End of exchange. End of problem. Good old Sir Hugo. Good . . . old . . . Sir . . .
She awoke to the sound of loud, impatient knocks on her door. Sleepily, she called permission to enter. The door opened, and to her surprise she saw the landlord. He came in, apologised for the intrusion, tested the electric switch, found it was not working, muttered a curse, went out again and closed the door.
She lay listening to the sounds outside. There were hurrying footsteps and muttered phrases that at first made no sense. Then she realised that something had gone wrong with the electric current. That meant no hot water. It also explained the non-arrival of her cafe complet.
She got up and put on a dressing-gown; she had overslept and she told herself resignedly that, without doubt, someone would have hurried to the bathroom and used up whatever hot water remained. But she would go and find out.
She opened her door. At the same time, two doors opened on the opposite side of the corridor. Two men, stubble-covered, electric razors in hand, glared out at the landlord and at two youths who were fiddling with wires on the landing.
Sir Hugo spoke before Mr. Guzzman. There was no current, he shouted furiously. What had gone wrong? How was one to shave? Where was the breakfast coffee? This place was uncomfortable, so much one already knew. It was also mismanaged, understaffed and fit only for the lower order of animals.
To each item of this summary Mr. Guzzman, in the neighbouring doorway, gave an emphatic nod and a guttural sound of agreement. From the door of the bathroom, his wife shouted that the water was cold.
The landlord shouted back. His inn had been invaded—there was no other word. People, foreigners, had swarmed in without notice, without warning. Beds had to be made, food to be prepared and cooked and served, all in a hurry and all for those who had shown less than gratitude for the efforts made on their behalf. Demands and grumbles; grumbles and demands without ceasing. And now abuse. Could a man help it if for some mysterious reason the electricity had failed? It had never failed before. He had done nothing to make it go wrong. Since its installation, years before, it had worked without trouble. And now who knew what was the matter? One had to find out. These men were finding out, and shouting at them would not help them to find out any more quickly.
He paused, purple-faced, and drew breath. And then the door of Mrs. Westerby’s room opened and she appeared before them.
She was in the long robe she had worn during the flood of the evening before, but on her head, this morning, was a lace cap, ribbon-hung, which Gail had seen depicted in very old numbers of Punch. She was holding a small electric kettle. On this all eyes came to rest.
“What” —the landlord spoke with difficulty, a trembling forefinger indicating the kettle—“what are you doing with that?”
“Good morning. Bonjour.” Mrs. Westerby glanced politely round the assembly, and then addressed the landlord. “I cannot make my kettle work. It began to heat, and then it went off.”
“Ah.” The landlord drew a deep breath and glared at her with his eyes starting from his head. “Ah. So it began to work, and then it did not work?”
"No. It went off with a bang. It frightened me very much. I don’t think your current here is the right voltage.”
“Have you been using that kettle in your room?” Sir Hugo shouted.
“Please don’t address me in that tone. Yes, I have been using the kettle in my room. I invariably make my tea in the mornings,” Mrs. Westerby explained. “I’ve always done it. Nothing has gone wrong before—at least, not often. Do you mean that my using it this morning has caused some fault in the wires?”
There was no reply from Sir Hugo, or from anybody else. Three doors banged almost simultaneously as Sir Hugo, Mr. Guzzman and Mrs. Guzzman retreated. The landlord, cursing under his breath, swept his assistants down the stairs. Mrs. Westerby was left looking at Gail.
“I don’t see any reason for all that discourtesy,” she said in an injured tone. “I merely attempted to make myself some tea. If the current is not right why should I be blamed? I would have thought that a man like Sir Hugo would have known better than to appear unshaven at his bedroom door and abuse a lady. I’m really surprised. No one seemed to realise that I’m the only one who didn’t order coffee. I always take tea. Until my kettle worked, I could have nothing whatsoever to drink. I detest selfishness.”
Gail took a long, clear look at her. The morning was clear and sunny; the sun was streaming on to the landing with an almost cruel light that showed every line, every wrinkle on the ugly, weather-beaten face. But Gail could see nothing on it but the disappointment of an entirely harmless old woman who was holding a kettle and longing for her early cup of tea.
She went to her room and washed in cold water. Dressing and packing, she pondered over the possibility of schizophrenia. She was not any too clear as to its precise meaning, but she had heard that its victims had two entirely separate codes of behaviour. Perhaps Mrs. Wester by was a schizophrenic. It was certainly easy, less frightening to think of her in that way than in any other. She would put her theory before Sir Hugo when she spoke to him.
The electricity was working again — she had tested the light switch. Sir Hugo would by now have shaved and dressed; she would go downstairs and wait for him.
She heard the sound of a car door being slammed, and walked out on to the balcony. Looking down, she saw to her dismay that the landlord was placing Sir Hugo’s luggage in his car.
Her heart began to beat faster, and she made an effort to conquer her rising panic. Perhaps he was merely having his things taken downstairs, clearing his room, paying his bill. If she went down now, she could speak to him.
She persuaded herself that she was perfectly calm, but when she reached the hall and could see, through the open front door, Sir Hugo already at his car, reaching into his pocket to tip the waiting, expectant maid, she found herself for a moment too breathless to run out and accost him. Before she could move, he had turned and caught sight of her. A look of relief overspread his face.
“Gail!”
He came towards her, and she went to meet him.
“I’m so glad to have a word with you,” he said. “I’ve left a letter for Mrs. Stratton; I didn’t like to disturb her.”
“Are you . . . are you going?”
“Yes. The road’s clear.”
“You’re going on ahead?”
There was a pause.
“No,” he said.
“I thought you were ... I thought we were going in convoy, as we—”
“ — as we did yesterday? No. Frankly, Gail —I’ve explained this in my letter to Mrs. Stratton — I’ve changed my plans. Or rather, I’ve decided to keep to my original plans. I’ve cancelled my room at the hotel. I’m not going to Chandon.”
“But . . . why not?”
“Because I’ve come to the conclusion that my presence has a most disturbing effect on Mrs. Westerby.” He spoke the name with a distaste that twisted his lips. “Whether she’s off her head or not, I can’t tell you; all I know is that she is violently jealous of Mrs. Stratton, and has chosen to misunderstand my purely friendly attitude. From the moment we arrived at this place, she has watched Mrs. Stratton closely, and each time that Mrs. Stratton and I have been engaged in the most casual exchange, she has forced her way into our company. Haven’t you seen that?”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s a most embarrassing situation, and for Mrs. Stratton’s sake, I can’t allow it to continue. I find Mrs. Stratton charming, and I hope I shall meet her again soon —but not when her quite impossible sister-in-law is near by. I am leaving for Mrs. Stratton’s sake,” he repeated with emphasis. “I won’t expose her to any more of this utterly baseless and very humiliating jealousy.” He took Gail’s hand and pressed it. “Let us all meet one day in London. And in the meantime, bon voyage."
He released her hand and got into his car. He started the engine and drove away, and Gail stood still, staring after him. She saw the ca
r through a haze of tears—tears of rage and disappointment. Good old Sir Hugo. Good old cautious, pompous, cowardly, safety-first Sir Hugo. She herself had wanted to run away—but for her, she felt, there was some excuse; she was a girl, and she had been involved through no fault of her own; she had not, like Sir Hugo, elected to be one of the party. She didn’t blame him for getting out, she told herself bitterly. All she hated him for was the manner of his flight—headlong and ungracious, with only a written message for the woman to whom he had paid such marked attention.
She was so lost in thought that Mrs. Stratton spoke before Gail realised that she was standing by her side.
“He’s gone?’’ Mrs. Stratton asked quietly.
“Yes.” Gail glanced at the open letter in the other woman’s hand: three or four lines, no more. “He said he’d written to you.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Stratton raised the letter and let her hand fall again. “Yes, he wrote. He needn’t have written. I heard the scene on the landing this morning, and I realised that it would prove the last straw. He already thought her out of her mind; this morning must have convinced him.”
She spoke flatly, without emphasis. A wave of sympathy swept over Gail and made her regret her plan to desert, as Sir Hugo had deserted.
“I didn’t like him,” was all she could find to say by way of comfort.
“I did.” Mrs. Stratton spoke in the same level, toneless voice. “I did. But he was driven away, and any friends I may make in the future will be driven away too. There will be no escape. Wherever I go, she will appear —you heard her say so. She will follow me, and claim me in mock affection, and make scenes, and drag me into them, and involve me in ridicule. She hates me. She . . . hates me.”
Gail fought against a sense of unreality. This was a golden morning in France. There was a clear road ahead, a fast car, a happy meeting with Tim and a good trip home; so much was certain. But this conversation, these words spoken quietly by a slim, quiet woman in a tone of hopelessness . . . this could not be taking place. “Why?” she heard herself asking. “Why?”
“Because I’ve achieved success, and made a great deal of money, and can live in comfort — and her brother can’t share any of it. She thinks he’s been cheated. She feels that he should have been here to share the good things—and I feel that too. I never cease regretting that he can’t enjoy them with me. But my regret is one thing; mine is natural. It’s what every woman who loved her husband would feel. Hers is . . . different. Hers isn’t natural. It’s ugly . . . and it’s dangerous. She is obsessed.”
She stopped. Gail had nothing to say. With relief, she watched the approach of the American family from the house they had been occupying. She thought she had never seen anything more normal, more reassuring, more sane and wholesome than the large, loose-limbed Mr. Cotter, his calm, quiet wife and two energetic children. They paused to wait for Julian, and as he joined them, a shout from Mark Stevens indicated that he and Susie were ready to leave. The night’s imprisonment was over. The road was cleared, and cars would soon pick their way along the track and roll on to the smooth, wide main road, following Sir Hugo to freedom.
Gail did not hear Mrs. Stratton leave her; only when Julian came towards her did she realise that she was alone.
“Good morning.” He looked down at her unsmiling face. “Anything wrong?”
“Sir Hugo’s gone.”
“Early start, wasn’t it? I thought he—”
“It wasn’t a start; it was a finish. He pulled out. He left a note for Mrs. Stratton. She was with me just now, and I saw it — not what was in it, just how much of it there was. A few lines.”
“Did he say what he was running away from?”
“Your godmother. He seems to have had enough. She fused all the lights in the inn this morning, so nobody got baths and nobody got breakfast.”
“How did she—”
“Making her morning tea. She always makes her morning tea. She wouldn’t dream of—”
“All right. But I can smell coffee now; they must have got—”
“Oh yes, it’s all fixed now. We’ll get breakfast—all except Sir Hugo, who didn’t wait. I saw him from the balcony, and came down to speak to him, but I didn’t get a chance; all I had to do was listen, and say goodbye.”
“And I suppose he went before you could persuade him to stay and support you—is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“What were you going to ask him?”
“To take over Mrs. Stratton—what else?”
“And what were you going to do?”
“Go away. Go back to people I understand. Go on to San Sebastian and Tim and all those Naval men you dislike so much. Like you, I took on more than I bargained for. You can’t get out of it —but I thought I could. And if you’re opening your mouth to say that your godmother’s a lovable old dear, and as harmless as a kitten, save it.”
He made no answer. He left her and went to the door of the inn and spoke to the landlord, and presently the smell of coffee came nearer and a large tin tray was placed on a tin table nearby.
“Come on,” Julian said. “Breakfast. Get some coffee and croissants inside you, and you’ll feel better.”
The coffee was superb, the croissants were hot and crisp; they tore them apart and ate them dripping with butter. Gail poured coffee and hot milk into huge, red- and-blue-checked Basque cups, and they cradled them in their hands and drew in hot, satisfying gulps.
“Feeling better?’" Julian asked at last.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Were you really contemplating running away, like the gallant Sir Hugo?”
“Yes. I thought it over in the night, and decided it wasn’t my business, and that Sir Hugo would be delighted to act as escort to Mrs. Stratton. After all, he’d been giving a convincing exhibition of an enamoured man. But he vanished. He said he’d pick up the threads again when he could get Mrs. Stratton alone. But Mrs. Stratton is certain that she never will be, from now on.”
He helped her to place the luggage in her car, and stood looking down at her.
“Do you really believe,” he asked slowly, “that my godmother could harm anybody?”
Gail looked at Mrs. Stratton, who was walking towards them.
“She’s done some harm,” she said. “Hasn’t she?”
He opened the car door for Mrs. Stratton and settled her into her seat. There was no sign of Mrs. Westerby.
“You’d better go on ahead,” Julian said. “We’ll pass you on the road; we’ve got to get to the cottage first to see it’s opened up.”
He stood watching the car drive away, and Gail gave her attention to the hazards of the road. Huge blocks of stone had been cleared to one side to allow passage back to the main road; a workman flagged them on, and soon Gail put on speed and felt thankfully the smooth surface under the wheels.
Beside her, Mrs. Stratton sat in silence, staring straight ahead. As always, her face betrayed nothing, but Gail knew that she must be thinking of Sir Hugo’s humiliating withdrawal. Once more, pity filled her—but it was not strong enough to keep back another feeling that had been growing in her since the effects of the coffee had worn off. She knew, to her chagrin, that her uneasiness was returning; she realised that she had slowed down and was giving anxious glances in the mirror to see if Julian’s car was in sight. She wanted him to pass—and then she was determined to keep close behind. He gave her a sense of safety.
Mrs. Stratton spoke suddenly. There was something in her tone that Gail could not identify.
“You don’t have to go on, you know,” she said. “If you feel you want to turn back, all you have to do is say so, and we’ll turn back.”
“It’s entirely up to you,” Gail said. “If it’s only a matter of furniture—”
“Not ‘only’ furniture. I felt it was a chance to get something of my husband’s. Everything we had was sold while he was ill. I felt he’d like me to have the furniture in the cottage. But things haven’t been very ple
asant for you, and I have no right to ask you to go on if you don’t want to.”
If she would only shout, Gail thought, it would be a relief; it was frightening to feel the force and the tenseness behind the words, and to contrast them with the calm, level voice.
The mountains were close and high and enclosing. Gail felt as though she was driving into a fastness from which escape would be impossible. There was no traffic; the road twisted, higher and higher; the few houses in sight seemed to cling to the slopes like climbers whose numb fingers would soon loose their hold, sending them crashing down to the dark, shadowed, sinister valley.
“If you want to go back, we’ll go,” she heard Mrs. Stratton saying again.
“We’ll go on,” Gail said.
“Very well.” Mrs. Stratton spoke quietly, but Gail was at last able to identify the note in her voice. It was desperation.
Chapter 8
The first glimpse of the cottage of which, by now, Gail had heard so much, brought her back swiftly to a sense of normality.
She had not had a picture of it in her mind. She had not even troubled to guess at its size; cottages, she was aware, varied as widely as the people who owned them, and might be large houses set in lawns, or modest dwellings lining a village street.
But this, she felt at once on seeing it, was a real cottage: a small country residence surrounded by magnificent scenery. Built in the Basque style, it had green shutters newly painted, and rose-pink walls.
It had not been difficult to find; she had simply followed Julian. He had passed her and then led her, slowing down and waiting for her at confusing cross-roads to make certain that she did not miss the way.
The first sight of habitation, after a long spell of mountains and cattle, had been the main house, now the hotel. It was built on a promontory overlooking a view breathtakingly beautiful, but had a vaguely mournful look, like a dog whose owners had gone away. Julian had not stopped; he took the lakeside track that skirted the hotel; it was a narrow, rutted road, winding through woods and affording occasional glimpses of the wind-ruffled water.
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