Another View

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “I simply don’t believe,” said Mrs. Ryan, “that you really have been swimming.”

  “Not really. I just went in and out again. There were huge waves.”

  “But won’t you get the most terrible chill? It can’t be good for you.” She turned to Ben. “You don’t approve, surely, of swimming when it’s as cold as this? Haven’t you got any influence on your daughter?”

  Her voice was gay and teasing. Ben made some reply, and she went on, telling him that he should be ashamed of himself … that she could see he was an outrageous father …

  Emma did not listen. She was far too busy looking. For Mrs. Ryan was not old and fat, but young and beautiful and very attractive, and from the top of her smoothly-coiffed golden blonde head to the tips of her shining crocodile pumps there was no single detail that did not give active pleasure. Her eyes were enormous and blue as violets, her mouth full and sweet-tempered, and when she smiled, as she did now, revealed two perfect rows of even, white, American teeth. She wore a most becoming suit of rose-pink tweed, the collar and cuffs edged with starched white pique. Diamonds sparkled from her ears, her lapel, her neatly-manicured hands. There was nothing vulgar about her, nothing brash. Even her scent was flower-like.

  “… The fact that she has been away from you for six years is all the more reason for you to take care of her now.”

  “I don’t take care of her … she takes care of me…”

  “Now there is a real man talking…” Her soft, southern voice made the words sound like a caress.

  Emma’s eyes moved round to her father. His attitude was a characteristic one, legs crossed, right elbow resting on his knee, his chin supported by his thumb, a cigarette between his fingers, its smoke rising before his eyes. The eyes were dark as black coffee, deeply shadowed, and they watched Mrs. Ryan as though she were a fascinating new specimen, caught between the glass plates of a laboratory slide.

  “Emma, your drink.”

  It was Marcus. She dragged her eyes from Ben and Mrs. Ryan and turned to him in relief.

  “Oh, thank you…”

  He sat beside her. “Robert has told you about the private view?”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “Are you angry with us?”

  “No.” And this was true. You could not be angry with such an honest man who came so instantly to the point.

  “But you don’t want him to go?”

  “Did Robert say that?”

  “No, he didn’t say. But I know you very well. And I know how long you’ve waited to be with Ben. But it’s only for a little while.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at her drink. “He really is going, then?”

  “Yes, he really is going. But not until the end of the month.”

  “I see.”

  Marcus said, gently, “… if you wanted to go with him…”

  “No. No, I don’t want to go to America.”

  “Do you mind being alone?”

  “No. It doesn’t bother me. And, as you say, it won’t be for long.”

  “You could come to London, and stay with Helen and myself. You could have David’s room.”

  “Where would David sleep?”

  “It is so sad, he is away at boarding school. It broke my heart, but I am now an Englishman and my son was torn from me at eight years old. Come and stay, Emma. In London, there is a lot to see. The Tate Gallery has been re-hung, and it is a masterpiece…”

  Despite herself Emma began to smile.

  “What are you laughing about, you horrible child?”

  “I’m laughing at your shamlessness. You take my father away with one hand, and offer me the Tate Gallery with the other. And,” she added, dropping her voice, “nobody bothered to tell me that Mrs. Kenneth Ryan was the Beauty Queen of Southern Virginia.”

  “We didn’t know,” said Marcus. “We had never seen her. She flew to England on an impulse, she walked into the Bernstein galleries the day before yesterday and said she wanted to see Ben Litton, and that was the first time I had ever set eyes on her.”

  “Well, she’s certainly worth setting eyes on.”

  “Yes,” said Marcus. He looked across at Mrs. Ryan with his sad, hound’s eyes. He looked at Ben. He looked back into his Martini, and touched the sliver of lemon peel with his forefinger. “Yes,” he said again.

  Their arrival, late, in the dining-room caused something of a stir. The best table had been reserved for them, the round one in the window, and it was necessary to cross the length of the floor to get there. Mrs. Ryan led the way, aware of adulation from every eye in the room, and apparently unconcerned. She was quite used to it. Behind her came Marcus, shabby, but oddly distinguished and obviously interesting. Then Robert and Emma, and finally Ben. Ben fell behind to stub out his cigarette and made what amounted to a star entrance, stopping for a moment in the doorway to speak to the head waiter, so that by the time he did move forward into the room, he was the sole centre of attraction.

  Ben Litton … There’s Ben Litton, the whispers went up, as he walked between the tables, magnificent in his blue French overalls, the red and white scarf knotted at his throat, his white hair thick as a young man’s, a quiff like a comma falling across his forehead.

  Ben Litton … you know, the painter.

  It was exciting. Everybody knew that Ben Litton had a studio in Porthkerris, but if you were determined to actually see him, you had to make your way down to the town, and find a fisherman’s pub called the Sliding Tackle, and there sit, in the stuffy gloom, making a glass of warm beer last as long as possible, and wait for him to come. It was rather like a strange form of bird-watching.

  But to-day, Ben Litton had abandoned his usual haunts, and was here, at the Castle Hotel, about to eat Sunday lunch, like any other ordinary human being. The mountain had come to Mahomet. An elderly lady stared openly at him through her lorgnette, and a visiting Texan was heard mourning the fact that he had left his flash camera in the bedroom.

  Emma caught Robert Morrow’s eye, and just managed to suppress a snort of laughter.

  Ben reached the table at last, settled himself in the place of honour at Mrs. Ryan’s right, picked up a menu, and suggested, simply by raising a finger, that the wine waiter should be fetched. Gradually, the excitement in the dining-room died down, but it was obvious that for the rest of the meal they would be the object of all attention.

  Emma said to Robert, “I know I shouldn’t approve—I should be ashamed of such blatant exhibitionism, but somehow, he gets away with it every time.”

  “Well, at least it’s made you laugh, and you’ve stopped looking all pinched and nervous.”

  “You might have told me Mrs. Ryan was young and beautiful.”

  “She’s certainly beautiful. But I don’t think she’s as young as she appears. Well-preserved more like it.”

  “That’s the sort of bitchy remark a woman would make.”

  “I’m sorry. It was meant with the best will in the world.”

  “You still should have told me.”

  “You never asked.”

  “No, but I made some remark about fat old Americans, and even then you didn’t put me right.”

  “Perhaps I didn’t realise that it was so important to you.”

  “A beautiful woman and Ben Litton, and you didn’t realise it was important? It’s more than that; it’s lethal. One thing, you and Marcus won’t have to do any persuading. Ben is going to America. One sweep of those lashes, and he was already mid-Atlantic.”

  “I don’t think you’re being entirely fair. The longest lashes in the world wouldn’t sweep him into anything he didn’t want to do.”

  “No, but he could never resist a challenge.”

  Her voice was cold.

  Robert said, “Emma.”

  She turned to look at him. “What?”

  “Your resentment is showing.” He measured between his forefinger and thumb. “Just the very smallest amount.”

  “Yes … well…” She decided to chan
ge the subject. “When do you go back to London?”

  “This very afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re running late, as it is. We’ll need to leave, as soon as I can coax Little Miss Millions away.”

  But Mrs. Ryan was not to be hurried. The luncheon wore on through four courses, through wine and brandy and coffee, served in the now-empty dining-room, because she did not want to move from their table. At last, taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, Robert cleared his throat, and said, “Marcus, I am sorry to interrupt, but I really think we should make a start, we’ve got a three hundred mile drive.”

  Mrs. Ryan seemed astonished. “But whatever time is it?”

  “Nearly four o’clock.”

  She laughed. “Already! It’s like being in Spain. I once went to a lunch party in Spain, and we didn’t get up from the table until half-past seven in the evening. Why does time have to go so fast when you’re really enjoying yourself?”

  “Cause and effect,” said Ben.

  Across the table, she smiled at Robert. “You don’t want to leave right away, do you?”

  “Well … as soon as possible.”

  “But I wanted to see the studio. I can’t come all the way across the Atlantic, and all the way down to Porthkerris and not see Ben’s studio. Couldn’t we drop in just for a moment, on the way back to London?”

  This light-hearted suggestion was received in silence. Robert and Marcus both looked momentarily confused; Robert, because he did not want to put off any more time, and Marcus, because he knew that of all things, Ben hated to have his studio inspected. Emma also experienced a sinking of the heart. The studio was in chaos—not Ben’s chaos which was of no account, but her own chaos. She thought of the step ladder, and the white-wash bucket, the wet towelling coat, and the bathing-suit which she had left abandoned on the floor, the brimming ashtrays, and the sagging sofa, and the sand everywhere. She looked at Ben, praying for him to refuse. They all looked at Ben, waiting like puppets, to see which way he would jerk the strings.

  But for once he did not let them down.

  “My dear Mrs. Ryan, despite the pleasure it would give me to show you my studio, I think I should point out that it is not on the way to London.”

  They all looked at her, to see how she would take this. But she merely pouted, and they laughed in relief, and Mrs. Ryan laughed too, with good grace.

  “All right, I know when I’m beaten.” She began to collect her bag and gloves. “But there is just one thing. You’ve all been so sweet to me, and I don’t want to feel like a stranger any longer. My name’s Melissa. Do you-all think you could manage to call me that?”

  And later, when the men were loading the car, she got Emma to herself.

  “You’ve been specially sweet,” she said. “Marcus told me that you’d come back from Paris to be with your father, and here I am, taking him away from you again.”

  Emma, who knew that she had not been specially sweet, felt guilty. “The exhibition has to come first…”

  “I’ll take good care of him,” Melissa Ryan promised.

  Yes, thought Emma, I’m sure you will. And yet, despite herself, she liked the American woman. And there was something about the set of her chin and the clarity of her violet-blue eyes that made Emma wonder if perhaps, this time, Ben would not enjoy his usual walkover. And if things did not go his way from the very beginning he was apt to become discouraged. She smiled at Mrs. Ryan. She said, “I don’t suppose it’ll be long before he’s home again.” And she picked up the honey-coloured mink which lay across the back of a chair and helped Mrs. Ryan into it. They went out of the hotel together. It was colder now. The warmth of the sun had left the sky and a chill, like frost, swept up from the sea. Robert had put up the hood of the Alvis, and Melissa, wrapped in the mink, went to say goodbye to Ben.

  “But it isn’t goodbye,” he told her, holding her hand, and gazing darkly down at her. “It’s au revoir.”

  “Of course. And if you let me know when your flight arrives at Kennedy Airport, I’ll arrange to have you met.”

  Marcus said, “I will do that. Ben has never in living memory let anybody know anything, least of all his time of arrival. Goodbye, Emma, my darling child, and don’t forget that I have invited you to stay with us for as long as you like when Ben is in America.”

  “Bless you, Marcus. You never know. I might come.”

  They kissed. He got into the back of the car, and Melissa Ryan into the front, her elegant legs wrapped in Robert’s car rug. Ben shut the door, then stooped to continue his conversation with her through the open window.

  “Emma.” It was Robert.

  She turned. “Oh, goodbye, Robert.”

  To her surprise he took off his cap and bent to kiss her. “You’ll be all right?”

  She was touched. “Yes, of course.”

  “If you want anything, give me a ring, at Bernstein’s.”

  “What could I want?”

  “I don’t know. Just a thought. Goodbye, Emma.”

  They stood, she and Ben, watching until the car had disappeared down the tunnel of trees. After it had gone, neither of them spoke, and then Ben cleared his throat, and said, portentously, as though he were giving a lecture, “What an interesting head that young man has. The narrow skull and the strong facial bones. I should like to see him with a beard. He would make a good saint—or perhaps, a sinner. Do you like him, Emma?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so. I scarcely know him.”

  He turned to move off, and caught sight of the small gathering of hotel guests, who, setting off for walks, or coming in from golf, or aimlessly snatching at the smallest straw of entertainment, had stayed to witness Melissa’s departure. As Ben fixed them with his dark eyes, they became discomfited, turned away and moved on as though they had been caught doing something shameful.

  He shook his head in amazement. “I think,” he said, “I have had enough of being stared at as though I were a two-headed chimpanzee. Come along, we’ll go home.”

  6

  Ben Litton left for America at the end of March, travelling from Porthkerris to London via British Railways and from London to New York on a B.O.A.C. Boeing. At the last moment Marcus Bernstein decided to go with him, and the evening papers carried photographs of their departure, Ben with his white hair a coxcomb in the breeze, and Marcus almost obliterated by his black hat. Both looked faintly self-conscious.

  It was from Marcus that Emma received the air mail bundle of American newspapers, carrying in their columns the comments of every worth-while art critic in the country. They were unanimous in their praise of the whole concept of the Queenstown Museum of Fine Arts, acclaiming it as a perfect example of architecture, lighting, and immaculate display. And the Ben Litton exhibition was on no account to be missed. Never again would the artist’s work be available to the public in its entirety, and the two or three pre-war portraits, lent by private individuals, were alone worth a visit, if only to see how a single man could be painter, psychiatrist and absolving priest at one and the same time.

  “Ben Litton uses his brush as a surgeon’s scalpel, first laying bare the hidden sickness, then treating it with the utmost compassion.”

  The word compassion was used again for his war-time drawings, the shelter groups, the fire-fighters, and a handful of sketches salvaged from the time of the Allied advance in Italy. And of his post-war work they said, “Other painters abstract from nature. Litton abstracts from imagination, and an imagination so lively that it is difficult to believe that these vital paintings were not turned out by a man of half his age.”

  Emma read these and allowed herself to feel proud. The private view took place on the 3rd of April, and by the tenth there was still no word of Ben’s return, but she filled in the days with time-consuming household chores, and eventually moved back to the studio to finish the white-washing. This took little mental concentration, and her mind wandered aimlessly into the future, indulging in the sort of day dreams that, a month ago, she
would never have allowed herself. But now, she truly felt that things had changed. When she had gone to the station to put Ben on to the London train, he had kissed her goodbye—absentmindedly to be sure, as though he had forgotten for the moment who she was, but still, he had kissed her and that surely marked a milestone. And when he did eventually tear himself away from the adulation of the American public and returned to Porthkerris, she saw herself meeting the train, cool and composed, the perfect social secretary. And, maybe the next time he took off for some far-flung, but obviously colourful, corner of the globe, he would take Emma with him, and she would book flights, and see that he caught connections, and keep Marcus informed as to his movements.

  And then, a day or two later, there was a letter from Marcus, postmarked London. She opened it hopefully, thinking that it would tell her that Ben was coming back, but, in fact, it was simply to say that Marcus had returned to London alone, and Ben had stayed in Queenstown.

  The Ryan Memorial Museum is fascinating, and if I had been able, I should have stayed as well. It embraces all forms of art, has a small theatre and concert hall and a collection of Russian jewellery which has to be seen to be believed. Queenstown itself is charming, full of red brick Georgian houses, set in green lawns and veiled in flowering dogwood … they all look as though they have been there since the days of William and Mary, but in fact, I saw one in the process of being built, the mature lawn being laid in turves, and the dogwoods planted, fully grown. What it is to have a warm and temperate climate, to be sure.

  Redlands (the Ryan homestead) is a great white house with a pillared “porch” where Ben sits in a long chair and gets brought mint juleps by a coloured butler called Henry. Henry comes to work each day in a lilac Chevrolet, and hopes, in the not-too-distant future, to become a lawyer. He is a bright young man and should achieve his ambition. There are also a couple of tennis courts—a paddock (corral) full of spirited horses, and the inevitable swimming-pool. Ben, as you can imagine, neither rides nor plays tennis, but spends long hours, when he isn’t adding a little local colour to the retrospective exhibition, floating around the pool on a rubber mattress. I am sorry that he has stayed away from you for so long, but honestly believe that he needs this rest. He has been working hard for the last few years, and a little harmless relaxation will do him no harm. If you are lonely, our invitation still stands. Come and stay with us. We should so love to have you.