Good Behaviour

by Molly Keane

  Mr Kiely came out presently. Somebody shut the door behind him. It would be Rose, and she would overlook us through one of the windows on either side of the hall door, a fox behind glass. As though he realised this he hurried past me to his car. ‘Everything sorted out now, I think.’

  I could not be ignored again. I must know, so that I need not ask Rose for the plans.

  ‘Thursday. Two o’clock. I’ll ring the Times and the Irish Times, and I’ll send off the other telegrams . . . Switzers . . . flowers – what about your own flowers?’

  So they had forgotten to put me on the list to the florist. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘not chrysanthemums.’

  ‘Not chrysanthemums,’ he wrote it down. ‘I’ll see to it they send something good.’

  Later in the morning when our car came back, its presence invoked and concentrated a sad hostility. Too late now, all the eyes seemed to be saying. Heads turned from me accusingly, pityingly. As the day crawled on, hushed and cold, I felt more wronged, grieved, and unwanted than ever before. My sorrow for Papa and my agony over Richard were hooked and linked. I could see no possible end to unhappiness. Besides, I was wolfishly hungry all the hours before luncheon. And, when luncheon came, I could feel Mummie’s eyes sad and unbelieving, on my plate. It was fish. Delicious. Rose brought Mummie a creamed egg in a minute earthenware pot. Waiting in the diningroom was Breda’s business, but today things had no proper order, servants whispered and revelled in the sad change.

  ‘Try and eat it, madam; it’s only the bantam hen’s.’ Rose looked accusingly at my half-empty plate. ‘I knew you’d never manage to swallow the Major’s fish.’ I felt like a cannibal, a hungry cannibal, and very unloveable. They looked at me in satisfied derision as I finished what was on my plate.

  ‘I couldn’t let anything pass my lips,’ Rose said, ‘but a cup of tea. Light tea.’

  Next day telegrams came. Relays of boys brought them in sheaves from the post office. Rose piled them together on the writing table in the library, sombrely pleased at the multiplicity of the tributes. Mummie looked at the heap of telegrams with a sort of blind disgust: ‘One must open them, I suppose.’

  ‘Would you like me to do it?’ A share of the love and sympathy was mine, and opening envelopes is always nice.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She sat down at the writing table. Then I heard her say in a sharp, decisive voice: ‘Most certainly NOT – the very last person I wish to see.’

  ‘You needn’t see anyone, need you? Everyone must understand.’

  ‘He won’t. He means to stay. Read it.’ She handed me the telegram.

  ‘“Coming to you for funeral. Wobbly.”’

  Wobbly – Richard’s father. Papa’s friend. I felt myself going red with longing to see him.

  ‘The silliest friend your father ever had.’ She spoke patiently. ‘His wound –’ even now she didn’t say Papa’s wooden leg – ‘his wound was all because of some mad wartime escapade of Wobbly’s. And he loaded Mrs Brock onto us. Then Hubert . . .’ She put the back of her hand up to her mouth. She was on the brink of not behaving beautifully, but saved herself just in time. ‘I shall simply wire: DON’T COME.’ She wrote it down. ‘Get that to the post office for me.’

  It was the first and only thing she had asked me to do, and it meant for me the loss of a last contact. In the dark of the post office, as I copied her message onto a form, it occurred to me how easy to substitute DO for DON’T, but I overruled the temptation. They would find out. As it happened it made no difference. Late that afternoon another telegram arrived, saying: PLEASE MEET BOAT TRAIN LIMERICK JUNCTION THURSDAY MORNING. WOBBLY.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Mummie said to Rose, who brought her the telegram. When she asked Rose a question it was as though she laid a burden down.

  ‘He’ll have to come for the funeral,’ Rose decided, ‘but he won’t be staying. After he sees the yellow room, he’ll be laying his plans for the night mail.’ Their eyes met. Something like naughtiness flashed between them.

  ‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Mummie agreed, ‘and Miss Aroon can meet the boat train – that would be cheaper than a taxi. Not that petrol’s cheap. And all these telegrams – the porterage must be in pounds and pounds.’

  ‘Ah, don’t upset yourself, madam,’ Rose said. ‘It will only all come out of the estate.’

  I kept quiet. I was so worried that any show of agreement from me would change their decisions. However deeply it might hurt me, a longing to hear about Richard, to keep in touch, throbbed in me as regularly as the ticking in a poisoned finger. Besides this – to see the companion of Papa’s youthful rampages would be to explore a bright place where Papa belonged by right, a place where I could see him far distant from the patient doll he had become. The doll I was not allowed to play with. I had fought for my rights of possession in him and I suppose I had lost. Clearer than the memory of his hobbling run across the fields to save me when Hubert’s horse had hopped it so ungovernably came the other memory: his betrayal of our hour, his agreeable subjection to Mummie’s quiet derision. The ghosts and whiffs of disloyalties stirred in that past air, hinting at pity, not at love.

  On the night he died, when in my distress I looked in for the comfort of helping him, Papa had needed nobody but Rose – Rose who had killed him with her spoiling and her whisky. I would have given him anything except whisky. Surely he might have needed me most.

  34

  I stood with unknown travellers in the cold of the gloomy station waiting for the boat train. Steam plumed the air, fortified by the hissing of water on hot ash and hot iron. A small, sedate engine made a supreme effort and set off with its train and its few serious passengers. The emptied rails and lines assumed a magnificence. Over my head the iron stays and echoing unfurnished arches of the station became part of the empty spaces within me. I stood waiting in their cold shelter, sometimes wetting my lips and sucking them in, folding them under and over. It was a relief. It was companionable.

  Presently the daily business proceeding inattentively round me proved a sedation; the ceremonial surrounding trains lifted my heart by its very distance from myself. A magnificent ticket collector, stuffed man of the moment, strode unseeing towards me, removed, like a great toy, from real life. I felt the moment had come to inquire about the boat train. He only shook his head. He conveyed a mystery he could not probe.

  ‘She’s late,’ was all he told me. The train might have been coming in across miles of steppes, followed by wolves; he would not answer for her. I decided I had time to go to the ladies’ lavatory, and it was from there that I heard the sounds of the boat train rushing to its standstill; gasping out steam; its carriage doors clanking open and banging shut; calls for porters; willing responses; barrows rattling beneath the frosted window of the lavatory; footsteps making their coherent passage to an immediate purpose. Above the common noises, a voice, direct as a child’s, flowed and floated on the air: ‘Is the bar open?’ it asked.

  ‘It is of course, sir.’

  ‘Ah, splendid. And can you tell me at what time the five-thirty boat train leaves for Cork?’

  ‘At half past five, sir.’

  ‘Ah, splendid. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Are you being met, sir?’

  ‘I hope so. Just look after this stuff, would you? And keep an eye on that. Don’t touch it. Just watch it. I don’t want to take it into the bar . . .’

  The voice could only belong to Papa’s friend. When I came out his porter was still standing beside a lavishly preserved leather suitcase across which a camel’s-hair rug and a dark overcoat were folded neatly. Placed on top of the lot, as though on a newly plump grave, was an enormous wreath of orchids, sustained on wire and moss and backed by a hedge of variegated holly. Orchids for Papa, I thought; what a rehabilitation. With the orchids came a clear picture of Papa at hunt balls, the exotics yearning round. Although he couldn’t dance because of his gammy leg, and never talked much, and would be silent now for always, his enchantment was imperish
able.

  Tears pushed into my eyes again, tears for himself, not for his death. I swallowed them strictly down before Major Massingham, Papa’s forbidden friend, who had once flogged Richard, and from his distant magnificence had paralysed and frightened Mrs Brock, came bundling towards me. I saw an elderly gentleman in a tweed coat and a soft brown hat worn at his own sacredly absurd angle. He took my hand.

  ‘How dear of you to meet me. You’re –? You’re –?’

  ‘I’m Aroon.’

  ‘Of course. What a girl, bless you, aren’t you? Ghastly day for you. End of an era for us all, actually. Let’s get my stuff into your car, shall we, and then perhaps something to steady the nerves. Look OUT—’ he shouted as his porter picked up the orchids and holly. ‘My dear fellow, don’t hold it like that, you’re going to drop it and ruin the whole thing.’ He picked up the wreath gingerly. ‘I took a separate cabin for this last night,’ he said, ‘only one berth in mine. How do you like it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  When we had shut the car door on the wreath and the luggage and he had given the porter a small tip (doesn’t do to overdo things) we went back to the bar.

  ‘I shall have a glass of port and brandy,’ he said decidedly, ‘and I’m going to make you one of my specials. Have you a lemon about you?’ he asked the woman behind the bar. ‘Good girl. Splendid. Now we need a large measure of brandy and a small bottle of dry ginger ale. Oh, capital. I feel it’s called for. Now, tell me if you like it.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said. We sat near the fire at a marble-topped table with iron legs.

  ‘I suppose we shall be in time for this five-thirty train,’ he said, looking unhappily at the clock, which said eleven-forty-five. ‘How far is Temple Alice? And the funeral is at two o’clock? I suppose we couldn’t hurry things on a bit? No, of course not. What time do we lunch? That’s a question. Quite a question.’

  I had no answer for his question so I asked if he’d had a good crossing.

  ‘My wife was rather against the whole thing,’ he said absently. ‘The heart, you know, the old heart. Your mother didn’t want me to come either. I expect she always thought I was a poor influence.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He gave me a jackdaw glance. ‘You’ll miss him all right, poor child. We all have our difficulties. And Hubert. Too dreadful.’ He put his hand on the back of mine, then took it away again. ‘I shall have to get into the right kit before luncheon. Shouldn’t we go?’

  ‘It’s warmer here.’ Everything was expanding for me. Ease soared from me and flowed back through me. I was going to say it. It was easy. ‘How’s Richard?’ I had said it.

  ‘Oh, my dear, my dear,’ he looked at me; there were tears in the red-veined blue eyes, ‘he’s in a ghastly pickle.’

  I was going to be generous. ‘She looks wonderful,’ I said.

  ‘The whole thing’s beyond me,’ he said.

  I was going to be more than generous: ‘I expect they’ll be terribly happy.’

  ‘If that’s his idea of happiness—’

  ‘He must be happy.’ I wanted to hear him deny it.

  ‘Wrong from the first.’ He shook his head and looked into his glass. ‘Reading books in trees. Nannie was right – unhealthy stuff. Then there was that governess – we sacked her. She was in it somehow. Queer person. She found things. Gave a couple of good winners too, but it got a bit much. Mrs Who, can’t remember.’

  ‘Mrs Brock. She drowned herself.’

  ‘Did she? Did she really? Sad. Then that footman, quite harmless of course, but we sacked him too. Nannie thought he was a poor influence – one does one’s best. Trouble at school. Who hasn’t, after all? Forget it, I always think.’

  ‘But he’ll be happy now,’ I insisted. I must hear him contradict me. It was my right.

  ‘How do I know? No use asking me. Terribly upset about Hubert. That was unfortunate – we hoped this damned expensive safari would help that. Now he comes home with some wonderful heads and horns and gets himself into this fix. Poor girl, she’s pretty upset.’

  My heart could not contain the hope filling it. How to ask? ‘Do you mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes. I do mean.’ He looked like an angry blue-eyed baby with a pain it can’t explain. ‘Broken off his engagement, broken up the entail, upset his mother, and taken himself off to farm in Kenya with Baby Kintoull.’

  The glory drained, the hope failed – always the same. The post comes daily and no letter for me. I was licking my lips, alone again. Baby Kintoull – I could see her in whipcord trousers and an open-necked shirt, blond and sunburnt. I might as well know the worst: ‘I suppose she’s beautiful?’

  ‘Good-looking,’ he corrected me.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Married?’ His blue eyes dropped open. ‘I don’t think you quite have the riding of it,’ he spoke gently. He paused. ‘They were in the same house at Eton. Let’s have another drink,’ he said.

  He went across to the bar and left me under an arching of the sky. Now I knew why the station roof soared and vaulted upwards. It was to give space enough to the volume of my happiness. When he put the drinks down on our table my being leaned out towards him as if I leaned far out of the window that was myself into a sunny day.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I wanted to thank him for a moment only comparable to that flying moment when Richard had kissed me, but my acceptance of the drink had to do instead. He drank his third glass of port and brandy as in duty bound and looked doubtfully at my glass. ‘What time do we lunch, did you say? Perhaps we really ought to be making a move.’

  ‘Oceans of time,’ I said. I wanted to sit on and on in this warm, kind place where the moments went dimpling, sliding by, and even the bottles on the shelves looked so more than real, so more like bottles than bottles, so true to themselves. Truth was so easy to see and speak, entirely believable when spoken. My elbow slipped off the edge of the table. I put it back again.

  ‘I shall have to change out of these clothes before luncheon.’

  ‘If you want to know –’ words loomed out of my mouth – ‘I don’t think there’s going to be any luncheon.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t believe that.’

  ‘And another thing you won’t believe –’ I was free; I could say what I pleased – ‘Richard loved me.’

  ‘I’m so worried about catching that five-thirty train.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I know you’ll do your best to get me there in time.’

  ‘No question.’

  ‘Then drink up, like a good girl. Let’s get going.’

  He didn’t take in what I was saying, a bit muzzy probably after all that port and brandy. I felt clear as a bell myself. They would toll a bell for Papa. ‘You heard what I said?’

  ‘I wonder if they would make us a ham sandwich?’

  I’m not a greedy person about food and drink. My theory is: if it’s there, I may as well. ‘What a good idea.’ I accepted it. ‘And you do believe me?’

  ‘Of course. Absolutely. Did you say we’re twenty miles from Temple Alice?’

  ‘Nineteen and three-quarters; we’ll do it easily.’ I spoke distinctly, repeating three-quarters carefully because I really didn’t think he was making much sense. He went across to the bar, and not too steady on his feet, I thought; good thing I’m driving. He came back with a plateful of ham sandwiches and a pot of mustard. He put the plate down in front of me.

  ‘Blotting paper. And that very kind girl tells me I can change in the station master’s office. There’s a huge fire going in there, she says, and he’ll be simply delighted. I think that’s best, don’t you?’

  ‘Then you needn’t see Mummie, or only just.’

  ‘That’s a point too. Eat up like a good girl. Is your car locked?’

  ‘I forget if it does lock.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He looked at me. ‘This is a rampage. Give me the key in case.’

  ‘If I can
find it –’ I spoke with proper weight and responsibility – ‘you may certainly have it. But don’t lose it.’ After a search in my bag I remembered distinctly that the car door hadn’t locked for years, but I gave him the ignition key as he was looking anxious and I wanted everybody to be happy now that I knew Richard was not going to marry any glorious girl. If he would come back to me across the world I would wait through a thousand safaris.

  What would he say? Now I wondered what he would say when he came for me. I could not decide, but I could clearly see myself in a low (though roomy) thatched house in the foothills of Kilimanjaro with dark servants bowing low, cooking exquisitely. Some happy years in the high air and the sun, then, when Mummie died – my breath came sharp across my teeth – we would come back (with our two jolly little boys) to Temple Alice. Perhaps I would give Rose the furthest gate lodge, but I would not put in a lavatory and she could go to the well for water and pick up dry sticks for her fire in the ash plantation. I saw her, an old woman stooping under frozen trees. She would get a new cardigan every Christmas from me. I felt myself hover over the future, all time between lost. The thought of Papa brought me only happiness. How glad I was that I had told him Richard and I were lovers, especially now that he could never question or betray me.

  ‘Would you bring me another of these?’ The girl behind the bar looked doubtful.

  ‘A small brandy, miss?’ she said rather miserably.

  How little she knew what I was celebrating: ‘A large brandy, please, and give yourself a drink as well.’ My kind feelings for everyone overpowered me. ‘Do be happy,’ I said to her. ‘I want you to be happy.’ She put the drink and a little bottle of ginger ale on the table beside me and skipped nervously back to the bar. With careful and delicate precision I poured the ginger ale, just enough and not a drop too much, into the brandy, and stretched my feet to the fire.