by A. J. Cronin
‘Madame does not receive today, sir. But you may proceed to the terrace.’
We walked slowly towards the house, in bright sunshine, with rooks circling and cawing in the tall trees that bordered the entrance to the estate. The drive was freshly raked, the edges trimly clipped, the park stretching on either side, recently mown and in good heart. A large walled garden came into view on the left as we breasted the slight rise at the end of the drive. The house itself, of plain grey stone, was large and square, entirely unornamental, and surrounded by that invaluable protection against the Swiss winter, a covered terrace.
On the south side of this terrace, preparations had been made which caused Desmonde to hasten his pace. A rug had been spread on the clean tiles, and on this stood a substantial playpen, beside which, seated erect on a hard chair, was an elderly, severe Schweizer Deutsch nurse, immaculately garbed in a fresh linen uniform, a small watch pinned to her breast and around her neck a high starched linen collar, of which the unendurable tightness and stiffness bespoke the wearer’s implacable fortitude. And within the pen a little animated bit of life in petticoats was already cajoling with Desmonde, on his knees beside the pen.
‘She knows me, the darling,’ Desmonde murmured, as I arrived, tears welling from his eyes, adding, equally mistakenly: ‘The moment she saw me, she smiled with recognition all over her darling face.’
Yet who knows? He had bathed and bedded the little one so often, he might indeed have touched a slender cord of recognition. He had brought a present for his child, a little silver and ivory rattle, and wisely, oh, how wisely – for Desmonde knew women – he handed it to the nurse, who accepted it with a prim, gratified smile, looked it all over, wiped it carefully with a strip of clean linen, then gave it to the child. Immediately, rattles and delighted laughter filled the air. I thereupon left Desmonde to it, aware that he would presently win the approval, if not sympathy, of the nurse, and be permitted guardedly to handle and to hold his own child. Already he had narrowed the breach by addressing her, with proper humility, in her own Schweizer Deutsch.
Back at the hotel I asked at the desk for a picnic lunch, went upstairs and changed into shorts, sweater and sneakers. When I came downstairs the neat packet was already at the bureau – what a good hotel was the Reine du Lac!
I went back into the estate, parked the lunch on a seat in the park under one of the big trees, and set off at the double. I had not had my exercise for some time and was sadly missing it.
Round the grounds I went at scout’s pace, fifty yards running then fifty hard walking, an admirable method of progression in which you do not exhaust yourself and can keep it up indefinitely. In my circling I made out that Desmonde was progressing in his own particular way. First he had a cushion for his knees, then a chair on which he sat, actually with the child upon his lap. I also had a shrewd suspicion that I was being watched from behind the long curtains of one of the upper windows.
I was still going well when the noon bell tolled, not for the angelus in this canton, but to summon the old men to their dinner at the Home. I then felt it was time to have my own lunch, the more so since Desmonde, nurse, and child had disappeared from the terrace. I could have done with a shower. Instead I rubbed myself down with the napkin that enwrapped my lunch, put on my sweater, and sat down on the bench.
What a good lunch! Avoiding the usual unwanted surplus, one delicious ham sandwich, a slice of Emmenthaler between two buttered digestive biscuits, then fruit: apple, orange, a huge, heavenly Comice pear. How I enjoyed it all, after my run! Then, having carefully tucked the fruit cores and other fragments into the napkin, I stretched out on my back on the tree-shaded bench: I would willingly have spent the entire summer in this lovely place. Let me confess that at moments such as this I felt rather tired of Desmonde. I had seen quite a lot of him lately, and in his present embittered mood he was not a stimulating companion. But I had given the poor devil my word and, come what may, I would keep it.
I must have fallen asleep, for my watch showed half-past two when I awoke. And now a charming little cavalcade was in progress on the avenue that led to the walled garden. The nurse, Desmonde wheeling the child in a little open carriage, and two Kerry blue terriers following obediently to heel.
I watched them for a few minutes, pleased that everything had been accomplished without open rage or rancour. Then, as I was no longer needed, I decided to take myself off. I had crossed the park and reached the main avenue when I saw a figure beckoning from the west terrace. Although I had no wish to meet Madame Donovan again, I could not well ignore that invitation.
‘I could not let you go without apologising for my atrocious remark to you this morning.’
‘Please do not worry, Madame. I am used to hard knocks in my profession.’
She paused, leaning forward, as though in propitiation.
‘Won’t you let me give you tea? Here, on the terrace.’
Again, I could not refuse.
‘Thank you, Madame.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sure you are thirsty after all your running. Do sit a moment while I tell Maria.’
She returned a few minutes later followed by a stout Italian maid bearing a well-equipped tray. As I accepted my first cup I asked myself: how should one open the conversation?
‘You have a very beautiful place here, Madame. And very large, too.’
‘Yes, when I came here, prices were not high, and I thought it a pity to break up the estate. I even took over the farm, and am very glad I did so.’ She paused. ‘I have Italian workers, and most excellent they are. You know, I suppose, that many Italians come to work in Switzerland, glad to find work and a decent wage.’
‘So you are really settled here, Madame?’
‘I love Switzerland. Chiefly, of course, for its beauty. But in every way it is an admirable, contented country where the people work hard, the trains run on time, in fact, where everything is in order.’ She paused. ‘Naturally, I go home to Ireland for three of four months in the year.’
‘I am often tempted by Switzerland. But for a very base reason. Taxes.’
‘Yes, they are kind to us, and to their own people too.’ She smiled. ‘You would not settle in Hollywood?’
‘Never, Madame. Authors are not persona grata there. They are regarded with contempt. Mere scullions!’
‘And yet you go there tomorrow.’
‘I am going for two reasons. Mainly for Desmonde. But also to try to sell my new novel.’
There was a silence, then she said:
‘It is sad that Desmonde should not redeem himself more suitably, more nobly. I have been reading again today of a young priest who spent all his life in the remote, impoverished interior of China, giving himself, less to conversion, than to relieving suffering, sickness, and famine.’
‘Unfortunately, Madame, for Desmonde to attempt such a mission of redemption would be a complete negation of his character. He would get no further than Hong Kong, returning by the first boat with a splendid assortment of Kang Hsi china. No, Madame, he must sing his way to salvation!’
She barely smiled. ‘How do we know what lies ahead for us, or for anyone? The future is unpredictable.’ She added: ‘I can’t understand why you are so good to him.’
‘We were great friends at school, and he was very decent to me when I had nothing. I owe it to Desmonde that I sat in the stalls of the Kings Theatre, enthralled by the wonderful performance of Geraldine Moore in Tosca.’ Her expression did not change. ‘ Besides, he has had a very rough time since he got mixed up with your attractive niece.’
‘It was of his own choosing. You know that Claire is seeking a civil divorce. She is already living with Munzio.’
‘It makes no difference. We are leaving early tomorrow for Genoa. He will never see her again.’
There was a silence. I felt drawn to this woman and, suddenly, immensely sorry for her. She was not made for a virginal life, yet willed herself to it. What could one say? I stood up.
‘Now I must go, Madame. I expect Desmonde will stay to see his infant in her bath. Thank you again for your courtesy.’
She smiled and said: ‘Don’t fail to let me know if you settle in Switzerland. And come to see me in Ireland when I am there.’
‘And you, Madame. If you are in London, do visit us in Sussex. My wife would love to know you. She does not get about much, and would welcome you.’
‘I will come,’ she said. And in these three words was the beginning of a long and precious friendship.
We shook hands, then I turned and went back to the hotel. And there, sure enough, outside the hotel lockups, thoroughly spattered, awaiting a wash, was the Alfa Romeo. At the bureau I arranged for a car to take us to Genoa tomorrow, leaving at six-thirty. I also asked to have my bill prepared at that hour tomorrow.
I then went upstairs to my room, feeling unaccountably depressed, perhaps in the knowledge that I had spent a useless week. I therefore sat down and cheered myself up by writing a long letter home, inquiring tenderly, amongst other things, on the well-being of the new wallflower bed. What a God’s blessing it was for a man to have a home and a wife and sons who loved him. Desmonde had none of this, so I must be tolerant of his unmanly rhapsodising over his child.
He was late in coming to the hotel. I was half-way through dinner when he arrived. He seemed to have little appetite, and ate in absolute silence. Finally, he looked at me with misery in his eyes.
‘I gather that my wife is about to divorce me and remarry. If she should claim the child, that would be the end.’
What could one say in reply? Nothing. In view of our early start on the morrow we both turned in early.
Chapter Six
The Cristoforo Colombo slid out of the wide harbour with flags flying, speeded away from her home port by the blare of sirens and the ringing of church bells. We had arrived in Genoa with two hours to spare, ample time to collect the packages awaiting us at the offices of the Italian Line. All that we had ordered was there, everything, neatly packaged and awaiting transit through the customs. What a triumph of London craftsmanship, skill, efficiency and integrity. Normal and expected features of that age, no doubt, but could they be duplicated in the present day? The mere question is absurd.
I had left Desmonde busily unwrapping in our stateroom while I went aft on deck, to watch the receding coast line and to renew my acquaintance with this lovely ship, in which I had voyaged once before. I was extremely fond of these Italian ships, not only because they followed the southern route, but for everything else – speed, comfort, and a typical Italian type of service, willing and friendly. Below, the head steward was already taking bookings for tables, and I reserved the side table on the port side where my wife and I had previously been seated. Then I looked in at the little chapel, a delightful feature of this line. Already an Italian padre was on his knees there, so I knew that we should have Mass every morning. One last trip to the sun deck, where I reserved two well-placed chairs. No covered promenade, deck for me, on this perennially sunny voyage.
Back in the cabin I found Desmonde seated and steadily regarding his new clothes, all laid out on his bed. Ever since leaving Switzerland he had been in a queer, often morose, mood. I accordingly approached him with a guarded cheerfulness.
‘Tried anything on yet, for fit, size, colour and cut?’
‘No! I’m just thinking what a popinjay I shall look in them. Do you know that this is the second time in my beastly life that I have been outfitted by charity:’
I laughed. ‘Keep on your old duds then, if you’ll feel more comfortable.’
‘And waste all that you’ve done for me. It will be wasted anyway.’
‘Come now, Des! Pull yourself together. You haven’t been at all yourself lately.’
‘Could you expect me to be!’ Desmonde rarely used foul language, but now he did. ‘ My child in charge of an old perpetual virgin who hates me. My wife in bed with a big Italian bastard, getting it hot and hard every night and loving it.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘ Oh, God, I still love her, bitch though she was, still is, and ever will be. And here I am, bloody swine that I am, sponging, sponging on you, costing you the earth and all for nothing. That publicity freak won’t get me to sing. And even if she does I’ll fall flat on my face.’
There was only one thing to do and I did it. I went out of the cabin and quietly closed the door. Naturally I was worried. If he broke down now, how should I feel, backing a horse that refused to go to the post? Nevertheless, I was hungry, and at half-past twelve I went down to lunch where my steward on the previous voyage greeted me with affection – I must therefore have tipped him handsomely.
‘’But are we alone, sir?’ he inquired sadly, fitting me tenderly into my chair.
‘Not at all. I have a friend …’
At that moment precisely Desmonde appeared, a new Desmonde, washed, shaved, brushed, attired in the smashing new grey suiting, the new soft-collared shirt and near Old Etonian tie, the new brown hand-made shoes, and silk hosiery. The steward, further overpowered by Desmonde’s perfect Italian and his equally perfect knowledge of all Italian dishes on the menu, took our orders in an attitude of prayer, then retreated, backwards.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Alec,’ Desmonde said, firmly unwrapping his napkin. ‘In fact, I’m damned sorry. But no more of it, I promise you.’
He was as good as his word, never again did he lapse into that abysmal mood during the voyage, yet he was not the cheerful, lighthearted Desmonde I had once known. Moody and irritable, he seemed obsessed by an inward brooding.
The wind blew lightly, the sun shone, Desmonde did as he pleased, mainly on the flat of his back in his deck-chair with his eyes closed, moodily avoiding all attempts at shipboard acquaintance. I followed my usual enjoyable routine: up fairly early for a run round the deck and some easy exercises in the gym, a plunge in the pool, then the short Mass and Communion in the chapel. I was then ready for a good breakfast and a lazy, lazy day in the sun. Unfortunately the nice little padre latched on to me. He came from a most laudable institution in Rome, to which I had been enticed on a visit to that city some years before, and which was run by young priests who taught useful handicrafts to the homeless boys taken off the streets. The purpose of his visit to the United States was, inevitably, to collect money from the various Italian communities in New York and other large cities. I should have had him at my side all the voyage had I not given him a fifty with the whispered confession that my doctors had prescribed silence and complete rest for me owing to an affliction of the liver. But before he left me I asked him about Desmonde, briefly explaining my friend’s present situation. His answer was emphatic and immediate.
‘He will never be at peace, never, never, never, until he returns to the Church. I have seen it before, many, many times. Once you quarrel with the Lord, you will never be happy till you make up and tell Him you are sorry.’
Too soon we were across, the engines ceased their violent throbbing and we glided past the Statue of Liberty into New York harbour. How pleasant to disembark when one has little luggage. Carrying each a light suitcase we walked freely past crowds of passengers gathered in confusion around enormous piles of huge cabin trunks, baby carriages, golf bags, and other paraphernalia of travel en famille. Immigration had been passed on the ship; we simply took a taxi to Penn Station and the morning train to Chicago that connected with the Super Chief, on which I booked a double compartment.
Those who know only the utilitarian, strike-dislocated trains of today, or who simply travel by air, cannot conceive of the splendour and luxury of that magnificent trans-continental train. We changed stations at Chicago and there, awaiting us, was the Super Chief, shining with the potential of speed, a great grey-hound waiting to be unleashed; The red carpet was already unrolled and, to the sound of music – preamble of Hollywood, ridiculous, yet agreeable – we boarded the monster. Our compartment was ready, indescribably immaculate, fresh antimacassars on the seat, the two bunks folded up agai
nst the partition, the bathroom spotless, and the car attendant, white teeth gleaming in a smile, asking if we wished breakfast. As we drank coffee the train pulled out silently on its flashing dash across America.
Twice before I had made this journey, but it was a novelty for Desmonde. Yet he was never interested or relaxed, gazing moodily through the window, and as we approached our destination he began to show signs of anxiety and tension only partly dispelled by a Western Union telegram handed to him at Albuquerque which said curtly:
GET OFF AT PASADENA WILL MEET YOU THERE
‘At least she expects us,’ Desmonde muttered.
‘Expects you,’ I corrected him. ‘I’ll get the hoof!’
At Pasadena, where most of the Hollywood elite leave the train, we obeyed the telegram and got off. And there, on the platform, in full flesh, was the little Delia B. She reached up and embraced Desmonde. I heard the smack of the kiss.
‘Glad to see you, darling. Everything’s laid on. You’re looking good.’ Then to me: ‘Why in hell are you here, Red?’
‘I’m the valet.’
‘Then stay valet. I’ve only a single room booked for Desmonde at the Beverly Hills.’
‘In that case I’ll make do with the four-roomed cottage I’ve reserved in the Beverly Hills garden.’
She actually laughed. ‘You win, Red. You want to bunk in with him, Des?’
‘Don’t you think I’d better?’ Desmonde said drily. ‘ You see, I wouldn’t be here but for Alec. He’s paid cash for everything, even the clothes I’m wearing.’
‘Not bad, Red, not bad. You got anything of your own to do here?’
‘Certainly, I’m here to sell my new book.’
‘I think I heard about that one. The Cuticle, ain’t it?’
‘That’s the one, Delia B. The story of an Ingrowing Toenail.’
We got into, her car, not the opulence I had expected, but a knocked-out Ford which she drove with all the slap-dash abandon of her nature. She parked at the hotel, and when we had registered came through the garden to the cottage to make sure that I had not been lying.
