The Diamond Waterfall (51 page)

Then by tacit consent—for we never talked about it again—it was the same the next night. And the next. And always that frightening, wonderful excitement that I was sure
this
time would break …

On the last afternoon we had tea at the Metropole. It was full of officers on leave. We stood and looked at the lovebirds in the aviaries there. Gib said, half laughing, half sardonic, taking my hand. “That's us, isn't it?”

The next morning early we took the train to London. And in the afternoon traveled on up to Yorkshire.

When we arrived, the letter was waiting for me.

Sunday in Paris. Bells. Saint said irritably, sleepily, “Muffle them, can't you, Teddy—good people come to church and all that.”

“Oh God,” she said, “I meant to go back to the hotel.” “You can't believe the hotel thinks you—”

“I don't …” Her hair felt heavy. She could hardly raise her head. She said, “I think I'll go back to Yorkshire. Or Romania. Or somewhere.”

“Yorkshire,” he said, sitting up in bed, looking at her. “All right, Yorkshire. But in heaven's name, why Romania?”

It had been one of Robert's more energetic days. In the morning he had been taken out for a drive, had admired the leaves reddening, the bracken on the turn, mourned his shooting days. Now he sat in the big armchair, well wrapped up, his feet stretched out to the fire.

To Sylvia, sitting with him, he appeared to be dozing. She'd just picked up a book when he spoke:

“Too much fresh air, Missy. Must have nodded off. It's good of you to sit with an old man.”

She was about to say—it was the truth—that she
liked
to sit with him, when: “The new medico, Selwood, he should have been today. What's the time?”

“Nearly seven.”

“He won't come now. Medicos, all the same really. Unless you're an interesting case.” He reached for his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly. “Where's your mother?”

“Dining out, I think.” She herself was meant to be going over to supper and whist at Mrs. Fraser's, with Reggie. “Would you like me to eat up here with you? I've this vague invitation but could go on later. Captain Gilmartin's sister—she's anxious to meet me, apparently.”

“Nonsense, it's Gilmartin wants to see you. Still after you, eh? Have to be careful who you marry, you know. Very careful these days. Especially an heiress.”

“He's not
that
sort of person. And anyway, I'm not thinking of marrying for
ages.”
She said it half laughing, but feeling fright again at the thought of the Season.
Coming out

He must have been thinking of it too. “All that'll be taken care of—when you get about and meet people.” He patted the chair near him. “Come and sit down.”

He began to cough, getting his breath with difficulty. Watching him now, she felt great pity. The good times over. No more shooting, walking, travel abroad. All the things he cared for best. She looked at the frail, almost bald head with its few strands of iron gray hair. And Mother doesn't love him, she thought. I think I've known that a long time.
Mother has a lover.
(Oh, daring, frightening thought.)

“You've grown very beautiful, Missy,” he said suddenly, “it won't hurt to tell you.” He was gazing at her steadily. “Do something for your old father, would you? Just put the Waterfall on for a little while—wear it for me, so that I can look at you.”

Of course—if it gave him pleasure. The truth was it frightened her. It belonged to, and should only be worn by, Mother. (Three portraits with the Waterfall. Mother's in pride of place.)

The arrangements, the elaborate precautions, began. Such an unlocking of boxes which contained keys, which contained keys. The secret wall safe. More keys. And then lastly, the magic numbers.

She said merrily, “Aren't you afraid I'll learn more than I should, and then tell my lover, and make off with it?” She liked to tease him.

He replied simply, “Since it will—soon enough—be yours, it's not so important.”

She didn't like it when he spoke of his death, which had nearly happened so many times in the last few years.

Here it was, the Waterfall itself, lying on its satin and ivory velvet couch. Dazzling before it touched flesh, waiting to dazzle.

“Well? Am I to see you?”

She was wearing a jersey suit in mauve, with a long-sleeved jacket. “I'll throw this over the chair.”

She knelt at his feet so that he could fasten the heavy silver clasps. He said, “The main light, turn it off. I want to see the Waterfall glow.”

When she stood in front of the fire, beneath the plain looking glass, she saw suddenly, as if it were someone else, that it was she who glowed. A trick of firelight, of precious stones against white skin—then (well, it is only me, Sylvia) she looked at her father and smiled.

“Yes. Yes.” He smiled back. “One more favor though, Missy. Unfasten your hair.”

“Daddy—”

“For me. An old sick man. You wouldn't want to remember that you …”

Of course not. If something should happen to him—and she had refused such a small, unimportant whim. Head bent forward, she pulled hastily at the edifice, the combs, the pins. She said, “It means you don't see the Waterfall properly.”

“No. Lift some of it back. Yes, like that.” She stood patiently before the
fire while, head on one side, he looked at her. He said after a long pause, “Yes. Its
true
home.”

A knock at the door. He gave an angry start.

But it was the housekeeper. The doctor was with her, she said, just arrived.

“In, bring him in,” Robert said impatiently, picking up his stick, letting it fall again with a bang.

“Oh, but …” began Sylvia, hand to her mouth.

Dr. Selwood walked in. Embarrassed, she remained where she stood, unable to move. He too seemed embarrassed (or was it surprised?).

“Just checking on family heirlooms, Selwood …” And as she grabbed her pins and combs, dropping them again as she picked up her jacket: “Run along, Missy. Switch up the light as you go.”

She could not look at him. Even less at Dr. Selwood as, humiliated, she hurried out. He held the door open for her. She could not answer his “Good evening.”

Bejeweled, smarting, she sat in her room, her head throbbing, waiting until she thought he would have gone. She fumbled, pulled at the clasps of the Waterfall, then threw it down on the bed. Slowly, with angry deliberation, she twisted, lifted, pinned her wealth of fair hair.

“Sorry, Angie, old thing.”

“You are sickening, Reggie. What ever will Miss Firth think? What
do
you think, Miss Firth, of my absolutely
awful
bro?”

Reggie interrupted, “She won't marry me, that's what she thinks.”

“You're not taking proper care of Miss Firth. Her arm, you sickener. Yes, I know that doesn't leave an arm for me, but life's like that. Or
war,
I suppose I should say.”

If Sylvia hadn't known, she might have taken Angie for Reggie's twin, so alike were they. In fact, she thought irreverently, she had only to add a moustache. Angela, who had been in the WRAF during the war, was as tall and as heavy as her brother, but whereas Reggie had, on the surface anyway, an engaging humility, Angie bounced with self-satisfaction.

“Let's pip off somewhere.” She clutched Sylvia's free arm. “I see we're going to be tremendous friends—don't listen to any rot
he
says, honestly he's the
awfullest
blighter. Come on. Let's
ooze.”

Angela was to stay for a month. Sylvia found herself increasingly drawn into threesome outings or evenings of whist which she was too polite to refuse. Sometimes Bertram would be asked and they would roll back the rug and dance. Twice she was asked over to the Fishers'. Mother didn't seem to mind. Then, mercifully, both Reggie and Angela went for a fortnight to the West Country. When they came back, Angie's visit would be almost over.

On the Wednesday of the first week, Mother asked her to go into Richmond with a list of errands. “The motor will come back for you about five.”

It was a blustery day, but smelling still of summer. The town seemed quite crowded but she surprised herself by the speed with which she worked through the list. Finished early, she browsed a little in the bookshop, saw a copy of Robert Bridges' anthology
The Spirit of Man,
which she'd always meant to read, and bought it.

She was just about to leave when the shop door opened and Dr. Selwood walked in.

“Oh,” she said with a little gasp. Color flooded her face. She burned with shame (diamonds, hair down, rushing rudely from the room,
feeling naked).
Then, taking a grip of herself, “Good afternoon,” she said, at the exact moment that he did.

They both laughed. “What did you buy?” he asked, and when she showed him, “Oh,” he said, “I have that, the edition before, with the green cover. It went to Mudros and beyond—as important as my medical kit.”

“I've never read it, and I thought—my sister used to have a copy.” She paused and swallowed. The shop owner was halfway up a ladder, his arm stretched dangerously. She said feebly, “I don't expect you have much time for reading. I mean, a doctor …”

He agreed that yes, he
was
usually busy. But he was having that rarest of delights, a free afternoon.

“Wednesday
should
be. Seldom is. But today I called on a family who were to have occupied me for at least two hours, and found them fled. So you see, an idle fellow.”

Afterward she could not remember whose idea it was, the tea. But not far away there was a tea shop, up some narrow stairs, in a little street off the marketplace.

They sat waiting for toasted tea cakes. She prayed, may he not apologize for surprising me in the room that time.

“Oh, but this is good. To be quite without purpose for half an hour. I looked around as we came in, and not a patient in sight.”

She felt as if they sat alone on an island, an island in space and time. She could not explain to herself the joy she had felt when he walked through the doorway.

“Thought is furrowing your brow, Miss Firth.
I'm
the one to be furrowed. You're too young.”

“Eighteen. Eighteen and a
half.
I hate it so terribly when people speak like that.”

“I'm sorry.” He said it so simply, giving it so little importance, that she was at once ashamed. She made a great fuss of pouring from the heavy brown teapot.

“When you have dipped into that anthology, and I am visiting one day,
perhaps … your opinion. When a book's been such a good friend, then one wants—”

“Oh, but of course.” She wanted at once to read it. And hadn't he spoken of Mudros and the Dardanelles? Here was a topic of conversation. Gib. Teddy. Gallipoli.

“I think your brother-in-law was there a little earlier,” he said. “I went late summer '15. And out there I had more to do with death by disease than with anything Johnny Turk did.”

Later they spoke of his children. “You have three?” she asked, and he told her again:

“I could have offered them this free hour, but they are away. A late seaside holiday.” (Oh, but then, she thought, you would not be here, we would not be here. She could not explain her happiness.) “The sea air, it's of course especially good for my wife.”

“I heard she was an invalid. I'm sorry. I hope she'll soon be better.”

He said crisply, “No. It's disseminated sclerosis. It began in '16 with the birth of our third child. It's progressive. She has a wheelchair, and will never leave it.”

What could she say? Silence among the teacups. She stirred her tea, though it was unsugared.

He said slowly, “We don't know a great deal about this illness—but to live in a better climate perhaps, it might help a little. Say, one of the colonies —somewhere we could afford more staff. Some luxuries for her.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “What else can I say for such a tragedy? One tends to think everything nowadays is the result of the war. Though perhaps you feel the strain of it all caused—”

“Ah, I think it just strikes. The hand of God, and all that.” He said bitterly, “I wonder sometimes why the more senseless, wanton the pain, the more we hear of God. Why cannot such things—be simply the work of the Devil?”

She said nothing. Then as she looked up, he smiled at her. She thought that she had never seen a face so altered, so lit from within by a smile.

She said hurriedly, “Will you ask for more water? We've exhausted this and I for one can drink more tea.” Then when he'd done so: “What do Eva and Peggy and—Brian is it?—what do they think of life in Yorkshire? School, are they at school?”

But then, too soon, too soon, it was all over. The bill paid (“No, I insist. Please.”), her coat held open for her, the stairs negotiated, and back in the market square: Good-bye. (“You are certain I can't drive you back? I have my rather battered motor here?”)

Waiting—flat, drained, autumnal—to be collected and driven home.

Reggie and Angie were back. They dragged her together with a visiting ex-Army friend of Reggie's to a small dance given by friends of their aunt. Mother raised her eyebrows, but smiled tolerantly. There was a day as a threesome in York.

“Please call me Angie, absolutely everyone does—you call my brother Reggie, after all. Aren't we a topping threesome? You don't mind we both smoke?
You
should try the weed too. What's all this about some absolutely ripping family
diamonds?
Any sort of interesting
curse
to go with them? The blighter says …”

From Paris, Teddy wrote a long letter. She was making plans to visit New York in the spring, to stay with Aunt Daisy's family, but first she would be home for Christmas. In the meantime she was sending Sylvia three pairs of very special silk stockings from Lefebure in the Faubourg St. Honoré.