by Muriel Spark
Ernst arrived at that moment. She recognized the rattle of his key in the lock that was special to him. ‘I just saw Luke downstairs,’ he said, stroking back his hair.
‘Yes, he came to collect some things of his. What did he say?’
‘I didn’t have a chance to speak to him. He just waved and threw his bag into the car. And he drove off. A Porsche, very expensive and new. I wonder whose it is?’
‘Probably his own,’ said Ella.
‘The world is going mad,’ said Ernst. ‘He serves at table and flashes about with expensive clothes and a Porsche, latest model. Did you see his clothes?’
‘I didn’t notice the clothes,’ Ella said. ‘But there’s something wrong.’
‘The world is going mad. I’ve just heard from my office in Brussels today about a simultaneous interpreter who went mad from exhaustion. He interpreted everything wildly wrong at an international meeting. Then he took a knife and went round threatening everybody.’
Ella brought him his drink. ‘Simultaneous interpreters have nervous problems,’ she said. Perhaps his story referred to Luke. Ernst often said one thing with reference to another. But Ella couldn’t see any connection in this case, and didn’t care.
MARGARET had given up her job with the petrol company when she got married. She knew nothing about a painting by Monet having been sold at Sotheby’s. In fact she had lost interest in that type of work; it had served her purpose. She stared at Hilda when she came to lunch, the day after her arrival in London.
Hilda’s first thought was that Margaret knew about her purchase of the Monet. It had been in Margaret’s line of business to know about the sale at Sotheby’s. On the other hand, the purchaser’s name had been kept secret. Only Hurley and Chris knew she was now the owner.
Everything went through Hilda’s head, every suspicion. Hilda chatted while they waited for William to appear for lunch. In the meantime she was aware of her own great prosperity and she thought of Margaret and the waste of life in her past, and she could swear that the way the girl was looking at her meant she was plotting against her.
She remembered the night and two days she had spent at the Murchies’.
‘I’m not sure I’m going to manage to come north at the weekend,’ she said. ‘There are so many business things to see to.’
‘Don’t say that, please don’t say that,’ said Margaret in her softest voice. ‘William will be desperately disappointed. We were counting on a weekend in the country with you. Mum and Daddy are looking forward to it. They have so little — one has to think of les autres.’
Hilda’s suspicions were a whirling panic. She couldn’t put her finger on it; yes, she could put her finger on it. The Monet, the new painting, Margaret must know it was now Hilda’s and had not foreseen that it would be a wedding present for her, for William. Why Hilda, an even-headed woman, should imagine herself to be in danger because of the Monet, merely, can only be explained by the panic that Margaret provoked in her. Destiny, my destiny, thought Hilda. Is she going to poison me? What is she plotting? She is plotting something. This is a nightmare.
Hilda was right. Except that in the destiny of the event Margaret could have saved herself the trouble, the plotting. It was the random gang, through the informers Luke and Charterhouse, of which Margaret knew nothing, who were to kill Hilda Damien for her Monet.
‘I could fly up on Saturday,’ Hilda offered. ‘I’m very tied up before then.’
‘Fine,’ Margaret said, ‘fine.’
William arrived less than fifteen minutes after Hilda. He relieved the tension; but he wondered why his mother looked distracted.
The day of the dinner, 18th October, in the morning, a large van drew up outside Chris Donovan’s house in Islington. It was a great consignment of furniture for Hurley Reed that he had told his widowed mother several times not to send. She had just moved to a smaller house near Boston and she had felt the only thing to do with the surplus furniture, practically a houseful, was to ship it to Hurley, her only offspring. Hurley had thought that the last telephone conversation he had with his mother had settled the matter. ‘I don’t have room for it,’ he had said, not once but over and over again. And she, equally, repeated that she couldn’t possibly send such good furniture to be sold, it should be kept ‘in the family’. ‘What family?’ he had demanded. His mother knew very well he had been living with Chris all these years, she had even met Chris, it had all been very amicable. But still she couldn’t get it out of her head that Hurley ‘might get married one day’ and need that furniture, those bedsteads, tables, sideboards, hanging cupboards, thick wood and studded-leather chairs, corner cupboards, made of mahogany, walnut, cherry wood. Not to mention the ornamental lamps and the bronze horsemen that Hurley knew had been wont to stand on or hover over these lump-masses of wood. In spite of his pleas, she had shipped them off to Hurley, transit paid; and here was the van taking up nearly all the road, and the moving men descending in their overalls, throwing open the back doors of the van, ready for action.
‘Stop!’ cried Hurley.
The foreman came forward with his documents. ‘Reed live here?’
‘That’s me,’ said Hurley, ‘but you don’t bring that stuff here. I don’t have any room, we’re already cluttered.’
‘Got to deliver it,’ said the man while the other men sauntered round to hear what was going on.
It went on for over half an hour. The traffic in the street slowed down, and Hurley went indoors and telephoned frantically to every storage warehouse in the Yellow Pages. It was half-past twelve before the men were very beneficially persuaded to take their consignment to the warehouse that Hurley had found willing to take his goods at short notice. But even then, he had to lead the van there in his car, and personally pay a deposit.
‘It’s been one of those days,’ said Hurley to Chris when he got back. ‘Not a stroke of work done.’ They were eating a sandwich lunch which Corby had prepared. Corby made delicious sandwiches, full of real food, as he called it, not at all like the cafeteria products. Corby’s sandwiches and fruit juice constituted Hurley’s favourite lunch. Chris laced her fruit juice with vodka.
Charterhouse was out and the daily maid had left. Corby, that skilled Mauritian of Indian origin, put his lean brown face round the door: ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Hurley.
When he had gone, Chris said, ‘Corby’s worried.’
‘Why? Haven’t we settled the menu for tonight?’
‘Oh, the food — that’s all right. It isn’t that. It’s Charterhouse. Corby does simply not take to him. He’s deeply suspicious but if I ask, suspicious about what, he just shakes his head. He says we should be careful what we say in front of Charterhouse.’
‘Careful what we say? What on earth do we say?’
‘Of course Mauritius still has a very primitive element, you know. Their witchcraft. They sense things.’
‘Perhaps Corby senses right,’ said Hurley. If he had not been so worn out by the bureaucratic and other struggles over the furniture consignment of the morning he would have had Corby in, then and there, to question him. ‘We shouldn’t get too mixed up with their domestic feuds,’ he said.
Chris said: ‘I told Corby we could have a talk about it tomorrow. I want to get my hair done this afternoon and have a beauty-nap before the dinner.’ And she said, ‘You know, I don’t want to lose Corby after all these years. There could very well be something in what he says.’
Hurley went to his studio to mooch over his work.
In the course of the afternoon Chris received two phone calls. One was from Helen Suzy to say that Brian’s daughter Pearl had arrived in London, a last-minute decision, and was sleeping it off. Could Pearl come along and join them after dinner with a couple of friends?
‘Yes, of course,’ said Chris. ‘Delighted.’
The second phone call was from Hilda Damien. ‘I’m taking the painting along to the flat, myself, tonight. Yes, it’s manageabl
e, with the help of the taxi-driver I hope. There’s a lift, of course. The picture is so lovely I’d like you to see it. I’m tempted to keep it for myself.’
‘Why don’t you?’ said Chris.
‘I’m sort of superstitious. I bought it for them and they should have it. Chris, I’m really nervous about Margaret after hearing what you’ve found out.’
‘I didn’t want to make ill-feeling,’ said Chris.
‘Ill-feeling, no. Facts are facts. I’m glad to know, and I did already feel ill-will oozing out of her towards me. Right from the start. It seems to freeze the air between us. William’s such a fool, he keeps repeating that phrase, “Be careful, the grapefruit could be bruised,” or something like that, which Margaret said to him when they first met in Marks & Spencer’s. It’s childish.’
‘Does he know anything about her past life, or about the Murchies?’
‘Honestly,’ said Hilda, ‘I don’t think he knows a thing. She hasn’t told him anything, I’m pretty sure.‘
‘Well, Hilda, I don’t think she’s committed any crime, after all.’
‘She’s perfectly innocent, of course, as far as one can gather. But what malign vibes that girl gives out! Do you think she could plot some evil against me? I’m a bundle of nerves. William dotes on her. I don’t want to antagonize him by talking behind her back, as it were. That red hair —’
‘If I were you,’ said Chris, ‘I would keep the picture and go right back home. You’re a sensible woman, you’re a brilliant woman and everybody knows it. Keep right out of their way. I’ve never known you like this before.’
‘And not go to the Murchies’ for the weekend?’
‘No, not go, definitely.’
‘I want to give the young couple the picture, anyway. I’d better do that. It might sweeten her up. A flat in Hampstead and a London painting by Monet, what more can she want?’
The pheasant (flambé in cognac as it is) has been passed round a second time and most people have taken a tiny touch of everything, so good to taste, with peas, small carrots, small sausages rolled in bacon, sauté potatoes. Charterhouse has taken round a serving plate, Luke has followed with another. Hurley has served the wine at his end of the table, Chris at hers, helped willingly by Brian and Ernst on her right and left.
There is no more clatter of a serving fork to the floor. The plates have been taken away and now, in the Continental order of serving — cheese before sweet, preferred by Chris, rather than the reverse English order which Hurley likes better — arrives Stilton cheese, salad, not too swiftly, absolutely silently, with very attractive old Wedgwood plates.
While they are talking amongst each other, most of the guests and the two good hosts are, with another part of their minds, thinking of Margaret. To the accompaniment of good food and wine everything seems less drastic, including the position in the world of Margaret with her long red hair and blue beaded dress.
Chris thinks, we can’t possibly be involved in a witch-hunt. She’s a perfectly attractive girl. ‘I do so agree,’ she says to her neighbour, Ernst, who has said it would be sheer madness to put your money into the Channel Tunnel.
‘Of course,’ says Ernst, ‘the Channel had to go. Like the Berlin Wall. But investing in the Tunnel is something else again. The maintenance. And the French franc, oh my God!’ He is looking at Margaret, wondering where, in Brussels, he could have seen her before. Some night spot? At Antwerp, one of those wonderful restaurants near the docks? Or nowhere? Newly married into the Damien fortune, as he understood. He looks round for Luke and is consoled to see him standing still by the sideboard.
‘And there I was. Ten-thirty this morning, ‘Hurley is telling Ella Untzinger, ‘with a houseful of furniture on my hands. That’s all I need. So I just said, “Stop. Stop right there. Don’t open that van. If you care to step inside the house,” I said, “you can see for yourself we have already furniture and to spare.” So what do I have to do? I have to spend the whole morning trying to find a place …’ He is thinking, She wouldn’t be bad to paint, if I could get her out of that pre-Raphaelite pose with her spectacular hair and see more of her prominent teeth. I could go back off into portraits, any time. She would be a really good subject if she’d sit still and take off those absurd clothes.
Ella says, ‘The thought of moving house is appalling. We’re moving to a flat in Bloomsbury and we’ve decided to be ruthless. Furniture can be an impediment to one’s active career, it can actually impede spiritual and artistic development. Beware of furniture, Hurley.’ Ella looks over her shoulder to where Luke stands, waiting for his next round of services. Charterhouse has appeared beside him. Ella hears Luke say something about ‘Mrs Damien’ and, curious, makes an effort to hear the rest. ‘She’s not here, not the mother. The red-haired one is the young … a mistake.’ The voice was lost in the other sounds of the room. She is indignant with Luke for having behaved in such an offhand manner the other day. After she and Ernst have set him up, more or less, in London, with advice and meals and drinks and evening jobs to help his university career, he has started to behave like a spoiled brat, a whore. She is thankful, at least, he has turned up tonight and not let her down. But it must be the last time, she is sure it is the last time.
‘Venice’, Roland is saying to Helen Suzy, ‘can often be wonderful in November. The crowds of tourists have gone home. You can also get around quicker. It may just be that some of the museums and galleries are closed down, they say for cleaning or for reorganization and so on but it’s only to give the staff a rest. How you go about getting into a gallery that’s closed down is, you write a little appeal to the curator at the back of your card and send it in. Have you got a visiting card?’
‘No, but Brian has.’
‘That will do. So long as they think you’re special, they’ll let you in. In Venice and in Naples you can do everything if you’re special. In between, Tuscany, Umbria, Lombardy, being special is a way to get nowhere. In Rome everybody is special so priorities cancel themselves out; if you aren’t in the Vatican your uncle is; if you aren’t in a government office you will be next week. Do you speak Italian?’
‘No, but Brian does a bit.’
‘Well, that’s fine. Get him to scribble a few words presenting his compliments to the egregious director of the museum, if it’s closed. If the director is not there himself one of his myrmidons will let you in.’
Chris notes with satisfaction that Roland is capably fulfilling his role of ‘talking to a tree’; Roland himself is far from thinking that Helen is a tree. What a waste, he thinks, that this slim girl with her boy-short hair should be going to Venice next week with raddled Lord Suzy, an intensive-care case of loquacious boredom. It would be nice, Roland thinks, to take this pretty, flat-chested, boyish gawk round Venice himself. And as for Margaret Damien, she makes him shudder, sitting there with her simper as if she were still a Sister of Good Hope. If I was really bitchy, he thinks, as Annabel supposes I am, I would ask her here and now, quite openly, ‘Weren’t you attached to that convent where the young novice was killed? — I’m sure I saw you on the television.’
There is a changing of plates at the table. Luke and Charterhouse seem to float, it is a ballet. White sparkling wine is poured into those twinkling crystal glasses which are meant for it. In comes the sweet course which the English in their lunatic way call the pudding, whether it be leaden with suet or fluffy to the last rarity, no matter; on this occasion it is crème brûlée. ‘Crème brûlée’, observes Annabel, ‘is actually a Creole dish.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ says Chris.
‘I wish I knew how to make it,’ Annabel says. She looks across the table to Margaret, the new bride. ‘Can you cook?’ she says.
‘Only basics,’ says Margaret. ‘I took a three-week course. And you?’
‘When I’ve got time,’ says Annabel, ‘and someone to eat the food with, I like to cook a meal.’
‘It’s a question of les autres,’ Margaret says. ‘One can’t live unt
o oneself.’ She is thinking how much she craves to be back in Scotland with her father looking terrorized through his smoke-glasses into the distance and her mother weakly trying to cope with her horse-racing debts and her menopause; there, Margaret is at home and feels it. She longs for the weekend, the coming Sunday, and sees quite clearly how easily Hilda can go into the pond, a push, with Uncle Magnus kneeling, holding her down. She thinks: What am I doing among these people, what am I doing here? And, while the chatter goes on around her, and William smiles lovingly and a little fearfully in her direction, it is a relief to let her mind dwell with savagery on Hilda. Her brain fills with a verse of a wild ballad:
Awa’, awa’, ye ugly witch,
Haud far awa’ an’ lat me be!
For I wouldna once kiss your ugly mouth
For a’ the gifts that ye could gie.
‘Actually,’ she says to Annabel, ‘I’ve got the chance to go back to my job, and I think I’ll take it.’ She describes to Annabel the job at the petroleum company.
‘That sounds interesting,’ Annabel says. ‘What did you do before that?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ says Margaret, and looks slightly belligerent.
Annabel, thinking of those television shots of Margaret in the convent, holds her peace. A female Jekyll and Hyde, she thinks. And she wonders, What were precisely the crimes of Mr Hyde? One is never really told.
Brian Suzy is saying, ‘These thieves actively want us to sit round our dinner tables discussing them. They desecrate our property largely to show off to each other.’
‘I thought’, says William, ‘that they express contempt only when they don’t find much to steal.’
‘They could have stolen more from me,’ says Brian. ‘But of course we were in the house at the time. The police will get them of course. They’re a gang; they generally go where the people are absent.’
They are in the sitting-room with their cups of coffee. Luke swims round with the tray of liqueurs. Helen can see Luke better now. She thinks, What a nice-looking boy.
