The Happy Prisoner (36 page)

“Heather,” said Mrs. North, “I wish you'd take your sister upstairs, by brute force if necessary, and get her changed. If she doesn't go soon, the party will die on us.”

“Shall I get her, Mrs. North?” asked Stanford obligingly.

“Thank you, I'm sure Heather can cope.”

“I'll fix her,” said Heather, finishing her champagne and putting down the glass. “Come on, Stanny, you come and help.” He followed her eagerly.

“Where's John?” Mrs. North looked harassed. “I haven't seen him for quite a while. Oh, my goodness, I wonder whether he didn't feel well and has gone to bed. I'll ask Elizabeth; she'll know, because he'd probably go to her. I wonder where
she
is.”

“Elizabeth,” said Ken, coming up behind her looking pleased with himself, “is upstairs putting the baby to bed. I've been helping her wash it. Great sport,” he laughed. “I'm rather good at it. Think I'll copy old Fred's example soon and go all domesticated.”

Oliver felt tired and flat and wished that the party were over. While they were waiting for Violet to change, one or two guests, as bored and tired as himself, wandered in and made desultory conversation. Francis sat down as if he would never get up and started to talk about a Morris dancing club he was organising. His skin was puffy and waxy and his teeth yellow. He put his face very close to you when he talked, bending forward, right over Oliver's bed.

At last there was a clattering on the stairs and the familiar squeak of Violet's hand on the banisters, and a feeble cheer was raised from the hall by those who still had enough energy. The people in Oliver's room drifted out to see what Violet's going-away dress was like. Someone was hooting the horn of Fred's car, and Violet came into her brother's room like a tornado, with bits of her clothes dropping off and one shoelace undone. She wore a new tweed suit, the jacket cut with a flap at the
back so that she could wear it for riding. On her head was a porkpie hat of the same material, which she had pushed back from the angle at which Heather had placed it. A khaki handkerchief hung out of her sleeve, her stockings could have been tauter, and from one ungloved hand she swung, as if it were a stable lantern, the satchel bag that was meant to be worn smartly over her shoulder.

She looked radiantly happy. Happy, too, but more soberly, in her wake came Fred—in the emerald-green suit. Oh well, people must have something to talk about after the wedding. The guests in the hall looked through the doorway to see the affecting sight of the bride's farewell to her invalid brother.

Violet charged up to the bed. “Just off, Ollie,” she said. “I feel a hell of a mess, all this changing clothes and mucking about. Do I look O.K.?”

“You look swell. So you did in the other thing, though. You've been grand.”

“Oh, stow it. Thank God it's all over. All this fuss just to get spliced. I've been in a blue funk about it, you know, but, 'smatter of fact, I've had a hell of a good time. I've never enjoyed a party so much before.”

The horn sounded again. Fred coughed. “I think we ought to go, Violet,” he suggested. “We've got a long drive, and it'll be dark before we're there.”

“Keep your wool on,” she told him without turning round. “I'm not scared to drive in the dark, if you are.”

“Goodbye, old girl,” Oliver said. “Have a good time. Write and tell me how Jenny's behaving.”

“You know I can't write letters. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. Wait till that mare gets her head on the moor, you won't see us for dust. Probably fetch up in a bog.” She threw back her head to laugh, then, as she brought it down again, said surprisingly, for she was seldom solicitous of Oliver's health: “Hope you don't feel too fagged; you look a bit peaked.” As the horn sounded raucously once more, she held out a large friendly hand. “Well, goodbye then, old thing.” She leaned forward, stumbling against the step of the alcove. “And I say, Ollie, thanks awfully and all that. It was all your doing, talking me into it.”

“Rot,” he said. “Happy?”

“You bet.” She suddenly lunged and kissed him, nearly overbalancing on to the bed. She straightened up, confused, and turned to her husband. “Come
on
, Fred, for heaven's sake, or we'll never get there tonight.” He gave Oliver a conspiratorial
look, which said: “Aren't women illogical?”, shook hands and trotted after Vi in his green suit, like a harvest bug.

“Well, they've gone at last!” Mrs. North staggered in and collapsed into Oliver's armchair. “My goodness, will you just look at the mess in here! I'll clear it all up for you when everyone's gone—if they ever go.”

“Was there an old shoe on the car?” asked Oliver.

“There was.”

“And a notice saying: ‘Just married'?”

“I'm afraid so, dear. Fred's friends put it on. No confetti or rice, though, thank goodness; that's one mercy about austerity. Say, my feet are killing me, d'you know it?” She put them on to the footstool, but let them down again almost immediately and stood up. “Oh dear, there's someone wanting to say goodbye.” She went out into the hall, where Oliver heard her weary voice slide easily into practised sociability.

Elizabeth had made tea for the few remaining guests. Mrs. Ogilvie, who believed in getting her money's worth, was still there, and Stanford Black was waiting to take Heather to the party. They sat jadedly in Oliver's room, discussing the guests with lazy malice, while Oliver lay back with his eyes closed and heard their talk coming from far away.

“I say,” said Stanford idly, in his flat Air Force drawl, “most extraordinary thing, Heather, you know that charm bracelet your mother-in-law's got?”

Oliver opened his eyes. Heather sat up. “Charm bracelet? She hasn't got a charm bracelet!”

“She has; I saw it. Haven't you seen she'd got a little faun on it, just like you—”

“John!” exploded Heather furiously, “this is just about the limit. If that woman doesn't leave this house soon, I shall. Shoes and toothbrushes and hankies and things I can just stomach, though I'm getting pretty tired of it, but when it comes to jewellery, and especially a thing I prize so-much—”

“What on earth—?” Stanford looked puzzled.

“All right, old girl. All right, all right, all right.” John was painfully conscious that Mrs. Ogilvie was sitting bolt upright in her chair, mentally slapping her thighs with glee at having happened on such a promising scene.

“It's
not
all right!” Heather tossed her head. “I've been very good about it up to now, but this time I'm going to tackle her about it.”

“Heather, you know what Smutty—”

“Smutty encourages her. I shouldn't wonder if they weren't making a racket of the whole thing, and Smutty only puts out a few valueless things as a blind. What about that ring of Ma's? That never turned up, did it?”

“Now, Heather Bell, you know she thought it might have gone down the waste pipe when she was washing.”

“Well, how do we know what your mother doesn't take from shops? You all pander to her and say she can't help it and let her pinch all your things—it makes me sick. I believe she knows perfectly well what she's doing.” Mrs. Ogilvie's eyes were snapping like the shutters of a camera, as if she were trying to photograph every detail on her brain for filing in her library of gossip subjects.

“Did someone say tea?” The little black-and-white figure fluttered into the room like an innocent butterfly.

“No!” Heather jumped up and confronted her. “But someone said charm bracelets! My God, you're right, Stanford.” She picked up Muffet's forearm, and held it out, to show the bracelet dangling down over the blue-veined hand.

“Heather, for heaven's sake!” John got up and went to them. “It's all right, Mother; let's go outside. I'll bring you some tea in the drawing-room.”

Heather pushed him back. “Don't you interfere. This is between her and me.”

Stanford and Mrs. Ogilvie goggled. Oliver said uncomfortably: “Oh, look here, Heather—”

“And don't you butt in, either,” she flung over her shoulder. “Now look here, Muffet,” she said grimly, while her mother-in-law stood with her arm still raised, throwing plaintive, puzzled glances at the others, as if appealing for help, “where did you get that bracelet?”

“What bracelet, dear?” She looked at her hand as if she had never seen it before, and, with a start of surprise, picked up one of the charms and let it fall with a tiny tinkle. “This? Oh, isn't it pretty? Someone lent it to me, didn't they? Who was it? I forget—I'm a bit tired, you know. The party—”

“Someone lent it you!” cried Heather scornfully. “You stole it!” Mrs. Ogilvie drew in her breath with a fascinated hiss. “It's mine; you took it from my room. And what's more, it's not the first thing you've taken, as you know perfectly well, although you pretend to be so innocent. You may flatter yourself you've fooled the others, but you haven't fooled me. I'm going to tell the police.”

Stanford had the decency to look very uncomfortable. Mrs. Ogilvie was sitting on the edge of her chair, her legs planted like trestles.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Muffet looked as though she were going to cry. She passed a hand across her forehead. “It's all such a muddle. You muddle me so with your wild talk.”

“Oh, I give up.” Heather flung back her hand, as if disappointed that the result of' her audacity had not been more spectacular. “You deal with her, John; she's your mother. But I would like my bracelet back.” She held out her hand.

John put his arm round Muffet. “Come on, old dear,” he said. “Let's go upstairs, shall we? You ought to lie down and rest after all the excitement of the party. I'll bring you your tea in bed.”

She looked up at him coldly as if he were a presumptuous stranger. “Please leave me alone. This girl wants this bracelet,” she said in a flat voice, fumbling with the clasp. “I'm sure I don't know—”

“Muffet,” said Heather sharply, on a sudden note of fright, “do you know who I am?”

“No, dear,” said Muffet sadly, “but I should be very pleased to if someone will introduce us.”

Heather was really frightened now, and even Mrs. Ogilvie was beginning to look as if she would rather be somewhere else.

“John, is she pretending?” Heather stepped back and put her hand on his arm, looking at her mother-in-law with wide eyes. “Oh, John, I don't like it.”

“Get Smutty!” said Oliver urgently. “Or Elizabeth. Can't you see she's not well?”

“Anything I can do?” asked Stanford. He had got up and was standing embarrassed, hating to be at a loss when he was usually at home in any situation.

“Shall I phone for a doctor?” asked Mrs. Ogilvie eagerly. Their suggestions hissed round Muffet, while she stood forlornly, fumbling with the clasp of the bracelet. They all stood a little back from her, as if they were afraid to touch her.

“Stay with her, Heather,” said John. “I'll get Smutty.”

“No,” said Heather, giving Muffet a scared glance. “I'll go.” She darted away and the others waited in the most uncomfortable silence any of them had ever known. Every time John tried to approach his mother she shook him off and gave him that blank, distant look again. “Let me undo the bracelet,” he said gently.

“No, no,” she said, impatiently, pursing her lips like a cross old woman. “I can do it, I can do it. Thank you very much indeed, all the same,” she added as an afterthought of studied politeness.

Heather came back with Miss Smutts, who had changed her best wine dress for her usual battleship grey and was intoning: “I knew it. I knew it. I told you. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Shut up,” said John surprisingly, “and be some use. My mother isn't well. Please take her up to bed.”

“Hoity-toity, young man.” She put a hand on Lady Sandys' arm. “Now what's all this about? Why don't you come upstairs with poor old Smutty and let her put you to bed? You shall have some bread and milk later on, how will that be?”

“I loathe and detest the stuff,” said Muffet clearly. “Oh—hullo.” She looked at Miss Smutts vaguely as if she were a distant acquaintance whom she knew by sight but not by name. “Help me get this damned thing off. They keep bothering me for it, and heaven knows
I
don't want it.”

“Let's go where the light's a bit better, shall we?” Miss Smutts was able to shepherd her out, throwing a lugubrious glance of triumph at the others as she went. When she had got Muffet into the hall she stepped back into the room for a moment. “This is a terrible thing you've done,” she told Heather in a voice like the clanging of the brass doors in the House of Ussher. “A terrible thing. I'm not answerable for the consequences. You can't say I didn't warn you.”

“Oh, shut
up,
” shouted Heather and John and Oliver together.

Smutty sniffed, and withdrew. Mrs. Ogilvie got up. “I can only say—” she began. They wanted to say “Shut up” to her too, but it was unnecessary, because, for once in her life, she did not know what to say, and simply opened her hands in a helpless gesture.

“My mother hasn't been well, you know,” said John hastily. “She had a nervous breakdown from war strain.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, grasping this soothing explanation eagerly, and Stanford mumbled: “Of course. We quite understand.”

“Look,” said. Heather. “Stanny, why don't you be a dear and run Mrs. Ogilvie home to save her walking and then come back for me? I'll be changing.”

“Heather, you're not going out?” John looked hurt.

“Why not? I can't do anything here, and I need something to take my mind off this. And don't say anything to me,” she
said defensively. “I know it was my fault; I know I'd been told, but don't say anything, or I shall scream.”