Deck With Flowers

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Something up?” he inquired.

  “No.”

  “You’re looking queer. Been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Not really. A problem in connection with a book we’re publishing.”

  “Can’t understand why you took up a profession that keeps you at a desk. Not that there’s much for young men these days. Wide field when I was starting out in life: India, Burma, Malaya and so on. No future in starting off in any of these newly developing countries; you never know when you’re going to be kidnapped or booted out or wiped out or some other damn thing. When I can’t sleep at night, I find m’self laughing out loud, remembering the days when all we had to do when the Chinese got uppity was to send in a gunboat and tell ’em to say they were sorry. Funny world, today. Open any magazine, you find it’s full of naked women. Read a newspaper, and as likely as not it’s the views of some whipper-snapper well to the Left, teaching his elders how to run the country. Turn on the television, if you’re fool enough to have a set, and you’re confronted by a lot of wild bushmen peering through matted locks and twanging two chords on a guitar. If everybody over thirty was wiped out of existence, nobody under thirty would give a damn. When I was young, it was duchesses who set the fashion; now it’s sixteen-year-olds posing with their mouths open—what’s their trouble, adenoids? I like to know what’s going on, but thank God I don’t have to participate any more. Write me off as an escapist. What did you say was the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your mother well?”

  “Yes. My father, too.”

  “Don’t care how he feels. Damned silly feller. He might be able to dock a battleship without scraping its paint, but once shore, he’s not good for much.”

  The old man was talking, Rodney thought, to draw him out of his preoccupation, and he felt grateful.

  “Don’t harbour grudges,” he said. “My father only had it in for you because you used the money he was going to use to educate us. I had to work twice as hard in order to win scholarships.”

  “Did you good. Where’s that girl you brought to my house?”

  “With her mother, in a house above a shop in Yarrow Lane. A cake shop.”

  “That patisserie?”

  “Yes. She was born in that house.”

  “If you know where she was born, you must be interested in her. Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she one of these career women?”

  “No. Her talents are domestic.”

  “Then marry her. I wish to God I’d married my cook, when I had one. That’s all a man needs, at the end: a good cook. If you’re in any trouble, and you look as though you are, I can’t give you money, but I can give you advice.”

  “I’m not in trouble. A book that was going to bring in a lot of money is about to fold up, that’s all.”

  “Good book?”

  “Memoirs.”

  “Whose?”

  “Madame Landini’s.”

  “Ah. Never heard her sing, not in person, but I’ve heard her records—who hasn’t? She’s folded up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all that’s on your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lucky. At your age, I was fighting my way out of a breach of promise case.”

  “Breach of promise? You?”

  “It never got to court. I paid her off. Cost me a lot, but it was cheap at the price. She was a cloakroom attendant at one of the London theatres, forget which. Grasping girl. How far have you got with this girl at the patisserie?”

  “I haven’t started.”

  “Then do; she’ll make you comfortable. Marry her, and it’ll hit your father where it hurts most. Under all that simple- sailor front, he’s a snob of the first water. Sea water. Now I’ve got to get back. Coming, or staying to brood?”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Then don’t talk. I can’t walk and talk too.”

  They no longer had the wind in their faces. They were blown along, buffeted, sometimes finding it difficult to keep their feet as they were thrust forward by gusts that felt like rough hands on their backs. When they neared the town, his uncle turned away with no more than a gesture of farewell. Rodney went on, finding company in the wild, wind-tossed waters beside him.

  He left the sea front and wandered through the streets. Some time later, he remembered that he had not eaten; the discovery was followed by the realisation that he had no desire to eat. Not until the light had begun to fade did he go back, use the key he had been given and make his way up to the room he had left hours before.

  There was no sign of Mrs. Baird. Nicola was laying the table.

  “Your face …. your hair’s wet,” she said.

  He was taking off his coat. He hung it in the kitchen and with the towel she gave him, wiped his face and hair dry.

  “Did you eat?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “Well, we’re going to eat now. My mother’s resting. I made her go and lie down.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Baird appeared in the doorway of her room. Like Nicola, she was pale, but calm. Rodney thought the day had aged her.

  “I am not going to eat yet,” she told them. “I’ll have something when you have gone. Just get something for yourselves, Nicola. I will make coffee.”

  It was a silent meal, but there was no tension; each sat lost in thought. When Nicola rose to clear the table, her mother stopped her.

  “Wait, please. Sit down. I have something to say to you. To both of you.”

  Nicola sat, but it was to Rodney that Mrs. Baird’s next words were addressed.

  “You know that Nicola was going to leave Madame Landini yesterday, but couldn’t give her notice because Madame Landini had gone out for the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can only say that I regard this as a special Providence. Because of course Nicola must go on working for her.”

  “Go on working for... go on working” Nicola sounded stunned. “Go on working for her, knowing—”

  “Wait till I have finished, please. Didn’t you tell me that it was important for the publishers, for Rodney, that these memoirs should be finished?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please don’t worry about the firm, Mrs. Baird,” he broke in. “It won’t crumble. We’ll be all right. As I told Nicola, I never really believed this would go through. It’s very kind of you to worry about that angle, but all you have to do is think of Nicola.”

  “It is of Nicola that I am thinking. Do you remember how seriously she spoke, in this room, when she said that it was important that Madame Landini should go to the end of the book? It is no less important now. But she will never write another line, another word, until she can be freed from this fear that she is living with now. We, we three, are the only people who can free her. We have got to prove to her, prove without any doubt, prove now and for always, that this watch never belonged to Anton Veitch.” She held up a hand as Rodney and Nicola began to speak. “Wait, please, both of you, You must listen to me. I have not been resting. I have been planning. I will say again that we must prove, so that here is no doubt any more, that the watch Nicola was wearing never belonged to Anton Veitch. I don’t know exactly how we shall do this, but I have one idea, and this is it: The watch has no inscription. I’ve told you how it was given, when Satz took it off his wrist and put it on to my husband’s. Nobody thought of an inscription. It was a tribute, made impulsively. It wasn’t until we heard that Satz had died that we wished at least that his initials had been on the watch.” She rose, went to a drawer, took out the watch and laid it in front of Rodney. “There it is. Look for yourself.”

  He examined it, and then glanced up at her.

  “What was your idea?” he asked.

  “It is a very simple plan, but I think that it would work. I want you to take the watch to a good place in Lond
on, and ask them to make an inscription.”

  “No,” said Nicola.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Baird. “The watch was made in 1900 or 1902, I’m not sure which. We will say that it was made in 1886, to be given to a couple who were going to be married. We will put on it the initials of my grandfather and my grandmother: C and A-M. And we will put the place and the date: Zurich 1886. When the engraving is done, Nicola will wear the watch and when she finds an opportunity, she will tell Madame Landini that she is quite certain that only one watch of that kind was ever made—and she will show her the initials. And there is another thing to think of: photographs. Madame Landini has to see those photographs of Hans, who is supposed to be Nicola’s father. This is the difficult part—how can she see them unless Nicola is staying in her house? Nicola must think of a way to stay there.”

  “Never in this world,” Nicola declared. “Never, never.”

  “In some way,” Mrs. Baird went on, unheeding, “Rodney must arrange this. Nicola must be in residence, as Madame wanted her to be. It need not be for long. Certainly not for more than a week. During that week, everything in Madame Landini’s mind would be put at rest. But I don’t know how it can be arranged.”

  “Look, Mother—”

  “No, Nicola. Think more clearly, please. Am I planning this only because the memoirs should be finished? Just consider: can this situation be left like this? You know that it cannot. For Rodney’s sake, for your sake and for my sake it cannot. Shall I be able to forget and go on as before, knowing that Madame Landini is unsatisfied, suspicious, searching, may at any moment begin to make wider inquiries? Can you really go on with your life, wearing your father’s watch, wondering how many people had seen it on him, wondering if Madame Landini would perhaps decide that you know something of the past? It is impossible. You know as well as I do that something must be done. I know that what I am suggesting sounds silly, even childish, but what else is there? The only difficulty, the only danger is the watch. Convince her that it was never Anton Veitch’s, and everything will be as it was before.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Rodney began, “but I don’t know whether Nicola would ...”

  “Say it, then we shall see,” Mrs. Baird urged. “What is it?”

  “As I said, only a suggestion. When Nicola goes to work on Monday, she could tell Madame Landini that my parents are coming up from Cornwall to stay with me for a week, so that I’ll need her room. Nobody would expect her to rent a room just for one week, so she could ask Madame if she’d agree to her living on the job until my parents leave. It’s only an idea, but it might work.”

  “No, it wouldn’t work,” Nicola said. “All she—”

  “Yes, it may,” Mrs. Baird broke in. “Nicola, you must agree to do this.”

  “No. It’s what you called it: silly, childish.”

  “It’s also simple,” Rodney pointed out. “It’s so simple that it might work.”

  “Are you afraid to go, Nicola? Don’t say at once; think, and then answer truthfully.”

  “I’m not afraid she’ll attack me, if that’s what you mean. All I’m saying is that the idea sounds to me a sort of kindergarten game, and I don’t think much of it.”

  “But I do,” Mrs. Baird said. “You must agree to go, for one week. During that week, you must make quite sure that Madame Landini finds nothing, learns nothing that she is looking for—which is, evidence that the watch belonged to Anton Veitch. You will take the photographs of Hans, to display in your room. I have snapshots of him; they are faded, but they will do. You must bring them out when you speak to her of your childhood. You must be careful to go over every detail with Rodney, so that she cannot catch you in any mistake. Above all, you have to remember to say that your father had no music in him, never touched an instrument in all his life, but all the same was disappointed when you showed no talent. You know Switzerland. You must speak of it, describe the house which used to be Hans’ house, speak of his relations, because they are of course also your relations. I am sure that if you can build a picture for her, and show her the inscription on the watch, she will be convinced.”

  “I’ll coach her,” Rodney promised.

  “I am afraid she is not good at acting.”

  “She’s an expert at giving wrong answers. I’m sorry it means putting a false inscription on the watch.”

  “Why be sorry?” Nicola asked. “Inscriptions are put on to make people remember, and I’ll certainly remember the week I spend in Madame Landini’s house. I suppose you’re going to tell all this to Oliver Tallent?”

  “Tell . . . tell Oliver?” He stared at her in stupefaction. “Tell . . . Do you think he’s ever going to, anybody’s ever going to hear me utter one word of what’s been said in this room today? Do you? What do you take me for? What the hell do you think I’m going to do—hurry back to London and call up Oliver and Claudius and Phoebe and—”

  “Now, now, now,” Mrs. Baird broke in soothingly. “Nicola didn’t mean what she said.”

  “Does she think I can’t be trusted to treat this—”

  “All I thought,” Nicola said, “was that as he was your friend, as well as being Madame Landini’s agent, your personal and professional sides might get tangled up, that’s all.”

  “Oh, that’s all? I suppose you thought I—”

  “Don’t shout. I take it back.”

  “You accused me of—”

  “No, Rodney,” Mrs. Baird interposed. “She only—”

  “What kind of girl is it who could bring a man down here, know that he’s seen her mother going through hell, and then think he’s going out with a megaphone to—”

  “My kind,” Nicola said. “Will you cool down?”

  “Please, Rodney.” Mrs. Baird spoke appealingly. “Have you forgotten that Nicola went through something this morning, too?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I made the mistake of thinking that we were going through it together. I would have thought that there was enough between us by this time to ensure that whatever she went through, I’d be going through too. I would have said that living in the same house, seeing each other every day, trying to work out what was the matter with Madame Landini, coming down here with a photograph that blew up in our faces ... Wouldn’t you have said that after all that, a girl would—”

  “Yes, Rodney, yes. It was just that Nicola—”

  “It’s his red hair,” Nicola explained. “It makes him take off like that. One day, I’m going to hold him down and dye it.” She was on her feet. “Come on,” she ordered.

  “Come on where?” he asked.

  “First we clear away these things. Then we go back to London, where you and my mother between you have made plans for me. Mother, will you help me to pack all the clues?”

  They drove back through the wet streets, seeing everywhere the havoc wrought by the storm. Trees were down, roof tiles lay in the roadway. There was little traffic, but Rodney drove cautiously. Nicola, beside him, said little. Once, when they passed through a well-lit area, he glanced her and saw tears on her cheeks. He said nothing, and gave no sign, hoping that she was finding relief from the day’s strain.

  He drove the car into the garage. She waited beside him as he locked up, and spoke as they were walking to the house.

  “Next time your hair goes up and takes you with it,” she marked, “you’ll be able to call me a bastard.”

  “Thank you. I’ll make a note.”

  “It’s a pity nobody but you will ever know, isn’t it?”

  “You want the fact broadcast? It’s not an unusual distinction.”

  “Not unique. I suppose not. It’s a funny thing; when I was at school, the word bastard always made me think of kings and queens. It seemed to me such a good start in life: a royal father, a beautiful and fascinating mother, and titles showered on all the little bastards, as in good King Charles’s golden days. Weren’t all his bastards created dukes—and what’s of even greater interest, weren’t all the female bastards created coun
tesses? It was a subject I liked reading up.”

  “Did your mother ever observe you poring over these interesting details?”

  “No. I did all my research at school. But it’s odd, in the light of today’s revelations, to think that I was interested. Do I have to tell my husband the dark truth, when I marry?”

  “If you’re so keen on bastards, why a husband?”

  “That’s a point. Here’s another: if your father ever found out that his ship had been sent steaming up and down the Channel for nothing, and told the naval authorities, could they put in a claim for waste of time and fuel from Anton Veitch’s wife and daughter?”

  “I’ll put it to him as a hypothetical case.”

  “When do I have to start being in residence?”

  “If you mentioned on Monday that my parents were coming on Wednesday, would you agree to going on Wednesday morning?”

  “I’d rather make it the following Monday—that’ll be a straight week without a weekend in between.”

  “Monday week, then. That’ll give you time to perfect the details. One week ought to see the whole thing finished and done with, and Madame Landini back to work again.”

  “If she ever gets to the end of her memoirs, I’m going to take a nice, long break. With my mother. To Switzerland. A sort of pilgrimage to my father’s homeland.”

  “Your grandfather’s.”

  “My father’s. Have you forgotten Hans?”

  Chapter 9

  The week that followed was not a happy one—but it was not, after all, Madame Landini who filled Rodney’s mind. His main preoccupation was Angela.

  It was now known that Oliver’s birthday party was to be the occasion on which his engagement to Henrietta Gould would be announced. Though Rodney had allowed Angela to persuade him that she had outgrown her feeling for Oliver, he now saw that he should have looked at her instead of listening to her. For all her declarations that she was over it, he saw that she was deeply unhappy. What for many years he had written off hopefully as a girlish infatuation had taken root. She would, he hoped and believed, resign herself to the situation as soon as Oliver was married, but these days, during which the topic was constantly discussed by the people she met, were proving hard for her to bear.