Here Be Dragons

by Stella Gibbons

  “Oh! Chris’s painting things!”

  “It’s all right.” He pointed to a bundle wrapped in newspaper at her feet. “They’re all there, everything. Quite safe.”

  “Oh, John. You are kind. Thanks most frightfully”

  For the first time since he had come into the attic, she appeared to be moved by what he was doing for her. She put out her hand and gave his a quick pressure. But she added at once: “I’d forgotten them. Imagine: Chris’s painting things. That was frightful of me.”

  “You had something more interesting (I don’t say more important) to think about,” he said tolerantly. “Motherhood is always said to be the most important experience in a woman’s whole life. As for being kind …” his expression did not change and his voice went on smoothly, “never mind that … now. We can talk about it when we’ve had dinner.”

  In a moment, as she said nothing, he added hastily in what Nell, and Nell alone, would have recognized as the youngest of his voices, “I say, please don’t get the wrong impression, Nino; I may have sounded like some horrible little stockbroker; I’m not at all in love with you; as a matter of fact, I’m terribly in love with someone very grand; older than I am, and quite hopelessly out of reach, who’s just had a tragic affair herself with the most frightful vulgar publicity attached—so you needn’t be at all alarmed; so far as you are concerned I’m just brotherly.”

  She did not answer. In a moment, not knowing, in spite of his boast, much about pregnancy, he leant forward and peered in alarm at her pale face. She was peacefully asleep. He smiled, and drew her into the shelter of his arm so that her head rested on his shoulder, and thus they rode on up to Hampstead.

  About eight o’clock, as Nell was letting herself into the house after an unusually tiring day at the tea-shop which had ended in an unsatisfactory hour with a mysteriously gloomy Robert in an Espresso bar—(don’t want to go to a movie—what’s the matter?—I should think it was obvious—well, it isn’t—oh well, then—what on earth is the matter, Robert?—oh well, this doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere—I’m going home, I’m tired—oh very well then, I’m sorry to have been so boring—) she heard herself imperiously hailed. She turned quickly, to see John assisting Nerina to alight from a taxi.

  “Assisting her to alight” was precisely what he was going; “helping her to get out” gave a quite inadequate impression of his manner.

  Nell came leisurely down the steps in response to his urgent beckoning.

  “Hullo. Hullo, Nerina. Have you been to a party?” she said, giving the little pain a little dismissing slap.

  “Yes, and no,” said John. Nerina, standing as if in a dream at the foot of the steps while he paid the taximan, gave a vague smile in no direction which, Nell supposed, she might take for herself, if she wanted it. They were surrounded by cases and bundles.

  “Now don’t rush off, Nello.” John began to sweep up the luggage into his long arms. “I’m glad you stayed in; I shall want you. Will you please go up to the flat and make some coffee? (We have dined, but there was no time for coffee.) We’ve got some telephoning to do, and we can’t do it in a booth, with morons bellowing for their turn … go on, Nino, darling; you know the way.” As they entered the hall and Nell shut the door, he added, “Is my papa at home, do you know?”

  Nell shook her head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  She was annoyed; first Robert, going on like Marlon Brando, and now John, taking it for granted in spite of having seen her just going into the house that she had been quietly sitting at home waiting for him all the evening. Really, it would be a relief when she was peacefully sharing her life and work with Elizabeth. …

  “I must just let the parents know I’m in,” she said.

  “Oh, all right. But don’t hang about.”

  Nerina had gone on ahead, drifting up the stairs with her spoiled ballet-dancer’s walk. As Nell was going towards the, drawing-room door, John stopped her.

  “She’s going back to her people,” he said so quietly that she barely heard, “she’s going to have a baby.”

  “Oh? Is it Chris’s?” Nell asked.

  It was a shocking thing to say; she knew, as she said it, that of course the baby was Chris’s. Whatever else one might feel about Nerina, where her love was concerned she was ‘as chaste as ice and as pure as snow’. But the little pain, long endured and now, thank goodness, presumably to be endured no longer, would have its little revenge on its cause.

  He drew quickly away from her and straightened his shoulders.

  “Nell! I knew you could be a Philistine and smug and narrow. But I didn’t know that you could be … base.” He went grandly up the stairs after his protegée.

  “Oh phooey,” muttered Nell, as she opened the drawing-room door. She was greeted with the usual half-darkness, changing square of greyish light, and sound of playful voices. She withdrew at once, to the sound of impatient murmurs from the rapt audience.

  She was thinking more about Robert, and wondering how he was spending what remained of this ruined evening, than about Nerina or John. They had parted with a half-promise from him to telephone her; she was not concerned lest any silly final break had occurred; it was only that she did not like him to go in for sulky mystery; she had quite enough of that with someone else.

  The door of the Gaunts’ flat stood open and the lights were on. As she came up the dark stairs she could see John and Nerina sitting together on the big sofa which had sometimes held him and herself. He was fondly surveying his Work in Progress.

  “Aren’t you still a little drunk? You look rather glassy, you know.”

  “I don’t think so. Not now. But I feel much better … oh! You don’t think being a little drunk could be bad for the baby, do you?” The silvery note was returning to Nerina’s voice.

  “I shouldn’t think so. It can’t be much of a type if a drop of Sauterne upsets it. Nell,” turning to her as she came into the room, “will you make the coffee, please? We can begin telephoning as soon as Papa has taken off.”

  Nell went into the kitchen and began clattering saucepans about, but however loudly she clattered, she could hear the conversation on the sofa. She could also hear, from behind Charles Gaunt’s closed bedroom door, the sound of an electric razor.

  “… if you’re really sure, Nino darling, that they will have you back,” John was saying.

  “Oh yes.” Nearly seventeen years of unshaken security and love sounded their calm chimes in the silver voice. “I’m sure they will. But you will make it absolutely clear, won’t you, John, that they’ve got to be nice to Chris as well.”

  “Yes, I’ll make that perfectly clear at once.”

  “Because, unless they do promise that, I’m simply not going.”

  “Nino—I hate to say this when you’re feeling so much better—but suppose they won’t have you unless you give him up?”

  “Then I’ll manage somehow by myself,” smiling. “There are Homes and places.”

  “And that’s your last word?”

  She nodded. The pale green eyes smiled at him in the sweet silent face.

  A one-man woman, Nell thought; well, aren’t we all? Or most of us. Unfortunately. It seemed to her that the ones who were not had an easier time of it, and it was at that precise moment, while thoughtfully watching the water coming up to the boil, that she wondered if she might not begin trying to turn herself into one of them?

  “John!” It was Charles Gaunt’s voice, coming from behind the bedroom door, “Is that you? Where in hell have you been these last two nights? I sat up until nearly three waiting for you last night. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Papa always talks in movie-dialogue, you mustn’t mind,” Nell heard John observe in a lowered tone to Nerina. “Oh … I was out and about, Papa,” calling cheerfully. “I’m so sorry you waited up. Can’t we talk this evening?”

  “No, we can not. I’m due at Ealing in three-quarters of an hour, to take part in a home-brewed wine-tasting contest,
God help me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The door flew open and he appeared, twitching and glooming, pushing a clean handkerchief into the pocket of his dinner jacket and giving the two, especially Nerina, a sarcastic glower.

  “Shall I get you a taxi, Papa?”

  “Thank you; a car is coming for me; in three minutes.”

  John then gracefully introduced him to Nerina, Mrs. Rutton; silent bows were exchanged; Charles-for-god’s-sake propped himself dejectedly against the mantelshelf; and then the arrival of the car was announced by John, craning out of the window.

  Immediately his father had gone, he told Nerina to put her feet up.

  “There,” he said, disposing them upon a cushion. “Nell, we’ll have the coffee now, thank you. Nerina can drink it while she’s listening to me telephoning.”

  Nell came in with an untroubled face, carrying the tray. Let him show off; Nerina was not even looking at him.

  She set down the tray. She was beginning to feel slightly excited, and to feel for Nerina, sitting there with her yellow hair dragged back from her pale, tired face and her feet up. But at the same time she wondered if she need feel? Nerina seemed neither apprehensive nor sad; she was looking into her coffee-cup with no expression at all.

  John was kneeling on the sofa arranging his overcoat across her feet. When this was done, he got up, and stood looking down at her.

  “Well, now if you’re comfortable, I’m going to start.”

  She looked up. Her face was still perfectly calm.

  “Oh yes, do,” she said. “I rather want to get it over.” She made a tiny pause; then looked from one to the other. “You have both been kind. The coffee’s wonderful, Nell. I … shall tell Chris, later on, how kind you both were.”

  It was the highest reward she could bestow.

  But John said quickly, going over to the telephone:

  “That’s all right, Nino, we don’t want to be thanked. I know I said something earlier this evening about your doing something later on perhaps … I didn’t mean it too seriously, but if you do want to please me, be as much in your garden at home as you can. You’ll sit in it, won’t you? while the baby’s swelling or whatever it is they do … I like to think of you there. It’s your proper place.”

  There was a sound as if the unearthly bell at The Primula were feeling amused.

  “Is it? It’s lovely, of course, and I used to quite like sunbathing there. But gardening itself bores me. And of course it will soon be winter … he will be a spring baby … so I shan’t be able to sit out there much. But whenever I do, John, I’ll think of you and remember how kind you were.”

  “That’s all I want, Nino; just to think of you being in your proper place. And now I’m going to telephone your people.”

  He turned to Nell.

  “Do you know what her real name is? Mary Falconer. Isn’t it a grand, severe, tall name, full of character? Doesn’t suit you at all, Nino.”

  “The telephone number is Leatherwell 255, John,” she said tranquilly. “My father is Doctor Falconer and the address is Mayfields, Leatherwell, Surrey.”

  “How convenient. I thought you looked rather conscious when I asked if you knew a reliable doctor. By the way, have they a television set? Yes? Right.”

  But then he turned round once more.

  “I don’t think I’d better tell them about the baby, had I? No,” as she shook her head, “you can do that in private. Now don’t interrupt, you two.”

  The preliminaries took a little time. Nell had sat down in a corner and was watching John. But she was thinking about Nerina. What was going on inside the round yellow head? Was she minding at all? Did she feel sorry for having caused her parents months of the worst kind of anxiety? Wasn’t it rather an awful prospect, to go back to the place you had grown up in, after living for nearly a year with a young man and now be going to have a baby?

  Nell thought that she would never have been able to face it.

  I suppose, she mused, I’m not one of the world-well-lost-for-Love kind, so it will be all the easier to turn myself into the kind that isn’t a one-man woman either; and then it occurred to her that it might be fun to be the kind that has lots of men; men Dancing Attendance, as the Edwardians used to say; admirers; beaux. …

  “Hullo! Hullo!” said John suddenly. Nerina turned her head quickly. “Is that Leatherwell 255? Oh … Can I speak to Doctor Falconer, please? It’s extremely important. It’s a private matter. Nothing about a patient … oh, is that Mrs. Falconer? How do you do, Mrs. Falconer? This is John Gaunt speaking; Peggy Fairfax, the T.V. star, is my mother.” (Nell thought it a good thing Peggy Fairfax, the T.V. star, could not see his expression.) “Yes . . well, I’m a friend of Mary’s …”

  Across the intervening thirty miles of darkening autumnal country, Nell and, presumably Nerina also, could hear the exclamations break out at the other end of the line. But the daughter’s face was calm; her head was drooping a little and her long fingers restfully linked. She did not move. She was looking down at her hands.

  “No, she isn’t ill. She’s quite well. As a matter of fact she’s here with me in the room—(I’m speaking from my flat in Hampstead) and—Mrs. Falconer? Are you there? the line’s rather bad at this end … she wants to come home. Yes … Yes. … But there is one thing … Mrs. Falconer, I must make this absolutely clear before we go any further … if she comes there must be no question of her giving up Chris Rutton.”

  He paused, and listened. Nell caught his eye and he suddenly smiled at her. “Yes,” he said, nodding; then, “no, he’s in the Army. He went in about ten days ago. Yes. … Would you like to speak to her? All right; I’ll get her. Just a minute … hold on. …”

  He turned, smiling. and holding out the receiver. Nerina got slowly off the sofa and went across the room, and now Nell saw that her face was deep pink.

  “It’s going to be all right, I think,” John said in a whisper, and she looked a little surprised. She took the receiver from him.

  “Mummy? Hullo; this is Mary here.” The voice was pure silver again. “Oh, I’m all right. Quite well, really. How are you and Daddy and everybody? Oh. I’m sorry. Poor Daddy. Listen, Mummy—you do understand about Chris, don’t you? That I’m not giving him up, I mean. You must tell Daddy, and make him absolutely swear that he won’t try to make me. Because if he does anything like that I shall simply go away again.”

  She listened for a little while with bent head. Suddenly she gave an extraordinary little hiccough, gulped, and shut her eyes. Instantly John was beside her, bending over her, mopping her face with his handkerchief. Soon she gently waved him aside, nodding as if to say that she was all right—but he continued to hover assidiously, with an anxious expression. Nell looked with more liking at Nerina now. Her tears commanded respect. In a moment she was saying quietly:

  “All right, then, Mummy dear, I’ll see you both in about two hours, then. Oh … it’s near the top of Hampstead … quite easy to find.” She gave brief, clear directions. “I shall be quite all right until you come. Yes. John is being very kind and taking good care of me.” She smiled at him; her nose was swollen and pink. “And his cousin, Nell, is here too. We’re having coffee. All right, then, Mummy. Give my love to Daddy. I’ll see you in about two hours. Good-bye.”

  She replaced the receiver. No one said anything for a moment. Then Nerina yawned, and smiled at John. It was neither a brave nor a piteous smile, but he said instantly:

  “You’d better go to sleep until they come. Here.” He put his arm round her. “You come and lie down on my bed. Nell,” over his shoulder as he led her unresisting away, “get a hot water bottle, will you? (Papa has a perfect regiment of them in the kitchen, in different sizes for different parts of himself where he gets rheumatism … he doesn’t seem to realize that as life goes on one should shed possessions, not acquire them …) thank you.”

  When he came back he was plainly very pleased with himself. He took strides round the room, whistled snatches of tunes
, put his hands in his pockets and took them out again, and finally fell upon the sofa and thrust his legs over its end—and stared smilingly up at the ceiling.

  Nell got up and went to the door; she did not intend to provide the admiring audience for his self-satisfaction. Round came his head at once.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get my supper; I’ve had nothing since two o’clock.”

  “Stay and eat it here. There is some liver sausage and three stale rolls, I think.”

  “Thank you.” Nell did not pause in her flight.

  He was across the room in two strides. An arm like iron went round her waist and he shook her.

  “Nello—” looking down imploringly into her face, “please stay with me, darling Nello. I’m so pleased because I’ve got Nerina back into her proper place and I want someone to enjoy myself with.”

  You’re quite the best person for that purpose, she thought. But it was difficult to say anything while he was close to her; she only nodded, and he gave her one of his quick, rubbing kisses—and released her.

  “You lie on the sofa. I’ll bring in the feast,” he said.

  But while she was eating, not the liver sausage and rolls, but some of his step-mother’s store of tinned delicacies, his mood changed. The window stood open and uncurtained to the still, damp, autumn air; now and again a heavy leaf detached itself from the branches of the sycamore trees and went spinning slowly down through the soft light of the old street-lamp to lie on the pavement; the road and the house itself were very quiet.

  Nell broke a longish silence by holding up her fork with a piece of ham on it.

  “Don’t you want—?”

  He shook his head.

  “Merciful heavens, no. We had an enormous dinner at Belsize Park, with wine. … I say, do you think I ought to wake her? She seems to have been asleep a long time.”

  “Not yet.” Nell glanced at the clock. “I shouldn’t wake her until just before ten.”

  “I hate waiting for people,” he said moodily.

  He had got up from his place on the floor, against the sofa, and was prowling round the room. “… of course, we shan’t see Nerina again after tonight, you know. Dear Nino … another proper place for her would be with the ballet-people; do you remember that house in Earls Court where a crowd of them were all living high up under the roof, like a cluster of elegant young bats, among the pink shoes and the wreaths of paper roses and the tu-tus and the lettuce and margarine-papers? But she’s too old for ballet now, of course. Now where are you going, Nello?” pausing in exasperation.