by Thomas Tryon
The day before Bobbitt’s arrival, when Robin called, as a way of ensuring that the surprise would come off she suggested they all go to the airport and meet the plane; no, he said, he didn’t want her to go to that trouble. Then she suggested that as soon as they got in and settled, Robin must bring Bobbitt straight to her house. Well, he said, the child would be tired after his trip, and he didn’t want him overtaxed. Nellie saw what he meant; there was no help for it, she had to confess the welcome party they had planned. Robin said that was a kind thing for her to want to do, but wasn’t really necessary. Oh, she said, everything was arranged; the food was cooked, the cake baked, the presents were bought—what was to be done?
“You’re a darlin’ dear, Nell,” Robin said, after consideration, and of course they would come. The Aer Lingus flight from Shannon would arrive at Kennedy Airport at five-thirty, and allowing for traffic, he and Bobbitt ought to be at Nellie’s apartment by seven. Dinner would be promptly at eight, and right afterward Robin could take the child home and put him to bed.
This was how matters were arranged, and the next day Nellie went to Mr. Kenneth’s. Under the dryer, she had an odd feeling. Was everything all right? Had she forgotten something? When she got home, the girls were already at work blowing up balloons and hanging them in clusters, and twisting and draping the paper streamers, then setting the presents out on the sideboard, while the cake was kept hidden in the kitchen. When all was in readiness, they dispersed to dress, while Nellie saw to the finishing touches. Robin called from the airport, saying the flight would be delayed half an hour, and not to worry. She thanked him, then rechecked everything, wondering what she might have forgotten. Then it struck her: champagne. She called the liquor store and ordered six bottles of the Taittinger that Robin liked; after all, it was to be a celebration. Then the girls arrived, and they waited, chatting as the time drew nearer. Then the time for the arrival had passed, and the missing guests were late; Nellie glanced more frequently at the clock as Robin grew tardier and tardier. Then she became worried. It wasn’t like him to be late, or not to have called back. She was certain now that her feelings at the beauty parlor were not merely whimsical or capricious; something had happened. She called the airline, and was told that the flight had arrived, but they were unable to give her any information regarding its passengers. Finally it was well past nine, and deciding she must feed her guests, Nellie went into the kitchen and put on her apron. They were halfway through the soup course when the downstairs buzzer rang; the doorman announced Mr. Ransome. Nellie waited anxiously for the elevator, holding the apartment door ajar, alternately peering nervously down the hall and over her shoulder to the others at the table. At last the elevator door opened and Robin came out alone. He halted briefly when he saw her, then approached.
Nellie hurried to meet him. “What’s happened?” she asked. “Where’s Bobby?”
He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. He didn’t come.” He entered, said hello to the girls, and flung himself into a chair. “I don’t understand it. He just wasn’t on the plane. I called Galway, but there’s no answer at the house. None of the servants—nobody. They showed me the passenger list; he was supposed to be on the flight. It came in, but he wasn’t there.” He rose and began striding rapidly about the room. “Something’s happened; I know it. Something’s happened.” He sat down again at the desk in the corner by the birdcage.
It had. Nellie knew it, too; the funny feeling she’d had at the beauty parlor. The girls remained at the table, watching but saying nothing. Nellie brought a cup of coffee and set it at Robin’s elbow on the desk, while he dialed Long Distance, gave his credit card number, and placed the call. Nellie withdrew to the dining room and sat with the girls; they sent a chain of worried expressions around the table.
“Hello … hello … ?” Robin had got through, but the connection appeared to be a bad one. “Pat … is that you? Where is everybody?”
Nellie waited while Pat talked on the other end of the line. She watched Robin, half turned away, looking out across the window ledge to Lincoln Center. Some fearful thing was stalking him, waiting to clutch, to pull him down. She leaned her elbows on the cloth, clasping her fingers till her rings hurt her fingers.
“How did it happen, Pat?” Robin was asking quietly. He listened for the answer. Then, “All right, I’m leaving right away. I’ll cable the flight.” He hung up, put his card away, and sat at the desk chair, leaning toward the window. “No,” he was saying. “It must be some mistake.” He turned, looked across the room to the table, tried to speak, couldn’t, then managed a hoarse “I’m sorry.” He was seized by a paroxysm of trembling, his shoulders heaved and shuddered; he sat bent forward in the chair, holding his head in his hands.
“Oh, my dear.” Nellie went and knelt beside him and put her arms around him. “What is it? What’s happened?”
He took his hands away and looked at her. The tears coursed down his cheeks and he wiped them away at his chin. He shook his head, looking wildly at her, then at the others, who sat frozen in their places.
“Oh, dearest, tell me,” Nellie pleaded, putting her hand to his cheek. He pressed it there with his own and murmured into it.
“It’s Bobby—and Kitty….” His voice broke again, and he fumbled for his handkerchief; she gave him one of her own.
She waited until he had blown his nose, then asked again. “Robin, what’s happened?”
“Bobby’s dead.”
He pushed past her and rose quickly, striding rapidly about the room, his head held back, and clenching the handkerchief in his fingers. He whirled, stared at her with a disbelieving expression, and repeated the words. “He’s dead.” She had risen also and he came quickly to her and threw himself against her, burrowing his head against her shoulder while the others stared in shock. She drew him onto the sofa and held him until he could tell the rest of it. Kitty and Bobby had been driven by limousine from Galway to Shannon Airport. En route they stopped for something to eat, then continued on. Evidently mistaken for a diplomat’s vehicle, the car had had a bomb planted in it. It exploded just as they arrived at Shannon. Bobby was killed, Kitty and the chauffeur were in the hospital.
“My dear,” was all that Nellie could murmur, “my dear, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my Bobbitt, Nell, my little boy. He was coming to me. And now he’s dead.” Robin shook his head in disbelief. He blew his nose again and asked for a glass of water, which Hilda hurried to fetch, while Naomi whispered to Phyllis that they should go. Robin stared around at the decorations and their funny paper hats, and the tears came to his eyes again.
Nellie sat holding Robin’s hand; Hilda began quietly clearing the table. Naomi and Phyllis got their things and slipped tactfully away, then Hilda left, too. Nellie and Robin stayed together in the quiet room, while currents from the air conditioner wafted the streamers and balloons, and the teddy bear sat with button eyes and blue bow on the sideboard. She asked him if he wanted her to make a plane reservation for him; he shook his head. It would have to wait until morning. She went into the kitchen for more coffee. When she came out again, she glanced around; his jacket was there, but not Robin. She looked in the bathroom, and in each of the bedrooms. She became frightened, wondering what had happened to him, then was more frightened when she found him. He was beyond the raised window, sitting on the outside ledge, staring down at the sidewalk. Though she forced herself to pretend there was nothing unusual in this, she felt rushes of terror, that he might at any moment just let himself go, or even jump from the ledge. She approached the window and spoke casually, and he replied in a seemingly normal tone, but wouldn’t come in. When she brought him a cold drink, he sat out there gulping from the glass and swirling the ice cubes; still he would not come in. She could feel her hands trembling and a choking sensation.
“What are you thinking, Robin?” she asked.
When he spoke, it was quietly and quite rationally. “I was thinking about your family. Linda and Kar
en and Roger. Bobby really would have had fun with them, don’t you think?” Yes, she said, just as quietly, she thought he would have.
He went on, talking about children, but still he would not come in. She sat waiting, listening, growing more apprehensive, until at last she spoke sharply to him, as she might to a recalcitrant child. He came in then, drank his coffee, and asked if instead of going to Madame Potekka’s he might spend the night. He couldn’t face talking to her about it just yet. In the morning …
She put him to bed in the spare room; he lay with the pillow pulled over his face, muffling his sobs. His shoulder felt pitifully thin when she put her hand against it. She got him quieted, and when he had finally sunk into exhausted sleep, she went out and closed the door. The next morning she woke him early, as he had asked her to. He showered and dressed, ate little of the breakfast she’d made, gave her a hurried kiss, saying he would be in touch, and left.
He called the following night, having arrived at Shannon. He was going directly to the hospital to see Kitty, then to the funeral home. His mother and father were with him; he would write. Please no flowers. Three days later a letter came:
Dearest Nellie,
It is done. I have only just returned from the cemetery, and am sitting in Rose’s room, writing at her desk, looking out on the bay. Very bright, sunny. I thought it always rained for funerals and people had umbrellas. I had wanted the grave to be on the house grounds, but there is some medieval statute which prohibits this; consequently the burial was at the church of Kilaraty (a small village close by), fitting, I suppose—much greenery and flowers, but so lonely. I cannot bear to think of him under that cold, cold Irish turf. The trams run by the cemetery and there is a good deal of off-stage noise, so I wonder how the little fellow may have any rest, but there is a school nearby and the children come and play among the gravestones, so I suppose he will have company, if Eternity ever needs company. From the corner of the churchyard you can see across the vale to Baughclammain. I had forgotten to order any flowers myself, so I had nothing to leave, except I was carrying the handkerchief you loaned me and I put that on the grave, so you will know you protect him with some of your love. Kitty is still in hospital at Shannon, and I must hurry off to her. Rose is a wreck and is experiencing some problems which seem to have nothing to do with Bobby’s death.
More anon. Thinking of you,
Love,
Your Robin
Three days later there was a brief note from the Dorchester Hotel in London, explaining that Robin was there with Lady Ransome, looking after her affairs. There followed another note, this time from the Prince de Galles Hotel in Paris, where he and Rose had gone for a brief stay to meet with the Rothschilds, and though Nellie was not good at reading between the few lines, she thought they indicated that some sort of financial transactions were taking place.
At the beginning of the following week another letter arrived, postmarked Galway, with the family crest. It read:
Darling Missy Priss,
Here I am back home again, and will be glad of the rest. London, Paris most hectic. Kitty is out of hospital and has gone to stay with her family in Cork, where she says she wants to remain until the fall. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to deal with Father and Rose. I told you there were financial problems, but they now appear far worse than I’d imagined. Rose is talking of turning the castle into a guest inn (really!) and renting out rooms to weekenders. I told her we weren’t three-in-a-bed Irish yet, and obviously the thing to do was to sell the Ballymore, hence our trip to Paris. One of the Rothschilds has coveted it for a long time, so I think it will end up in their hands, rather than going on the block, which was Father’s suggestion. Never mind, Rose has plenty of other necklaces; though I must admit we shall all miss the Ballymore—in the family for over three hundred years. Please don’t worry about me, I’m all right, will be popping up on your doorstep to surprise you one of these days.
Lovingly,
Your Bobbitt
P.S. Reading that, I just saw how funny it sounds. Your Bobbitt. Alas, there is only one again, isn’t there?
Loving you, thinking of you. B.
Nellie reread the letter and cried a little, and when the girls gathered at Phyllis’s she brought it along to share with them. Sad, it was just sad, that’s all. Partway through the reading, Phyllis, who had her drink in her hand, spilled some of it on the rug; something seemed to have taken her aback. She rose hurriedly and made herself another drink, and later, when Nellie asked her what was wrong, she patted her shoulder and said nothing, nothing….
Then, as she was seeing the girls out, she took Nellie aside and asked plaintively, “Nell, do you really think we’re going? To the race?”
Nellie couldn’t tell, they must wait and see. But: “Why?” she asked Phyllis, who only smiled and kissed her cheek. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just wondering.”
Nellie rested uneasily that night, lying awake and thinking about Robin, then about the letter, then about Phyllis. In her mind she went over the letter paragraph by paragraph. Finally she went to sleep. It wasn’t until the next morning, reading the Times at the breakfast table, that the thought struck her. There were pictures of the jewelry collection in the Victoria and Albert Museum. She had seen them many times, and suddenly—quite impossible not to have realized it, but she had not—a light went on. She put the paper down, still staring at the pictures, but her mind was elsewhere. She let her coffee get cold, thinking, then she went into the living room, pacing and thinking. From time to time her mind was elsewhere. She let her coffee get cold, thinking, then she went into the living room, pacing and thinking. From time to time her mind flitted back to the jewels, but that was only absurd and served to irritate her. Her irritation turned to distress, her distress to agitation, and finally her agitation to fear. She tried to think it out, piece by piece, wishing there were somebody she could talk to about it, but there seemed no one. She went back to the kitchen and there were the pictures. She poured more coffee, and while she was stirring in her cream the answer—or part of it—came to her. She went to the telephone and called the New York Public Library information service, feeling a creeping dread as she posed her question and waited for the answer, which, coming, caused her infinitely greater distress. She sat and thought some more, and when Hilda telephoned she said she couldn’t talk and hung up quickly. She got out her telephone directory and looked up a name. When she found it she made another call and asked for an appointment, which was given her for later that afternoon. She took a good deal of trouble getting ready, and spent the remaining time pacing the room, waiting for four o’clock. At a quarter to, she called down to the doorman and asked for a taxi, and then she set out to visit Madame Potekka.
Robin’s friend was waiting for her and quickly invited Nellie to be seated. She appeared warm and friendly, though obviously she didn’t remember having met Nellie before. Her living quarters were small, hardly the grandeur Robin had described, and her easel was crammed in a corner by the window. “As you see,” she said, sweeping a bangled arm to a half-finished canvas, “I am working.”
Nellie apologized for taking up her time, mentioning that she owned one of the artist’s works. The artist’s brows shot up.
“Ah, which is that?” The violets, Nellie explained. Madame’s look of surprise was adroitly covered as she seemed to arrive at some private understanding concerning the painting. “Ah, yes,” she said, “the little violets. Very pretty. Bobby … gave it to you?”
“Yes. A most generous present. He is so kind-hearted, isn’t he. And generous. You are quite … recovered?”
“Recovered?” Madame was surprised, as Nellie had feared she might be. “Have I been ill, then?”
“Haven’t you?”
“I had a cold last winter, nothing more.”
“Yes. I see. Colds are to be guarded against.”
“Surely it is not my state of health that brings you here. Something about Bobby, is it?” she asked, lig
hting a long cigarette, which she inserted into a longer holder. “How can I help you?”
Nellie took a breath and plunged in. “Madame, are you acquainted with the Ballymore emerald?”
“I have heard of it, naturally.” She blew smoke in the air, but discreetly, in the direction of the electric fan that cooled the room. “It is very famous.”
“Yes. Bobby—Robin—tells me it is an old family heirloom, and that his mother has been reduced by circumstances to selling it.”
“Oh?” Again a look of surprise which was quickly disguised by a smile. “And … ?”
“I wondered, since you are so closely connected with Robin, if you could tell me if you believe this to be true.”
“Offhand, I should say that I doubted it,” Madame returned easily.
“So should I,” said Nellie, “considering that the Ballymore emerald is in the British Museum, and has been since thirty-five years ago, when it was given by the Farquahar family. Yet I have been led to believe that it belonged to Lady Ransome and that she has sold it to the Rothschilds, and that she may have to turn the Castle Baughclammain into a sort of weekend hostelry.”
Madame Potekka could no longer control her surprised expression. Her mouth dropped open, then she covered her face with her hands. In a moment she spread her fingers and peered through them, her little black eyes wide with either mirth or astonishment. “Oh, my dear,” she said, shaking her head, “you don’t mean it.”
“Mean what?”
“Bobby is doing it again, yes?”
“Doing what?”
“Telling little stories.”
“Little … stories? Yes, so it appears. I called the library and they assured me that that is where the emerald is.”
Madame Potekka had plucked up a painted Japanese fan from the table and was stirring the air around her with gusto. “A charming boy, Robin, is he not? Charming. Such a love. Who is more enchanting than Robin?—though I call him Bobby.”