The Women in Black (12 page)

35

First they had
pâté de foie gras
on very thin slices of toast, then they had duckling with black cherries, then they had a sort of
bombe surprise
with lots of
glacé
fruit in it, and there was absolutely nothing to drink except champagne. They’d all done quite well this year and they expected they’d do quite well next year too.

‘Things are not all for the best,’ said Stefan, ‘in the best of all possible worlds, as we know, but I think on the whole that a modicum of happiness is occasionally possible for the luckiest of us.’

‘Stefan is becoming philosophical,’ said Rudi, ‘give the poor blighter another glass of fizz.’

‘Not so much philosophical,’ said Gyorgy, ‘as sententious. Give him a punch, not too hard, but palpable.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said Eva, ‘I do not allow my guests to punch each other on Christmas Day. To be philosophical or even sententious is his privilege on such an occasion. Let us drink a toast to the Commonwealth of Australia. What a country! I still cannot believe my fate. To finish up a subject of the English monarch—I ask you!

Fill the glasses, Sandor. To the Commonwealth of Australia! And to the Queen!’

Twenty glasses were raised to the accompaniment of much laughter and the toasts were drunk, and then the adult portion of the twenty assorted, chiefly Hungarian, Continentals present lit cigarettes and cigars. They sat for a long time talking and then they walked down the hill to Balmoral Beach and played a game which bore some faint resemblance to soccer.

‘It is very beautiful here,’ said Magda to Stefan as the sun went down, ‘it really is.’

‘Are you happy?’ he asked her.

‘Of course not!’ said Magda. ‘What a very vulgar suggestion.

Are you?’

‘Oh dear, I hope not,’ said Stefan.

36

‘Now, dear Lisa, if you will make sure that all the gowns are still in order as they are in my stock book,’ said Magda, ‘it will be truly kind. Miss Cartright comes to me in half an hour or so and we will decide on the sale prices. Then this afternoon or tomorrow you will finish writing out the tickets for them and everything will be ready.

Good. I hear that Mrs Bruce Pogue is to give a
grande fête
on New Year’s Eve—poor thing, she does not realise it will clash with mine, I have skimmed already the cream—it will surprise me to death if a number of ladies do not come in here today or tomorrow looking desperate to obtain a frock for the occasion. They will ask me if they can have them at the sale prices, and I will tell them, Ah no madame I regret that is not possible, I am so sorry. They will pay up, not to look cheap.
Vraiment on s’amuse ici
. Now here is the stock book, take it and do what you can
ma chérie.’

Lisa re-entered the scented fairyland of the Model Gown, noticing that a number of its denizens had been spirited away to the outside world since her last reconnaissance. Tara had gone, so had Minuit. Feeling almost ill with dread, she let her eye run down the list to discover as quickly as she could the fate of Lisette and, hardly daring, bade her eye then travel to the last column. The space was blank; the frock was still unsold, still here, on its hanger, waiting.

Of course it was not, it could not be, waiting for her, but it remained in some frail sense hers for so long as it lived here in its mahogany cabinet at Goode’s. She must now make quite sure that it really was here still.

She searched along the rail and found it easily—its white fl ounces stuck out gaily beyond the more sober margins of its neighbours, and she gently made a space in front of it the better to gaze upon it. Its loveliness increased with each viewing: it was, after all, a work of art. She stood still, absorbed in its contemplation.

Suddenly she became aware of a presence behind her and turning quickly, almost guiltily, she beheld Magda, smiling broadly.

‘Ah Lisa,’ exclaimed she, ‘I am afraid you have fallen in love—I should have foreseen the danger! Yes, it is a nice little frock, even adorable, truly—I do not know why we have not sold it. Of course it is very tiny, much too small for most of our customers as well as being of course much too young for them although they do not care about that—Mrs Martin Wallruss has wanted it, can you imagine!—but I have saved it from such a fate more than once.
Eh bien
, it will have to go on sale, perhaps some girl with a lot of sense who has saved her dress allowance will come and rescue it. How is it? Let me see, a hundred and fifty guineas—not so expensive, I suppose it will go on sale at seventy-five, these white dresses get so grubby, it will have to be half price. But don’t let me keep you, continue your chore.’

And she sailed away, to all appearances unaware of the havoc her words had wreaked.

Seventy-five guineas! Lisa had not until then realised that in some corner of her mind she had begun to dream of possessing the frock, had even speculated that its sale price might just equate with her total earnings at Goode’s, all, excepting what she had spent on Christmas presents, saved up in her Post Office money box. Now she watched Lisette vanishing into the wardrobe of a girl with a sensibly disposed dress allowance; now she fairly lost it; now she saw wrenched from her so-tentative hand her heart’s desire; it was a moment of absolute desolation. Her spirits suddenly leaden, she continued with her task.

Ladies’ Cocktail too was busy with preparations for the sales during this interregnum between Christmas and New Year and Lisa was occupied with much checking and sorting. The last-minute arrangements would be accomplished after the store closed on New Year’s Eve: some of the staff would stay behind for the purpose, and then the sales would begin as soon as the doors opened on the second of January, and if you thought Christmas was a bunfight, Miss Jacobs told her, you wait until you see the sales! At lunchtime

Lisa was more than happy to make her escape from Goode’s; she sat by the Archibald Fountain and stared at the passers-by, troubled by an inchoate feeling of discontent and uncertainty which was not, she truly believed, the result merely of renewed anxiety about her examination results and their consequences, coupled with the unattainableness of Lisette: the worst of it was, that she had forgotten her book; she had nothing to read.

37

‘It’s my husband,’ said Patty, sitting nervously on the edge of her chair.

‘Yes?’ said the physician. He wasn’t her usual doctor; the latter was on holiday and Patty was seeing his locum, a stranger: young, sharp, clever-looking; intimidating.

‘You see,’ said Patty, ‘my husband—he— ‘You know, Mrs—er—Williams, please tell me about your husband by all means, but it would be much the best thing if he came himself, there’s really nothing much I can do for him otherwise.’ ‘Yes, well,’ said Patty desperately, ‘that’s the thing, you see, he can’t come, because he isn’t here. He’s gone away.’

‘I think you’d better explain,’ said the physician.

‘Well, he went away just a week ago. I don’t know where he’s gone. He didn’t tell me. But I’m worried about his job. I told them he was sick this week but they’ll expect him back next week so I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know what to do.’

She began to cry. The physician sat and watched her.

‘It doesn’t sound like a situation which can go on indefinitely,’ he said. ‘Has he ever done this sort of thing before?’

‘Oh no,’ sobbed Patty. ‘I don’t know what came over him.’

‘Have you told the police?’ asked the physician.

‘Yes, they said lots of people do it. They said most of them come back. I filled in a form, just tonight. Just in case he has an accident or something. I don’t know. But I have to tell them something at his work if he doesn’t come back next week.’

‘I do see the difficulty,’ said the physician drily. ‘But I can hardly give you a medical certificate for a patient I haven’t so much as seen; I’m sure you realise that.’

Then his humanity suddenly got the better of his principles and he almost smiled at the tearful creature confronting him.

‘Tell you what!’ he said. ‘How about this? If he hasn’t returned by the New Year, telephone his boss, say the doctor—
don’t
use my name—
thinks
he’s got shingles. That should do it. Have you heard of shingles? No? Well, shingles are the ticket. You see, no one knows where they come from or why, and no one can say how long they’ll hang around. The only thing anyone knows about shingles is that they’re
bloody
painful and a person who’s got them certainly isn’t fit for work. If, I mean when, your husband returns he’ll have to come for a consultation to get a medical certificate for the leave he’s had, that is if he wants one, and we’ll have to work out something more or less truthful. But tell them the doctor thinks it’s shingles for the time being. Can’t tell how long it’ll last. How’s that?’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Patty woefully. ‘I’ll tell them. Shingles.’

‘What about you now, Mrs Williams? You look a bit peaky; understandable in the circumstances, of course, must take care of ourselves. Family, relations to look after you? Need moral support at a time like this. Try not to take it too hard. He’ll come back, why not. Men do these things, don’t know why—bottled up, poor at expressing their feelings, stupid really. Eating normally, sleeping? That’s right. Come and see me again if there’s anything you think I can do. Take it easy. All right, Mrs Williams. Goodnight.’

Patty was still feeling that tired, she could have gone straight to bed although it was only eight-thirty when she got home from the surgery. She watched television for a while and then she gave up the struggle and climbed into bed. In the darkness she suddenly remembered a song she had heard long, long ago—had they sung it at school, or what?

Swing low
,
sweet chariot
,
comin’ for to carry me home Swing low
,
sweet chariot
,
comin’ for to carry me home.

She cried for some time and then she fell asleep.

38

‘What if we took the sleeves out,’ said Lisa, ‘could we do that?’

‘Well, we
could
,’ said her mother. ‘But then you’d have to have some facings. Well, I suppose I could just put some binding around. That might be all right, no one would notice.’

Lisa sat down and unpicked the sleeves, and her mother found some bias binding and sewed it around the armholes. Lisa put the frock on again.

It was the frock her mother had made for her to wear to the end-of-term dance at school; it was white broderie anglaise, with a gathered skirt and—now no longer—puffed sleeves. Lisa looked at herself in the mirror.

‘If we let it down,’ she said, ‘don’t you think that would be better?’

‘Oh, you want it long, do you?’ asked her mother.

‘No, just lon
ger
,’ said Lisa.

She took it off and looked at the hem. There was a good five inches; her mother had never forsaken the habit of making large hems in all her frocks, as for a child. Her mother unpicked the hem.

‘I’m afraid there’ll be a mark,’ she said. ‘I’d better wash it.’

It was almost dry by the evening, and Lisa ironed it and tried it on again.

‘Well, it certainly looks more grown up,’ said her mother. ‘It looks very nice.’

‘I think it needs a belt,’ said Lisa. ‘I could buy one tomorrow in my lunch hour. I might get a silver one.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll look really nice in that with a silver belt, and your white sandals with the heels.’

‘Oh, yes, it’ll do,’ said Lisa. ‘It’s only a party, it’s not a
grande fête
.’

‘It’ll be lovely,’ said her mother. ‘You’re very lucky at your age to be going to a party with grown-ups. You mind you behave nicely. Magda’s very kind to ask you.’

‘And Stefan,’ said Lisa.

‘Yes, and Stefan too,’ said her mother.

I wonder what it’ll be like, thought Fay. I wonder what her flat is like. Is it posh? Magda had written the address for her on a slip of paper. Mosman: I don’t know anyone else who lives in Mosman, thought Fay. A lot of those Continentals live over there. The flat is probably all done in modern: Continentals often seem to go in for modern. What will I wear?

She took out all the possibles and looked at them, wondering which might make the best impression on a Continental, someone who liked modern things. Well, I’ll wear the green and white striped, she thought. That’s the newest. She was very apprehensive:

I wonder why she asked
me
, she thought. Magda, whose husband was called Stefan, and all their Continental friends. Will anyone want to talk to me? They’re probably all old, anyway. Well, at least it’s something different: I can go home early if I don’t enjoy it. If at first…anyway, I’ll just set my hair and do my nails now, and then I’ll be all ready for tomorrow night. It’ll make a change, at any rate.

Try again. Oh God.

39

‘Lisa!—you know Rudi of course who is over by the window, he has not seen you yet—but stand back, let me admire you—ooh la la, how charming you look this evening, a woman comes into bloom at night!—and here is Stefan. What will you drink? Give her some of the punch, Stefan, I suppose she must try that at least once in her life. Be careful, Lisa, he has put an atom bomb in it, it is deadlier than it looks—
voilà
.

‘Come and meet Sandor and Eva, and here is their son Miklos, all right, Michael he insists on being now, he is dinky-die as they say, a proper Australian, he even forgets how to speak Hungarian, he has just left school like you—and if you will excuse me for the moment I see some new arrivals I must greet…George, Anna, Bela, Trudi! at last—come in, have a drink, have two drinks, you must catch up—oh, you have brought your fiddle I see, that is wonderful!—yes, we have made space to dance as you see in case anyone feels the temptation—Fay, come and meet Bela, he will play the fiddle for you if you smile at him nicely, can I get you another drink? Stefan, over here I beg you… ‘Milos, have you met Trudi? Anna, this is Lisa, who works with me, she is my tower of strength but she is clever, she will go on soon to greater things—Sandor, help yourself to more punch—ah!

There is the doorbell again, excuse me…Janos, you know everyone, I think—champagne! A magnum! I love you the best—shall we keep it for midnight? So have some punch, if you dare, if you do not there is white wine or red—here is Lisa whom you do not know, and Fay—excuse me, Anton and Marietta have just arrived, I think they have brought some others with them, I had better be a good hostess— ‘Laszlo, at last! Yes, all in good time but I think you are too late for she is already dancing with Rudi as you see, and he is better looking than you, still, there’s no accounting for tastes.

Come and meet Lisa—no, you are too late there too, she is dancing with Miklos who calls himself Michael. Well, dance with Anna—she is only talking to Stefan, I cannot think why: off you go.

‘Ouf! Stefan, how is the punch? Good. Is everyone here now, can I relax? We invited fifty, I am sure there are at least seventy-five here, I don’t know whether there will be enough food. Yes, what the hell. Give me some more punch, I am the one who must catch up.

Fay is still dancing with Rudi, Lisa is talking to Miklos or Michael,
ça c’est bon
. Everyone seems to be enjoying himself, I think I might be allowed to follow their example, don’t you? Ah, Bela is taking out his fiddle—no, let this record finish and then he will play. Give him another drink, he plays much better when he’s drunk.

‘Fay, how well you dance—I have been admiring you, what a shame you have not a better partner, still, he has enthusiasm. In a while Bela will play and you can learn a few Hungarian dances, they are quite easy—there now! We all hold hands, and then… ‘Oh my God, I thought I would die of laughter just now—Stefan, how is the punch? You have made some more? You had a spare atom bomb then, did you? You think of everything. Look at Anton, I think he is going to fall out of the window. Give me another drink.

‘Lisa, don’t forget to eat or you will get drunk and your mother will never forgive me. Have some of these canapés—that’s right, Michael, take the whole plate, you can eat them together, they will be yours alone, you young people need your sustenance. Ah, the music starts again, we dance… ‘Have another drink, Stefan has made some more punch… Trudi…Laszlo…white wine or red?…Oh, a waltz, now that is nice…eat something…boum!

‘Lisa, George and Anna will take you home, it is easy, they live in Lindfield—Fay?—ah, well if you can trust him to get so far—you have not seen his car, it is a jalopy, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Happy New Year! Goodnight, goodnight—good morning, yes! Drive carefully! Happy New Year! My God! I thought they would never go—two a.m. is it? Or three? I thought so. I love you too—Happy New Year!’