The Flowering Thorn (32 page)

No forty-eight hours could have been spent more agreeably: the only fly in the ointment—and that in Lesley's alone—was the absence of Graham Whittal. To her suggestion for a meeting, dispatched in excellent time, he had replied with a curt six lines (softened, to be sure, by a ten-shilling note for Pat) to the effect that he would be away in Scotland till the end of the month; and without (she told herself) any adequate reason, Lesley felt snubbed. She was also extremely disappointed, for she wanted to show Pat off, to display him to old Whittal as the worthy recipient of any man's bounty; and now (for he would certainly not interest Elissa, and Aunt Alice was away as well) there was no one to display him to at all.

But for Pat none of these heartburnings existed, and he enjoyed himself with concentrated energy not only in recognised places of amusement, but also on 'buses, in lifts, and crossing the street. There was something about him, indeed, that made Lesley think of the Locks: what old Horace had been to them, a mounted policeman was to Pat. Policemen, indeed, now fascinated him more than ever, and he and Lesley spent the last hour before the train hanging about Scotland Yard (in any case quite handy for Victoria) and eating ices at a near-by Lyons. It was the cheapest form of amusement Lesley had ever encountered, nor, since the luggage was already at the station, did they need a taxi afterwards; but in a spirit of recklessness Lesley hailed one all the same, and they drove up in style with a porter to open the door.

“I want the train for Christ's Hospital,” said Lesley, experimentally.

“Bluecoats?” said the porter. “Over there on seventeen, Madam”; and following his direction they came upon a part of the station covered with small boys. The majority, like Pat, had a parent or guardian; and the majority of guardians seemed to be members of the clergy. These did not stay long, Lesley noted, but deposited their young and went away; while those charges whose guardians lingered wore expressions of slight moroseness. Lesley noted that too, and stationing Pat by a bookstall, near a group of the unattended, went off to find some person in authority. She marked him at once, a tall young master, looking cheerful though harassed, and towards whom more than one other woman was even then making her way. But Lesley happened to be nearest, and got in first.

“I've got a boy for Christ's Hospital,” she said. “Shall I just leave him here?”

“Yes, do. That's right. He'll be all right,” replied the master rapidly. He did not see her, he did not see Pat: they were merely an Importunate Female and Another Kid. Fully aware that she was being a nuisance, Lesley placed herself squarely in the young man's path, caught and held his reluctant eye, and directed it towards Patrick's flaming head.

“That's the one,” she said clearly, “with the bright red hair. His name is Patrick Craigie.”

“That's right. He'll be all right,” repeated the young man.

Slightly reassured—for Pat's hair, once seen, could never be quite forgotten—Lesley moved out of the way. Her next move was obviously to say good-bye and go home; but she felt a curious reluctance to do so. For though she had no real fear for Pat's welfare—since he possessed, in such an eminent degree, the capacity to lie low and take his bearings—she could not help feeling that however much they might call him Craigie, he was still, after all, a very small boy.

However, there was no sense in lingering. Returning to the bookstall, where Pat was already in conversation with some of the unattached, she said cheerfully,

“Well, Pat, it's nearly time. Shall you be all right, if I leave you?”

“Oh,
yes
,” said Pat simply.

(‘If I don't go now,' thought Lesley, ‘I'll be an Importunate Female to him too.')

“Good-bye, then, Pat. Write as soon as you can.”

They shook hands, and with a considerable effort she turned on her heel and walked straight down the platform.

Under cover of a luggage-lift, however, she halted and looked back: they were still all over the place, seething round the tall master like a new entry of hounds. Just where she had left him stood young Craigie, still in converse with one or two others; and seeing him thus surrounded by his peers, Lesley stood still a minute and surveyed the fruit of her four years' labour. A boy here and there looked quicker, more lively, perhaps, but for sheer sturdy health, and above all for sheer composure, not one could compare. Pat stood squarely on both feet, did not fidget, and was not to be jostled out of his chosen position. When someone knocked somebody else's cap off, he took no part in the scuffle, but merely seemed to stand a little more squarely than before, in case anyone should be going to knock
his.
No one did. He listened more than he talked, watched more than he listened, and all with a mingled expression of wariness and excitement.

The fruit was good.

Lesley looked, sighed, and gave him her blessing; then she left the station and took a 'bus to Elissa's.

Part V

CHAPTER ONE

In the matter of the party for Lesley Frewen, Elissa really did her best. She found a four-year-old engagement-book, and went through every man mentioned in it, trying hard to remember which, if any of them, had been Lesley's lovers. In this way she revived a good many sentimental memories of her own, but achieved no other result; and was just about to discard the book altogether when her eye was caught by a sprawling entry at the beginning of August. It covered three days, and it said: ‘
Lesley week-end: Toby's car.
'

Toby's car! And in it, in the back, Bryan Collingwood! Well, Toby at least—dear Toby! had transferred his allegiance; but hadn't Bryan been very badly hit indeed? In any case, those two would do to start with: and moving to the telephone Elissa began alphabetically with Toby Ashton.

It was so long since she had last 'phoned him that she had to look up the number: Mayfair 001. It seemed vaguely unexpected: surely he used to be 110? With deliberately cultivated trustfulness, however—she was trying to rely more and more on the Unseen—Elissa repeated it to Exchange and hoped for the best.

Her faith was justified.

“Hello?”

Nice deep voice—dear Toby!

“Hello, Toby darling!”

“This is Mr. Ashton's valet speaking.…”

“Oh! Well, can I speak to Mr. Ashton, please?”

“I'm afraid Mr. Ashton is not—”

He broke off, and in the short pause that followed she could hear him speak to someone else: then the 'phone evidently changed hands, for a new voice took up the thread.

“Hello!”

“Hello, Toby darling. This is Elissa.”

“
Elis
—? Oh!
Elissa!
” exclaimed the 'phone resourcefully. “How are you, darling?”

“Oh, still alive. Toby, you remember Lesley Frewen?”

“No,” said Toby.

“My dear, of course you do. We went down and stayed with her. At a cottage in the country, about three or four years ago. It was rather a flop.”

“Then I'm sure I don't remember. I always put flops straight out of my mind.”

“Well, anyway, Toby, she's coming back to Town for a few days, and I've got to give a party. To-day week. Could you come early, say about nine o'clock, and have a preliminary cocktail?”

But Toby had not heard. He was just remembering something.

“Lesley Frewen—hadn't she a small boy? I mean, wasn't that why she went into the country in the first place?”

“Darling, how clever of you! That's the woman. But it wasn't her own infant. At least, I don't
think
it was,” said Elissa doubtfully. “Anyway—nine o'clock?”

“If I possibly can, darling. But there is just a chance,” said Toby Ashton, “that I may have to fly over to Paris.…”

So that was no good. Without nurturing any false hopes, Elissa went back to the telephone book and turned up the C's. Collingwood, Bryan L., Flat K.16, Beverley Court: she gave the number, trusted as before, and was presently aware of a voice at her ear.

“That you, Bryan, darling?”

“No, it isn't,” said the voice. “This is Mrs. Collingwood.”

‘Of course, how stupid of me!' exclaimed Elissa, with considerable sang-froid. “I couldn't remember the surname.… Listen, can you come to a party here, to-day week, and bring Bryan with you? I shall have Lesley Frewen staying here, and I'm sure they'd enjoy seeing each other. Oh, by the way, this is Elissa speaking.”

“Thank you,” said the voice tartly, “I haven't the least idea—”

“Wait!” cried Elissa, suddenly inspired. “Natasha!”

“— What you're talking about,” concluded the voice.

“Well, Bryan will tell you,” said Elissa sweetly; and with extreme deliberation hung up the receiver.

So that was no good either, and the party would have to remain just as she had originally designed it—art, stage, and literature (all three, naturally, of recognised and amusing brands) with for high light Andrew Bentall. And remembering that name, Elissa smiled. He had been difficult to pin down, for architects, as soon as they became famous, always had a secretary; and secretaries (or so Elissa was convinced) lie without scruple or remorse. But she had prevailed at last, and that distinguished presence was now a certainty. For the rest, to fill up all gaps, there would be one or two thirsty young men, because the older women liked them, and just a sprinkling of the rich, because they were so comforting to have about. And if in all that Lesley couldn't find someone to mate with—well, it would just be a pity.

‘Anyway—I've done my best,' thought Elissa complacently; and that being so, felt completely justified in accepting, for the day her guest was to appear, a rather fascinating invitation to spend the afternoon on a houseboat and the evening at a riverside club. She left Pont Street, therefore, exactly ten minutes after Lesley arrived, and returned about three a.m.: which meant (since the latter retired at eleven) no further interview until the early following morning, when Lesley, awaking as usual, at a quarter past seven, out of sheer heedless bonhomie, slipped down the passage and knocked on Elissa's door.

“I thought you were the orange-juice,” said Elissa, sitting up and reaching for a bed-jacket. Her expression, though still a good deal blurred by the remains of some skin-food, was almost certainly not one of happy surprise. “Couldn't you sleep, darling, or have the maids been making a racket?”

“Oh, no, I slept beautifully,” said Lesley. “I—I just wanted to know where the bathroom was.”

“Darling! Didn't that fool Parker tell you? You're having the little green one at the end of the passage.” She picked up a hand-mirror and stared thoughtfully at her chin: jerked it first to the left, then to the right. “And if you see anyone along the way, darling, just send them straight along to me.”

The congé was unmistakable, but for a moment longer an uneasy sense of guilt made Lesley stand her ground.

“It wasn't really Parker's fault, darling. She showed me everything last night, only I couldn't remember the doors. They—they all look so alike.”

“Well, next time you come, darling,” said Elissa irritably, “I'll get some W.C. labels.”

Unhappily conscious that she had made a fool of herself, Lesley opened the door and retired to her own room. An obscure melancholy was burdening her heart, so sudden and unexpected that she instinctively looked up to see if the day were clouding over. But no, the sun still climbed in a cloudless sky, the flowers at the window were still transparent with light. If a note had jarred, one must try to forget it: and standing barefoot on a patch of sun Lesley did her best to eliminate from memory Elissa's morning face.

2

It was soon eliminated at any rate from view, for when they met again, at about eleven o'clock, Elissa advanced with her usual radiant countenance. She was dressed for driving, and at once made it clear that Lesley was not going too.

“My dear—dinner at seven,” she announced briskly, “an ungodly hour, because of the mob afterwards. And there'll be lunch here at one, though I probably shan't be back. What are
your
plans, darling?”

‘She feels she ought to send me to Saint Paul's!' thought Lesley; and indeed almost before she had time to answer Elissa added hastily,

“If ever you feel like going to the Zoo, darling, do tell me in time, and I'll ring up Cyril Poullett. I met him at the Ballet Circle—a perfectly fascinating little man who looks after the snakes. He takes them out and waves them about.…” She sketched a vaguely sinuous gesture, as though of a waved snake, and picked up her bag. “Or what about the Park? It's a perfect day.”

Lesley made haste to relieve her friend's mind. She had lots to do—shopping and hair to begin with: would doubtless be out to lunch herself; and was in fact away from the house while the Buick still waited. Elissa caught her up at the corner, waved and flashed on; and Lesley, after taking a leisurely look at the Park, caught a 'bus to Hyde Park Corner. Her destination was Kensington High Street, where for reasons of economy (and of course keeping its
provenance
from Elissa) she hoped to purchase a new evening-dress; but the sight of Piccadilly drew her off her course, and turning left instead of right she started to walk slowly towards the Circus.

And now, as never in her life before, she savoured the multiple and exquisite sensations that together made up a stroll down Piccadilly. Pleasure of eye and of ear: the smooth clean pavement underfoot: the full river of traffic so evenly flowing: the infinite variety of face, figure, clothing and scent that on every side caught and fed her attention. A brilliant and settled sky had brought out all the women in their lightest clothes: they walked with light, buoyant steps, happily conscious of giving pleasure, and sideways-glancing into the windows of the motor-shops, where the ample space between Rolls and Rolls could mirror, Lesley noted, at least three slim silhouettes at one and the same time. From a hundred vermilion 'buses, many of them in full career, prehensile conductors leaned out to look at the ladies: or with one hand curved about the mouth (the other as it were their sole link with life) shouted flavour-some pleasantries to men working on the road. For the road was up, as usual, opposite the Ritz, where a homely little encampment struck a contrasting note of simple comfort. Along the adjacent barrier a dozen or more
flaneurs
formed an oasis of quiet and contemplation; the men with the pneumatic drills, though they answered readily enough to the 'bus conductors, took no more notice than a row of sparrows.