‘Patricia, it is good of you to indulge her like this. I think picnic meals are too dreadful. All spiders and damp grass and things biting your legs. And then the milk gets upset over the food, and things like sugar and salt are always forgotten. ‘One just longs for a really good restaurant or one’s own home again.’
‘Oh, let’s eat out of doors. Let’s eat out of doors,’ begged Deborah, hopping from one foot to the other in her eagerness. ‘Just like savages.’
‘Well, we’ll try to be a little more civilised than that,’ Patricia said with a smile. ‘But we’ll have a picnic, if you like.’
‘I do like,’ Deborah insisted.
So it was arranged that way. And Julia good-naturedly packed them an excellent picnic lunch.
Isobel accompanied them to the door with many last-minute warnings which—Patricia could not help thinking—must have given Deborah fresh inspiration on the subject of what could most easily aggravate her elders.
Arriving at the Zoo, Patricia ushered her young charge through the turnstile, pausing only to lay in a stock of nuts from the kiosk nearby. And then they started off down the centre path, Deborah clinging to her hand and dancing up and down as she insisted:
‘I only want to see the very wild animals.’
It was a beautiful day, and, as they sat on the grass in the shade from a clump of trees, Patricia thought there were many less likeable things than taking a little girl out for the day.
Deborah raised no difficulty whatever about eating a very hearty meal in these novel circumstances, and even went so far as to say—gazing at Patricia over the rim of her cup:
‘I like you, after all.’
‘I’m very glad,’ Patricia said unemotionally. And she thought Deborah was faintly relieved that the statement was merely accepted at its face value and did not call forth the question and comment with which her mother would have greeted it.
It was when they had almost finished their leisurely meal that a long shadow fell across their improvised tablecloth. The shadow of a tall man who did not move on.
Thinking it was an inquisitive passer-by, Patricia refused to look up, but Deborah said in a whisper:
‘Do you think that man’s hungry? Perhaps he wants a sandwich.’
Patricia glanced up then, and exclaimed:
‘Phil! Whatever brought you here.’
‘You did.’ He smiled down at her and Deborah.
‘May I sit down and accept your young friend’s invitation to a sandwich?’
Patricia was too nonplussed to know what to say in the first moment, and it was Deborah who asked with interest:
‘Are you Phil?’
‘I am.’
He seemed to take that for some form of introduction, for he sat down on the grass beside Deborah, accepted the sandwich she offered him, and gravely fell to discussing sandwich-fillings with her.
Patricia remained silent. She was angry, as well as put out, and she wanted Phil to know she was angry. He had no right to follow her here like this! Heaven alone knew what sort of comment Deborah would make about the meeting afterwards. One couldn’t ask the child to say nothing. It would be absurd and undignified, besides putting wrong ideas into the little girl’s head. But she would make all sorts of mischief—intentionally or unintentionally—afterwards.
‘I think your Aunt Patricia isn’t very pleased with us,’ she heard Phil say gravely to Deborah.
‘We won’t talk about that just now,’ Patricia said quickly, because she could see that Deborah was interestedly following every word.
‘May I come with you to watch the lions led?’ he inquired humbly. And Deborah, apparently touched by his manner, or else having taken a fancy to him, said:
‘Let him come, Aunt Patricia.’
‘He can come, if he likes—of course,’ Patricia replied coolly. And, taking this unenthusiastic reply for full permission, Phil helped Deborah to repack the sandwich basket, and they set off to find the lions.
Almost immediately Deborah began running ahead a little way and then coming back to report to them on the fresh exhibits which awaited them at each turn of the path. This gave Patricia a chance to speak openly at last, and she said in a low angry tone:
‘Phil, it was very wrong of you to turn up like this.’
‘But why, my dear? Can’t I also come and enjoy the beauties of this well-arranged place, on an exceptionally fine summer day? I don’t seem to be the only ether person who had the idea.’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ Patricia refused to smile at his fooling. ‘You can’t follow me around like this. Michael—Michael would be furious if he knew,’ she added. And then thought that was not a specially tactful point to introduce.
‘But why need he know?’ Phil’s tone was cool and bold.
‘Because Deborah will inform him, for one thing,’ retorted Patricia dryly.
‘Nonsense, my dear. You’re unduly nervous. Children don’t notice things much. They take them for granted.’
‘You don’t know Deborah,’ Patricia informed him grimly. ‘She notices more than a C.I.D. man, and she takes absolutely nothing for granted.’
‘But, darling girl, be reasonable! What could it matter if she did say I happened to meet you here? It’s a fairly innocent spot, you know, and—as I pointed out before—quite a lot of people do come here.’
She didn’t answer that, but gave him a worried, speculative glance. Perhaps he was right, of course, and she was being ridiculously apprehensive about something which could be made to look quite natural.
‘After all,’ he said softly, ‘only you and I know just why friend Michael might have reason to object. One doesn’t associate lovers’ meetings with lion-feeding.’
‘Phil, what are you saying?’ She found suddenly that she was trembling.
‘You know what I’m saying.’ He took her arm lightly as they strolled along. ‘And you know why I’m saying it.’
‘You mustn’t talk like this! Really, Phil—Oh, I wish I could explain!’
‘What do you want to explain, my sweet?’
‘Well, for one thing, you seem to have forgotten that I’m a married woman.’
‘Oh no. But you see, I just don’t believe in this marriage of yours.’
‘You—don’t—believe in it?’ She went cold all over.
‘Don’t look so scared.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t mean that I think you’re living in sin. I mean that I know—and you know—just why you married Harnby. Cold, hard necessity—as you saw it then. That’s not a marriage, Patricia. It’s a sort of business bargain, and—’
‘And suppose I had only made a business bargain,’ Patricia interrupted with spirit, ‘what about loyalty to that? Do you think one has any more right to—to—’
‘Let one’s heart go somewhere else?’ he suggested quite coolly. ‘At least it’s not such a betrayal, Patricia. But there’s something else too.’
‘What?’ Patricia asked rather faintly—a little as though she were afraid to hear the answer, and yet she was unable to resist asking.
‘Suppose Harnby too regarded that tie lightly?’
‘But he doesn’t.’ Patricia was surprised to find how indignantly positive she was about that. At least she was certain that Michael would not regard any marriage tie lightly. It was not Michael’s way to regard things lightly, in any case, she thought with a passing, irrelevant smile.
‘If you had it proved to you that you’re wrong there —that Michael is not quite the perfect husband you imagine—would you be very much hurt?’
‘Why, I—’ She paused, nonplussed once more. Then she said impatiently:
‘But it’s ridiculous to put these hypothetical cases. They have nothing to do—’
‘This is not a hypothetical case.’ Phil’s tone cut across hers with sudden sharpness. ‘This is an actual fact. Your perfect Michael was busy being unfaithful to you something like a month after he had married you.’
‘He was not!’ Patricia was furiou
sly indignant. ‘He wouldn’t do such a thing. And how should you know, anyway, if he did?’
‘Because yesterday was not the first time I saw Michael. I couldn’t think at the time why he was familiar, but when you mentioned Paris, it came back at once. I wouldn’t tell you if I thought your feelings were involved; but they aren’t. It’s only your pride. Michael and another woman spent Christmas at the same hotel in Paris as I did. And they were registered there as husband and wife.’
‘Oh—I see.’ Patricia felt like a pricked balloon—all the indignation gone from her, and a very flat sensation left. ‘Yes, that’s quite likely,’ she began absently.
But Phil broke in eagerly:
‘Then, you do know he’s like that! You do accept that side of him, and realise that you have every right to live your own life accordingly. Then, Patricia dear, why be so angry with me? Why pretend I’ve transgressed against a pure and perfect husband, when all the while—’
‘It’s not like that a bit,’ Patricia broke in desperately. I can’t explain. But you’ve got it all wrong, Phil.’
‘There’s one thing I’ve got right,’ he retorted grimly, ‘and you’re going to get it right too. I love you, and I don’t consider your marriage to that damned banker is of any importance beside that.’
‘Phil!’
‘No, don’t start protesting. Because I shan’t believe you. You love me too. You know it—and I know it. And if there weren’t such a confounded lot of people found about here, I’d be kissing you until you admitted it. As it is—’
‘You’re going the wrong way, you two!’
An indignant Deborah rushed up, and seized Patricia by the hand.
‘That lady there’—Deborah unquestionably pointed—’ says it’s down the other way.’
‘All right, Deborah.’ Patricia nervously squeezed the little hand which clutched hers.
‘My conscience!’ muttered Phil. ‘Are we going to have that kid tacked on to us for the rest of the time?’
‘Never mind,’ whispered Patricia. And she smiled at him in a way that must have made up for many things.
For Patricia it was almost a relief that Deborah had come running up at that moment. It saved her from the necessity of committing herself in words, and it gave her the opportunity of saying all that could be said with a smile.
She didn’t want to have to tell Phil again that he mustn’t talk to her like this. She didn’t want to drag in the ridiculous and inaccurate statement that she was already married. She wanted to hear that he loved her.
And he had said it!
Even now she could hardly believe that he had actually put it into words.
Once this complicated and rather absurd escapade with Michael was over, she could allow herself the full, heavenly luxury of knowing Phil was in love with her. Only a little while longer, and then there could be explanations all round, and she would be happy with Phil.
As they strolled away once more towards the exit, Deborah looked at Phil and inquired with some candour:
‘Are you still coming with us?’
Well—’ He grinned at that. ‘Is this a pressing invitation?’
Deborah wrinkled her forehead.
‘Is he coming with us, Aunty Patricia?’
‘As far as the gate,’ Patricia said firmly.
‘But no farther?’ murmured Phil.
‘We get our bus there. And I expect you have your car.’
‘Yes. But I could—’
‘No, thank you, Phil.’ She shook her head.
‘As you like.’ He seemed suddenly willing to yield to whatever she proposed, perhaps because he felt that that handclasp had been reassuring. ‘When shall I see you again?’ That was in a whisper which escaped even Deborah’s sharp ears.
‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you.’
‘That’s a promise?’
‘Yes, that’s a promise.’
‘And you won’t make me wait too long?’
‘No,’ Patricia promised. ‘I shan’t make you wait too long. And they exchanged a smile of happy significance.
By the time they reached home Deborah was bursting with newly acquired information, which she intended to impart to someone, whether they liked it or not.
‘Julia!’ she cried, as soon as the door was opened. ‘Julia, where is Mummy? I’ve seen lots and lots of very wild animals, an’ we had lunch on the grass, and there were lions and tigers everywhere.’
‘Were there, Miss Deborah? That must have been nice,’ Julia said obligingly. ‘Your mother’s in Mrs. Harnby’s room.’
Before anyone could restrain her, Deborah shot off up the stairs, and Patricia could do no more than follow as quickly as possible in the hope that she would be able to prevent too volcanic an appearance.
Isobel was not the only one in Mrs. Harnby’s room. Michael was there too, and they all three looked up smilingly as Deborah and Patricia came in.
‘Hello, my pet.’ In spite of resistance, Isobel hugged her unwilling daughter as though she had returned safely from some perilous expedition. ‘Did you have a good time? And have you thanked Aunty Patricia nicely?’
‘Very unlikely,’ commented Michael, patting his niece’s head rather grimly. ‘Did she tire you out, Patricia?’
‘No, of course not. We had a marvellous time.’
‘Yes, yes, we did. But I’ll tell them,’ insisted Deborah. ‘We saw everything. Lions that did this—’ She gave a realistic growl. ‘An’ tigers an’ elephants an’ little animals too, an’ birds. An’ a nice man called Phil had lunch with us an’ stayed with us all the afternoon.’ There was a queer little silence, during which Patricia felt herself colour, and then whiten.
‘Who, dear?’ Isobel asked vaguely. ‘Do you mean you met someone you know?’
‘Yes. At least, Aunty Patricia knows him. He said she’d made him come, so I suppose she asked him on the telephone this morning. Did you ask him on the telephone this morning, Aunty Patricia?’
‘No, dear.’ Patricia wished her voice would sound a little less husky and uncertain. ‘You misunderstood what he said. It was an old friend of mine, whom we happened to meet,’ she explained—to Isobel and Mrs. Harnby, because, somehow, she felt unable to meet Michael’s eyes, and that feeling of quite illogical guilt was overwhelming.
‘Well, supper and bed now,’ declared Isobel, in that spuriously bright tone which indicated that she inevitably anticipated opposition from Deborah. ‘Say good-night prettily, and come along.’
When the door had closed behind Deborah and her mother, there was another of those awkward little silences. Then Mrs. Harnby gave Patricia her usual charming smile and asked her quite casually about something which had nothing to do with the vexed subject of the visit to Whipsnade nor the mysterious Phil who had made his appearance there.
It took something of an effort to reply naturally. But Patricia managed to do so. Then after a few minutes she made an excuse to leave Michael and his mother together, and went to her own room.
What did Mrs. Harnby think? What was Michael thinking, come to that? Though of course, one could more or less explain to Michael.
‘Explaining to Michael however, proved nothing like so simple a matter as she had supposed.
He was very angry indeed. She could see that at once, when he came into the room about ten minutes later. And his first impulsive, ill-chosen words confirmed the fact.
‘Did you have to arrange things that way?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘It may be your own business—in fact, of course, it is, but—’
‘It is,’ she agreed crisply.
‘But surely you could have waited a few days. Was there any need to—to throw the fellow at us like that?— at Mother in particular.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ She was angry too now, much angrier than she had meant to be. ‘You don’t suppose I intended your mother to know about it at all, do you?’
‘Then why on earth drag Deborah along? And anyway, I don’t think it was in the best of taste t
o use the child to cloak—’
‘I didn’t! You might make sure of your facts before you start being so smug and superior. I didn’t arrange this meeting. I had no idea Phil meant to come. He thought—’
‘Never mind what he thought,’ Michael interrupted with sudden curtness. ‘How did he know you were going to be there?’
‘Because I told him myself, quite casually, when I—’ she stopped, confused, and then went on defiantly—‘I had tea with him yesterday.’
‘My God!’ Michael said—with quite unnecessary rudeness, Patricia considered. ‘Have you arranged to see him every day?’
‘I’ve told you’—her voice was dangerously cool and steady—‘I did not “arrange” to see him to-day.’
‘Oh no. Of course—I remember. He arranged that. Felt an overwhelming desire, like Deborah, to see the wild animals, I suppose.’
‘No. An overwhelming desire to see me, if you must know. And another thing you might like to know is that you’re behaving in an altogether ridiculous manner. It’s one thing for your mother to be puzzled and uneasy at the idea of my meeting Phil—and I’m very sorry she should have been made to feel that. I didn’t intend it at all. But it’s quite another matter for you to start playing the heavy husband, and behaving as though you really have some right to control my choice of friends.’
He frowned—a good deal taken aback, she could see, to find that he had made this unusual protest. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began to walk up and down the room, in that characteristic way of his.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last, fetching up in front of her. ‘It isn’t my business, of course—particularly when you’re going so much out of your way to help me. I don’t know quite why I got so hot about it, only—’
Accompanied by His Wife Page 8
