The Diamond Waterfall (79 page)

She noticed it first when, as they lay together on the double bed, she told him more about Gib than she had ever told anyone (Ferdy—how to imagine telling him those secrets of the heart. Saint, who had been his friend, even less.).

She ended her tale with the diary, the diary that had been not only comfortless but a death knell too.
I slept with a dead man.

“Afterward, when he came back—”

“You should remember only the Gilbert you loved,” Henri said. “The man of the diaries—wasn't Gilbert. I know, because for years after—the reason in the end why I had no marriage, was that I was no longer Henri, 1915.1
understand
this dead man you speak of. I was buried alive, you see. I too came back from the dead.”

She got his name wrong, when she chanced to use it one time: “Feydeau.”

“I'm not a
farceur,
” he said, laughing, but he didn't correct her. “Call me what you like—though Henri would be better.”

“You don't have a pet name?”

“Give me one.”

“Later,” she said, “later. When we have more time together.” She was certain now that they would—but whether they did or not would depend on her. He had said so. Suddenly very serious, he had explained that he did not see it just as an
affaire,
although she might. On the other hand, she must not rush into anything. Above all, she must give herself a breathing space. The dreaded weekend that he was to spend in the Loire: “I can't avoid it, since it's business. But while I'm gone, you must think,
very seriously.”

“Couldn't I come too, as your secretary?”

“No. You're meant to be thinking, Teddee. Neither of us, can afford a mistake. So, Monday we shall meet for lunch, and you can tell me. We can tell each other. If you are frightened, have changed your mind, then it's enough not to keep our appointment. That way it is very simple. I shall know —but you will have been spared telling me.”

He went on, “But if all is well, Tuesday we can go to St. Lazare together. Hoping that Danielle Darrieux isn't traveling the same day—that happened to me once, not a porter left to pay attention. We can plan then what we'll do, when I'm back from Canada. Or if you would wish to come out too …”

She wanted to say, But I've thought already. I think I'll come now. Try even to get a passage for Tuesday. But to show so much certainty … it would not do.

On their last evening, the Friday, they ate outside Paris on the edge of the Bois de Verrières. She wore a black moiré suit with tight-fitting jacket, and vest and jabot in pale pink organdie. They were at a group of restaurants with tables up in the trees. Everyone wanted to be at a table up in a tree; the waiters naturally encouraged them to take tables on the ground.

He told her, “During the weekend I shall want to telephone you. But I won't. … It wouldn't be right or fair.”

They arranged that when—
if
—she came on Monday, it would be to the little cafe two corners from her apartment, where they had eaten the first night, and sat drinking twice since. It was usually so crowded as to give a sort of privacy.

“I
promise
that if you are not there I shall do nothing. I shan't run round to your apartment saying, ‘But I thought you loved me.'”

“It's wait and see then, isn't it?” she said in her cooler, teasing voice.

“I woke up this morning,” he said, “when you were still asleep, and thought, I shall go to the Avenue Matignon to Max and buy her a wild mink —full-length. I didn't, of course. But that is the sort of mad impulse I've been having.”

“If you
do
get one, I shall want only the best.”

“Naturally, Teddee.”

She didn't expect to sleep on the Saturday night, so was surprised when drowsiness overcame her about two in the morning.
Sunday
now. Already she'd managed one whole day. When she woke she would go straight to the orphans, spend the day with them, then early to bed. In the morning it would be Monday. And then at lunchtime …
“Yes, yes,
” she would say, “I want to be with you always,
forever.”

Then after the happy-sad-happy night they would wake and dress, and take a cab to the Gare St. Lazare. She would go with him to Le Havre and see the boat off. Then decide about following him and how soon it would be. Meanwhile, about the war … We have the Maginot Line, she repeated to herself like a charm, we have the Maginot Line. France will be safe.

And anyway, it would be all right once they were together. I feel so sure, she thought. The whole of today I was absolutely certain (as only someone who's made hundreds of mistakes could be). Ever since Gib I have been looking …

The telephone woke her with shocking suddenness. Groping for the light, knocking the receiver off … She could not at first make out the voice: faint, then more clear. Repeating patiently:

“Erik, this is
Erik.
Teddy …”

Oh dear God, she could not hear properly. Mother … No, not
dead.
But the doctors … She had been ill about a week, now they were of a sudden worried last night—had arranged to operate early Monday. “They want to see what's happening with her. The liver, we don't know what we must think.” The normally unruffled Erik, agitated. She remembered his telling her his father had died under the knife—a pioneer operation for appendicitis.

“Erik, I'll come
immediately
—the first boat.”

Yet another time of rushing. For Sylvia … To Romania for Michael. She should be used by now …

The time was half-past three. She had already pulled on her wrap, reached for a cigarette and lit it before she realized. Sunday now. The orphans, that would be all right. But
Monday?

I shall tell him what's happened. She threw clothes into a suitcase, mentally composed notes, instructions for Blanche. I'll send a letter to his hotel that will make it absolutely clear. A telegram to Le Havre. A telephone call from Yorkshire.

She would leave these practicalities till the last moment. If she did everything quickly she could get a cab in about an hour. The first train out of Paris, an early boat, England by the afternoon, Yorkshire late this evening. She thought about planes. A Sunday. By the time I've found out the details I could be half across the Channel. (That man, lover, years ago, who said, “If ever you want flying anywhere in an emergency, just call me.”
At four in the morning?)

She'd begin by ringing the night porter at Henri's hotel, to leave a message. But—oh dear God …
which hotel?
She had never asked or known. Try ringing some likely ones—so popular at this hour—asking whether they have staying there a M. Henri … a M. Henri … M. Henri
who?

Oh, but it's not possible, I'm mad. Dearest darling Henri,
of course
I know your name. We were introduced at that dinner party. Since then she
must
have heard him use it. He had perhaps left a card? She began a frantic search. He had not.

Feydeau,
Feydeau
ran around in her head. The playwright. That wasn't it, but it was somewhere near. Daudet, Feldeau, Feydoux. No. Aimée Ribourel, she gave that party, he was brought as an extra guest—
by whom?
She would know. But one couldn't ring her house now. And … of course, they have left for the country. Somewhere in the Romanche, I think. I never bothered to find out.

I could wait till Yorkshire. I must. It is Mother who is important. I could leave a note for Blanche that she try to do something.

The
cafe where they were to meet.
She ran downstairs and along the deserted street. Perhaps there are late drinkers still, someone will remember us, give a message?

The shutters were up, refuse was piled outside. A gray alley cat scavenged. Mewing, it came over, rubbing its face against her leg. What message could she leave? “If a dark monsieur with glasses seems to be waiting for a guest, tell him that Teddee …”

Impossible. She was paralyzed with sadness, and panic. I shall lose him. I shall lose him. Where was that so sophisticated, so unflappable Teddy?
What do I do now?
she cried inside, over and over.

All the way home, cab to train to boat to train and train again, she felt sick with worry. If Mother should die before she got home—if, ungrateful, always absent, always wayward daughter, she were to arrive too late …

“I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”

So that's it, Teddy thought, listening to the tired voice of the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. Seeing Willow's pinched face opposite (her birthday yesterday scarcely noticed. It had not been a time to celebrate.). We have come to this—the war to end all wars, in vain.

The Towers: suddenly full of memories. I walk the corridors, flapper, little help, reading to the officers, singing for them, dancing,
falling in love with Gib.
Thank you God, for nothing.

Sunday today. By Tuesday evening The Towers would be more or less a children's home. It would have been sooner had she not insisted they have the chance first to bury Lily quietly, and with dignity.

About forty children (evacuated from Leeds, to be safe from the air raids, which might begin at any moment) would descend on them, to be housed in dormitories of ten. Children of whom the eldest would be only five or six. I shall have my work cut out, but I want that. For the next few months every minute of every day will be occupied. There will not be enough moments. … I shall have to borrow time.

No question now of going back to Paris. She had been in touch with Blanche's father to try and arrange some caretaking. Her friends would do what they could. All that life, an Englishwoman in Paris, must be forgotten for the moment.

As must Henri. When she thought of that episode, it no longer seemed real. After those terrible first few days it had been bearable because she was
numb. All that was
alive
in her had been devoted to her mother. There had not been, either, the chance to do anything. (And he had not, had he? But then he was proud, and had promised he would not question her decision.)

The pattern of my life, she thought, is it to be good works and casual loves again? That should suit wartime. But children, I'm to be allowed to love
them
as much as I want. And that is not nothing.

There had never been any hope for Lily. The exploratory operation had told them only that her liver was beyond healing. No time was given. Teddy decided then not to return to Paris. (I could not bear another rush back across the Channel, heart thumping, wondering if I will be in time.)

Willow, and Erik to some extent, hoped. Willow because she hadn't been told enough, Erik because it was in his nature. Besides Teddy, the only person close to Lily to be realistic about her chances had been Sadie Hawksworth. And she had worries of her own: for several months Charlie had been showing symptoms of an undiagnosed illness.

Michael had had compassionate leave for his grandmother. He was in the RAF—not having waited to see if war would be averted. He was engaged to a girl from London, unexpectedly suitable. It wouldn't be long before they married.

Willow was waiting for the results of her Matric exam. She had been a weekly boarder at a York school since January, and planned to stay on for at least another year.

Two Austrians, mother and daughter, were living at the Vicarage. In those difficult days of nursing Lily, bolstering Erik, taking care of Willow, Teddy went there twice a week for German lessons. She didn't imagine there was a great demand for these just now, nor that the Austrians would knowingly accept charity. She paid as highly as she dared. Surprisingly, she found the lessons restful, and easy. She remembered more than she realized from the days of moon-faced Fräulein.

Meanwhile Willow must not be left to languish. Teddy tried with small tennis parties, teas. Sadie was as kind as ever. Her soldier son was home on leave from India—the handsome Christopher, who as a baby had been so ugly.

To look at, he was nothing like Jack as Teddy remembered him. Nor Sadie or Charlie particularly. He was undoubtedly a Hawksworth, though. The nearest resemblance was a portrait at the Hall of the grandfather who'd fought at Sebastopol.

It became obvious those early days of August that Willow had quite a crush on Christopher. Strange, Teddy thought, considering I was in love with Gib at sixteen, I never think of Willow, and boys, and love.

But that furious blushing when we met him in the village shop. That watching him under her lashes in church—to see without being seen. Then
when I arrange a tennis afternoon, she is struck dumb. She plays with him in mixed doubles and every time he speaks to her she turns bright pink, unable to say a word. It's unlikely she will tell me anything about it. He seems scarcely to notice her, being as he is the center of attraction. I would have expected him to be spoiled. He is not.

It had seemed an obscenity, this hive of activity, as August wore on— warm, dry, reminding her of the dry hot July of 1914. As one event succeeded another, it became apparent the time had passed for going back to Paris. Military reservists were called up. There were mass evacuation plans, including the children they were to take in at The Towers. A scurry of preparations. People's canceled or curtailed holidays.

Christopher had rejoined his regiment, to be ready to go to France. Lily had not died. Her pain and discomfort, her terrible color, and Erik's distress. Teddy told him, “If, when … something happens to Mother, you'll go to Denmark? It's what she would expect.”

And indeed the next day Lily said, “You'll make sure Erik goes home? He's been a long time away. And on my account too.”

Some days Lily was lucid, some not. It was when her mind wandered that she said the most. She spoke of Val
(my father,
thought Teddy), and once or twice imagined it was the turn of the century, that she was in Romania again. One very hot day, she told Teddy, “It will be cooler of course as soon as we get up into the mountains. Sophie's villa in Sinaia, we shall be comfortable. And Val, although he may go shooting, will come back to us. He was always faithful, you know,
in his heart “