Nightingale Wood (33 page)

‘Who?’ staring. ‘Oh – Adrian. Oh – yes, he is rather. Poor old Elenor.’

‘I’m awfully sorry. It must be ghastly.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. Awful – when you remember someone when they were fit.’

‘Is he nice looking?’ sentimentally.

‘Adrian? Oh no – very thin, and he looks very ill now, of course. He used to be, quite.

‘Well,’ turning restlessly from the dressing-table where she had been fidgeting with Viola’s shabby brush and comb, ‘I just thought I’d tell you. I’ll be back on Monday to lunch.’

‘I say, you aren’t going now, are you?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Oh, nothing, only it’s so funny – just before dinner and everything.’

‘I don’t see why. I had a phone message from Elenor about fifteen minutes ago and I said I’d go at once.’

‘But you’d only just got back from there, hadn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Tina’s hand was on the door.

‘Was he all right this afternoon?’

‘What? Oh yes. No, I mean. No, I thought I might have to go back; he was very much worse before I left. Look here, Vi, I must dash or I’ll miss the bus.’

‘Oh lord, don’t do that. Fly … here, half-a-motor-car, though; suppose I want to get hold of you, what’s their address?’

‘Oh, send it Poste Restante, Rackwater; that’ll find me. Elenor won’t want Adrian disturbed with a lot of letters, and they aren’t on the phone.’

‘What’s Poste … what did you say?’

‘Oh,
Vi
! Here … have you got a pencil?’

After a hunt Viola found one and the back of a stocking bill, and Tina scrawled the Poste Restante address.

Viola watched her seriously. She knew quite well what Tina was going to do; she was going to spend the weekend with this Adrian Lacey because Elenor had gone off on a visit or something, and that would be a darned silly thing to do.

‘Look here, Tina; it’s none of my business and I don’t want to butt in, so shut me up if you don’t want any, but do you want any – you know – information?’ austerely inquired Viola, going very pink.

‘Oh, good heavens, no!’ exclaimed Tina, going bright pink in her turn and suddenly surprising her sister-in-law with a hasty but warm kiss. ‘What on earth do you mean? Take care of yourself. Oh, Viola,’ she suddenly whispered, turning back for an instant in the dusk of the corridor, where the dark line of the sea looked in through a far window, ‘I’m so happy, I can hardly bear it,’ and she ran off, snatching up a little suitcase in her flight.

Well, that’s a nice state of affairs, I must say, mused Mrs Wither severely, going back into her room and shutting the door. Fancy Tina. She ought to have told me all about it and asked my advice; after all, I am a widow. Now if there’s an awful row later on, I shall get the blame because I didn’t stop her going. But how could I? You can’t stop a person when they really mean to do a thing. I should hate to kiss somebody who was all thin and ill and somebody else’s husband. She is funny.

The faint sound of the White Rock dance band drifted up to her from the Palm Lounge. They were not playing the Merry Widow, but her eyes overflowed with tears.

It has no doubt struck the sensitive and intelligent reader as peculiar that so pretty and friendly a girl as Viola should not have attracted a court of admiring men at the White Rock, or perhaps a bevy of cheerful young persons like herself. There were, however, a number of good reasons why she had not. Firstly, all the men at the White Rock were attached to women of some kind; and even when their women were sisters or mothers, the men hesitated to approach Viola because her prettiness, her sad expression and her solitude (for Tina spent most of her time with Elenor Lacey) made her conspicuous; and there is no quality in a woman, we are told, that the average man dislikes more than conspicuousness. No doubt if the average man were given the chance and the income to run a famous film star for a week, nine average men out of ten would refuse, bluffly.

When it is recollected that Viola wore clothes that were subtly incorrect, played no expensive games, and was not quite a lady, her solitude at the White Rock Hotel is explained.

Though she enjoyed watching all these smart cheerful people from the table that she shared with novels by Berta Ruck, Renée Shann and other spinners of romantic stories, and never wearied of noticing what clothes the women wore and of wondering about their lives, she never deceived herself into thinking that she was enjoying the holiday. Young, silly, ill-bred as she was, she had yet learned to distinguish delight from its counterfeits, and she had already written to Shirley that the White Rock is a marvellous place but I’m having a rather mouldy time, really.

This evening she went down to the dining-room in her usual mood of subdued hope, with a novel under her arm called
Time’s Fool
.

The dining-room at the White Rock was designed to resemble the deck of a luxury liner, and the waiters were condemned to dress like stewards. There were stylized waves and seagulls on the walls, narrow waxed blocks of parquet that suggested deckboards on the floor, and a bevy of sea gods, dolphins and contemporary bathing beauties wallowing on the ceiling. The spiritless energy of these frescoes was much admired, and people came from far and near, so to speak, to look at the place.

The big room was only a third full, and flooded by the devitalizing silvery glow of concealed lighting. Viola went to her corner, sat down and propped up her book, but before beginning to read, she glanced round the room to see who was there; and the first person she saw was Victor Spring.

Her heart leaped to an enormous height; then began rolling dizzily over and over. The marvellous thing had happened. He was here, sitting at a table quite close to hers, the bright brown head like a young soldier’s bent over a menu. He was in day clothes, and looked bored. As she stared, he glanced up to give his order to the waiter, and saw her.

Recognition, pleasure, embarrassment, went quickly over his handsome face. He said something to the waiter, got up, and came over to her table.

‘Here’s a bit of luck! You expecting anyone, or may I come and have dinner with you?’

‘Yes please. No,’ she murmured, shutting up
Time’s Fool
and pushing the salt towards him.

‘Not here all alone, surely, are you?’ he went on easily, catching the eye of another waiter, who hurried up (Victor passed the Waiter Test with honours). ‘Where’s the rest of the family?’

As usual, he spoke to her as though she were a little girl, enjoying her confusion.

‘At the Lakes. At least, Mr and Mrs Wither and Madge are, and Tina and I are down here, only Tina’s gone away for the weekend, so I’m alone.’

‘What a shame (bring me half a dozen oysters, will you?). Never mind. So am I. We must cheer each other up.’

Pause. He leaned back, and looked leisurely round the room. Most of the people at near-by tables were staring at them, interested by the sudden descent of the smart, authoritative young man on that pretty, dowdy little thing. One or two of the young women looked faintly envious. So did Mrs Brodhurst. It was simply
lovely
. Viola was in heaven.

Victor, not troubling to talk, ate his oysters with an occasional affectionate smile at his companion. He never had much conversation anyhow, unless there were something definite to be said about business or sport. Phyllis had suspected for a long time that old Vic, though a gem, was not overburdened with the grey matter (her words); he talked so little.

Feel as though I’d known her for years – a very bad sign, he thought. But dammit, I can’t help it. I had no idea she was here, had I? Last person in the world I expected to see. It’s not my fault if the one day I come down here she happens to be here too, is it? I couldn’t cut her, could I? Besides, I ought to explain to her … That was a very dirty trick; she got as worked up as I did that day. I owe her an apology. He decided that presently he would take her for a moonlit run in the car and give her the apology he owed.

‘What will you drink, Violet?’

‘Could I have champagne, please?’ firmly asked Mrs Wither, who had made up her mind to have everything she wanted on this heavenly occasion; and after all, he had asked her, and though champagne cost a lot, she had always heard, ever since she was a little girl, that he had plenty of money. She stopped herself from saying ‘If it isn’t too expensive, please,’ remembering that Shirley said men hated that sort of remark.

‘Feel like that, do you?’ opening his hazel eyes wide, and laughing at her. ‘You fond of champagne?’

‘Oh yes. It’s my favourite wine.’

‘But don’t the bubbles tickle your nose?’

‘Oh yes, fearfully, and I always choke when I take the first sip,’ derisively.

He had not expected back-chat from the little Wither, and was amused. He ordered the champagne, which came in a silvery bucket misty with ice-dew, and he poured it out.

Fancy me saying that, thought Viola, drinking the champagne with bright eyes looking at him over the top of the glass. Frightful neck. But I can’t help it, I’m so happy and I don’t feel a bit afraid of him, it’s just as though I’d known him for years and years.

Champagne can never be ordered without the temperature shooting up. The dining-room at the White Rock was of course used to champagne, but a tiny quiver of interest went through the near-by tables.
Those people are drinking champagne
– up goes the rocket! Diamonds and orchids … thoroughbreds and sables … I know for a fact he made a cool fifty grand … champagne!

‘Come for a run in the car afterwards?’ asked Victor suddenly; he wanted to make sure that this evening, so unexpected and so pleasurable, would be prolonged.

‘I’d simply
love
to.’

I’d got her all wrong, he thought, filling her glass. She isn’t playing any game at all, she’s just a kid. But, oh boy, what a temperament! It would be so easy … but I think not. No, decidedly not. It would be a damned shame. She’s a sweet kid.

Viola made no attempts at sensible conversation, and this kept the atmosphere dreamlike and almost tender. They exchanged a few remarks about the weather, and the number of visitors in Stanton, and Victor casually explained that he had only come down for that afternoon to Bracing Bay on business. Bracing Bay, of course, was a Hole; it was not possible to eat decently in Bracing Bay, and as most of his friends in Stanton were away, he had come in to the White Rock for dinner.

‘Great luck I did,’ filling her glass. ‘You enjoying this stuff?’

‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ tranquilly swallowing.

‘Aren’t you afraid of getting tight?’

‘No. I’ve got a very good head.’

Victor roared, and one or two people glanced across amusedly.

‘You have, have you? What do you usually drink?’

‘Oh well, lemon and barley at The Eagles, but of course I’ve had cocktails and gin and lime and sherry and all those things, and none of them made me tight. I’m very fond of drink, only we don’t have much of it at The Eagles,’ ended Mrs Wither regretfully.

No, I’ll bet you don’t, he thought, but he only lifted his glass, laughing across at her, and said nothing. He did not even trouble to say that he was motoring back to town that night. His mother and Hetty were in London for some months, having shopping excursions with the females of the Barlow tribe. The wedding would be in early spring, when the fruit trees were out. Phyl had such artistic ideas; she planned to decorate her bridesmaids with apple blossom.

They finished the champagne in friendly silence, sometimes smiling at each other with bright eyes, a little dazed. Viola had forgotten Tina, absent on her risky weekend, as though her sister-in-law had never existed; she had forgotten all the other Withers, and the marvellous girl Victor was engaged to, and the dead Teddy. There was nothing real in the world except this delightful floating feeling in her head, and Victor’s eyes looking fondly at her above the smoke of his cigarette.

‘Go and get your coat,’ he said at last, glancing at his watch, ‘and we’ll go for a run – that is, if you’d still like it?’

If she would like it! She floated upstairs; and floated down again, looking like the Snow Queen with her fair curls above the tough white coat.

He led her out to where the car stood, tipped one of the White Rock commissionaires who held the door open, and waved her in. People stood about chatting after dinner in the mild autumn air, waving cigars at the moon. Cars glided up, paused to set women down, glided away again. There was a stimulating atmosphere of money and leisure which Hetty would have recognized as the Smell of Progress.

Victor made for the south cliff road, where the bungalows grew fewer towards a tract of wildish country.

Below the cliff on one side spread the silver-black sea, breathing sadness and a stealthy whispering into the night; on the other side rough fields glided past, their tussocks ghostly in the moonglow. A rabbit dashed out and scooned in front of the car for a hundred yards while Victor hooted indulgently; Viola saw the white glint of its scut as it dashed at last into the hedge. There were not many cars on the road, because Stanton liked sitting indoors playing bridge better than it liked moonlit motoring; and presently they had the road to themselves.

At last Victor stopped, on a lonely stretch of cliff. Far below, the white edges of the waves rippled in a blaze of moonlight on the lonely sands, a haunting whisper came up faintly. He threw away a match and leant back, staring at the moonway on the black water and wishing that he could start kissing her without saying anything. But he owed her an apology and he wanted to make it. She was a sweet kid. Besides, he had not brought her here to kiss her.

‘You know,’ he began, still not looking at her, ‘I’ve been wanting to say I’m sorry about what happened in the summer. I’m afraid I hurt your feelings.’

‘Well, you did rather,’ mildly, ‘but it’s all right now.’

‘Sweet of you.’ But still he did not look at her. ‘I lost my head, I’m afraid.’

Viola said nothing. Of course, it was nice of him to say he was sorry, but she would have liked it much better if he had started the kissing. What else had he brought her here for?