The Greengage Summer (8 page)

“What happened then?”

“Monsieur Joubert got up and bowed, not to her but to me.

“
Bowed
to
you
?”

“Yes,” said Joss impatiently. “He said, ‘When you are a little older and in another place, and your mother is with you, we shall meet again. I shall write to her,’
and he left . . .”

“For good?”

“Yes. I saw Paul carry out his luggage and painting things and a taxi came. I don’t think Mademoiselle Zizi meant Monsieur Joubert to do that—I heard Madame Corbet being
cross—but when she sees me Mademoiselle Zizi can’t help what she does. She won’t let me have anything. Not anything.”

“Why does she hate Joss so terribly?” I asked Hester afterwards. “It seems more than because Eliot likes her.”

“It isn’t Eliot,” said Hester, “not only Eliot,” and she added, “You know how, when you have been awful to anyone, you can’t bear them.”

Now I felt miserably tired, too tired to cope with this hotbed of feelings; it seemed to me the house was filled with them, with hate and love, and the love seemed as bad as the hate. Something
bad will happen, I thought, and again those prickles of fear ran over me.

“Joss . . .”

I meant to tell her about the man in the cove but she was not listening—at least she was listening to something else. She asked, “What is happening downstairs?”

I told her about the Brass Instruments Ball; the glory had gone out of it for me, but she got up from the bed. She looked so determined that I asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Go to the party,” said Joss.

“But we haven’t been asked.”

She did not answer that. She looked over my head and said, “I tried to be nice. I found my own thing and kept out of the way. Now I won’t.”

“Suppose they don’t ask you?”

“I shall make them. I can make people do what I like.” By ‘people’ I knew she meant men.

“But, Joss”—I produced this hesitantly—“if you make them won’t it seem that you might . . . might be what Mademoiselle Zizi says you are?”

Joss’s chin went even higher. “She thinks I am what she is,” she said with disdain. “All right. I shall be, only worse.” Perhaps she saw the doubt on my face, for
she asked, “What else am I to do?”

That sounded like Joss, not Joss cased in this proud hardness, and I said, “Go on painting.”

“Without Monsieur Joubert?”

“That’s what he would have done.”

I thought I had won, but when I looked at her I saw it was no use saying anything more. She had on that look again, her mask look, her eyes almost like slits as if she were calculating, her
nostrils pinched and her lips set. “I shall go to this party,” said Joss, “and I shall wear Sin.”

It was called Sin because she had had no right to buy it. A year before Uncle William had given Joss money to buy a new raincoat; her old one was up to her knees and showed inches of wrist, but
she had gone into a dress shop and bought a dress. That was in the sales too, “and it had been marked down from ten guineas,” said Joss.

“Ten guineas for a dress!” That seemed fabulous to us—except Willmouse.

“A dress can cost a hundred pounds,” said Willmouse.

“But . . . when will you wear it?” Mother had asked, bewildered.

“Perhaps never,” said Joss, “but I had to have it.” It was ivory silk, stamped with roses. “Not many roses,” Hester had said critically, “and not much
silk.” There did not seem much of anything to cost all that money; it left Joss’s neck and arms bare and the skirt was narrow. “It’s the cut,” Willmouse had explained
and examined it carefully. “It is influenced by the Chinese,” he pronounced, “which is why it suits her.”

For a year it had hung in Joss’s cupboard. Now, after she had washed her face and brushed her hair, she took it out of the wardrobe. I had opened the door into my room to let the others
come and we watched while she put it on.

Beside Sin our seersuckers looked very ordinary and homemade, and, in spite of the Black Virgin, the old envy came back. “It’s too tight,” I said spitefully. “You
show
.”

Joss looked at herself in the looking-glass and smiled. “All the better.” she said and laughed at my scandalised face. I had noticed while she washed that the dark tufts of hair
under her arms were gone. “I have a little razor,” said Joss. She had a lipstick and powder too. When she had bought these things I did not know, but watched, divided between marvelling
and fright while she made up her face. “Don’t put on too much,” said Willmouse.

“I’m not Mademoiselle Zizi,” said Joss witheringly.

When she was ready her glance fell again on me. “What’s the matter with you, Cecil?” she asked.

“I have pains.”

“Where?”

“In my arms and legs—everywhere.”

“Growing pains,” said Joss.

We watched from the stairs, not daring to risk going down until there were so many people that Mademoiselle Zizi or Madame Corbet would not notice us.

“Is that Monsieur le Maire?” asked Hester. Everyone bowed politely as they greeted him, but though his beard was imposing he was wearing a plain black suit and had only a little
ribbon in his buttonhole to show he was important, no scarlet cloak, cocked hat or chain. The Sous-Préfet, more important than he, had not even a ribbon, but Monsieur Perrichaut was
impressive; we knew it must be Monsieur Perrichaut because he was receiving with his wife. He was taller than anyone else—“Except Eliot,” said Hester—white-haired, with an
important-looking paunch. “Let me look at him,” said Joss and gazed as if she were spying out the land. Monsieur Perrichaut seemed fitted to be the owner of the Brass Instruments
Factory; his voice was like a saxophone, and when he blew his nose the noise was like a trumpet. He had a young man at his elbow who made introductions in a reedy voice. “Like a
piccolo,” I whispered, but Joss did not laugh. She was very grave. “Tell me when the doctor comes,” she said.

“Monsieur le Directeur?”

“Yes.”

“He is here,” said Vicky presently.

“Go down,” Joss told us. “Go one by one, slip in among them and start shaking hands with everyone. Then they can’t send you away. And don’t tag on to me,” she
said severely.

Hester and Vicky disappeared, but I hung back. Joss hummed a little tune—which told me she was nervous—twitched the skirt of her dress straight, frowned at it, shook her hair more
loosely on her shoulders, and went down. I watched her as she went straight to the doctor, holding out her hand; then I followed, keeping behind the crowd.

The doctor kept Joss’s hand. “Mais . . . c’est la petite Anglaise!” he said. I edged round to see her better.

She was making a comical face—a moue, I thought wisely. “Not so little,” she said, and appealed to Monsieur Perrichaut. “I am not very little, pas si petite, am I,
monsieur?” Hester had crept up beside me. “She sounds silly . . . like a
lady
,” said Hester disapprovingly.

Silly or no, Monsieur Perrichaut seemed to like it. Soon he was asking her, “Vous dînez avec nous, Mademoiselle?” “He
is
asking her to dinner,” I told
Hester.

“I—I have not been invited,” said Joss. She sounded as if she were pretending to be shy and Hester and I both frowned.

“Je vous invite,” and the piccolo was sent to tell Madame Corbet to set another place. “A côté de moi,” said the doctor gallantly.

“Monsieur le Directeur s’y connaît,” said Monsieur Perrichaut. The most important people were standing round him and now Joss was in the centre of them. Everyone was
whispering about her. Mademoiselle Zizi had seen her, but she could not very well send her out.

“Permettez-moi de vous faire mes compliments, Mademoiselle.” That was the Sous-Préfet.

“Ah! La jeunesse! La jeunesse!” said Monsieur Perrichaut and they gazed at Joss.

“Absolument ravissante,” said Monsieur le Maire. He was standing just in front of me and began to discuss Joss’s looks with the man beside him; I could not catch it all but I
heard, “Ce teint lumineux!”

“What are they saying?” hissed Hester.

“Compliments,” I hissed back.

Eliot was by the bar talking to the young Town Clerk whom Mauricette pointed out to me because she admired him. The Town Clerk was dark and good-looking, but Eliot could look over his head and
the heads of most of the others. Joss must have seen him at once, but she appeared not to see him nor did he look at her. I did not like this any more than I liked her pretending to be shy. Things
had gone . . . out of truthfulness, I thought. Before we had been unhappy but it was truthful, now we seemed to be playing a game, and I walked away from them all out on to the terrace, where it
was cool and quiet. Presently it would be moonlight, a scented, moonlit, summer night, but that seemed to me to make this playing worse, expose it more. I put my elbows on the warm iron rail and
leaned my head on my hands, hiding my eyes as if I did not want to see, to look or think, but I was not left in peace for long. Fairy lights had been strung between the trees, and now they came on,
red and blue and yellow. “Ah! C’est joli!” cried a woman, and people came out on to the terrace to see. Eliot was with them, and it was then that the next odd thing happened.

I heard my name called; Willmouse was running across the garden. He did not usually run, but now gravel spurted up behind him, his socks were falling down—
Willmouse’s
socks. I
ran down the steps to meet him. “Cecil, a most e’straordinary thing.”

As soon as he reached me he began to tell it though he was half out of breath. “I was having my walk along the river when I saw a man . . .”

I stiffened. “A . . . dark man?”

“Like Madame Corbet,” said Willmouse and I knew he meant swarthily dark . . . as ours had been, I thought. “He came out of the bushes,” said Willmouse, “and he had
a motor-bike; it was a big new red one—at least it looked new. He wheeled it along the bank and then on to the plank bridge to the barge. . . .”

His voice, shrill with wonder and speaking English, must have carried to the terrace. I saw Eliot come to the rail and look down.

“On to the
Marie France
?” I asked Willmouse.

“Yes. The man looked up and down the river as if he wanted to see if anyone was there. He couldn’t see me . . .”

“Why not?”

“Because the bulrushes are so tall. Then do you know what he did?” Willmouse paused. He was always dramatic.
“He-wheeled-the-bike-across-the-deck-and-dropped-it-over-the-other-side,” said Willmouse.

“Into the
river
?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“He did. Cecil, it was a new . . .”

“And what are you doing out so late?”

Eliot’s voice cut across me, and it was the voice he had used that first morning when he came out of Mademoiselle Zizi’s room; I had heard it again in the courtyard at Dormans. He
had left the terrace and come down the steps. “Where have you been?” he said to Willmouse.

“F-for my walk.” Willmouse was so startled that the words would hardly come.

“Willmouse always goes for a walk,” I said defensively.

“You be quiet,” said Eliot, and to Willmouse, “You know quite well you are not allowed out so late.” Willmouse opened his lips again, but, “Not a word,” said
Eliot. “I will
not
have disobedience. You can go to bed at once,” and he wheeled Willmouse round, a hand on his shoulder.

“But
Eliot!
You
never
. . .” I think I wailed it. It was terrible to see Eliot taking Willmouse up the steps and marching him away like a prisoner. As for Willmouse, he
looked grey with shock.

“Mais, Monsieur Eliot”—that was one of a group of men—“vous êtes trop dur.”

“In England we discipline boys,” said Eliot crisply; to Willmouse he said loudly, “How often have I told you . . .” and at once I knew that Eliot was acting.

Acting on Willmouse! I pushed my way after them to the foot of the stairs. “You have
never
told him,” I cried passionately.

“Cecil, stay where you are,” said Eliot. His face made me quail, but I only stayed there until he came down, then, challenging him with a look that I hoped was hate, I walked
straight up, but the door of our room was locked. I went into Joss’s room and tried the door there; it was locked as well. I rattled the handle. “Willmouse, it’s Cecil. It’s
Cecil.” There was no answer. I was not surprised. Willmouse was always still and silent if he were offended.

I went back to the landing, where I had another pain, and with it such a sense of desolation that I could hardly bear it. If this were growing—Joss had said that was what the pains
were—I did not like it. Down below the party must have been going in to dinner; I heard chairs scraped back, more bursts of laughter, voices. I wondered if Joss were sitting next to the
doctor, if Hester and Vicky were there.

There is nothing more melancholy than listening to a party from which one is shut out. I could hear the noise of knives and forks now with the talk and laughter, while on the landing it was
growing dark; the stairs were lit only by the light coming up from the hall; smells of food drifted up with the scent of flowers and I thought of Willmouse’s banquet and gave a little sob. He
was locked in by this inexplicable Eliot and only I cared, mounting guard beside him, but a guard with a bad pain and half in tears. “Willmouse. Willmouse.” Still no answer. I could
imagine him rigid with shock. “I
hate
Eliot,” I said. Then I jumped. In his cat-quiet way he had come up the stairs and was laughing at me.