Of course, Karl wasn’t a Communist. That was what he had said yesterday in that bitter argument. “Sure,” Karl had said then, “smear everyone with liberal views as a Communist, so that no one will listen to him.”
But now, as she thought about it, it was rather a clever remark. It implied that Communists had liberal views. And yet they hadn’t: they followed a philosophy which, when put into practice, killed liberalism.
“What we all need is a thorough training in simple logic,” Mrs. Peel said to the album of Shostakovitch records, as she patted it into order next to Sibelius. “And a thorough training in semantics too.” Take this newly fashionable word “smear,” for instance. A “smear” was another way of saying a lie nowadays. Yet if anyone had been lying last night it was Karl, who had been quoting the Communist explanation for everything all evening, and then, when challenged by O’Farlan, had denied he was following the party line by saying he was being smeared. If Karl believed he was being smeared, then he implied he despised pro-Communist views. If he despised them, why did he express them so constantly?
“If a man refuses meat at every meal, and talks about the virtues of vegetables why should he say he is being smeared when he is called a vegetarian?” Mrs. Peel demanded of the neat row of record albums. If only she could think about these things in time to say them at the correct moments! She placed the beer-bottles on the table so that she would remember to take them to the kitchen, and looked round the room to see if she had missed anything. Today was Norah’s day off, and Drene Travers had been responsible for cleaning the living-room. Ah, yes, these ashtrays...
“I thought someone was with you,” Esther Park said behind her. She had come in so silently that Mrs. Peel jumped, and lifted her hand to her heart.
“No. Not at all. I was only arguing aloud. Don’t you ever talk to yourself?”
Esther Park had already reached the couch. “No, never!” she said quickly. She looked at the empty beer-bottles and then at Mrs. Peel. She had her note-book under her arm, the case for her eyeglasses in one hand, and a large, straight-brimmed felt hat swinging from the other.
Well, there’s no need to be so emphatic about it, Mrs. Peel thought.
“How do you like me?” Esther Park asked suddenly, gaily, and pirouetted around. She was in full Western costume, with every possible detail and expense. And, of course, she wore her frontier pants tucked inside her elaborate boots.
“Oh!” Mrs. Peel said. “Why, it’s—it’s—”
“You never noticed! And I went upstairs especially to put them on for you. They only arrived today. I ordered them in Sweetwater when I came, but, of course, they all had to be taken in for me.” She tugged at the tight satin blouse and the bulging frontier pants. Then she fingered the broad silver concho belt nervously. “I think the effect is worth waiting for, don’t you? I could have got everything in New York, of course, but I did want to capture the real Western flavour.” Then she smiled as she glanced down at herself, pleased with what she could see, and threw her hat, with its striped chin-strap, on to a far chair, from which it slipped and rolled to the floor.
“Let’s have a long talk, shall we?” she asked, with her most brilliant smile, and sat down on the couch. “Tell me about your life in Paris. I love Paris. It’s so—so—you know! Rome, of course, is beautiful—in its own way, and I adored, simply adored, Athens. Didn’t you? The Aegean...”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Peel said, at the end of a wild Baedeker ride which had lasted almost ten minutes, “you love Paris.” For they were back there again.
“Of course, the people...” Esther Park said darkly.
“The people?”
“Well, the men... Mrs. Peel, what makes men like that?”
“Like what?”
“You know.” Esther Park looked at Mrs. Peel critically. “Or perhaps you don’t. Some women aren’t so—well—”
“So young? So attractive?” Mrs. Peel’s sense of humour reasserted itself. She was smiling.
“Well, it does depend on the woman, doesn’t it, after all? But, honestly, men are so—so predatory. Do you ever walk in New York?”
Mrs. Peel’s amazement returned. “I’ve lived there since last September,” she suggested mildly.
“Have you ever walked in Central Park?”
“Frequently.”
“At night?”
“But why at night? I’ve all afternoon to go walking.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” Mrs. Peel asked irritably.
“The dangers.”
Mrs. Peel looked partly in distaste, partly in pity at the middle-aged woman who faced her so expectantly. “Well,” she said, her voice more brusque than usual, “you can stop worrying about all these dangers here. You’ll find Wyoming perfectly safe.” And probably dull, she thought.
Esther Park smiled. “Is it?”
Mrs. Peel stared.
“Do you know what happened last night? Someone tried to get into my room. I always lock the door, fortunately. But I heard the handle being turned. I heard it. Again and again. Quietly. I thought I would die.”
“Why didn’t you scream?”
“You don’t believe me. You are laughing at me.” Esther Park was mortified.
“Miss Park, there are so many noises at night in the country. The wind rises and a window rattles, the temperature falls and a beam contracts, a mouse runs down a wall, a pack-rat scurries in the attic, a squirrel drops from a tree on to the roof, a coyote calls on a hillside. I used to worry about them at first, but now—why, we don’t even lock the front door any more.”
“And I think that’s terribly dangerous. I do, Mrs. Peel. There were people moving around last night. There were. Dewey Schmetterling left the house and didn’t come back for two hours. And I heard Mimi Bassinbrook too.”
“That’s really none of our business, is it?” Mrs. Peel rose, and hoped that her guest would take the hint. But she didn’t.
“Mimi went to a party at the guest-cabin. That’s where she went.”
“Well, what if she did? Why shouldn’t Mr. Grubbock and Mr. Koffing give parties?”
“And the girl who cleans the bedrooms, Drene Travers, she was there too. After she left Dewey Schmetterling.”
“How remarkable,” Mrs. Peel said coldly, “that you could see so much from your bedroom window.”
Strangely enough, Esther Park was silent.
“You really shouldn’t worry, Miss Park. I’m sure you—and everyone else—will be as safe here as you want to be. Just go on writing your book. And stop worrying.”
“But that worries me too... I did want to discuss My Work with you,” Esther Park said, watching Mrs. Peel gather up the beer-bottles. “I need your advice. I’ve so much material, so much. It is so difficult, isn’t it, when you have too much richness? I mean, to decide just what to use?” She fumbled with her note-book. “Of course, I have the title.” She held out a page, and Mrs. Peel saw The Mirrored Darkness: a Mezzotint in Four Shadows. “I think ‘Mezzotint’ is good, don’t you? It’s so much more sensitive than just saying ‘a novel,’ isn’t it?”
Mrs. Peel laid down the beer-bottles. She had waited hopefully for her guests to mention their work to her. Now one of them had—and if Mrs. Peel was sure of anything at this moment it was that Esther Park had never written, couldn’t and wouldn’t. She tried to shake herself free from this idea, but it persisted.
“What is the trouble?” she asked encouragingly, trying to forget all about the title. But the outpouring of words that answered her added to her depressing discovery. She said, if only to dam the torrent, “Well, show me the last chapter you’ve written so that I can see what you mean by difficulties. I’ve had quite a lot of practice in reading manuscripts, you know. In the old days, I used to—”
“Oh, I can’t, I’m afraid. Mr. Atherton Jones is reading it. He is such a good critic, isn’t he?”
In Esther’s excited contortions over an excuse her noteboo
k fell on to the carpet. She bent quickly to pick it up, and the leather case for her glasses fell in its turn. The case hit the ground with a solid thud, the clasp unsnapped, and Mrs. Peel saw the neat handle of a small revolver, just as she was thinking how odd it was that Esther never seemed to wear the eyeglasses she carried around so constantly.
Esther Park looked up and saw Mrs. Peel’s startled face. “I had the case made for me specially,” she said casually, and smiled.
“For Central Park?” Mrs. Peel asked, recovering herself.
“I take it everywhere. It is such a comfort.”
“But hardly necessary here.”
“Oh, you never know,” Esther Park said hopefully. She rose. “I think I’ll go up to the corral. I suppose you are too busy to walk up? Poor Mrs. Peel, always so busy. We must have another talk soon. Perhaps in your little sitting-room tomorrow afternoon? That would be so cosy. I’ll try to slip away from the others. Mr. Atherton Jones tells me you know all about Sartre.” She picked up her hat, and settled it firmly on the back of her head. “Well, see you tomorrow. About two o’clock?” She waved the spectacle-case playfully, and clumped on her high-heeled boots into the hall.
Mr. Atherton Jones, Mrs. Peel thought angrily, Mr. Atherton Jones had a number of questions to answer. Mr. Atherton Jones had better have a few replies that were not only quick, but plausible. She picked up the beer-bottles and the overfull wastepaper-basket, and carried them along with her bad temper into the kitchen.
* * *
Mrs. Gunn had just put something into the oven. The kitchen smelled of spices and baking pastry and hot coffee. Robert O’Farlan and Carla Brightjoy were seated comfortably at the long table under the opened windows, talking to old Chuck and Ned. Mrs. Gunn added her comments to the conversation, very much in the way she sprinkled the correct touch of seasoning into a cooking-pot.
“I’ll get you a nice cup of coffee,” she said to Mrs. Peel, with a quick eye for the worried face. She took the empty bottles and the wastepaper-basket, shaking her head over that Drene. She glanced at Ned, wearing his best black shirt too. He might have known he wouldn’t find Drene here in the kitchen. Gallivanting around the countryside with that Mr. Schmetterling in his big car.
“Hello, Mrs. Peel,” Ned was saying, “how are you?”
“Fine,” Mrs. Peel said, giving the correct answer to the correct greeting. “Hello, Chuck, how are you?”
The two men had risen as they welcomed her to the table. O’Farlan remembered in time, only to manage half-way to his feet. He grinned. “I’m getting lazy. Shouldn’t have stayed here so long. Mrs. Gunn’s kitchen is much too comfortable.”
“We might call it the Five o’clock Club,” Carla said gaily. The warmth in the kitchen had set her eyes and lips smiling; her face was flushed, and she looked a full ten years younger.
“She’s nice without glasses, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Gunn. “Now, if she’ll just eat a bit more she’s going to be winning one of these beauty competitions when she goes back to the city.”
That, Mrs. Peel decided, as she looked at the delighted Carla, was a slight exaggeration, but it obviously did no harm.
“Miss T-bone 1948,” Carla said, and then bit her lip, wondering if she had insulted anyone.
But Chuck was grinning. To his mind, the description was apt. Ned half smiled. Then, by contrast, he thought of Drene. He stopped smiling, stared at the table, and threw Carla into a panic of remorse. She looked nervously at the dark young man with the unhappy dark eyes, quiet, unsmiling now. She couldn’t tell whether it had been her silly joke that had hurt him. Then he looked up, saw her watching him, and gave her a reassuring smile. But it was still unhappy. Mrs. Peel had noticed it too, for she began quickly to talk about the eagle she had seen this afternoon.
Ned had his own thoughts, as he sat gravely listening. Where was Drene now? She was free every afternoon from two until five, and even if he tried to get all the jobs around the ranch, little did he see of her. Out with that store dummy again, showing him the trails from his automobile. Sure, it couldn’t last...she’d be back, riding in the evenings, listening with a smile, walking around, she’d be back. Sure. But it was hell while it lasted. Don’t know if I care for her to be back, Ned thought, with hurt pride, not a girl who ditches me so damned quick. Less than a day here, and she ditches, me. Don’t know if I care. He rose suddenly. “Time to get back to the corral,” he said. He didn’t want to see her coming in with the patent-leather-hair guy driving up the road as if he owned it.
“See you at the party!” Carla called after Ned.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Chuck said to Ma Gunn, and lifted another piece of cake as he followed Ned out of the door. “Sure get tired of my own cooking.”
Carla said to Mrs. Peel, “You’re invited too; everyone is.”
“Just singing and dancing,” Mrs. Gunn explained. “The boys thought they’d like a bit of fun tonight. Miss Bassinbrook has been coaxing them to have a party in the barn. She found out that Ned plays the guitar. And Robb gives a good recitation too. Writes some of the poetry himself.”
“Songs about sleeping on the wide prairie?” Carla asked, too delightedly.
“You’ll all have to perform,” Mrs. Gunn said as an answer. It’s only fair if you get a laugh at them that they get a laugh at you.”
Carla looked guilty. “But what could we do? I can’t do anything, really.”
“Nor I,” O’Farlan said hastily.
“Oh, you’ll manage something,” Mrs. Peel said. “After all, there are talents in the East too.”
Carla looked as if the idea of the party wasn’t quite so amusing now.
“It will be fun, I’m sure,” Mrs. Peel reassured her. “Oh, dear—” She choked on a mouthful of coffee.
“Burned your mouth?” Mrs. Gunn asked sympathetically.
“The lecture. Mr. Atherton Jones’s lecture. It’s tonight.”
There was a short silence. Mrs. Gunn opened the oven to inspect a large roast and baste it.
“Too bad,” O’Farlan said, with a sudden smile. He rose. “I’d better get some work done before dinner if I’m going to a party tonight. Thanks for the coffee.”
Carla laughed. “I bet we aren’t the only truants,” she said delightedly. “I think I’ll go up to the corral now and see Jackson.”
“Jackson drove Miss Bly into Sweetwater this afternoon,” Mrs. Peel said. The car was being troublesome again, and Sally had had a worrying journey by herself yesterday. The road was a difficult one, all curves and twists as it descended to the plains. Jackson had insisted on driving today, much to Mrs. Peel’s relief.
“Oh...” Carla said. “Well, I’ll go up to the corral, anyway.”
“All roads lead to the corral, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Peel said, as she watched Carla’s wrinkled red trousers follow the path to the ranch. “I hope my guests aren’t being a nuisance to Mr. Brent.”
“No,” Mrs. Gunn said thoughtfully, “but—”
“But what?”
“Oh, it all evens out,” Mrs. Gunn said, and began peeling potatoes to roast in the gravy of the meat. “Jim feels the corral has given you some trouble too. Ned telling me that Drene was a good worker!”
“Poor Ned.” Mrs. Peel looked as if she were to blame somehow.
“Have a nice piece of cake. It was baked today.”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Peel said virtuously. She looked down at her blue jeans to encourage her to resist. I just made it, she thought, just. Now all she had to worry about was to get Jackson for half an hour to herself, to show her the easy way to climb on a horse. There must be an easy way. Everyone wanted to find it: that was the reason so many visits were being made to the corral.
“Don’t people out West ever use mounting-blocks?” she asked Mrs. Gunn.
“Never heard of them.”
“But the horses are so big... My stirrup is practically at chin-level.”
“Pick a hillside,” Mrs. Gunn suggested practically. “Plen
ty of them around here.”
“I’ve tried that. Then I find, somehow, that I’ve got Golden Boy on the upside and I’m downhill, and he looks round at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I should learn to mount from the right-hand side too, and solve all problems.”
“Don’t try that, ever,” Mrs. Gunn warned. “When he’s the wrong way round just move him. Put your shoulder against his forequarters and shove.”
“He weighs eleven hundred pounds, and I’m down to one hundred and thirty-two,” Mrs. Peel said gloomily. “What I need is spring-heeled boots. Or a rope-ladder—one tied to the saddle-horn, to be let down when necessary.”
“Maybe you’ll pick up a tip or two at the rodeo,” Mrs. Gunn said, and counted the potatoes. Not many of the guests would eat them, and that made her work easier, but she shook her head over their lack of appreciation of good food. What use was gravy without potatoes? Well, by September she would be cooking for the boys again, and she’d have plenty of potatoes to peel. Poor Chuck, getting tired of his own cooking. And the boys? They’d be glad when September came around. These guests had complicated a lot of lives, and they didn’t even know it. Poor Ned, for instance. And poor Miss Bly, running in and out of Sweetwater with lists of this and that to get for them— couldn’t they remember all they needed, once a week, and give her some time to enjoy herself? And Mrs. Peel—all she got was just to be plain worn out.
“If I was you,” she said to Mrs. Peel, who was at that moment reflecting on Golden Boy and his little ways (except when he decided it was high time to go home, he really was a most amiable horse), “if I was you, I’d stop worrying about them. Let them drop things all over the place, and let them do the picking-up or live in a pigsty, whichever they prefer. I’d let Drene go, and save that much money—goodness knows it’s all costing you plenty, and who’s going to pay for the laundry? The first lot went out today, shirts and everything, special two days’ service that Milt Jerks offers at double rates, and I bet they’ll come back charged to you. And all that liquor they drink at night. They don’t think, that’s all. They give Miss Bly lists of things they find they need, and never calculate the trouble or gasoline or wear and tear on the car with each trip down that road to Sweetwater. They don’t think!”
Rest and Be Thankful Page 13
