The Finishing Touch (5 page)

‘Well, what can you expect?’ commented Hetty, handed the Report for sealing.

‘What indeed? One can only faire son possible.’

‘Rest now, my beloved; try to rest.’

‘Tomorrow I shall start a special Literature group. A small group, I think … informal. We shall meet in my study. The President’s daughter, I think, Eugénie Plash and, perhaps, Regina Outre-Mer.’

‘And H.R.H.’

‘And H.R.H.—I was forgetting’, sighed
Antonia
. ‘How readily does one retire—from the
stress
—into one’s fantasies.’

‘My darling shall do no more work tonight’, whispered Hetty. ‘Can I help my darling undr——’

‘No, dear. You must get the Report in the Bag. I won’t detain you.’

‘Then …’

‘Then …’

Strange how, even when one was left alone, the usual pleased embarras of choice in solitude had yielded place to a desert of discontent. Parched though one was, none of the springs … The Grand Marnier bottle merely grossly bulbous, worthy of cooking only, the very Bénédictine suggesting none but the schoolgirl interpretation of its ciphered D.O.M., even the green and the yellow Chartreuse bottles, so resemblant yet so disparate, sister-bottles, alcoholic Plash girls, failing to tempt … Was
one, then, old? or ill?—or death-wishing? Strange this, in the ultimate reaches of fatigue, masochistic longing for oblivion, this wish to be hit, to be coshed, to be slugged, actually, over the back of the head … Had one indeed been too long expatriate? Could it be that today had stirred home thoughts, that one was wishing for one’s native …? Self-astounded, all but ashamed, Antonia poured (and added no water) a cut-glass tumblerful of Scotch …

B
Y SOME
oversight, although there were five persons (Antonia, her nosegay, H.R.H.), there were only four copies of the text.

(Antonia had decided to read with them some poems of Renée Vivien.)

Who, then, should share Antonia’s copy?

Not
H.R.H., whom Antonia had already placed in an arm chair which was in fact deeply comfortable and would therefore pass for the place of honour, but whose arms, rendering the occupant all but besieged, made unthinkable any encroachment of sharing … It was placed, this chair, at the furthest remove from Antonia’s own; even so, Antonia expected to undergo some suffering by virtue of her long sight …

Not,
Antonia decided, Eugénie Plash … Ever since Antonia’s notice had been drawn to Sylvie Plash, she could not prevent herself from remarking that there was between the two faces an extreme familial resemblance. Indeed, it would be hard to point any more than
subjectively
perceived distinction: no doubt if one took a measuring rod to the two there would turn out to be virtually nothing in it …

It lay, therefore, between the President’s daughter and Regina Outre-Mer.

Ever since Regina’s own demonstration had been reinforced by Commander Curl’s, Antonia had borne in the front of her mind the prettiness of blushes and the pleasures of provoking them. If the President’s damson daughter
had
a defect—and she must be allowed one; she was only human (surely?)—it was that she
could
not—well, one could not, naturally,
expect
her to …

It was, therefore, to Regina Outre-Mer that Antonia frailly signalled a small patting gesture of the air beside her; Regina who sank (how prettily) on to the rose-pink, rose-soft carpet at Antonia’s pointed feet; Regina whose bent head indicated she was blushing already (but she must look up if she was to see the text; meanwhile, how appealing the chrysanthemum top
presented
to Antonia’s view).

Royalty, of course, did not mind: did not notice. The President’s daughter noticed but seemed not to care. (I think, Antonia remarked to herself and felt sad at the thought, she was never really interested in the first place; perhaps—ah, a second’s faintness at the heart—these girls from torrid countries are, ultimately,
cold …) From Eugénie Plash’s pout Antonia turned away. It put her in mind of Sylvie.

Regina Outre-Mer’s arm lay alongside, lay almost touching, Antonia’s. Regina’s little wrist knob turned, wriggled, darting as a lizard,
scintillating
as a jewelled watch, this way and that, in embarrassment? in pleasure?, distracting Antonia’s eye from Renée Vivien … O, most poignant of little poignets … Yet one could not very well, beneath the staring face of royalty (deep-puzzled by Renée Vivien), lean forward to kiss it …

H
ETTY’S MIND
became a teeming womb of royal hazards.

Every day, every hour it seemed to Antonia (already wearied by the high summer heat), Hetty’s imagination gave phantom-birth to another catastrophe. Not alone the real dangers of press photographers (Hetty had had to throw stones at one before he would climb down from the garden wall; flapping her arms had made no effect) and sailors (both the native ones with their absurd red pom-poms on their hats and the British with their absurd naked knees twinkling—because
peeling
—like pink pom-poms)—though in fact Antonia judged royalty
unsusceptible
to the advances of sailors—or anyone else; the most far-conjured eventualities rose to frighten Hetty in the night and, in the morning, pale over Antonia’s breakfast tray (so offputting—even if the pineapple and passionfruit
conserve
had
been of her best), she would offer:

Suppose royalty should fall into the sea?

Suppose royalty should contract la grippe?

Suppose the cuisine should not agree with …

If royalty
gets
la grippe, thought Antonia—a far worse hazard was that Hetty should lose hers.

Why should Hetty now flinch from her share of the responsibility (if Hetty fails, I shall simply lay down my burden) when Antonia had borne hers? Hetty had no need to flinch: she was so perfectly competent. (Surely Hetty
was
so
perfectly
competent? One had not been entrusting one’s affairs these years to one who was
not
? …)

Suppose royalty were to fling herself from the window of the rose suite?

‘But why
should
she, my dear? She is surely not in love. And I know of no other pretext.’

‘No, no, you’re quite right, my darling’s quite right. I’m just being a silly. I’m a little moithered these days. Perhaps it’s the Mistral coming on.’

‘Every emotion on this coastline’, Antonia sighed, ‘is attributed to the Mistral’s coming, being overdue or having just gone. One would take it for a function of feminine physiology.’

Hetty permitted herself to look wounded.

‘There’, said Antonia delicately, ‘there. Have a drink.’

‘No, no, my dear’ (but kindness in Antonia’s tone was stronger stimulant) ‘I need my wits about me.’

Of Antonia’s world-tired smile Hetty would never be certain of the import. But she chose to read it kindly.

And yet:

‘And yet’, said Hetty, pausing on her way from the room (I hope, Antonia thought, she
has
her wits about balancing the tray), ‘supposing she fell by accident?’

‘My dear, the
Lebanese
princess managed
perfectly
well about staying inside.’

As a matter of fact, the Lebanese princess had tossed several exotic objects from her window (and one or two erotic) but never, so far as Antonia knew, herself (who had been both).

 *

‘What do you think of her?’

‘I think she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen’, said Regina Outre-Mer.

‘
Do
you?’ said all the girls, deep-surprised.

‘Whom’, Regina asked, suddenly égarée, ‘are we discussing?’

‘Royalty.’

‘O. O, I thought you meant——’

‘We haven’t all your obsession’, said Eugénie Plash.

But her nastiness of tone went unnoticed by Regina, who simply replied, wonderingly:

‘Haven’t we? How strange people are.’

 *

Suppose a lizard bit royalty?

‘
Can
they?’ Antonia replied, with scepticism enough to convince Hetty they could not.

But a mosquito could: a hundred mosquitoes could: worst of all, the local wasp, the dreaded guêpe du midi, whose venom, if not extracted from the bloodstream within twenty minutes …

‘My dear, I’m less afraid’, Antonia faintly said, ‘of what she may suffer than of what she may inflict.’

‘Come’, said the baritone roundly, ‘she’s not exactly a breaker of hearts.’

‘Not of hearts’, said the soprano, tremolo (the tremolo alone tinged with alto) … ‘Did you lock up the Dresden?’

‘My dearest, yes, but——’

‘And not’ (diminuendo) ‘in the glass-fronted cabinet? …’

‘No, my dear, but I think you exaggerate the——’

‘Exaggerate!’—frail cry, like the splintering
of frailest porcelain. ‘But you
saw
that hydrangea pot!’

‘My loveliest, she really and truly has smashed nothing since.’

All very well for Hetty, who (
was
she losing a little in reliability?) retained at least her sturdiness, but when one was oneself of a Dresden fragility …

(Remember to push one’s chair, at the study group, to a yet further extreme from the royal chair. What matter if one’s faint voice failed to carry to royal ears? They could hardly take in less than they did …)

 *

To remove one’s chair yet further from royalty meant to withdraw yet deeper into a recess (taking, of course, Regina Outre-Mer in one’s train).

Here sunlight (filtered, of course, in the first place, through Venetian blinds) had scarcely the strength—or the heart?—to reach. Here one was—here two were—swathed in a veiling pénombre. Regina, if she was to
see
the text laid on the soft lap, must——

‘Lean closer, dear child’, Antonia murmured; ‘do not feel shy …’

And Antonia, if she was to
see
the pretty blushes her murmur provoked, must, in her turn …

The text, as a matter of fact, was no longer the same. Royalty making so little of Renée Vivien, Antonia had substituted something simpler (
Albertine
Disparue
,
as a matter of fact) … As it turned curiously out, there were only four copies of this, too …

(‘Poverty’, Eugénie Plash unpleasantly
commented
afterwards, ‘seems to have overtaken Antonia’s library’—unpleasantness again lost on Regina Outre-Mer, who, kissing her own little wrist which, for one moment of
page-turning
, had actually rested on Antonia’s lap and smelt now of Antonia’s scent, clasped to herself the mental exclamation Holy Poverty!)

Almost invisible to her pupils, almost
inaudible
to the further flung of them, Antonia yet presided … by the distinction of the frail silhouette, by the sighing of her frail dress, by the frail authority with which she turned the pages (when Antonia turns, we all … as though, vulgar thought!, we were all in a vast feather bed …) She looked, presidingly: from the indifferent face of Madame President’s daughter (Antonia was sure, now, such girls were cold) to the baffled face of royalty, staring
straight ahead as though air rather than the text could help her understanding, to the cross face of Eugénie Plash—— Look away quickly (heaven grant I am not to suffer a headache
today
), look back to the text, look down at … and thus, naturally, to let one’s gaze slide off the text, slide off one’s lap (pleasing though that was to look at), to alight …

From where Antonia sat, Regina’s lovely shoulders, throat, collar bone extended
themselves
beneath Antonia’s vision like a model of physical geography … ah, deux collines … There was a place, whiter than the rest because only just, with the coming of extreme summer, had Regina taken to the extreme of the
sundress
, a place just rising, yet firm, and yet again tender … a place to which Antonia’s vision, sliding from the text, was naturally directed, to which Antonia’s lips, if Antonia herself were to slide forward—she had only to lean a little
forward
, a little down …

The President’s daughter obediently if
indifferently
following her text; Eugénie Plash so disgruntled as to be doubled over hers: only royalty staring straight in front of her, uncomprehending. But could one rely on her uncomprehension—of everything?

Antonia had only to bend a touch forward.

(Invisible as I must almost be …)

If only royalty would——

‘I think we should keep
closely
to our texts …’

Girls bent closer to their books, even Regina (I did not mean
you
,
my dear), chrysanthemum head obscuring the spot … no, it appeared again, tempted again …

Only royalty made no closer application, stared still ahead. She had perhaps, remote as one had put her, not heard. But would she
see
? seeing, comprehend? Could one
rely
…?

Ah, one could not, one could not …

ah, ache …

 *

Naturally, when the Palace telephoned in the middle of the night, Hetty was assured of disaster.

‘My dearest—ah, what a shame to wake my love—but my dearest, my loveliest, they want
you
.’

Fortunate that Antonia’s nightcap had not this time been the oblivion-creating, the slugging Scotch.

‘What is it?’

‘My dear, I don’t know, but I feel sure—o, be brave, my love—that it’s
serious.
Perhaps
they want to withdraw her. Perhaps they’ve
heard
something …’

‘What’, Antonia asked, graven pale on the lilac pillow, ‘could they have heard?’

‘O, my dear …’ Hetty stared down at the perfect face. It sometimes seemed to her that her memories of the past did not coincide with Antonia’s, even though it was a common past. ‘My love, whatever happens, I will never desert——’

‘Switch it through here’, Antonia frailly interrupted. (Telephone calls in hours of
darkness
went to Hetty’s room.)

‘Yes, my love. Let me just prop my love’s pillows up before I go …’

Antonia reached, sleep-handed, for the receiver.

‘Allô, allô?’

(They are presumably knowledgeable enough not to confound me with a woman who would drop her h’s?)

‘Hullo? Miss Mount? Office of the Keeper of the Privy——’ (whatever it was: he mumbled the word: it could not have been
privy
,
bis?) ‘here’. (Jolly male voice; grating, in these small silent hours, as a football-match-rattle in the ears.) ‘I say, I hope I’m not ringing too late? Thought I’d better wait till SHE was asleep.’

‘SHE’, echoed Antonia. (But
I
?)

‘H.R.H., you know. Just wanted to check up, you know—how you’re rubbing along?’

‘We’re rubbing along’, Antonia breathed (lasse, lasse …) ‘very well.’

‘Top hole. No worries then? First chop.’ (But I lack the stamina for this so
fade
slang in the small hours.) ‘Just wanted to make sure you were finding——’

‘I find her’, Antonia feebly loosed the words, ‘smashing.’

‘She
is
a jolly girl, isn’t she? And quite
unspoilt
.’

‘I fear only for what she may spoil.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The line … seems almost failing.’

‘I’ll speak up a bit, then.’ (But
can
you speak louder—and still be human?) ‘Just wanted to—— O, by the way. Your first Report’s arrived. Jolly good. Thought I’d just let you know it’ll be passed on tomorrow. I mean: it’ll go higher, don’t you know?’

‘My very own motto’, murmured Antonia, en raccrochant.

‘My love?’

(Had you been lurking, then, not daring to open the door?)

‘My love, my poor love, I hardly dare ask …’

‘Calm yourself, Hetty, je t’implore—it was,
by the way, nothing—and, if you would, lay my pillows flat again …’

 *

‘If you ask me, she’s simply dim.’ But the President’s daughter, as President’s daughter of a Republic, was perhaps ex officio prejudiced against royal persons.

‘Makes nonsense of Antonia’s imploring our discretion’, said Eugénie Plash. ‘She simply wouldn’t get it—if we
did
tell her about Antonia.’

‘Tell her
what
about Antonia?’ enquired Regina Outre-Mer.

‘…
what
about Antonia?’ mimicked Eugénie.

‘You don’t mean Antonia—
drinks
?’

Let them giggle. Regina loved.