Sarah had gone to the side table for more coffee, and I suddenly knew that her eyes were on me. I turned and looked, but then her eyes had slipped away. All day we’d hardly spoken. Yet to speak to her was what I’d come for. Not that I’d anything special to say—except that for some reason I wanted more than anything to remove the impression I felt I’d given her, that the old grudges still rankled.
I waited, biding my time. Mrs. Moreton went out, tail and angular, and the company lost a lot of its dignity for her going. Fisher seemed very much at home, and I gathered that he was some sort of an artist himself. If you could judge from his clothes, he did pretty well out of it.
Then Mrs. Moreton came back, and I realized I’d lost my chance. Suddenly I’d no wish to stay any longer, and I got up, almost in disgust at myself, to go. I thought Sarah would stay with the Fishers, but instead she walked with Tracey and me to the door.
I said: ‘‘Do you often come to London?’’
‘‘Monthly to Harley Street.” Tracey’s breathing was getting noisy again. ‘‘But Sarah is up twice a week. She designs dresses for Delahaye.”
‘‘Perhaps you’ll have a meal with me—one or both of you.” I turned to Sarah. ‘‘What days are you up?’’
The sun shone across her face as she looked at the heavy studded door. A muscle moved in her cheek.
She said: ‘‘Tracey’s due to go again in about a fortnight, but really he doesn’t stay very late. Why don’t you come and see us here again?’’
So that was that.
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said. ‘‘ I should like it very much. And thank you for to-day.”
I left them standing there together at the door, and got into my car, fingered the self starter and put in the gear. Sarah was the same height as her husband. As I swung the car round she lifted her hand, but it was only to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun.
Chapter Five
I was in the office when a report came through of a burglary in Prentiss Street, which is only just round the corner from George Street, so I told Michael I would look in there on the way home. The Lloyds claims-slip was as laconic as usual.
‘‘Assured: Mr. Gerald Litchen, 13 Prentiss Street, W.1.
Policy: Comprehensive No. 70647. £5.000.
Nature of Claim: Burglary £930 0s. 0d.
Date of Occurrence: Second of November.
Period of Policy: 12 months from August 7th last.”
When I got to Prentiss Street, which runs down through Wigmore Street and ends in a cul-de-sac behind Selfridges, I found No. 13 was a house and not a flat as I’d expected. A maid with slant eyes and plucked eyebrows answered my ring and looked as if she expected me to be selling something. When I told her my business she said Mr. Litchen was away and Mrs. Litchen was in bed ill with the shock of the burglary and would I call again sometime. I said no I wouldn’t, so she let me grudgingly into the hall and went upstairs to see her mistress.
After a minute she came down and said Mrs. Litchen wanted me to be shown the scene of the burglary, and after that madame would see me herself. I went into a living-room which had gold walls decorated with surrealist masks, and white furniture like a doll’s house. The long curtains were primrose yellow with red pelmets, and the carpet was royal blue.
‘‘You can see the windows for yourself; and I was told to show you this cupboard where all the things has gone from.”
The window had been broken open and was easily reached from the area outside. The cupboard was bare, but the maid said it had been full of Georgian silver which Mr. Litchen had collected. Then she left me to finish my inspection.
The police had been and gone earlier in the day, and all I could do was make detailed notes of the way the window had been forced and the accessibility of the room. To-morrow I would call on the police and check up.
The house was very quiet, and when I’d climbed back out of the area I lit a cigarette and waited for the girl to return. When it was half smoked I squeezed it out and threw it through the window. The masks grimaced at me. Why did anyone want to live with nightmares?
I was looking round for a bell to push when the maid came. She took me upstairs and into a bedroom with peach-coloured walls and ivory satin curtains. The woman in bed said:
‘‘That will be all, Dolores. You can go now.”
‘‘Very well, ma’am.”
‘‘Mrs. Litchen?’’ I said.
‘‘Yes. Do sit down. The room’s in turmoil but I know you’ll excuse it. I’ve had a hell of a headache ever since first thing this morning. You know what it’s like when you’re wakened two hours before your usual time.”
I heard the door close on Dolores. Mrs. Litchen was a blonde of about twenty-seven with heavy eyes, a nice nose and a sulky mouth. Her hair was long, to her shoulders, and shone as if there was never anything else to do but brush it. She wore an ivory satin nightdress, to match the curtains, and inch-long peach-coloured finger-nails.
We talked.
She said Gerald was away, and she hadn’t wired him because she knew how frantic he’d be when he heard about the loss of his silver. She had vague ideas, she admitted they were vague, of trying to get duplicates and saying nothing to Gerald at all. Often it was weeks together and he never even looked at the stuff.
The front door closed and I thought: that’s the last of Dolores.
I asked if anything else had been taken besides the silver, and she said no. Personally, if she had only herself to consider, she wouldn’t waste any tears over the loss; one didn’t have a lot of room in these modern houses; would I be good enough to mix her a drink?
I was good enough, and was told to take one myself. She tasted it and nodded her shiny page-boy head.
‘‘You mix a good gin, Mr. Oliver Branwell. I’m sorry to seem such a frantic invalid, but could you pass me a cigarette?’’
I lit her cigarette. She thanked me through her lashes. I didn’t sit down again but said I had all the data and would try to get the claim through as quickly as possible. She stretched her long legs under the coverlet and said:
‘‘Well, I’m glad you came. Thanks for putting things straight in my mind. But don’t hurry away on my account. There’s all the evening to kill.”
I said: ‘‘A good bit of it’s dead already.”
‘‘I expect you’re aching to get back to the wife and kiddies.”
‘‘No wife.”
‘‘No wife?’’ She eyed me up and down. ‘‘How very clever of you. What’s the recipe?’’
I said: ‘‘Never having an evening to kill.”
‘‘I don’t think that follows.” She shut her eyes and leaned back against the head of the bed, the cigarette drooping between her lips. The smoke escaped slowly.
As I made a move she asked me how the police would go about recovering the stuff; but when I told her she looked bored and put a slim lazy arm behind her head. There was a television set at the other side of the bed, and a futurist picture framed in coffee-coloured wood, and a recess with black minor glass that didn’t quite reflect the crystal racehorse standing in it. It was nice to be able to recognize something.
I said: ‘‘What’s that picture?’’
‘‘That? It’s one of Bredanski’s early pieces. Eels swimming in a bowl.”
I said: ‘‘I thought it was Hampton Court maze seen from the air.”
‘‘I suppose you altogether despise modern art.”
‘‘You can’t altogether despise what you don’t understand.”
‘‘Oh, can’t you? I know plenty who do.”
There was a pause.
‘‘Well, thanks for the drink. I——’’
‘‘Pour me another, will you. I can’t very well—get out of bed with you here.”
I didn’t rise to that; and when I came back with the glass in my hand she was watching me.
‘‘Tell me,’’ she said, ‘‘Do all insurance men come like you?’’
‘‘What way?’’
‘‘We
ll—thirteen stone, nice hair, cold grey eyes.”
‘‘You’re overweight. And they don’t.”
‘‘Not as good-looking?’’
‘‘Oh, much better looking.”
‘‘All the same,’’ she said, ‘‘I bet you could be fun if you really let up on that expression.”
I said: ‘‘ I might say the same about you.”
She sipped her drink. ‘‘What are we waiting for, then?’’
I went back for my own drink. ‘‘ Your husband, probably.”
I gave her time, but when I turned again her eyes had gone like little brown stones.
She said: ‘‘My husband’s in Scotland.”
‘‘I shouldn’t bank on it You know how these tiresome men get around.”
There was a minute’s silence. A dog was yapping monotonously in the street outside.
‘‘Anyway he’d beat the life out of you if he even found you here in my room,’’ she said vindictively.
‘‘Don’t scare me any more. I’m a bundle of nerves as it is.”
She put her glass down carefully on the table beside her. ‘‘When you’ve finished your drink you can find your own way out.” I thought it better to say nothing to that. I’d said enough. There
was a perceptible pause.
‘‘Good night, Mrs. Litchen.”
She didn’t answer, and I went out. I had a job to find the front
door catch which was hidden so that it shouldn’t spoil the line of
the paint.
Ten more days passed before I rang up Delahayes. I’d thought about it from the beginning. It was weak to give way now—especially when it probably only meant a snub at the end of it—but sometimes you can’t reason with yourself.
A well-bred voice answered at the other end, and I said:
‘‘Can you tell me which days Mrs. Tracey Moreton is in London?’’
‘‘Tuesdays and Fridays, sir.”
‘‘Oh, thanks. Then I’ll ring to-morrow.”
But I didn’t ring to-morrow. I’d been working pretty hard ever since the visit to Lowis Manor to try to get the thing out of my system; so there seemed no harm in postponing a couple of appointments for the following afternoon, and by three-thirty I was walking down Bruton Street. Delahayes is in Clare Street, and, after passing it once and deciding there probably wasn’t a back entrance, I settled to wait. It wasn’t too difficult, because there was a shop selling art reproductions nearly opposite, and I spent the best part of an hour in there, to the refined annoyance of the assistants.
At a quarter to five Sarah came out, and headed away from me towards Bond Street. She walked with the quick ease of flat-heeled shoes, taking rather long strides for a girl, and she steered among people so expertly that we were near the end of Bond Street when I caught up.
‘‘So it is you,’’ I said. ‘‘ I thought I recognized your walk.”
She glanced at me in surprise, half smiled.
‘‘I was just leaving. How are you, Mr. Branwell?’’
‘‘I was off to get a cup of tea—somewhere. I … Perhaps you’d join me.”
‘‘Well, thank you. But I rather wanted to get a train before the rush began.”
‘‘It’s starting,’’ I said. ‘‘Look around. It—won’t be any worse in half an hour.”
She seemed as if she was going to object, but instead she gave in, and I led her across Piccadilly to a café on the other side. She was wearing a sort of burgundy red coat with wide sleeves and a little round hat of the same colour with a shiny black pin in it. It made her look older, sophisticated.
As we sat down I said: ‘‘As a matter of fact I’d been waiting outside Delahayes for you.”
She put down her bag, took off her gloves, folded them, picked up the menu and stared at it.
‘‘Does that amuse you?’’ I said.
‘‘Why should it?’’ She had flushed a little but she didn’t look up.
The waitress came and I ordered toasted scones. They hadn’t got any, only plain toast or bread and butter. When she’d gone I said:
‘‘I’m sorry I brought you in here. I intended taking you to the Berkeley, but when I saw you—when I caught you up—the thing went right out of my head.”
‘‘Was it you who rang yesterday?’’
‘‘Yes.”
She met my eyes. ‘‘I often come in here for lunch. I haven’t been in the Berkeley for five years.”
Alone with her like this I was as unsure of myself as I’d ever been in my life.
‘‘You’ve been at Delahayes for some time?’’
‘‘About eighteen months.”
‘‘I suppose it’s a nice hobby.”
‘‘Oh, it’s more than that. We need what I earn.”
‘‘As a sort of—additional pocket money?’’
‘‘Heavens, no. Have you any idea how much it costs to live at Lowis Manor?’’
I shook my head. ‘‘I’m sorry. Your concerns …”
‘‘There’s nothing to hide. Tracey’s father died in 1940, and the death duties then meant sacrificing his investments. Taxes have gone up and up ever since.”
‘‘What about the ballet? Didn’t you intend to take it up?’’
‘‘That went when the war came. In any case I think it was too late. I hadn’t started early enough. Daddy let me go into it to keep me quiet’’
The waitress brought the tea, clacking the crockery upon the glass surface of the table, then found she had no sugar, so went off for it. I watched Sarah’s hands as she poured out the tea.
‘‘And your father?’’
‘‘He sold our house and lives in London now.”
‘‘Perhaps that’s what you should do.”
‘‘What, sell Lowis Manor? Would you?’’
‘‘Maybe,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
We drank our tea. Something in our talk had helped; I don’t know what it was. At least it had helped me. I had stopped sweating, feeling uncouth.
She said: ‘‘Why particularly did you want to see me?’’
A chasm there. ‘‘Old times’ sake.… I wanted to. Isn’t that a good enough reason?’’
‘‘Not for waiting.”
‘‘I think so.”
She smiled slightly but didn’t speak.
I said: ‘‘When I met you that night you were like something out of a different world. Now our worlds are at least on speaking terms. That pleases me where it hurt most.… When did you marry?’’
‘‘In 1940. Tracey was a Squadron Leader.”
‘‘He’s a good lot older than you?’’
‘‘Yes.”
‘‘And then?’’
She fumbled in her bag, took out a bit of handkerchief and dabbed one corner of her mouth.
‘‘Oh … that’s all there is, really. And you?’’
‘‘More toast?’’
‘‘No, thanks.”
I took out cigarettes, passed her one, lit it. For a second as she leaned across the table her face was close to my hand, her eyes a dark amber in the match light.
She said: ‘‘And you?’’
‘‘Oh, I get along.”
‘‘I wish you’d tell me how it happened, this change in you.”
‘‘Is there such a change?’’
‘‘Yes.… Oh, yes At least, as I remember you, you were bitter then, angry in a sort of resentful way—and yet not unlikeable, really.”
‘‘And now?’’
Her lips moved suddenly, as if she hadn’t quite got control of them. ‘‘I still think your bark’s worse than your bite.”
I said in surprise: ‘‘Have I ever barked at you?’’
‘‘Not at me … yet.”
‘‘D’you think I might?’’
‘‘Not at me … no.”
I was silent for a bit. ‘‘There really isn’t anything to tell. You know how I felt. It wasn’t that that changed. But things happened by accident. After the retreat from El Agheil
a I got chivvied into taking a commission. I felt badly about it for a long time—as if I’d let myself down.… Something I believed in. Queer, I suppose. Then, afterwards, when it was over, Michael Abercrombie offered me this job.”
‘‘Who’s he?’’
‘‘Well, my boss, in a way, and my friend.”
‘‘Is he nice?’’
‘‘Oh, very. He’s all the things that I’m not.”
‘‘And what are you not?’’
I met her eyes and smiled. ‘‘Cultured … charming … understandable … good …”
‘‘Don’t you find it hard work, being none of those things?’’
‘‘No.… I just sit back and let it come.”
‘‘A sort of—wolf in sheep’s clothing?’’
‘‘Or a sheep pretending to be a wolf. Since I took this job I haven’t been able to decide.”
She said more soberly:
‘‘Perhaps there aren’t any wolves or sheep really—only people.”
There was a short silence.
‘‘I must go, Oliver.”
The name seemed to slip out.
With a feeling of warmth I said: ‘‘I’ll drive you down.”
‘‘No, of course not—thank you. I expect Tracey will meet me at the station.”
‘‘Do you think, if I phoned, you would have lunch with me one day? You and Tracey?’’
‘‘Thank you.”
‘‘How’s Clive Fisher?’’
‘‘All right. We don’t see a lot of him. It was he who found me the job with Delahaye.”
I got the bill and waited while she stubbed out her cigarette and pulled on her thin suède gloves. Gloves like that seem to fit as closely as a skin. As I looked at her I knew I felt about her as I’d never felt about any woman before. I wondered if she knew it the way women are supposed to know.
If this was falling in love, then I’d done something for which my talents were very ill-suited. But I knew that the choice was no longer mine.
Chapter Six
I saw Sarah several times that winter and the following spring: sometimes in town but sometimes at Lowis Manor. It wasn’t at her invitation that I went to see them again but at his. I never could quite understand his liking for me; I wasn’t his type at all; but in spite of trying not to I felt flattered by his friendship. I still wasn’t used to having my company sought. The fact that so far as he was concerned I was constantly breaking the tenth commandment made me uncomfortable, but at least the coveting was decently disguised. I got to like old Mrs. Moreton too, who was unvaryingly nice to me.
Fortune Is a Woman Page 4
