“But Friday is the day of the party,” I protested. “We can’t even see each other then.”
“Oh yes we can,” she said, with a touch of her schoolgirl cockiness. “In a funny way you might even be at the party … if you want to be, that is!”
“But Di, talk sense! If I …”
“Listen,” she said, drawing her brows together in a way I remembered her doing when she was planning mischief in the past, “all you have to do is to be handy at a certain time and wait for my signal. Then you walk straight in and I’ll keep you in cold storage until all the others have gone to bed. It’ll be wonderful that way, a simply glorious score off everyone, and a way of eating my cake and having it too!”
“Wouldn’t it be far less risky to meet in Nun’s Cove at any old time? We don’t want another scene to spoil your birthday!”
The mischief went out of her eyes and she took my hands in hers and said, with immense seriousness:
“It’s simply because it’s my birthday—don’t you see—that you’re going to be at the party, Jan. Everyone I don’t care two straws about is there and I’m not going to dodge out and walk three miles to get a birthday kiss from the one person I really want to be kissed by! Does that sound unreasonable to you?”
I laughed, partly because she sounded so solemn but more, I think, because her words brought me great happiness.
“No, Di,” I admitted very readily, “it sounds more reasonable than anything you’ve said so far.”
“Well then,” she continued, “you do just as I say. Now listen carefully—the party won’t get going until the supper dance and …”
It was the usual hotchpotch of involved timing and theatrical nonsense. I was to come to Heronslea about ten P.M. and await her signal—the tune “Missouri City Waltz,” played by the band, which would precede the buffet supper and provide my opportunity to enter by a little-used door that led through the flower room to the gun room. She undertook to meet me there and give me further instructions. We parted on this and I cycled back to Whinmouth with a sharp appetite and some misgivings, both outweighed in my mind by the memory of the eagerness with which she had run into my arms when I emerged from the tower to greet her.
It clouded over toward evening on Friday. I cycled as far as Shepherdshey Hill and left my bike in the gorse at the fringe of the big copse. There was no moon and I had a difficult time of it pushing through the wood to a spot where I could overlook the house. As I blundered along I wondered whether what remained of my boyhood was secretly enjoying this hocus-pocus, or whether I had consented to practice it because it was the only terms upon which Diana could or would continue our association. I never found a satisfactory answer to this query, the reason being, I suppose, that my reaction to the role of secret suitor was governed by the barometer of my faith in Diana. This went up and down almost hour by hour these days. Half the time I was convinced that she was only awaiting her moment of freedom in order to declare herself, at other times I was equally certain that she was using me as a kind of grappling iron to hang on to childhood. What she had said about my transmission from boyhood to manhood was true. The lack of a father throughout infancy, and the death of my mother before I was fifteen, had bridged the gap between boy and man in a matter of months and the process of growing up was further accelerated by Uncle Luke’s helplessness when I went to help him at the Furniture Mart.
It had been so different for Diana. Consciously or unconsciously, her parents had done everything in their power to arrest her development, not only by working to rule and charting a conventional future for her, but also by surrounding her with hordes of servants, a circumstance that prevented her from learning to do the simplest thing for herself. She had revolted against this, of course, and her rebellion showed itself in her furtive association with me and her readiness at all times to flout authority. At the time of which I write, when she was physically mature but in most other respects two years behind the average working-class adolescent, this defiance of her mother’s pattern of behavior was little more than the deliberate act of a spoiled child; it was not until later that it developed into a deep-rooted characteristic and fed upon its own appetite for acts of calculated irresponsibility.
When I reached the edge of the copse bordering the fenced paddock in front of the house, I saw at once that Heronslea was very much en fête. From where I stood it looked more like a roadhouse than a beautiful country home. Greenery and balloons festooned the façade and over the pillared porch, which was extravagantly floodlit, was a vulgar set piece in colored bulbs, representing a giant birthday cake. It crossed my mind then that Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton was redoubling her efforts to supply her only child with gigantic helpings of the wrong pudding.
Nobody knew better than I that Diana, viewed objectively, was basically an uncomplicated and extremely affectionate child, without false pride and without ostentation. All she needed at that time was someone who could understand her natural high spirits and pull firmly on the reins when she frisked over the rails of common sense. She wanted a just, tolerant rule, tempered by strong, demonstrative affection. She needed someone to canalize her abundant energy into something mildly creative. All she was getting was unlimited dishes of caviar and ice cream, to be eaten in the glare of spotlights. She only had to raise a finger to command the material wants of a sophisticated woman twice her age, but now that poor Drip had been banished she might look in vain for a shoulder to weep upon. Looking at the glitter of Heronslea in the dark bowl below, I began to understand what had prompted the childish eagerness of her kisses at the foot of the tower a few days ago, and it struck me as remarkable that she was as fresh and unspoiled as she was, for her mother by design, and her father by acquiescence, had done everything humanly possible to convert her into an impossible little brat.
I could hear the band playing a waltz, and by avoiding the circle of light thrown by the decorations and porch lamps I was able to approach the house quite closely and look in upon the celebrations.
Although the afternoon had been overcast and rain now threatened, the temperature of the night was unusually high, even for mid-June. There was not a breath of air in the open and inside the overcrowded house it must have been insufferably close, for all the French windows opening onto the terrace had been flung wide, and every now and again little groups of guests drifted out onto the raised flags and sat at tables or on the low windbreak to sip their drinks. I recognized several of the guests. Lance Fayne, the M.P.’s son, was there and Gerald Brett-Hawkins, the landowner’s son. As I watched, Diana herself came out with Yves, the French boy, and a knot of six or eight young people surrounded them, saying something that made Diana throw back her head and laugh. Then the music recalled most of them to the dance floor but one couple remained in shadow at my end of the terrace and as soon as the others had gone moved into a passionate embrace. It was all very smart, streamlined and jolly, but I turned away quickly when I thought that I might have to watch Diana being kissed by someone like Lance or Yves, and retired sulkily to the rhododendron clump to await “Missouri City Waltz.”
It was a long time coming, and before I heard it heavy drops of rain began to fall and drip through the leaves where I was sitting. The moment the tune struck up I scrambled out and went around to the flower-room door, which was shut but unlocked. I went in, pushing through the litter of ferns and flower stems left by the gardeners and into the paneled gun room, where it was pitch dark.
I remembered this part of the house from my tour of inspection and after waiting a moment, to make certain that my entry had passed undetected, I opened the door a chink and listened to the music and laughter coming from the central hall. A manservant clumped past, whistling in tune with the band, and I remembered that the passage outside connected the wine cellar and the housekeeper’s flat, with a back staircase halfway along it. Then, soundlessly save for a swift rustle of her ball dress, Diana was beside me, whispering
“Jan? Are you there, Jan?”
I f
ound her hand in the dark and drew her to me. Her perfume banished the room’s whiff of gun oil and resin and I kissed her bare shoulders.
“No, Jan, not now, there’ll be plenty of time—I’ll be missed, come quickly and don’t say a word on the way!”
We stole out into the passage and crossed it to the stairs. The stairs led into the west corridor that branched off the central gallery, and a cacophony of music, laughter and plate rattling rose from the well of the big staircase. We turned our backs on it and slipped along the corridor to her side of the house.
“In here, quickly!”
She pushed me into her little suite and I saw that it was much changed from the last time I was there. It had been extended to include a little dressing room and a tiny bathroom, with a sunken bath. The simplicity of the room that had struck me as a boy was now buried under a van-load of hangings and antique furniture. It had the heavy, impersonal atmosphere of a modernized chateau. Although in good taste, the colors were too rich and the carpet was too thick. The rooms had Mrs. Gayelorde-Sutton’s signature scrawled in every corner.
“I can’t stay here, Di,” I protested. “This is sheer madness!”
“No one comes in here and you can lock the door,” she said, hurriedly. “Better still, don’t lock it … leave it ajar, and if anyone comes along the corridor go into the bathroom and lock that. That’s the last place anyone would expect to find a private boy friend!”
She giggled as she said this and I realized that she had been drinking. I think I might have resisted the idea of remaining hidden in her bedroom until the party finished in the small hours, but she gave me no opportunity. After drawing the heavy curtains she skipped out, blowing a kiss from the door.
It was about 10:30 by now and I knew that I could not expect her to return until after one A.M., at the earliest. Now that I was alone, however, I was exhilarated by the prospect of spending several hours isolated among her things. It brought a touch of intimacy to what had looked like being a damp and dismal evening, with my nose pressed against the pieshop window of Heronslea watching others enjoy themselves. There was triumph too, triumph over my dinner-jacketed competitors downstairs. Each was licensed to paw Diana in public, sharing her with a hundred others, but up here, cut off from the roar and clatter of the party, I was alone with the real Diana and secreted in a place where her dreams had flowered since she was a pony-mad schoolgirl.
I began to savor the privilege, stealing around and touching the things she handled every day, silver-backed hairbrushes, pots of make-up, the perfume spray, and even the pillow that held the scent of her hair.
I prowled across to the book alcove and found my own gift, the inscribed copy of Lorna Doone. Under the inscription was something written very indistinctly, in pencil, in Diana’s handwriting. I took it over to the pink bedside light and deciphered it—The tower, New Year’s Day and then a cross, signifying, I hoped, that this pencil mark was a record of our first kiss.
I examined her other books: Alan Seager’s poems and several other books of verse, ancient and modern, Drip’s classics that did not seem to have been read very much, and a row of Ethel M. Dell, Angela Brazil, Ruby M. Ayres that showed signs of constant use. I went back to Lorna Doone and sat down on a seat that looked like a pink, tilted plate resting on wicker legs. Outside heavy rain was drumming against the tall window and I read quietly until I heard someone cough in the corridor. Alarmed, I scrambled up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door and listening intently when I heard the bedroom door squeak, a faint clinking sound and then silence.
After listening for another five minutes I opened the door an inch and peeped out. No one was there but on the bedside table was a plate covered by a spotless napkin, and beside it an opened bottle of champagne. Diana had evidently remembered that I might want supper.
I was in fact extremely hungry and the sandwiches were very good. I had wolfed them all before I noticed two words scrawled in lipstick inside the fold of the napkin. She had written Use toothbrushglass. The message made me chuckle, for somehow it showed that the spiriting of someone like myself into a place of honor at her party was providing the hostess with more genuine pleasure than anything going on downstairs. I drank half the champagne and it gave me confidence and elation. I listened at the door to the sounds of revelry below—odd shrieks, bumps, oohs, ahhs and the contant undertone of saxophones. I tried to identify the tunes but failed, except in the case of “The Gay Gordons” which, judged by the uproar, seemed to be no end of a romp. My sense of private triumph mounted. I took off my shoes, tie and windbreaker and stretched myself on her bed, hazy with champagne, drunk with bliss. Suddenly I was quite sure that everything would work out perfectly, and lulled by reassurance I dropped off to sleep.
The prolonged rustle of her dress awakened me. I had turned off the bedside lamp and now only a chink of light entered the room from the corridor. I started up in alarm, cursing myself for being such a fool as to sleep with the door ajar. My mouth was dry from champagne and nervousness but Diana did not seem at all nervous. I heard her shut and lock the door. Then she called, softly, “Switch on the light, Jan, the small one.”
I switched on and saw her smiling down at me. She was slightly tousled and her cheeks were flushed. There was the slightest suggestion of unsteadiness and this she exaggerated by clasping her hands behind her back. Her mascara had run a little and her lipstick was slightly smeared.
“I believe you’re a bit tight, Di,” I said, chuckling.
“Yes, I believe I am,” she admitted deliberately. “Just the weeniest bit, that is, but not nearly so tight as most of them.”
“Have they all gone?”
“All that are going. A baker’s dozen are staying the night.”
“I didn’t hear any of the cars. I must have been sound asleep.”
“Poor Jan! Have you been frightfully bored?”
“No, not a bit bored. I loved being up here, it was like being near you all the time.”
She smiled vaguely, picked up the open copy of Lorna Doone and clicked her tongue in mock disapproval.
“Tch, tch! Jan Ridd wouldn’t have gone to sleep uninvited in a maiden lady’s bed!”
“Jan didn’t get the chance,” I told her.
She considered this, then dismissed it. There was something studiedly casual about her manner and I decided that it wasn’t just the champagne.
“Do you want any more to drink?” she asked, suddenly.
“No,” I said, “only water. My mouth is like a sandstone cave.”
“I’ll have a sip,” she said, and poured a little into the toothbrushglass.
“Have you thought up how to get me out of here?” I asked.
“We’ll think about that later. What time will it be light?”
“About five, I should say. What’s the time now?”
“Two-thirty,” she said, finishing her drink and glancing at her diamond-encrusted watch. “If we allow half an hour to get you clear that gives us two hours. Right!” She suddenly became brisk and businesslike. “Turn out the light!”
She said it as a command and when the room was in darkness she slipped around the bed, drew back the curtains and threw open the window. The current of air was like a kiss. Away in the wood a nightjar screeched but the only other sound was the faint plop of raindrops falling from the rhododendrons under the window.
She remained by the window long enough to make me impatient. Then I heard her dress rustle and realized that she was stepping out of it.
“I won’t be a minute, Jan,” she said, and there was a strong tremor in her voice. She went into the bathroom and I heard water running. I knew then that she meant to give herself to me, not only because she wanted to but because to do so, here at this moment, was part of a planned ritual. This was the ultimate defiance, a surrender that mocked everything in her past and present, and it was to be here, on this special occasion, in the tabernacle of the enemy’s temple! She had planned it this way, down to the last de
tail. All the time her parents had been sending out their gilded invitations, all the time the staff had been furbishing and decorating Heronslea, all the hours that she had been drinking, chattering and dancing with people her parents had chosen as companions, her mind was racing toward a different kind of milestone, one that marked the very end of her childhood.
For a moment, a few seconds only, I resisted the invitation. I told myself, breathlessly, that she was not quite sober, that no good could come of a gesture as wild and reckless as this, and at the back of my mind there was another scruple, a miniscule of doubt that I was not being used as Jan Leigh, a human being whom she desired and who was hopelessly in love with her, but once again as the banner of the undefeated, advancing against the ramparts of convention. It all added up to the feeblest resistance on my part and was swept away by the first touch of her lips. For a moment, as she threw her arms around me, I was choked with a tenderness and gratitude so vast and intense that I played no immediate part in the embrace. Then I forgot to be grateful and all the tenderness I had for her was drowned under a sea of delight. I became rough and impatient to master what was so freely offered.
We lay without speaking for what seemed a long time. At first, so regular was her breathing that I thought she was asleep but she was not, for presently her hand moved gently across my face and began ruffling my hair, softly and rhythmically, as a mother strokes a sick child. Then I was bitterly ashamed of my roughness and almost wept to think of it. It was not the guilty feeling I had after my experience with Madeleine. As regards the act itself I felt only pride, but it seemed to me that my violence had given her cause to believe that she had been used impersonally and for that I wanted most desperately to apologize, only the words would not come. Like Madeleine she sensed my distress, using almost the same words.
“You’re not sorry, Jan? You won’t go away and hate yourself for it? You mustn’t, you know, because it was how I meant it to happen and I’m glad it has! There’s nothing furtive about us any more, you see, and nothing beastly either, as there would have been if it had been with anyone else. It’s right that you should be the one and I’ll never be sorry about it, never, do you understand?”
Diana Page 28
