witch doll of Nicky’s.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Brigit whispered.

Nurse Ellen eyed her with concern.

‘It has been too much for you. All those people in here at once. You’re beginning to imagine things.’

‘No, no.’ But was she? The room seemed to be going dark and then bright in a curious way, the mulberry tree shook a skinny fist at the window, the bed tipped up, then slowly righted itself, from a long way off a pale and drained-looking moon moved in front of her… But it was only Nurse Ellen’s face. The voice in her ears was not saying, ‘Save your brother…’ It was Nurse Ellen, indignantly, ‘Too much fuss and bother. You’ll be all right presently, ducky…’

When Fergus came in to say good night he asked gently, ‘What frightened you, darling? Nurse says something frightened you.’

Brigit was aware of the concern in his face. He looked grave and the youthfulness had gone out of his face. Suddenly it came to her that he looked like that too often now. She was doing this to him, prematurely taking away his youth and vitality.

‘Nothing frightened me,’ she said.

‘But you’ve been crying.’

That was another thing. He was always having to look at her drained and unhappy face. No wonder he had eagerly sought Prissie’s gay lively company. If she were to go on like this—Another fear, not of the unexplainable, but of something all too possible, chilled her. She seemed to be seeing Prissie’s sparkling radiant face above the green silk. The picture filled her mind with bright menace. All at once the knowledge came to her that she had to surmount all these things, her crippled state, the threat of the blackmailer, the unwanted hospitality of Uncle Saunders, and, most of all, Prissie’s pretty thieving fingers, clinging to the children, to Fergus’s arm, to the lovely valuable knick-knacks scattered about the house.

At last belatedly but strongly a core of stubbornness and a refusal to be defeated came to life in her. From now on there was to be no crying. She was not going to lie there weakly and let other people fight for her. She was going to do her own fighting.