The Oracles (15 page)

Martha became increasingly impatient and showed it by making a little noise which was characteristic of her when she was thwarted. It sounded like
Heh!
Heh!
and implied that she was joining in this conversation but had something much more important to say as soon as she was allowed to take the floor.

Christina calmly presided at her tea-table and watched them all. She knew that Dickie and Mrs. Hughes were on tenterhooks and she was not sorry, because she was furious with them both.

‘Heh! Heh!’ put in Martha, at last. ‘And when are
you all coming to
my
house? I’ve got something to show you.’

‘Whenever you ask us,’ said Dickie, who was anxious, by marked cordiality, to atone for Christina’s rudeness.

‘Sunday evening? Sixish?’ suggested Martha, smiling. ‘A few people are coming in for sherry and I’ve got a little surprise for you all. Mrs. Hughes? Can you and Mr. Hughes come?’

Mrs. Hughes was not sorry to be able to say that Sunday evening was impossible for a minister’s family. Christina said nothing until Dickie had accepted for both of them; she then reminded him that she would be putting Bobbins to bed. She made no attempt to thank Martha or to express regret. Her open hostility to her guest could no longer be ignored.

Martha, however, was used to hostility. She
countered
it by an enquiry about the borsch. It was so wonderful of Christina to have got the recipe. The cook at The Moorings—quite a good cook in her way, Provençal—had, alas, certain limitations. She refused to believe in any dish outside her own repertoire. This stupid Annette had denied the existence of Polish borsch. Could Christina find it in her heart to disclose the secret?

Christina curtly named a fourpenny women’s weekly magazine of which Martha had never heard. There was, she said, no secret not shared by thousands of
housewives
.

‘But it isn’t real borsch,’ she added. ‘Not Russian borsch.’ She made a vague circular gesture and shook her head. ‘
Il
n’a
pas
assez
de
ça!
’

She was a clever mimic. They all recognised Don Rawson’s phrase and gesture when finding fault with a picture.

‘I don’t think,’ said Dickie, ‘that you quite know what you are talking about, Christina.’

She opened her eyes innocently.

‘Oh, but I do. It hasn’t got what really makes Russian borsch. Wild-duck stock. Polish borsch is a cheap sort, you know. Just for the masses.’

‘Suppose you go and get the recipe?’

He gave her a look which sent her scuttling into the kitchen. Mrs. Hughes, following with the tea-tray, found her standing there, obviously upon the defensive.

‘Well, she deserved it,’ began Christina at once, although her friend had made no comment.

‘I’m off,’ said Mrs. Hughes, putting down the tray. ‘Thank you very much for an excellent tea.’

‘Now you’re annoyed with me, I suppose.’

‘I’m distressed, because I’m fond of you. All that fuss about the cake and the silver and the sandwiches, and you haven’t the self-control to be polite to your guest. It was ugly, that’s what it was.’

‘I suppose it’s provincial to eat anything for tea.’

‘I was thankful I was the only person to see it. A good many people in this town, Christina, would have rushed off and made a great tale of it. And you needn’t think they’d have admired you. They’d have laughed at you for making such an exhibition of yourself. I shan’t tell anybody. Goodbye.’

Mrs. Hughes took her departure, not without dignity. She kept her word and said nothing about the incident, not even to Mr. Hughes. But she prayed long and earnestly for Dickie and Christina before she went to bed that night.

Dickie, left alone with Martha, felt obliged to attempt some sort of apology for his wife’s behaviour. It was received very graciously. Christina’s imitation of Don
had been brilliant, declared Martha. But brilliant! She must remember to tell him; he would be very much amused. And then, before Dickie could collect his wits, she confided to him her little plan for the Apollo. She had not meant to do this quite so soon, but her intuition told her that the moment was favourable; she would never get him more completely at a disadvantage. In strictest confidence, what would be his attitude if she put this proposal before the committee? What was his opinion of the legal position?

Dickie was so sure that the committee would be hostile that he doubted whether the legal position would be of importance. But he was anxious to be as pleasant to Martha as he could, since she had been so grossly insulted in his house, so he refrained from throwing cold water on the scheme. She would find out for
herself
soon enough that it would never go through.

‘The resolution specified a work of art for the town,’ he said, ‘without mentioning any particular site. I don’t see that that rules out the Pavilion. Of course the Pavilion trustees wouldn’t own anything bought with the war-memorial money. But I don’t see why the town shouldn’t lend …’

‘Supposing all that could be arranged,’ said Martha, ‘you wouldn’t object to the purchase as you did to the portrait of Mr. Dale?’

‘Why, no!’ said Dickie. ‘I objected to that because I didn’t consider it would be a work of art, within the terms of the resolution. Swann’s Apollo isn’t in the same category.…’

At this point Christina appeared and offered to Martha, with a subdued demeanour, a copy which she had made of the recipe. The guest was shown off the premises. The door was shut behind her.

‘All right,’ said Christina, getting in the first word. ‘Blow me up. It was mean to pinch your crack about keyhotic.’

‘I’ve no intention of blowing you up,’ said Dickie, quite incorrectly. ‘If you aren’t sorry, it’s no use to discuss it. If you are, you must be as anxious to forget it as I am.’

‘Martha Rawson gets in my hair. She …’

‘You made that perfectly plain. Believe me,
Christina
, I never have the slightest difficulty in knowing what you think about anybody or anything. I’m told. Repeatedly. Nobody who has to live with you can be in any doubt about your opinions. Your idea of
conversation
is to make them known. I know what you think of Martha Rawson. I know what you think of Martha Rawson.
I
know
what
you
think
of
Martha
Rawson.
I know everything you’re going to say before you say it. So that’s why I’m a little agitated just now. You see, you’ve surprised me. Yes! You’ve actually taken me by surprise, when I thought you never could. I thought I knew you, through and through. I’d have sworn you were incapable of it. If I hadn’t seen it I wouldn’t have believed it. You, who talk so severely about other people’s filthy manners … flouncing about like some cheap little …’

Dickie was by now addressing the hall clock. Christina had rushed upstairs.

U
PON
the thirteenth day of the great siege the Swann household hauled down its flag. Nobody had come and the money which Elizabeth had left was spent, squandered, during the first week, upon all kinds of unusual delicacies.

After this week of feasting came a few days of fast. Meals grew scantier and less satisfying. They began to look out, with sharpened anxiety, for their promised deliverer, and even left the door open when they went to bed, in case the person should arrive during the night. But nobody ever came near them except Lobster Charlie, from whom they could no longer afford to buy, and a supercilious school-child with a paper parcel from Miss Byrne. This contained a horrid little hat and a message that Serafina was in future to wear it at Mass. Serafina flung it away in disgust, but, as hopes of deliverance sank, she took to wearing it. She did not quite believe Miss Byrne’s statement that Our Lady had sent it, but she felt that she could not afford to offend anybody.

On Sunday morning, having breakfasted on milkless tea and stale bread scraped with anchovy paste, they had reached the end of their resources. There was nothing for it save an appeal to the Traitor, who had, as they all knew, provided food in the past. So much at least was clear to Serafina although she still maintained a brave face before the others. She would, she said, go and fetch supplies from the town if nobody had come by
supper-time
, but she did not tell them where she meant to go.
Such a course was abhorrent to her, but she could think of no other. Conrad and Elizabeth had obviously suffered much in consequence of their dependence on the Traitor. There was no knowing what she might demand, what new bonds might be forged, by this appeal. It would have been far better to keep away from her, but they could not starve.

They spent the weary day creeping about after snails and running to the gate, every few minutes, to see if anybody was coming. Joe greeted the appearance of every casual stroller with howls of joy and often brought them out of the house on a false report. By six o’clock they were all so hungry that Serafina decided to wait no longer and went in search of her holy hat.

This had been a school-girl’s round straw hat, but it was now limp with age. The crown ran into a peak and the brim hung down all round. It was what
Serafina
called a ‘repenitance’ to wear. She crammed it down on her head and looked for a basket in which to bring home supplies. The only basket in the house turned out to have a broken handle; the scrub bucket would hold more and be easier to carry. She rinsed it out under the pump.

None of the children had ever been inside The Moorings, but they knew where it was. The distance was not great. Had she felt less languid and giddy she could have got there in half an hour. There was every reason to hurry, but she could not do so. She crept along, stopping every now and then to pant a little. The bucket was unexpectedly heavy and bumped against her legs.

Bells were ringing everywhere for evening services. The people in the streets looked gay and relaxed. They wore their best clothes and their holiday faces. Serafina,
clanking through the town with her squalid bucket, felt as solitary as though she had still been up at
Summersdown
, peering down the road for somebody who never came. Those who noticed her thought that she must be a gypsy’s child; the peaked hat, with its drooping brim, was like the hats gypsy women wear when they come selling clothes-pegs and sprigs of lucky heather through the streets.

At the corner of Market Street she encountered an acquaintance, a child in her class at school, called Sheila Tooley. They were not friends. Sheila was one of those who shouted rude remarks after the Swanns, because ‘things’ had been found on Dinah’s head. But she now ran up to ask why Serafina had stopped coming to school.

‘School’s been open a week,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch it.’

‘Some people,’ said Serafina, ‘can’t mind their own business.’

‘Some people have dirty heads.’

Serafina searched her mind for a taunt which could be flung at the invulnerable Sheila.

‘Some people’s brother is so stupid he can’t get to be an altar-boy.’

She stalked on, but Sheila got in the last word:

‘Oh hat!’ she shouted.

In River Road a drum thumped. There was a bray of brass, and voices were raised in a hymn. The Salvation Army was holding a street service, standing in a ring on the jetty. The singers looked thick and red in their serge uniforms. Serafina envied the women their bonnets, which looked much holier than her hat. They had cheerful faces, but they were singing something very sad.
Till
the
storm
of
life
is
past
,
they sang. She hurried to get away from it and took the road to The
Moorings. The music grew fainter behind her, but she could still hear it when she reached the house. A long line of cars was drawn up opposite, against the river wall; she had never seen so many cars outside the Traitor’s house before.

She rang the bell and nerved herself to confront the enemy. A heathen person in a turban opened the door. She had not expected this, and stood dumbly staring until he asked what she wanted. It was reassuring to find that he could speak English, but there was
something
alarming about his intonation. It was soft and sinister, not the speech of a fellow creature.

‘I want to see Mrs. Rawson,’ she managed to say.

‘She is engaged.’

This puzzled Serafina, who had thought that the Traitor was married. Then she understood.

‘I’ll wait till she comes out.’

‘She can’t see you. She is busy.’

‘It’s very important. What is she doing?’

‘You want …?’

‘I want some food,’ said Serafina, indicating her bucket.

He looked at it and a queer spark flashed for a moment in his black eyes. He’s cruel, thought Serafina. He’s a murderer.

‘Mrs. Rawson,’ he said, ‘gives nothing to beggars.’

The door was slammed in her face.

A strain of persistency in Serafina had probably ensured the survival of the Swann children. She never thought of retreat. After a few minutes she rang the bell again. The door opened:

‘I want to see Mrs.…’

It slammed again. Further assaults upon the bell were ignored.

There was, however, a knocker, an elaborate affair in wrought iron. Nobody ever used it, since the bells at The Moorings were never out of order. It was there for ornament but it was capable of producing a tremendous racket. A dozen bangs on it brought a sound of voices arguing on the other side of the door. Serafina did not intend to be shut out this time. As soon as the door opened she darted into the house. The heathen caught her and tried to thrust her out, but was checked by the Traitor’s husband, who said:

‘No, Ahmed! Wait a minute.’ And then, to Serafina: ‘What is all this? If you go on making this noise we shall have to send for the police.’

‘I want to see Mrs. Rawson.’

‘You’ve been told. You can’t see her. In any case, she never gives to people at the door.’

‘I couldn’t help being at the door when he kept on keeping me outside it.’

The heathen was pinching her and she turned to say:

‘If you make any bruises on me I shall tell the Society for the Promotion of Cruelty to Children.’

Her voice and manner startled Don Rawson. He had not recognised her in that hat, but he realised now that she could not be a tramp. He told Ahmed not to be so rough with her, and asked her who she was.

‘I’m Serafina Swann. I’ve come for our supper.’

‘Your supper? Did my wife invite you …?’

‘No,’ interrupted Serafina impatiently. ‘Not here. But she always gives us our supper. I’ve brought a bucket to take it back in. It’s outside on the step.’

‘What sort of supper?’ asked Don, bewildered.

‘Food. FOOD! What you put in your mouth and swallow.’

Serafina yelled this in exasperation, maddened by a smell of cooking, which hung faintly about the hall.

Don looked at Ahmed and asked if any orders had been given. Ahmed shook his head.

‘It’s not true,’ he murmured. ‘Nobody come here for food.’

‘I really don’t think …’ began Don.

He was quite at a loss, and unwilling to disturb Martha by referring the matter to her. She had sent him out to deal with it when the din on the knocker began, since she had quite enough on her hands, doing the honours of the Apollo to forty people.

‘Come back later on,’ he suggested.

‘I want it now. We’re hungry.’

‘Did Elizabeth send you?’

‘No. She’s not there. I came of my own accord. Children have to eat too, don’t they?’

‘My dear child, this is nonsense. If your father or your … or Elizabeth want anything, they let us know. We can’t have you children coming down here like this.’

‘You mean you’ll give it to them and not to us!’ cried Serafina, in horror. ‘But what are we to do, then? If you want me to sing for it, I’ll sing. I can sing.’

In a high sobbing voice she began to sing
Annie
Laurie
, which was the first tune that occurred to her.

Martha burst out of the music-room in a towering rage.

‘It’s Serafina Swann,’ said Don helplessly.

‘Food! Food! Food!’ screamed Serafina. ‘I want some food. I won’t go away till I’ve got some food. I’ve sung for it. You expect people to sing for their
supper, don’t you? But I did sing. And I’ll sing and sing and sing until …’

Martha seized her far more roughly than Ahmed had done, and shook her till she was giddy. This invasion was the last straw and it sounded like a deliberate piece of insolence on the part of Elizabeth.

‘Get out!’ she commanded. ‘Go away! I’m not doing a thing more for any of you. Understand? I’ve had enough of you.’

The door was still open. She flung Serafina out of it and slammed it. A terrific hammering immediately began on the knocker.

‘Don’t take any further notice,’ she said to Don and Ahmed. ‘Let her get tired of it and go away.’

Serafina thumped until her arms ached. She then sat down beside her bucket to rest a little. Get in she would. She was not going back to the others without food.

They would never open the door. To get in by stealth was the only alternative. The windows on the road side of the house were high up, but there was some wistaria which might give a foothold. She put down her bucket and began to scramble up towards a small window which opened on a tilting slant. As she got near to it a great clamour reached her ears. A lot of people were talking and screaming and shouting in there.

At last she was level with the window-sill. Clutching the wistaria trunk with one arm and bracing her feet against it, she leaned sideways to look. Inside, below her, she could see clouds of cigarette smoke and a lot of heads. The noise was terrific. Then her eyes fell upon a sort of platform; upon it stood … THE THING!

In the utmost terror and confusion she slithered to the
ground again, picked up her bucket, and fled. Panic so overpowered her that she was running past the band on the jetty before she knew where she must go, and remembered the one person in this terrible town who had been kind to her.