ANOTHER thing Lady Naylor had noticed about the English was, a
disposition they had to be socially visible before midday. Soon after
ten, she had heard, Mrs. Vermont and her friends were to be seen about
the streets of Clonmore--from behind the still decently somnolent
blinds of inhabitants--with gloves buttoned tight at the wrists,
swinging coloured baskets. Before eleven, they would be seated behind
the confectioner’s window, deploring the coffee. Mrs. Rolfe had once
had Moriarty’s shutters taken down for her specially--and she wishful,
Moriarty said, to purchase the one pair of stockings only. A Mrs.
Peake, of the Gunners, demanded attention at the hairdresser’s before
ten. These unnatural practices were a strain in the town’s normality;
the streets had a haggard look, ready for anything. Really, as Lady
Naylor said, almost English. She thought of the south of England as a
kind of extension of Brighton, the north serrated by factory chimneys,
the middle a blank space occupied by Anna Partridge. Only Danielstown’s
being out of dropping- or popping-in distance from Clonmore
deprived her, as it transpired, of matutinal visits from Mrs. Vermont
and her friends.
Mrs. Vermont, however, overcame difficulties, hired a Ford and had
herself driven over one morning about eleven o’clock. She brought
her great friend Mrs. Rolfe; they were on their way to lunch at the
Thompsons’. This she explained before they were out of the car; _she_
knew what Mondays were, she did not want to alarm Lady Naylor--being
so much with Mother had made her considerate in these matters. Lady
Naylor, as a matter of fact, would have minded them less at lunch-time;
one didn’t notice people so much at meals, she discovered. When news of
the dropping in came down to the kitchen, she groaned: “My morning!”
Nothing could have been worse.
Francie was lying down with “a head”; Hugo was talking over old times
with the coachman, who had been pensioned off and brooded all day in
the harness-room, much at a loss. Lois, indirectly responsible for the
outrage, was not to be found. She had not been herself at all, these
last few days. Her aunt, after Gerald’s departure, had made a point
of saying: “Well, I hope, of course, you have not made a mistake. But
we all have to settle these things for ourselves, you know.” Francie
never failed to inquire if she were getting on nicely with the Italian;
her uncle agreed it was high time she went to that school of art. This
morning she seemed to be nowhere; shouting did not produce her.
Laurence, always unfortunate, was surprised on the steps with Locke.
“Oh God,” he said as the Ford came round the bend of the lower avenue.
He turned, too late, to escape; the girl wives were already shouting
and waving.
Betty said: “Denise, this is Mr. -- (Oh dear, how awful!) This is
Mrs. Rolfe of the Gunners; my great friend, you know.”
“Good,” said Laurence. Denise glanced up, apprehensive, at all the
windows. Laurence stood looking at them with resignation; he forgot to
open the door of the car though they brimmed out over it.
“_May_ we get out?” asked Betty, tittering up at him in the friendliest
way from a perfect swirl of furs and red crêpe de Chine. On their
knees, two little pairs of hands curled like loose chrysanthemums over
their kid pochettes. He let them out and they ran up the steps shaking
out their dresses. “_Oh_, what a brainy book!” cried Betty, pouncing.
“--My dear, just look what he’s reading--oh, you have got a brain! I
mean, fancy reading ...”
“You’re at college, aren’t you?” said Denise, fluttered.
“Sometimes,” said Laurence accurately. Opening his mouth very wide he
shouted for Lois. They shrieked and covered their ears. “I expect,” he
said finally, “I had better go in and look for--”
“Don’t go! I’m sure they will all come out.... I did want Denise to see
a lovely old Irish home.”
“Yes, we are quaint, really,” said Laurence, considering. “And you
oughtn’t to miss the Trents; has she seen the Trents?”
“Well, I hardly know the Trents. Here, we always feel that Gerald is
such a link.”
“Missing or otherwise,” Denise added.
“Exactly.” Betty smiled at him sidelong, but all the same, it did
seem a pity it should be Laurence that they had dropped in on with
unintended accuracy. _This_ was not at all what she had led Denise
to expect. Laurence’s not quite rudeness was, in fact, rather
international--she supposed, Oxford. She said: “I have a boy cousin
at Reading University. That’s quite near Oxford, isn’t it?” Denise,
plaintive, said that a wasp was bothering; she wanted to go indoors and
see the reputed ancestors. Betty flapped with her pochette and the end
of her fur. “She’s _terrified_ of wasps!”
“So am I,” said Laurence, backing, “absolutely _terrified_. I think I’d
better go and--better get a--” He disappeared through the glass door,
shutting it.
Denise said: “Well, I do think people are extraordinary.” They both sat
down and yawned. All these trees; it was quite extraordinary. “Is that
Lois’s cousin?”
“More or less.”
“Well, I always did think she was an odd girl.”
“Ssh, there’s Sir Richard writing in the library--Denise, _just_ look
through, sideways. He’s such a type.”
“O-oh ... yes. Is he a knight or a baronet?”
“Well, I don’t see how he could have been knighted.”
“My dear, ssssh!”
“He’s deaf. Oh, darling, look at those little teeny black cows. Those
are Kerry cows. They farm, you know; they have heaps of cattle.”
“I always meant to ask you: _are_ there Kilkenny cats?”
“Really,” said Mrs. Vermont, annoyed, as her friend yawned again and
she felt her own jaw quiver, “when one thinks these are the people we
are defending! I wonder if they’ll offer us any coffee. What I think
about Irish hospitality: either they almost knock you down or they
don’t look at you. Or I tell you what, we might go out to the garden
and get some plums. Only I would like you to see the drawing-room. I
wish these were Livvy’s people; the boys say her house smells--I hope
you aren’t bored, darling?--I mean, what I mean about Livvy; she does
grow on you. I can’t think what Gerald sees in this family, I must say.
It isn’t even as if Lois--”
“Of course, I always did think she was an odd girl.”
At this point Sir Richard, who was not deaf, came out in despair. He
said this was too bad; he couldn’t think what could have become of
Lois. “We might shout,” he said helplessly.
“Your nephew has been shouting.”
“Still,” said Sir Richard, and shouted again. “How are you all getting
on?” he said kindly, when he had recovered his breath.
Betty said with dignity: “There may be going to be an offensive.”
“_Sssh_,” whispered Denise, pinching her elbow.
“Though I ought not really to tell you.”
“Never mind,” said Sir Richard, “I don’t suppose it will come to
anything. Besides, now the days are drawing in-- But this is too bad
really, most unfortunate that my wife should not be here to receive
you. She will be most distressed.”
“Oh, but we just dropped in. As I said to Denise, what is the good of
being in Ireland if one isn’t a bit unconventional?”
“She will be most distressed.”
“Don’t bother! We’ve been admiring your darling cows.”
“I’ll just go in and inquire,” said Sir Richard firmly and disappeared,
shutting the glass door.
Denise said she would get the giggles: a seizure did seem to be
imminent. “Well, I must say, Gerald is well out of this family.”
“But, my dear, _is_ he?”
“Something’s happened. He’s _black_--even Timmy noticed. I said to
Timmy: ‘You _must_ find out’--’Cause I think, don’t you, that when men
get together ... You see, _I_ can’t--though I can’t bear to see the boy
suffer.”
“But I thought you said you--”
“Well, I’ve seen him in the distance and he didn’t look like himself at
all. But he hasn’t been near us, or to the Club, or into the Fogartys’.
And as I was saying to Mrs. Fogarty--”
“It seems to me he’s been treated rottenly. If it were one of our boys,
my dear, I should be fur-rious.”
“All the same, I do want to _see_ Lois....”
“What he sees in her, I cannot imagine. She’s what I should call rather
affected--”
“Sssh--Oh, hullo, Lois!” they cried in unison.
Lois, unbecomingly bright, came up from the beech walk.
“Oh, hullo,” she said, “splendid!”
“We’ve just been talking about you.”
“O-oh. _Can’t_ you stay to lunch?”
“No can do; we’re off to the Thompsons. My dear, aren’t you thrilled
about Livvy and David! Isn’t it marvellous?”
“Thrilled, it’s absolutely marvellous. _Do_ stay to lunch--I mean,”
she said agitatedly, “do come back to tea? Oh no, we shall all be
out. Oh, how rotten. Or come to tennis--no, I believe there won’t
be any more tennis; Laurence is going back to Oxford and the rain’s
washed all the marking off the court. Perhaps we could have a dance or
something--”
The two young wives eyed her lightly and curiously; their looks ran
over her form like spiders. They were so womanly, she could have turned
and fled back down the beech walk. “Donne ch’avete intelletto d’amore,”
she thought to herself wildly. And the pause, the suspicion of some
deformity that these ladies produced in her became so acute that she
smiled more widely. She buttoned her cardigan up to the top, then
unbuttoned it.
“Oh, but don’t go _now_,” she said, but looked at their Ford, longingly.
“Oh, we must, we have been here hours, watching your darling cows.”
“I’m afraid they’re very much in the distance. Does Aunt Myra--?”
“Oh, we’d hate to disturb her. Unless we might all run round the
garden--?”
“It’s locked and I’ve lost the key. I feel quite an outcast. That’s
what has been the matter the whole morning. Do have something to
eat--have some biscuits?”
“Unless we just come into the drawing-room for one moment?”
“I always think drawing-rooms in the morning are so depressing.”
Denise said she did not see how the same room could be much different,
but it was no good; Lois seemed determined to keep them out. From the
way she shifted her feet and stared round, you would have said she was
expecting bad news momentarily: she talked so much that they hadn’t a
chance to express themselves. She went in for a tin of _petit beurres_
and offered it with an odd air, rather propitiatory. Lady Naylor called
from an upstairs window that this was too bad, that she was so much
distressed, she would be down immediately. “She spends whole mornings
with the cook,” said Lois. “I cannot think what they do. I believe they
fence verbally. More biscuits?”
“No, we shall spoil our din-dins. Denise, we _must_ come. I hear old
Mr. Thompson is a terrible ogre. Any messages in Clonmore, Lois? Any
messages to Gerald?”
Lois thought she must blush, but did not; even her blood stood still.
“_I_ should ask him,” said Denise, “why he didn’t send _you_ a message.
_I_ think it was odd of him; I should be fur-rious.” Lois saw, with
interest, a ripple of light down their dresses; they nudged each other.
There must be something odd about her, really, if they had noticed; she
must clearly be outside life.
“How is the gramophone?” she said enthusiastically.
“Don’t _ask!_ Gerald is going to Cork to bring back a new one. We
thought we might all go too, it would be a rag.”
“Marvellous!”
“Look, I’ll just run Denise in to have a look at the drawing-room.”
“I shouldn’t, really. I haven’t done the flowers.”
“Gerald says all your looking-glasses make him feel sleepy. He’s a
funny boy, in a way,” said Betty innocently. “You don’t think we ought
to wait till we’ve seen your aunt? She won’t be offended?”
“I shouldn’t really; she’s probably been delayed.” Lady Naylor did, in
fact, arrive on the steps in time to utter exclamations of despair as
they drove away. “Too bad, _too_ bad!” she called, waving after them.
“You must come again soon!... Really, Lois, you might have found them
some fruit or something. Fancy puffing them out with biscuits at this
hour.”
“I tell you what I think it is about Lois,” said Betty cosily, nestling
down in the car as the trees rushed over them. “I think he’s left her.”
Denise agreed. “A boy needs keeping, if you know what I mean.” Betty
also told her what she thought about the Naylor family: they were going
down in the world. “I should not be surprised if they never used that
drawing-room,” she said viciously. “It smells of damp. Myself, I do
like a house to be bright and homey.”
* * * * *
The world did not stand still, though the household at Danielstown and
the Thompsons’ lunch party took no account of it. The shocking news
reached Clonmore that night, about eight o’clock. It crashed upon the
unknowingness of the town like a wave that for two hours, since the
event, had been rising and toppling, imminent. The news crept down
streets from door to door like a dull wind, fingering the nerves,
pausing. In the hotel bars, heads went this way and that way, quick
with suspicion. The Fogartys’ Eileen, called by a friend while she was
clearing away the supper, cried “God help him!” and stumbled up to Mr.
Fogarty’s door, blubbered. Mr. Fogarty dropped his glass and stood bent
some time like an animal, chin on the mantelpiece. Philosophy did not
help; in his thickening brain actuality turned like a mill-wheel. His
wife, magnificent in her disbelief, ran out, wisps blowing, round the
square and through the vindictively silent town.
Barracks were closed, she could not get past the guards; for once she
was at a loss, among strangers. She thought mechanically “His mother,”
and pressed her hands up under her vast and useless bosom. Trees in the
square, uneasy, shifted dulled leaves that should already have fallen
under the darkness. The shocking news, brought in at the barrack gates
officially, produced an abashed silence, hard repercussions, darkness
of thought and a loud glare of electricity. In Gerald’s room some new
music for the jazz band, caught in a draught, flopped over and over. An
orderly put it away, shocked. All night some windows let out, over the
sandbags, a squeamish, defiant yellow.
Mrs. Vermont heard when Timmy had just gone out; he was to be out
all night with a patrol. She was to sleep alone, she could not bear
it. Past fear, she ran to the Rolfes’ hut. She spent the night
there, sobbing, tearing off with her teeth the lace right round her
handkerchief. Captain Rolfe kept bringing her hot whisky. “I can’t,
I can’t, not whisky; it’s so awful.” They all felt naked and were
ashamed of each other, as though they had been wrecked. From the hut
floor--where they had danced--the wicker furniture seemed to rise and
waver.
“Percy, where did he--how was he--?”
“Through the head.”
“Then it didn’t--?”
“Oh no. Probably instantaneous.”
“Oh, _don’t!_ Oh, Percy, how can you!”
Denise repeated: “I can’t believe it.” And while the others sickly,
furtively stared, she tried to press from her hair the waves she had
had put in that morning. “You know, I _can’t_ believe it. Can you,
Betty? It’s so ... extraordinary.”
“Why can’t we all go home? Why did we stay here? Why don’t we all go
home? That’s what I can’t understand.”
“Percy, can _you_ believe it? I mean, I remember him coming in and
standing against this table--”
“Oh, don’t!--Percy, what became of _them?_ Where did they go? Those
devils!”
“Oh, got right away.”
“Didn’t anyone hear anything, any firing? I mean, didn’t it make a
noise?... Couldn’t they be tortured--why should they just be hanged or
shot? Oh, I do think, I mean I do think when you think--”
“Well, we’ve got to get ’em, haven’t we? Look, just try--”
“Oh, I _can’t_, I tell you-- Why can’t we all go home!”
“Percy, leave her _alone!_ Oh God, my head; I shall cut my hair off. I
mean, he came in and stood there against that table. Why did they get
just Gerald?--Oh yes, I know there was the sergeant--but _he_ won’t
die; I know he won’t die.... I can’t believe it! Percy, _can_ you
believe it? Percy, say something.”
Betty sobbed: “I should like to--oh, I should like to-- Those beasts,
those beasts!”
“Look, you two girls go to bed.”
“Oh, how can we!”
“Oh, why isn’t Timmy here? I mean, when I think of Timmy, and out
all night--_I_ can’t understand the King, I can’t understand the
Government: _I_ think it’s awful!”
But they went to bed--Percy spent the night on two chairs--and lay in
what seemed to both an unnatural contiguity, re-clasping each other’s
fingers, talking of “Him,” of “you know who” and “that boy” in the
eager voices, low-pitched and breaking, kept as a rule to discuss the
intimacies of their marriages. In the same moment they fell, dimly
shocked at each other, asleep. Then Denise saw Lois clearly, standing
affectedly on the Danielstown steps with a tin of biscuits, a room full
of mirrors behind her. And Betty woke with surprise to hear herself
say: “What I mean is, it seems so odd that he shouldn’t really have
meant anything.”
They heard an early bugle shivering in the rain.