Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  He felt a spasm of hatred, directed against himself, at his own weariness of his wife’s uninspired devotion.

  He picked up the letter distastefully, and felt unable to open it.

  Still holding to surface preoccupations, he wondered what method Courteney would have found of betraying him if Phyllis had not put “Immediate” on the outside of her envelope. Slowly, an idea took possession of his exhausted mind.

  Could he tell Mr. Bolham that he had been summoned back to London upon urgent private business? He could go then without the disgrace of dismissal.

  Taking the letter with him he went indoors.

  (3)

  Mr. Bolham, in his large room, sat waiting for his secretary. When a knock sounded at the door he curtly exclaimed, “Come in!” and prepared to add a short but significant reference to the importance of his time.

  Then his eye — an experienced, habitually incredulous eye — fell upon Denis Waller’s face.

  Mr. Bolham recognised, with aversion, the signs of a genuine psychic disturbance.

  There passed through his mind, only to be rejected, the vague possibility of being kind, of asking a question, and listening compassionately to the reply.

  But life had taught him the futility of paying any attention to these transient impulses.

  He was, in fact, barely aware of their existence, so swiftly did he dismiss them.

  He merely perceived that he must put into effect a resolution that had been growing within him for some time, and that he must do so instantly, for he saw that Denis was preparing to make a statement of an emotional nature, and this Mr. Bolham felt must be avoided, at whatever cost to Denis. Even, if necessary, at some cost to himself.

  “Waller,” he said immediately, “I find that I shall not require your services much longer. In fact, I propose to dispense with them after to-day. I need hardly say that this reflects no discredit whatever on the work that you’ve already done for me. I shall be quite ready to give you a testimonial as to your abilities. Draw yourself a cheque for two months’ salary in lieu of notice. I think you have a return ticket to London already?”

  Mr. Bolham did not look at Denis as he uttered these brief pronouncements. He knew without looking that Denis had become stiff with dismay.

  “May I ask — I certainly didn’t expect such a very sudden end to the appointment — I hope I’ve done nothing that —— ?”

  “Nothing whatever,” said Mr. Bolham firmly. “Merely a change of plans on my part. Now, if you will be good enough to take down the following—”

  He hoped that any semblance of a scene had been precluded by his own determination, but next moment knew, with horror rather than surprise, that the hope had failed.

  “You needn’t think,” said Denis in a wild quivering voice, “that I don’t know what’s happened. I think Courteney must be a devil — not a human being at all. I knew he meant to lose me my job, and he’s done it. I don’t know what he’s told you, nor why you’re dismissing me like this without even waiting to hear my explanation. In fact, I don’t know why my private affairs should concern anybody at all except myself. They don’t interfere with my work, and if — —”

  The astonished Mr. Bolham held up one hand, in a gesture that he instantly felt to be much too reminiscent of a policeman controlling traffic.

  “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about. I don’t wish to know anything whatever about your private affairs.”

  “Then why did you listen to Courteney?” demanded Denis furiously.

  Mr. Bolham surveyed him with a cold dislike.

  He saw that Denis was firmly under the impression that Courteney, of whom he was evidently in terror, had repeated to Mr. Bolham something that was, or that he thought to be, greatly to the discredit of Denis Waller. Mr. Bolham was in no hurry to disabuse him of the idea. His mildly sadistic feelings towards Denis were deriving a certain gratification from this abstention, and — much more strongly — he was moved by the thought that so long as he was supposed to know the secret, whatever it was, Denis could be stopped from revealing it in a welter of prevarications, explanations, and self-justifications.

  It had never been difficult to overrule Denis, and Mr. Bolham was fully prepared to do so again.

  “I think we had better start our morning’s work, Waller, unless you wish to see to your preparations for leaving. Are you ready?”

  “I can’t — I — will you give me a chance to explain myself, sir?” said Denis.

  If he had stopped there, Mr. Bolham afterwards reflected, one might have agreed to listen to him. But instead, he threw upon the table a small mauve envelope that Mr. Bolham felt, with an inward recoil, to have been addressed by a young woman, and began to bluster.

  “I think I may say that you owe it to me, sir, to hear what I have to say. In treating me like this, at a moment when I am in very serious private trouble of my own, you may be driving me to any lengths. There may be only one alternative left to me, if you refuse to listen. I’m not a man who cares to say a very great deal — —”

  “And I,” said Mr. Bolham sharply, “am not a man who cares to hear a very great deal. In fact in this case I decline to hear anything whatever. Take this down, please.”

  And he began to dictate with so much fluency that most of his notes eventually proved useless and had to be re-written with greater care and reflection.

  (4)

  In a train that rushed and rocked between the olive-clad slopes of Italy, Buckland and Angie lay locked in one another’s arms.

  They had left the Hôtel d’Azur together very early in the morning. Even the concierge had been unaware of their departure.

  They spoke very little.

  Once Angie said, with a soft laugh:

  “I’d like to see what your old Coral looks like when she finds out you’re gone.”

  “I’m sorry for the next person she meets, that’s all,” Buck answered. “She’s got a filthy temper, but it’s soon over. I suppose the boy will have to suffer for it, poor devil.”

  “He won’t mind losing you, Buck.”

  “Not a bit. Besides, he’ll be able to drive the Buick now.”

  “I wish we could have taken the car. Buck, we’ll have to get a car somehow.”

  Buckland, who knew well that sixty pounds, which was all that he now had in the world, must keep himself and Angie for as long as they remained together, for sole reply began to kiss her again.

  (5)

  The Morgans had gone.

  Patrick remained on the terrace sitting upon the stone coping looking thoughtfully after the omnibus as it rattled away, appearing and disappearing round the sharp curves of the avenue.

  He had, he knew, been waiting for them to go. He hadn’t wanted anything to happen whilst they were at the Hotel that might spoil their holiday. He thought that would be a shame, when they were so nice, and had been so decent to him.

  The terrace was empty again now. The waiters were clearing away. Patrick had a sudden queer, sentimental vision of Gwennie Morgan, square and sunburnt, in her blue bathing-drawers and cretonne hat, running in and out between the tables. For a moment, it seemed quite real, as though she were really there. Surprised, he stood up and looked round.

  Mr. Muller sat by himself, as usual, and read a voluminous American newspaper. His customary glass of orange-juice stood, half empty, on the table beside him.

  Dulcie Courteney had disappeared indoors again, so had her father.

  Miss Challoner and Denis Waller were at the far end of the terrace, talking.

  There was nobody else.

  Well, thought Patrick vaguely, there was nothing more to wait for. His plan had been made quite clearly the day before, but now all his perceptions seemed to be half asleep. He was acting in a dull, dreamy way, as though he could only follow instructions, understood and assimilated a long time ago, almost mechanically.

  As he walked to the garage he glanced up at his mother’s window. The shutters were closed. Her b
right emerald-green bathing-dress hung out beneath them.

  Patrick looked away again.

  Outside the garage a man in a holland blouse was manipulating a hose. Streams of water ran over the cement pavement and down the slope.

  “Bonjour, m’sieur.”

  “Bonjour,” said Patrick shyly, smiling at him. The man said something else, that Patrick guessed to be an enquiry as to whether he wanted the car, and with much vigorous gesticulation moved the hose-pipe out of his way.

  “Merci,” said Patrick.

  “De rien, m’sieur.”

  The Buick, shining and beautiful, stood near the door. She started up easily, and Patrick backed her slowly out of the garage.

  Then he swung her half round, changed gear and felt her moving smoothly and swiftly down the avenue.

  He loved driving, and had done so little that it still held the charm of novelty. Since coming to France he hadn’t been allowed to drive at all, because Buck had pretended to think that it wasn’t safe.

  Well, he was driving now.

  At the bottom of the hill Patrick took the sharp left-handed turn out of the main road, changed into third gear and accelerated.

  The Buick shot over the highly cambered surface of the road, taking the steep curves easily. Patrick held the wheel lightly. His eye caught the succession of little white or blue villas, green-shuttered, set in cypresses, of which the outlines had become familiar in the last week or two. On the other side of the road lay the glittering blue of the Mediterranean.

  He passed the plage, and the raft, and the rocks from which the Hôtel d’Azur visitors had preferred to bathe.

  The car was headed towards Cannes.

  Soon, Patrick could not longer recognise the shapes of the red rocks and the small distant islands. The bays were unfamiliar.

  But he quite clearly remembered one especial bend of the Cannes road, where two cars had almost collided on the day of the expedition to Monte Carlo. He had seen then the sheer drop below, on to a mass of jagged red rock. He felt certain that he would know the place again the moment he saw it. It must, he thought, be very near now. A moment later, he saw that he had reached it.

  The car shot round the curve, and Patrick wrenched at the wheel, swinging her outwards.

  At the same instant a bird rose from a bush and flew, startled, into the air, with whirring wings.

  Patrick’s last conscious thought was one of surprised pleasure.

  There were birds on the coast, after all....

  (6)

  Just before midday Coral Romayne came downstairs. Her face, in spite of careful make-up, still showed the sodden traces of heavy sleep prolonged far into the morning. She wore a new dress, of pale blue washing-silk, sleeveless and cut very low, called a sunbathing beach-frock. She was very pleased with it, and felt that it showed off her slim hips and long lines to the greatest possible advantage.

  Downstairs, there was nobody to be seen except as usual Madame in her little office, and the concierge reading his newspaper at his desk. He stood up as Mrs. Romayne passed, but without ceasing to read. Only for his own compatriots, the rich Americans, and Mr. Bolham, did the concierge ever willingly remove his eyes from his Petit Marseillais.

  Coral strolled out into the blazing heat.

  She wondered where on earth Buck had got to, and supposed that he had taken Patrick to bathe.

  “Garçong!”

  Henri, less apathetic than the concierge, came forward, his napkin over his arm.

  Coral ordered a gin and Italian vermouth, and lit a cigarette. As she sat and sipped her drink her thoughts wandered agreeably.

  She’d got Buck where she wanted him.

  It was marvellous, to have a lover by whom she was so strongly attracted, at her age.

  He’ll be the last, she thought. I want to keep him as long as I can.

  It was not in her temperament to make plans for the future. Her dread of every passing year was too great to allow her to look ahead. She only envisaged an immediate future of new and becoming clothes, motor expeditions, food and drink and parties, with Buckland always in close attendance on herself. Why the hell didn’t he hurry up and come?

  A step on the gravel made her look up, but it was only Courteney.

  He came and spoke to her, then sat down and invited her to have another drink.

  “Thanks,” said Coral. “Where’s everybody this morning?”

  “The Morgans left early. And Moon has gone off to Marseilles — he says to see a man who’s sailing for America.”

  “Hasn’t she gone too?” Coral asked quickly.

  Courteney lit a cigarette very carefully, intent on shielding the light with his hand.

  “No,” he said at last. “At least, she didn’t go off with him. I saw him start. He was by himself.”

  “Then where’s Angie?” demanded Coral, an angry, unformulated suspicion rising in her mind.

  “As a matter of fact, Madame called me into the office this morning. She was a good deal upset. Moon paid up his bill all right, but Mrs. Moon has cleared out. Nobody quite knows when.”

  “How could she? I mean, without letting anybody know. I bet she didn’t leave her luggage behind.”

  “She didn’t. Someone carried her cases down the avenue for her, to the garage at the bottom of the hill.”

  “Who was it?” said Coral hoarsely.

  “I’m afraid, Mrs. Romayne, it was your boy’s tutor. I was wondering whether, perhaps, he’d left a note for you, or any kind of explanation.”

  “But he can’t have gone,” said Coral. “He’ll come back. He’s taken her part of the way. He wouldn’t play me a dirty trick like that. When’s the next ‘bus from St. Raphael?”

  She sprang to her feet. Her face was mottled, and her eyes starting.

  “He’s bound to turn up again,” she repeated. “Can’t we telephone, or do something? Where’s Patrick?”

  “I haven’t seen him since the Morgans went off. He may have gone down to bathe. I’m afraid this is a bit of a shock, Mrs. Romayne.”

  He pushed her glass towards her, and she drank from it mechanically.

  A car came suddenly into view, travelling almost soundlessly, and drew up before the door. Courteney’s eyebrows went up at the sight of it, and he made a scarcely perceptible movement, as if to rise. Coral noticed nothing.

  Her muscles had relaxed all at once, she felt sick and old, and dropped back heavily into her chair.

  Courteney stared at the two police-officers who had descended from the car and gone quickly up the steps.

  “The bastard,” muttered Coral, “the dirty bastard! I’ve been a damn sight too generous with him all along. Old Gush told me I was a fool, and she was right. And that’s what he does in return. Why, I tell you it was my money he was playing with at the Rooms when he won the other day — the — —”

  Abuse poured from her lips.

  (7)

  Courteney remained where he was, standing in silence beside her. His gaze was still fixed on the entrance to the Hotel.

  He felt an odd certainty that he would presently be summoned. Dulcie would come out, her face pale and swollen with tears as he had seen it that morning, and pipe out shrilly that Madame would be glad if he could spare her a moment. (Dulcie must go to school. He’d send her to some cheap place outside London, this very September.)

  The police....

  It might mean nothing at all, or it might mean something quite serious. His thoughts hovered for a moment round the Hotel visitors.

  Buckland? He wasn’t the kind that went outside the law. Too much horse-sense.

  Denis Waller was a rotter, if ever there was one, but he hadn’t the guts to have got himself into trouble with the French police and kept quiet about it. He’d have betrayed himself long ago.

  It was Hilary Moon, if it was anybody.

  Mrs. Romayne’s ugly voice, uttering ugly words, was going on and on. What a woman!

  Courteney uttered sympathetic ejaculations, and h
eartily longed to see the brown-clad figure of the chasseur coming leisurely out to look for him.

  But it was not the chasseur who came for Courteney. It was the supercilious concierge, hurrying in the blazing noonday heat, his face green and his hands shaking.

  “Venez, venez vite. Madame vous demande. Le sous-préfet de police est là. Sur la route de Cannes — on a trouvé — —”

  The two men hurried into the Hôtel d’Azur, leaving Coral Romayne on the terrace, and went to the office where Madame, distraught, awaited them.

  CHAPTER XVI

  (1)

  The Duvals were arguing, fiercely and yet amiably.

  They sat on the terrace, clad in their tight swimming-suits, and sipped sirop, and handed to one another little wafer-biscuits that had mottoes embossed upon their crisp surface:

  “J’aime mieux les brunes.”

  “Faites-moi vite danser.”

  “Méfiez-vous de celui-là.”

  Every now and then they exchanged a word of abuse, followed by a smart tap from her husband on Marcelle Duval’s plump brown arm.

  Then they both screamed with laughter.

  The afternoon siesta was over.

  On the balcony below the room of the Duvals, two young girls sat smoking and chattering. They had arrived the day before, and were sharing room number sixteen.

  The elder one was expecting a young man to join her from Antibes, and did not know how to explain this to her companion.

  The other girl had guessed, and was secretly miserable. She was not attractive to men, and all her emotional life was centred in her companion. She wondered how she could bear it....

  An American couple came down the steps. They were both self-conscious, in smart new bathing-suits and coloured cloaks. They talked to one another in high-pitched voices about the sun and the coast.

  The man, who was much older than his wife, was wondering whether she would agree to a divorce. He was desperately in love with a Frenchwoman.