To the North (19 page)

Emmeline, who had been accustomed to walk so blindly, now found about lovers linked in the street her own transfiguration or malady. Now the emotional presence of Tripp, ham-faced Tripp with her wiry shingle and broad red knuckles, had a startling touch on herself. Here was feeling, clawed like a bear and winged like an angel. Some new weakness in Emmeline seemed to attract disclosures—had not, yesterday evening, the parlourmaid wept on her shoulder, saying she was betrayed P— Through some gap in the dyke the tide rose in points and ripples, at first slowly… ..Tripp blinked and put by her handkerchief. But not a note in her tone of outrage, not one of those stealthy and avid glances had fallen short of its mark. As the tomcat’s stealthy and battered entrance preceded Markie’s, so Tripp’s convulsion repeated a hundred crises, masked between him and her in these spinning rings of excitement and pleasure, of which till now Emmeline hardly had been aware.

“If I hadn’t come in in this wretched dress she would not have spoken.” But she had had to speak. Emmeline suffered an agony of the conscience: through herself the peace of the office had been destroyed.

She said to Tripp: “Have we—have I really been stupid?
Have
I been inhuman?”

Tripp, pulling up again to the typewriter said: “That’s for you to say.”

“There isn’t. … I can’t do anything now?”

“I am not upset, thank you.”

“I didn’t expect you were,” said Emmeline humbly.

Peter, coming in round the door some time later, said: “Hullo, where’s the stenog—”

“Gone,” said Emmeline. Her manner arrested Peter’s attention: the afternoon and the office appeared unusual. “What do you mean?” he said, “bolted?”

“Oh, no. But she didn’t seem very well, she was rather upset about something: I gave her a week or two’s rest.”

“Did she ask for it?”

“I’m afraid I insisted rather. We’ll get somebody else for a week or two. I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind.”

“As you feel. Let’s get somebody who can type. To tell you the truth, I am heartily sick of the back of that girl’s neck.”

“But she really is nice,” said Emmeline.

“I daresay.
Has
she got nerves?” Looking distractedly round him for Markie’s kettle, he tipped some cold water out of it into a flower-vase, pushed the stenographer’s table away from the fireplace and began to make tea. “Cups?” he said, coming back with the refilled kettle. Emmeline went across to the cupboard, where she remained rather shakily, eating sugar. The stenographer’s pink handkerchief lay crumpled under her chair.

THE SAME DAY, Gerda was giving a little party. In her Ovington Square drawing-room the cushions were early displaced by a dozen or so girl friends; she had even invited Tim Farquharson, as she feared to be short of men. Some of the young men were thrown cushions and, pulling their trousers up at the knee, sat gingerly on the floor, some stood about in couples, some leaned on the mantelpiece while, from pouffes or the sofa, their partners in talk stretched up powdered white necks. There was a yelp of talk and some laughter: the party seemed to be going well. Gerda’s line as a hostess was of adorable inefficiency; with the air of a lost child she tottered among her guests, in one hand a glass dripping sherry, in the other a semi-opaque yellow drink in which the skewered cherry appeared as a threatening shadow. Wherever a glass was put down a small sticky ring stamped itself: she pounced on these rings with her handkerchief with little reproachful cries (no one advised her to wipe the underneaths of the glasses). She bewailed the quality of the cigarettes, the heat of the room, the (so far) absence of Gilbert; she upset a saucer of olives. She was followed around by a young man she had known in the Navy, who each time she succeeded in placing a drink with a guest smiled proudly, as though she had sold a raffle ticket, and gave her another drink off a tray. He put the tray down and stooped to collect the olives; his name was Frank and he felt rather shy and masculine.

The girl friends and young men, however, were only the froth of the party; several interesting people were present—an unhappy-looking prophetic man, a psychologist, Sir Mark Blanes, Gerda’s
accoucheur
, two young authors of novels about marriage with their placid, motherly wives, a rather bilious-looking South African magnate and a racing motorist Gerda had met out a dinner and invited five weeks ahead. There was an old admiral, not very distinguished, who sat in a corner with one of the girl friends, and a young, haughty producer who could not bear to be talked to about his work. The interesting people did not mix very well: the South African was a pacifist and disliked admirals, the authors avoided each other, the psychologist gloomed at the
accoucheur
and was rude to an actress whom he suspected of trying to pick his brains: it was his profession to find people interesting but he did not do so out of hours. The girl friends, however, provided a sort of padding: intense in their interest, unflagging in their responsiveness, punctual with their laughter, they passed on the great to each other from palm to palm like scarabs, enjoyed themselves hugely and gave Gerda’s little party a very great air of success, though the racing motorist refused utterly to be detached from one of the authors’ motherly wives, then went away early.

Lady Waters arrived rather late. Sweeping her draperies over some girls and some cushions, displacing some young men, she sat down and gazed round the room with impartial interest. The psychologist, who had met her, hastily looked away. Slopping sherry about, Gerda paused.

“Where,” said her friend, “is Gilbert?”

Gerda shook her head helplessly. “Kept, he
says
, at the office.”

“Dear me, that is very unfortunate. However …”

“I’m struggling along,” said Gerda. “Frank’s a tremendous support. I should love Frank to meet you—” She looked round, but the sailor had disappeared. The sherry having given out, there was now nothing for it but more cocktails; no doubt the guests could be taught to like them in time. So Frank was splitting up ice on the back landing.

Lady Waters, however, already had Frank docketed. “Frank,” she said. “Yes, I should like to meet him… . Ah, I see you’ve forgiven my poor Tim! Who is that over there with Sir Mark?”

“I call him my Onkel Pieter; he’s a South African.”

“I should like to meet him; he has a powerful face.”

“You shall, you shall! I’ll find somebody else for Sir Mark.”

“Isn’t Emmeline here?”

“She swore she would come; I expect she’s been kept at the office.”

“And where is Cecilia?”

Gerda said, pouting: “I didn’t think Mrs. Summers would care for my little party—Lady Waters,
sherry
? Oh dear, oh dear, there’s none left!”

“I should prefer some orange juice.”

“Oh
dear
, we have no oranges!”

“Never mind, Gerda: find me your Onkel Pieter.”

Gerda, dashing across the drawing-room, tore the startled South African from Sir Mark; they had been discussing the Channel tunnel, would it or would it not promote good international feeling? Stumbling over the feet of the young men, Gerda explained that her imaginary uncle must meet her imaginary aunt. The South African seemed to expect little pleasure from this consanguinity. Though touched, as a solitary man, by Gerda’s innocent fantasy—in return for which he sent her boxes of bonbons, took her to the Coliseum with supper afterwards underground at the Trocadero and, on the way back, sometimes kissed her on the brow—she offended him more than he could explain by mistaking him for a Boer. Steered to a chair by Gerda he sat down, knees together, not prepared to compromise.

“I have been talking,” he said sternly, “about the Channel tunnel.”

“But God must have meant us to be an island,” said Lady Waters, who had been tuning herself to a Nonconformist simplicity she considered suitable for South Africans.

Emmeline, coming upstairs, heard a loud sound of hammering; a chip of ice rebounded against a picture quite near her face. The young man in shirt sleeves put down the hammer. “I say, I
am
so sorry!”

“Hard work,” said Emmeline, smiling.

“Stop—haven’t we met before?”

“The stairs are so dark,” said Emmeline, uncertain.

“At a dance… . Antibes? Malta?”

“I’ve never been there.”

The young man, determined to get this right, came round from behind the bar and faced the window.

“
Oh
…” said Emmeline. “Yes, we have.”

“I knew your face seemed familiar!”

“You lent me some opera-glasses…

“Did I? I don’t remember.”

“They got broken.”

“At a hotel?”

“On a battleship.”

“Queer,” said the sailor, shaking his head. “It’s quite gone. Still, I knew I remembered your face… . I’m so glad we met.” He picked up the hammer.

“So am I,” agreed Emmeline.

“Well… .” said the sailor; he glanced at the hammer, then at the lump of ice wrapped in flannel. “It melts so fast,” he said gloomily. “If I left it a few minutes longer the whole thing would slip into the shaker. But Gerda is in a hurry.”

“Then I mustn’t keep you.”

“Meet later, I hope.”

“I hope so,” said Emmeline, going on up. Through the open door of the drawing-room streamed heat, smoke and voices, with late sunshine strained through the Ovington Square trees: this was one of those little drawing-rooms with large windows into which you step out as on to a platform among the tree-tops. There seemed no room for Emmeline even to stand: guests by this time were being pressed out through the windows. Pink floppy lilies dropped pollen into the sticky glasses; cigarettes fumed to death in little jade saucers. Flushed couples shouted unheard to each other, lost to the world. Nonentities gathered impetus as the party proceeded, celebrities mounted like hilltops into a haze of kind ambiguity. Gerda pounced on Emmeline as she came in; she would be just the thing for Sir Mark, who, deprived of the South African, rather heavily hung fire against the mantelpiece.

“My Sir Mark,” said Gerda excitedly, “you
must
meet him— Sir Mark, this is Miss Summers; she’s so clever.”

Sir Mark, who did not detach himself easily from a topic, spoke to Emmeline of the Channel tunnel.

“Oh,” she said, “but I am a shipping agent.”

“Ha-ha,” said Sir Mark. “Hum. Very good, yes, ha-ha!” Thumbs under his lapels he looked, however, rather anxiously round the room. Conversation with someone at whose joke you have heartily laughed without seeing the point is apt to become precarious. Since his student days, this kindliness of Sir Mark had been landing him in difficulties. Emmeline, for her part, tried hard to collect her ideas—the sailor was still so young, as though preserved in her memory. “Besides,” she said, “I’m claustrophobic.”

“Tut—”

“Are you?”

“Not at all— But in this connection some lines occur to me.” Sir Mark paused, cleared his throat and looked at Emmeline impressively. “ ‘
This fortress built for nature by herself, Against infection and the hand of war
’ …”

“You mean what about quarantine? What about the Navy?”

“No,” said Sir Mark.

“Do you read Shakespeare much?”

“I carry him in my car—” But at this point, unfortunately, Sir Mark was called urgently to the telephone. “I am afraid,” he said, “this may mean I shall have to leave you.” Evidently it did: he did not come back. The life-stream is not arrested for one moment: a slight hush fell on the circle, aware of Sir Mark’s profession.

“How
are
you?” Tim Farquharson said at Emmeline’s elbow.

“Very well.”

“One can’t hear oneself speak, can one?”

“No.”

“
Tired
?” said Tim, solicitous. “Look, lean on my bit of wall. Can I get you something? I’m afraid there’s no more sherry, but there’s some sticky stuff left.”

At this point several more people arrived, including Gilbert, and Frank came in with some more drinks and the shaker. “Oh, Frank!” cried Gerda: she led him across the room. “Lady Waters,” she said, “here’s Frank!” Frank put down the tray and shook hands with Lady Waters: a very young, shy sailor. Gilbert, having apologised his way round the room, saying: “Better late than never,” to the confusion of several people who had no idea who he was, obliterated himself among the girl friends, who were sorry for him. They were sorry for Gerda also and thought what a pity it all was.

“Who’s Frank?” said Tim to Emmeline.

“He’s a sailor.”

“Do you think perhaps he is Gerda’s past?”

“Why?” said Emmeline.

“He seems so attached to her. And so much more the type one would have expected Gerda to marry—not that he’s not very nice.”

“I’ve met him before,” said Emmeline. But Tim did not hear, the noise had become appalling. “I wonder,” she said, looking anxiously round, “if I could go home?”

“But you’ve only just come.”

“I know, that was why I was wondering.”

“Tired?” said Tim again: it seemed such a pity. She
was
very tired, the day with its curve of experience—Markie, Miss Tripp, the sailor, had been very long. Tim said: “I wanted so much to talk to you.”

“I can’t talk to anyone here—”

“Emmeline,” wailed Gerda, “you’re not going? My dear, you’ve only just come—oh, stop, Frank: just a minute— Don’t go, Emmeline: Gilbert’s just brought some sherry: he’s trying to find the corkscrew.”

“Alas—” said Emmeline, slipping by inches away. Tim came after her. “Look here, let me get you a taxi, perhaps we might both—”

“Thank you so much, I’ve got my car here.”

This seemed a pity, also. Tim, going crabwise downstairs beside Emmeline, went on: “I’m afraid I must have been seeming like nothing on earth when we last met. I’m afraid I must have bored you fearfully. But ever since then, in a kind of way—”

“—Here is my car,” said Emmeline.

When Cecilia’s lunch-party had gone, she stood with her hands to her head looking round the drawing-room. When they had quite gone she gave up enacting fatigue, shook out the curtains and tipped the ashtrays into the grate behind the firescreen. From now on, the afternoon was her own: no one else would be coming. Though she had held this out to herself as a pleasure, it was as though vaguely searching for something that had slipped away that she looked round at the books on the table, her own face in the glass… . The gold clock resumed its light little dialogue with the silence; she heard a movement like wind, the trees coming alive, in the shaded garden to which the steps running down from the window invited her cheerfully: there was a chair out under the plane. But she did not go out; the bright emptiness of this room with its smile fading became, brought up to the microscope of her nerves, a living tissue of shadows and little insistent sounds: the clock and the trees outside, a blind-cord tapping, her own dress rubbing against the sofa-back as she turned to listen.