Читать книгу This Above All - Eric Knight - Страница 4

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By the time summer came the town began to look disused. It was strange to the people—such endless sunshine—and no seaside crowds. The hotels were, as they said, “starving to death.”

The place became more and more desolate. By August, in the bandstand opposite the Channel Hotel, the sand had drifted up and lay, undisturbed by feet. Even the Channel Hotel was starving to death now. The assistant manager, sitting on his high stool behind the grille, thought of that. He thought of it as he stared from the window. He stared, studying the windblown patterns of sand on the bandstand floor jutting out from the Esplanade. He thought it was hard luck. The manager had just been called up with the Class of 1907. He himself was younger, but had the bad luck to be quite physically unfit. And the bad luck might have been good luck—in a business sense—if it weren’t for such rotten business. After Mrs. Tirrell, he was next for the job of manager. He lifted his head as the silence was broken. The lift was coming. He tried to look happy. The modernistic lobby was empty. But beyond in the lounge, one man sat, slumped in one of the chairs. The sunlight struck the brown tweed of the man’s suit, making a warm, lively splash. It harmonized with the color scheme of the lounge, and made the assistant manager a little happier in a vague way.

The indicator on the lift moved round. The door opened. A woman, a nurse, and two children came out. The children and the nurse went out into the sunlight. The woman sat in one of the lobby chairs and read a magazine. In a few moments she put her finger in the place and went to one of the windows looking over the Esplanade. She stood there a long time, watching the nurse and the children.

A bell tinkled with terrible too-loudness in the lounge. The waiter hurried in, came back, went to the bar, and returned with a cherry brandy on the tray. As he passed he caught the assistant manager’s eye. He rolled his own eyes a little in a suggestive way and held up his open hand with the fingers extended. He meant to say this was the fifth brandy he had taken in. The assistant manager did not smile; he merely nodded. He dropped his head and tried to appear busy.

He heard the woman coming from the window, her heels first sounding on the tile of the floor, then quiet on the carpet, then again clicking and firm on the tile. He looked up and smiled.

“Did you put my call through?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cathaway. We’ll let you know the very moment we get it.”

The woman tapped her foot impatiently and then clicked back to the window. She went on tapping her foot as she stared out. The clicking sounded clearly in the emptiness of the lobby. It went on and on.

The splash of warm color in the sitting room eddied and moved. The young man in the brown tweeds came into the lobby, going a little unsteadily. The assistant manager gave him a smile of recognition—one given in passing. The young man did not pass. He came straight to the grille.

“I’m moving out,” he said. “Will you have my bill?”

“Oh,” the assistant manager said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Briggs. I understood you’d be staying—at least a week.”

He looked so crestfallen that the young man frowned. He thought: Why should the bastard make me suffer for it? Why should I have to carry his woes? I can’t help it.

“No, I’m leaving,” he said.

The assistant manager cocked his head on one side and smiled belatedly.

“Pardon me a moment,” he said. “I’ll have the bill made out.”

He went away and the young man leaned his elbow on the desk and half turned. He could see the woman looking out of the window. Her back was to him. Her legs were slim and very well shaped. The seams of her stockings were perfectly straight. Her heels were perfectly set.

He watched the tapping foot. His eyes came upwards. Her flanks were slim. She was the type that did not need to wear a girdle.

Without reasoning it, his mind shied away from undressing her, and his vision went beyond through the window. He could see six of the ornamental lampposts along the Esplanade. They were exactly like the ones he had seen through the window of the lounge—except there he saw only five. Exactly the same. It was the sameness that he couldn’t stand. Five then six. But the same.

He moved slightly so that the six should be perfectly balanced in the frame of the window. He leaned his body far over. At last they were spaced properly. He felt a sort of comfort.

The woman turned, and he saw she was staring at him with something like disdain.

He thought: I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the six lampposts. I have a right to look at the lampposts.

So he stared on, stonily; but he turned quickly when he heard the sound of the assistant manager. He was following a woman in a black dress. She had a slight mustache, but her gray hair was finely coifed.

“This is Mrs. Tirrell, the manager,” the assistant manager said.

The young man thought: What the hell do you bring her into it for?

The woman smiled.

“You’re leaving already, Mr. Briggs?”

“Yes.”

“We understood you would be here for a longer stay.”

“No, I’m leaving.”

“Is there anything wrong—with the service?”

“No. I just—I’m moving on.”

“I see.”

He thought: Oh, Christ, why do they load their burdens on me. Their damned hotel is empty and they’re worrying about even one bloody guest. It isn’t my fault their hotel’s empty and they’re losing money, and they’ll lose their jobs. It isn’t my fault. They’ve no right to pass it on to me.

The woman looked up, slyly, and spoke quietly, confidentially.

“If it’s a matter of rates, Mr. Briggs ... ordinarily we couldn’t do it, but because we’re having such a slow season, I could make some adjustment.”

He thought: Oh, God! Oh, God!

“No, I’ve got to move,” he said. “I’ll go pack my bag. If you’ll have the bill ready when I come down ...”

He went up the stairs, ignoring the lift. In his room he picked up his already-packed Gladstone bag. He came down again and went to the desk and asked for his bill. He wrinkled his forehead as he saw the name which was written across the top in a neat, clear hand: “Clive Briggs, Esq.” He shook his head slightly as if throwing off his own thoughts. He paid the bill and the assistant manager counted the change primly. As he did so the buzzer sounded on the telephone exchange.

“Pardon me,” the assistant manager said.

The woman by the window tapped her way over quickly. The assistant came back and smiled.

“It’s your call, Mrs. Cathaway. I’m sorry it took so long ...”

“I’ll take it in my suite,” she said.

She turned and faced the young man in tweeds.

“Pardon me,” she said.

He stood aside quickly so that she could pass toward the lift. She could have walked round him as easily as not. He paid her back by watching her legs as she went into the lift. When she turned about, in the second before the door slid to, she was aware of his intentional insolence. He smiled, almost happily.

“Oh, could you take care of this for me?” he said.

He lifted the new Gladstone bag onto the counter.

“We’ll be glad to, Mr. Briggs.”

“I’ll pick it up again some time—or let you know where to forward it.”

“Yes, Mr. Briggs.”

The young man lifted his chest as if in relief. He went quickly to the door and out onto the Esplanade.

Iris Cathaway took off her hat primly, smoothed her fine brown hair carefully as she looked in the mirror, and then went to the sitting room of the suite. She sat at the desk, prepared her mouth, lifted the telephone and said:

“Yes?”

She heard the man’s voice at the other end, lifting gladly as one does when surprised:

“Iris! What in the name of goodness are you doing down there?”

“I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”

“I just came in. When they said Leaford was calling I didn’t think ...”

“I’m in the Channel Hotel here. I’ve got the boys with me. We’ve got to move them.”

“Well, where do you want to go?”

“That’s why I called you. Hamish, I want you to decide.”

“Me. But you know how I feel. I ...”

“This is no time to go into that again. We’ve got to move them. I’ve taken Arthur out of the school.”

“But, Iris, if you break up his schooling any more ...”

“I don’t want to break it up—but neither do I want the child dead. Why, there’s a military airport practically next door to the school. It was supposed to be a safe area. That’s why the school moved there. You said it would be safer.”

“Hold on, Iris. I didn’t say it would be. I admitted it, but under protest against moving them at all.”

She heard his voice grow dryly pedantic as it did when he was angry. She kept her own voice cool.

“Now, Hamish. This is no time to play the barrister. The fact is that the school was about the worst place in the world for Arthur to be. I should think you’d want the children to be safe ...”

“Nonsense, Iris. Of course I want them to be safe. Now bring them back here ...”

“I will not go back to London, Hamish. That’s the worst place in the world.”

“I can’t agree, Iris. There’s too much protection here. The defenses are so well organized that I don’t think they’ll ever be able to bomb London.”

“Well, I do. London’s the last place I want to be.”

“But, my God, Iris. I don’t see what you expect me to do at this distance. If you’d done as I said in the first place, and gone to Oddale ...”

“I will not go to Yorkshire! Now we won’t discuss all that again.”

“Well, where do you want to go?”

“It isn’t where I want to go. It’s your responsibility. You’re the children’s father.”

She heard him expelling his breath in exasperation.

“See here, Iris. I have a case in a few minutes. I’ll think it over ...”

“If that is more important than the safety of your own children ...”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Iris. What do you want me to do? You won’t do anything I say, and when I ask you what you want to do, you say it’s my responsibility. You won’t come to London because you think it won’t be safe. You won’t go to Yorkshire—where God knows there’s nothing to bomb for miles around—because you have a silly feud on with my father; you won’t go to your father’s because there’s a steel mill a mile away; you won’t leave Arthur in school because there’s an airdrome near by. And where are you now? Of all places you take the children ...”

“I came here because this is safe. This is a seaside resort. There isn’t a single military objective in the town.”

“Oh, military objectives! They’ve dropped bombs on the South Coast already. And do you think they’ve been coming down first and inspecting the places to ascertain whether or not they’re military targets? Those Nazi gentlemen ...”

“Please don’t make a speech, Hamish. You know my feeling about this whole silly war. The Nazis are quite as capable of being gentlemen as our own army. There’s no reason on earth for bombing this town.”

“Then why not stay there?”

“You advise me to keep the children here when you’ve just admitted yourself that it’s probably unsafe.”

She heard him blow out his breath. Then his voice came hard and balanced.

“If you wish to stay there, it is your choice. Now what do you wish?”

“We can’t stay here. It’s ghastly—this awful hotel. Now I’ll put up with it until you can make some decision. I want a place that’s perfectly safe—where the children can grow up normally and sensibly. That’s all. I want you to help me find such a place.”

There was a silence. Then he said:

“All right. I’ll look into it. Are the boys there—I’ll say hello to them.”

“No, they’re out on the sands with Mills.”

“I see. How are they?”

“Very well.”

“And you?”

“Quite well, thank you. How are you?”

“Oh, quite fit.”

“Then you’ll look into it? You could see Willfred. See someone about it.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“All right, Hamish. I have your promise.”

“Yes, you have my promise.”

“Good-by, then.”

“Good-by.”

She heard the click of the telephone. She sat for a while, then rose and looked from the window. Farther down on the sands she could see Mills, a lonesome splash of white, on the brown rectangle of the blanket. Arthur was bending over, bending straight-legged as a child will, examining something on the sand by the water edge. Prentiss ran unsteadily round the blanket, wavered, and fell.

Iris put all her muscles in a lifting impulse—as if over the distance she would lift him. Mills went on reading without looking up. The child lay there.

Iris strained. The exertion left her feeling weak and frustrated. She watched, her teeth set until the child pushed himself up on all fours, rose, and staggered again round the blanket, going over the pale gold of the sands in a drunken circle.

Iris shut her eyes, and pressed the tips of her fingers on her temples, and stood thus, unmoving.