The Sea Cave

by Alan Scholefield

  After twenty minutes or so they returned to the ground floor and had coffee. When they were leaving Lady Bixby said to Kate, ‘You must come down to my place in Hampshire one day and see the English countryside in summer.’

  Three days later an invitation arrived for a week-end in late June.

  In her present frame of mind, Kate did not feel like making the effort to go, but Mendel said, ‘I’ve heard of her house-parties. Amusing people. Good food. And good for business, too. Most of her friends are in the hat business or women’s garments. Contacts, you know. You can never have too many.’

  So she had accepted the invitation. The house was in Alresford and she arrived by train on Saturday afternoon. It was beautiful, an old converted mill set in beds of watercress so that the garden was, in fact, the shallow and slow-moving river. From the windows she could see large trout finning in the current.

  Lady Bixby met her and showed her to her room. When Kate came downstairs after freshening herself up she found that, apart from her hostess, the house was deserted. ‘I thought it would be nicer to have the place to ourselves,’ Lady Bixby said.

  They walked up Broad Street to see the village and buy lobsters at the fish-monger’s.

  It was then that Kate realised that her hostess had meant it literally when she said they had the place to themselves. There were not even any servants.

  Telling Kate to call her Vyvyan, she mixed dry martinis in a silver shaker before dinner. She was wearing white flannels and a blazer with red and gold stripes in the Edwardian manner. Round her throat was a red bandana knotted in the way Kate had seen road-menders tie their handkerchiefs in Scotland. She smoked oval Turkish cigarettes. Her hands were square, the finger-nails bitten back to the quicks.

  Kate had never seen a room like her drawing-room. It was large, with great glass windows looking out over the cress beds. The furniture was of tubular steel and black leather, but its most astonishing feature was the floor, which was made of glass bricks under which the river flowed, with its trout and waving weed.

  ‘It makes a talking point,’ Vyvyan said. ‘Let’s take our drinks outside.’

  On the side of the house that faced away from the town, a wooden walkway, a kind of verandah without a roof, had been built out over the water. She took Kate’s arm and they walked slowly up and down. Kate had the sensation of being part of the river itself.

  After dinner they had coffee in the glass-floored room. The curtains had been drawn and the only light was under the water. The room was transformed into an aquarium. Trout swam towards the light and lay in a circle around it, their mouths opening and closing. Kate could even see water snails and larvae.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ she said.

  She felt Vyvyan’s hand on her arm. ‘So are you.’ Kate turned and Vyvyan kissed her on the mouth. She felt the wetness of her lips and tasted the brandy she was drinking. Her stomach clenched with revulsion but she managed to control her anger and gently removed the other woman’s hand. She crossed the room to stand by the curtained window.

  ‘Did you like that?’ Vyvyan said, moving towards her.

  ‘My taste is for men.’

  ‘My dear, the two are not mutually exclusive.’

  ‘That’s what my husband feels.’

  ‘Ah. And you don’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  Vyvyan shrugged, then smiled and lit a cigarette. ‘Well . . . put it down to experience. Have another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. I think I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘Quite sure I can’t join you?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  She locked her door and put a heavy chair in front of it.

  The following morning she woke and packed and went downstairs. Vyvyan was up, hut in a dressing-gown. She was older than Kate had first thought.

  ‘Do you like a cooked breakfast?’

  ‘Just toast and tea or coffee.’

  They ate out on the wooden balcony in the sun. Kate was more relaxed now, for Vyvyan looked, in the hard morning light, less threatening than she had in her exotic drawing-room. She made no reference to their conversation the previous night. She also looked as if she had a hangover, and Kate assumed she had gone on drinking alone.

  When they had finished their coffee and Kate was wondering what time the first train left for London, Vyvyan suddenly said, ‘Have you heard of Brown Brothers?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘I suppose not. They’re not in London yet, but they will be. They’re what’s called a chain-store. Horrible American word. It means there are lots of them. Brothers called Frederick and Lester Brown started with a single drapery shop in Manchester in 1903 and at the last count I think there were two hundred Brown Brothers all over Britain, and others opening by the hour, or so it seems.’

  ‘What do they sell?’ Kate said politely.

  ‘Everything. They’re called multiples. Another American word. Big women’s departments, catering for the less expensive end of the market. Massive turn-over. Huge profits in the last five years. Are you wondering what on earth this has to do with you? I’ll tell you. A month or so ago I was aproached by Frederick Brown. They want to buy my label, “Vyvyan”, and they want me to design and manufacture a range of hats for their stores.’

  She broke a piece of toast and threw crumbs into the water. Trout threshed in excitement.

  ‘I’ve been working towards something like this for years. But first one had to make a name; Brown Brothers are fussy. Well, I’ve made my name catering for the idle bloody rich, now I’m going to cash in. But there’s a problem. The margins are small. The profit comes with high turnover. So everything has to be cut to the bone. And that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me?’ Kate was genuinely surprised.

  ‘At least half of the hats I make will be trimmed with feathers. If I had my choice I’d trim with a whole range from bird of paradise to silver pheasant and jungle cock to ostrich, but I don’t have the choice. The Anti-Plumage lobby has seen to that, God rot them. So I’m left with ostrich feathers. And it doesn’t take a genius to work out that if I can cut the price of the feathers, my profits will improve. Now do you see?’

  Kate said, ‘The feather market regulates its own prices. Supply and demand. I don’t see how you can get them cheaper.’

  ‘What about if I found a primary supplier at the Cape?’

  ‘You mean a farmer?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You mean, you want me to supply feathers direct to you, the manufacturer?’

  ‘Why not? I’d cut you in on a percentage of the profits and pay you a slightly higher margin, anyway. No middlemen. Direct from you to me. Benefit us both.’

  ‘But I – or we, I should say – supply direct to Mr. Mendel.’

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s what I’m saying. Instead of supplying to him, you supply to me.’

  ‘But we have a contract with him.’

  ‘In writing?’

  ‘No, not in writing.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘But don’t you buy from Mendel?’

  ‘You haven’t understood,’ she said impatiently. ‘I want to cut him out.’ Kate looked at her blankly. ‘It’s business. Mendel would do it to me if it was the other way around.’

  Kate shaded her eyes from the glare on the water. ‘It’s very bright out here,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll fetch my hat.’

  She went into the house, picked up her suitcase and left by the side door. At this hour of the morning, the village was quiet. She walked quickly to the station. The London train came steaming in seven minutes later.

  All the way back to town she thought of Vyvyan and the house built over the river. Last night she believed she had been invited down for a sexual romp. This morning she realised that there had also been a matter of business. It seemed that Vyvyan liked to combine the two.

  Mendel arrived back from his cottage in the late afternoon and they were having a glass of sherry before dinner when he asked abou
t her visit. She told him the whole story. When she described Vyvyan’s proposition about the direct sale of ostrich fathers, she thought he looked shocked, and told him that had been her own reaction.

  ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘No, not that, that’s business. She’s right, I would have done it to her. But the other thing. That wasn’t nice.’

  *

  The experience left her in an even worse state of indecision. That week there were more letters from the Cape. The pressure to return to Saxenburg was increasing, and her resistance to that, combined with a sudden disgust for ‘business’, caused her to do the one thing she had said to herself she would never do. She went to the offices of the Chronicle in Fleet Street.

  ‘The Editor?’ said the commissionaire. ‘You got an appointment, Miss?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, dear, you got to ’ave an appointment to see the Editor.’ He pointed to a man sitting behind a counter. ‘You go and speak to that gentleman. Tell ’im your business and he’ll advise you.’

  Kate had thought that it would be a simple matter to see the editor, tell him that she wished to contact Tom and be given his address. In fact, the process took much longer than she had expected.

  ‘You tell me what you’re wanting, Miss,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘I’ll see what can be done.’

  She kicked her heels for fifteen minutes before a middle-aged man, holding galleys in one hand and a heavy lead pencil in the other, appeared and said impatiently, ‘You’re asking for Tom Austen?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to Vienna. He’s an old friend from South Africa.’

  ‘Well, he’s not there. Had a cable this morning. He’s gone to Zagreb.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Yugoslavia.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She looked so crest-fallen that his manner changed. ‘He’ll probably be back in Vienna next week. When were you thinking of going?’

  She paused. ‘Next week.’

  He smiled. ‘You’ll find the address of our office in the telephone book under Chronicle. Have a good journey.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Innsbruck . . . Innsbruck . . .’ The voice echoed through the dining-car. ‘Innsbruck Hauptbahnhof!’

  It was a brilliant July day and Kate was sitting at lunch in the Arlberg-Orient Express. She looked out of the window as the train began to slow down. In the crystal air, the Solstein, which rose sharply beyond the city, seemed close enough to touch.

  ‘Has Madame finished?’ The waiter looked inquiringly at her half-eaten plate of Veal Marengo.

  ‘Yes. Some coffee, please. How many more stops before Vienna?’

  He counted on his fingers. ‘Kitzbuhel . . . Schwarzach . . . Salzburg . . . Linz. Four, madame.’

  The lump in her stomach tightened. It had lain there since she had left Victoria Station the previous day. She had been unable to eat at all on the first leg of her journey. In Paris, where she’d had a few hours to kill, she had forced down an omelette in a small café near the Gare de l’Est. Since then, she had only been able to drink a cup of coffee for breakfast just after Zurich.

  Now, as she returned to her wagon-lit to sit out the afternoon, she thought about Tom. Would he want to see her? Would he have someone else? There must be many women among the English colony in Vienna, or even among the Viennese, who would consider themselves lucky to catch him. But the most important question was, had he married again? It was something she had not dared ask her informant in the newspaper office. She could have written to him. She could have cabled. But what if he had said, don’t come? When she left the train in Vienna, she would be physically there. If she had to contend with a girlfriend, then contend she would. But a wife would be a different matter.

  She lit a cigarette, one of the many she had smoked since boarding the train, and stared out at the rich green pastureland and the high, jagged peaks of the Tyrol. She had expected to endure moments of regret and confusion for the decision she had made to travel to Vienna, but there had been none. There was apprehension, certainly, but it was mixed with excitement. She was aware of a ruthlessness in herself she had not experienced before. She wanted to see Tom, she was going to see Tom, and nothing short of a derailment would stop her. The only twinge of conscience she’d had was when she had gone to her bank in Cockspur Street and arranged a letter of credit. The money had come from Saxenburg, but she told herself that it was hers, she had earned it in more ways than one.

  Then she had told Mendel her plans.

  ‘Vienna?’ he had said, startled. ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Mrs. Preller has spoken so much about it. I want to see it for myself.’

  ‘If I’d only known, I would have come with you.’

  ‘I’m a big girl now,’ she had said, smiling. ‘I’ve already travelled a long way by myself, and I’m sure the Viennese are no different from other people.’ She had put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Now don’t be so solemn!’

  He had taken her other hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Thirty years ago, I would not have let you get off so lightly. Never mind thirty, even twenty!’

  Now, as she sat in the train, London and Mendel seemed to be disappearing down the wrong end of a telescope. Her every thought was on the immediate future. Would Tom have changed? She tried to visualize him, and found that she was able to create his body in her mind, but not his face. That was ironic, for he had never been out of her thoughts, not for one single day. There had always been part of her that was shut off and enclosed, and his alone.

  She closed her eyes and dozed, rocking gently with the swaying of the train. Her dreams were of Saxenburg, of the spume rising from the reef, of a woman walking along the winter beach with blood seeping from a wound in her neck . . .

  The train stopped at Linz. She woke with a start, and saw Jonas. He was standing on the platform, his arm upraised, his mouth open. For a moment he was quite still, and then he moved and it was not Jonas, but an Austrian with a long feather in his Tyrolean hat. His face had been in shadow and had looked dark. She shivered in spite of the summer heat.

  Vienna was scorching in the late afternoon. The city had an exhausted feeling about it and the air lying over the Danube valley was stale. There was a hot, gritty feel about everything and the smell of steam and engine oil and coal hung over the Westbahnhof.

  She had already decided that she would book into a hotel in the centre of the city for the night. At the barrier there were uniformed hotel servants from Sacher’s and the Bristol and the Grand meeting passengers from the train. She quickly learned that without a reservation she would have difficulty finding a room. One of the servants suggested she try just outside the centre and gave her the name of a small hotel in Döblingerhauptstrasse.

  Within half an hour she was unpacking. Her room looked out over the suburban main street. Clanking trams moved along it constantly. Opposite was a sign saying, Cafe Filz, Gösserbierkeller. Backhändelstation. To her left was a small square with a few plane trees. Their leaves were dusty and drooped in the heat.

  Her plan had been to have an early night so she would look her best in the morning, but now she felt she could not wait.

  She looked up the Chronicle’s address and the hotel porter called her a taxi.

  The office was in the First District, in a building near the Dorotheum auction house. When she arrived, the heat had gone out of the day and in the early dusk the air was soft and warm. The building was old, with a large, dark foyer weakly lit by three gas jets. She found a tenants’ list, picked out in gilt on a blackboard. The New York Herald, the Allgemeine Zeitung and De Telegraf also had suites in the building. She had barely started to read the list when she heard the gates of a lift open behind her and a group of people emerged. She was half conscious of them, hearing their footsteps cracking crisply on the marble floor. Then she heard a laugh. It was so familiar and unmistakable it wrenched her heart. She would have known it anywhere in the world. She turned to greet Tom. Three men and a woman had emerg
ed from the lift. Two of the men were already on the pavement. Tom and the woman followed. They paused at the door and he took her arm with casual familiarity and led her out.

  Moving automatically, Kate went to the entrance. She saw them walk along the pavement, Tom still with his hand under the woman’s elbow, talking. Although she could no longer hear it, in her mind there was still the echo of their laughter.

  They crossed the road and entered a coffee-house. She followed. Gathered curtains covered only the lower half of the windows and she could see into the interior. It was not large. Men were reading newspapers they had taken from a roll-rack near the door.

  Tom was at a table, leaning forward, talking animatedly. Her eyes touched his face. The briefest glance was enough to bring back every line. Then she looked at the woman. She was young, with a youthful plumpness and dark hair caught back in a bun. She was very pretty. Kate stared with such intensity that the woman seemed to sense it and glanced about her uneasily. It was not possible to see whether she was wearing a wedding-ring.

  After a few minutes, Kate turned away and walked slowly along the street. She did not know how long she walked, nor where.

  In the train she had asked herself what she would do if Tom had another woman, but had not come to any conclusion. Now it had happened and she still did not know what to do. She walked for nearly an hour, criss-crossing the inner city until it was almost dark, then she returned to her hotel.

  She had brought with her a flask of cognac. Mendel had given it to her for ‘medicinal reasons,’ and now she sat by the window and drank half a tumblerful, knowing it was the one sure way to sleep. As she sipped it and looked out into the evening, she remembered another hotel, another window, another feeling of desolation.

  *

  The brandy did the trick. She slept for nearly nine hours. In the morning a kind of nervous energy seemed to pour through her body. Why shouldn’t she look up Tom? She was in Vienna and would simply say she had seen his name in the Chronicle. It was a natural thing to do.

  She breakfasted on coffee and a roll, then set off once more for his office.