Deck With Flowers

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Come in, come in. You see, I am idling, while others work. Nicola is helping Guido, and being very useful, isn’t she, Guido?”

  Signor Piozzi, rising to bow to Rodney, bowed again to indicate that Miss Baird was indeed being of great assistance.

  “Perhaps you will join us at coffee?” Madame Landini asked.

  Rodney, who had refused a chair, shook his head. “It’s very kind of you, but I can’t stay, I’m afraid. I’m on my way back to the office to keep an appointment. All I came for was to bring Nicola her watch, but they told me she was up here with you, and—”

  “—and brought you up here; of course,” said Madame Landini. “I am sorry that you are in a hurry.”

  He had taken a small packet from his pocket. He went to the table and put it in front of Nicola.

  “There you are. I paid for it, and made a note to remind myself to remind you to pay me back.”

  She unwrapped the paper and took the watch from its box. She thanked him casually and was about to put it on her wrist when Signor Piozzi leaned over to look at it more closely.

  “Excuse me, please,” he apologised. “I have never seen a watch of this kind.”

  Nicola handed it to him across the table.

  ‘'You’ve never seen another,” she told him, “because this one’s unique. It’s the only one there is.”

  Rodney had taken leave of Madame Landini and was at the door. At Nicola’s words, he turned. If this came off successfully, he told himself, he would drop publishing and take acting as a profession.

  “Sorry,” he said, and shook his head regretfully. “No.”

  “No what?” Nicola demanded.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t what you’ve just said: unique.”

  “It is. My mother told me it was.”

  “I know. And you told me. But if you remember, you asked me to ask the watch-mender what it was worth. So I asked him. I was going to break the news some other time.”

  “There was only one watch like this made,” she insisted. “I told you—it’s unique.”

  “The word,” Rodney told her, “is not unique, but unusual, there are, this man said—and he can be presumed to know what he’s talking about—not many of them, but he himself, for the past fifteen or twenty years, has seen four. Don’t look disappointed; didn’t you say you’d never sell it because you want to hand it down to your children?”

  His eyes were on Nicola, but he knew that Madame Landini had put out a hand and that Signor Piozzi, rising, had put the watch into it. He knew that she was examining it. He knew that she was reading the inscription. Having ascertained so much, he did not linger. When going over the scene with Nicola, he had stressed above all the need to underplay—and the need for being as brief as possible. As he went down the stairs, he reflected that if anyone asked him at this moment, he would affirm that the scheme had been successful. Madame Landini’s manner as she looked at the watch had been one of only slight interest—but she had not remembered to ring for someone to show him out.

  He drove away with a feeling of unreality. No more than four minutes, no more than a sentence or two. Could so much bewilderment and anguish, so much weight of past events, be resolved in four minutes?

  He would soon know. She must, he thought, make her decision today. There would be news when he got home tonight, either from Nicola herself or, if she gave her a message, from Angela. He was almost certain to see either or both of them before he left for the party.

  But half an hour before he was due to leave the office, the telephone rang. When he picked up the receiver, he heard Oliver’s voice.

  “Rodney?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re all right for tonight?”

  “I am. I understand, but not so far from you, that it’s going to be a special kind of party.”

  “Well, yes.” No prospective bridegroom, Rodney thought, could ever have sounded so dejected. “I’ve left the arrangements to Henrietta and her mother, more or less. I’m sorry I .. . there hasn’t been much time to fix a meeting.”

  “That’s all right. What time tonight?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I suppose you couldn’t pick up Henrietta’s uncle from Paddington?”

  Henrietta’s uncle . .. They were closing in, Rodney noted.

  “What time does he get in?”

  “Seven-ten. He’s coming up from Gloucester and he’s staying on, so he’ll have luggage, which is why he asked to be met.”

  “Where do I take him?”

  “The hotel. The Tarrant House. Henrietta’s mother has got a room for him there. When you bring him, we’ll all join up. The party’s being held in the ballroom. You might find it a rush—can you do it?”

  Rodney calculated. He would have to leave the office at once, go home, have a bath, dress and drive to the station.

  “Barring traffic jams, yes,” he said.

  “Thanks. And there’s one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Name it.”

  “Flowers. For God’s sake don’t forget them, or there’ll be hell to pay; Henrietta’s got this mania for … Well, I ordered orchids for her and for her mother, but I left it too late for delivery, so they’ve got to be picked up at Claribel’s—you know that flower shop in—”

  “Yes. A box containing orchids, already ordered. Right?”

  “Two boxes. They won’t exactly weigh you down, but I’m sorry you have to go and get them. It’s important, remember. In fact, it’s vital. Will you make a note and hang it round your neck?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  He drove home. Nobody was in the house. He was out again in record time, and drove first to the famous flower shop, Claribel’s, where he was handed two small, scarlet boxes tied with narrow gold ribbon and bearing the name of the shop in gold lettering. He placed them carefully in the back of his car and then drove to the station. He did not get out; he assumed that Henrietta’s uncle would be on the look-out for whoever was meeting him. When a large, red-faced, elderly man carrying a suitcase made his appearance, he got out of the car and addressed him.

  “General Gould?”

  “Yes, that’s right. How d’you do, very decent of you to meet me, don’t know your name, but—”

  “Laird, Rodney Laird. I’m an old friend of Oliver Tallent.”

  “Ah. Hope you didn’t have much trouble getting through the rush-hour traffic; pretty thick at this time of day, too many cars nowadays, not much fun being on the roads, not much fun travelling at all, come to that. Oh thanks, yes, the suitcase, I’ll just shove it in the back. Oh, flowers? I’ll hold them; hand them over. Nice touch when a young man takes his hostess flowers, always done in my day but not nowadays, far from it, scarcely a thank you as they go out after being wined and dined, glad to see your parents brought you up so well.”

  “As a matter of fact, the flowers aren’t from me. I just collected them.”

  “Ah. Well, ah. Be glad to get into a bath and out of these clothes, I mean to say out of these clothes and into a bath. Don’t know anything about this hotel, my sister-in-law’s idea, hope to God she’s remembered I can’t sleep in a room over-looking the street, too much noise. Understand this is an engagement party, can’t get anything definite out of women, specially over a telephone, they waffle most of the time, but I did gather it’s this fellow’s birthday, never met him, which is odd, since I’m as you might say in the place of a father to Henrietta and a word or two about his prospects wouldn’t have come amiss, though they don’t seem to think it matters these days, might be time to have a chat with him quietly before the fuss starts.”

  But there was no time for a chat. They arrived at the hotel and the General and his suitcase were placed in the lift and taken up to his room. Rodney went to the bar and ordered a drink and was about to drink it when he heard himself being paged. When he identified himself, the small, uniformed boy asked him if he would please join Miss Gould at once in the ballroom.


  He did not hurry. Oliver might be under orders, but she needn’t think she could push his friends around. When at last he went to the ballroom, he found that it had been turned into a banqueting hall; there were two long tables and, at one end, a much smaller one—at which, he guessed, the principals would be seated. From there, the announcement would be made.

  There were already a number of guests. Henrietta, beautiful, he had to acknowledge, in cloth of gold, beckoned imperiously to him and as he drew near, spoke in an irritable voice.

  “Where on earth did you get to? I’ve been sending messages all over the place. The most awful thing’s happened. Oliver’s car has been stolen. Tonight, of all nights! He’s supposed to be here, helping me to receive, but he’s had to report it to the police. I’m sick of telling people what’s happened. And there’s another hitch: he told me he’d ordered flowers for me and for my mother, but nobody at the reception desk knows anything about them. They certainly haven’t been sent, even if he really remembered to order them.”

  Rodney, about to confess that he had brought them into the hotel, but had put them down and left them in the bar, decided to say nothing; he would give them to Oliver on his arrival, and let him present them.

  He edged towards the curtained entrance, said a few words in reply to Mrs. Gould’s greeting, and went back to the bar. Seated on a stool with two drinks beside him—his own and Oliver’s—he kept watch. It was nearly half an hour before he saw him come into the hotel. He went out to meet him.

  “Come and have a quick one,” he advised. “I’ve got it ready. And I’ve got the flowers.”

  “Thank God. Have you seen Henrietta?”

  “Yes. She told me about your car. When was it taken?”

  “Between my getting home, and coming out again—less than an hour. There was someone else’s car parked outside my front door; usually I make a protest and get it removed, but this time I was in a hurry, so I left mine at the end of the line, close to the entrance arch. When I came out it had gone.”

  “Keys in it?”

  “Well, yes. I usually take them out, but I was in my own yard, after all, and I wasn’t going to be long.”

  He looked pale and tired. Rodney, on the point of ordering a second drink for him, glanced at his watch and changed his mind.

  “Time to get in there,” he said. “They’re waiting to congratulate you—beginning with birthday greetings. Incidentally, many happy returns.”

  “Thanks.” Oliver emptied his glass and stared at the cube of ice left in it. “Remember last year?”

  “Yes. Why bring that up now? We were both heedless striplings, sipping the sweets of life and tripping o’er the meadows with a couple of nymphs. That was Cynthia, wasn’t it?”

  “No. Pauline. Cynthia was later. Remember the beach party at home on my twenty-first birthday?”

  “That’s a long way back. It rained.”

  “Not at first. There was a full moon. Then it was blotted out, and we couldn’t see where any of the food was, and somebody spilled hot coffee out of a flask all over my legs.”

  “That was Angela.”

  “So it was. I said some hard things at the time. I hope she didn’t hold them against me.”

  “She doesn’t hold anything against you. Will you come to the feast? And here are the two boxes of orchids. Don’t hold them like that—they’re supposed to be a presentation. And for God’s sake, will you smile?”

  Oliver, smiling, gave one of the boxes to Henrietta and the other to her mother.

  “Darling Oliver!” Mrs. Gould had not gushed on his earlier meeting with her, Rodney remembered; excitement, or perhaps it was triumph, had gone to her head. “A happy, Happy birthday to you!”

  There was a chorus of happy birthdays from the guests, who came nearer and formed a half-circle round the happy couple. Henrietta, after leaning over to give Oliver a playful kiss, gave her attention, as her mother was doing, to stripping off the gold ribbons tied round the boxes.

  “I adore, I positively adore orchids!” Mrs. Gould was exclaiming. “Three guesses as to what’s in here. One, two…”

  She gave a gasp. It was followed a second later by a low, curious sound from Henrietta. Both remained frozen, staring at the flowers they had lifted from the boxes. And as the eyes of the guests fell on them, a deadly hush succeeded the loud buzz of conversation and congratulation.

  It seemed a long time before Henrietta lifted her eyes, and Rodney saw in them an expression that made him take a cautious step backward. She spoke in a manner he had always thought to be confined to schoolboys playing villains in a school play: through her teeth. She was glaring at Oliver.

  “Would you mind explaining?” she asked him.

  Oliver’s face was a study in horror. His gaze went slowly from the bunch of wilted violets she was holding, to the nosegay of dead geraniums clutched in her mother’s hand.

  “You heard me?” Henrietta’s voice was louder, and at the note in it, her mother turned to murmur a warning.

  “Henrietta dear, don’t lose … be calm. Please keep calm. Don’t lose your temper. Oliver will explain. I’m sure he—”

  “I asked you a question,” Henrietta shouted. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re trying to do? How dare you!” she screamed. “You… you…”

  Fury choked her; she resorted to action. She snatched the box her mother was holding and with considerable force threw it, with her own, straight at Oliver’s face. One box caught him on the forehead; both fell to the ground. Mechanically, Rodney stooped to pick them up. He straightened to hear Henrietta’s next words.

  “Get out,” she ordered Oliver.

  “Henrietta”—Mrs. Gould’s voice was a wail of anguish— “do please calm yourself. Please…”

  “Get out. Did you hear me? Get out.”

  Oliver took a step forward and spoke in a voice hoarse with bewilderment. “Look, Henrietta, I assure—”

  He stopped. Rodney’s hand had closed tightly round his arm.

  “You heard what the lady said,” he told Oliver in a clear, carrying voice. “She said get out.”

  He led Oliver away. Feeling him hesitate, he tightened his hold. Behind them were sounds—Mrs. Gould’s prayers for their return, the General’s loud demands to be informed as to what was going on, the renewed, agitated chatter of the guests. Unheeding, Rodney marched his charge through the reception hall, held him close in one of the divisions of the revolving door, stepped on to the street and turned towards the square in which he had left his car. He put Oliver in, took his place at the wheel, found he was still holding the battered flower boxes and threw them into the back seat.

  “Rodney, I—”

  “Quiet.”

  “I swear I don’t know the first thing about—”

  “Quiet, I said.”

  “But I can’t run out like this without—”

  Rodney, now in the middle of the Knightsbridge traffic, drew the car to the side of the road, stopped and turned to face his passenger.

  “Do you want to go back?” he demanded.

  “God, no! After that? But—”

  “But what? Did you want to marry her?”

  “No. I swear to you, never. It was to be—”

  “—the usual try-out, but this time you were surprised to find she actually had matrimonial designs, right?”

  “Yes. I didn’t, I give you my word I didn’t once mention—”

  “—the word marriage.”

  “Not when it had become evident that . . . How it all worked up to this show tonight, I can’t tell you.”

  “I can tell you, but there isn’t time.” Rodney started the car and drove back into the main stream.

  “Where are you . . . where are we going?” Oliver asked.

  “To your house. To pack.”

  “Pack?”

  “You’re leaving. You’re going on a little trip.”

  “Trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where to?”
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br />   “Anywhere. Anywhere you can’t be followed. I suggest Oxford, that little pub I used to put my father into when he turned up.”

  He said no more until they reached Belthane Mews. He drove under the arch and past some parked cars. In front of Oliver’s house was Oliver’s car. They sat staring at it.

  “But it ... it wasn’t here when I went out,” Oliver said at last in a dazed voice. “It was stolen.”

  “Get out,” Rodney ordered, and hoped the words would not recall Henrietta. “Go inside and shove a few things into a suitcase, and make it a rush job. I’ll give your car a look-over to see if anything has been taken or ripped up.”

  There was no damage that he could detect. He went into the house, found Oliver still changing, and with an impatient sound, went to the hall cupboard and pulled down a suitcase from a shelf. Throwing it on the bed, he opened it and began to pack.

  “Not those shirts,” Oliver said. “The—”

  “Damn it, you’re not going to a ducal country house for the weekend. You’re going to a pub, and for God’s sake, can’t you hurry? Don’t you realise that in about ten minutes you’ll have mother and uncle on your heels? Where d’you keep your razor? Toothbrush? Pyjamas? Sweaters? That’s the lot.”

  “But—”

  “I said that’s the lot. Now lock up the house and get into your car. I’ll follow you to Paddington. If I weren’t dressed up, I’d put you on the train and wait till it pulled out, taking you with it. As it is, I’ll have to trust to your self-preservation instincts. If we drive fast, you might catch the nine-forty, which used to be quite a good train—if it’s still running. Come on.”

  As they drove under the archway, Rodney, following Oliver’s car, saw in his rear mirror a taxi driving in. He caught a glimpse of the passenger; there were countless portly, military-looking gentlemen in London, but if his guess was correct, this one was named Gould and owned a niece named Henrietta.

  He passed Oliver near the station, drew aside and stopped. Oliver’s car drew up alongside.