Meggie sighed.
“If nobody ever explains a joke to a person, I don’t see how one’s to learn why a thing’s funny.”
Gardiner smiled.
“It’s strange how insular humour is. It’s rare to find one country getting much of a laugh out of another country’s jokes.”
“Oh I don’t know. We all like American jokes.” Claire protested. “Look at the Marx Brothers, and all those wisecracking girls on the films. We simply dote on them.”
“I never can understand American comic strips in the papers,” said Adela.
“Well, sometimes I miss the point of jokes in your Punch,” Gardiner admitted, “though I’ve taken the paper for years.”
Adela remembered reading the Punches posted by Gardiner to Millicent in Bermuda. How could she have forgotten that they read English papers? She knew she would writhe whenever she thought of those foolish, lying letters to Millicent. To escape her thoughts, she said hurriedly:
“I think there are certain subjects that are funny all through the world.”
“Landladies and mothers-in-law,” Noel suggested.
“I shouldn’t have thought mothers-in-law were a universal joke,” Claire argued. “It’s more primitive things. I bet you could get a laugh out of a savage by sitting down where there wasn’t a chair.”
“Or throwing something sticky at somebody’s face,” said Noel, “so it came away all goo-ish.”
Meggie leant forward.
“That’s a thing I’ve often wondered, things being funny that hurt. It hurts awfully to sit down suddenly, but when anybody does it everybody else laughs.”
“And would if you’d broken your spine,” Claire agreed.
Adela caught the wine waiter.
“Brandy?” she collected Gardiner’s, Noel’s and Andrew’s eyes. Gardiner and Andrew refused, but Noel accepted, thanking heaven he had been offered it. A nice little drop of good brandy would put heart in him. “What about you, Claire?”
Claire looked up at the waiter.
“Have you any Kümmel?”
The waiter said he had. Adela, Claire noticed, ordered a brandy for herself. She had never seen her drink brandy before, and wondered again what Gardiner could have said to upset her. She seemed all right now, but her colour was a bit patchy, which must mean it was actually a very curious shade, for not much of real Adela was visible through her make-up. Claire turned to Noel.
“You heard the proud way he said they still had some Kümmel. That’s the beginning of the drink tide going out that you said you dreaded. We shall be distilling our own drinks before this war’s over, terrific stuff made in a bath out of potatoes.”
Meggie took the coffee which was handed to her, and looked wistfully out of the corner of her eye at Noel. All this dull stuff about drink when they might be talking. The band was playing again, and they could be dancing. It would be nice to talk while they were dancing; nobody could hear what they said.
“It’s an awfully sticky party this,” thought Claire, “nobody has said a funny thing. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s partly my fault. I’m a deadhead to-night, but I can’t help it.”
“I’ll drink my brandy, “Noel decided, “pop out to the gents, and as soon as I get back I’ll make my dive at the old girl.”
Gardiner, his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, smiled happily at the table. Though he was too punctilious a guest to let his attention drift far from what was being said, he was turning over in his mind what he must say, and dreading it. One sorrow had shadowed his life. He had accepted it, faced it, and, since he could not part with it, had, as it were, rolled it in brown paper, and laid it at the back of his mental cupboard. To take out the parcel and undo that wrapping was still torture. He could accept what was inside, but not take it out and look at it, not even now after all these years. Adela had said: “People like you, who have never known suffering,” and “You don’t understand.” Maybe if Adela heard his story she would see that he and Millicent had qualified to understand in the only place where understanding could be learnt. Maybe, if he laid his own muddled life in front of her, Adela would not feel so badly, and would let him talk to her about Paul. For he had to talk to her about Paul, of that he was sure. He was sure, too, that he was being directed to tell of his own life, for that was not a thing he would have thought to speak of. Not to Adela, not to any one.
Andrew wished he could just quietly vanish. Oh, what a fool he had made of himself! Mrs. Framley must have thought him fit for a looney bin. She was sure to tell Mr. Penrose what a dim he was, and though Mr. Penrose was much too kind to write about it to the family, he was bound to tell them about to-night when he wrote, and his mother and father would guess from the things that were not in the letter what a flop he had been. It was particularly sickening, as his father had been so nice driving him to the station, nicer than he ever remembered him being. He had talked all the time about the Penroses. How he wanted him to go out to them after the war. How important it was that he should make a good impression on Mr. Penrose, so that he could carry a good account of him to Mrs. Penrose. He had not said that Mr. and Mrs. Penrose had expected Michael, and that having met Michael when they had been over, they were counting on a pretty high standard, but as always it was inferred. Michael might just as well have been in the car with them, he was taking such a large though unspoken part in the conversation. All the same, that drive with his father had been pretty good; of course, his father had never actually said it, but it was almost as if he were saying: “I’m expecting pretty big things of you, old man.” Now he had gone and messed himself up. How could Mr. Penrose give a good account of him to Mrs. Penrose, when he couldn’t even talk to his hostess at the dinner-table?
Adela glanced at her watch. The evening stretched ahead like a dusty road on a hot day. Yet she dreaded getting home. She knew how she was going to feel when she closed her bedroom door and let her thoughts free. Millicent and Gardiner knowing all the time. Millicent saying kind words with her lips, but feeling superior. She with her children and grandchildren who turned out so well. Gardiner might say that they had read her letters with pity, but she could imagine a lot else besides pity that was said. Little scenes recalled, followed by sighs, and, “I always expected something like this.” “Poor Adela, she raised that boy all wrong.” She had endured agonies at imaginary whispers since Paul’s case was first mentioned in the papers, but what she had to accept now was going to burn her like a red-hot needle. Shame and humiliation; was she never to be free of either again? Almost April, and Paul coming out. She must talk to Noel and get it over. Claire would have to help. She must make Gardiner dance. She caught Claire’s eye.
“Shall we go and see to our faces.”
Gardiner was talking to Noel about wines, a subject on which he was well informed from travelling in Europe, and Noel from experience of other people’s cellars. Meggie was apparently listening to them, certainly she had not heard Adela’s order. Claire picked up her bag and got up and leant over her.
“We’re off to tidy our faces.” She forestalled an argument from Meggie by adding: “Your hair’s a mess. Come on.”
As they walked up the room Adela laid a hand on Claire’s arm.
“Gardiner’s a very old friend, but a bit heavy on hand. Do you think you could make him dance?”
“I’d love to know what he’s said to her,” thought Claire. “If I’ve got to hold the baby I might nose it out.” Out loud she said:
“I shouldn’t think he’d dance. He doesn’t look exactly a dancing sort, but I’ll talk to him.”
Adela nodded.
“Thank you, dear.” She turned to Meggie. “I’ve been talking to Andrew. He’s a very nice boy, but shy. You must dance with him and keep him happy.”
“But I have danced with him.” Meggie’s voice had a protesting note.
They had reached the ladies’ room. Adel
a was out of earshot. Claire went to a dressing-table and combed her hair. After a time she said:
“Andrew’s a bit heavy on hand, but quite nice really.”
Meggie turned worried eyes on her.
“Why do I have to be told what to do all the time? Dance with Andrew Bishop. Talk to Uncle Gardiner, and now I’m taken out here when I didn’t want it. Why can’t I be left alone?”
Claire powdered her nose. She stopped a moment, and gave a quick look at Meggie.
“Parties are generally arranged to get the right people together. Aunt Adela’s planned this one so that Andrew Bishop is for you, and Noel Deeves for me.”
“But I want . . .”
Adela was approaching the dressing-table. Claire picked up the comb again.
“Turn round, Meggie. I’ll comb your hair.”
There was a distant roar.
“Quite a lot of gun-fire,” said Adela.
Meggie turned to her eagerly.
“Can I go up to the door and see what’s going on?”
“Certainly not. Get yourself tidy and come back to our guests.”
Claire carefully made up her mouth, then she said to her aunt:
“Let me take her to the door for a second. I’ll need a nice breath of air if I’m to amuse your American.”
Adela shrugged her shoulders.
“All right, but don’t be long.”
As they walked to the door Claire put her arm through Meggie’s.
“You were going to say you wanted to dance with Noel Deeves, weren’t you, ducky?”
“Not dance so much, but talk to him. We’ve lots of things to talk about.”
“He’s not exactly your cup of tea. He’s a bit old for you. What do you want to talk about?”
Meggie hesitated.
“I don’t know. Just things.”
The door into the street was hung with black curtains. The doorkeeper was unwilling to let the two girls go outside.
“It’s rough out to-night, miss,” he said to Claire.
“So I can hear,” Claire agreed, “but this is Miss Framley’s first air raid, and she wants to have a look.”
Outside it was almost bright enough to read. Somewhere not far from the restaurant a fire was raging. The night was pink, now and again changing to blood-red. The air was bitter with the smell of burning. Overhead, like a chandelier, a flare was hanging.
“Oh goodness, look!” said Meggie, pointing to it. “What are those little red things?”
“Tracer bullets. They’re trying to shoot the damn thing down so that it doesn’t guide the bombers.”
“Do you suppose there are people in that house that’s burning?”
“Perhaps. It’s no good kidding yourself that people aren’t being killed to-night; they are.”
Meggie had almost to shout to be heard over the gun-fire.
“Are those German planes I can hear?”
“Of course. Come on. It’s not healthy out.”
Inside the two girls stood a moment blinking to get their eyes accustomed to the electric lights. Meggie’s had tears in them. Claire saw them.
“This place is pretty safe,” she said casually.
Meggie was attending to her own thoughts.
“Isn’t it awful to think of who might be killed? Mothers who’ve got children, and people who are getting married, and they’ll finish just like that.” She clicked her fingers.
“It’s no good brooding on it,” said Claire briskly. “Besides, some of the people who are killed will be damn glad of it.”
“Glad! Oh, you mean ill people.”
“Not only ill. There are quite a lot of people who just jog on from day to day who’d be thankful to go. Count it a bit of luck in fact.”
“Are there? That seems odd to me. I simply adore being alive, don’t you?”
Claire did not answer directly, but moved back towards the restaurant.
“Look, ducky, about this young man, Noel Deeves. I don’t think he’s the right sort for you. I’d stick to Andrew Bishop.”
Meggie felt she had a friend in Claire.
“I must finish talking to him, because we mightn’t meet again. It’s important, I promise. Do you mind if I don’t tell you what it’s about?”
Claire could not imagine what the child was getting at, but she was impressed by her earnestness.
“Keep your secret and trust me. I’ll see you get at least one dance with him before we go home.”
Gardiner and Andrew were at the table when the girls got back to it. Adela was carrying on a conversation with Gardiner, in which, by answering for him, she kept Andrew involved. She turned to him now.
“This silly child wanted to have a look at the air raid.”
“Do you know what it feels like now?” Andrew asked.
Meggie nodded, her face sober.
“Yes.”
“My dear child,” said Adela, “there’s not the faintest need to look so serious. We’ve had these raids for months and Londoners are quite accustomed to them. You mustn’t show you’re a country bumpkin by being afraid.”
“Afraid! Oh but, Mummy, I’m not. At least, not for me.”
Claire put her arm round her.
“Let’s change seats. I want to sit next to Mr. Penrose.” She turned to Gardiner. “I love America. I’ve been there quite a lot.”
Gardiner beamed.
“Well, that’s grand. I certainly will enjoy a talk.”
“Why don’t we dance?”
Gardiner laughed.
“I haven’t danced in years, and I always was a poor performer.”
Adela, taking a diver’s breath, smiled at Noel.
“If you don’t mind a partner of my age, I should like some exercise, Noel.”
Noel was so startled at having exactly what he wanted arranged for him, that for a moment he ceased to be the experienced guest, and in the way he jumped up so eagerly that he almost knocked over his chair, might have been Andrew. As he turned he put his hand in his breast-pocket and took out his jade elephant. He held it behind Adela’s back between his thumb and first finger. He pressed it tight, and the smooth, cold hardness gave him confidence.
“I haven’t danced for three or four years, so you mustn’t ask me to do anything clever,” said Adela.
“You’re light as anything.” To sound at ease he hummed the chorus the band were playing:
“Do I want to be with you
As the years come and go?
Only for ever
If you care to know
Would I grant all your wishes
And be proud of the task . . .”
“Noel, I wanted to have a word with you. It’s about Paul. Have you heard from him?”
Noel moved his hand for a moment off Adela’s back, so that he could see his elephant. His eyes held awed admiration. He thought it would be better if she imagined he and Paul corresponded, so he lied.
“Yes.” Then, to make her realise he knew the position: “He’ll be out next month, won’t he?”
That matter-of-fact statement again! Adela felt cold in the pit of the stomach. “He’ll be out next month, won’t he?”
“Yes. I have been thinking while he has been in prison, and I have finally decided that I’m not the right influence for him. I don’t intend to see him.”
Noel tried to get this statement clear. How was what she was saying going to affect his scheme? If she was not going to see Paul, how did that affect her dislike of publicity? Would it take the edge off the threat at which he had to hint? But he could not think clearly. Across his mind Meggie’s words would flash: “Everybody like you, and me and mummy being glad to have him back.” “You believe he’ll be all right, don’t you? I’m making myself absolutely know that he will.” Noel gripped his
elephant so tightly that its carved legs and trunk cut into his fingers. Poor old fellow, doing his stuff, giving him probably the whale of a chance. If he could only use it; and here was he thinking about the burblings of a schoolgirl. In any case, if there was one thing certain, it was that it was no good being worked up about Paul; he was no bloody good, no matter what anybody said. Still it was a bit tough if his mother wouldn’t see him. He remembered that night they had drunk rum together at that bathing pool at that road-house; Paul had been in a flap because the old girl was holding out on him, but he’d been nice about the old bitch and blamed her relations. He had not the faintest intention of seeing Paul himself when he came out if he could help it. Wasn’t healthy getting mixed up with him. Still, his mother shutting the front door was pretty thick.
“Where’s he going?”
“That’s what I wanted to have a little talk with you about. You were such a great friend. If you could write to him and tell him where to meet you, or, better still, if you could get leave to meet him yourself . . .”
Meggie’s words floated into space. Noel, with a beating heart, saw a future opening before him. Secure, free from the nagging need of a bit of ready. He could hardly get his words out.
“What about money?”
“I could arrange that. I could give you enough for his immediate needs. He must go to an hotel, not London I think. From time to time I could let you have more as he wants it. Could you fix that? You understand, if I arrange things that way, it’s on the understanding that I never see him. I . . .” she felt for words, “if you could manage this business for me I shan’t bother you. I shall never ask how the money is spent.”
Noel had not realized until that moment that his anxiety had caused him acute physical pain. The blessed freedom from it sent his spirits soaring, but he kept his head. He gave Adela’s hand a squeeze.
“You can trust me. I can’t often get time off to come up to the West End. I think I had better see you home to-night, and we can get things fixed.”
“He wants a cheque,” thought Adela. “Well, he wouldn’t be a friend of Paul’s if he didn’t. If he needs money it’s a good thing; he’s the more certain to keep Paul away from me.”
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