Читать книгу A Wreath for the Enemy - Pamela Frankau - Страница 5

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I might have known that the end of the day would bring doom. It came hard upon the exquisite pleasure of my time in the speedboat with the Bradleys. This was even better than I had planned it in anticipation, a rare gift. I thought that the occasion must be under the patronage of a benign saint or what the Duchess would call a favourable aura; the only worry was Mrs. Bradley’s worry about my having no dry clothes to put on after swimming; but with typical Bradley organisation there were an extra white shirt and grey shorts in the boat. Dressed thus I felt like a third twin.

The sea changed colour; the sea began to be white and the rocks a darker red.

“Would you like to come back and have supper with us, Penelope?”

I replied, “I can imagine nothing that I would like more.”

“She does say wonderful things, doesn’t she?” said Eva. I was drunk by now on Bradley admiration and almost reconciled to personal remarks.

“Penelope speaks very nice English,” said Mrs. Bradley.

“Will you ask your stepmother then?” she added as we tied up the boat. I was about to say this was unnecessary when Don gave my ribs a portentous nudge; he said quickly, “Eva and I will walk you up there.” It was obvious that the hotel exercised as much fascination for them as they for me.

When the three of us set off across the rocks Mr. Bradley called, “Seven o’clock sharp, now!” and Eva made a grimace. She said, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to be punctual for anything?”

“I never have to be,” I said, “except at school, and I think that I prefer it to having no time-table at all.”

“Oh, my goodness! Why?”

“I like days to have a shape,” I said.

“Can you just stay out to supper when you want to? Always? Without telling them?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What would happen if you stayed away a whole night?”

I said that I had never tried. And now we went into the bar because Don said that he wanted to see the photographs again. Laurent was there; straw-coloured and supercilious in his white coat. He began to make his jokes, “Mesdames, monsieur, bon soir. What may I serve you? A Pernod? A champagne cocktail?” He flashed along the shelves, reading out the name of each drink, muttering under his breath, “Mais non; c’est terrible; we have nothing that pleases our distinguished visitors.” I saw that the Bradleys were enchanted with him.

We walked all round the gallery of photographs and were lingering beside Winston Churchill when the worst thing happened. I heard it coming. One could always hear the Duchess coming. She made peals of laughter that sounded like opera; the words came fast and high between the peals.

And here she was, escorted by Francis. She cried, “Ah, my love, my love!” and I was swept into a complicated, painful embrace, scratched by her jewellery, crushed against her stays, and choked with her scent before I got a chance to see her in perspective. When I did, I saw that there were changes since last year and that these were for the worse. Her hair, which had been dyed black, was now dyed bright red. Her powder was whiter and thicker than ever; her eyelids were dark blue; she had new false eyelashes of great length that made her look like a Jersey cow.

She wore a dress of dark-blue chiffon, sewn all over with sequin stars, and long red gloves with her rings on the outside; she tilted back on her heels, small and bony, gesticulating with the gloves.

“Beautiful—beautiful—beautiful!” was one of her slogans. She said it now; she could not conceivably mean me; she just meant everything. The Bradleys had become awed and limp all over. When I introduced them they shook hands jerkily, snatching their hands away at once. Francis took from Laurent the bottle of champagne that had been on ice awaiting the Duchess; he carried it to her favourite table, the corner table beside the window. She placed upon the table a sequin bag of size, a long chiffon scarf, and a small jewelled box that held bonbons au miel, my least favourite sweets, reminding me of scented glue.

Francis uncorked the champagne.

“But glasses for all of us,” the Duchess said. “A glass for each.” The Bradleys said, “No, thank you very much,” so quickly that they made it sound like one syllable and I imitated them.

“But how good for you,” cried the Duchess. “The vitalising, the magnificent, the harmless grape. All children should take a little to combat the lassitude and depressions of growth. My mother used to give me a glass every morning after my fencing lesson. Et toi, Penelope? More than once last year you have taken your petit verre with me.”

“Oh, didn’t you know? Penelope is on the water wagon,” said Francis, and the Duchess again laughed like opera. She cried, “Santé, santé!” raising her glass to each of us. Francis helped himself to a Pernod and perched on the bar, swinging his legs. The Bradleys and I stood in a straight, uncomfortable row.

“Of youth,” said the Duchess, “I recall three things. The sensation of time seeming endless, as though one were swimming against a current; the insipid insincerity of one’s teachers; and bad dreams, chiefly about giants.”

Sometimes she expected an answer to statements of this character; at other times she went on talking: I had known her to continue without a break for fifteen minutes.

“I used to dream about giants,” said Eva.

“How old are you, Miss?”

“Thirteen.”

“At fifteen the dreams become passionate,” said the Duchess, sounding lugubrious about it.

“What do you dream about now?” asked Don, who had not removed his eyes from her since she came.

“Packing; missing aeroplanes; losing my clothes,” said the Duchess. “Worry—worry—worry; but one is never bored in a dream, which is more than can be said for real life. Give me your hand,” she snapped at Eva. She pored over it a moment, and then said briskly, “You are going to marry very young and have three children; an honest life; always be careful in automobiles.” Don’s hand was already stretched out and waiting. She gave him two wives, a successful business career, and an accident “involving a horse between the ages of seventeen and eighteen”.

“That is tolerably old for a horse,” Francis interrupted.

“Sh-h,” said the Duchess, “perhaps while steeplechasing; it is not serious.” She blew me a little kiss: “Penelope I already know. She is as clear to me as a book written by an angel. Let me see if there is any change,” she commanded, a medical note in her voice. “Beautiful—beautiful—beautiful! Genius and fame and passion are all here.”

“Any dough?” asked Francis.

“I beg your pardon?” said the Duchess, who knew perfectly well what ‘dough’ meant, but who always refused to recognise American slang.

“I refer to cash,” said Francis, looking his most Mephistophelean. “My ambition for Penelope is that she acquire a rich husband, so that she may subsidise Papa in his tottering old age.”

“Like so many creative artists, you have the soul of a fishmonger,” said the Duchess. She was still holding my hand; she planted a champagne-wet kiss on the palm before she let it go. “I have ordered our dinner, Penelope. It is to be the écrevisses au gratin that you like, with small goûters of caviar to begin with and fraises des bois in kirsch afterward.”

I had been anticipating this hurdle; she always insisted that I dine with her on her first evening, before she went to the Casino at nine o’clock.

“I am very sorry, Duchessa; you must excuse me. I am having supper with Don and Eva.” I saw Francis raise one eyebrow at me. “I really didn’t know you were coming tonight,” I pleaded.

“No, that is true,” said the Duchess, “but I am very disappointed. I have come to regard it as a regular tryst.” She put her head on one side. “Why do you not all three stay and dine with me? We will make it a partie carrée. It could be managed, Francis? Beautiful—beautiful—beautiful! There. That is settled.”

“I’m most awfully sorry; we’d love to,” Eva said. “But we couldn’t possibly. Supper’s at seven and Mum’s expecting us.”

“Thank you very much, though,” said Don, who was still staring at her. “Could we do it another time?”

“But of course! Tomorrow; what could be better? Except tonight,” said the Duchess. “I was looking to Penelope to bring me good luck. Do you remember last year, how I took you to dine at the Carlton and won a fortune afterwards?”

“And lost it on the following afternoon,” said Francis. The Duchess said an incomprehensible Italian word that sounded like a snake hissing. She took a little ivory hand out of her bag and pointed it at him.

“I thought one never could win at roulette,” said Don. “According to my father, the game is rigged in favour of the Casino.”

“Ask your father why there are no taxes in Monaco,” said the Duchess. “In a game of this mathematic there is no need for the Casino to cheat. The majority loses naturally, not artificially. And tell him further that all European Casinos are of the highest order of probity, with the possible exception of Estoril and Bucharest. Do you know the game?”

When the Bradleys said that they did not, she took from her bag one of the cards that had upon it a replica of the wheel and the cloth. She embarked upon a roulette lesson. The Bradleys were fascinated and of course we were late for supper. Francis delayed me further, holding me back to speak to me on the terrace: “Do you have to have supper with the Smugs?”

“Please don’t call them that. Yes, I do.”

“It would be reasonable, I should think, to send a message saying that an old friend of the family had arrived unexpectedly.”

Of course it would have been reasonable; Mrs. Bradley had expected me to ask permission. But nothing would have made me stay.

“I’m extremely sorry, Francis; I can’t do it.”

“You should know how much it means to her. She has ordered your favourite dinner. All right,” he said, “I see that it is useless to appeal to your better nature. Tonight you qualify for R.C.I.” He went back to the bar, calling, “The verdict can always be withdrawn if the candidate shows compensating behaviour.”

“Didn’t you want to stay and dine with the Duchess?” asked Don, as we raced through the twilit garden.

“I did not. She embarrasses me greatly.”

“I thought she was terrific. I do hope Mum and Dad will let us have dinner with her tomorrow.”

“But don’t say it’s écrevisses, Don, whatever you do. There’s always a row about shell-fish,” Eva reminded him.

“I wouldn’t be such an ass,” Don said. “And the only thing that would give it away would be if you were ill afterwards.”

“Why should it be me?”

“Because it usually is,” said Don.

I awoke with a sense of doom. I lay under my mosquito-net, playing the scenes of last evening through in my mind. A slight chill upon the Viking parents, due to our being late; smiles pressed down over crossness, because of the visitor. Don and Eva pouring forth a miscellany of information about the Duchess and the signed photographs; myself making mental notes, a devoted sociologist studying a favourite tribe: grace before supper; no garlic in anything; copies of Punch and the English newspapers; silver napkin rings; apple pie. The secret that I found in the Cotswold house was here, I told myself; the house in Devonshire took shape; on the walls there were photographs of it; a stream ran through the garden; they rode their ponies on Dartmoor; they had two wire-haired terriers called Snip and Snap. I collected more evidence of Bradley organisation: an expedition tomorrow to the Saracen village near Brignoles; a Current-Affairs Quiz that was given to the family by their father once a month.

No, I said to myself, brooding under my mosquito-net, nothing went wrong until after the apple pie. That was when Eva had said, “The Duchess told all our fortunes.” The lines spoken were still in my head:

Don saying, “Penelope’s was an absolute fizzer; the Duchess says she will have genius, fame, and passion.” Mr. Bradley’s Viking profile becoming stony; Mrs. Bradley’s smooth white forehead puckering a little as she asked me gently, “Who is this wonderful lady?”

Myself replying, “The Duchessa de Terracini,” and Mrs. Bradley remarking that this was a beautiful name. But Mr. Bradley’s stony face growing stonier and his officer-to-men voice saying, “Have we all finished?”; then rising so that we rose too and pushed in our chairs and bowed our heads while he said grace.

After that there was a spirited game of Monopoly. ‘But the atmosphere,’ I said to myself, ‘went on being peculiar.’ I had waited for Don and Eva to comment on it when they walked me home, but they were in a rollicking mood and appeared to have noticed nothing.

‘Indubitably there is a doom,’ I thought while I put on my swimming suit, ‘and since I shall not see them until this evening, because of the Saracen village, I shall not know what it is.’

As I crossed the terrace, the Duchess popped her head out of the corner window above me; she leaned like a little gargoyle above the bougainvillæa; she wore a lace veil fastened under her chin with a large diamond.

“Good morning, Duchessa. Did you win?”

“I lost consistently, and your friends cannot come to dine tonight, as you may know; so disappointing, though the note itself is courteous.” She dropped it into my hands. It was written by Mrs. Bradley; fat, curly handwriting on paper headed

CROSSWAYS

CHAGFORD

DEVON

It thanked the Duchess and regretted that owing to the expedition, Don and Eva would not be able to accept her kind invitation to supper.

I knew that the Bradleys would be back by six.