by Ann Bridge
‘Couldn’t our Embassy in Madrid lay on any help of that sort that they wanted, themselves? Or the Americans, for that matter?’ Reeder asked.
‘I suppose so, if all you’ve been telling us is common knowledge. But common knowledge so often seems to escape the Foreign Office,’ Julia said, unkindly. ‘My guess is that Hetta has had some sort of scare.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. She seems to be pretty well informed, anyhow,’ Reeder replied. ‘What shall you do?’
‘Well my Philip can’t go—he’s in the Middle East. I’ve no idea where Hugh Torrens is.’
‘Why not try to get hold of Torrens?’ Reeder asked.
Julia hesitated—Edina frowned at her husband for this tactless suggestion; Major Torrens was one of what she privately called ‘Julia’s cast-offs’.
‘Well at a pinch I suppose I might,’ Julia said, determined not to let her own feelings stand in the way of the job. ‘What I should really like to do is to get hold of Richard Atherley; he must have some idea of what’s going on, and why Hetta is worrying.’
‘Well ring up Madrid tonight—it’s cheaper after six, though that doesn’t really matter,’ her wealthy host said cheerfully.
‘I’m not at all sure that that will help you much,’ Mrs. Hathaway observed.
‘Why on earth not, Mrs. H.? I must have some idea of what goes on, or might go on, if I’m to bother Hugh Torrens about this—and surely Richard would know?’
‘The official facts and dates, of course; but if Hetta has some private reason for being worried, I’m not at all sure that she would have told her husband.’
The three young people stared at her.
‘Goodness, Mrs. H.!’ Edina exclaimed—‘Aren’t she and Richard on good terms?’
‘The very best, as husband and wife. But Hetta’s background, brought up in a Communist-dominated country, is quite different to Richard’s—he is rather Foreign-Office-y, don’t you think, Julia?’ That young woman nodded, thoughtfully. ‘If Hetta thought that he would pay attention to what is troubling her, and get appropriate action taken officially, why did she write to you?’ Mrs. Hathaway ended.
Philip Reeder lit another cigarette, got up, and walked about the library.
‘Well, it looks as if you’ve got a point there, Mrs. H.,’ he said. ‘Why indeed? You remember what you said just now, Julia, about “common knowledge” and the F.O.? This Hetta may have the same idea.’
‘No. Hetta’s idea will be quite an individual one,’ Julia said. ‘I must think what to do.’ She went off to feed her baby son.
On the way upstairs she made a resolution not to think about Hetta’s letter while she was nursing The Philipino, as they called him, but she was only partially successful. When she left the nursery she went to her own room, and did some intensive thinking. Reluctant as she was to tackle Hugh Torrens, her discarded suitor, she decided to do exactly that; it was probably the best way of getting Hetta the information she wanted.
Philip Reeder, practical man, had installed bedside telephones in every room in Glentoran; they were mostly used as a form of ‘inter-comm’ with the kitchen and the other rooms in the huge house—a small typed list gave the internal numbers. But by pressing a button one could be connected with the outside world, and a red switch cut one off from the rest of the household, making a call completely private. Julia used both these appliances, and then put through a personal call to Major Hugh Torrens at the Office number in London. She didn’t wait for the cheap time after 6 p.m.—Hugh might be gone, and Philip Reeder was rich.
Torrens was in. ‘Who is that?’ he asked; Julia had carefully refrained from ‘having her name passed’, in the English telephonist’s phrase.
‘Julia—me—talking from Glentoran.’
‘Oh my dear, how are you? How good to hear your voice.’
‘I’m splendid, thank you. But Hugh, listen carefully, and be as smart as you can.’
‘I’ll try—though you know I’m never as smart as you!’
‘Well do your best. Listen—is anyone in the Office at all concerned about this high-powered Yank who’s just going to Spain?’
‘Oh, I know who you mean. No, it all seems quite straight forward. Ought we to be concerned?’
‘I think so. I’ve just had some private information which is a bit worrying.’
‘Where from?’ Torrens’ voice sharpened on the two words.
‘Spain—from what’s usually a very ‘well-informed and reliable source’. But you don’t know a thing, I gather?’
‘Julia, don’t be nasty. You know you always beat us to it, but we do our best! I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me who your clever informant is? Not the little Countess, by any chance?’
This time Hugh Torrens was being much smarter than usual—Julia was pleased.
‘Yes, it is her. After all, she has her own sources of information. Whatever you do, don’t go aboard that stuffed seal of a husband of hers! But I do need to know what goes on, so that I can answer “the little Countess”. That’s quite a useful phrase. She calls herself “Mrs.” now.’
‘I know, tactful little thing.’
‘Well anyhow she is worried, and I want to be told the form, if you can find anything out. So ring me back, will you?’ She rang off.
Chapter 2
Some days before that conversation at Glentoran took place Mrs. Parrott, the wife of the American Naval Attaché in Madrid, was giving a cocktail party in her flat. The flat was perfectly adequate for such a purpose, since it was one of those huge ones, covering nearly a quarter of an acre each, off the Martinez Campos; the object of the party was the entertainment of Admiral Luxworthy’s wife and nineteen-year-old daughter. Spain had carefully been put last on his list of visits, and as he obviously could not drag his family all round Europe with him, he had parked them in Madrid; he knew his Ambassador there rather well, and with his concurrence had arranged it like that. But this naturally involved the American diplomatic staff in ‘doing something’ about the female Luxworthys, in fact doing quite a lot—they had got to be shown round, they had got to be amused, they ought to meet people. Hence the party.
Nell Parrott was a warm-hearted little creature, but rather feather-brained, and an incurable chatterbox; Madrid was her husband’s first post abroad, and she found diplomatic life puzzling and difficult. She was always making mistakes which she couldn’t for the life of her see were mistakes when her Walter, patient but troubled, pointed them out to her. ‘But why shouldn’t I have said that about the Prado to the Minister of Education? He’s a bore, anyway.’ One of Captain Parrott’s main preoccupations, in fact, became to secure help for his Nell in any major piece of entertaining, and with the presence of the Atherleys in Madrid much of this work soon devolved on Hetta; Walter Parrott’s I.Q. was much higher than his wife’s, and he and Richard soon became firm friends; this, diplomatic life being what it is, involved Hetta in assisting Nell, frequently, in her uncongenial tasks.
This evening the little American, whose great asset was her extreme prettiness, was fussing round the big rooms, examining the huge trays of elaborate cocktail edibles, and shifting vases rather restlessly, when in the distance a bell rang; a moment later a Spanish maid, dressed in black and wearing white cotton gloves, announced——
‘La Señora Atherley.’
‘Oh darling, there you are! How lovely of you to come along early. Now take a look round and see if everything is okay. Are the flowers all right?’
Hetta walked leisurely round the rooms, carefully inspecting the vases.
‘Not this one,’ she said. ‘These are faded; you had them here last week.’ She lifted the vase off the table, and handed it to the maid, who still hovered about. ‘Remove it, please,’ she said in Spanish.
‘That will leave a gap,’ Nell said.
‘Better a gap than shabby flowers,’ Hetta replied. She went across to a shelf and lifted down a little polychrome statuette of St. Anne, and put it in the place of the discarded
vase. ‘There—now your gap is filled.’
The Parrotts had rented the flat, fully furnished, from its Spanish owners, whom in fact the Atherleys already knew; to reap the rich American rent they had retired to their cigarral (country house) outside Toledo.
‘Be careful of that statuette—it is of great value,’ Hetta now said. ‘After the party, be sure to put it back on that high shelf.’
‘How do you know all these things?’ Nell asked. ‘I haven’t a clue as to what’s valuable and what isn’t, in this house.’
‘We had beautiful things at home,’ Hetta said. ‘Papa was learned about objets d’art, and tried to teach me about them. So they still interest me.’
‘What became of your family stuff?’ Nell Parrott asked, with typical thoughtlessness.
‘Oh, the Russians took it all, when they came into Hungary—they stole everything,’ Hetta said. ‘I was at school, of course—but we heard later.’ Her fine dark brows drew together in a little frown; less at the loss of her family possessions than at Nell’s careless failure in tact. Her unhappy story—a story typical of so many Central European families—was no secret in Madrid; least of all in American circles, since her Mother, Countess Páloczy, was herself an American, and had returned to Washington three or four years previously. (The old Count had died in Portugal, whither the parents had escaped, long before.) But Hetta, though she was by now accustomed to Nell Parrott’s scatter-brained lack of memory and careless tongue, could never quite reconcile herself to them; such a lack of attention, of consideration, seemed to her a failure not only in good manners, but in charity. But her Richard was devoted to Walter, so part of her duty was to help Nell, and not allow herself to be annoyed by these lapses.
The bell rang again; another maid, also in black and whitegloved, opened the door and announced ‘El Teniente Ellington.’ Mrs. Parrott greeted him warmly. She could always be warm; she needed no thought for that.
‘Oh Jim, that’s fine! You’ve come early too. Do you know Mrs. Atherley?’
‘Yes indeed,’ the young American said, shaking hands with Hetta.
‘Well, we’re just looking round. Hetta’s passed everything so far, except one lot of flowers!’
‘Nell, what we should now decide is in which room you will receive, and where you will stand,’ Hetta said practically.
‘This room, I thought; it’s nearest to the hall.’
‘I agree. Then should you not stand here?’ Hetta said, placing herself about four yards inside the door, close to the right-hand wall. ‘And Mrs. and Miss Luxworthy can stand beside you, so that you make the introductions. Shall you know everyone’s name?’
‘Not the Spaniards. I’m bad at faces, and their names are so difficult.’
‘Who will announce?’ Hetta asked.
Lieutenant Ellington weighed in at this point.
‘Mrs. Atherley, there’s a man laid on for that, who knows every face and name in Madrid; we fixed it with Captain Parrott. But the Captain thought it might be as well if his former Number Two, Commander Mansfield, who’s been here for years and speaks perfect Spanish—as well as knowing everyone—should stand on Mrs. Parrott’s left and help with the introducing.’ He paused, and turned to his hostess. ‘Didn’t your husband mention that?’ he asked her, very courteously.
‘Why yes, so he did—only I forgot,’ Nell Parrott said. ‘Will Commander Mansfield be along soon? He’d better be on hand before they start streaming in.’
‘He will be here in five minutes,’ Ellington said, looking at his watch—‘And the Luxworthys five minutes after that.’
Hetta looked at the young American approvingly. Here was an intelligent, well-bred young man, she thought. He had been to their house for drinks two nights before, and Richard had explained to her afterwards that Lieutenant Ellington had been specially detailed to act as A.D.C. to Admiral Luxworthy during his European tour, because his Mother was French, and he had been brought up partly in Europe. Anyhow, Richard had said hurriedly, North Carolinians remained much more European than most Americans—except the people from New Orleans, with its long history of Spanish and French occupation. But the Admiral had decided that his A.D.C. would be better occupied in shepherding his wife and daughter during their sojourn in Spain than in accompanying him to Germany, France, and England—countries which he felt well able to handle himself. He had been in them all during World War II; but not in Spain—which anyhow was the most important, just now.
After another distant tinkle of a bell Commander Mansfield was announced, this time loudly and clearly by the Spanish butler who had been laid on so carefully for the occasion. Hetta recognised the servant, and was relieved; he really could pronounce names of any nationality—so essential for this sort of party—as not all the Madrileno hired butlers could. After several years of marriage to an English diplomat, the once uncouth little waif from Hungary had turned into an extremely competent hostess; she still rather despised the whole social and diplomatic set-up, but it was now her job, and she had mastered it. The four people in the room all knew one another, so no introductions were necessary; but Hetta still admired Commander Mansfield for having adopted the custom of the country where he now lived by preference—he had retired from the Service—of kissing the hands of married ladies. He was a tall, strongly-built, grey-haired man, with one of those deeply-lined, ravaged faces so common among Bostonian intellectuals—the ravages caused not by any personal tragedy, but by a profound preoccupation with human life, and its expression in art. In Spain Mansfield had found both of these at their highest point, in his experience; so after his retirement he continued to live in Madrid, refusing further promotion—a boon to all diplomats.
Like the rest, he turned his mind to the practical organisation of this almost military operation, the party for the Luxworthys.
‘Mrs. Parrott, shall you receive in this room?’
‘Well we thought so—but you’d better ask Mrs. Atherley and Lieutenant Ellington. They have it all worked out.’
Mansfield turned to Hetta, who explained her ideas. ‘And you on Mrs. Parrott’s left. But the Captain? When does he come?’
‘I should have said that sooner. He’s held up; a little trouble about Cuban refugees. He’ll be along as soon as he can—we just carry on till he comes.’ He agreed with all Hetta’s positioning, except for having the receiving group two yards further from the door—‘Otherwise you may get quite a block. And where shall you be, Countess?’
‘Oh, flitting about!—to lend a hand when it’s needed.’ Hetta’s command of English had improved greatly during her years of marriage—Mansfield laughed.
‘Well for God’s sake let’s have a drink to support us before the trouble starts,’ Nell Parrott said—as she spoke she went over and poured herself out a whisky. But before the others could follow suit the Spaniard again flung open the door, announcing ‘Madame et Mademoiselle Luxworthy.’
Ellington was beautifully efficient. He crossed the great room swiftly, greeted the two American guests, led them over to where their hostess and Hetta were standing, and made the introductions. ‘Commander Mansfield I think you know already.’ Hetta noticed with amusement that Mansfield tactfully refrained from kissing Mrs. Luxworthy’s hand; that would merely have embarrassed her. She was a well-educated middle-aged Middle-Westerner; but this was her first visit to Europe, and marooned in Madrid by her husband, she was already finding some things puzzling. As well as her beautifullypermed, blue-rinsed hair, and the inevitable orchid on her left shoulder, she had a kind, intelligent face, with a lovely natural complexion; Joy, her nineteen-year-old daughter, was very tall, dark-haired and tawny-skinned, and plainly spurned any form of make-up—in fact her rather large nose was distinctly shiny. Apart from this careless defect she was extremely good-looking, with lambent light-brown eyes, and a lively mouth.
To Ellington’s relief, Hetta promptly took over.
‘Mrs. Luxworthy, a little drink, no? In a few minutes the guests arrive, and you cannot
have a glass in your hand! Miss Luxworthy, what do you drink?—a dry Martini? You too must meet so many people, who are eager to encounter your Father’s daughter!’ Hetta had instantly realised that Joy was going to be the difficult proposition on this occasion.
Both the Luxworthy ladies took a drink; then, once again forewarned by the distant bell, under Mansfield’s and Ellington’s supervision they set down their glasses and took up their appointed positions, now six yards inside the door, on the right of their hostess; Mansfield stationed himself on her left.
Of course the diplomats came first; punctuality is one of the duties they learn. Marchant, the British Military Attaché, and his tall absent-minded wife Maud, with her long drooping hands, came with their Ambassador, a stout benign bachelor; after a suitable exchange of small-talk with Mrs. Parrott and her two principal guests, he went on to talk to Hetta.
‘Where’s your husband, my dear?’
‘Sir Noël, you should know that better than I!’ Hetta said briskly. ‘Is it not always you who delay him?’
The Ambassador laughed—he enjoyed Hetta very much.
‘Is that what he tells you?’ he asked, taking a cocktail from a tray proffered by one of the Spanish maids.
‘Well, did you not recall him from Portugal just now? We had hoped to be much longer at dear Gralheira.’
‘Oh, I must get to see that place sometime,’ his Excellency said. ‘I hear the house is quite lovely—and such marvellous partridge-shooting. I did meet the old Duque once—couldn’t you coax him to invite me?’
‘You had better arrange that with his daughter—she comes to stay with us tomorrow.’
‘Does she now?—the beautiful Luzia? I must certainly give a party for her.’
‘No, not a big party; they are en deuil de famille—for a most tiresome old Uncle or Aunt. Ask her to a small luncheon, and make up to her!’ Hetta said, with a fearless mocking grin.
‘Really, Hetta!’ the diplomatist said. ‘I thought she was half-engaged to one of those Heriot boys from Pau?’
