Wish Her Safe at Home (21 page)

However, despite my every attempt to preach caution, we hadn’t even finished our first cup of coffee before they gave their answer. If I had really meant it, they said, they genuinely couldn’t be more delighted. Overjoyed. Ecstatic. Their gratitude would know no bounds.

“Roger,” I remarked, “I think you’ve got French blood flowing through your veins!”

“Why?”

“Because the French also exaggerate.”

“Then—not a drop! I swear it!”

We drank to it: to his protested lack of French influence, to his innate abhorrence of exaggeration, to our approaching
ménage à quatre
. (“Well, for the moment, anyway,” I hinted coyly—delighted to discover that nowadays I could talk so very easily about these things.) Oh, it was going to be such fun.

“A commune!” I said. “‘All for one and one for all!’ We could name ourselves the Co-Optimists—like that old concert party in the...
Well, many years before my time.”

“Why not the Musketeers?”

“We don’t want to fight. We want to entertain. To sing and dance beside the sea forever.”

“Naturally we must pay you,” said Celia.

“Naturally,” I smiled. “But only in laughter and in song.”

“Rachel,” declared Roger, “you can have no idea of what you’re letting yourself in for. The only place I dare to sing is in the bath.”

“Then you must bathe often,” I cried gaily, “and throw the casement wide.”

“We must obviously share the bills,” persisted Celia.

“We’ll have to see.”

“The whole point of a commune,” pointed out Roger, “lies in the sharing!”

I felt so happy.

“I shall teach Tommy the dangers of electricity,” I volunteered.

Tommy had gone back to sleep.

We finished the bottle of Grand Marnier.

“Rachel, do you remember? You were going to tell us the story of that portrait.”

“Yes.” I smiled at her. “I certainly hadn’t forgotten.”

“Well, then...
?”

There was a pause. I took a deep breath. “I’ve often thought, you know, that in my next life I shouldn’t mind returning as a cat.”

“But is this telling us about the picture?”

“Cats are such very comfortable creatures, aren’t they? Wherever they are, they can always make themselves at home.”

“In that case,” said Roger, “I’m surprised you haven’t got one.”

“Oh, I’m not really much of a cat lover. It’s silly, isn’t it: possibly I’d rather become one than own one?” For an instant I considered this. “Although Mrs. Pimm
did
tell me a cat story which I wouldn’t quite describe as promising.”

“We don’t want to hear it,” laughed Celia. “We want to hear about the portrait!”

“And so you shall, my dear, yes so you shall! But when I was a child I used to think I’d like to be a little red hen—imagine that! I had a picture on my wall of a sunlit garden on a drowsy hillside...
half a dozen chickens roaming far and wide; I could sometimes hear their peaceful clucking, catch the smell of the eggs in the straw. If I woke in the middle of the night I could even get back to sleep by imagining myself curled up on a shelf in the coop. And I remember once saying to my father, ‘I wish I were a little red hen! I’d lay an egg and sit on it and keep it warm and be forever happy!’ And afterwards he called me
his
little red hen. I enjoyed that. Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“It sounds idyllic,” said Roger.

“Yes, it was.”

We were quiet for a moment; they must have thought I was lost in tender reminiscence. I played a prank on them. I laughed. I said quickly, “The cats—there were nine of them—turned out to be cannibalistic.
And
human-flesh eaters! There! I got that one in, didn’t I?” But they both looked slightly more disconcerted than entertained. “I warn you,” I told them. “From now on there’ll be lots of little japes like that. One thing you’ll find, I hope, is that I’m not...
particularly...
predictable!”

“Oh, I believe we’ve discovered that already.”

“Thank you, Roger.” I inclined my head. (Which suddenly reminded me about my dream. I felt both guilty and amused. But I decided not to tell them of it—not yet at any rate.) “Now then, Celia. Next time around, what would
you
like to come back as?”

“Well, candidly,” she replied, “I don’t think anything. This once is probably enough for me!”

“Oh, you poor thing...
” We laughed—she a shade uneasily, myself deriving a certain shameful pleasure from the insight I’d received.

“What about you, Roger?”

“Oh, I’m not fussy. Rockefeller—Vanderbilt—Onassis. King Midas...
”

“I don’t think they led very happy lives; not the last two, anyway.”

“I’d teach them how.”

“Did I tell you about Howard Hughes?”

“No. What about Howard Hughes?”

“In that case, whom
did
I tell? Oh, yes...
perhaps it was in church. A nice, quiet, slightly
stodgy
congregation. But attentive. I preached them a sermon.”

“You did? You preached them a sermon?”

“Yes, but only a very short one. Yet did you realize there are foxes in Bristol and that at night they come right into the centre of the city? They scavenge from the rubbish bins. People sometimes feed them.”

“Yes,” said Roger, “we did realize that.”

“Don’t you think they’re such a lovely colour—foxes? Such beautiful and rippling things? So graceful?”

“But what on earth put foxes in your mind?”

“I don’t know. Maybe God did. So why is it insulting to call a person foxy?”

I paused. They didn’t answer.

“Anyhow, Celia, before too long you should honestly give it some serious thought. Though that’s really a case of the pot calling the kettle black! I realize that I never did; not even after
Berkeley Square
. Except that I was then a lot younger than you are now. Anyway,” I continued, “you’re both very well aware, aren’t you, of the gentleman whose name is commemorated on the front of this house?”

“You mean,” said Roger, “the plaque?”

“Yes—it’s strange.” This hadn’t occurred to me previously. “You’ve never asked me about him, have you?”

“Haven’t I?”

“No, not once. I wonder why?”

Still. I was prepared to be charitable; prepared to put it down to nothing more than pure jealousy; prepared to help him get over it. (Well, at least, get over it to
some
extent.) I rose to my feet and went towards the portrait. I gave Horatio our secret little smile. With my right hand I made a gesture of presentation.

“Well, I think the time has now arrived to introduce you all.” (I heard Celia hissing at her husband to stand up; felt slightly saddened he should have needed such a prompt.) “It is with great pleasure,” I went on, “that I present my dear friends Roger and Celia Allsop. It is with great pride and pleasure that I present my dear friend Horatio.”

There! I had done it. It was a shame that I had felt a little piqued with Roger—I had been fully meaning to introduce him, and therefore Celia too, with
pride
as well as pleasure. Now I could only hope they hadn’t noticed. (But why is there always
something
to mar these great occasions? Why?)

“You mean...
Mr. Horatio Gavin himself?” asked Roger in wonderment.

“Yes. Yes!”

“But how fascinating! How fantastic! Really, that’s tremendous.” He turned back towards the picture. “How do you do, sir? What a rare and extraordinary privilege to get to meet you!”

This was everything I could have wished for. My little
faux pas
obviously hadn’t mattered one little scrap.

“Rachel,” he said, “was the portrait painted, do you know, during Mr. Gavin’s lifetime?”

“Oh, yes—certainly.”

“And it’s an original of course? I’m sorry. I know almost nothing about art.”

I gave a small forgiving shrug and a smile of fond indulgence.

“Who was the artist?” he asked.

“Well, that, I’m afraid, I really couldn’t say.”

Somehow this had never seemed to me of much importance. Somehow I had never actually thought of the painting as being...
well, just that. A painting.

“It’s so very dark,” said Roger. He was standing at the fireplace, with his fingertips upon the mantelshelf, gazing intently upward. “So hard to make out any signature...
” After a minute, though, his heels came back to the floor and he half turned his head towards me, his eyes bright. “But where did you pick it up?” he asked excitedly. “Or was it always here?”

It was an excitement which I loved him for.

I laughed. “What
are
you suggesting? Pick it up, indeed! Yes,” I said, “he was always here.”

“May I take him down?”

“Oh,I...
” Surprise made me awkward. “No, I’d prefer it if you didn’t! I’d much prefer it if you didn’t!”

His hands were already halfway there; they didn’t stop. “Roger!” cried Celia.

He lowered them at once. “I’m sorry. Just wasn’t thinking. All that booze! All that excitement!”

And almost as if rebuking himself—well, certainly as if preoccupied—he abruptly brought his head down and looked into the fire. He rested his right elbow on the mantelshelf. He raised his left foot and placed it on the andiron. I clutched the back of a chair and thought that I might faint.

The instant passed. At least, the worst of it. And Celia hadn’t noticed; I was sure of that.

Roger turned round. It
was
Roger. He was smiling again and with all his usual amiability. But just the same I had to look away. I felt as if there’d been some violation.

“Do you know,” he said, “I really think this picture might be worth a pound or two. We ought to have it looked at.”

I stared at him; perhaps a little blankly. Celia made some comment. I was under the impression she had made it practically at random—as seemed to have happened once before. (Or had I grown confused?) I suddenly became aware she must have asked me something.

“What?”

I turned my head towards her, slowly.

“Well, you mentioned previously that if it hadn’t been for him—for Mr. Gavin, I should say—then you yourself wouldn’t be here in Bristol. What did you mean by that?” “Oh,” I said, “I don’t know. Nothing—probably nothing! I’ve forgotten.”

She was tactful. She didn’t press the point.

“Roger, I think it’s time that we were on our way. Oh, incidentally...
who is Mrs. Pimm?”

She gave me a faint smile.

“The fact is, Rachel, we feel we want to get to know everything about you.
Everything
!”

I don’t know when the following dialogue took place. Somehow it seems cut adrift from time, like a rowboat quietly loosened from its moorings, while its occupant, entranced, oblivious to each hill or field or willow tree upon her way, lies whitely gleaming in her rose-embroidered silk, trailing a graceful hand and sweetly carolling beneath a canopy of green.

The question I put to him required courage. I had hesitated for a long time. But I knew it was important. “What about Anne Barnetby?” I said.

At first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. (Oh, no! Not you! Don’t join the club of those who won’t respond!) And I couldn’t have enquired a second time.

But then he did reply, and very simply, just as I had hoped he would. “Anne Barnetby? I loved her.”

And now it was easier to go on. “And she? Did she love you?”

I prayed for an affirmative.

“I believed so. I believe she
almost
did.”

I held my breath.

“She toyed with me,” he said.

Yet I detected no resentment. “So what became of her?” I asked.

“She married. Anne Barnetby married the man of her choice.”

“And regretted it, I know.”

“I’ve no idea; I never heard from her again. Nor from him. He’d been a friend of mine at school.”

“One of those you swam with naked in the creek?”

“Yes.”

His voice was no longer as casual as he might have hoped. But that was good. Even after all this time he couldn’t speak of her and wholly hide the fact that he still loved.

Yes, that was good. It was wonderful. For what did it matter if he hadn’t recognized me yet?

“A clean break is always for the best.” I sensed it might help him if I drew out the conversation for a while. I wasn’t simply talking tongue-in-cheek or just for the sake of it. I wasn’t merely fishing. “Surely,” I said, “it must have hastened the whole process of forgetting.”

Silence.

“You
did
forget?”

“I...
”

“Never?”

“When I began to think I was recovering,” he said, “I soon realized how absurdly mistaken I was.”

“My poor sweet love. My dear. I
know
she must have come to hate herself.”

I don’t believe he heard me. In any case he plainly missed the message I was meaning to impart.

“This may sound fanciful,” he smiled, “but later she returned to haunt me.”

“Her ghost?” I’m not sure what my feelings were just then.

“No, no, it’s not as bad as that!” He laughed—yet not with any mirth. “My mother always claimed I was theatric. She said my rightful home should be at Drury Lane alongside Mr. Garrick. No, I was haunted less by
her
than by the
idea
of her; or by the idea of the two of them together: the realization of everything I’d lost. Even when I could no longer—quite—visualize that much-loved face, the thought of all that I was missing might have had the power to...
”

“Yes?” I asked.

Though I shouldn’t have prompted. My voice reminded him he had an audience. His eyes regained their focus.

But I led him forward gently—well away from all those former thoughts of self-destruction I knew he now recalled.

Oh dear! Could
I
have been the one who had driven him to the brink of that? (If only Anne Barnetby
had
had a successor who had restored Horatio’s faith in love, and if only I myself—as I had briefly fantasized—could have been that beautiful and fortunate woman. But life is far too testing: that easy route would not have done.) I felt unbearably ashamed; yet at the same time unashamedly overjoyed.
I
knew of the wondrous ending we had both arrived at. Now Horatio must discover it too. What a reunion
that
would be! How I would atone for all my many failings!

“Her face,” I said, “that lovely face, the one you cannot
quite
visualize? Have you never been reminded of it?”

“It’s strange that you should ask me that. Because...
and not so very long ago...
”

“Do
I
remind you of her?” I put my hand to my breast and looked at him wide-eyed, all charmingly aflutter. “Oh pardon, sir, I interrupted.”

He said: “Perhaps at odd times, yes, you do. Some fleeting expression which...
But what I was going to say was...
not so very long ago the image suddenly returned in all its clarity. In all its dreadful clarity.” He added quietly: “I had forgotten how unsettling such a clear remembrancer could be.”

I nodded, commiseratingly. “Well, I don’t want to speak out of turn; yet I don’t feel that reminder could have come from anyone but me!” I smiled. “Well, after all, it couldn’t have been Celia, could it? Oh, I know she possibly strikes people as being fairly sweet and even almost pretty—although, admittedly, in a rather frigid sort of way...
”

“No, it wasn’t Celia.”

“And I don’t feel it can have been Sylvia?”

“No, no, not Sylvia.” We laughed together over that.

“And it surely couldn’t have been Roger or young Thomas. So it
must
have been—”

“I’ll tell you when it was.” My, my, such manners! (Had I set a bad example?) But he
was
rather masterful. “It was when you showed me that book.”

“Book?”

“Yes, you’d been to the library. Don’t you remember? There were several pictures in it; you’d said there was an actress you wanted me to see. There was one picture in particular, in which she posed beside her husband. You showed me many times.”

“Because you asked me to.”

“Yes.”

It had been a little ceremony, a little act of adoration. For over a week we had performed it every day. Until, with an expression of unmistakable pain, he had pleaded with me not to continue.

The thing was this. Although he hadn’t recognized me yet (but, as I say, the time was drawing close), although as yet he hadn’t made that final joyous leap...
still, of course, whenever he had seen the book, it was naturally I who had been holding it. It wasn’t strange that he should feel perplexed.