The Judas Tree (38 page)

‘Well done,' she commended him, resuming her place beside him. ‘Now we will sit quiet as two mice in church until you feel better.'

As he had expected, the whisky went straight to his head. His face became flushed and in no time at all he felt, not better, but stupid and inflamed. Presently, observing him, she said thoughtfully: ‘I have been considering the best, way to arrange our marriage. It must be done not only most quietly, but also quickly, if we are to get away before all the fuss, which you fear so much, becomes known. Yes?'

‘The sooner we clear out the better.'

‘Then it is best that we go to Basle, leaving early tomorrow. It will take altogether three days, for there are several formalities. But we can be back here on Wednesday evening.'

‘And then, dear Frida?'

‘Off on our long holiday next morning.'

Hazily he saw her smiling down at him. Damn it, she wasn't a bad-looking gammer, with those wonderful eyes and that solid, Wagnerian body which gave promise of well sprung resilience. What was she saying?

‘You were sweet a moment ago. You called me dear Frida.' ‘You are rather a dear, you know.' Unexpectedly, he sniggered. ‘A regular Brunnhilde.'

‘It is for you to know – in the future. You have never seen the upstairs of the Seeburg. My room, that will be our room, is nice. That we shall not look at this evening. But after? So? You will not find me cold. Some people do not need the love of the body, but with us it will be natural and frequent. Yes? And necessary also, for it puts one at ease. Now let us talk about our so pleasant future.'

An hour later, the Dauphine bore him triumphantly to the villa. In the close darkness of the little car she patted his cheek and gave a meaning little laugh.

‘Now, like me, you will have happy dreams. Goodnight, mein lieber Mann, tomorrow I will come to you early. We must start for Basle before nine o'clock.'

Dead beat, but dulled and comforted, he stumbled into the house, thankful for the fact that he was so extinguished he must instantly fall asleep.

‘I'm going straight to bed,' he told Arturo, in a voice he made an effort to keep normal. ‘See that you lock up before you turn in. And I'll want breakfast at eight sharp.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Arturo, somewhat blankly. ‘And tonight, will you have your hot milk and sandwiches upstairs?'

No, he thought, not after the whisky, he was still not quite sober.

‘Nothing tonight.' He paused, confronted by the necessity of conveying the change in his plans: Well, with Arturo it would not be so difficult; he had been quite broken up at the prospect of his departure.

‘By the way,' he sought for the words, ‘something quite unexpected has come up. I shall not after all be obliged to leave for good, but only for a matter of perhaps three months.'

Several shades of expression passed over the other's face before radiance shone from it.

‘Oh, sir, I am so happy, so filled with joy, so thankful to the good God and Santa Philomena to whom I pray for you to stay. Only wait till I tell Elena.'

Arturo's extravagant delight was an added solace. Such loyalty, such affectionate devotion he thought, on his way up the stairs, and from Elena too, both so deeply attached to him. And now for bed.

Gazing upwards with a queer expression, Arturo watched him enter his bedroom, then he turned and went back to the pantry. Elena looked at him expectantly. He responded with an affirmative gesture and a significant grimace.

‘You were right. The German has hooked him. Got him by the short hairs.'

‘Madre d' Dio.' She let out the exclamation and broke into broad Neapolitan. ‘Lu viecchio 'nzannaluto.'

‘He's that, all right.' Arturo shrugged in agreement. ‘And how he will suffer.'

‘But so also will we,' said Elena despondently. ‘That squaldrina will watch the money like a Swiss tax collector. Goodbye to our little ribasso from the market when she gets her claws on the bills.'

‘Still, it's better than having him go. We can still milk him.'

‘Llecca 'o culo a chillu viecchio ' nzannaluto?'

‘That's it, lay on the butter thick.' He went to the cupboard, took out a bottle and drew the cork. ‘He's the softest touch I ever handled.'

‘Watch out though, with her around.'

‘I know what I'm doing. Besides, we have to make the most of him while he's got it. Before she finishes, that
culo
will take everything off him.'

‘Chella fetente va a ferni c' ' o mette ' nterra,' said Elena, with meaning.

At this prediction of complete emasculation for their employer they looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter.

Three days later, at the hour of twilight on Wednesday afternoon, the Humber utility car, mud-bespattered as from a journey, slid unobtrusively through the village of Schwansee, swung discreetly into the familiar acacia drive and drew up at Moray's villa.

‘Well, here we are, Frida.' Pulling off his driving gloves he stated the obvious with a congratulatory smile, adding, with a glance at the dashboard clock, ‘ and dead on time.'

The successful secrecy with which they had invested their wedding gave him a distinct glow of achievement; it had all gone exactly according to plan. He squeezed out of the driving seat and, hurrying round the car, helped her with uxorious solicitude to alight. At the same moment the door of the villa swung open and Arturo appeared, advanced with a determined smile of welcome.

‘Everything all right?' Moray asked aside, as the man removed the suitcases from the boot.

‘Quite all right, sir. We have the salon in order again with the china all arranged. But the library and the other rooms will take more time.'

‘You'll have time. We shall be off tomorrow for quite a long spell.' He seemed to hesitate. ‘There were no messages of any kind?'

‘None, sir.'

Impossible to repress that involuntary breath of relief. He had feared the possibility of a last-minute telephone call, a distressing message awaiting his return. But no, they had gone off, without a word, exactly as Frida had predicted, off to the Mission, to their work – not his, it had never been his – yes, their life's work, which, by its very complexities, its difficulties and dangers, would absorb them, make Kathy speedily forget. How misguided he had been ever to imagine that he could beneficially link his future to that dear dedicated girl, yet how wise, in her interests and his own, to realise his mistake before it was too late. And now there would be no more idealistic nonsense, no more reaching after spiritual moonbeams: safely married to a mature and distinguished woman he experienced a warm feeling of security, a sense of having at last reached journey's end.

‘Bring tea quickly, Arturo,' he said, following Frida into the drawing-room. Seating himself beside her on the Chesterfield settee, he glanced round appreciatively. Yes, everything was in order, exactly as
before
– the word had now a definite historic import, like A.D. or B.C., denoting the demarcation between his pre- and post-redemption periods. His pictures bloomed more attractively than ever – God, to think he could ever have existed without them – his silver shone, his porcelain, freshly washed and arranged, gleamed in the light of a heart-warming fire of crackling cedar logs.

‘Isn't this
gemütlich?'
He gave her an intimate smile. ‘ To be back, together, and to have managed it all so cleverly.'

‘But of course, David. You will find I manage things always well.' She gave him a short pleasant nod. ‘You will see later, when we are established at the Seeburg.'

He was about to answer – a compliment was on his tongue – when Arturo came in, wheeling the tea trolley, so instead, rubbing his hands, he said: ‘Ah, tea. Will you pour, darling?'

Meanwhile Arturo, having adjusted the trolley, was offering him the salver from the hall.

‘Your mail, sir.'

‘What a lot of letters,' she exclaimed, lifting the silver teapot – George I, 1702. ‘It appears that you are an important man.'

‘Mostly business.' He shrugged, running them through. But one, apparently, was not. With a shrinking of his nerves he recognised Kathy's round, even writing. But, glancing covertly at the date stamps on the envelope, he was immediately reassured. The latter had been posted on the 17th, four days before her departure, and received at Schwansee on Monday the 20th, the day he left for Basle with Frida. As such, thank heaven, it could contain neither reproaches nor regrets. With a cautious side glance at Frida, who was still pouring tea, he slid it unobserved into his side pocket – he would read it later, when he was alone.

‘Since we speak of business,' she added sugar and lemon and handed him his cup, ‘you must one day soon tell me of your affairs – perhaps when we are at Montecatini, yes? I have a very good head for these things. The actions of the German chemicals, for example, these are strong at this moment.'

‘They are,' he agreed, tolerantly, as he leaned forward to cut the cake. ‘And we're comfortably supplied with them.'

‘That is nice. And German bonds. These also are affording a high rate of interest.'

‘I see you're going to be a great help, dear. Now try this. It's Elena's special recipe and she's baked it in your honour.' He watched while she sampled the slice of cherry cake he handed her. ‘Good, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is good – quite good. But it can be better, much better. For one thing there is too much vanilla and too little fruit. Afterwards I will show her properly.'

‘You'll have to be tactful, dear. Elena is terribly touchy.'

‘Oh, my poor David, you make me smile. As if I was without great experience! Why, at Kelienstein we had a staff, in and out, of fifteen persons, all requiring to be overseen. Here, I am sure, you have been ill served and also well cheated. No doubt your good Elena has many private arrangements, besides taking out fresh butter and eggs, while your wonderful Arturo – don't I know these Neapolitans – is all smiling in front and all stealing behind.'

A momentary misgiving troubled him, gone when she patted his hand with a protective smile.

‘Another cup of your nice Twinings. That, at least, I shall not change.'

How gracefully she managed the tea things – to the manner born, neither nervous like Kathy nor clumsy like Doris, who in those distant almost forgotten days had always upset things during her attacks. Yes, after all his troubled years he had been right in this, his ultimate decision. He had always aspired to a well-bred woman, not only for the social advantages she would bring him, but also for that extra refinement with which, from her breeding, she would enrich their conjugal intimacies. Ah, yes, Frida would remake his life. And how restful was the immediate prospect: Montecatini, the
Polaris
cruise – she had already made their cabin reservations at the American Express in Basle – and then all the interest of restoring the Seeburg. Comfortable though his villa was, it would never be more than a bourgeois little house, really unfitted to hold his treasures which would now adorn and transform the big schloss above the lake. Yet, through his complacency, as he sipped his tea in the warm comfortable room, he could not restrain his thoughts from reverting, not exactly self-accusingly, but with a kind of pricking discomfort, to that plane, which even now, after its overnight stop at Lisbon, must be winging towards Luanda. Surely by now she must have got over the worst of it. She was young, she would recover, sorrow did not last forever, time was the great healer… He consoled himself with these and other profundities.

‘I believe you are asleep.' A half-chiding, half-amused voice recalled him.

‘No – no – not really. But on that subject, Frida, must you really spend the night at Seeburg? Why not stay here? After all, we
are
married.'

‘Yes, we are nice married people, and for that reason must be sensible.'

‘But why, dear Frida? It's been quite, well, difficult for me, away with you two nights … and separate rooms.'

She laughed, well pleased.

‘I am glad you have the same feeling as I. But for newly-weddeds it is better to make the honeymoon away. For me there is more novelty. And for you, especially, it is better to be free of recent associations that might trouble you.'

‘Yes,' he agreed, unwillingly. ‘I suppose there's something in that. Still …'.

Assuagingly, she pressed against him imprinting the edge of her corsets upon his short ribs, then, before he could encircle her, withdrew.

‘So … our need will grow if held back. I promise I will be nice for you at Montecatini. The Freiherr, my late husband, was a strong man in the bed, yet never did I fail to answer him with equal vigour. Since we are married, I can openly speak of these things. And now I will go upstairs. After that long drive I have much need to wash.'

When she left the room he sat half-dozing before the hot fire, as though drugged by the scent of the burning cedar. At times his mind became an absolute blank; then, recovering, he enjoyed a moment of calm relaxation. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. What was she doing upstairs? Taking a bath? He had not liked that reference to the late lamented baron, but at least it showed she wasn't frigid. He thought drowsily of her ample dugs, those extensile mountaineering thighs. Then absently, through his euphoria, he remembered the belated letter. Whatever his reluctance, he owed it to Kathy to read and cherish it as a last sweet message. Feeling in his pocket he withdrew it and after considering the envelope again, and confirming the date stamps, he manfully opened it.

As he did so he became conscious of the ringing of a bell. The front door? Yes. He sat up suddenly, hoping to high heaven that it was not a caller. If one of their friends, Stench particularly, burst in upon them at this precise moment, it would be a fatal embarrassment, would in fact ruin all their plans for a discreet departure. He should have warned Arturo to say he was not at home. Too late now, the fellow was answering the door.