The Painted Cage (20 page)

But it was not possible to sit the whole weekend with her back to Guy le Ferrier. On Saturday it had been decided they would go to Owakidani, the Valley of the Greater Boiling. It was a hard trek of some hours in blazing heat. The men went on foot, the women were carried in Hong Kong chairs upon the shoulders of coolies, parasols swaying above. They made their way through forest paths winding steadily upwards. The day was hot but the sky was heavy with a coming storm. The excursion was too strenuous for Cathy, who was already bad-tempered with a rash of prickly heat. Amy left her reluctantly, full of instructions to Rachel. The
Cooper-Hewitts
had not come, nor Ada nor Rowly Bassett. They carried a lunch packed by the hotel and a tea for their return.

At last they reached the Valley of the Greater Boiling. The vegetation lessened suddenly to reveal a desolate, stony gorge, bare of trees or shrubs. It smoked with numerous angry pustules and was a terrifying sight. The ground was chalky grey with sulphur and at times the knotted gas burst through in dangerous explosions. They stood and looked up to the spine of the hill which they would later climb to gaze down upon the hell.

The coolies spread cloths beneath trees. There were several groups of picnickers upon the last green before the stony ascent to hell. They had caught up with the Frasers and the d'Anethans on their way to the same destination. Amy sat down beneath a tree, her bones seemed melted in the heat. As they approached the valley there had been an unpleasant sulphurous smell, now it enfolded them heavily. Amy leaned back, sick with tension. She need not have worried about Guy le Ferrier. As she had sat with her back towards him, he too seemed anxious to disown her; he treated her with disdain. She watched him resentfully, flirting with Mabel and Mrs Fraser. Guy feared hysterics and denunciations, he feared Reggie's righteous wrath and all the consequences he had spoken of that day in the abandoned hut. Amy's feelings
were confused. It seemed a nightmare that had never happened. Had she really done all she had with him, so casually, so cold-bloodedly? The act seemed connected not to herself, but to another woman. Looking now at Guy, pulling on a chicken leg, she remembered his body, she remembered his hands and the feelings that had seized her. The shame of it suddenly filled her. She picked half-heartedly at a sandwich Enid offered. She swallowed hard, it hurt to think.

The cooled wine, the cold chicken and dainty rolls, the Scotch eggs and salads and fruit laid out on elegant stiff white cloths, seemed at odds with the impending sulphurous fumes rolling down upon them. Dicky Huckle came up with a bowl of blackened eggs cooked by their coolies in the hot sulphurous earth. He offered one with a grin.

‘Extract of fowl,' he announced, ‘or boiled eggs, to those who are familiar with the vernacular. I saw a marvellous sign saying
Extract
of
Fowl
above an egg shop in
Miyanoshita
yesterday. And there was another one too that said,
Pest
Milk.
'
Dicky laughed.

‘Only you could find them,' Amy smiled, brightened by his presence.

‘I collect,' Dicky announced with importance, ‘English as she is Japped. Best thing to collect here. You can keep your curios. My collection takes up books and books. I must show you some day.' He sat down beside her, the bowl of charred and stinking eggs on his knee.

‘My Guide for Visitors to Atami is a perfect jewel. Would you like to see it?' He put the eggs aside and rummaged in a pocket, pulling out a pamphlet. ‘Now just listen to this, we are informed that
the
geyser
boiled
out
of
the
sea
and
was
a
suffering
to
aquatic
families
…. By aquatic families let it be noted our writer means, not as might be supposed, fishermen, but fishes,' Dicky said, his face sweaty and smiling. ‘The Atami guidebook is, however, quite eclipsed by my Guide to Hakone that I bought here yesterday in the village. I have it in the hotel. I must share its delights with you.'

Amy laughed. Next Dicky took a small diary from his
pocket. ‘In the meanwhile, how's this?
Head
Cutter,
over a barber's. And in Bentendori have you seen the sign for
Hand
Panting
Post
Cards
or the doctor who is a
Specialist
for
the
Decease
of
Children
?
Then believe it or not, there is a
Ladies
Outfatter,
who supplies,
The
Ribbons,
The
Laces,
The
Veils
and
The
Feelings.
Do you think that could be frillings? I'm quite lost over that one.
'

Amy laughed until her sides ached. ‘Stop, stop,' she demanded, but stopped herself as Reggie appeared before her. He did not seem amused.

‘I see you are entertaining my wife very well, Mr Huckle,' he accused. Some distance away the Figdors stopped eating and transferred their attention to Amy.

‘Just these dashed funny Japlish signs I keep coming up against. Would you like to hear a sample too?' Dicky grinned. Reggie remained unmoved. Looking at his sour face, Amy could not suppress a giggle.

‘I came only to collect my wife, Mr Huckle. I am ready for the final ascent.' Reggie took Amy's arm to help her up. He gripped her hard, the anger flowing in him. She looked back to see Dicky alone beneath the tree, his diary open on his knee, the bowl of blackened eggs beside him. She wanted to laugh again. She saw the Figdors stand up and brush crumbs from their clothes, preparing to follow them.

A narrow path rose steeply to the top of the gorge between clouds of noxious steam. The ground was poxed to exhaustion; at places pools of boiling mud bubbled terrifyingly. They walked with care, watching each
foothold
, following the guide. Everywhere was hot to the touch and crusted, with a grey shroud of sulphur. The earth gave way to the slightest pressure, breaking open on the scalding mud. Amy clung to Reggie, smoke billowed about in thick, weird shapes.

Mabel and Mrs Fraser were ahead of them. Mrs Fraser leaned back to caution Amy. ‘A young girl we know stepped on this treacherous crust and sank into the boiling mud it conceals. She was rescued but was terribly burned, and will carry the scars to her dying day.' Amy nodded her thanks for the warning. Further on the path widened,
and there the Baroness d'Anethan was attempting to photograph the hell with a bulky camera on a tripod, lugged up for the purpose by a coolie. Amy coughed in the choking fumes; they could not move forward until the Baroness finished her photograph. Further down the slope she saw Guy le Ferrier approaching and Dicky Huckle behind. Reggie scowled sullenly at them.

‘Hold it steady,' the Baroness berated the coolie. ‘Now I shall have to take one more. Forgive me, everyone,' she called. Baron d'Anethan shrugged apologetically, leaning on his alpenstock. Guy le Ferrier came to a halt behind Reggie.

Amy looked quickly at Guy, sick with apprehension. After he went to Tokyo she seemed able to forget him. Now she saw that the legacy of experience could not be erased. Guy's profile, handsome and arrogant, stood out clearly behind Reggie's fleshy, sensuous features. There seemed something indigestibly obscene in standing beside them as she did, one man's wife and the other man's mistress. And she must share this knowledge with Guy who, each time he looked at Reggie, could retrace in private pleasure the moment he had made a cuckold of him. It weighed her down and made her feel sick, destroying the triumph she had felt at breaking Reggie's hold upon her. She did not feel free at all. Guy le Ferrier looked at her coolly, without the emotions that trembled in her own face. She could trust him never to give anything away. She stared down again at the desolate gorge. For the first time on the brink of this living hell, where with one false step boiling mud would consume her, the bleak terror of what she had really done came down upon her with full force.

On their return Reggie watched the women, swaying precariously in their bamboo chairs above the shoulders of the coolies, parasols tilted to the sun, like an exotic variety of captured bird. The afternoon light caught in Amy's hair beneath her wide-brimmed hat. She turned to smile at Dicky Huckle as their chairs drew level with him. He did not like the man, always bouncing around like an overgrown schoolboy, full of pointless jokes. He had
watched the way he sought Amy's company on one pretext or another. He never failed to make her laugh, they appeared like impetuous children. The man was a couple of years younger than Amy. It was unseemly the way she behaved, shamelessly encouraging his attention. He did not know if it was worse to suspect his wife of infidelity or to be sure. He tried to read in Amy's voice and the inclination of her body an answer to his suspicions. But she was on her guard; she watched to see if he watched her. Why should she do that unless she had something to hide? Anger consumed him. It was that French Ferret he suspected the most, he was a known womanizer. Reggie gritted his teeth. The man had moved to Tokyo, dispensing of the need for further anxiety but, since his arrival in Miyanoshita Reggie's suspicions were ripe again. He saw that Amy and Guy le Ferrier avoided each other deliberately. Amy was subdued, the expressions she could never hide troubled in her face. There was something he could not put his finger on in this new and negative energy between them. His intuition told him something he had not monitored must have passed between them. It loosened his anger, never well secured. He watched closely for clues and could find none, and this absence aroused him further.

Reggie caught up with Sir Hugh Fraser and Baron d'Anethan. It was not often he had the opportunity to corner the unapproachable élite. They were affable if reserved, especially thin, quiet Fraser, but treated him with the respect allowed to the manager of the United Club. The two parties from the Fujiya now merged and moved as one, waiting patiently at scenic spots for the Baroness to set up her tripod and take her photographs. They stopped together for refreshments of cake and lemonade, cooled in a river by a runner sent on ahead. When fresh white cloths were spread once more on the warm earth, Reggie was invited to join the diplomats. He was offered a Havana by Baron d'Anethan. Guy le Ferrier leaned nonchalantly against a nearby tree and smoked a Sobranie. Reggie looked him up and down. Sir Hugh
Fraser and Baron d'Anethan exchanged opinions on world news.

Suddenly the bushes nearby began to rustle and shake, and from their midst, as if pitched out in distaste,
stumbled
Matthew Armitage. Leaves stuck to his hair, his face was hot and flushed. Baron d'Anethan and Sir Hugh Fraser got up in surprise to welcome him. Matthew Armitage sat down, gratefully accepting some chilled lemonade. He took off the red scarf about his neck and mopped his perspiring face. He said he was a mess; nobody contradicted him.

‘But my dear fellow, what on earth were you doing there in the bushes?' Sir Hugh Fraser asked, amazed, still immaculate in white duck in spite of the dusty hike.

‘Black paradise flycatcher,' Matthew announced, refolding his scarf and tying it again about his neck. ‘Well worth the wait. All of forty-five centimetres and
two-thirds
of that tail. Boy at the hotel told me I'd see them up here.'

‘Ah, birdwatching again. Can't leave you alone for a moment, Armitage, but you rush off to catch butterflies or wild flowers for some new book or other,' Baron d'
Anethan
chuckled.

‘All needs compiling. There are no comprehensive studies in English,' Matthew said shortly. ‘Posterity will be grateful.'

Reggie, leaning back against a tree, looked at Matthew Armitage, relish in his eyes. The man was not a man, with all the qualities that word implied. He was one of those who had never put in a good day's work of the kind solid individuals required. Birdwatching and butterfly catching. Wild flowers. If he was not so thick with d'Anethan and Fraser and Chamberlain, Reggie would have allowed himself to smile. Something about the man, maybe his absurd red scarf or untidy hair, made Reggie see him as an organ grinder, winding up a
hurdy-gurdy
, a monkey on his shoulder. It was a constant wonder to Reggie how such men made their way in the world, ingratiating themselves into the very best circles.
Baron d'Anethan turned to introduce Reggie, who nodded condescendingly.

‘Ah, Mr Redmore,' Matthew said. ‘I've been looking forward to seeing you. You've a talented wife. I've seen her drawings. Remarkable. Quite remarkable, you know.'

‘Another gifted lady to add to our community?' Sir Hugh Fraser smiled.

‘My wife's book of poems is to be presented to the Empress,' Baron d'Anethan announced. ‘It will be bound in white satin with raised rosebuds of pink velvet. What does your wife draw, Mr Redmore?' the Baron asked, peering at Reggie through round metal-rimmed spectacles above a walrus moustache.

‘Praise from Armitage is praise indeed. Many would be honoured for such words from so eminent a critic,' Sir Hugh Fraser informed Reggie.

The terse words of polite contempt, prepared to demolish Matthew Armitage, died upon Reggie's lips. The man appeared accepted and respected, although it seemed hardly credible. Reggie had looked forward to putting him down and sharing the silent approval of the ambassadors. There was suddenly nothing he could say.

‘I have a proposition, Mr Redmore.' Matthew picked yet another leaf from his hair before pulling on a battered panama hat. ‘You must forgive my presumption, but I'd like to ask your consent to request your wife to sketch some wild flowers for a forthcoming book of mine.'

Reggie scowled. Irritation flared up immediately in him. It was impossible in front of the present audience to put Matthew Armitage in his place. Reggie could see what he was getting at now. It was an excuse to approach Amy. And no man would have such ideas unless he had been openly encouraged. Amy was up to her tricks again; he needed eyes at the back of his head. He looked coldly at Matthew Armitage. The man was nothing but an
opportunist.
Did he really expect a chap to let his wife traipse about with boxes and butterfly nets or whatever else was needed in search of wild flowers, falling inadvertently out of bushes or trees as this ridiculous fellow did?