Hungry, for sadness affected her that way, Edith turned back into her room and wondered why her breakfast had not appeared. She moved to the bed and picked up the telephone, mildly surprised at having to ask twice, for this had never happened before. But as she put the receiver to her ear she could only hear a prolonged buzzing at the other end, as if there were no one to take her call, and after a minute or two she replaced it, thinking that some of the staff must have been laid off, and that she might as well make her way into town and have some coffee there. In any event, she was anxious to escape, for the room had become a prison, witness as it was to all her past misdemeanours, and she had no heart for the pleasantries she might be called upon to exchange with the Puseys, or with Monica, or indeed with Mr Neville.
While she was changing into her walking shoes she became aware of a sudden babble of voices from the corridor, a door opened and then firmly shut, even banged, and a rising sound of altercation, dominated by a boy’s hoarse voice. Mystified, she moved out into the corridor where noises of distress could be heard coming from the direction of the Puseys’ suite and where she saw M. Huber and his son-in-law conferring, apparently on a plan of action, before turning in at Mrs Pusey’s room. Both wore such inscrutable expressions that Edith surmised that the previous evening’s entertainment had proved too much for Mrs Pusey, that some sort of accident or illness had occurred, and that terrible and expert hotel arrangements were being made to remove her to hospital. She retreated into her room and tried to compose herself. She felt as if grief and terror had been unleashed by her long night of introspection and that she must now be called to account whenever and wherever damage might be done and atonement might be made. Then, composing herself with an effort, she opened her door once more and went along to the Puseys’ little salon; here she found herself the last to arrive on a scene which already contained Monica, Alain, M. Huber, and M. Huber’s son-in-law. Penetrating into the room she saw Mrs Pusey lying on a chaise-longue, her hand to her breast, but nevertheless fully made-up and wearing her pink silk kimono. Mrs Pusey’s eyes were closed and as Edith, shocked, wondered how she could best be of use, she saw M. Huber advance and take Mrs Pusey’s hand. Leaning over her he murmured something and began to pat her wrist. The boy, Alain, was red-faced and near to tears; he stood stiffly, staring ahead, as if facing a court martial.
‘Mrs Pusey,’ said Edith, breaking the silence. ‘Are you all right? What has happened?’
Mrs Pusey’s eyes opened. ‘Edith,’ she said. ‘So good of you to come.’ She seemed distant, admonitory. ‘Go in and sit with Jennifer, would you?’
With fear clutching her stomach, still innocent of breakfast, Edith went into Jennifer’s room prepared to find a scene of infraction or outrage, with Jennifer ill or possibly deranged. What she saw was indeed Jennifer, but Jennifer propped up in bed, her face moody and flushed, her mouth set in a pout, her plump shoulders emerging from the slipping décolletage of a virginal but very slightly transparent lawn nightgown.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Edith again. ‘Has anything happened?’
Jennifer shot her a glance. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, without further explanation.
‘Can I do anything?’ asked Edith, puzzled, for Jennifer quite clearly was all right.
‘Well, I could do with some more coffee. This lot’s gone cold.’ She gestured to her breakfast tray, awakening in Edith fresh pangs of hunger.
‘Just coffee?’ she asked. ‘You don’t want a doctor or anything?’
‘Good God, no. Just look after Mummy, would you? She’s a bit upset.’
She seemed gloomy, and curiously unhelpful. Sulky, Edith thought. And why so inactive? If her mother is unwell she should be with her. What on earth is all this to do with me?
She backed out of Jennifer’s bedroom into the salon, where she found M. Huber remonstrating with Alain, while Mrs Pusey closed her eyes again, and M. Huber’s son-in-law attempted, unsuccessfully, to restore calm. Monica was leaning against the door, her eyebrows raised, her mouth wry. All looked up as Edith appeared, ready to receive a message.
‘Jennifer would like some hot coffee,’ she said.
M. Huber’s son-in-law went out into the corridor and snapped his fingers to someone waiting outside. M. Huber, deprived of this steadying influence, took Alain by the arm and shook him. ‘Imbécile,’ he pronounced, between shakes. ‘Imbécile.’
Alain, his composure foundering, breached his own code of honour and blurted, ‘Mais je n’ai rien fait! Je n’ai rien fait.’
‘Imbécile,’ repeated M. Huber, now breathless. ‘Madame,’ cried the boy, appealing to Edith. ‘Dites-leur. Je n’ai rien fait.’
‘Would somebody tell me …’ began Edith, but these cautious words were too much for Alain and he broke away, just as the tears, long held back, spurted from his eyes, and before they could catch him he was out and running down the corridor, shouting ‘Maryvonne! Maryvonne!’ A door opened, and Maryvonne’s frightened blonde head emerged. Blunderingly Alain ran towards her; her arm went round him, her head came close to his, and both disappeared down the stairs.
In Mrs Pusey’s salon there was a silence, as if nobody knew what to do next. This silence was broken by the arrival of more coffee, at which time Monica, M. Huber and his son-in-law chose to leave, assuring Mrs Pusey that she had only to call if she needed anything. Edith made as if to join them, for clearly there was no illness, no infraction, nothing that could not wait until later. As she moved towards the door, Mrs Pusey made a weak gesture with her hand.
‘Don’t go, Edith,’ she murmured. ‘I’m still in shock.’
But as Edith watched her sit up and pour her coffee, she seemed, perhaps by virtue of this sociable action, to recover both her energy and her presence of mind. ‘Take some in to Jennifer, would you, dear?’ she asked, as if this were the most normal request in the world. ‘I’ve sent her back to bed. All this upset. I thought we’d spend the morning resting. Then perhaps we’ll get up for lunch. Or have it sent up here. I doubt if I shall be hungry.’ She gave a tremulous sigh.
‘Mrs Pusey, can you tell me what happened?’ asked Edith, taking the fragrant and still so elusive cup of coffee destined for Jennifer. ‘What is the matter with Jennifer? She seems perfectly all right to me. And why was M. Huber shaking poor Alain?’
‘Poor Alain?’ Mrs Pusey bridled. ‘I like that. Poor Alain indeed.’
‘But what did he do?’ pursued Edith.
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Pusey grimly, applying a handkerchief to the corners of her mouth. ‘But who knows what he might have done?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edith. ‘But I still don’t know what has happened.’
‘I slept badly,’ said Mrs Pusey. ‘I didn’t get off until dawn. And then I was awoken by a noise. A door. Someone in Jennifer’s room, I thought. My heart was in my mouth. If anything happened to her …’
‘But nothing has happened to her,’ said Edith gently.
‘So I struggled up,’ Mrs Pusey went on, taking no notice. ‘I rang the bell. And I forced myself to go through, although I was shaking. I may have screamed. But she was all right, thank Heaven.’ She wiped her mouth again.
‘In fact, all that you heard was Alain taking in her breakfast,’ said Edith. ‘It is quite late, you know. You overslept and you woke suddenly. And you’re quite all right now.’
Mrs Pusey poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Oh, of course, I came back here and pulled myself together, but it’s the shock, Edith, the shock.’ She did indeed seem agitated. ‘And of course when Jennifer sees me upset she gets upset. I’ve told her not to get up,’ she repeated. ‘And I’ve told Mr Huber to put one of the maids on this floor. I’m not having that boy hanging around. I never liked him. His eyes are too small.’
Edith, who had been standing all this time, turned away from Mrs Pusey’s couch and walked to the window. In her mind was a picture of Jennifer, sitting up in bed, her shoulders bare, her nightgown just vestigially slipping down. And t
hen of Alain, breaking into a boy’s ugly tears, and escaping down the corridor. And she remembered – but had she really heard it? – the sound of that door opening and closing. I wonder, she thought. I wonder.
She leaned her head momentarily against the cold glass of the window, leaving Mrs Pusey to finish her coffee. She tried to quell the seed of disapproval, of discomfort, that she felt might grow rather rapidly if not subjected to some control. Mrs Pusey is afraid, she reminded herself. For Mrs Pusey, any alteration in the status quo must inspire fear. She is old and vain and she cannot afford to feel afraid; it is essential for her to deflect her feelings onto someone else. They will all get over it; it will all be forgotten by this evening. But from now on, I think I shall make myself less available to the Puseys. After all, we have nothing in common.
She turned back in time to see Mrs Pusey delicately spooning the remains of the melted sugar from her emptied coffee cup. ‘Perhaps you had better rest,’ said Edith, rather more firmly than before. ‘I should have a quiet day, if I were you. I’m sure all this can be forgotten quite easily.’
‘Of course, he’ll have to go,’ Mrs Pusey went on. ‘I shall speak to Mr Huber. There’ll be no difficulties there, I can assure you. When I think of all the years I’ve been coming here! What my husband would have done I dare not think.’ She breathed heavily, her hand once more to her chest. ‘Yes, you go, dear, if you must. I know you want to go out. Such a walker, just send Mr Huber up to me, would you, when you go downstairs?’
Edith closed the door quietly behind her. There was no one in the corridor, no one on the stairs. Baths were running, vacuum cleaners being plied; the voices of the maids could be heard raised in discussion in one of the bedrooms. Passing the desk on her way out, she could see M. Huber and his son-in-law in intimate conversation, for once on excellent terms, their expressions adult, expert, wry. Nodding slightly, she walked straight past them and out through the revolving door. The cold air, now damp with the mist that was creeping in from the lake, made her shiver; she felt ill-equipped and out of sorts, but also instinctively averse to going back to the hotel for a warmer sweater. Coffee, she thought. And then a very long walk, and if possible lunch somewhere far away. I need not come back until this evening. In fact, it might be better if I kept out of everybody’s way for a while. My patience with this little comedy is wearing a bit thin.
Pacing through the dead leaves, her hands plunged into the pockets of her cardigan, Edith felt eddies of disturbance from the morning’s incident beginning to widen until they encompassed both her present circumstances and her more long-lasting predicament. Although the scene around her remained grey and chill, although the rare faces she encountered were closed against the unpromising weather, cautiously husbanding smiles and greetings until they might be more propitiously offered, with a safer hope of return, the small change of the day, even the impersonal sadness of this late season, seemed to her more salutary than the enclosed world of the hotel, with its smells of food and scent, its notice taken of favours granted or withdrawn, its long memories, and its sharp eyes, and its contractual arrangements to behave agreeably and as if nothing untoward could ever happen. It is because we are so many women, thought Edith, to whom the scene in Mrs Pusey’s salon returned most painfully. A stupid little misunderstanding like that, if it was a misunderstanding, will go on being mined for hurt feelings, and will be exploited for one reason or another, while the rest of us will use it as a subject for conversation from here to eternity or until one of us leaves. God knows there is little enough else to talk about. But it made Mrs Pusey feel unsteady, and she is not used to that: she must talk it all away. She must distance it until her momentary weakness is clearly seen as being someone else’s fault, and in that way the shadow of her mortality will be exorcized. She is not used to fear. She has been protected for so long that she cannot understand why she should be vulnerable. In fact she cannot understand why anybody should be vulnerable. That may be why she is so ruthless. She has been allowed to proceed to her present monstrous cosiness through sheer ignorance of the world. Yet when her defences are breached she reveals an altogether shrewd grasp of the tactics needed to repair them. Poor Alain, she thought, pacing along unseeingly, her head down. Yet why poor? He is probably laughing with Maryvonne at this very minute. It is all over and forgotten. Yet that is not quite right either, she thought, mildly tormented.
When her agitation died down sufficiently to allow her hunger to gain the upper hand once more, she turned into Haffenegger’s, where she saw Monica already seated at a table and wolfing down a large slice of chocolate cake, deaf to Kiki’s tiny pleas, and so intent on her plate that she could barely spare the time to raise a fork briefly in Edith’s direction. Edith sat down near the door, drank two cups of coffee and ate a brioche; then, sighing, but because she too was lonely, she moved over to Monica, whose face was now grim and wreathed in cigarette smoke. They exchanged a steady look, nodding slightly.
‘Well,’ said Edith, with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘Any plans for today?’
‘Do me a favour, Edith,’ replied the other. ‘I am not feeling particularly bright this morning and I do not have any plans. I never have any plans. I should have thought that was fairly obvious by now. I thought you were supposed to be a writer. Aren’t you supposed to be good at observing human nature, or something? I only ask because you sometimes strike me as being a bit thick.’ She stabbed her cigarette end into an ashtray and left it there to smoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edith, removing the ashtray. ‘I don’t feel particularly bright myself. And I didn’t say I was any good at observing human nature. Why should I be? It seems to me that what I see is so very different from what I think that I don’t trust my judgment any more. I’m just as disappointed as you are, I can assure you. Perhaps more,’ she added, sadly.
They brooded in the smoky atmosphere. The windows were once more steamed up, the coat rack laden with the heavier garments of the late season; desultory sounds of muted conversation or of spoons tapped against cups or glasses to summon the waitress brought in their wake the realization that for some people this was home, that for such people Haffenegger’s was simply a part of their daily round, their domestic routine, and that these people would go back, not to hotels, but to real houses, complete with books and television sets and kitchens, where they could sit peacefully or read or cook, where they could open the back door and throw crumbs out for the birds, and where their children and grandchildren could visit them at weekends. With aching throat Edith thought of her little house, shut up and desolate, and to which no one came. I must go home, she thought. And then, no, not yet, not while this sadness is on me. I will wait until I am more buoyant. I will get through somehow.
‘Monica,’ she said suddenly. ‘Are you fond of your mother?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the other, surprised. ‘Though she’s mad as a hatter. Small doses are quite sufficient. But, yes, of course, I adore her. Why?’
‘I just occasionally get the feeling that I must be an unnatural daughter. My mother is dead and yet I find that I hardly ever think of her. And when I do, it is with a wistfulness that I never felt for her in real life. Pain. And I think that that is probably how she thought of me. But I only miss her in the sense that I wish she could have lived long enough to see that I am like her in the only way she valued: we both preferred men to women.’
‘Well, who doesn’t?’ said Monica, her brows arching to their fullest extent.
‘It occurs to me – and possibly that silly incident this morning may have brought it home to me – that some women close ranks because they hate men and fear them. Oh, I know that this is obvious. What I’m really trying to say is that I dread such women’s attempts to recruit me, to make me their accomplice. I’m not talking about the feminists. I can understand their position, although I’m not all that sympathetic to it. I’m talking about the ultra-feminine. I’m talking about the complacent consumers of men with their complicated but unwrit
ten rules of what is due to them. Treats. Indulgences. Privileges. The right to make illogical fusses. The cult of themselves. Such women strike me as dishonourable. And terrifying. I think perhaps that men are an easier target. I think perhaps the feminists should take a fresh look at the situation.’
She stopped. What she was trying to say, although deeply felt, did not make much sense. It is I who am at fault, she thought. It is because I am so meek that people fail to notice my demands. Or it is, even more simply, that I fail to make them. So much for honour. Honour is what David would call a busted flush. And nobody seems to notice when it has gone.
‘Above my head, I’m afraid,’ said Monica, putting an end to her meditations. ‘Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about, I should have thought. Our Mr Neville has taken quite a shine to you.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ protested Edith. ‘Just because we went for a walk …’.
‘Well, he hasn’t gone for a walk with anyone else, has he? No, I reckon that if you played your cards right you could have him. And he’s worth quite a bit, I gather. Trade, of course.’ This statement was accompanied by a particularly disdainful exhalation of smoke. It was not clear how Monica had gathered that Mr Neville was worth quite a bit; what was clear was that Edith had not.
‘Monica,’ said Edith wearily. ‘That is not what I meant at all. I am not after Mr Neville or his money. I earn my own money. Money is what you earn when you grow up. I loathe the idea of women prospecting in this way.’
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