I and My True Love (21 page)

“What’s their latest problem?” he asked to take her mind away from Hallis. He would admit to himself that he was worried, too, by that accidental meeting. And yet it was possible that Hallis had only hidden behind the Buick to spare himself the embarrassment of ignoring Jan: Hallis always evaded awkward situations; that was the reason he always seemed so much in control of himself.

“Jan, we’ve passed the cut-off to the left.”

“I’m driving you straight back to Washington. No Buick has been following us. So stop worrying, Sylvia. Hallis—if it was Hallis—had his own plans for this evening. Now, what about Whitecraigs?”

And his voice was so calm and unworried that she began to talk about her family, about Ben and his family. And talking about them helped her to get all the emotions she had experienced that afternoon into a more understandable pattern. Her own fears receded. Hallis became an incident, annoying and unpleasant; for it was never very agreeable to find yourself the subject of hidden amusement, and Hallis—if he had recognised her—would certainly be amused.

Jan said, as he brought the car to a halt in a quiet, safely anonymous street a few blocks from Pleydell’s house, “See you tomorrow, darling. In the distance.”

“At Miriam’s? You’ll be there?”

“Yes. We’ll all turn out to show how amiable we really are.”

“Couldn’t we meet—for a moment? There will be such a crowd.” She smiled at the madness of her idea. He shook his head. But he was smiling, too. “I’ll watch you,” he told her, “I’ll watch you all the time.” Then he kissed her, and at last he let her go to step out of the car.

He wasted no moments, then, but walked away quickly without looking back.

15

The windows of the drawing-room were lit, the library was in darkness. So Kate and Bob were there, playing Ravel, to judge by the faint strains of music; and Payton must be still at the office. For a moment, she wished that the house had been completely empty. She was too exhausted to put on any good performance tonight. Then she entered the green shadowed hall, called cheerily “Hallo there!” and pulled off her coat and hat to drop them on a chair.

“Why, you’re early!” Kate said from her seat on the carpet in front of the cheerful fire, but whether the note of surprise in her voice was one that meant relief or disappointment Sylvia couldn’t tell.

Bob Turner slid out of the chair, where he had been lounging with his legs over its arm. He crossed over to the phonograph, and cut off the volume of music.

“Don’t,” Sylvia said. “I like it.
Daphnis and Chloe,
isn’t it?” She looked round the room, disordered with records, books and some loosely scattered snapshots.

“Sorry,” Kate said, quickly rising to her feet. “I was showing Bob the ranch and the family.”

“Don’t,” Sylvia said, watching Kate gathering up the photographs. “It looked friendly as it was.”

“Have this chair,” Bob Turner said, his pleasant eyes looking at her worriedly.

“I’ll raid the icebox, first,” she said lightly. “I’m starving.”

“Didn’t you have dinner?” Kate asked in surprise.

“I cancelled that engagement. I spent too long a time at Whitecraigs. It never was much of a place for routine or regular meals.”

Kate turned away quickly to tidy the books. Sylvia doesn’t have to lie to me, she thought angrily. She doesn’t have to make up such elaborate stories.

“Which reminds me,” Sylvia said wearily, “I must call Jennifer. She’s needled Ben and Rose into such a state that they couldn’t even enjoy a funeral.”

Then as she saw their blank stares, she smiled and said, “I’ll explain it all. But first, I’ll make that call to Jennifer before I forget it completely.”

Bob said, “And Kate and I will get you some food. A sandwich and hot soup? I’ve a fine hand with a can opener.”

“Perfect,” Sylvia said. “Peter and Ben were asking for you, Kate,” she called over her shoulder as she went towards the study. “Look, Jennifer,” they heard her say as they quickly tidied the drawing-room, “I talked to Ben after I saw you. Would you
please
be careful of the way you mention any possible changes in the running of Whitecraigs? Don’t you see how he will interpret that?... Now listen, Jennifer, someone’s got to tell you to go easily, and that’s all I’m doing...”

And as Kate and Bob passed through the hall towards the kitchen, Sylvia’s voice was angry. “Yes, I know he owes a lot to us, but we owe just as much to him... Well, at least stop being so damned tactless, will you?”

Bob said with a grin, “I guess Sylvia
is
hungry.”

Kate nodded unhappily. Did Sylvia have to leave the library door open to prove to me that she was at Whitecraigs, after all? Or did I deserve that?

When they returned with a tray to the drawing-room, Sylvia was still at the ’phone. Obviously, she had been listening to a long recital, for she gestured despairingly to them as they passed through the hall. “Jennifer, I’ve guests,” she said suddenly. “...Yes, I know; I know all about that. But you can’t measure people by efficiency alone. What about honesty and kindliness?... Sure, sure. We’ll find a way. Start a Whitecraigs Democratic Aid and Emergency Fund, and Mother will subscribe at once. But, seriously, just drop a word to Ben, will you, that he can stop worrying? If you want to keep Father happy and well, that is. Yes, that’s quite a thought, isn’t it?”

She came back slowly into the drawing-room. “Families,” she said, “families...” Then she cheered up as she saw the tray.

“You won?” Bob asked.

“My last two sentences did it. A spot of blackmail, I’m afraid. Shocking.” She picked up the cup of soup and began to drink it. “Jennifer has just gone too intense, that’s all: she’s so set on finding some security for her children—oh well, why bore you? You’re looking cheerier, Kate. Dinner was all right?”

“It was fun,” said Kate. “At least, Bob made it fun.”

“Well, someone has to resist Walter’s martyred gloom,” Bob said. “Why do you keep him, Sylvia? Doesn’t he get paid to do his job?”

“I’ve tried giving him notice,” Sylvia said. “But somehow, he can always pretend that Payton gave him the instructions that I didn’t approve of.”

“Why not tell Payton and call Walter’s bluff?” Then he wished he hadn’t asked that question: it only underlined the division that existed in the house.

“I’m lazy,” Sylvia said, making a joke to cover his remark. “Besides, Payton likes Walter.” And that addition, she thought ruefully, only undid the effect of her joke.

“Well, if old Cloud-of-Gloom would only produce a breakfast tray for the working girl before she sets out for the Museum, I bet she’d keep a lot cheerier.” He grinned over at Kate, whose cheeks had flushed and whose brown eyes were startled. “Imagine walking five blocks for your first cup of coffee, then bus-standing to a building that looks as if the men from Mars had begun their invasion, then entering a hall where some stone-age mice have nibbled holes in the statues, then facing little Billy who wants every word spelled out twice before he’ll accept it.”

“Why?” Sylvia said, looking at Kate. “Start again, Bob, and go slowly. What’s this, about walking five blocks for breakfast?”

They were still talking about Walter—and for that, both Kate and Sylvia were grateful—when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Bob said. “The admirable Walter has retired to his room, judging by the slightly rebellious look of Minna in the kitchen.” He went into the hall.

“Hasn’t Minna gone home yet?” Sylvia asked in dismay.

Kate said, “She helped us fix your tray. She said if it weren’t for you, she’d quit tomorrow. I think she means it, too.”

“Walter may even have to work again,” Sylvia observed with a strange little smile as if Minna were bound to leave. Then, suddenly, “Kate, you haven’t been very happy here. Why do you stay—why do you let us interfere with your own life? Darling, are you trying to be a restraining influence on me?” She bit her lip and then turned her head away. She became absorbed in the hall, where the unexpected visitor was taking off his coat and hat.

Kate could only stare at her.

Sylvia was now saying, “They’re having quite a conversation out there. Who can it be?” She glanced back at Kate. “Don’t look like that... I didn’t mean to hurt.” She rose quickly and came towards Kate. “Please—please think of me the way you did when you came here. I really haven’t changed so much.”

Once more she looked towards the hall, but the visitor and Bob were still talking. She said in a voice filled with emotion and yet so low that Kate could scarcely hear, “Oh, Kate, I hope you’ll never be miserably married—except that, then, you’ll never understand me at all.”

She moved abruptly over to the fireplace and rearranged the perfectly placed logs. When she turned round to welcome the visitor who now came into the room with Bob, the sadness had gone from her face and her voice was under control.

It was Martin Clark. His determined jaw seemed more set than usual, but his tight lips eased into a smile as his quick blue eyes glanced round the room. “Hallo, Sylvia. Hallo, Kate,” he said, pleased and yet worried. He tried to smooth down the thin strands of his red hair which had been lifted out of place. Behind him was Turner, looking triumphant, but his wide grin for Kate only left her bewildered.

“Let me guess,” Sylvia said, as Martin kissed her on the cheek, “you’ve been wearing the black homburg that Amy gave you for your birthday. And at an angle.”

He laughed, smoothed his hair again and then rubbed the red line which stretched across his brow. “It’s a tight fit,” he conceded. “But Amy’s convinced it will make me a real diplomat.” He shook hands briskly with Kate, that same strong quick grip that reminded her of the last time she had met him, weeks ago, when Sylvia and she had laughed together as they waited for the dinner guests to arrive. But in spite of the smile and the controlled eyes, she felt he was worried.

Sylvia must have felt it, too, for she asked how Amy was.

“Fine,” Martin said. “She looks like a ship in full sail.”

“Is it really to be twins?”

“The doctor thinks so and Amy’s not taking any chances. She’s knitting like mad. Double order of everything. She sends her love—at least, she will when she hears that I’ve been here. Actually,” he took out his cigarette case, “I came to see Payton.” He shook his head as he found his case empty. “A sure sign of working late,” he said.

“Eat this first,” Sylvia said and offered him a sandwich. “And the coffee’s fresh too.”

“Thanks, Sylvia.” He settled down in the nearest chair.

He’s like a doctor, Kate thought suddenly, and it wasn’t only the scrubbed face and hands and neat dark clothes and white starched shirt that made her imagine that. It was more the alert way he sat, the guarded look on his friendly face, the thoughtful eyes, as if he had come to visit a patient who mustn’t be alarmed.

“Payton’s working late, too,” Sylvia said.

“I looked in at his office, but I found only the faithful Miss Black filing the last remnants of work.”

“Then he must have gone to eat at the Club.”

“I called the Club but he wasn’t there.”

“He may be on his way here, now,” Sylvia said helpfully, placing the remaining sandwiches on a table near Clark. “I missed dinner, too,” she explained, watching the quick way he ate. “They’re keeping you busy on your new assignment, Martin.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“Amy told me. Now, don’t worry...she only said it was some kind of security job. But
very
important.”

“Totally routine,” he contradicted, looking a little embarrassed and annoyed. Then he laughed. “I suppose Amy couldn’t bear to admit that I’m superintendent of burning the trash dumped into waste baskets.”

“Well, that could be important—the trash, I mean,” Sylvia said tactfully. “Papers and all that.” She looked around for help.

“Sure,” Bob Turner said, obliging her and Clark, too. “The best spies always make straight for the waste basket. Then they spend happy hours on the floor of their locked bedrooms, solving jig-saw puzzles.” He exchanged a smile with Clark.

“It’s funny,” Sylvia said, “whenever a man has an important job he makes it sound unimportant. And vice versa.” She glanced over at Kate, but the girl was sitting quite still, listening and yet not listening, a polite smile on her lips but her eyes unseeing, as if her own thoughts blotted out their light remarks. Yet I had to talk to her like that, Sylvia thought. I had to... She looks at me so strangely, she’s so unnatural with me. The first feeling we had for each other is all gone. I can’t even talk to her now. There is only the feeling of separation, of coldness, as if a film of ice had formed between us. Doesn’t she see I need her affection, her trust, her warmth? I can’t bear this disapproval, or is it fear? I’m too fond of her. Doesn’t she see how lonely I am?

“Then I’d better start sounding as important as possible,” Martin Clark was saying. “Top secret stuff. In fact, the papers I deal with are so important that they’re marked ‘Burn before Reading’.”

“All right, all right,” Sylvia said. “I’ll never mention your job again. The Army over here is so security-minded that he has already forgotten it. And Kate?”

“Oh!” Kate said, startled into life. “I really wasn’t listening, I’m afraid. I’m awfully sorry,” she added haltingly.

“Are the mobiles beginning to haunt you, Kate?” Clark asked, laughing. “Or is it the hard-bitten public, like me, who comes to make uninhibited comments?”

Bob Turner took over, then. He began to describe ordeal by school children. “I know it’s a large minus against you if you say that you like what you like in art,” he ended, “and yet, if you praise what you don’t like, isn’t that cheating? And wouldn’t you say that wine appreciation is another form of art? A lesser form, yes, but it is still an art. There, a man can know what he likes and admit it frankly. If he doesn’t think much of sauterne, he refuses to drink it. He can avoid claret or Vouvray if he prefers burgundy or hock, and no one calls him Chief Babbitt of the ruined palate. But in art, let anyone stand up and state flatly that he likes what he likes, and he’s demoted to a lower mugwump. Come on, Kate, explain this to me. I’m just the brutal and licentious soldiery.”