Mr. Fortune (23 page)

But at that instant he had caught sight of her, and began to praise the puppy in Spanish. He halted, tried for a word, failed, stopped. More slowly he embarked on another sentence, which was within his power but not what he had been trying to say.

“If you speak English to me I shall understand you better than that puppy does.”

She scarcely knew that the words were out of her mouth, the nettle grasped, the self of the previous moment forsworn, so overmastering had been the impulse to grab him before he vanished again into his sad anonymity. Presently everything was quite easy, her legs her own under her, her voice no longer a third presence in the room, an invisible something beating against the ceiling; and to sit by the bed, explaining that her husband had been English, so that she knew his language quite well, was no exploit, but something quite ordinary, kind and sensible. It was hearing him speak to the puppy, she explained, that had revealed his nationality to her. Previously, she had been deceived by his masterly Spanish.

Now that the discovery was made it would be a pleasure, she continued, to offer him various reminders of his native land. Her servant could manage several English dishes very nicely: apple dumpling, mushrooms on toast, roast chicken and bread sauce. She thought his face fell. Was it possible that he liked none of these foods?

“I have not tasted English cooking for more than twelve years.”

He now looked extremely sorrowful, more sorrowful even than twelve years' separation from bread sauce could warrant.

“Twelve years. That is sad for you. But I understand why you speak Spanish so fluently.”

“So fluently that I frighten your poor little dog. No, I have been in South America for less than a year. Before then I was in the Pacific—on the islands, I mean.”

Angustias felt no interest in islands, an unsatisfying section of geography that gave one the trouble of learning a name and immediately left off all round. Madagascar, for instance—an island, undoubtedly, but where? There seemed to be no good reason why Madagascar should be in one place rather than another. She was more interested in the beginning of the sentence. Apparently he had forgotten that he had spoken to the puppy in English, a rather discourteous forgetfulness, since it was upon this that her own English had followed. She was not offended, it was obvious that no slight had been meant. But she was disquieted, even vaguely alarmed. It was not natural to be so divorced from one's own concerns, the important small concerns of convalescence. This was the indifference not of a sick-bed but of a death-bed.

The indifference was not ostended. On the surface he was normal enough: grateful for kindness, amused by the puppy, attentive to her conversation; but attention and amusement and gratitude seemed all to be a little rootless, irrelevant to their demonstrator, as though they were expressed on behalf of some third person who was not there. No doubt the poor creature was bored, lying in a dusky room with a headache. When he came downstairs things would be different. He could drive the car, play the gramophone, ride round the estate, shoot and fish. They would go into the town and see a play, or eat the ham
soufflé
in the arbour.

On his descent she unlocked her secretary and gave him his wallet. He stood turning it in his hands, looking at the frayed corners. Then a thought struck him, and he told her his name. She repeated it after him. Having known him for so long nameless, this information seemed to set back their acquaintance, making him a stranger once more. She was at a loss, wondering what to say next. She could not tell him her own name, he knew it already, since the day he learned of her English marriage calling her Mrs. Bailey, an attention that pleased her.

“But you do not know my Christian name. It is Angustias. It means Anguish.”

“It is a very beautiful name,” he replied gravely, and she felt that he meant what he said. “I shall often remember it when I am gone.”

And he began to speak of departure as though he must depart immediately, as though the wallet had been a hint.

“I will not hear of such a thing. You are not well enough; whatever your business, it must wait. Is it so very urgent, your business?”

He looked at the ground.

“If it is to walk about under the midday sun, you have done quite enough of that for the present. No, you must stay a little longer. This house is so dull. It is out of the world, no one comes here now. I cannot lose my guest so soon. And in any case, you cannot go in this weather.”

It had begun to rain that very morning, a fine close rain, a texture separating the mind from any other kind of weather. From pipes and gutters sounded a continuous placid murmur of lapsing water. The ear might have believed that a vast flock of finches or starlings had settled upon the roof, and chirped in parliament there. Every five minutes or so a gutter which had resisted the campaign of restoration overflowed, and a sheaf of water fell splashing into the pool beneath. Under the pressure of the rain the poplar-trees began to shed down their foliage, for the March sun had seared the leaves, their hold was loosened, they were ready to fall. As yet there was no visible diminution in their summer bulk, but on the morrow the leaves would lie clotted in the dog's drinking-trough, and the well would have to be skimmed. The hens splashed about alertly, bickering in the pursuit of slugs, and a troop of ostriches crossed the middle distance, veiled ungainly ghosts, off on some unaccountable journey.

Inside the house it was dark and rather chilly, and from this isolation of dryness one looked forth into the watery world as from a diving-bell. Presently Quita came in and kindled a fire. The scent of the fresh burning twigs was like a strain of music. They sat down and held out their hands to the weak flames. Now we will begin to talk, she thought; but they were silent.

“A cigarette?”

“Thank you.”

“But perhaps you would prefer a pipe?”

At intervals the bitch sat up and scratched. At the close of each bout she reclined with the sigh of one who desists from a virtuous industry, and settled herself for further slumbers. She had been out in the rain, steamed slightly, and smelled. Consciousness of her guest floated slowly from Angustias. One did not like the rain, of course, yet there was something pleasant about a wet day, a quality that somehow bestowed a sense of adventure upon doing nothing, launching one upon those long hours as upon a well-auspiced voyage. Once, long ago, soon after their marriage, Harry had taken her to see a ship launched. The holy water was sprinkled, the band struck up a polka, and to the sound of applause the towering bulk seemed to melt into a movement so natural and majestic that it quelled all the activity of people doing things round about. The vessel stopped for a moment, and the heart stopped with her; then she flowed onward, as sure of the sea as the river is. Angustias had found herself tremendously excited, and dropped her parasol, a pink one, into the dock. A ridiculous action, and she had tried to pass it off as an accident. But as they drove back into the town her husband had said abruptly, passionately, “I adore you for dropping that gamp.” And taking her hand he had kissed the palm through the opening of her glove. Nor was that the end of it; for the parasol must be replaced, and entering the shop he had said like a grandee, “Show me the best parasol you have.”

The consciousness that she had sighed recalled her to the present. Turning her head, for sooner or later one must say something, she found the eyes of her guest fixed steadfastly upon her.

“I beg your pardon. It was rude of me to stare like that. But I was looking at your cigarette-holder.”

A slender silver ring fitted on to her little finger, and from it rose a pair of tiny tweezers, clasping the cigarette. She slid it off, dropped out the butt, and handed over the toy for his inspection. He admired it with the grave consideration of a child, nursing it respectfully in his palm, as though, in a minute clear voice, it might speak to him, she thought. And while she watched it was indeed as though the toy had spoken, for holding back his breath he began to smile, and an expression of great tenderness came into his face. For some reason she found herself likening him to the ship she had seen launched. It was as though he also had quickened into life; and she watched him as she had watched the ship, stirred with an inexplicable excitement and sympathy. The ship's coming to life had been sorrowful, and so was his; and remote from the one as from the other, she felt something flow out of her soul, an anxious love, an impulse to succour and befriend.

“It is charming,” he said, giving it back to her.

He had stuck again, just like the ship, looked as stockish as ever, would not, for all the anxious propulsion of her sympathy, budge an inch onward towards confidence. This was what came of being old. Something perished in one; some juice which oiled intercourse, bird-limed the spirit, smoothed the way for words, was secreted no longer. One elderly per-son sat opposite another, each sealed in their separate lives, finding nothing to say; whereas thirty years ago she and this stranger would have been chattering together like two birds on a bough.

Before she knew what the words were she had spoken.

“It is strange, is it not, that two persons of our age should be considering this toy?”

“I was thinking how a friend of mine would delight in it.”

Angustias ceased to think of her age.

“You should send one as a gift to—to your friend. They are easy to pack, a little cotton-wool—”

“I wish I could. But he is out of the way of parcels. It would not find him.”

Before she could reply he had of his own accord introduced a new subject of conversation, remarking that it seemed to be raining as hard as ever. She knew what would come next. The wetness of the day having been established and the possibility of the rain clearing off later dismissed, he would be wanting to go out for a walk. Then she remembered the apricots. They had been picked two days before, and now waited for their end to be determined—sweet or sour, preserve or pickle.

No, they should be made into apricot brandy. For a hammer is a manly implement, he should be happy breaking up the clear brown sugar like lumps of quartz, and freeing it from its fibres of string. And when he had finished the sugar he might fall to work on the stones, splitting them to get at the kernels—that is, if he proved neat-handed enough; for it is not a task every one can accomplish successfully. But seeing how gratified, how vigorous, and how sticky he became over the sugar, Angustias knew she must give him the kernels too, however much he might maul them. She, meanwhile, quartered the fruit with a sharp knife and packed the large-mouthed heavy bottles with alternate layers of apricot and sugar, layers of equal depth, for in her opinion liqueurs were nothing if they were not sweet.

It was with regret that they saw the last bottle filled. There were plenty more apricots, but they had spent the last drop of brandy.

“We will pickle those tomorrow,” she said. “A recipe from Shropshire in England, very old-fashioned and strong. They will keep for twenty years. But now let us go and rest. I should not have worked you so hard.” For she was desirous to leave the kitchen before Quita came in to hold up her hands at such prodigality.

“But shouldn't we seal the corks?”

Nothing could be less necessary, since in six months' time the bottles must be opened, the fruit-scented brandy drained off. But, pleased with pleasing, she collected odds and ends of sealing-wax and set them to melt in a small saucepan. To seal a cork properly is not too easy; for the dipped end must be twirled as it is withdrawn from the bubbling wax so that no unsightly dribbles may run down the bottle neck. After their first half-dozen they grew more skilful. Seeing the honey-smooth hardening surface a new ambition took hold of them, and they said, speaking almost simultaneously,

“It ought to be sealed with a seal.”

“Wait a minute,” she cried. “Don't do any more till I come. I may take a little time to find it, but I'm sure I can lay my hand on it somewhere. And it is exactly what we need.”

She ran it to earth in the deed-box—the old rusty seal of the House of the Salutation, which had once been used for branding slaves, printing into their flesh the sharp small outlines of the two cloaked and haloed holy women, Mary and Elizabeth. As she had said, it was exactly what they needed, and that nothing might flaw their achievement they dipped the first six bottles again and stamped them too.

Sitting on the kitchen table, swinging her small feet, she yawned and stretched herself proudly, bridling with airs of fatigue and well-spent energy.

“They will have to be shaken twice a week.”

At that moment a loud rattle approached the house, a horn sounded, a hen squawked, and with a shriek the brakes were applied. Angustias cast her hands up to her hair, looked at the clock, and exclaimed,

“It's that accursed Sodality.”

Seeing her guest stiffen, she explained rapidly that she made one of a guild of women whose business it was to mend the church napery, polish brass-work, renew the artificial flowers when they grew too fly-blown, and so forth. These women were supposed to gather at the church on the eves of Sundays or Saints' days, to see that all was in order.

“It is fifteen miles away, no one would expect me to go in such weather. But Pepe is the priest's housekeeper's nephew, and he would take me through the Last Judgment rather than miss the nougat she gives him.”

She looked at the window, at the fire, groaned, and shook herself resignedly. She was not prepared to hear him say, “May I come with you? I could wait in the car.”

The car was an old leggy Ford, and Pepe drove it as though it were a stallion. They sat side by side, supporting between them a bouquet of calico lilies that Quita had handed in after them. In the small enclosure of the car their scentlessness was disquieting. The car lurched and bounded, the lilies creaked on their stems, splashes of mud flew out on either side, the veiled landscape streamed past them. Pepe, wrapped in a fatal Byronic calm, swept from skid to skid, thinking of the nougat. The horn blared, the stallion was jerked back on its haunches, suddenly they were surrounded by a flock of sheep. Heaving and undulating, the sodden backs seemed to flow out from under the wheels, while the dogs pounced and barked, and the hooded shepherd sat on his old horse at the side of the road, his crook slanting along his shoulder. When the car had been extricated from this impediment Pepe looked back and remarked,