Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “I’ll run her over any time you say. No trouble at all.”

  “Know where it is?”

  “Yes. I’ve been round by sea to St. Raphael half a dozen times. D’you know anything about speed-boats?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “As a matter of fact, she’s not a speed-boat. But she’s the fastest motor-boat I’ve ever struck. I say, what about another drink?”

  “This one’s on me, then.”

  They went on talking about the motor-boat.

  Hilary became interested.

  It would give one something to do, and one might be able to sell it eventually, and make a bit of money. He began to visualise himself in a blue singlet, competent and rather blasé, at the wheel.

  “Come and have a look at her, why don’t you? She’s only just down in the harbour.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Experiencing the faint, but definite, sensation of cordiality that only drink ever induced in him, Hilary proceeded to go and look at the motor-boat.

  His principal concern was to avoid betraying the fact that he knew nothing about motor-boats, and had little natural aptitude for understanding machinery of any kind.

  He thought that in this he succeeded rather well, and quite soon he bought the motor-boat. There was a cheque-book in his pocket, which was unusual, for the reason — far more unusual still — that he had some money in the Bank at home. He had borrowed with extraordinary success before leaving England, from an elderly woman to whom he had made love, a sum sufficiently large to pay off the worst of their debts. In point of fact, he had actually used a fraction of it towards that very purpose. But there was quite a lot left.

  “I tell you what, I’ll buy you a drink out of the price of the boat,” said Hilary’s acquaintance.

  Hilary accepted with a faint smile.

  In the bar they arranged for the transfer of the boat to her new owner.

  “I’ll bring her round to-morrow morning to the bay opposite your Hotel — no, damn it, I can’t very well do that if I’m driving the car over, can I? Look here, I tell you what, there’s a French mechanic chap I know here who’ll be delighted to take her across for me, any time you say. Then he can explain any little thing you want to know. How’s that?”

  “Absolutely right with me. Say four o’clock in the afternoon. And we’ll have another drink on the strength of it.”

  An hour and a quarter late, Hilary met his wife at the English tea-rooms.

  As he came in, she nodded a dismissal to a tall, fair youth sitting at a small table with her. He got up obediently, passing Hilary on his way to the cash-desk. Hilary scowled slightly.

  “I’ve had tea,” said Angie. “You’re most damnably late. I thought you told the taxi we’d be on the place at half-past five.”

  “Well, it won’t kill him to wait, I suppose. Come on, if you’re ready.”

  He followed her out of the tea-shop. Angie left without paying anything at the desk and Hilary neither attempted to do so for her, nor made any comment on the omission.

  (2)

  On the return of the Moons to the Hôtel d’Azur they were greeted by Buckland, lounging on the steps.

  His eyes devoured Angie’s face in a frankly avid look. “I thought you were never coming back,” he said. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

  “What was the Réserve like?” Angie asked. She had seated herself at once in the nearest chair.

  “Lousy, with a pack of kids all over the place. Look here, what about a drink?”

  “Thanks, I don’t mind if I do. Hilary’s been drinking steadily all the afternoon, I may tell you. He’s bought a speed-boat or something.”

  “I say, have you really?” Buckland sat down close to Angie.

  Hilary, perceiving that he would get no attention from either of them, went haughtily away. He had not drunk enough to affect him noticeably, but drink and the heat combined caused him to feel sleepy. He supposed, dimly and indifferently, that Angie would prefer to be left to Buckland’s obvious intention of making love to her, and it was part of Hilary’s code that marriage should not be allowed to interfere with the liberty of the individual. He left them.

  “Thank God he’s gone,” said Buckland.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you know why?”

  “No.”

  The lips of Angie and Buckland framed the familiar sentences of this dialogue as nearly as possible without knowing what it was that they said. Each was insistently aware of the hot, vital current racing mysteriously and rapturously between them. Presently Buckland put his hand upon the single thickness of silk that covered Angie’s thigh.

  Her head fell backwards, and she half closed her eyes, her breast rising and falling quickly.

  “You oughtn’t to do that,” she murmured.

  “Why not?” Buckland’s voice was thick, and he breathed hard. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “Not of you — no.”

  “What, then?”

  She opened her eyes, without moving, and looked at him.

  “Oh my God, Angie — —”

  “Buck — —”

  His grip tightened.

  “Can’t we get away from here — go up the hill or something?” he muttered.

  “If you like.”

  “You’re the most lovely thing — —”

  He tore his hand away, and Angie jerked herself upright, as voices sounded behind them.

  “Come on, let’s clear out,” said Buckland.

  They stood up.

  “Mr. Buckland,” said Dulcie Courteney’s shrill voice, “my daddy’s come. You haven’t met him yet, have you? Or Mrs. Moon — this is my father. Pops, this is Mr. Buckland.”

  Courteney was a very tall, aquiline man, darkly handsome in a theatrical style, and looking too young to have a daughter of Dulcie’s age.

  He bowed very low to Angie, and exchanged a nod and a handshake with Buckland, his eyes scanning both of them with an air of acute observation even as he smiled, showing extremely good teeth.

  His voice, when he spoke, was a deep, rather artificially cultured one.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Moon. I’ve been hearing about all your kindness to this child.”

  He laid a hand on Dulcie’s shoulder. She smiled rather unhappily, but Angie accepted unmoved this entirely unmerited tribute.

  “I hope you’ve been enjoying life on the coast. I dare say you know it very well already?”

  “Not awfully well,” said Angie languidly.

  “You must let me have the pleasure of arranging an expedition or two — Monte Carlo, and so on. Anything you think might be amusing. Dulcie tells me things have been rather slack at the Hotel. It must have been quite unusually hot, of course.”

  “A hundred and one degrees Fahrenheit yesterday, Pops.”

  “I can quite believe it. Of course that’s excessive, even for here. Why, I assure you that two days ago in Hyde Park — —”

  “I say, if you want a stroll before dinner, Angie — —”

  Buckland made no attempt to conceal his impatience.

  “There’s a charming walk at the back of the Hotel — up the hill, if you don’t mind a bit of a climb.”

  Buckland, who stood facing the Hotel steps, muttered something below his breath as Coral Romayne came out and walked straight up to him.

  “There you are,” she said in a loud, disagreeable voice. “What on earth have you been doing? And where’s Patrick?”

  “Patrick’s all right. He’s not a baby. He doesn’t want someone tagging after him all day long.”

  “It’s a damned good thing he doesn’t — you never go near him that I can see. I don’t know what you think I’m paying you for.”

  Courteney moved away with an air of studied inattention, followed by Dulcie.

  Angie shrugged her shoulders and sketched a faint movement in the direction of the Hotel.

  “Don’t go,” said Buckland. “I was just going to buy you
a drink. You’ll have one, won’t you, Coral?”

  “I don’t know that I will,” she said angrily.

  “Yes you will. Come on, sit down here. Patrick’s all right, I swear he is. Look here, these people have bought a motor-boat. Don’t you call that frightfully enterprising? Has Hilary ever had one before, by the way?”

  “Never,” said Angie. “He’ll probably drown us both. He doesn’t know anything about machinery, either.”

  “Well, I do,” said Buckland positively. “You’d better take me out with you.”

  “Don’t mind asking, will you?” Mrs. Romayne said. “I never knew anyone cadge as you do, Buck.”

  “It’s the life,” said Buckland. “One’s got to, if one’s going to get anything out of life at all. Here, garçon — ici!”

  They remained on the terrace, drinking their cocktails, and were presently joined by Hilary.

  Soon afterwards Mrs. Romayne stood up.

  “Coming, Buck?”

  “Where to?” he asked without stirring.

  “We’re going up to the Villa Mimosa, aren’t we? To dinner.”

  “I didn’t remember.”

  Buckland’s foot stealthily pressed Angie’s beneath the table.

  “I thought you were dining with us,” she said innocently. “You said you were.”

  “I say, Coral, I’m awfully sorry — I honestly had no idea I was expected at the Villa. D’you awfully mind if I don’t go?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” said Mrs. Romayne. “I want you to drive the car.”

  “Why not let Patrick?”

  “Because you’re the person I’m paying to do the job,” said Mrs. Romayne furiously. “What a swine you are, aren’t you? Always ready to do anything except a job of work.”

  Patrick came down the steps, hesitated, and then came and stood beside his mother.

  “Ready, mother?” His boyish voice sounded as though he only kept it level by an effort of will. “Shall I get the car?”

  “I’m not going.”

  She threw herself down on a chair.

  “You’re perfectly mad,” said Buckland. “Of course you’re going.”

  “Then you’re coming with me. I’m not going to tell a pack of lies for you, and have everyone asking what I brought a tutor out here for at all. D’you think you’re just having a holiday at my expense or what?”

  “Oh my God,” gently said Hilary Moon in a high, superior voice. He walked away.

  “See you later, then,” said Angie to Buckland, without moving.

  “Mother, I thought — I’ll drive you. Won’t that do?” stammered Patrick.

  “No it won’t. How often have I told you I won’t have you driving the car out here on these bloody roads — a kid like you. Besides, it’s Buck’s job.”

  Buckland sprang to his feet scowling.

  “All right, all right! I’ll come. Anybody would think I was the damned chauffeur.”

  “See you when I get back, Angie,” he added in a loud, determined voice.

  Mrs. Romayne got up too.

  “Come on, we’ll start from the garage.”

  She swung along the path, her long stride keeping pace with Buckland’s.

  Patrick stood and stared after them for a long moment, and then followed.

  (3)

  Coral was blindly and furiously angry. Buckland’s open defection had not only enraged her, it had frightened her as well. She saw in it, clearly and finally, proof that she could no longer hold her own against younger women. Cads like Buckland would only be amused by her so long as there was nobody else to make love to — nobody younger. Her day was over — finished.

  She flung herself into the back of the big car, as Buckland climbed sulkily to the driving-seat.

  Patrick took the place next hers. She was not even aware of him. She bit her handkerchief viciously and threw herself about. All her life she had vented her feelings in physical restlessness, or actual violence.

  She made no attempt to control or conceal them when the Villa Mimosa was reached. Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, advancing with short steps and faintly wagging behind, offered her favourite formula of greeting.

  “How nice to see you, dear. And Patrick — quite the young man now, isn’t he? Had you a good bathe this morning?”

  “We went for an idiotic lunch-party to that beastly place across the Bay. Oh Christ, I’m tired. Doesn’t the heat ever let up in this beastly place?”

  “You must let me give you a cold drink,” said Mrs. Wolverton-Gush authoritatively. “Miss Challoner will be down directly, I’m sure. She’s obliged to go out this evening, but I said I knew you’d forgive her.”

  “I don’t care if she goes or stays,” said Coral. “It’s all one to me.”

  “Take a seat, dear, won’t you? Buck, are you going to be very sweet and mix the drinks for us?”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush wore an air that Coral knew well: that of being a complete woman of the world. Quite suddenly, it made her want to laugh.

  Old Gushie really was a scream. She didn’t know what she looked like, in that black-and-green affair that clipped her just too tightly in all the wrong places. Instinctively, Coral stretched out her own still lithe and slender shape, in a soft flowered-chiffon frock, loosely clinging to her figure. Insensibly, she became more calm. Buck, handing her a cocktail, grinned at her with a pleading expression in his dark eyes. She did not respond, but it was by an effort that she refrained.

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, with a resolute display of conscious good-breeding, continued to make conversation, her mouth stretched into a fixed smile, her eyes alert and watchful.

  She apologised for Chrissie Challoner.

  “Really these Bohemians.... She’s a dear little thing, and I’m quite fond of her — of course I admire literary people very much and always have done — but I’m afraid that, where she’s concerned, time is not. Simply. It may be all right out here, but of course, English servants won’t stand it. The difficulty I’ve had with them when I’ve been working for her in London!”

  “Does she keep any servants? I should have thought a daily char was more in her line,” said Coral rather brutally. It amused her to prick at her friend’s social pretensions from time to time.

  Though Gushie never let herself be shown up for the old humbug she was — she’d say that for the old girl.

  “One resident maid, dear,” said Gushie, unperturbed. “It’s quite a small establishment. Naturally, it would be, with just the one person in the flat — and she’s out a great deal, and away very often. I must say, these people who write have a very easy time of it, compared with the rest of us in this workaday world.”

  “I suppose she makes a pretty good income out of her books, doesn’t she?” Buckland asked curiously.

  “You’d be surprised. Really, it does seem as if some people had all the luck.”

  “Miss Challoner must be awfully clever,” said Patrick shyly.

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush turned on him a rather pitying smile.

  “Oh, of course. No one would deny that for a moment — naturally they wouldn’t. I don’t know that I care very much for her style myself, but then I’m peculiar in that way. But there’s no doubt that she’s managed to hit the popular taste, once or twice.”

  “I say, will she expect us to talk about her books?”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush emitted a cultured ripple.

  “Buck, you’re quite refreshing, I assure you. Miss Challoner is a most ordinary girl, except for this gift of hers — because writing is, undeniably, a gift — and she won’t — Ah, there you are, dear.”

  Chrissie Challoner trailed in with rather vague greetings and apologies. She had the appearance of not quite knowing who any of them were, and of wondering why they had come.

  (4)

  “Well, I must say —— !” exclaimed Coral Romayne.

  “I know, dear.”

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush did know. She was profoundly exasperated and yet slightly triumphant. There was a certain satisf
action in knowing that other people realised — couldn’t possibly help realising — something of what she had to put up with.

  Dinner had not been a success, in spite of her own efforts. In vain had she introduced first one topic and then another — the climate, the Hotel, the Royal Family, and the latest film star, each in turn — in the endeavour to promote general conversation. No one had given her the slightest help. It had been a positive relief when dinner was finished, and they had all gone out on to the loggia for coffee.

  About two minutes afterwards, Chrissie Challoner had murmured an unconvincing apology, and left them.

  Buckland, perhaps chagrined at his complete failure to attract her attention during dinner, had escorted her to the gate and not returned.

  “What a little bitch!” said Coral. “Is she always like that?”

  “Please, dear — —” Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, outraged, indicated Patrick by a gesture.

  “Patrick, can’t you go for a swim or something? Go and find Buck,” directed his mother. “I want to talk to Gushie.”

  The boy stood up.

  “There’s a gramophone in the sitting-room, Patrick — or the wireless, if you prefer that.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  He left them.

  Mrs. Wolverton-Gush exhaled a deep breath. She experienced the painful and familiar sensation of on-coming indigestion. It added venom to her spirit, although she never, at any time, permitted herself the relief of wholly unbridled speech. She had long ago learnt that such a luxury was only for employers, never for the employed.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course, in some ways she’s generous, and naturally there’s no question of my being treated other than as a gentlewoman, which is more than I can say for some people I’ve been obliged to work for — but she’s spoilt, that’s about what it is. Utterly spoilt.”

  “I thought she was damned rude, to-night.”

  “She’s like that, dear. Spoilt, if you see what I mean. I suppose it’s this writing, and her being so young. She’s got that silly way of going all moonified, as though nobody was good enough to talk to. I’ve seen her carry on in precisely the same manner with her own friends. Precisely the same.”