A Sea-Grape Tree

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘What did she mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t a stroke, she said—but a sort of come-over … After all, she is a nurse. They’d put him to bed at Tony’s—Tony’s extremely eccentric but he’s kind; and they’d taken turns to sit up with him, including that Madge you bet—and his pulse and everything was normal and he’d had a light breakfast and wanted to get back as soon as possible. Worrying about me, she said: much more likely Bobby. Anyway, later in the morning Tony drove him back. He looked mouldy and he didn’t want to talk—but that’s quite usual. He’s slept most of the day. He hasn’t touched a drop. But I keep thinking his speech is a bit affected. Did you notice?’

  She said falsely that she had noticed nothing; adding: ‘Surely he always talks like that?—a little sort of slurred and clipped? I took it to be traditional British military speech. An army wife like you would be too used to it to notice.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ exclaims Ellie, more cheerfully. ‘I expect you are. It’s true. I don’t always listen to poor old Harold. Nor he to me, for that matter.’

  ‘Why don’t you get the doctor to give him a check-up? I suppose there is a doctor on the island?’

  ‘I might. It would mean going over to Port of Spain. There is a doctor here of sorts, but he’s always drunk.’ She powdered her nose, put on more lipstick, touched up her hair. ‘Staycie’s given him healing, she says I needn’t get alarmed. Still, I don’t want this party to go on too late. Oh, why aren’t you staying and that bitch leaving tomorrow? What can she see in him? Of course, she’s man-mad. Do you know what I heard her say in that awful gluey voice of hers? She always goes for the older man! Flattery, you see—he laps it up. He can’t bear for her to leave his side. Seeing she’s a nurse and him in a dicky state I don’t quite dare to see her off. Oh, aren’t men idiots, isn’t sex the limit?’ She takes a framed photograph from the dressing table and hands it to her friend. ‘That’s Mummy. Taken when I was about six.’

  The picture shows a youngish woman with a pleasant smile, an Edwardian coiffure, a lace blouse with a high boned collar. Her little daughter, in dainty frills, with corkscrew curls, leans against her shoulder. ‘That’s the last,’ says Ellie, ‘she ever had taken—the last studio portrait. Harold took some snaps in the garden not long before the end, but I can’t put them out, they make me feel so sad.’

  ‘What a sweet face. And you—you’ve hardly changed.’

  ‘How can you say so? But I was a pretty girl. Harold used to call me his little bit of Dresden china.’ She looks searchingly at the photograph before replacing it. ‘She’s gone a long way on now, I expect, but we’re never really out of touch. She’d know if I was in for trouble before I knew it myself.’ She broods, her round blue innocent eyes dilated. ‘If you remember, it was in the cards.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  She nods. ‘But I must not harbour morbid thoughts. I’ll just say this out once—to you, then throw it off. If Harold’s going to—go downhill bit by bit—get helpless, get—you know, silly, turn against me—they do, you know—I don’t see how I could bear it.’ She collapses again on the bed and bursts into tears on her friend’s shoulder, sobbing out: ‘I get to feel so lonely.’

  From the bottom of her heart, Anemone dispenses reassurance, sympathy; and presently she brightens, bathes her eyes, apologises, agrees that she’s lucky to have Staycie to support her; and then there’s Johnny, how lucky to have a wonderful man like him for a friend; says that now she’s got a real friend in England she’ll save up for a trip one of these fine days and pay her a nice long visit.

  ‘Yes, you must promise,’ says Anemone.

  ‘And you will write, won’t you? I feel in my bones a lovely surprise is going to come along for you when you get back. Mind you let me know.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ She is seized by an impulse to laugh aloud.

  ‘Mr Right at last!—that’s what I hope.’ Ellie becomes thoughtful. ‘You know, I’m afraid Johnny’s going to miss you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he will …’

  ‘Yes, you’ve made a difference to him. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but you have. It’s as if he had a candle lit inside him. I’ve noticed him looking at you—and teasing you.’

  ‘He teases you too.’

  ‘Yes, but not in the same way. I’ve almost felt jealous of you once or twice but I know it’s silly. Anyway, I’m too fond of you both to be jealous. I’m just glad when I see him in good spirits. Taking you on this trip today shows how much he likes you. Not that he ever shows his feelings … But I wish he was here tonight. I would have thought your last night … It’s not the same without him. He lends such distinction … What can be happening?’

  The sounds of shrieks of hilarity interrupts this tête à tête. What a mercy!—just in the nick of time. The temptation to confide in Ellie has become almost overwhelming. They hurry back to the verandah, to be greeted by a bizarre spectacle. Young Mr de Pas has somehow got hold of a spare mosquito net and has donned it like a hieratic vestment. Its circular frame balanced on his head, its ample draperies floating and billowing round him, he performs a stately dance to the tune of a tango. Up and down the room he sweeps, a towering ghost, snapping his fingers, stamping, swirling with a flourish to a standstill. Seeing Ellie, he glides forward, parts his drapes in silence, with a dramatic gesture draws her within their folds and dances on. Now begins a double act, hysterically comic: they swoop and sway as if in a crazy bridal tangle. Mr Crowther roars and beats his thighs; even the Captain is wiping his eyes, in fits. The nurses wear a detached expression, as if deploring infantile behaviour. Jackie tolerantly smiles. Finally, Ellie kicks a roguish heel up and emerges, flushed, dishevelled, gasping; runs to the Captain, from whose side Madge slouchingly withdraws.

  Oh, what fun, what fun! What a scream is Tony. Flinging off his lendings, he advances to bow low before the Captain, solemnly kisses Ellie’s hand; together they face their guests, acknowledging applause. He ought to be on the Halls. Never as long as they live … and Ellie! if ever there was a dark horse … What a gorgeous climax to a splendid evening. For now they must depart. Miss Stay, having dealt with her Ancient, has reappeared to hustle them away. With hearty thanks they all drift off. Miss Stay will sleep down here in the spare room, just to be on call in case.

  Ellie is safe; nothing threatens her. The crown of the evening’s fun has lighted on her head. Soon she will get busy, tidying up; she will whistle for Bobby, call goodnight to Joey in the eaves. But now, successful hostess, she stands beside her Captain.

  Midnight. She is alone, negotiating the rock path towards the shore, threading the myriad crepitations, sibilant whispers, the wires and strings that pluck the dark. Balm, spices, honeyed fragrance, showers of stars pour over her as from an invisible vast cornucopia; a soft flurry of fireflies surrounds her head. Something brushes past her with a snuffle and a click of claws: Bobby returning home from some nocturnal occasion of his own: By the seashore, perambulating …

  No light illumines her destination. Yes!—all at once a blaze in the sea-grape tree. She runs.

  Johnny is standing underneath the tree, leaning against its trunk, dappled from head to foot with disks of leaf reflection, so that he looks half dematerialized in light and shadow. He has a cape slung over his shoulders: the blue cloak of Mrs Jardine. When, breath-stopped, incredulous again, she reaches him he wraps it round them both. The breeze is cool.

  ‘Punctual,’ he murmurs.

  ‘I was afraid I’d never get away. Suddenly it worked like magic.’

  ‘Well now,’ he says softly. ‘We must say goodbye. Have a pleasant journey. Keep safe. Be a good girl. Write to me.’ His tone is practical.

  ‘Of course. I’m not absolutely sure I know your surname.’

  ‘The name is Gourlay. John David Gourlay.’

  ‘A nice name.’

  He laughs a little. ‘I’m glad yo
u like it. It’s going to be yours one day.’

  She catches her breath. ‘Oh! … How incredible. And what about my name, my address? Don’t you want it?’

  ‘Yes. But you haven’t got one, have you?’ Taken aback, she looks up at him—and he laughs again. ‘Not a steady one—or so you said.’

  ‘Did I? It’s true I’m not sure where … My cottage is let, and … I dare say I’ll go home—for a bit; and then … I can’t seem to think. But I will.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like important documents, addressed to Anonyma, to go astray. You write to me, I’ll answer. I might even send a cable.’

  Her head spins, she holds him closer. ‘Johnny, I’m not dreaming, am I?’

  He shakes his head, heaves a big sigh, says oddly: ‘It’s the grand passion.’

  ‘About this baby: in another month I suppose I’ll know for sure. I’m to let you know at once?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Supposing—supposing I’ve made a mistake. What then?’

  ‘Oh! you said you were sure,’ he exclaims, mock reproachful. ‘The thing is, can I trust you? How can I be certain? You might try to palm it off on—someone else.’ He holds her away from him, shakes her. ‘Look at me. Swear.’

  ‘I swear.’ Their eyes meet in a drowning gaze, seeing far back behind the eyes to the essential imprint. But surely he has faithless eyes? … And what can hers be telling him? ‘How could you even imagine such a thing? How could you?’

  All he says is: ‘If you did I’d come and kill you’; and wraps her up again.

  ‘How can I be certain? Are you promising to come?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh … before long. As soon as I can. I must get just a bit better. Get absolutely fit.’

  ‘Darling, don’t wait for that. I’ll make you absolutely better when you come.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, rather vaguely now. And then, with a mixture of mock-severity and ruefulness: ‘I’m a married man, you know. I must get a divorce—or she must. You must be protected.’

  ‘Protected?’

  ‘Naturally I intend to see you are not qffichée in the case.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care.’

  ‘I care,’ he says, genuinely severe.

  How strange such words, such concepts sound tonight, on a West Indian shore.

  ‘“Protected”, “Affichée” . . . Those are Sibyl words.’ She touches the collar of his cape. ‘Her cloak.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all right,’ he says, as if dismissing an irrelevance. ‘Listen. I want you to take this.’ He pulls from the pocket of his slacks the gold medallion that he often wears: a finely engraved circular locket with a central diamond. ‘Bend your head.’ Carefully he slips it over her head on its gold Victorian chain. ‘Don’t look so doubtful. It was my mother’s and before that my grandmother’s. I was to give it to the girl I meant to marry. I wore it all through the war as a mascot. Then I crashed; and you know what happened. So I didn’t give it to that girl I’ve mentioned, though I’d meant to. The last time she came to see me, when I told her—I told her a clean break was best, there was this little heirloom: she wouldn’t take it, she was quite right. But we made a sort of pact. I was to let her know if something happened to me, if ever I had a life again, or if ever I disappeared, I would somehow let her know. There … it opens, but don’t open it. There’s a screw of paper inside with her name and address on it. It won’t bother you, it’s only an address, no message or anything of that sort. Just keep it, forget about it till I come for you.’

  ‘And when you come for me?’

  ‘Oh, when I come for you!’—the words ring like a ballad, with a dark undertone—‘I’ll cope with everything. I just don’t want to take any risks, leave any loose ends, between now and when I depart. I suppose I’m superstitious.’

  ‘I think I won’t wear it much until you come; but I’ll look after it very very carefully.’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘It’s precious.’ She holds it a moment and puts it to her lips. ‘Here’s my ring for you, in exchange: my heirloom thing, my grandmother’s pink topaz.’ She draws it off and gives it to him; but it is too small for his little finger, and he returns it to her saying:

  ‘No, no, let’s wait to give each other rings. Things have a way of disappearing here.’

  ‘What will you do about Louis?’

  ‘Ah, Louis … I’ll have to think. Why shouldn’t he come too?’

  ‘Why not? Johnny!’ Is it his heart, or hers beating so turbulently? ‘Say it will come true. For the rest of our lives.’

  ‘For the rest of our lives?’ He makes it almost a question, then says, after a pause: ‘We can but try.’ A strange thing to say: as if he were facing a mystifying problem; some sort of grave operation whose outcome is uncertain. Yet his face remains serene; as if, on some other level, the solution is discerned.

  ‘Remember,’ she says, ‘if it gets to seem too difficult, it wouldn’t really matter. I wouldn’t feel let down. It couldn’t make any difference. You will always be my love. You have changed my life.’

  ‘And you mine.’

  ‘If I don’t go now, I never shall.’ Silent, he throws his head back so that the light plays fully on it; his smile dazzles her. ‘Remember my real name, won’t you?’

  One eyebrow shoots up, he nods, murmurs teasingly, drawing out the syllables: ‘A-non-y-ma.’

  She walks away, telling herself: I won’t turn back, I mustn’t look back. But presently her plodding feet in the soft sand are halted. She turns. He is still underneath the tree, he has not moved. Now he looks infinitely far away: more than spatial distance seems to separate her from him. It has again become a question of Time’s bewildering telescopic lens. With that cloak flung back, with his romantic head inclined, the shadows of sea-grape clusters like dark curls falling to his shoulders, with his patterned torso and unnaturally long legs lightly crossed, he has become an archetypal Renaissance figure: Portrait of an Unknown Youth in a bower of leaves.

  Shortly after dawn comes the hour of her departure: too early, thank heaven, for a large and demonstrative farewell gathering. Princess carrying baby No Name, Carlotta, Adelina, Winkliff and Deshabille come in as she drinks her coffee bearing a magnificent lei of jasmine and hibiscus. They hang it round her neck. She hugs them, tips them lavishly. All are in tears, except for No Name who, received into her godmother’s arms for an official blessing, accepts a kiss impassively. She is plump as a pigeon with a ripe blackberry lustre on her skin, altogether delicious, dressed—to impress—in layer after layer of pink and blue flannel and sprigged cotton, with red coral earrings and a necklace of black and scarlet beads, like ladybirds. She nestles contentedly and makes a dive at once for the visitor’s breast: a happy omen noted with approval by Princess and the rest of her cortege. ‘She wan’ not leave you,’ murmurs her mother with a final spurt of hope. The visitor sticks a sprig of jasmine behind one neat close-fitting ear and yields her back, experiencing a pang and promising not to forget to send a bracelet. After pocketing their tips, the boys stand stiffly at attention. They have rehearsed the Boy Scout salute, and now render it in silence and solemnity.

  Miss Stay appears, and shoos them all away. Manageress and visitor are alone together, as they were in this very room, in another lifetime, three weeks ago.

  ‘A sight for sore eyes, a mortal treat!’ exclaims Miss Stay. ‘The springing tread, the sparkling eyes … those sad sad anxious furrows all smoothed out.’ Gently she touches the visitor’s forehead between the eyes, smoothes it with outward strokes above the eyebrows, over the temples. ‘At your age to look so careworn! It was a mortal shame. Your dear mother will rejoice to see her daughter restored to glorious health.’

  ‘I suppose she will.’ But, thinks her mother’s daughter, a distrustful eye will be run over me … ‘You have all been s
o kind to me, especially you, dear darling Miss Stay. I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t think I’d have been alive now if I hadn’t landed up here.’

  ‘Ah, it was meant—no doubt of that. Though what,’ continues Miss Stay pursuing a maternal image of her own devising, ‘she will say to the crowning glory is beyond me to conceive. How does the poet put it? What’s become of all the gold?—speaking if I recollect aright of dear dead females he had fancied.’

  ‘My hair—doesn’t it look awful? Never mind. I’ve got your egg and brandy recipe, it will soon recover. I expect there’s a first-class hairdresser on our super luxury liner.’

  ‘Pure auburn deepening to chestnut,’ broods Miss Stay. ‘Quite an original combination. Ah me!—to them that have …’ And now, from the depths of those dark hypnotic pits, her eyes, she looks fully at the visitor. ‘It’s been a great pleasure to have you with us, Miss Anemone. Such an addition. This establishment is a wee thought on the primitive side I grant you, but we provide something, I venture to believe. Perhaps a healing atmosphere. And the girls are loving girls—good and naughty, all are loving girls. Ellie will miss you sorely, Miss Anemone. A faithful female friend is what she lacks.’

  ‘I shall miss her too. I’ve promised to keep in touch with her. But she can’t lack a faithful female friend as long as she’s got you.’

  ‘Oh, she’s got her old Staycie, never fear. But Staycie may be leaving before long.’

  ‘Leaving? Oh dear, that would be a blow to her; and to Harold; and—’ She cannot pronounce the name of Johnny, and adds lamely: ‘and to Mr Bartholomew. What would he do without you?’