by George Sims
She sighed and nodded: ‘An evening like this—it’s over just in a flash. Simply delicious smells, tamarisk and something herby, rosemary I think.’
‘Ah, that’s not the maquis for once. You can smell the pizzas. They use a lot of herbs. You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to go on to the harbour for grilled lobster? It’s a very simple meal here with no alternative dishes. Just home-cured ham as a starter, pizza, and their own wine and peaches. And can you do justice to half a yard of pizza?’
‘Don’t worry too much about that,’ Bunty said, pretending to count her fingers. ‘Since lunch I’ve had a long lesson in water-skiing but really the hard way, climbed a cliff covered in maquis like barbed wire, hitch-hiked, showered and changed, been taken on hair-raising car trip to the source of a mountain stream, slithered down its dangerous rocks. Yes, I think I can eat my share of a pizza.’
Balfour waved to the proprietress as they went through the white-washed hallway, showing her in pantomime that they were ready for a pizza of the largest possible dimensions. It was a pleasant, simply furnished dining-room, lit only by candles burning in glasses shaped like giant wine goblets throwing arabesques of shadows on the low ceiling. They were watching the pizzaiolo busy at his large stove in the corner when they heard British voices in the hall. Balfour thought he recognized the loud, ‘county’ tones of the male one and Bunty grimaced. ‘Sacramento! My parents. I left a note saying where we were going but didn’t expect them to come charging after us. Oh, what a bore!’
When the Hillyards appeared, peering about from the door-way, it seemed from their expressions that they anticipated not being entirely welcome. As they made their way to Balfour’s table Mrs Hillyard waved an envelope as if it was an invitation to attend.
‘We were just setting off for dinner when we bumped into a chap who had been trying to find you.’ Mrs Hillyard handed Balfour the envelope. ‘This telegram man seemed to think the message was urgent so we offered to hand it on. Thought we could combine it with one of these celebrated pizzas.’
Balfour thanked her, grinning as if his favourite dinner companions had arrived even though Mr Hillyard’s interests in cars, stock exchange, golf and horses were all antipathetic to him. But his disappointment about a spoiled evening was forgotten as soon as the telegram was opened. As he read it he felt as though he had been dealt a stunning physical blow. TRAGIC NEWS SAMMY DIED THIS AFTERNOON IN AN ACCIDENT WRITING BARBARA. He held it before him staring stupidly at the printed words as if he were illiterate, paralysed in an attitude of shock and disbelief.
Chapter V
‘Sam Weiss?’ Mrs Alec Connolly repeated the name thoughtfully but her mind was taken up with other things: she was looking down from the window into Orme Square, idly wondering what the significance of the eagle on the pillar at the front of the square could be, and whether she had asked Barbara about this before; she was also trying to remember who had said ‘I spend my life escaping boredom’ and if he had left a recipe. While Barbara was in her present impassive, stultifying mood she did not wish to stay, yet there was nothing else she really wanted to do, and there must be six or seven hours to bedtime. She looked surreptitiously at her watch.
‘Yes, you know him.’ There was a tone of impatience in Barbara Balfour’s voice. ‘Little man, about five foot six, slight foreign accent, nice kind brown eyes. You met him here. I can remember you two talked about Vienna—the Leopoldstadt area where he lived before the war.’
‘Of course. I do indeed remember him. We share an enthusiasm for Schönbrunn. But what about him?’
‘I said he was dead.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s in here.’ Barbara Balfour handed Ruth Connolly a copy of the Evening Standard folded in half, pointing to a small paragraph on page ten:
MAN’S DEATH-DIVE FROM 10TH FLOOR
A laundry-man fainted on discovering a death-plunge victim at Bowdon Court, Paddington. The man was later identified as Samuel Weiss, a London jeweller…
‘How awful! Could it be suicide or was it an accident?’
‘No idea. It’s just bewildering. I knew about it before I read the papers because the police contacted Ned’s office. It seems that Sam had one of Ned’s letterheadings in his pocket with the Corsica address scribbled on it. So the police went round and saw Miss Bowyer, Ned’s assistant, and she phoned me. I cabled the sad news to Ned and now he’s on his way back.’
‘So he’s giving up the rest of his holiday then?’
‘Seems like it. He phoned this morning to say he was booked on a flight reaching London early this afternoon. It’s a perfect mystery as Sammy suffered terribly from vertigo. I mean if it was suicide why choose to do it like that? And you couldn’t know anyone less neurotic than Sammy.’
‘How very sad.’ Ruth moved to the window again, looking across to Kensington Gardens, at once puzzled that she felt so little and anxious that the subject should be changed. It was a shock to hear of Mr Weiss’s death but she did not want to go on discussing it or brooding on the subject; it was the second death she had heard of in one day and while this one, being an accident, did not really count, it seemed that her generation was now reaching the depressing stage when news of heart attacks and inoperable cancers became fairly frequent. On the other hand time passed by without anything really interesting or exciting developing; she would have to strain her memory to recall any moments of intense pleasure in the past few months; she spent her life waiting for something that never happened. She wanted quite desperately to enjoy herself today. With Barbara generally apathetic and now this depressing accident, the prospect at Orme Square was gloomy indeed. She looked down with a tiny jolt of pleasure at the blackish-green python shoes which had been such a find at Pinet’s—they went perfectly with her very light, subtly touched with white, stockings and the new Molyneux dark green silk suit—it really was a rather attractive outfit but it had not aroused any comment from Barbara who would probably only come to life when Toby returned from his tea-party. She thought suddenly, with sharp annoyance, of Alec: no doubt he was enjoying himself all right in San Francisco—he was never bored and perhaps his most irritating habit was flaunting this. Oh God, she thought, you made some of the days too long.
‘Where’s Toby’s party, or did you say?’
‘He’s playing with the Fielding children. Helga took him but I promised to go at about six and collect. We had, by the way, a delightful little holiday in the Scillies. A real Tiny Tots holiday.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, the plane we went in was a biplane, a Dragon Rapide made in 1935, with only six seats for passengers. You felt you could wave to people on the way as it never went out of sight of land. And Toby had a bucket and spade and played in little pools with shrimps and minute green crabs. You see Ned’s always dictated holidays before, and Calvi and Praiano aren’t really suitable for toddlers.’
Surveying the stream of traffic in the Bayswater Road, Ruth had noticed a taxi pull up by the green gates to the park and a recognizable figure emerge. ‘Speaking of Ned,’ she said, ‘there is a certain would-be Peter Pan figure making his way over here now. Light shining on thinning hair but still a rather bouncy step. There’s something about that slightly aggressive gait that reminds me irresistibly of the character, Georgie something or other, in The Magnificent Ambersons of whom they all correctly prophesied that he would one day get his come-uppance.’
‘Don’t be mean,’ Barbara replied, ‘Ned’s probably had his in the last twenty-four hours. Sammy’s death will have shaken him very much I know. He was his best friend…’
‘Don’t be mean,’ Ruth repeated incredulously. ‘Really you are an extraordinary girl. After the way he carried on with that silly little piece, and leaving you. I suppose if he says he’s feeling down now, you’ll say well O.K., move back here then.’
Barbara said nothing and they waited in silence for Balfour to app
ear. After a few minutes Ruth’s face was set in a faintly mischievous smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly, ‘perhaps he’s staying down there trying to get Helga to sympathize about his come-uppance.’
She had barely finished this sentence when Balfour opened the door with an unhappy grin and said hallo in a toneless voice, greeting them both with an offhand wave and slumping down heavily in the rather worn red leather armchair which looked out of place in the otherwise elegant drawing-room. He sighed deeply and rubbed his face as if to get some expression into it. He looked tired in spite of his sun-tan. His light-weight grey suit was creased and his shoes were dusty. He had shaved badly and cut himself by the cleft in his chin.
‘Sorry,’ he said vaguely, gesturing with both hands at once as if he might be apologizing for being there, or his appearance, or recent events. ‘I feel rather beat, as if I’d been pummelled. You know, when I got your cable I reacted just like a machine being set in motion. Automatically I concentrated on packing up and getting back. Then, in Orly, among all those bloody show-cases, it suddenly hit me. A ghastly sense of anti-climax. What the hell am I doing here I thought? What’s the rush? I’d been tearing back as if Sam was desperately ill, as if I could do some good.’ He sighed deeply again. ‘Have you heard anything about—how it happened?’
‘Only this,’ Barbara replied, showing him the paper. ‘I said in my cable I’d be writing, but all I really know so far is that the police found one of your letterheadings on him and contacted Patricia. She phoned me just to say what had happened, but she knew nothing more.’
‘Well, there must be someone who knows what led up to it. I’ve been going nuts trying to think of a reason, but I simply can’t believe he’d kill himself. Well, you don’t, do you?’ he appealed to Barbara.
She shook her head. ‘No—but we don’t know what the position was.’
Balfour looked at his watch. ‘Five-thirty. Pat will have gone by now. I feel a bit strange, slightly wobbly, but then I’ve only had a cup of coffee since yesterday lunchtime. Your cable was delivered just as I was sitting down to eat a pizza and I scrubbed that. Then there was a mix-up at Nice and I found I hadn’t got a booking on the direct flight to London as they promised in Calvi, and as I was supposed to have lunch on that plane I hadn’t brought any francs with me, gave them all to Marie-Antoinette. So in Orly I couldn’t even buy a beer.’
‘Helga can make you some tea.’ Barbara suggested in a carefully neutral voice. ‘Or you could come along to the Fieldings. I’ve got to pick up Toby. There’ll be a drink there and some toothsome tit-bits.’
‘No. Thanks, but I’ll push on, have a meal…’ The sentence fizzled out as if he had no real plans. ‘I’ll phone when I have any news about Sammy. I want to come round one day and bring some things I bought for Pru and Toby.’
‘I must be going too,’ Ruth said quickly. ‘And don’t offer me a lift, Barbara, as it’s right out of your way. I’ll get a taxi.’
Balfour and Mrs Alec Connolly descended the stairs in silence. When they emerged from the house she said: ‘You might have gone to the Fieldings. Barbara wanted you to.’
Balfour rubbed his patchily stubbled chin. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I doubt it really. A nice impulsive gesture but making for awkwardness and she’d probably regret it. I don’t get on with the Hon. Diana f-ffoulkes-Fielding.’
Ruth Connolly sniffed in irritation. ‘You know, your refusal to treat double-barrelled names seriously is just pure inverted snobbery.’
Balfour grinned. ‘Shall I bid you adieu right now or may I get you a taxi? I’m usually fairly good at getting taxis.’
At the end of the little square Ruth turned to him: ‘Done any other good boasting lately?’
‘Howzat?’
She laughed. ‘I shall always remember. The absurd way you once went on about “the man in the street’s” obsession with sport, prefaced by a catalogue of your own prowess at football.’
‘Still true. I retract nothing.’
Taxis sped past continually but they were all full. After his holiday in Corsica, Balfour found the continuous stream of traffic in Bayswater Road irritatingly loud, and he looked on the jockeying, lights-racing tactics of the drivers with a hostile eye. Sun shining on the grass and trees in the park made it appear a comparative haven.
Ruth tapped a foot impatiently. ‘If we don’t get one soon Barbara will appear and feel compelled to offer me a lift, and I’m going in the opposite direction.’
‘To Chesterfield Hill?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘A walk through the Gardens. A peaceful stroll and a better chance of a taxi in the Kensington Road. You’d be halfway home there anyway.’ He took her arm but as they crossed the road he felt her move it forward slightly so that it was nearly out of contact. He looked at her but she stared ahead. Before she had always appeared simply indifferent to him, making it quite plain that she was Barbara’s friend not his, but this open, faintly silly antagonism was new and he was not sure what it meant. She gave him a quick critical glance as they entered the park gates. ‘You’re shorter than Alec.’
‘That’s correct, mam.’
‘And his hair hasn’t thinned at all.’
‘Good for old Alec.’
‘Your shoe lace is undone and your suit looks as if you slept in it.’
Balfour laughed. ‘Say, this must be stick-a-pin-in-Balfour day and I haven’t bought a flag.’ He bent down to tie his lace but kept his eye on Ruth as she walked on a few paces. Her flawless legs were shown off perfectly by the rather short dark skirt and seamless pale stockings; she had the perfect, white skin that often goes with titian hair, and suddenly he had a strong desire to see more of it. He made a mock attempt to clean his shoes by rubbing them on the backs of his calves, then brushed his trousers vigorously with his hands. ‘There, that’s the worst off. And if you’ve got any scissors on you I can trim these frayed cuffs.’
She smiled faintly and he caught up with her, taking hold of her arm again, rather high up and very firmly. ‘Hey! That’s a very dishy outfit you’re wearing.’ He turned her round slowly, holding both her arms and inspecting her closely from head to toe. ‘Look out. You appear distinctly edible and I’m very hungry. Yes, yew-must-come-along-o’-me, missis. You see! I may be shorter than Alec but I’m a good deal stronger.’
‘Don’t do that.’ The command was sharply emphasized but she did not pull her arms away. ‘Alec says all that body-building stuff is very suspect. Standing round and admiring your muscles in a mirror.’
‘Good old Alec may be right but then I’m not a body builder. Just a creature of habit. You see my parents died when I was five. My father was General Manager of the Bombay Railway and they died in a crash at Baroda. So I was brought up by an aunt who wasn’t terribly interested and I didn’t spend much time at home. I played a lot of football as you know. And tennis, fives, squash. I took extra gym. I joined the boxing club. I was the last boy to leave the swimming baths in the evening.’ He pretended to hook tears delicately from the corners of his eyes with both little fingers and then flick them on to the path. ‘This sounds even sadder when I play the violin.’
Ruth gave him a not unsympathetic glance, but before she had a chance to say anything he went on: ‘So I got into the habit of doing a lot of swimming. Then again I’m a spare-time navvy—I’ve helped to build patios and garden-walls from Holyport to Chertsey…’ He was going to add that he did not expect to receive many other weekend building invitations because they had always come from Barbara’s friends, but suppressed this and was struck with another thought –
‘You know, at Orly, in a mood of unaccustomed candour I admitted to myself…While I was killing time looking in those garish show-cases I suddenly caught sight of my own reflection and did glimpse “a selfish expression”—something which Barbara used to accuse me of so often. But don’t you think she’s unnaturally unselfish? She seems
just to want to live for the children. I love them too but—do you know that bit of Chekhov? “You must have decent, well-dressed children, and your children, too, must have a nice house and children, and their children again children and nice houses; and what is it all for? The devil knows.”’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I think anyone can justify anything. Sophistry. Oh damn!’ A few large raindrops were spattering the path and there was an ominous black cloud directly above them. Balfour took her hand and they ran towards a shelter. The fanciful, spiring canopy of the Albert Memorial still glittered in the sun and there was a stretch of translucent blue beyond London’s bandstand and Kensington Palace, but elsewhere the sky darkened dramatically and rain poured down.
When they reached the hut Balfour glanced covertly at Ruth’s face. Impossible to know what she was thinking! But trying to find out would be an interesting pastime and he wanted to prolong the opportunity for study if he could. Her expression was self-contained yet slightly kittenish, reminiscent of Vivien Leigh. She pressed back into the wooden seat under the carved memorial inscription about gallant sailors, but Balfour moved outside again spying a rainbow that straddled the Serpentine. He enjoyed the rain’s fresh touch on his face; he felt so grubby that getting damp did not seem to matter much and it took away the last vestiges of weariness. All over the park people were scurrying for cover. Two small boys carrying fishing-nets and jam-jars containing sticklebacks ran up to the shelter, and then scampered off without a word when they saw it was occupied. He watched their haphazard progress to the gate with a slightly rueful expression.
