Nothing

by Henry Green

  He laughed. “No I’d heard of that before dear Jane.”

  “You truly had? Sometimes, lying in my lonely lonely bed at night I wonder if I just imagine I’m alive and all these queer things are true. Because I don’t like to say it but Philip is simply very odd. He asks me the most extraordinary questions John.”

  “Does he now?”

  “Oh I don’t want to go into things,” she said in haste. “Were we like that once dear?” she asked. Then “are we never to be served?” she demanded with hardly a pause and in the same voice. At which she called from the table an unintelligible phrase in which she displayed great confidence to be answered by an understanding, distant shout.

  “Mary’s been displaying quite an interest lately,” he suggested.

  “Has she? No you know you have really something there in that girl,” she said. “Mary’s such a sweet child.”

  “Thank you Jane,” he replied. “Yes,” he went on, “she seems quite taken up with the past for the present, no pun intended.”

  “What past?”

  “Ours of course,” he answered. “What other could she wish to learn at eighteen? She wants to know the who’s who of all our friends and to find out even if you and I didn’t see a deal of each other at one time.”

  “Well I don’t know if I’d care . . .” Mrs. Weatherby murmured.

  “And you don’t imagine I’d blurt I don’t know what out to me own daughter?” Mr. Pomfret demanded. “No what’s over is over.”

  “Maybe for you perhaps,” she responded. “Oh how must it be to be a man?”

  “Trousers my dear are very uncomfortable. I wish I wore skirts. No honestly since my tailor lost his cutter to a bomb in the war I haven’t been able to sit down to meals in comfort, it’s frightful.”

  “Would you like to go out for a minute then since we never seem to be going to get anything to eat?”

  “What and leave you on your own darling?” he cried. “At the mercy of a foreign language you hardly understand?”

  “I speak Italian quite nicely now thank you,” she smiled. “And do you know, I’ve never had a single lesson.”

  “Don’t don’t,” he wailed. “When I think of the daily woman who changes every two months and who what she calls cooks for us.”

  “My poor John you should have someone to look after you,” Mrs. Weatherby said obviously delighted.

  “Oh Mary’s very good,” he said at once. “It’s not her fault you know.”

  “I do realize, who could understand better than me?” she exclaimed. “If I hadn’t always been so quick with languages I’d be in the same boat,” she cried. “But it’s not the children’s fault, John. We could travel, try our accents out and they still can’t.”

  “Mary’s very good,” he said “only she won’t get me jugged hare.”

  “Jugged hare?” Mrs. Weatherby echoed in plain desperation. “Jugged hare! Oh my dear does that mean you are very difficult about it? Because that’s precisely what I’m giving you this evening.”

  Her lovely eyes filled with tears. He got to his feet, went round to the back of her and kissed a firm cheek while she held her face up to him.

  “My perfect woman,” he said.

  “But should I have remembered?”

  “You have,” he answered sitting down again. “My favourite dish.”

  “That’s just it John oh dear,” she cried. “You’re an expert, you’ve tried jugged hare in all your clubs and now here’s poor me offering it to you cooked by a Neapolitan who probably thinks the jugged part comes out of a jar in spite of all I poured out to her about port wine! And I tried to teach her so hard darling. There’s still time to change though. Would you like some eggs instead?”

  “But I told you,” he replied eyes gleaming “you’ve picked my favourite. Jane this is a red letter evening.”

  “I only hope it will be,” she said at her most dry. “We’re still at the stage of just having had the soup. Some more wine John?” and she passed the bottle then went to shout down the shaft.

  “Io furiosa” she yelled “Isabella!”

  A long wail in Italian was the answer.

  “No don’t darling, I can smell it at last,” Mr. Pomfret laughed. “And it is going to be delicious.”

  •

  At the same great hotel in which they held their Sunday luncheons Mrs. Weatherby reserved a private room to entertain old friends in honour of Philip’s twenty firster.

  Standing prepared, empty, curtained, shuttered, tall mirrors facing across laid tables crowned by napkins, with space rocketing transparence from one glass silvered surface to the other, supporting walls covered in olive coloured silk, chandeliers repeated to a thousand thousand profiles to be lost in olive grey depths as quiet as this room’s untenanted attention, but a scene made warm with mass upon mass of daffodils banked up against mirrors, or mounded once on each of the round white tables and laid in a flat frieze about their edges,—here then time stood still for Jane, even in wine bottles over to one side holding the single movement, and that unseen of bubbles rising just as the air, similarly trapped even if conditioned, watched unseen across itself in a superb but not indifferent pause of mirrors.

  Into this waiting shivered one small seen movement that seemed to snap the room apart, a door handle turning.

  Then with a cry unheard, sung now, unuttered then by hinges and which fled back to creation in those limitless centuries of staring glass, with a shriek only of silent motion the portals came ajar with as it were an unoperated clash of cymbal to usher Mrs. Weatherby in, her fine head made tiny by the intrusion perhaps because she was alone, but upon which, as upon a rising swell of violas untouched by bows strung from none other than the names of unicorns that quiet wait was ended, the room could gather itself up at last.

  As after a pause of amazement she stepped through, murmuring over a shoulder “oh my darlings” the picture she made there, and it was a painting, was echoed a thousand thousand times; strapless shoulders out of a full grey dress that was flounced and soft but from which her shoulders rose still softer up to eyes over which, and the high forehead, dark wings of her hair were folded rather as a raven may claim for itself the evening air, the chimes, the quiet flight back home to rest.

  “How good of Gaspard,” Jane said with an awed voice. At which Philip and Mary entered in their turn. The boy switched on more light.

  “No don’t,” Mrs. Weatherby reproved in the same low tones. “You’ll spoil it all,” she said.

  “But it’s lovely,” Miss Pomfret murmured.

  Pascal sidled through the door which he closed, then turned the lights down again until the room held its original illumination, and there was now the difference made by this intrusion of bare arms and women’s shoulders. Mary studied hers in a mirror she had reached. Dressed in black with no jewellery the similar milk white of her face and chest was thinner, watered down beside Mrs. Weatherby’s full cream of flesh which seemed to retain a satisfied glow of the well fed against Mary’s youth starvation. But there was this about the whites of Miss Mary Pomfret’s eyes, they were a blue beyond any previously blessed upon humanity by Providence compared with the other ladies present, and it was perhaps to these sweet rounds of early nights that her own attention turned because Jane’s were red veined as leaves.

  “Is Madame satisfied?” Pascal asked, almost one old friend to another, his false restaurant accent forgotten at this minute.

  “Monsieur Medrano you are truly wonderful,” the lady said. “When I had to sell my precious brooch to give the evening I didn’t know—how could I tell . . .” she faltered, and he could see her eyes fill with tears.

  “We have done my best for Madame,” the great man answered. “Madame is more beautiful than ever,” he proudly announced. “I say to Gaspard, ‘Gaspard’ I said ‘let all be as never before my friend because you know who will be taking our Parma rooms tonight.’ ”

  “No don’t—you mustn’t—I shall really cry in a moment,�
�� Mrs. Weatherby exclaimed from the heart. “But it is perfect!”

  “Jolly good,” her son brought out.

  “Ah Philip please not, I’m sorry to be so rude, you see you’ll ruin this perfect thing! There do just be content to be an angel and simply place the cards.”

  Pascal made small adjustments to napkins folded into linen crowns.

  “You did tell the chef about our soufflé?” Mrs. Weatherby asked eventually.

  When the great man replied he used the restauranteur’s manner.

  “He said it over to me by heart, by heart I made him repeat, Madame. And we have a small favour to ask Madame. We will order orchids for the ladies, gardenias for the gentlemen if you please?”

  “But Pascal good Heavens my bill!”

  “The management they come to me,” he proclaimed “they say ‘it is not often we have with us Mrs. Weatherby Medrano.’ They remember Madame. No no Madame if you will allow us it is on the ’otel,” he said.

  “It’s too much, children have you heard? Pascal you must thank Mr. Poinsetta very specially from me. No I will come tomorrow myself!” She fingered daffodils here and there on the top table, not to disarrange these but almost as though to reassure herself that all were true, to prove to her own satisfaction that she was not bewitched.

  “I shall be at call,” Pascal said and sidled out. Mrs. Weatherby followed him with her eyes. When the door was quite shut she turned the glance on Mary who was still examining herself in a glass. The older woman stared.

  “My dear you look sweet,” she gravely said.

  “Doesn’t she,” Philip answered from his task.

  “Do I?” the girl said and turned to him.

  Mrs. Weatherby frowned.

  “Wonderful,” she echoed. “And isn’t it good of you to come so soon to help. I always feel nervous, distracted before a party I’m giving. And now this divine place has truly done us proud! Philip I wonder if you realize there aren’t many women in London they’d put themselves out for in this heavenly way.”

  Her son looked up, the seating list in one hand. “You’re telling me,” he said. “Look Mamma you’ve a card here,” he waved it, “and there’s no mention of him on my plan. Mr. William Smith.”

  “Nonsense my dear, poor William’s dead these ages past.”

  “Well there’s his card.”

  “Give it here Philip. That must be an old one. Why it’s all yellow. How odd and sad,” she tore the thing up into very small bits. She looked about for an ashtray. “How dreadful,” she murmured. “Philip you didn’t do this to me?”

  “Never heard of the man,” he replied with what was obviously truth.

  “Mary my dear I wonder if I might bother you,” Mrs. Weatherby suggested brightly. “Such a shame to leave these pieces when everything’s fresh! Of course there is behind my daffodils in the fireplace but I rather think not don’t you, I never like to look the other side of anything in hotels. Could you be sweet and put them right outside?”

  Mary received those pieces, was reaching for the handle, when the door opened and her father’s head appeared.

  “Well here we are,” he cried at his most jovial. “Hello my love,” he said to his daughter as she passed him. “Jane my dear, me dear,” he boomed then strode towards her.

  She offered him a cheek. While he kissed she pushed hers just the once sharply back at him. She did the same when he kissed the other side.

  “Dear darling John how kind,” she cried. “D’you think I did right? I said I wouldn’t have Eduardo to announce the guests. After all we do all know each other don’t we?”

  “As long as they find the way dear. I notice Mary has. Until I found her note at home I distinctly thought we were to come on to this together.”

  “It’s been such true kindness in her to arrive early and help,” Mrs. Weatherby insisted. “No the cloakroom people will tell stragglers where we are. And then I shall send Philip out to round them up. But haven’t they done me proud darling?”

  “Why but you’re the only person out of all London tonight Jane! Even at this sad hotel they realize that.”

  “You’re such a comfort indeed! Philip have you finished with those cards?” At which Mary Pomfret ushered Richard Abbot through the door. “Oh Dick!” their hostess cried.

  “I say I say,” he said as he advanced and kissed both her cheeks in turn while she pushed sharply twice back, at him. “Well look at you,” he exclaimed gazing fondly on her. “Wonderful eh?” he demanded and ended with a “Simply astounding!”

  “But which?” she demanded radiant. “The room or me?”

  “God bless my soul, both. No, here, what am I saying? Dear Jane,” he said, “could there be a choice? I mean with you standing there! Hello John. Seems we’re a bit early aren’t we you and I?”

  “Darling Richard,” she murmured. “Oh I’m so lucky!”

  Then another male guest entered. Mrs. Weatherby greeted him with warmth but gave the man no more than the one cheek which she held immovable and firm under great mischievous eyes.

  The party had begun.

  •

  Half the guests had put in an appearance before Miss Jennings presented herself looking sadly pretty and also, on closer inspection, quite considerably upset.

  As Liz made her way to greet the hostess through a small crowd of company drinking cocktails John Pomfret came forward, as if breasting the calls with which Miss Jennings greeted so many friends in order to give her special welcome. She did not pause but hissed,

  “Oh my dear where have you been? I phoned you all day,” and then found herself before Mrs. Weatherby, to burst into exclamations, to praise, to receive praises until she had her chance alone for a moment with Jane.

  “Darling d’you know what that beastly Maud Winder’s said? That I was tipsy at Eddie’s dance.”

  “But I’ve never heard anything so frightful in my life,” this lady cried albeit in a careful, restrained voice. “Oh my dear how criminal of Maud!”

  “Isn’t it? I think I could hate that woman Jane. Have you invited her tonight?”

  “If I’d only been told,” Mrs. Weatherby exclaimed with caution. “What can I say? But Eddie’s here and he won’t move without her,” as another I could mention without someone else, her wary eye expressed unheard to be taken up silently again and again in tall mirrors.

  “Then you could ask him if she told the truth. No Jane I do so wish you would,” Miss Jennings implored with open signs of agitation.

  “As though I should even dream of such a thing! Liz your worst enemy, not that you have one in the whole wide world darling would never conceive of anything horrible like that.” Upon which, well out of sight down along a plump firm thigh Mrs. Weatherby crossed two fingers.

  “But isn’t it terrible . . . ?” Liz began and had to stand back for a newly arrived couple who came up to go through the shrill ritual of delighted cries at Jane’s appearance, at their own reaction to the flattery she repaid with interest, and at the blossoming, the to them so they said incredible conjuring up out of these perfect flowers, of a spring lost once more for yet another year to the sad denizens of London in rain fog mist and cold. When these two had drifted off Miss Jennings was able to start afresh.

  “As if I ever did drink, really drink I mean. Oh my dear and I was so looking forward to this heavenly evening!”

  “You must put it quite out of your sweet head,” Mrs. Weatherby proclaimed with emphasis while she smiled and nodded when she caught a guest’s already perhaps rather over bright eye. “I shall speak to Maud myself. This is too bad.”

  “I’m not at her table oh do say not!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing you’re with us John and me of course,” upon which Miss Jennings with a hint of timidity in her bearing as if she’d just heard yet another insinuation against her security had once more to step back while a second couple paid respect. Then when these two had done with Jane they descended for an endless minute on Miss Jennings until at
last they picked their way off towards the drinks.

  “My dear can’t I get Philip to fetch you just a little one?” Mrs. Weatherby asked.

  “And leave Maud Winder draw her own conclusions?” the younger woman wailed. “Because if you had sat us down a place away from each other then I really believe I’d have had to beg you to change round the cards.”

  Jane put on a stern look.

  “Liz darling you can take these things too far,” she begged. “Oh what haven’t I suffered myself in my time from idle tongues! Why only the other day my own child came to me with some extraordinary tale that I’m sure I’d never heard ever but about me of course. Sometimes I think stories of that kind hang about like nasty smells in old cupboards and I’m sure are just as hard to get rid of. Forget all about it, I know I have. The mere suggestion with someone like you darling is too ridiculous for words. And I always say when I see a man drink cider at meals that means he can’t trust himself.”

  “Maybe I will have a weak one then.”

  “Philip,” Mrs. Weatherby waved. “Philip! Martini or sherry?”

  “Oh perhaps a sherry please.”

  “My dear boy Miss Jennings has nothing to drink! You must keep moving around you know. Liz would like a sherry and I think I’ll try one of those martinis. Oh dear I’ll be drunk as a fish wife if I do, but hang it’s what I say, might as well be hung for a lamb or whatever the silly phrase is Liz don’t you agree, you must!”