Which was what the song was for, which was why it came like that, out of his head. Not to be sung, not to be echoed in a husky voice by Freada, or by anyone; but to be danced to by two people who moved as one person only, like himself and Maria, in some old back room at the top of a house; not in a restaurant, not in a theater. He stopped playing and shut down the lid of the piano.
“That’s all for today,” he said. “They’ve turned the gas off at the main. Let’s go and sleep.”
“You can sleep for two hours,” said Freada. “After that you must put on a shirt and a pair of pants that hasn’t a hole in them. We’re meeting people for drinks at five o’clock.”
Freada knew too many people, that was the trouble. You always had to be sitting round a table in a café talking to a bunch of people. They were most of them French. And Niall was lazy over French, as lazy as he was about putting sound on paper. Freada was bilingual, she could rattle on for hours, discussing music, songs, the theater, pictures, anything that came into her head, and her friends sat round closely, laughing, talking, having one drink after another, telling interminable stories about nothing. French people talked too much. They were all wits, they were all raconteurs. Too many sentences started off with “Je m’en souviens…” and “Ca me fait penser…” They went on and on. Niall said nothing, he tilted his chair, his eyes half-closed, drinking iced beer, and now and again he would frown at Freada, and jerk his head, and sigh heavily, but she never took the slightest notice. She went on talking, biting on her cigarette-holder, dropping ash all over the table, and then someone would say something that was funnier than ever, apparently, for there would be a throwing back of heads, a scraping of chairs on the floor of the café, and more laughter, more flow of conversation.
Sometimes, if he was close to Freada, he would kick her under the table, and then she would come to, she would smile across at him, and say to her friends, “Niall s’ennuie,” and everyone looked at him and smiled as well, as if he were two years old.
They called him “L’enfant,” or even “L’enfant gâté,” and occasionally, worst of all, “Le p’tit Niall.”
At last they got up and went away, the last of them disappeared, and Niall heaved a great sigh of relief and exasperation.
“Why do you ask them? Why do you do it?”
“But I love talking, I love my friends,” said Freada. “Besides, that man who came with Raoul this evening has a lot of influence, not only in the musical world in Paris, but in America too. He has contacts everywhere. He can help you a lot.”
“I don’t care if he has contacts in Hell,” said Niall. “He’s a most deadly bore. And I don’t want to be helped.”
“Have another beer.”
“Don’t want another beer.”
“What do you want then?”
What did he want? He looked across at her and wondered. She lit another cigarette from the stub of the last, and thrust it in the holder. Why did she have to smoke so much? Why did she allow the coiffeur to put that silly yellow streak on the top of her hair? It got yellower and more dried-up each time she went, and spoiled her. It made her hair like hay.
As soon as the comparison struck him he felt a pang of remorse. What a beastly thought. How could he have thought of such a thing? Freada was a darling, so good to him, so kind. He loved Freada. He put his hand out to hers across the table, and kissed it, on sudden impulse. “What do I want? Why, to be by ourselves, of course,” he said. She screwed up her face at him, making him laugh; and then she called to the garçon to bring her the bill.
“Come on, then,” she said; “we’ll walk a little before dinner.”
She took his arm and they strolled along the boulevard, slowly, pleasantly, watching the other people, without talking. Even now, with the sun away in the west, and the first lights showing in the cafés, it must be eighty degrees, or near it. No one wore a coat. Nobody wore a hat. The Parisians proper were all away en vacances. These were shopkeepers, out for the evening, to take a breath of air less stifling than they had breathed all day; they were people from the country, from the Midi. Everyone walked languidly, lazily, with a smile; everyone had shiny, greasy faces, and their clothes clung to them damply, and the heat of the boulevard hit them as they walked. The sky turned an amber color, like Freada’s scent, and an amber glow came upon the city, spreading from the west, touching the roofs and the bridges and the spires.
Suddenly the lights went on everywhere, over all the bridges, and the sky was not amber anymore, it was purple, like a grape, but the heat still hit you as you walked. The taxis rattled across the bridges, filled to bursting-point with heated, sweating adults, and little pale-faced children, tired from a day’s outing. The taxis hooted, and screamed, and swerved, and the gendarme blew his whistle violently, and waved his baton. It was like Sullivan, years ago, waving his baton to the orchestra. The lights were going on. The lights were going on in the theater, the curtain was going up, Mama was going to dance…
“I can’t walk any further, pet, my feet ache,” said Freada. Her face was lined and weary, she felt heavy on his arm.
“Please,” he begged, “just a little further. There’s a new sound come with the evening, and the lights have brought it. Listen, Freada, listen.”
They stood by the bridge, and the lights were reflected in the Seine, making shining hoops of gold, and in the distance the long line of gold traveled up the Champs Elysées to the Etoile. The taxis went past them in a gathering stream, flowing to right and left and center, and as they passed the warm air lifted and blew in the people’s faces, gentle as a fan. Niall could hear something like the beat of a pulse, and it was all part of the screaming taxis and the beckoning lights and the hot pavements and the darkening sky.
“I want to go on walking,” he said. “I could walk forever.”
“You’re young,” said Freada. “You can walk alone.”
It was no use, the magic was not with them, the magic was away there, up the Champs Elysées, and if you reached the top of the hill by the Etoile it would be gone again, to the heavy scented trees in the heart of the Bois, in the deep trees, in the soft grass. The magic was elusive. You could never touch it. It escaped you always.
“All right,” said Niall, “I’ll get a taxi.”
Now they were just like all the other people, whirling along in a tumbled stream. Hooting, screaming, rattling over the streets. Leaving the magic behind. Letting the magic escape.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Freada.
“Nothing,” said Niall.
He sat forward, leaning out of the window, so that the air blew on his face, the warm exciting air, and he could see the long trail of lights like a winding ribbon, vanish and reappear.
Freada leaned back in the taxi and yawned, kicking off her shoes.
“There’s only one thing I want,” she said, “and that’s to plunge my feet into a tepid bath.”
Niall did not answer. He nibbled his nails, and watched the flickering lights of Paris wink at him and curtsy. He wondered, a little sadly, whether Freada said this as a gentle hint that he would have to stay put the whole damn night in Sancho Panza.
For Celia it would be any spring, or any summer. Whatever the season, the routine would be the same. Early tea, at half-past eight. She made it herself, on a little spirit stove, because she did not want to put the servants to extra trouble. Her alarm clock would wake her with its shrill, impersonal summons, and she reached out her hand to bury it at once beneath the eiderdown. Then she allowed herself five minutes to enjoy the luxury of bed. Five minutes, but no more. Up, to make the tea, to have her bath, to take the morning papers in to Pappy and to sense his mood and wishes for the day. There was always the little ritual of enquiring how he had slept. “A good night, Pappy?”
“Fair, my darling, fair.” And from his tone she would have to gather whether the hours that stretched ahead for both of them held placidity or doom.
“I’ve had that old pain under the heart ag
ain. We had better send for Pleydon.”
Then she knew where she was. Then she knew it meant a day at home, very probably in bed, and there would be no hope of going to the Art School that morning, or that afternoon.
“Is it bad enough for that?”
“It was so bad at three this morning that I thought I was going to die. That’s how bad it was, my darling.”
She was onto Pleydon at once. Yes, she was reassured, Pleydon would come round as soon as he could. He had one urgent call to make, but he should be with Mr. Delaney by half-past ten for certain.
“It’s all right, Pappy. He’ll come. Now, what can I get you?”
“There’s a letter there, my darling. We shall have to answer it. From poor old Marcus Guest, living in Majorca. Haven’t heard from him for years.” Pappy reached across the sheets for his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Read what he says, my darling, read what he says.”
Then Celia took the letter—it was closely written, and there were six pages of it, very hard to read. She could hardly understand a word of it, the allusions were to people and to places of whom she had never heard. But Pappy was delighted.
“Poor old Marcus Guest,” he kept repeating, “who would have thought he was still alive? And in Majorca. They say it’s very pleasant in Majorca. We ought to try it. It might be good for my voice. Find out about Majorca, my darling. Ring up somebody who can tell us about Majorca.”
They passed the time until the doctor came discussing plans for travel. Yes, there must be trains that went through France. They could take Paris on the way. See Niall. See how Niall was getting on. Perhaps persuade Niall to come with them. Or better still, not go by train. Go by boat. There were so many shipping lines, they all passed through the Mediterranean. Certainly the best way would be to go by boat. Ah, here was Pleydon. “Pleydon, we are going to Majorca.”
“Splendid,” said Dr. Pleydon, “do you the world of good. Now let’s listen to that chest of yours.”
And out came the stethoscope, and the unbuttoning of the pajama jacket, and the listening, and the putting away of the stethoscope.
“Yes,” said Dr. Pleydon, “there may be a little murmur. Nothing much. Nothing to worry about. But you can have a quiet day. Got plenty to read?”
Good-bye to Art School. It was the life class today. But never mind. It did not matter.
“Celia will be here,” said Pappy. “Celia will look after everything.”
She took the doctor to the door and stayed with him a moment in the passage.
“Probably a little flatulence,” said Pleydon, “a touch of wind round the heart. But he’s big, it’s uncomfortable for him. Keep him quiet, and a light diet.”
Down to the kitchen. The cook was newish, only been with them for six weeks, and she did not get on with Truda.
“Well, if Mr. Delaney isn’t well, I should think something in the fish line would be best,” said the cook; “steamed, I could do it steamed, with potatoes lightly boiled.”
Truda passed through the kitchen, with some sheets over her arm. “Mr. Delaney doesn’t care for fish,” she snapped.
The cook’s mouth tightened. She did not answer. She waited until Truda had gone out of the kitchen and then she spoke. “I’m sorry, Miss Celia,” she said, “but really I do my best. I know I haven’t been with you long, but if I as much as open my mouth Truda nearly bites my head off. I’m not used to being spoken to in such a way.”
“I know,” said Celia soothingly, “but you see, she isn’t so young as she was, and she’s been with us for so long. It’s because she’s so fond of us that she talks so freely. She knows all our ways.”
“It’s a funny household,” said the cook. “I’ve never been anywhere before where the dining room wanted a hot dinner at a quarter to seven. It’s most unusual.”
“I know it must be trying, but you see, with my sister at the theater…”
“I really think, Miss Celia, that it would be best if you looked for someone else. Someone more suited to your ways.”
“Oh, come, don’t say that…” And on and on, the smoothing down of the cook, with one eye on the pantry door, because André would be hearing it all, and take infinite delight in repeating it to Truda. Pappy’s bell rang once, twice, urgently. Celia fled upstairs.
“My darling, you know those photograph albums stacked in the morning-room?”
“Yes, Pappy.”
“I feel like going through them all again. And putting in the mass of odd snapshots that we took in South Africa, and got mixed up with the ones from Australia. Will you help me, my darling?”
“Of course I will.”
“You haven’t got anything else to do?”
“No, oh no…”
Down to the morning-room, and up with the heavy albums, and down again to look for the forgotten snapshots. They were underneath a pile of books at the back of a cupboard. In the middle of sorting them she remembered that she had given no final orders about the lunch. Back to the kitchen and to be firm this time and order chicken.
“There’s hardly time now, Miss Celia, to get a chicken on.”
“Is there anything over?”
“There’s that piece of beef we had for lunch yesterday.”
“Mince it,” said Celia, “mince it, and put a poached egg on top.”
She went upstairs again to Pappy. He was up, he was pottering in his dressing gown. “Would you make me some tea, my darling?” he said. “They stew it below. They don’t make it as you do.”
Along to her bedroom to make the tea, and while she knelt on the floor beside the kettle Truda came in. Her eyes were red. She had been crying.
“It’s easy to see when you aren’t wanted anymore,” she said.
Celia jumped up from the floor and put her arms round Truda. “What do you mean? Don’t be so silly,” she said.
“It will break my heart to leave you,” said Truda, “but leave you I must if things go on the way they’re going. Nothing I do seems right anymore. Ever since I was in hospital with my leg I’ve felt a kind of coldness, right through the house, from you all, and now my boy is here no longer…” The tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Truda, you mustn’t say such things, I won’t let you,” said Celia. And on and on, until the old woman was pacified, and went off to put new ribbons in Maria’s nightgown.
Maria. Where was Maria? A shout, a wave of the hand, a slam of the front door, Maria was gone…
“Will you have lunch with me, my darling?”
“Yes, Pappy, if you want me to.”
“Well, you wouldn’t leave me to have it up here all alone.”
Trays. Several trays. Curious how if you had a meal upstairs there had to be so many trays. And André hated carting trays. The old story would be trotted out. He was Mr. Delaney’s valet. Mr. Delaney’s dresser. He had never been a carrier of trays.
“Eat your mince, Pappy.”
“It’s cold, my darling, it’s stone cold.”
“That’s because it’s such a long way from the kitchen to this floor. I’ll send it down to be hotted up again.”
“No, my darling, don’t bother. I’m not hungry.”
He pushed the tray away. And moved his legs under the blankets. There were so many things strewn around. All those heavy albums.
“Take them away, my darling, take them away.” Bundle the albums to the floor, straighten the bed.
“Is the room very hot? It seems very hot to me.”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s because you are in bed.”
“Open the window, I’m stifling. I’m going to choke.”
She flung the window wide, and a stream of cold air blew down across the room. She shivered, and moved towards the fireplace.
“Yes, that’s better. I think I’ll have a little shut-eye. Just for five minutes. Just a little shut-eye. You won’t be going out?”
“No, Pappy.”
“We’ll play bezique, presently, my darling. And then you must get down to answeri
ng that letter from old Marcus Guest.”
The quiet, cold room. The steady, heavy breathing. The albums piled on the floor. And a sheet of blank paper, peeping out from between the pages of one of them. A piece of blank paper, doing nothing at all. Celia took the sheet of paper, and balanced it upon one of the albums. She fumbled in her pocket for a pencil. There was no Art School today, perhaps no Art School tomorrow, but if you had a piece of paper and a pencil you were not entirely lost, not entirely alone. From the open window she could hear the sound of the children in the playground of the Council school. They came out always at this time and shouted and called to one another, and skipped with skipping ropes, and hopped, and played. She hoped they would not wake Pappy. He slept on. His mouth a little open. His spectacles on the end of his nose. The children from the Council school went on shouting and calling, and their voices were like something from another world. But the faces that she drew were children’s faces. And she was happy. And she did not mind.
14
Niall waited for Maria at the end of the platform of the Gare du Nord. He stood behind the barrier. He was waiting there as the train came in. At once there was a jostle of people and porters, and the usual babble of conversation. And the wrong people streamed past him, through the barrier. Chattering Frenchmen with voluble wives, and English tourists, and all the sallow individuals of no known nationality who travel forever upon Continental trains, biting upon cigars.
Niall’s heart thumped under his ribs and he was filled with unbearable anxiety. If Maria did not come, if he had to turn back again, alone… She was there. She wore a loose red coat and she carried her hat in her hand. He could see her eyes laughing at him from ten, from twenty yards away. And although she had only two suitcases with her, she was followed by three porters. She was beside him. She put up her face to be kissed.