I and My True Love

by Helen Macinnes

  Kate halted at the door of Sylvia’s white bedroom.

  “I’ll open the curtains,” Minna said, and hurried to pull the cords and let the sunshine stream into the room.

  Kate’s impulse was to say, “Close them!” But she came slowly into the room, smoothing down a twisted rug with her foot, looking around in bewilderment. A small table was overturned near the chaise longue, its lamp smashed on the floor, its photographs scattered. A vase had been broken, a stool upset, and on the dressing-table the bottles of perfume had fallen forward and one had spilled, filling the room with the scent of jasmine.

  “Open the windows, Minna. Wide.”

  “She didn’t sleep,” Minna said, uncomprehending, pointing to the nightdress still lying neatly arranged on the down-turned lip of white sheet. The pillows were smooth and undisturbed, but the white silk blanket cover was pulled and crumpled and lay half on the floor. On the floor, too, lay Sylvia’s blue dress, just as she had thrown it along with her other clothes.

  Kate walked over to the closet, and opened its doors wide. Dresses still hung there, hats were on their stands on the pink satin-edged shelves.

  “Minna, is anything missing?”

  Minna came forward and looked. “Her travelling coat. The grey suit.” She searched quickly, her square strong hands pulling aside the silks and laces. “A couple dresses, maybe.” She turned to face Kate. “Not much.” She pointed to a high shelf where some suitcases were neatly stacked. “Just one case.”

  “Yes,” Kate said, staring in wonder at the blue evening shoes which had been placed neatly together at one side of the closet wall, and then looking back at the dress they matched, dropped so carelessly on the bedroom floor. It wasn’t like Sylvia to be so untidy. It wasn’t like Sylvia either to fall into such a fit of rage. Kate moved over to the dressing-table and began straightening the bottles. Then she opened Sylvia’s jewellery drawer, but all her clips and brooches were there; and her pearls; and ear-rings were neatly paired on a ridge of velvet. The rings were safely boxed. Everything was in order.

  There was a light step behind her, and she turned round to face Walter.

  “I heard Minna cry out,” he said, as if to explain why he should have come here. He smoothed down his green apron. It was his only sign of nervousness. But even so, Kate thought, I’ve never seen him nervous before, and I’ve never heard him offer any justification either.

  “Quiet, Minna!” Walter said, and stopped the woman’s flow of tears. “Mrs. Pleydell has just gone away for a holiday. There’s nothing to weep about.” He looked around the disordered room more closely. A look of surprise came over his placid face.

  “Where has Mrs. Pleydell gone?” Kate asked.

  “I don’t know, miss. But she’s been ill, and I know Mr. Pleydell hoped she would go away for a rest. So I thought”— he looked round the room again, his quick eyes now resting on the clothes on the floor—“I thought that she had gone.” But the certainty had left his voice.

  “But when? And without saying goodbye?” He’s remembering something, Kate thought, he knows more than I do.

  “Mrs. Pleydell has been very nervous, recently,” he said, “very hard to please, not at all like herself.” He was retreating now, covering up his thoughts, giving the explanation he could believe in. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and picked up the broken vase. He began to arrange the room. “Minna! Take that tray downstairs. And make some breakfast for Miss Jerold.” He gathered up the photographs. “I don’t think you need to stay up here, miss,” he suggested to Kate as she didn’t move.

  I’ve never seen him volunteer so readily for a job of work, Kate thought as she watched him. What is he doing—clearing up the room or trying to hide something?

  “Was the front door chained this morning?” she asked.

  “No, miss.”

  But I chained it when I came in, she remembered. “Does Mr. Pleydell know that Mrs. Pleydell has gone?”

  “I don’t think so. He came down for breakfast at the usual time. Everything seemed normal. Until Mr. Clark called him on the telephone and then he left his second cup of coffee unfinished. Oh, it was just a business call,” he added quickly, “nothing to do with Mrs. Pleydell. Seems as if there’s something urgent at the office. I gave that message last night to Mr. Pleydell when he came in, and Mr. Clark was making sure he had got it.” There was a slightly tolerant smile over any doubt about an important message going astray if Walter had charge of it.

  “And Mr. Pleydell said nothing to you about Mrs. Pleydell going away—for a vacation?”

  “Not this morning.” There was a pause. “Mr. Payton only said that it looked as if he might have a very busy week-end at the office, so he probably would stay at the Club which is near by.” He thought over that. “Mr. Pleydell has done that before, whenever there have been important conferences,” he explained carefully, emphasising how normal everything was.

  “He wasn’t worried? Or upset?”

  “Only after Mr. Clark’s call.”

  Walter had himself in control of the situation now, Kate thought, and he could go on covering up indefinitely. Whatever he might have heard last night, he wouldn’t say. “Well, what shall we do, Walter?” she asked in desperation. She turned away to pick up Sylvia’s clothes. “I suppose we’d better call the office,” she added slowly, “and let Mr. Pleydell know.”

  She lifted the dark blue dress and shook it out. It was torn to pieces. She stared at the shreds of chiffon. Then, quickly, she bundled them up and dropped them in a corner of the closet. She threw the other clothes after it and shut the doors.

  She looked at Walter. But he chose to be busy with the broken lamp. He was the master of evasive action, she thought, but at that moment she was grateful.

  “I would be inclined,” he said, “not to disturb Mr. Pleydell meanwhile.”

  His voice was quiet, unalarmed, normal. She was grateful for that too. “What explanation can we give for the delay?”

  “That we ’phoned Whitecraigs and several of Mrs. Pleydell’s friends before we alarmed Mr. Pleydell.”

  “And when shall we let him know?”

  “About lunch-time?”

  “Yes,” she said, eagerly grasping at this suggestion. “That would give Mrs. Pleydell time—”

  He frowned at her rash frankness. “Yes, miss. Time to return, perhaps.”

  They stood looking at each other.

  “Thank you, Walter,” she said.

  “I’ll attend to the telephoning if you like, Miss Jerold. I shan’t alarm anyone.”

  “I’m sure you won’t.” She hesitated. “And deal with any other calls too, will you?”

  He nodded. “I think you will find Minna has some fresh coffee waiting for you downstairs. And there’s also a message from Mrs. Clark. She ’phoned around nine o’clock. She wanted you to call her before breakfast.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I was late in giving you the message.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. “You’ve been a miracle of—of efficiency. You’ve even calmed me down.”

  For a moment he became human. He half smiled and shook his head. Then he collected the last fragments of pottery and placed them carefully in the waste basket.

  * * *

  In the dining-room, Minna was waiting with a carefully prepared breakfast.

  “I must ’phone first, Minna.” And listen to Amy and pretend all was normal.

  “Eat now, please,” Minna said worriedly. “That was Mrs. Pleydell’s trouble. She never would eat enough. Please, Miss Jerold. The coffee’s hot, the toast is fresh.” She held out a glass of orange-juice invitingly. Kate took it, glad of the excuse to delay her talk with Amy. What if Amy wanted to speak to Sylvia?

  “Has Mrs. Pleydell left?” Minna whispered.

  “For a vacation.” That’s what Walter would say. Strange, she thought, that we’ve become allies ready to throttle all scandal before it can start murmuring.

  “If she goes, then I go,” Minna said. “And you,
Miss Kate?”

  “It is time I looked for a place of my own.” I won’t stay here, she thought. Once I’ve an idea where Sylvia is. I’ll leave. But where do I start finding Sylvia?

  “Then I go, too,” Minna said firmly. “Today.”

  When you get old, Kate wondered as he looked at Minna’s placid face and remembered Walter’s calm fatalism, do you accept the fantastic as real, the incredible as possible? When you’ve seen as much of strangers, living in their houses as Walter and Minna had done, then did you find very little to surprise you in human beings?

  She drank a cup of coffee and ate a slice of toast to please Minna. She even talked to Minna—impossible as it seemed— about the headlines in the morning newspaper, and Minna stopped whispering. But listening to Minna, she was thinking of Sylvia and waiting for a message.

  At last, she rose. She couldn’t postpone talking with Amy any longer. She went into the library, slowly, still giving Sylvia every possible second. But the telephone didn’t ring. She had to pick up the receiver and dial the Clarks’ number.

  Amy was breathless as if she had run all the way to answer the call. “Are you alone?” she began. “Is anyone listening on one of the other ’phones?”

  “Not this morning,” Kate said, sure of the truth of that.

  “Come round here for lunch, Kate.”

  “I can’t—at the moment I can’t leave here. I’m sorry but—”

  “Please, Kate.”

  “I’m waiting for a telephone call.”

  “From Sylvia?”

  “Yes,” Kate said, and in spite of her new trust she looked quickly over her shoulder into the hall.

  “This is it, darling.”

  “I’ll come now. Right away.”

  “My dear, I’ve my week-end marketing to do. Come at halfpast twelve. That’s time enough. Oh, by the way, have you any cash?”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes, money. You know, that nice expendable stuff.”

  “I don’t carry much money around with me. I can get—”

  “It’s Saturday,” Amy reminded her. “The banks are closed. Oh, well, I’ll cash a cheque at the drugstore to help out. See you at half-past twelve.”

  Kate went upstairs to her room, marvelling over Amy’s business-like voice. Southern women could be amazing: there was Amy, harbouring Sylvia as well as possible twins, taking efficient charge, remembering details such as bank-closing days. It was just as well that Amy had even thought of the drugstore, for Kate had exactly nineteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Not much of a contribution towards a fare to California.

  She tried to copy Amy. She packed all her clothes and trinkets, methodically and calmly, and stacked the locked suitcases neatly in the corner where they could easily be collected. When she walked out of this house, she’d stay out.

  She stood by the window and smoked a cigarette as she waited. At twelve o’clock, she picked up her small overnight case and went downstairs.

  Minna was opening a florist’s box in the pantry. “For you, Miss Kate,” she called and handed Kate the envelope with a smile that shared the flowers. “Beautiful,” she said, “beautiful!” She lifted the mass of blue iris and yellow roses and pink tulips with gentle hands. “From the lieutenant?” she asked hopefully.

  “Soldiers don’t have that kind of money,” Kate said, but she hoped Minna was somehow right. She ripped the envelope and pulled out an engraved card. She stood for a moment in amazement. It was Stewart Hallis’s card. He had written: Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. Will you?

  How useful French can be, she thought angrily, to give an appearance of wit even to an apology. And then she wondered what could have happened to make Mr. Hallis suddenly so humble. Was it a sense of guilt or a wish to please that had bought so many flowers? He was perfectly justified in a sense of guilt after last night’s performance on the terrace. But as for a wish to please—

  She tore up the card and said, “Minna, take the flowers home.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want them.” She touched Minna’s shoulder. “I’m going out to lunch. Goodbye, Minna.” It was a cowardly escape, but she couldn’t face explanations, lamentations and renewed tears.

  “Goodbye, Miss Kate,” Minna said, lost in the delicate petals of the flowers.

  In the hall there was Walter, as correct as ever, to open the door. He noticed the overnight case.

  “If anyone ’phones—” she said, trying to keep her voice casual, “If Lieutenant Turner telephones during the week-end, tell him that Mrs. Clark will know where I am. I’ll send for my suitcases as soon as I find an apartment.” An apartment? A room was more like it.

  “Very good, miss.”

  “Have you called Mr. Pleydell yet?”

  “I thought that if Mrs. Pleydell didn’t return for luncheon, I ought to call Mr. Pleydell’s office then.”

  Walter, you can skip as many breakfast trays as you like, she thought as she looked at him. But she restrained herself from embarrassing him by shaking his hand. She smiled and hurried down the steps, leaving him, as he had always dreamed of being, in mastery of the house.

  20

  The Clarks lived on the top floor of a quiet building, one of the many mansions now converted into small apartments or residential hotels which stood along this pleasant stretch of street, tree-shaded, withdrawn, a tidal basin of its own between the streams of traffic on Connecticut Avenue and Scott Circle.

  The house itself was hideously imaginative in a Victorian way, built in the era of well-corseted ladies and stiffly moustached gentlemen. With sideboards groaning under polished silver, rooms darkened by velvet curtains, windows blocked by tables and lace mats and rubber plants in Dresden flowerpots, it must have been a formidable monster to have as a pet, gobbling up money and attention as easily as it wore out servants and quelled children. But now, a contractor had ruthlessly gutted it out, leaving the strong shell and the high ceilings, and he had shaped apartments and kept them simple enough for maidless households.

  The staircase had been given linoleum to replace its Turkish carpet, and it hugged the safe cream-coloured wall as it passed two brown doors on each landing. It was a steep climb, but that lowered the rent. Kate, as she reached the last flight of stairs, was thinking that the interior of the house was neat and certainly far from gaudy—its bare hospital air was almost as depressing as the florid gingerbread decoration it had displaced. And then she came to the Clarks’ door. It had been painted a violent red. Kate stood looking at it.

  “Like it?” Amy asked cheerfully, suddenly opening the door. “Most people usually stand and stare.” She laughed at the expression on Kate’s face. “All my own work,” she added proudly, “so don’t criticise the brushstrokes. Come in, Kate. Careful, now!” She stepped back cautiously as she offered Kate her hand. “I do block up the doorway, don’t I? But in a week or so people can stop calculating how much space to give me.”

  She walked slowly into the sitting-room, yet her movements gave the appearance of being more deliberate than tired. She seemed inexhaustible in the way she talked, and she certainly looked better than Kate had ever seen her. All the anxiety that Kate remembered had gone from her face. There was colour in her cheeks and her grey eyes were clear and sparkling. “Sit down, Kate,” she said. “Drop your case anywhere you like. Are you leaving Payton’s house, too?”

  “Sylvia—is she here?” Kate asked, beginning to wonder if she had misinterpreted Amy’s telephone call.

  “Sleeping. I thought she’d be awake by this time. However— do sit down, Kate. Relax. Sylvia isn’t the first woman to leave her husband, you know. Do I sound heartless? I’m not, really. I’m only sorry now that she didn’t take my advice years ago and leave Payton then.” She picked up a ball of wool. “By the way, can you knit? Here, take this: just purl and plain for ten rows.” She handed over a shapeless piece of knitting to Kate, and found an equally shapeless piece for herself.

  Kate looked round the room,
not very large, simply furnished in clear light colours, modern shapes and sparse arrangements.

  “Easy to keep,” Amy said with a smile. “And done on a budget. We’ll have to move, of course, eventually.”

  Kate said, “I like it,” and she bent her head over the knitting. An hour ago, as she stood at the opened window of her bedroom, she would never have guessed that her visit to Amy would begin with purl and plain for ten rows.

  Amy did the talking.

  At one o’clock, Amy said, “I’d better waken Sylvia. Not that lunch will ruin with keeping—it’s all simple. But I’m ravenous.” She folded away her knitting, glanced at the table which was waiting, and laid a hand on Kate’s shoulder as she passed by. “Feeling better now, darling? Pour yourself a glass of sherry. Martin had to go to the office today. He’ll be back here when he can. Did you hear about his promotion? Isn’t it wonderful? I used to worry so much—well, because it is terrible watching your husband not getting any recognition, being passed over for men who aren’t half as clever. Sorry, Kate—” She smiled. “Between friends, a little praise of one’s husband can be forgiven.”

  “It’s good to hear.” Kate looked round the room again. This was all good, she thought. “People who are happy,” she said slowly, “ought to be subsidised.”

  “Why?” Amy’s eyes sparkled with the compliment.

  “To encourage the others,” Kate said.

  “Now, who said that—apart from you, darling?” Amy frowned, trying to remember. “Wasn’t it the reason given for shooting an admiral when he lost a battle?”

  As she went slowly towards the bedroom, the telephone rang.

  “I’ll take it,” Kate volunteered, picking up the receiver. She smiled happily to Amy. “It’s Bob Turner,” she said. “For me.”

  * * *

  “Voltaire,” Amy said triumphantly as she returned from the bedroom. “Voltaire said it. Didn’t he?”

  But Kate didn’t answer. The call was over, but she still stood by the telephone, her hand on the replaced receiver.

  Amy thought, and what’s happened now—now, just after I had thought I had done such a good job? She said, “Sylvia is getting dressed. She’s much better. She’s quite calm. Please, Kate—don’t worry.” She felt suddenly defeated, and tired. She said, “You’ll find the salad bowl in the kitchen, and the cold chicken is in the refrigerator. And—”