Grand Canary

  He crushed out his cigarette, leaned smilingly towards Mary.

  ‘All right, young funny? Not too tired? Quite warm enough?’

  Her face, pressed into the fur upon her breast, seemed smaller than ever, her tone was dull.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Michael.’

  ‘’Tisn’t long now, you know.’ He peered through the window, then started up with an exclamation. ‘Why – hanged if we aren’t– yes – we’re almost there!’ He craned his neck, pointing almost exultantly; no one took any interest but himself. ‘That’s St Catherine’s! And Ventnor lying in behind. And the forts outside, and Haslar. Why, this is great! Lord – Stanford’s shutting down his engine. I – I must see him.’ And, glancing at his watch, he rushed forward to find out all about it.

  Five minutes passed. Ventnor grew, then slipped away on the plane’s port side. They circled. The Solent – at first a silver streak between the mainland and the island – grew and grew as they lost altitude. They were coming down. Gently the shining surface reached up to them, and then there was a quiet shock. The plane glanced across the water and straightened out her nose towards the breakwater. Two white plumes rose up behind her floats as she undulated along the surface. The propeller flopped round with comical slowness, then finally ceased to move. They drew up a hundred yards from the ramp. Silence: an almost deafening silence. Stanford, pulling off his gloves, came stooping into the cabin, followed by Fielding. He was a lanky fellow with black, unruly hair.

  ‘Well,’ he announced, quite calmly, ‘that’s it.’

  Elissa drooped her eyelids towards him.

  ‘Aren’t you sorry it’s over?’

  He smiled, showing a gold tooth at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘No!’

  ‘No,’ she mocked. ‘That’s all I ever get out of you. You’ve got no soul. And there’s oil on your nose.’

  Fielding gripped Mary’s arm.

  ‘Look!’ he cried excitedly. ‘There’s Old Martin.’

  A power launch shot out from the fore-shore, and, passing inside the fort, made directly towards them. As Stanford busied himself with the unfastening of the hatch, it came alongside.

  Harvey stood at the back of the cabin. He watched with a cold, impassive face – Fielding, Elissa, and Martin all talking at once, Mary silent, smiling faintly to Martin, but silent, silent. He was the last to shake hands with Stanford, the last to get into the launch. He was conscious of everything acutely, painfully.

  ‘Thought I’d meet you off the Southsea side, Sir Michael,’ shouted Old Martin above the thrum of the launch. ‘Much handier than Haslar.’

  ‘Splendid, Old Martin.’

  ‘Thought it’d be easier for her ladyship that way –’ His voice strained beyond its compass, piped and broke. He blinked his faded, blue eyes happily, nodding his head. He was a little, dried-up, wispy man with a long nose and a childish, horsy face. Gentleman’s gentleman, thought Harvey, with that same dull ache of understanding – throbbing with service and affection – lifelong – quite feudal.

  They were at the green steps of the Old Pier, mounting to land, rows of tall houses rising up behind, trams clanging vaguely, a lot of people staring, an obsequious, terribly obsequious, official: ‘Careful your ladyship. Oh, please, careful.’ Back – back again -

  The car was waiting. There it stood, glittering, supercilious, an enormous, blue Rolls. Dark blue, of course, discreet. A man, rigid as something from Tussaud’s, stood by the door – shut it with the gentlest of clicks, then sprang. And now they were off, swathed in rich rugs, the figure again unbending, arranged with Old Martin outside, meshing invisible, silent gears.

  The town rolled past them, they swung on to the Chichester road, and the country opened out like a pretty picture-book.

  ‘Not so stuffy – England?’ gloated Fielding.

  ‘Wait till you see Sussex, though – our little bit.’

  Yes, the hedges were in bud, the little square fields had a sheen of green, the cottages stood beneath the trees, everything was neat and tidy – oh, shining as a nice, new pin. But Harvey took no notice of the pretty picture-book. Horrible or exquisite, he didn’t care. Why he thought quite wildly, did I come? I shouldn’t have let myself be persuaded. Why had he lost all his defences, his rudeness, his sarcasm, his morose indifference?

  He was seated next to Mary, so close that he could feel the living movement of her side. Fielding had insisted.

  ‘Sit there, you idiot!’ It was agony. His heart beat like a bell. She was staring straight in front of her. But that peculiar flush had risen faintly to her cheek. Never meeting – never fully meeting his gaze – that was so hungry.…

  ‘Hot, buttered scones before the fire,’ cried Fielding. ‘Not so stuffy that either.’ He was in front on the folding-seat, shooting out remarks, exhibiting the landmarks with a proprietary air as though he had been absent for a twelve-month. He slewed round again.

  ‘Not far now. Heavens, it’s priceless to be back. Not too tired, old funny-bone? We’ll have a regular house-warming for you.’

  Something stirred in her. She whispered:

  ‘You’re not going to have a crowd of people, Michael?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ he protested. ‘You’re hopping into bed instanter. But we’ll have a glorious party when you’re stronger.’ He beamed again. ‘We’ll get up to Town again. By Jove! we’ll do a few things – buy a few things – make things hum – what!’

  The car slipped on, with its voluptuous, oppressive silence, through Cosham and Havant. More pages of the pretty picture-book.

  ‘Not long now,’ Fielding repeated heartily. ‘Not long now.’

  With a gay little tune upon the horn, they turned off the main road and ran through a red and white hamlet set in a sleepy hollow. A row of ducks solemnly crossing the village green. Some children in pinafores, silent suddenly in their laughter, terribly respectful. And then, with a sweep, into a broad deep avenue of beeches. On they went, for about a mile, through these beeches.

  Harvey saw, then, some deer, that stared with mild eyes as they went past. Dully, the knowledge came to him that they were in a park – a huge enclosure. It was the estate, of course, Fielding’s estate. It was enormous, rich, rolling away to infinity.

  And then, at the top of a rise, they came on Buckden. It didn’t look like a house – it was so big. Seen from the hill it had a massive splendour. It was square, solid, grouped round a central court. In front, lawns swept out, velvet and green. Crisp, blue smoke rose from a score of chimneys. Above the chimneys rooks were circling, cawing. A flag hung languidly on its staff. On the terrace a white peacock stood and screamed.

  All so rich, so perfect, so vast, it struck at Harvey, it crushed him. Oh, God, he thought, how different it all is from Los Cisnes. That had been but a background for her beauty – this seemed insatiably to absorb her.

  The tyres swished and crunched gently on the drive. They circled, drew up before the porch. Some footmen rushed out. And a dozen leaping dogs.

  ‘Home, thank God,’ Fielding cried effusively.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The following evening; and dinner was over. Not the Aureola’s austere sea-fare nor Corcoran’s slap-dash coffee and tamale. Something quite simple, both simple and good – ‘an honest feed’ was Michael’s homely phrase. ‘Let’s go and bite something,’ he would laughingly declare; and then, more sententiously perhaps, ‘Thank God we can always stand ourselves an honest feed.’ And so the honest feed began. Little fat oysters from Whitstable; some plain hare soup, nourishing and strong; grilled salmon from the Tweed; a breast of baby chicken which melted on the air; asparagus forced to a tender succulence; a rosy souffle that foamed upon the plate; a tiny special savoury whose origin lay in Strasbourg.

  Not, oh, not fancy, of course. Yet a man might miss a course and not go hungry. Harvey had missed several; and Mary all but one. Three flunkeys alone saved the meal from a wholly bucolic simplicity – each with the epaulettes of an admiral and t
he bearing of an archduke. For all the turmoil of his soul, Harvey couldn’t help wondering dully if they were real. Had each a soul, an individuality, a life of his own? Or, for that matter, was the whole place real? Let there be no pretence – it was steeped in luxury – a sort of creamy, exquisite luxury. You did nothing. That was immediately assured. Everything was done. You were wakened, given tea. Your bath was drawn, the heated towels laid out. Your clothes, linen, boots, appeared miraculously from the blue – pressed, folded, shining. You were shaved, valeted, sent nicely down to breakfast. And that was only the start. Everything, everything – you could have it simply for the asking. A quick revulsion came over Harvey again.

  Oh, God, it was stifling! You couldn’t lift a cigarette but some menial swam towards you with a deferential match.

  Broodingly he stared into the great hissing log, set deep in the marble fireplace. They were in the lounge, he in a corner chair, Mary seated upon the low fender-stool; Michael and Elissa – rapt in the process of digestion – on a deep divan. Silence was on the air. The log hissed and spurted. Upon the old hand-painted Chinese wallpaper silver parakeets flashed in a deep celestial blue. A row of Lelys beamed graciously upon the scene. Masses of orchids stood on the low oak chest mirrored in a surface polished by time and care. Above the mantelpiece a portrait of Mary – he dared not look at it.

  ‘You know!’ Elissa, rather exotic upon the divan, had a momentous thought. ‘ I woke up this morning with the fullest intention of being bored. But I’m not sure. Rather dreamy it’s been today. I’m glad you chased me out to church, Michael. Really terribly soothing and nice. Made me think of the missionary man.’ A pause. ‘I suppose it was quite an experience for him. He’ll be none the worse of it.’

  Mary, crouched upon the hearth, stared far away into the heart of the burning log.

  ‘And his sister?’ she whispered.

  Elissa made a long arm for a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t be awkward, darling. You’re destroying my mood.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘Yes, now it is gone. Too unkind of you. And not a soul here to be nice to me. What in heaven’s name am I to do?’

  Mary, listless as before, made no reply. But something rose up in Harvey. He said:

  ‘Why don’t you try some work for a change?’

  ‘Work!’ Elissa stared – big-eyed, contemptuous.

  Michael carefully took the cigar out of his mouth and cocked one nostril to its aroma.

  ‘Oh, I say now,’ he interposed. ‘We all do our bit, don’t you know.’

  ‘Your bit,’ Harvey said heavily. ‘And what is your bit? You sit here – you eat and you sleep. You have your diversions. Elissa collects lovers. You collect centenarians. You run up to Town. There you eat and you sleep some more. You go to ten silly plays. You exhibit a blue geranium that someone else has grown for you. They give you a medal. You rush back to open a bazaar, a fête, a hogwash festival –’

  ‘But, hang it all,’ Fielding smiled, ‘ there’s Buckden, isn’t there?’

  ‘You didn’t even work for that,’ Harvey answered wearily. ‘You didn’t earn it. It fell into your lap – all the square miles of it, almshouses, peacocks, flunkeys, cotton-wool, and lice.’

  Michael chuckled richly.

  ‘You’re forgettin’ about the taxes. Why, damme, these days it takes all our time to have a good honest feed.’

  Harvey made no answer. But Elissa stole a sly side-glance at Mary; then she gave her light, derisive laugh.

  ‘Democracy is in the air. Little whispers of simplicity. Back to the sweets of the unadorned. “ Life is sober, life is earnest.” Always the motto of the Mainwaring mariners.’

  No one replied. There was silence until Michael got up, cut the end of a fresh cigar.

  ‘Don’t let’s get stuffy. Let’s do something. Prove we’re not so hanged lazy after all. We’ll play billiards. You like a game, ‘Lissa?’

  ‘Billiards,’ echoed Elissa, as though he had said leap-frog.

  ‘Yes – you like a game?’ he said again. ‘We’ll have a four. I’ll go and see about the table. All of you come through in a second.’ He lit his cigar and strolled to the door.

  Elissa sighed, watching him go out.

  ‘Why,’ she murmured, with elevated brows, ‘why, at terrible and fascinating moments, must Michael always be so boisterous? We were about getting to the point. What we might be going to do! But now –’ She threw one glance at the other two and smiled. Then she rose, yawned, and drifted languidly from the room without a word.

  They were alone. For the first time since that morning at Los Cisnes – alone. It was so unexpected that she shivered. She sat perfectly still, as though afraid to move. Then, after a long time, she slowly raised her eyes. She looked him fully in the face. All that had passed in those days between slipped away and was dissolved. And with a sudden catching of her breath she cried:

  ‘It’s true – what she says! What – oh, what are we going to do?’

  Her eyes were big and dark and hurt. But they were steady, holding in their depths a new maturity. The firelight glinted upon her hair, upon her neck and arms – so white against the plain black gown she wore. Her face, still pale, was outwardly composed; but her lips trembled as with pain.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t move, but his eyes fastened upon her eyes with a sort of hunger. He thought: Yes, at last – at last we shall know – each of us – at last.

  ‘It’s no good putting things off any longer,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve got to face things out. You know better – better about me now. You see why I’ve felt I’d have to get away to something simpler, away from this – all pressing in, stifling me. You heard Elissa’s jibe. It’s true enough. I’ve never really cared for all this. It isn’t me. But I never fully realised it till I met you. And it’s true what you say about work. You’ve wakened something in me. It’s time I stopped being treated as the wistful little girl.… time I stopped sighing after gardens.… It’s not good enough.… I’m a woman now. I’d like to do something, to give something, so that I might get something back. And now, more than ever. I’m changed, I’m different. Oh, Harvey, it’s only now I’ve grown up. I married Michael when I was eighteen. I didn’t know anything. I liked him – that was all. He didn’t ask any more. He never has. But you see’ – her voice was very low – ‘ you see how good he is –’ She stopped short. She pressed her fingers together so that they were whiter than her face. ‘ Oh, it’s terrible – terrible – to love you so much and not to know what to do.’

  Again his heart was beating like a heavy bell. As in a dream he said:

  ‘You came once to me – at Los Cisnes.’

  ‘I know, oh, I know,’ she answered. ‘But then I didn’t think – oh, I was ill I suppose. I – I couldn’t think. It was instinct to go to you –’ Her bosom rose and fell. In a torture of feeling he wished to bury his head in that soft breast.

  ‘You know,’ he said in a choking voice, ‘we both know – there’s something binding us together.’

  Silence. Then she whispered:

  ‘I’ve known that – a long, long time. I don’t belong to anyone but you. But what is there to do? I’m not free to do as I want. I couldn’t – oh, I couldn’t hurt Michael.’

  ‘Would he be hurt so very much?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think. He wouldn’t understand. He’d just laugh. Not the least use trying to tell him – you’ve seen that too. I’d have to go away – just go away without a word. Is it cowardice to give in, or courage? Oh, I’ve thought and thought until my brain is muddled. I told you on the ship how much I hated everything sordid and beastly.’ Her voice broke, but she made herself go on. ‘Women who have lovers – affairs that flare up and burn out. Something ugly – that horrifies me. I’ve tried to have an ideal, some sort of standard. I’ve tried to live to that. But the standard’s all gone wrong now. I can’t tell good from bad. And all the time I’m thinking: How am I going to live without you?’ Her voice
quivered and fell away to nothing in the silence of the room. He took her hand and whispered:

  ‘The standard hasn’t gone wrong, Mary. There’s nothing in you that isn’t good. I love you.’

  She raised her head, gazed at him with those wide, dark eyes.

  ‘And I love you.’

  Then the door opened and Fielding came back. Cue in hand, he stopped and stared. He coughed; then smiled.

  ‘Come and have a game, you two. ’Lissa’s just decided she wants to play pool. It’s no fun less there’s four.’

  There was a dead silence. The colour rushed into Harvey’s brow and then receded, leaving it haggard as before. The smile never left Fielding’s face. He said:

  ‘Sorry for butting in, and all that. P’raps you’d rather not play. Come in when you’ve – when you’ve finished, if you like.’

  Then Mary’s eyes fell; her whole figure dropped. Steadying herself against the mantelpiece, she said in a light, queer voice:

  ‘I’m tired, Michael. I think I must go to bed.’

  Instantly he jumped forward.

  ‘Oh, I say. Oh, really, I’m hanged sorry. Your first night up, too. I’m an ass to forget. Let me ring. Let me do something.’

  She left the fireplace and, with eyes upon the floor, went slowly to the door.

  ‘It’s all right’ – still in that light, strange voice – ‘but I think I’ll go now – if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Certainly. Of course, of course.’ Compunctiously he took her arm. He was touched – ah, hanged if he wasn’t touched; He must see her to her room. The stairs, you know – oh, sickening of him to forget.

  They went out of the room together. And for a long time Harvey stood staring at the closed door. He felt paralysed. If only he could do something, if only he could fight – as he had fought against Carr. He wanted something to knock down, to destroy. But what could he do against the blandness of a man like Fielding? He saw with crushing force that he could do nothing. Then a shiver went through him. He couldn’t stand it. No, he couldn’t stand it any longer. Let him get away – somewhere – anywhere. He sprang to the French window. He tore aside the curtains, flung open the window, and went out. He cut across the dewed lawn. The cool air did not cool his brow. The recollection of her face rising out of the misty darkness haunted him. Down through the park he went, into the avenue of beeches. The house behind him rose like a great sprawling beast.