by MARY HOCKING
‘How’s the scribbling going?’
His attitude was antagonistic. Her writing imposed disciplines upon her and involved her in privations of which he would have been incapable, and this made him feel ashamed; it also gave her a satisfaction which eluded him, and this made him feel inferior. So he usually maintained an air of impatience when discussing her dusty little world of books. ‘When I hear the word culture, I reach for my sleeping pills,’ he had once said. Now he was surprised to see some of the same impatience reflected in her face as she replied:
‘It’s not going at all well.’
‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘I don’t know. If I did, there wouldn’t be any trouble, would there?’
‘Perhaps you are getting stale? Beginning to repeat yourself, or something like that?’
‘No. If anything, I seem to have lost myself.’
There was indeed an unusual uncertainty about her. Jeremy took advantage of this to say in a lecturing tone:
‘You need to get right away from this place. Take a long holiday.’
‘I can’t afford even a short one this year. There is so much that needs to be done in the house.’
Jeremy, who had recently become a partner in a firm of solicitors, felt that this was an oblique comment on his own air of prosperity. He flew into a rage.
‘I’ve no patience with this martyrdom to art, this holier-than-thou-because-I-don’t-soil-my-hands-with-the-sordid-things-of-the-world attitude.’
‘Jeremy, I have never thought such a thing!’
‘You have looked down on me for years because you think I’m caught up in a rat race. Don’t deny it! It’s written all over your face whenever we talk about my work. You behave as though I had sold my immortal soul.’
‘That’s nonsense! I do admire so much your zest and determination . . .’
He watched her selecting words with fastidious care. She would never lie to save herself, or anyone else, pain. And it wasn’t even a question of honesty; it was some intellectual belief in the precision of words. She would feel untrue to her literary principles if she came out with a comforting little cliché.
‘But I should be quite hopeless at it myself,’ she was saying, rather as though she inhabited a different sphere. ‘Drinks with the right people, adapting oneself to the rhythm of their speech, the pattern of their conversation . . .’
‘Yet you mix with Edward’s crowd.’
‘But not in order to get something out of them; and I don’t have to change myself in any way. In any case, they don’t come often and when they do I hardly notice them.’
‘You hardly notice them!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘Exactly! You remove yourself from reality and refuse to contemplate anything that you regard as distasteful.’
‘I did that for so many years when I was nursing father, Jeremy, I suppose it has become a habit. And I was so dredged of feeling when he died that I hadn’t the strength to adventure into life again.’
‘But you can’t spend the rest of your days behaving as though you were in a nunnery!’
She said with sudden sharpness: ‘Hence Edward.’
Although he did not like Edward, he was rather shocked by the apparent callousness of this reference to her lover. Jessica got up and began to shuffle the papers on her desk; she was aware of his disapproval, though not of the reason for it.
‘Jeremy, if we are going to quarrel like this whenever we meet, wouldn’t it be better if we just stopped seeing one another?’
‘You are my sister,’ he pointed out, not entirely without sincerity,
‘Does it matter? There is no reason why we should see one another if we find it unpleasant.’
Jeremy was just reflecting how like her it was to think things out so calmly and then to speak with such detached brutality when, quite suddenly, she changed and he was aware again of a new uneasiness about her.
‘Things have been distressing enough lately,’ she said. ‘Since this wretched burglary I haven’t been able to concentrate . . .’
‘What burglary?’
She told him.
‘Edward is lucky it hasn’t happened before,’ he said indifferently. ‘I know one chap who has had his place broken into three times in the last two months.’
‘It’s just that I find the police activity rather disruptive.’ She half-turned from him, disorganizing the papers on her desk in a nervous way that was quite unlike her. ‘Have you ever come across a Superintendent Harper in the courts, Jeremy?’
‘Not in the courts. But I have an idea he was the man that Jimmy Heaton was friendly with at one time. Big fellow, quite a lad; used to tell very funny stories, I remember.’
‘I imagine that might be the man.’
‘Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? A superintendent investigating a petty little burglary at Edward’s shop.’
They looked at one another unhappily, the likeness between them very apparent at this moment.
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ he asked. ‘For God’s sake, Jessica . . .’
‘Of course there isn’t anything wrong,’ she said angrily. ‘What could be wrong?’
‘Edward might have got hold of some stolen property. I’m not suggesting for one moment that he would do it intentionally, but
He was thinking that it would be most awkward for him if his sister’s name were to be linked, however innocently, with an affair like that. He had recently decided to offer himself as a candidate to the Liberal party. He had meant to tell Jessica about it; but he was afraid that if he said anything now she would think that he was selfishly concerned for his own good name.
‘Look here, you must tell Edward to watch his step,’ he said. ‘He’s so unbusinesslike that anyone could put anything over on him.’
‘But not on George Vickers,’ she pointed out.
‘That’s true.’ Jeremy brightened. ‘It’s a good thing Edward is in with him.’
She looked away. He decided to tell her about the Liberal party business after all; but she was not interested, hardly seemed to be listening. He thought that she suspected him of being an opportunist and getting in early on a good thing. He left, as always, feeling hurt and resentful.
=II
Perhaps it was Jeremy’s accusations, or perhaps it was the memory of the strangely oblique questions which the superintendent had put to her, but as the time for the party drew nearer Jessica was unusually restless. As she fastened a brooch at the neck of her dark-red dress, she remembered how, as a child, she had stood in the hall below, excited in a new party frock and silver pumps, listening to steps on the path, the muffled murmur of voices in the porch. She had scarcely been able to breathe as she waited for the knock on the door.
The knock came at that moment, jerking Jessica back to the present. She experienced, as she went down the stairs, an excitement as intense as that childhood expectation, but not quite so pleasant. She had become curious about Edward’s friends. Her manner must have been unusually animated, for although Anton Slevak greeted her in his usual way, clasping her hands and muttering: ‘Ah! How like my dear Katrin!’ he put considerably more sincerity than usual into the final phrase: ‘But you are alive!’
Not every greeting was as warm. She was studying her guests carefully and she discovered that Countess Ousenka did not like her; a glance of astonishing animosity flashed from the dark, wrinkled face. Then, there came Stanislaus Askar and his wife, regarding her with blank politeness that did not quite conceal their resentment. Perhaps she had made it too plain in the past that these people did not interest her?
The next arrival was little Anna Pevrik, and Jessica was comforted, after the hostility of the others, to see the bright, frail face smiling up at her.
‘I’m sorry Edward won’t be here,’ Jessica said.
‘He is ill?’ The old woman spoke as though there could be no other explanation of Edward’s absence.
‘He has had to go to Cambridge on business.’
Anna Pevrik
looked puzzled and Jessica wondered whether she even realized that Edward had a business.
A few friends of George’s had arrived, but not George himself. George’s friends were hard and glittering; they gave the impression of people who will break apart the moment they cease to amuse one another. The Polish group were held together by something stronger, deeper, and more despairing; looking at them, formed into an impenetrable circle at the far end of the room, Jessica wondered what Superintendent Harper would have made of them. Their talk would be of things long past, a remote world which had crashed twenty, thirty years ago, leaving nothing in the debris that would be of interest to a Scotland Yard detective. Then suddenly, as though to disprove this reassuring assumption, they flared into life. A friend of George’s, flitting listlessly in search of amusement, had spoken to Mrs. Askar; casually, she had mentioned a Polish acquaintance. There was nothing casual about Mrs. Askar’s reply.
‘He is not a refugee. He made his peace with the communists.’
The words were spoken quietly, but with a hatred as implacable as death. Jessica looked at Anna Pevrik and was startled to see the expression on that usually gentle face. Could anyone, Jessica wondered, deserve such unforgiving enmity?
‘Quite barbaric!’ George’s friend said to Jessica when she had made her escape. ‘And they can’t have seen the poor sweet for at least twelve years.’
‘They have suffered so much, I suppose it is hard . . ‘
‘But I think it’s an awful mistake to be bitter, don’t you?’
Jessica said that she thought it was a mistake. George’s friend decided to show a tactful interest in her hostess.
‘Now you must tell me when your next book is coming out,’ she said. ‘My daughter simply adores your stories.’
She mentioned a number of books, none of which were by Jessica, and then drifted back to her own circle.
There was another knock on the front door; a late arrival. It was getting dark now. The light in the hall was poor, throwing a dull yellow beam which gave an unpleasantly decaying effect to the face of the man who now came towards Jessica. She felt a physical revulsion as the limp, damp paw slid into hers.
‘I’m afraid Edward can’t be here,’ she said, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘He had to go to Cambridge.’
Desmond Ames glanced at her sharply.
‘I thought George was going to Cambridge.’
‘He had to cancel it at the last minute. I believe the police wanted to see him about something.’
She led the way into Edward’s sitting-room. Desmond Ames’s eyes went avidly to the whisky bottle; his hand was shaking when he took the glass she offered him. She went across to the mantelshelf to fetch a cigarette box; in the mirror she saw him gulp back the drink and help himself to another.
By now the usual groups had formed and Jessica was isolated. How had she occupied herself on other such evenings? She sat on a chair set back from the fireplace, a little in shadow. This was what she had done before; she had sat like a spectator in the wings, watching a strange charade, a little amused, untouched. But now, the spectator seemed to be emerging, reluctantly, from the shadows impelled by some unknown force. She found herself reacting to these people; exasperated pity for the Countess and the Askars, irritation with Anton, affection for Anna Pevrik, impatience with the slick young woman near by and her bored male companion. Jessica listened to the slick young woman talking.
‘Where does Desmond get the money from? It’s terribly expensive at Rinaldi’s and he dines there quite often.’
‘So do you, dear.’
‘But Ronnie can afford that sort of thing.’
‘The antique business is probably quite a flourishing concern.’
‘Darling, he isn’t in the antique business. What ever made you think that? He’s at the Air Ministry, and I believe he’s only on the lower admin, grade. It doesn’t bring in that kind of money.’
‘Probably he has a rich aunt. After all, that’s where Ronnie’s money comes from, doesn’t it, dear? So you mustn’t begrudge Desmond the same source of revenue.’
Ames was advancing towards the couple, and they broke off their conversation to greet him ecstatically. While they were talking, the door of the room opened and Vickers came in. Immediately, Ames veered round and as Vickers came abreast of him, Jessica heard him whisper:
‘I must talk to you.’
Vickers walked past as though he had not heard and went towards the Polish group. His face was quite blank, and then, as he approached the Countess, he suddenly assumed an expression of amused contempt. It was like watching the transformation on the face of an actor at the moment that he steps on to the stage. Was there something a little defensive in his attitude? Jessica wondered. Incredible, of course; but it was fascinating to imagine that there could be a flaw in George Vickers. But now he was laughing with the Countess; he looked pleasant, almost boyish, and Jessica dismissed the idea.
‘What on earth is that?’ the Countess said, pointing across the room.
Paddy had appeared and was handing round coffee. Her eye make-up was more bizarre than usual and her red hair was standing up in spikes all over her head. Jessica noticed, however, that she had limited herself to one piece of jewellery, a rhinestone necklace. Paddy, Jessica suspected, had taken particular trouble over her appearance. Even so, her entrance caused a stir, and for the first time that evening the groups in the room were fused into one astonished whole. Jessica went across to help the girl.
‘Do I have two heads or something?’ Paddy whispered.
‘You’re liable to cause a sensation with just one head,’ Jessica retorted, and Paddy grinned.
‘The little girl is different, isn’t she?’ Anna Pevrik said innocently as Jessica handed her a cup of coffee. A shadow darkened the old woman’s face; she looked down the big, rather bare room towards the group of her compatriots in their corner. ‘But over there, always the same faces.’
‘Don’t you like to meet your friends here?’ Jessica asked, surprised.
‘I like it, yes.’ The old woman nodded her head. ‘But then I am nearly eighty. When I came to this country, I was well past middle life; it was too late for me to send down fresh roots. This is all I want, to gather what is left of the past around me and to dream a little. I have no strength for anything else. But Edward . . .’ She was looking at the bric-a-brac on the mantelshelf, the tarnished silver candlesticks, the toy on which the fiddler played and the sleigh team strained forward. ‘It is very wrong for Edward. He should forget about Sonya – he will never see her again. He should make a new life here; he is so fortunate to have you to help him.’
Anton came up with a plate of asparagus rolls and the old woman took one and then moved back to the Polish group, leaving Jessica to meditate on the uncomfortable fact that she did not want to start a new life with Edward.
‘Tonight a light shines from you,’ Anton informed her. ‘I suspect you of having been unfaithful to Edward.’
Jessica, who never discussed her private affairs and did not imagine that anyone else did either, was too flabbergasted to reply. Anton decided that she was really rather gauche for a woman of her age and walked away. Jessica, now thoroughly uneasy, drifted from one group to another.
Paddy had gone into the kitchen to fetch more coffee. Vickers was standing with a drink in one hand, his face brilliant with laughter; if it had been anyone else, Jessica would have thought that he was drunk. She knew, however, that his glass was seldom refilled during an evening: his almost unholy merriment must spring from some strange source within him.
‘The way that we . . . er . . . got together was quite extraordinary.’ He had been speaking for some time before Jessica realized that he was talking about Paddy.
‘. . one of those coffee bars – you know the kind of thing, blank-faced youths and maidens huddled in dark corners staring into some bleak little hell of their own devising. She was with a boy friend – the usual nerve-ridden neurotic. He had a wrangle with
another fellow and ended it in the fashionable style by going for him with a razor. None of which is exactly new. But her reaction was surprising. She threw herself at her boy friend, screeching like a banshee. Quite astonishingly fearless. I was intrigued; so I helped the proprietor to prise them apart and then took her off for a quiet drink at a respectable Soho bar. Would you believe it, she didn’t give a damn for the chap that got carved up? But she said . . .’ Here the laughter bubbled up again so that he could scarcely get the words out: ‘. . . she said that she couldn’t tolerate seeing people hurt. She preached quite a little sermon on the subject.’
Jessica found herself next to Mrs. Askar, a frowning, swarthy- faced woman with dark hair clawed back in a bun.
‘It’s degrading,’ the woman hissed at Jessica amid the uncertain laughter that greeted Vickers’s story, ‘to waste his intellect on a brainless little slut like that!’
Paddy had come in now and was dispensing more coffee, slopping it in the saucers to the disgust of the guests and the perverse amusement of Vickers who watched her as though she were a new act at a circus. In fact, Jessica thought, the whole thing resembled a circus, with each person stepping forward in turn into the arena to perform. Now she saw, with a sinking heart, that her own turn had come. Desmond Ames was making signs to her. He was holding a wood carving of a strange, ungainly creature which her father had brought back from a visit to the Himalayas. Although Edward had told her that it was valuable she had never, until this moment, felt very attached to the thing.
‘How much does Edward want for this?’ Ames sounded casual, but his hungry eyes betrayed him.
‘It happens to be mine.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘More than you could give,’ she said lightly, trying to pass it off as a joke.
‘There is nothing that I would not give for it.’
The thick lips quivered as he spoke, the cigar at the corner of his mouth was wet and a trickle of saliva ran down his chin. Jessica felt a need to oppose him.
‘There is nothing that I would take for it,’ she answered.
