Outrageous Fortune (7 page)

“Well,” Pansy went on, “he'll either be better or else worse. Won't it be dreadful if he dies? Jim having known him seems to bring it home so. You know, of course it must be wonderful to have the finest emeralds in the world—and I simply adore emeralds—don't you?—but just think of the anxiety. Even if they get them back, I shouldn't think that Mrs Van Berg would ever want to wear them again—anyhow not if he dies. I should think she'd always feel as if there was blood on them.”

Caroline winced, not visibly, but deep inside herself. She couldn't talk about a woman who was waiting to know whether her husband was going to die. Jim had written about the Van Bergs from New York—they had been awfully good to him—Mrs Van Berg was pretty and kind. The emeralds were like a fairy tale. Now it was spoilt. She couldn't bear to think about kind, pretty Susie Van Berg with everything fallen to bits around her. A shot in the night had broken the fairy tale. She wished that Pansy Ann would stop picking over the pieces.

VIII

Caroline left her car in the Market Square at Ledlington next day, fitting it in neatly between a ten-year-old Daimler and a brand-new Hillman. Then she walked round the corner into Market Street and penetrated into Mr Smithies' ironmongery. The day was damp and rather muggy, and the shop was full of the mingled smells of paraffin, turpentine, varnish, tin-ware, and creosote.

Caroline asked for coalscuttles, and having been led into the corner which they shared with patent wringers, lawn-mowers and wheelbarrows, she produced Mrs Riddell's bill and smiled trustingly upon a freckled young man whose red hair rose a sheer three inches from a rather pallid brow.

“I do wonder if you can help me,” said Caroline, her voice very soft and deep. “It would be so very kind if you would.”

The young man blushed. He was a susceptible young man.

“Was it anything in the way of a purdonium?”

Spoken, the word was completely awe-inspiring. Caroline found herself echoing it in a rapt mental recitative: “Cadmium—chromium—euphonium—harmonium—purdonium ……” She withdrew herself from this fascinating exercise with a start.

“Oh yes—if you'd be so awfully kind. No, I don't want one for myself.”

“We've got some very nice ones, miss.”

Caroline looked politely at a black purdonium with a wreath of pink roses, and a hammered copper purdonium trimmed with gun-metal tulips, and at a very refined oxidised silver purdonium with a bas relief of angels' heads. She looked, and looked away, controlling an inward shudder.

“I think Mrs Riddell bought one here. And this is the bill—she dropped it, and I'd like to give it back to her, but I don't know the address, so I thought perhaps you would be very kind and let me have it.”

The young man asked nothing better than to be very kind to Caroline. He made a number of most helpful suggestions, such as, why bother about the bill, as it was a cash payment and no chance of its being sent in again; and “Let us have it, miss, and we'll see it's posted to Mrs Riddell, and no need for you to trouble.”

Caroline handed all these suggestions back with gentle tact. She thought the red-haired young man was rather a lamb. She succeeded in making it quite clear that she wanted Mrs Riddell's address. When it came to the point, the young man had to go and ask Miss Smithies, a pale angular young woman in pincenez, and after some wrinkling of the brow Miss Smithies, recollected that Mrs Riddell was staying with young Mrs Williams out at Ledlington End. Yes, that was it, because the purdonium had been got for a wedding present and Mrs Williams came and helped choose it—“and—let me see—what's the name of the house? Not The Nest, nor Cosy Corner, but something after that style.” Miss Smithies was afraid she'd have to look it up, and having looked it up, gave the address as
^c
/
_o
Mrs T. Williams, Happicot, Sandringham Drive—“and you go right out to Ledlington End and straight past the War Memorial, and Sandringham Drive's the first turning on the left after you pass the Kosy Korner tea-house—and you needn't mention it, I'm sure; it's no trouble.”

Caroline drove past the Kosy Korner tea-house, which displayed rustic seats and orange and chocolate striped umbrellas. Then she turned into Sandringham Drive. It was a bright, clean little road full of bright, clean little houses, all new and shiny like the toys off a Christmas Tree.

Happicot was the seventeenth house on the left, and it was not as up to date as the other sixteen. They had for the most part casement curtains in shades of orange, scarlet, rose-pink, or delphinium-blue; but the parlour windows of Happicot were hung with blue plush and Nottingham lace. The garden was raw earth, with a scarlet geranium surrounded by a circle of lobelia set out in the middle of it.

Caroline lifted the latch of the rustic gate, walked up a bright yellow gravel path, and knocked upon the front door. It was Nesta Riddell who opened it. She looked at Caroline with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Flag-day, or something of that sort,” she said to herself, and prepared to shut the door.

“Mrs Riddell?” said Caroline.

Nesta nodded. If she wasn't collecting for something, what on earth could she want? Suspicion deepened.

Caroline felt as if there were strong invisible bars between them. She lifted her chin and took a step forward. All the bolts and bars in the world weren't going to keep her from Jim.

“May I come in?”

Nesta stood where she was, the door half closed.

“I'm Mrs Riddell—but I don't know who you are.”

“I'm Caroline Leigh. I've got a message from the Elston cottage hospital. May I come in?”

Nesta Riddell had no intention of talking about the Elston cottage hospital at Min's front door. She stepped back, let Caroline pass her and, shutting the door, showed the way into the parlour. Caroline turned to face her, flushed with success. There, beside the hearth, was the coalscuttle, as bright as a new penny. She held out the bill.

“I think you dropped this bill. Sister asked me to give it to you.”

Nesta glanced at it, frowned, and crushed it in her hand.

“Thank you—you needn't have troubled; it didn't matter.”

“Oh, but I was coming to see you anyhow.”

“You were coming to see me? What for?”

Caroline stayed silent. Her feeling of success drained away. She felt as if she were on the edge of saying something very important. Once she had said it, she would not be able to take it back. Yet she must say it. Only what it was that she must say she did not really know.

Then she said it.

“Where's Jim?”

Nesta's hand closed hard upon the crumpled bill. Jim—
Jim …
Jim wasn't here, thank goodness. It was no more than ten minutes since he had barged out of the house.
Jim!
She'd teach other women to come after her husband. She repeated the name in a most offensive voice.

“Jim?”

Caroline coloured brightly.

“Mrs Riddell—
please
I must see him—because I think he is my cousin, Jim Randal. The sister said—”

“What does she know about it? He's my husband.”

“Are you sure?”

Nesta laughed angrily.

“What do you suppose?”

“The sister said—”

“And I say, what does she know about it?”

“Please let me speak. The sister said there was a piece of a letter in his pocket with the signature Caroline. I'm Caroline, and I sent him a letter signed just like that, so you see—”

Nesta's manner changed. She smoothed away her frown and said in her best company manner,

“It's a pity you've had so much trouble for nothing. The letter was from a Miss Caroline Bussell, who is a cousin of mine.”

Dejection flowed in upon Caroline like a fog. It all came out so pat—Miss Caroline Bussell—a cousin of mine..… She couldn't have invented a name like Caroline Bussell all in one flashing instant.

She lifted her head as if to get above the fog and asked,

“Have you got the letter here?”

“No, I haven't. I don't keep old torn bits of paper.”

“If I could have seen it—” said Caroline very earnestly. She was pressing her hands together, palm to palm, and finger to finger. Her eyes under her little brown tweed cap, the bright clear brown of peaty water, gazed pleadingly at Nesta. Her hair was the same bright colour.

Nesta did not answer in words. She smiled a little.

“If you would lend me a pencil—if I could write my name—you'd know if it was the same.”

“Do you think I don't know my own husband?” said Nesta.

What did one say to that—what could one say? Of course she must know her own husband. Caroline's hopes was a pricked bubble. She had made a fool of herself to a woman with a rasping voice and eyes like bits of tin.

She began to go slowly towards the door. She was wearing a loose brown tweed coat. She hugged it round her as if she were cold.

Nesta stood aside to let her pass, but just on the threshold Caroline turned, her colour changing brightly.

“Have you got a photograph of your husband?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Not even a snapshot?”

“I've said no, haven't I?”

Caroline rested her hand upon the jamb of the door. Something in her would not take Nesta's no; she couldn't tell why. Eager words came hurrying to her lips.

“Mrs Riddell—I don't feel as if I could go away without seeing him. Won't you try and understand how I feel about it? It's such a strong feeling—I can't shake it off. If I go away like this, I shall keep on thinking about him, and about my letter—the one I wrote and signed Caroline. And I shall keep on thinking, ‘Suppose it was Jim.' But if I were to see him, I should
know.”

The hard colour rose in Nesta's cheeks.

“Are you calling me a liar?” she said. “Because if you are, I've had about enough. Jim Riddell's my husband, and I've got my marriage lines to prove it. I don't know who you are, and I don't care. Calling yourself a chap's cousin's as good a way of getting off as any other—and you may be one of Jim's fancy girls, or you may be touched in the head. But this is my brother's house and I can do with your room instead of your company—coming here after another woman's husband and giving me the lie about him to my face! Let me tell you that you'll not see him, not if you were to stay here all day. He's got something better to do than sit about at home waiting for his lady friends to drop in. He's got our keep to earn and a job to go to. And I'll thank you to be off out of this.”

Caroline's hand dropped from the door. She looked taller. She was pale.

She said, “Good morning, Mrs Riddell,” and walked out of the house and down the gravel path to the car.

IX

Nesta Riddell had time to wonder what had happened to Jim during the hours that followed. When at last an uncertain step sounded on the gravel path, she ran to the door anxiety flaring into anger.

“Where have you been?” she began, and then stopped as he lurched past her into the parlour.

She thought at first that he was drunk, but it was fatigue that sent him reeling to the nearest chair.

“Where have you been?” she repeated. “You look all in. What d'you want to go walking about till you're fit to drop? Six hours you've been gone, and you couldn't have had a bite or a drop, because you hadn't a copper on you. Hold on and I'll get you something—Min's got a kettle on.”

She brought him cold meat and vegetables and a cup of strong tea, and followed up the meat with bread and cheese. When he had eaten and she had taken the things away, she came back and looked at him sharply.

“Been a bit of a fool, haven't you? What d'you want to go flinging off like that? You've been ill, you know—and you get up out of bed and go walking about for the best part of seven hours on an empty stomach! Batty, I call it!”

He was lying back in one of the red and blue chairs, his face sharpened, his eyes fixed and heavy. He had the look of an exhaustion which was something more than physical. His body had moved mechanically whilst thoughts which he could not out-distance pursued and threatened him. They drove him, and he was driven without hope of escape. He did not know where he had been; only as he lifted the latch and felt his feet upon the new gravel which Tom Williams had laid down fatigue came upon him like an insupportable weight. The food had done him good. Now there was a dullness on him. It was like the fog. He frowned at the recollection of the fog.

“You'd better get to bed,” said Nesta briskly.

And presently he was in bed and sinking, sinking down, into the depths of sleep.

Happicot kept early hours. Min tired easily, and on the days when Nesta was in one of her moods she would count the minutes till she and Tom could go off to their own room and be alone together. To-night Nesta was most certainly in a mood, not answering when you spoke to her, or if she did answer, fairly snapping your nose off.

Min couldn't help wondering how much longer she was going to stay. Of course, she paid towards the housekeeping and gave a hand with things, and she'd given them a lovely copper coalscuttle; but still, when you've only been married six weeks you do want your place to yourself.

Min sighed over the pale blue silk which she was making into a blouse, then coughed to hide the sigh, and said,

“Blue's my favourite colour. What's yours?”

This time Nesta bit her nose right off, and a couple of tears splashed down on the pale blue silk.

Tom got up and switched on the radio.

When the rest of the house had settled into darkness and silence, Nesta Riddell still sat on in the parlour. She sat leaning forward with her cheek propped on her hand and her eyes fixed. It was being difficult—he was being difficult. Would he be any easier if she waited? Or was her best chance now, before he had got back his strength?..… Everything in her said
now.
She hadn't risked so much and come so far to lose everything for the want of a little pluck. The emeralds were half hers. If Van Berg died, they'd bring her in accessory after the fact. She'd risked that, and she wasn't going to be done out of her price, not much she wasn't. She'd have her share of those emeralds whatever she had to do to get it.