The Gift Shop

by Charlotte Armstrong

  Mei had not been weeping because she lashed herself for ever having spoken of the child. She knew she had meant no harm and could not have expected this strange trouble. She was afraid for the child, of course, but she was also afraid for the child’s father. She had always thought that he had a generous heart, this vigorous, rich old man. The truth was, Mei had always been fonder of the father than of the child’s mother, in those old days when she had fetched and carried in the pretty house the man had found for the pretty woman. The woman who had run away, had given her child away, had broken now, like the frail self-centered creature that she was—Mei wouldn’t stain a cheek with a tear for that woman. But for the man, whose damaged heart beat strong enough to be vulnerable to suffering, for him Mei could not help but weep.

  One of the patients, whose door was open, saw her passing by in slender grace. Miss Emaline lifted her head and said to herself, now who? Something so familiar. Brought the old days at Dolabela to her mind. But the figure was gone. Miss Emaline dropped back.

  She was feeling, in the body, much better. And in her mind, she was sad, but certain. Sad Because Mr. Beckenhauer, whom she had so hoped to find, was not in St. Bartholomew’s anymore, or indeed on this earth, God bless his soul. Certain, because she had prayed, she had, with the Lord’s help, come to a firm decision. She had been brought to see that it was a question of time. She knew there was a very wicked man who had to die. She remembered his name now. Very well. Her duty was to wait until he was dead, and the Devil himself could not make her betray her trust too soon. She had become a bulwark between Bobby and evil. She would remain so—to honor a good man’s soul.

  A nurse came in and pounced upon her with thermometer.

  “Newspapers?” mumbled Miss Emaline.

  “Oh, yes, you wanted some out-of-town papers, wasn’t it? Well, I’m so sorry, Miss Hanks, I forgot to see whether …”

  “S’all right. My sister … bring …”

  “Well then, that’s okay.” The nurse said, holding Miss Emaline’s wrist in practiced fingers. “She’ll be along, I suppose? My, your sister surely has a lot of children, hasn’t she?” Miss Emaline nodded mutely. “They were all in the lobby yesterday. Somebody told me they were such good children.” The nurse took the thermometer out, her eyes brilliant with kindly curiosity. “How many does she have, anyway?”

  “Seven,” said Miss Emaline firmly.

  The nurse exclaimed, flipped the mercury down expertly, and went away. Miss Emaline lay back to rest and heal and feel time passing. Nobody—nobody—knew where she was except Callie. And Callie knew nothing. And nobody knew Callie. Bobby was safe. Miss Emaline would endure. It was only until Wednesday. Unless, in the newspapers—ah, no matter. Miss Emaline knew what she ought to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the morning they went winding through the Sunday-silent countryside, a little west, a little south. Jean was quietly falling in love with Eire. Quietly, because it wasn’t a time for puppy-dog enthusiasm.

  Harry had ordered breakfast up, and when she had come bounding, refreshed from a long sleep, and he had told her the news from Los Angeles in rather an offhand way, Jean had sensed quickly that he was more worried than he admitted. So she had kept a quietly decent outer cheer herself. Still, she couldn’t help feeling really cheerful, because here they were, doing the best they could, and meantime … Oh, this green land!

  Their suitcases were in the tiny car. Once they had investigated the green pig, there was no telling what their destination then might be. Harry would have to make some phone calls, whatever happened. With luck, he could tell his brothers exactly what to do. Otherwise, it all lay chancy. They would have to see, for instance, what Bonzer might know.

  They had been progressing toward the green pig very slowly, what with the unfamiliar driving on the left side of the road and finding their way by map alone. They had been lost for half an hour, just getting out of the city. Then, on their way, Harry had been watching behind and after about an hour’s going in the country he had taken evasive action. A car or two had seemed to him to have taken too many of the same turns. So they had ducked behind a country inn and gone inside for refreshment.

  Jean had fallen in love with the Inn of the Black Dog and had wanted to know if they could come back here, supposing they were to spend another night in Eire. But Harry had said that they were not in Southern California, where the common folk drove fifty miles to dinner and back. Shannon was on the far side of their village. they might fly from Shannon. And even fly by night. If they needed an inn, there would be another inn. He had proved his point.

  So they continued, and seeing nothing suspicious behind, they had come along as directly as they could figure how to go, but slowly, on these darling roads, with Jean eating everything with her eyes, feasting against famine, against having to leave all this too soon, alas.

  They had fallen into a companionable silence. Even the fact that they had fallen into bed in the same hotel suite, but not into the same bed (on the flimsy excuse that they had been so tired) was no longer making them feel somewhat sheepishly remiss, and traitors to their generation. So they went on, rambling and winding in the green dish of the land, with Jean yearning to stop and stay there at every new curve of the road.

  When, nearing noon, they were only four miles from their village, Harry announced that he thought they might best go to the hotel first. They had ascertained that there was one, although not called an inn, which fact Jean silently deplored. They could take rooms, whether they needed them or not, Harry said (he could afford it). He said he would need a base for telephoning. They would need a meal. They also had to find out where the castle was, and the name of the people who lived in it with their little daughter Deirdre.

  So they would discover the name at the hotel, from some garrulous native, and afterwards their approach would be wide-open, quick and decisive. They would tell these parents the whole story at once, and be done with deviosity. Surely no reasonably kind person would refuse them the green pig. And speed was the thing, wasn’t it?

  While Jean silently deplored the need for speed, they came into wooded hills and glimpses of lakes. Now the road wound downward and there lay the tiny village. She gasped and cried, “Oh! I want to stay here.”

  It was so tiny. There were perhaps ten buildings, all told. The buildings were tucked into the green, so strict in line, so neat, so white, stone-strict, spare, serene. There could be no such thing as speed, in this place.

  Harry drove very slowly down into the cluster and, sure enough, there was the hotel (which was an inn, de facto, if Jean had ever seen a movie in her life). They pulled up and got out of the car. Jean was avid to get inside, but Harry touched her arm and she turned.

  Behind the few buildings that were tucked against a slope at the other side of the road and above them, on a kind of high, meadowlike, green-grassy shelf, there stood a castle. It was small, as castles went. It was young, for a castle. It had stood only a few hundred years. It was a child’s cardboard castle. It stood white and square, with crenelated horizontal roof lines and tiny turrets at the corners. It was too much! Jean closed her eyes to see whether it would vanish.

  When she opened her eyes and it had not, she glanced up at Harry and caught him smiling at her with a certain tender amusement that vanished in an instant.

  They went into the hotel.

  They went through a rather narrow, darkish passage and came out at the other end into an oddly divided space where there was a man in charge. Surely they could have rooms. And a meal? Surely, said he. There to the right was a parlor, adorably ugly. A woman appeared, very small, dark-haired, pinkcheeked, and at the sound of the first word out of her mouth Jean was totally enchanted and turned to follow her like one in a trance.

  The woman, in full tongue, went first up a narrow stair, Jean next, and the man after, with the suitcases. Harry let them go. Himself, he went back to the entrance. He stepped out upon the stones of the small pavement before the door and g
azed up at the castle.

  There was a youngish man with a pipe in his mouth, leaning against the white wall of the hotel. Harry hoped that he would prove to be the garrulous native.

  He said, “Who lives in the castle?” Yon castle? he thought to himself wryly.

  “Butler,” said the lad, taking the pipe out of his mouth and making the mouth into a three-cornered smile.

  “The name is Butler?”

  “It is.”

  “Not Lord anything?”

  “Mister Butler,” said the lad, and said no more. Garrulous he didn’t seem to be.

  “They’d have a telephone? I mean, they are on the telephone?”

  “Surely.”

  “How do I find …?” Harry was wondering if this wee village was served by such a thing as a phone book.

  “There’s Miss Beale, from the castle,” the lad said, “if you’ll look there, and Miss Deirdre Butler going along beside her.”

  “Huh!” Harry’s hair stood on end. He brought his gaze lower and on the opposite margin, across the street, if it could be called a street, were walking a plump woman in a tweedy costume and a little girl who was wearing a plaid skirt and a blue sweater, as a little girl should. The woman walked with a heavy lumbering, and the child tripped daintily.

  What stupendous luck! Jean was upstairs. Harry couldn’t wait. He took off like a rocket.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stepping in the path they were taking.

  “What is it?” said the woman in a high sharp voice that disapproved of him at once. She was in her stout forties, her fleshy face was high-colored, she had been stopped in her tracks; her eyes flashed cold.

  But Harry was staring at the child. So fair of skin was she that he could see the blood coursing, the pink coming and going. “Your name is Deirdre?” he said on a fond note, with an admiring beam in his eye. “And you were in Los Angeles, California, last Thursday evening, now weren’t you, honey?”

  The child’s eyes were a very light blue and they widened and her face stained pink and then paled. He hadn’t expected to frighten her.

  “What is it, if you please?” the woman said, breasting forward protectively.

  But Harry said to the little girl, “Hey, do you still have the green piggy?”

  The woman said, “You are obviously an American. Perhaps you do not know that a gentleman does not stop persons and address them improperly.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Harry, turning charm on her belatedly. “I believe you are Miss Beale?”

  “I am.” The woman bridled, taking, it seemed, further offense, if possible.

  “And this is Miss Deirdre Butler? Hi, Deirdre.” He tried again with the child.

  But Miss Beale thrust the child behind her.

  “If you are acquainted with Mr. Butler …”

  “No, no,” said Harry. “No, I’m not. But you see, ma’am, Miss Deirdre is in a position to do me a very great favor. And here I’ve come all the way from California …”

  His worried-cherub look was having no effect.

  “I suggest,” said the woman, not changing her expression, which had begun with disapproval, continued with disapproval, and seemed determined to remain disapproving forever, “that you speak to Mr. Butler about whatever concerns you. Not that Miss Deirdre concerns you. I can tell you, here and now, that if you are a film person from California, Miss Deirdre is not available for vulgar exploitation.”

  Harry gaped.

  “It is unthinkable,” said Miss Beale.

  “It sure is!” gasped Harry. “Listen. Of course I intend to speak to her father. But it’s Miss Deirdre who can do me a kindness, and I’m sure that she would.”

  This woman had never cared for cherubs. “Her father may give you permission to speak to her,” she said, “but I cannot. May we pass?”

  “Just a minute,” said Harry, disapproving of her as heartily as he liked. “Could she answer that one simple question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. You must address yourself properly to the proper person,” said Miss Beale. “I cannot stand here conversing with a stranger in the village street. May we walk on?”

  “Listen Deirdre …” Harry began. But the child looked as if she would burst into fragments. She was changing color so painfully that it was as if words were whips and made her cringe.

  So Harry said, “Well, I’m sorry,” and stepped back.

  The two of them walked away. Harry stood and stared after.

  Then he picked up his heels and loped across to the hotel. “So,” he snapped at the lad who was leaning against the wall, “the little princess is guarded by a dragon, eh?”

  “Surely.” The man spit out his pipe. “That Beale!” he said with three-cornered contempt. He said no more.

  So Harry dashed inside. He seemed to hear female chatter going on above him, but the hotelkeeper was there and Harry persuaded him to indicate the phone, to divulge the number, and to explain how to work the contraption.

  Harry knew he had made a mistake. He ought not to have pounced upon this little girl in the village street. Go through channels, eh? Okay, channels. But Harry was smarting, just the same, not being used to having a door slammed in his wealthy young, moderately charming American face.

  When a voice admitted that he was now connected with Ballycoo Castle, Harry said, “My name is Fairchild. May I speak to Mr. Butler, please? He does not know me, but this is an important matter. I came from California especially to see him.”

  “Beg pardon? Where is that, sir?”

  “California.”

  “Yes, sir, but where is that, sir?”

  “California, the United States of America,” said Harry. “Hollywood.”

  “I see, sir.” The voice seemed satisfied now. “I shall inquire, sir.”

  Harry fumed, waiting.

  After long minutes the voice came back. “Mr. Butler is engaged, sir. Perhaps if you were to ring at another time.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Harry. “This is an urgent matter. I would like to make an appointment to talk to Mr. Butler very soon. As soon as possible. Now, in fact.”

  “I shall inquire, sir.”

  More minutes.

  The voice said, “Mr. Butler instructs me to say that he is engaged with guests, but perhaps in a day or two …”

  “That won’t do. I’m sorry. Can’t he give me five minutes this afternoon? Now?”

  “I believe not, sir.”

  “But look … Okay, what about Mrs. Butler?”

  The voice was mute (as Harry guessed) with shock, so he said, “All right. The one I really want to talk to is Miss Deirdre. When may. I come up and see her?”

  The voice gasped. “Not at all,” it said, stiff with horror. “Mr. Butler, as he has instructed me to say, will see you in a day or two.”

  “The hell he will!” said Harry furiously—and fortunately a little late. The voice was gone. The line was dead.

  The hotelkeeper was watching him, head lowered, eyes upturned. “What’s the matter with those people?” cried Harry.

  “It happens they’re busy,” the man said. He, too, had a three-cornered smile. He shook his head slyly.

  Harry raced down the passage to look out, but the walking figures were not to be seen. So he raced back, and up the stairs, ducking his tall head lest it be bashed on some beams, roaring around corners toward the sound of voices. There were Jean and the landlady, the woman twinkling and beaming, and Jean bouncing.

  “Oh, Harry, these rooms! Oh, have I got things to tell you!”

  “I,” he said sourly, “just saw Deirdre.”

  It was as if he had hit her. “Where?”

  “Oh, walking by. Attended by a dragon. Hight Miss Beale. A regular Princess Deirdre—not permitted to speak to the likes of me.”

  “Oh,” said Jean instantly, “because you’re a strange man. Oh, let me see her.” She flew for the stairs and Harry went down behind her. But there was nobody walking in the village street.

&nb
sp; “She’s gone! Oh, I’m sorry.” But Jean did not look sorry. In fact, her hopes had leaped higher, because Deirdre, the green-pig girl, was here and not (as she might have been) elsewhere. So Jean turned her beaming face. “But wait ’til I tell you … It’s so darned antique and legendary you won’t believe …”

  Harry took hold of her arm and yanked her back inside. “Will you stop being the jolly girl tourist for two seconds,” said Harry, “and shut up and listen?”

  He dragged her back into the parlor. He was already contrite, as he dumped her down upon a wooden seat and made for the bar. There must be a bar. There was. Shut up tight. But deviosity was not unknown to the Irish, so Harry came back with two glasses of whiskey and put one into her hand.

  He said glumly, “Okay, I apologize.”

  She looked up at him with a tiny frown, which changed even as he watched into lines of pure inquiry. “Tell me what happened?” she said. “I’m sorry. I just forgot and enjoyed myself again.”

  There were no sarcastic notes in her voice. He felt that this was not only uncanny, it was something of an insult. “Did I say you shouldn’t enjoy yourself?” he glowered.

  “No, no. Tell me about Deirdre.”

  So he told her. Finally he said despairingly, “Do you remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Believe me, this kid looks as if she’d jump out of her skin, if she dared to call even her soul her own, that is. What we have here is the antithesis of good old Sally Jo. So now what? Now, I got to slay dragons? Or else the hell with it … Be Tom, Tom, the Piper’s son? At my age?”

  “What will you do?” Jean said with a tense, controlled sweetness. When Harry got off in this vein it slew her. It really did.

  “Go there. Get in. Get the damn you-know-what. How is what I am trying to discuss.” Harry was very cross.

  “Would you like to know,” she said, “what’s going on in the castle and who the guests are?”