The Clock Strikes Twelve (3 page)

Grace Paradine faced her brother down the length of the table. She had had her moment of blinding anger, but for all that anyone could see it had passed. She was the charming, gracious hostess, friend and confidante, of all the family. For twenty years it had been, “Ask Aunt Grace—Aunt Grace will know,” whenever there was anything to be done. Only Elliot Wray had stood aloof, made her no confidences—had asked her for nothing at all and had taken Phyllida. She thought of him always as a thief. He had stolen, he had robbed, but he hadn’t been able to keep what he had taken. Phyllida had come back. That James should have brought Elliot here, and tonight of all nights in the year; that Elliot should be so lost to all sense of decency as to come—these were things which were hardly to be believed. The anger which had shaken her had been the sharpest that she could remember. She had controlled it. If her colour was high, it became her well enough. She talked perhaps a little less than usual, but how charmingly she listened to Dicky as he spoke of Lydia, to Frank Ambrose as he pursued a long complaint about Irene, about Brenda.

“It’s an extraordinary thing women can’t get on together. Those two girls are always sparring.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Men don’t have these senseless quarrels. After all Brenda is ten years older than Irene. You’d think she’d be glad to have her advice about the children, about the house. After all Brenda and I did keep house together for nine years. You’d think Irene would be glad of her experience, but no, it’s hands off at every turn. Of course Brenda resents it, and I feel she’s been driven from her home, or what used to be her home. Don’t you think you could get Irene to see that?”

Grace Paradine looked grave.

“I don’t know, my dear. Irene doesn’t care about advice. It might do more harm than good.”

He reddened.

“She’s utterly unreasonable.”

Grace Paradine smiled.

“Young wives very often are. You must just be patient, Frank.”

Lane and the parlourmaid were removing the cloth. The épergne was lifted to the sideboard, to be replaced upon the bare mahogany together with a ritual display of hot-house grapes, stem ginger, and apples on silver dishes. Heavy cut-glass decanters with port, sherry, and madeira in front of James Paradine.

Across the empty board Elliot saw Phyllida. She was lovely. She had been his. She was a stranger. A lovely stranger with Phyllida’s hair and Phyllida’s eyes, and the lips which he had kissed. There wasn’t anything left, there wasn’t anything left at all—she was a stranger. In the coldness of his anger he looked, and looked away. Lane reached between him and Lydia and set the épergne in its place again.

James Paradine gave Irene the thimbleful of port which was all that she would take, poured half a glass of sherry for Brenda on his left, and sent the decanters coasting. They went down to Grace Paradine at the other end of the table and came back again. Lane and Louisa had withdrawn. James Paradine pushed back his chair and rose. Standing there with the light shining brightly upon him, he bore a remarkable resemblance to the portrait immediately behind him, that of Benjamin Paradine, his grandfather, founder of the family fortune and of the Paradine Works. There was the same great height, the same contrast of silver hair and bold black eyebrows, the same keen glance, the same clear-cut features, dominant nose, and hard, sharp chin. Not a handsome face, not even an attractive one, but the face of a man who knows what he wants and gets it.

James Paradine stood with his back to the portrait and addressed the assembled family.

“Before we drink our usual toasts I have something to say. It has been my custom to celebrate New Year’s Eve with a family gathering. It has not been my custom to interpose a speech at this particular juncture, but tonight I ask your indulgence. I can promise you two things—I shall be brief, and you will not be bored.” He paused here, saw that they were all looking at him—carelessly, intently, with surprise—and continued. “The matter is personal, but unfortunately not pleasant. This is a family party. Everyone here is a member of the family, everyone here is connected with it either by blood or by marriage.” His eyes travelled round the table. “Brenda—Elliot—Lydia— Richard—Grace—Frank— Albert—Phyllida—Mark— Irene—here you all are, as you were last year. And what I have to say to you is just this—one of you has been disloyal. A family holds together because of its common interests. If these interests are betrayed, there can be no security. I am stating as an incontrovertible fact that one of you has betrayed these interests. I am not saying this in order to surprise the guilty person into some sign of guilt. I need no such sign, for I know who this guilty person is.”

He paused again, and again looked round the table. Nobody’s expression had changed, but there was in every case an intensification, a hardening, as if stiffening muscles had caught and held it. Brenda’s light eyes stared aggressively, Elliot had a look of cold control, Lydia a smile which had caught a tinge of incredulity and kept it because her lips were stiff and could not change their curve. Dicky frowned, his eyes as fixed as Lydia’s smile. Grace Paradine sat upright in her chair, a hand on either of its arms, her head just resting against the tall carved back. Frank Ambrose had an elbow on the table, a big pale hand half covering mouth and chin as he leaned upon it. Albert Pearson had taken his glasses off. Without them his shortsighted eyes blinked at the light and the blur of faces. He polished them in a fumbling sort of way and put them on again. Phyllida’s hands were clasped together in her lap. They were as cold as ice. Her eyes, wide and frightened, looked away from old James Paradine, looked for Elliot Wray. The épergne was between—she couldn’t see him. She leaned sideways, but all she could see was his hand about the stem of a wineglass. The knuckles of the hand were white. She did not know that she was touching Mark, leaning hard against his shoulder. She couldn’t see Elliot’s face. Mark Paradine was the one who seemed least affected. His air of gloom remained. He looked straight in front of him, and felt Phyllida lean against his shoulder. Irene had uttered a faint gasping cry. She sat back in her chair and gazed at her father-in-law with an expression of terror. James Paradine, who had always thought her a very silly young woman, now had his opinion confirmed. That Irene was behaving exactly as he would have expected her to behave was gratifying. He continued his speech.

“I don’t want there to be any mistake about that, so I will repeat it—I know who the guilty person is. I take this means of communicating the fact for several reasons. Punishment is one of them. That person is not in a very enviable position. That person is wondering at this moment whether I am going to name him—or her. Well, I am not going to do that—not at this time, not just now—perhaps not at all. That will depend upon the person himself—or herself. I am inclined to clemency, whether from family feeling, from the desire to wash dirty linen in decent privacy, or for some other reason. I therefore state that after we rise from this festive board I shall be in my study until midnight. The person whom I have refrained from naming will find me there, and find me prepared to make terms. This is all that I have to say. We will now proceed to drink our usual toasts. I give you the Paradine-Moffat Works coupled with the names of John Cadogan and Elliot Wray, to whose outstanding designs the whole country owes so much. May output continue on an ever ascending curve and invention lead the way.” He lifted his glass.

There was no answering stir about the table. Irene took a choking breath. It was very nearly a sob. Frank Ambrose said “Sir!” on a protesting note. Grace Paradine alone leaned forward and took up her glass.

James said incisively,

“No one except the guilty person can have any objection to drinking this toast. I am afraid I shall regard abstinence in the light of a public confession. I give you the Paradine-Moffat Works.”

This time every glass was lifted. Phyllida’s just touched her lips and was set down again. Irene’s hand shook so much that the wine spilled over and left red drops upon the bright mahogany. Somewhat belatedly, Elliot responded with a “Thank you very much, sir.”

James Paradine lifted his glass again.

“To absent friends.”

The tension, which had almost reached breaking-point, slackened a little. There was to be no immediate, irremediable disaster.

The third toast followed.

“Sweethearts and wives.”

James Paradine gave it out with a subtle change of voice and manner. There was the suggestion of a challenge. He looked from Irene to Frank, from Phyllida to Elliot Wray. He looked at Lydia and Dicky. He went on smoothly. “With this toast I couple the memory of my wife.” This time he drained his glass and sat down.

A breath of relief went round. The worst was over. Grace Paradine looked at Irene and pushed back her chair.

The drawing-room was a haven. With the door shut upon them, the women looked at each other.

“What is it all about?” Brenda’s voice was at its bluntest. “Has he gone mad?”

Miss Paradine showed distress.

“My dear, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“He must be mad!” said Brenda. “To get us all here to a party and then say a thing like that! It’s the limit!”

Irene had been trembling. She now burst into tears.

“I know he thinks it’s me—and I haven’t done anything—I really haven’t. And I didn’t want to come—Frank will tell you I didn’t. He was angry with me because I wanted to stay with my baby, and I wish—oh, how I wish—I hadn’t listened to him! What does he think I’ve done? And why does he think it’s me? I don’t even know what he was talking about. Why shouldn’t it be anyone else?”

After a good deal of groping she had managed to produce a handkerchief. It was unfortunate that a pause in the process of dabbing at her eyes should have disclosed them apparently fixed upon her sister-in-law. Brenda stared angrily back.

“Meaning it might have been me, I suppose. Thank you very much, Irene! Frank will appreciate that, won’t he?”

Grace Paradine put out a hand to each.

“My dears—my dears—we really mustn’t! Irene—Brenda! This is quite bad enough without our doing anything to make it worse. I feel that there must be some terrible mistake. If we think of it that way we can help each other, and help to set things right. Don’t you see? And we mustn’t lose our heads or say anything we’re going to be sorry for tomorrow. Now, Irene, dry your eyes. Would you like to go up to Phyllida’s room?… No? Well, I’m sure Lydia can give you some powder. Lane will be coming in with the coffee, and you mustn’t look as if you had been crying. Phyl darling, you and Lydia can look after Irene. Of course no one suspects her of anything—it’s too ridiculous. Brenda and I are going to have a nice talk. How long is it since we had one, my dear? Not for months, I do believe. Come along over here.”

Brenda was only too glad to have an audience. Her grievances were many, and she minced no words in stating them.

“What on earth do men want to marry for? Frank and I were perfectly happy together. And look at him now! Irene thinks of nothing but the children. Of course that’s what’s wrong with her—she’s stupid. Why, she can’t even keep house. The bills are double what they were, and nothing to show for it.”

Grace Paradine smiled.

“Well, my dear, we can’t all be such good housekeepers as you are. Frank is always saying how marvellous you were.”

“Yes—were!” Brenda’s tone was dry and bitter. “Why couldn’t she let us alone? Frank would never have thought about her if she hadn’t thrown herself at his head. And now she’s got him she doesn’t want him.” A dull, ugly red was clouding the sallow skin. The hard mouth twitched.

Grace Paradine experienced some alarm. It was really going to be exceedingly difficult to get through the evening without a scene. On the other side of the hearth she could see Irene, still dabbing at her eyes and ignoring the powder-puff and compact which Lydia was holding out. She took a sudden decision, laid a hand on Brenda’s shoulder, and stood up.

“My dears—” the movement and her voice caught everyone’s attention—“my dears, I had a little remembrance for each of you. I’m just going to run upstairs and get them. I don’t see why a stupid contretemps should prevent me from giving my presents. Phyl, you come over and talk to Brenda. I shan’t be a moment… No, darling, I’d rather get them myself—I know just where they are.”

Turning at the door to look back, she felt relief. Irene was powdering her nose, and even Brenda would find it difficult to quarrel with Phyl. But she must be quick. It wouldn’t do to risk anything. In spite of stately proportions she was light on her feet. She picked up her dress and ran up the stairs almost as quickly as Phyllida would have done.

She was down again before Irene had finished doing her face and whilst Brenda was still answering Phyllida’s questions about some mutual friends. She came in with four little parcels tied up in Christmas paper—gold holly leaves and scarlet berries on a white ground with different coloured ties, silver for Irene, scarlet for Brenda, green for Lydia, and gold for Phyllida.

“Only little things,” she said in a deprecating voice.

They were unwrapping them, when the door was thrown open and Lane came in processionally, bearing a vast silver tray set out with the coffee equipage and followed by Louisa with a massive cake-stand.

Miss Paradine drew a breath of satisfaction. No scene could have been more natural or more pleasantly familiar—herself gracious and charming, with her gifts dispensed; the four girls unfolding the bright paper; the tray set down on the low walnut table; the heavily moulded silver coffee-pot, milk-jug and sugar-basin; the old Worcester cups, dark blue and gold. It might have been any New Year’s Eve in any other year.

Louisa set down the cake-stand, which contained a Christmas cake in the bottom tier, and in the other two mixed biscuits and chocolate fingers. Everything had a secure, established look. Everything was time-honoured and according to custom—Lane with his twenty years of service, his portly presence, his bald head with its fringe of fine grey hair; Louisa, a worthy second-in-command, upright in character as in carriage, her figure restrained by the stays of an elder fashion, her hair done over a cushion and supporting an authentic Edwardian cap. The picture was reassuring in the extreme.

The procession withdrew. Aunt Grace was kissed and thanked. Lydia’s favourite bath-salts—“Where did you get them?” A torch for Brenda—“That’s what I call really useful.” A snapshot of Jimmy and Rena, enlarged and framed, for Irene—“Oh, Aunt Grace!” And for Phyllida half a dozen handkerchiefs, cobweb soft and fine, with her name embroidered across a corner—“Oh, darling, you shouldn’t! Your coupons!” They were all clustering about her, smiling, chattering, when the door opened again and the men came in.

But only five of them. The tall, dominant figure of James Paradine was not there.