The Young Intruder (6 page)

She thought for a moment.

“Perhaps I would be teaching English in a girls’ school. Or perhaps looking after somebody’s children. Probably having to struggle to make ends meet.” She raised her wide eyes to his. “See, Peter,” she said, “what a fate you have saved me from.”

“I have an idea,” he said, letting himself look deep into those grey eyes, “that you would manage quite well wherever you were. You’re only a
c
hild, but I think, wherever you were, you would find something good in life.”

She had never been so close to him as now; never so much in the same mood. They had never, not even on the steps of the Monument, been so alone, as here in the golden afternoon with the cool expanse of the bluebells stretched before them. She smiled at him, and then moved her head slowly away from the intensity of his look.

“Last spring,” she said, “we were in Lisbon; and the one before that, in Tirol. You stayed with my parents in the Tirol, didn’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, they had a tiny chalet on the side of a mountain.”

“They sold that, years ago. Did you stay there in the spring, Peter?”

“Yes. In the days when the snow seems to vanish overnight.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, eagerly, “and as it vanishes the flowers spring up in its place. Like magic.”

“Like magic,” he agreed. “My visits there were like magic, too. I don’t know even yet, Alison, what it was about your parents that drew everybody to them. It wasn’t only charm, though they had that in plenty. It was almost as if they were in love with life, and everybody came in for some of it. It was a very small chalet, and always overcrowded, because they invited many people, and everybody wanted to go there. When I arrived, there were two singers from the opera at Salzburg, and a French poet. We walked on the mountain and talked all day and half the night; it doesn’t sound exciting, yet it was. They changed life with an extra current, so that we all lived heightened lives ... I think you have something of that in you, too, Alison.” He paused, then added: “Or you certainly would have, if you had an Edward in your life.”

She did not answer. He wondered if he had made her sad by speaking of her parents, and he stretched out his hand and held hers for a moment, reassuringly. She smiled but did not look up. She was thinking of his words. If my life held an Edward, she thought, he would be called Peter. Her thoughts went back to what he had said of her parents; and she compared this state of happiness, this life that was heightened by love, to the relationship of Peter and Lydia. It did not seem to her remotely possible that Lydia could have anything of this. Surely, she thought, if Peter can realise its value in other people, he should have the courage to wait until it comes along in his own life.

She stood up. Peter picked up her hat and gloves, which she would certainly have forgotten, and turned to walk back to the car with her. He helped her over the rickety fence, and kept his hand under her arm, as they traversed the two fields. Was he, he asked himself, trying once more to keep in touch with this girl’s parents, who had given him a key to life? Or was it their spirit living on in this slender girl that attracted him?

They came to the car, and Alison felt reluctance to lose the hand that held her arm so firmly. She put her flowers in the back of the car, and took her seat next to Peter. “That was lovely,” she said. “Thank you so much, Peter.”

It had been Peter’s intention to devote a little time to Alison while Douglas was away, for, whether they were in love or not, they had spent much time together, and Alison would probably feel a little lonely. Business, however, demanded two trips abroad at just this, time, one to Paris and one to Oslo, and three weeks of the month had passed, almost without his seeing her. When he did reach home, after his Oslo trip, arriving at the house after luncheon on Sunday, Alison was missing. Priscilla said that a young man called Guy had taken her off in a ramshackle car that didn’t look as if it would get very far before collapsing altogether. Peter felt suddenly rather flat. He had taken it for granted that she would be lonely and glad of his company; but she was off with a youngster of her own age to enjoy herself. He decided that he would run down and see Douglas, for he had been forced to neglect Douglas too.

He arrived at the rehabilitation centre to find a long line of cars already parked outside, for this was a routine visiting day. He was directed to Douglas’s room, and walked with a firm step along the corridor. He tapped lightly on the door, and opened it to look inside and see if this were the right room. A burst of youthful laughter greeted him, and Alison’s voice could be heard protesting. Nobody had heard his knock, or seen him enter; and he stood for a moment, taking in the scene. Douglas was seated in an ordinary armchair, smoking a cigarette, and laughing. Two other young men, one of whom seemed familiar, were battling for possession of a sheet of paper, while Alison was heard to lament plaintively that she did not receive a proposal of marriage every day.

Then she suddenly saw Peter, and jumped up with such a radiant smile that he told himself she must be glad to see him.

“Be quiet, children,” she said. “Don’t you see we have a visitor?”

“Pete,” called Douglas. And he too was patently glad to see his brother. “When did you get back?”

“This afternoon,” said Peter, wondering why he had not known at once that this was where Alison would be.

“And came straight down here? That’s jolly decent of you.” The other two young men had sobered down, and were waiting quietly. “You already know Guy, don’t you?” went on Douglas. “And this is George Patty. George, my brother.”

There was a general handshaking. Of course, thought Peter, Guy is the young man she was at the theatre with. They were all very quiet now, sober and polite, making conversation with the new arrival. Peter made enquiries as to Douglas’s progress, and felt that he had robbed the party of its fun and liveliness. The youthful laughter that had greeted him was gone now. Alison, who had obviously been having fun, had become very quiet. He told himself he had spoiled the party, and the sooner he went the better; but apparently there were only a few minutes of visiting time left, anyway, so he decided to stay for them. When they did leave Douglas, they went in a group, together.

“I’ll be home in a week,” said Douglas. “And, with any luck, walking.”

“I’ll come down on Wednesday,” said Alison.

“Please,” said Douglas, smiling at her. She bent down and kissed his cheek, before joining the others. They walked out to the long line of waiting cars, and the two young men and Alison stopped at the oldest, dirtiest, most ramshackle car of all.

“Are you coming home, Alison?” asked Peter.

“Guy and George are taking me to tea,” she said, with a faint air of apology. “They brought me down with them. And then we thought of seeing a film afterwards.”

“Then don’t let me upset your arrangements,” said Peter. “Have a good time. My car is right down at the end, so I’ll leave you now.” He shook hands with Guy and George, and smiled at Alison. He did not give the battered old car a
s
ingle look of disparagement, though he did hope it was safe enough to get Alison home without incident.

“Ought you to go with him?” asked Guy, watching Peter’s tall, immaculate form striding towards his car.

“I don’t suppose he really wants me,” said A
li
son. “And anyway, I’m promised to you.”

She got into the ancient car, and George, who was its proud and defiant owner, backed it out of the line and began to drive away. They passed Peter, about to get into his own car.

“My blessed Aunt Fanny,” said George. “Do you mean to say, Alison, you would pass that up for us?”

“It isn’t the car,” she said, “but the people in it that matter.”

A few moments later, Peter passed them with a cheery rhythm on his horn and a wave of the hand, and was soon lost to view. He sped towards London, telling himself that he had asked for that blow. He had been thinking that he was indispensable to Alison, and perhaps to Douglas; and had been shown very plainly that they could get along very well, and very happily, without him. He felt flat again, wondering what he would do with himself. He was more than a little tired after his long journey, but was not attracted by the thought of having dinner with Priscilla at home. He stopped the car at a call-box, and telephoned Ly
d
ia.

“My dear Peter, I did not know that you were back.”

“Only this afternoon; and then rushed down to see Douglas.”

“Of course. How is he?”

“Doing fine. Expects to be walking soon. Are you engaged for this evening, Lydia?”

“No, my dear. Pickard tells me she has a delicious dinner for me here. Why not come and share it, Peter?”

“That sounds delightful. I feel too tired, to tell the truth, to go out and meet people.”

“But not too tired to come and see me? Peter, that is lovely of you. I take it as a compliment. Come whenever you like, my dear.”

He rang off, promising to go round without changing; and was soon being ushered into Lydia’s living room by the impassive Pickard. Here he did not feel shut out by the carefree laughter of youth, or the more freezing politeness that had taken its place. Lydia had had time to put on one of her most becoming dinner dresses, an informal but extremely beautiful one. Her room was bright with flowers, filled with their delicate scent.

“A drink,” suggested Lydia. “It is a little early for dinner. We can sit and talk first. A dry Martini?”

They sat in the deep settee, with their drinks.

‘Tell me,” said Lydia. “How were Paris and Oslo? Successful?”

“Moderately so,” he said, not wanting to talk business.

“And Douglas? Will he really soon be walking?”

“They think so. He walks with the aid of the bars now.”

“But that is wonderful news. You must be tired, racing down there immediately after your journey.”

“I could have saved myself the pains,” he said. “Douglas was well looked after. Alison was there, with two other young men.”

“But of course,” said Lydia complacently. “Where else would she be?”

“You think they are fond of each other, don’t you?”

“Isn’t it obvious. And, if one is honest, very suitable too
...
But then, I do not know if Douglas should rush into attachments with anybody. Because he has been out of the running for so long, he should have time to become accustomed to people again; time to get to know many girls. Of course, Alison
seems
suitable, and they seem happy together; but then I think she is, perhaps, a little too free with all young men.”

“Not Alison,” he said.

“No? Perhaps not. You should know her better than I,” said Lydia, giving him the impression that quite the reverse was true. “Perhaps it is only her extreme youth. And Douglas, of course, makes a very handsome juvenile lead.”

Peter was silent. Lydia, too, put herself and him quite naturally outside this circle of youth. She was far too adult, too mature, to want to be inside it; and for her, a juvenile lead was useless.

“Did you go to the Winlake concert?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes. You would have liked it. It was excellent. And that reminds me, Peter. I am giving a little dinner for the Mortimers and Sydney Wailes and Ernestine. I want you to be my sixth.”

“Delighted,” said Peter, turning his head to smile at her.

“You are tired, aren’t y
o
u?” she said.

“Not really.”

“Why don’t you rest until dinner time? I like to feel that you are at home here. See, I will bury myself in Sunday newspapers, and you can have a little peace.”

He put out a hand and took hers. She returned his pressure, smiling. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“You don’t need to bury yourself in the papers,” he said. “I can have a little peace and talk to you at the same time.”

They talked quietly. Lydia was wondering how soon she could begin to broach the topic of Douglas’s recovery, in relation to Peter’s own actions. Now that Douglas is no longer a burden to you, she might say
...
no, not a burden. Peter would not like that: he would say that Douglas was never a burden. Now that Douglas is better, and you have not to worry about him, you can live your own life
...
would that do? Or a direct approach: Peter, it is high time you were married? No, that was not her line. Besides, even though they were the best of friends, he might not connect her with his thoughts of marriage; and she did not want to connect anybody else with thoughts of marriage in his mind.

What a pity that Alison girl had come to England at all! Without her, there had been no urgency; there was nobody else to be feared. Not that Alison was to be feared; but it was not a desirable situation for Peter to have in his house a young girl, attractive to look at, beautiful with the bloom of youth. Would it be better to work on Alison than Peter, wondered Lydia.

“Why so quiet?” asked Peter. “Are you tired of talking to me?”

“I was thinking about you,” she said. “Will that do instead?”

“If they were kind thoughts,” said Peter lazily.

“What else could they be?” she parried lightly.