One day, when Edwina had pleaded a migraine for the third time in a fortnight, Harriet asked Dobson, ‘How do the girls she works with feel? Don’t they mind her being absent from the office?’
Dobson, who regarded everything Edwina did with amused tolerance, said, ‘Not really. To tell you the truth, she can get away with anything. She’s rather special, isn’t she?’
Harriet agreed, being herself spellbound by Edwina’s special quality. She was only regretful that that quality was squandered among so many futureless encounters. She said one evening while they were together on the balcony, ‘Don’t you get bored, going out so often?’
‘Well, yes, but what else is there for me? You’re lucky. You have that nice husband. You’ve something to stay in for.’
Harriet supposed she was lucky even though, staying in, she spent most of her evenings alone. She said, ‘We’re young at the wrong time.’ The war, with all its demands, took precedence over their youth and when it was over they, like Aidan Pratt, would be young no longer.
Then, a week or two later, a change came over Edwina. She started taking supper at home. When the telephone rang and some eager young man begged for her company, she could be heard sweetly excusing herself, pleading her usual headache before returning with a sigh to the sitting-room. Harriet, realizing she had been expecting a different caller, concluded that someone of importance had entered Edwina’s life.
Percy Gibbon eyed her as though her change of habit brought him both terror and hope, but Edwina was unaware of him. She was abstracted as though all her senses were intent on something remote from anything about her. After supper she would go to her room or sit, saying nothing, on the balcony. Now there was no wink or grin of complicity for Harriet but when they both took their coffee out into the scented air, she occasionally gave Harriet a wan smile and seemed about to confide in her. But there were no confidences. One evening, when Guy had gone to work in the spare room and Dobson had returned to the Embassy, and the two girls sat on the swaying, sinking wickerwork sofa, Harriet tried to distract Edwina with a story about Hassan.
‘You know Hassan’s been stealing the gin from Dobbie’s decanter and filling it with water! I spoke to him about it and he swore that it was the afreets. Well, I thought I could catch him. I emptied the gin out and put in arak which becomes cloudy when you add water. Next day the decanter disappeared. When I spoke to Hassan, he said the afreets had broken it.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Edwina put her head back and laughed, but it was not a real laugh, rather a distracted and almost soundless effort to show appreciation while her mind was elsewhere.
Percy Gibbon, who had been moving restlessly about in the sitting-room, came out as though decided on a course of action, and spoke aggressively to Edwina, ‘I suppose you’re going out later?’
Edwina answered with gentle indifference, ‘I may.’
Percy gave a disgruntled snort and rushing to the front door, left the flat. Harriet said, ‘I believe he wanted to ask you out.’
‘Poor Percy,’ Edwina said, as though Percy were a little dog accidentally trodden upon. Harriet thought: Yes, poor Percy. Poor ugly creature. How changed he might be if he could only change his looks!
The telephone started ringing, Edwina listened till she could bear it no more and cried in anguish, ‘Why doesn’t Hassan answer it?’ She leapt up, went to the hall and came back to say the call was for Guy. When she sat down again, she had a wet glint about her eyes.
‘Who were you expecting?’ Harriet asked.
‘Oh, no one in particular.’ Edwina, bemused, said, ‘It’s getting late,’ then throwing back her head, she broke into an Irish song: ‘My love came to me, he came from the south . . .’ Her voice was light but clear and melodious. When she reached the line: ‘His breast to my bosom, his mouth to my mouth,’ she caught her breath and came to a stop, fearful of breaking down.
Guy, returning from the telephone, had paused to listen and as the song died, he came on to the balcony, praising her singing as one who knew what singing should be. He had heard she could sing but did not know she had a voice of that quality. He said, ‘It’s a lovely voice. A moving, beautiful voice. If I get up a troops’ entertainment, you will sing for them, won’t you?’
Edwina, disturbed by her own song, could only nod her agreement.
Guy was about to enlarge on his plans for the concert but as he spoke, the telephone rang again and Edwina, whispering an excuse, ran to it. This time the call was for her.
Harriet said, ‘Are you serious about this entertainment? Haven’t you enough to do?’
Guy said, ‘I never have enough to do,’ and returned to his work-table.
Next day Harriet met Edwina’s new friend and realized he was, indeed, a man apart from her everyday admirers. He was older than most of them, being in the late twenties, and his manner suggested a man of substance.
When he called for Edwina, she was still in her room. Instead of waiting in the background, nervous, expectant and barely noticed, he threw himself on to the living-room sofa and talked as though putting the company — this being Dobson and Harriet — at its ease. Dobson maintained his insouciance in the face of this affability but once or twice, losing his hold on himself, he sounded surprisingly deferential.
When introducing the new arrival to Harriet, he had said, ‘You know Peter, don’t you?’ so it was evident that if she did not, she ought to know him. Peter, fixing his very dark eyes on Harriet, seemed satisfied by what he saw.
He was short, square built, ruddy and black haired, with a broad saddle nose and a firm mouth. He had the look of a farmer, and not a young farmer. In spite of his youth, he was as bulky as a man of fifty. Gripping Harriet’s hand, he sank back in the sofa, pulling her down beside him. He had been talking when she came in and he went on talking, at the same time putting an arm round Harriet’s waist and every now and then giving her a squeeze. All young attractive women, she realized, were his women, and he had no doubt at all of his right to them, or his attraction for them.
With her eyes on a level with his shoulder, Harriet could see that he was already a half-colonel, and he was complaining of this fact. ‘I’ve been three months at GHQ and I’ve risen faster than I did in three years in the blue. Not from merit, mind you. Far from it. I’m a fighting man. I’m no good dealing with all that bumf. No, I’m pushed up so Sniffer Metcalf can be pushed up further. To promote himself, he has to widen the base of his pyramid. If he can fit in another major, we all go up a step. You may think that our most important aim and object is to shove Rommel back to Cyrenaica? Not a bit of it. The only thing that occupies our department is the one burning question: can Sniffers graft his way up to Major General before some busybody at the top sniffs out Sniffers.’
Peter’s laughter was loud and long and he was squeezing Harriet with his head on her shoulder when Edwina entered, subdued and virginal in a long dress of white slipper satin. Her toilette indicated a very grand dinner ahead.
‘Ah, there you are, then!’ Peter, jovially paternal, still holding on to Harriet, looked Edwina up and down then, releasing Harriet and jerking himself forward, he pointed at Dobson. ‘And I’ll tell you something else . . .’
This new subject, whatever it was, was stopped by Edwina who gave a scream and said, ‘Oh Lord, m’heel!’ and taking off one of her white shoes, she examined the high, narrow heel.
‘Anything wrong?’ Peter asked.
‘Well, no . . .’ Trying to put the shoe on again, she dropped a pair of long, kid gloves. She let them lie until Peter, getting his heavy body out of the sofa, retrieved them. As though the shoe were beyond her, she handed it to him and balanced, one hand on his arm, while he fitted it on to her foot.
Harriet, used to seeing Edwina in control of her escorts, disliked seeing her as she now was; flustered, silly and on edge. Her skin, its golden colour enhanced by the white satin, had an underflush of pink and she looked away from Peter, afraid to meet the emphatic stare of his black eyes. His m
anners were casual yet, Harriet felt, whatever he did was right because he did it. Then, as Edwina fidgeted with her bag and scarf, he gave her a slap on the rump that was more heavy than playful. Her scream this time was a scream of pain and Peter said, ‘Sorry, old thing,’ and led her away.
‘Who is that fellow?’ Harriet asked, resenting Edwina’s abasement.
‘Don’t you know? He’s Peter Lisdoonvarna.’
‘What an odd surname!’
Dobson laughed at her ignorance. ‘My dear girl, he’s Lord Lisdoonvarna but, as you must have heard, titles are de trop for the duration so he’s just plain Peter Lisdoonvarna.’
‘I see,’ said Harriet, who did see. Edwina had found her desideratum and the chance of such a marriage had quite overthrown her. ‘It’s remarkable to be a lieutenant-colonel at his age. I suppose he was promoted because of his title?’
‘Certainly not,’ Dobson was shocked by the supposition. ‘While he was a field officer, he never rose above lieutenant. He was moved to base — very much against his will, I may say — and you heard what he told us: rapid promotion followed. That sort of thing goes on at GHQ. He laughs at it but I gather he’s pretty disgusted. Some relative must have pulled strings to get him away from the front line.’
‘I didn’t know that could be done.’
‘It can’t be in theory, but I imagine a bit of fixing does go on. It’s not unreasonable in his case. He’s an only son and there are no male relatives. If he were killed, the title would die out.’
Thinking of Edwina’s song, Harriet said, ‘I suppose he’s Irish?’
‘Anglo-Irish. The best sort of fighting man. The best in the world, I’d say. A terrible waste, putting him into an office. But, then, it would be a terrible waste if he didn’t survive.’
‘Edwina seems very attracted. Do you think she stands a chance with him?’
Dobson did not question what Harriet meant, but said, ‘Who knows? There have been less likely marriages, and these are not ordinary times. She might land him, but I only hope she keeps her head.’
The rich owner of the next door garden sent Dobson a basket of mangoes which he placed on the breakfast table.
Harriet, spooning the pulp out of the rosy mango shell, said, ‘Gorgeous, gorgeous, and perhaps from our own tree.’
Reminded by this, Dobson told the Pringles they would have to give up the spare room because he had a friend coming to stay.
Guy said, ‘Oh, not the spare room. Let’s give up that damned tree. I hate the sight of it staring at me through the window.’
‘You can say that,’ said Harriet, ‘when you’re in the very act of eating mangoes?’
Dobson, smiling slyly, said, ‘Still, Guy may be right. His could be an instinctive dislike. People here call the mango “The Danger Tree”. You know that in England someone dies every year from eating duck eggs? — Well, in countries where a lot of mangoes are eaten, someone dies from mango poisoning every year.’
Edwina, who had been putting out her hand for another mango, withdrew it, saying, ‘Dobbie, how could you! What a horrid joke!’
‘It’s not a joke. The stems are poisonous and sometimes the poison seeps into the fruit. It doesn’t happen often but people are killed by it.’
Harriet joined with Edwina’s indignation. ‘You’re an awful liar, Dobbie. If it were true, you would have told us straight-away.’
‘Ha!’ Dobson smiled. ‘Had I told you straightaway, you would have said, “The greedy fellow wants to keep his mangoes for himself.’”
Percy Gibbon gave his usual angry grunt and left the table. Guy, helping himself to another mango, said to Harriet, ‘You see, I was right. The tree’s a bad tree. We must give it up.’
Harriet knew she would have to give it up. Guy seldom asked anything for himself so when he did, he must have his way. She did not speak and he added persuasively, ‘You don’t really mind giving it up, do you?’
‘No, I don’t mind. Not really.’ Harriet asked Dobson when they would have to move.
‘Soon, I’m afraid. I don’t know exactly when she’s arriving but, of course, the place will have to be scrubbed out.’
The room had not been scrubbed out for Guy and Harriet who had taken it dust and all. Speaking of the friend who would soon arrive — a female friend, it seemed — Dobson had betrayed the same deference that had been induced in him by Peter Lisdoonvarna. Dobson’s friends belonged to a higher social order than Dobson’s lodgers and Harriet, who was not likely to know her, did not ask the newcomer’s name.
Peter Lisdoonvarna returned three days later. This time Edwina, ready dressed, was waiting for him but Peter was in no hurry to take her away. Settling down in the sofa, he gave Dobson more military gossip and was enjoying himself so much that Edwina’s gaze became strained in an effort to appear interested. When at last he shuffled out of the sofa, Edwina was up before him but they were not yet on their way. Peter stood in the middle of the room then, without warning or explanation, went to the dining-table and thumped his fist down on it. He shouted, ‘Glory to the bleeding lamb,’ then, marching round the table, repeatedly banging it, his voice growing louder and louder, he bawled, ‘Glory to the bleeding lamb, I love the sound of Jesus’ name. His spirit puts me all in a flame, glory to the bleeding lamb.’
As this went on and on, Harriet laughed to console Edwina but Edwina did not laugh: she looked hurt and amazed. At last, coming to a stop from sheer exhaustion, he said, ‘I’ll tell you about that,’ and threw himself back on to the sofa. ‘We’ve got this sect in the village at home. I forget what they call themselves — the holy somethings or other. Not Rollers, no, not Rollers. Well, that’s what they do, the whole lot of them, men and women, children, too: they march in a circle round and round the room, all yelling out, “Glory to the bleeding lamb,” etc. They go on till they’re drunk with it,’ and unable to control his exuberance, he rose and returned to the table, hitting it and starting the chant again. Edwina sank into a chair but this time a few rounds were enough and, pulling her to her feet, he took her off, leaving the air still tingling with his voice.
‘How can Edwina stand it?’
Dobson shook his head. ‘I agree, he’s a boisterous fellow, but he’s young. He’ll grow out of it.’
Peter’s appearances were irregular. He would call for Edwina three nights running then be out of sight for a week. Edwina stayed in, listening and yearning for the telephone to ring. Harriet, concerned for her, said after one of his absences, ‘Don’t worry. Hell ring tomorrow.’
‘Who?’ Edwina looked startled.
‘Why, Peter, of course.’
Edwina, apparently unaware that anyone could read her obsession, gazed in wonder at Harriet’s percipience, then, free at last to speak, her emotion overwhelmed her and she cried, ‘Oh, Harriet, I do long for him.’
‘I know. I can see you’re attracted by him.’
‘It’s more than attraction. I . . .I adore him. I know he’s not very good looking but he’s fascinating.’
‘Yes, with all that energy and confidence, he’s compelling — but you must admit, Edwina, you’re a bit dazzled by the title.’
Edwina made a wry face, laughing at herself, but said, ‘Any girl would be dazzled, wouldn’t she? I mean — surely you would be?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been offered such a thing. But Edwina, between ourselves, do you think he is likely to share his title with you?’
Edwina shrugged and sighed, her face abject. ‘I can’t say. He’s never serious. When someone’s joking all the time, how do you pin them down?’
‘And you have tried to pin him down?’
Edwina had to agree and Harriet asked her, ‘Does he tease you?’
‘He does, rather.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a form of sadism. He’s too sure of you and some men don’t want to be sure. They’re excited by uncertainty. If you could hide your feelings, pretend that all the jollity bores you, show an interest in someone else — it might sobe
r him up.’
Edwina fervently agreed. ‘You’re right. Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Let him be the anxious one.’
Edwina said, ‘Yes,’ but she still drooped in her desire for one person, and one person only.
‘Next time, when he rings, don’t jump at his invitation. Say you have another engagement.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Resolved, Edwina looked at Harriet with glowing admiration. ‘Harriet, how clever you are!’
‘Not clever, just growing old.’
Harriet felt a flattering sense of achievement but when next the telephone rang, Edwina ran to it and, lifting the receiver, said, ‘Peter, oh, Peter!’ Listening to her rapturous voice, Harriet knew that in future she might as well keep her advice to herself.
Dobson expected his guest to arrive on Sunday. On Saturday evening when Harriet was moving their things into the small, spare room, the low sun, richly golden, spiked in between the mango leaves. The ceiling, baked all day, exuded heat. Smothered and dizzy, Harriet could not imagine that Dobson’s guest would tolerate for long the monastic simplicity of this room or the heat that was condensed here during the day, but if she did choose to stay, then the room would be her room, the tree her tree, and Harriet might never come in here again. She looked back at the tree that looked in at her and said, ‘Good-bye, mango tree.’ She dropped down to the bed, putting off the arduous business of moving clothes, and was half-asleep when she was startled by uproar outside the door.
Fortunes of War Page 20
