Lady Hanbridge, however, did her best to make her feel at ease by saying, “Oh, how nice you look, my dear—so beautifully cool ... I think it is going to be very hot.”
“What will you have to drink?” Romilly asked her. “Nothing, thank you.” She was sure she would not be able to hold a glass today even with both hands.
“Surely you’ll have something?”
“No, nothing, thank you.”
“How shall we go?” Lady Hanbridge asked. “By the way, where is Dennis?”
“He’s joining us there. He’s coming direct from London,” Romilly replied. “I think you’d better take Erika. I’m afraid Bumble might spoil her dress.”
“All right. Erika, would you mind coming with us?”
Poppy went with Lord and Lady Hanbridge while the four other young people got into Romilly’s car. She felt humiliated by Romilly’s remark about spoiling her dress and she longed to be with the others in Bumble. Her face felt quite stiff with disappointment as she endeavored to make conversation to Lord Hanbridge. Was every day going to be as bad as this? What would the real Erika have done? No doubt she would have had a way of carrying off her clothes. She would have said something like, “What does it matter about my silly old dress? I’m coming with you, Romilly.” Somehow she could not see the real Erika put to a disadvantage. She had so much self-assurance.
But when they actually got to the course Poppy lost herself in the general excitement. They parked the car in the pound car park next to the rails on the opposite side from the stands. Bumble had already arrived and they found a place next to it. A number of family parties were picnicking on the grass in the shadow of their cars. The atmosphere was gay and informal; the colors were brilliant, and the metal-work of hundreds of cars and coaches glistened in the sun. On one side of them, across the bright green turf of the track, rose up the white-painted stands, almost empty for the moment but soon to be thronged with excited faces, while on the other side the view over gloriously undulating country spread out towards the Weald.
They undid their picnic lunch. “Is there a rug or something for Erika to sit on?” Romilly asked. “She’ll ruin her dress on the grass.”
“No, I won’t. What does it matter what happens to it?” she asked a little sharply. But in fact she did not find sitting on the grass at all easy in her stiff petticoat. Moreover she longed to take off her shoes which were already beginning to rub the blister on her heel.
“Why don’t you take your hat off?” Philippa said. “You look so uncomfortable.”
Poppy complied.
“Ah, that’s better,” Romilly exclaimed as she laid it down on the ground beside her; “now we can see you!” It certainly felt better. She put her head back and shook out her hair and closed her eyes. When she opened them again Romilly was standing over her, holding out a sandwich to her. She noticed how strong and brown his hand was against the dazzling white of his cuff. He was wearing a grey suit today, faultlessly cut, and he looked more attractive than ever. It had often struck Poppy how the well-dressed Englishman could look equally at home in the oldest clothes or in the most formal dress, and Romilly was a perfect example of this. But apart from being the typical well-dressed Englishman he had some special quality, some special grace of his own. His voice, his walk, his bearing were all the expressions of some inner certainty. He appeared to her to be supremely well adjusted to life. She could not imagine his ever being in a situation of which he would not be the master. She felt sure that he would never allow circumstances to get the better of him. He radiated a sense of inner power.
He sat down beside her now on the grass to enjoy the picnic. Nicole was on his other side and he divided his attentions between the two girls about equally. “We haven’t brought any napkins,” he said to Poppy at one moment. “Here, take my handkerchief if your fingers are sticky. It’s clean.”
“No, I’ve got one of my own, thank you. It’s in my bag.” She had been eating a lemon curd tartlet, the pastry of which was so short that it had crumbled. She and Romilly both looked round for her bag which she had put down beside her, only to find that it had fallen open and spilled most of its contents on the grass. Erika’s cigarette-case and lighter were lying exposed and shining in the sun.
“What a beautiful case,” Romilly said, picking it up. “May I look at it?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t smoke, do you?”
“No, but I always carry cigarettes for my friends,” she improvised quickly.
“That’s the most generous thing I’ve ever heard. I know men do it but I never thought a woman would ... It’s got a lovely feel to it. How does it open? Oh, I see, slide action.” He slid the case open as he spoke. Inside there were a few cigarettes and also, Poppy saw to her consternation, a snapshot of Lew. Romilly could not have failed to see it. However, he shut the case and gave it back to her without making any comment. Why should it matter that he should see a photograph of Lew? Why should she be so concerned? She tried to account for the feeling by telling herself that she had given one of Erika’s secrets away. You do not keep the snapshot of a man in your cigarette-case unless he is very dear to you—unless, perhaps, he is a brother, but Romilly knew that Erika had no brothers. He must, therefore, jump to the conclusion that Erika was in love with the original of the photograph. Well, why not? Wasn’t it better so? Erika would not like Romilly to have any false hopes of winning her for himself, so there was really no great harm done. In fact it was probably all for the best ... But having told herself this the sense of some irretrievable calamity persisted.
“I’ll clear up while you go and put your bets on for the first race,” Lady Hanbridge was saying.
“Let me help you,” Poppy offered at once.
“No, my dear, you go with the others.”
Poppy was persuaded by Romilly to go ahead with them while Lord and Lady Hanbridge stayed behind to pack up the picnic, which seemed to Poppy all wrong. “Mother and Father don’t bet and aren’t much interested in the racing,” Romilly explained to her. “They really only came for the picnic and the beauty of the place and the tradition of it.”
Poppy was given a badge and they walked through the entrance gate and across the track and into the paddock where the horses which were running in the first race were being led round. Romilly bought race cards for them all and also a pencil for Poppy when he found that she had not got one.
“I’m afraid Dennis is going to miss the first race,” he said. “What do you fancy?”
Poppy was looking intently at her card and chose a horse at random. “But it’s not running,” Romilly said. “The runners are up on the board there.”
This was the first time that Poppy had ever been on a race-course and everything was strange and confusing. She wondered how much Erika knew about racing.
“Do you have bookies or only the Tote in South Africa?” Romilly asked, but fortunately before Poppy had a chance of answering this awkward question, Romilly’s attention was diverted by a woman who had just come up to him. “Ah, here you are,” she exclaimed. “I thought you were going to miss the first race.”
“Can I introduce you to my cousin, Erika Hanbridge,” Romilly said, “and to Mademoiselle Dubois. You know Timmy, don’t you? ... Mrs. Cunningham.”
The woman bowed but did not offer to shake hands, and Poppy’s hand which had been half held out dropped rather foolishly to her side. Mrs. Cunningham looked about thirty but she might have been older because she was most beautifully made up. She was altogether extremely soignée. She was wearing a perfectly tailored suit of cream shantung and a small becoming hat. Her clothes were just what Erika’s were not—ideally, suited for the occasion. Poppy, in comparison, felt, in her voluminous chiffon skirt and huge floppy hat, like a member of the chorus in some noisy musical show.
“Are you alone?” Romilly asked Mrs. Cunningham.
“No, I’m with Arthur, but he’s gone to put our bets on.”
“What have you backed?
”
“Come, I’ll show you,” and she took him by the arm and led him close to the rail of the paddock to show him the horse she fancied. They were soon swallowed up in the crowd and Poppy experienced a ridiculous sense of desolation.
“I’ll go and put your bets on,” Timmy said.
Philippa handed him four shillings. “Put this on Number Two for Nicole and me, will you?” she said.
“What about you?” he asked Poppy.
“Oh, do the same for me, please,” and she searched in her bag for some change. She would not have had any idea how much money to stake and was thankful to Philippa for giving her guidance and thankful also because the stake was so small. She did not want to throw away Erika’s money in betting.
Timmy went off towards the Tote and just then a male voice greeted them: “Hallo, there.” It was the man she had met at the station, Arthur Bingle. “Good afternoon, Miss Hanbridge ... Hallo, Pip.”
“Hallo,” Philippa replied without much enthusiasm. She introduced him to Nicole.
“Where’s Romilly?” he asked.
“With Daphne. They’re looking at the horses.”
“How are you enjoying yourself, Miss Hanbridge? Or may I call you Erika? I’m a very old friend of the family.”
“Of course,” Poppy replied, though she had the impression that he considered himself more of a friend than he actually was.
“Is this your first experience of an English race-course?”
“Yes.”
“It’s very pretty up here, don’t you think? Do you race a lot in your country?”
“Not very much—at least—at least—we don’t.”
“Whereabouts do you live in South Africa?”
“Johannesburg mostly, but we’ve also got a place at White River...” and she rolled off the information Erika had given her.
Timmy rejoined them and they made their way along to the members’ stand. Erika could not help looking out anxiously for Romilly but she did not see him. They climbed high up in the stand from where they had the most glorious view, and Arthur Bingle lent her his field-glasses and she watched the horses come out and was able to distinguish with Philippa’s help, the colors of Number Two.
“Ah, there’s Romilly,” Philippa suddenly exclaimed.
“Where?” Poppy could not help asking.
“Down there.” She pointed, and Poppy spotted him, standing close to Mrs. Cunningham, their shoulders touching, and again she experienced that ridiculous, unaccountable sense of desolation. She felt it was all wrong that Arthur Bingle should be standing beside her, sharing his field-glasses with her. It should have been Romilly.
Had she but known it, Philippa had been looking out for Romilly as anxiously as she had herself and was even more perturbed to see him so close to Daphne Cunningham. She had hoped that Nicole had made a sufficiently deep impression on him to keep him at her side, and if not Nicole then Erika. She had not realized until that moment how much she liked Erika. All day yesterday she had unconsciously been fighting against her natural liking for her, but now she realized that there was something not only likeable but really loveable about her. She had so little conceit. With all her money she was so unspoilt. Just now, for instance, it had been so sweet of her to put only two shillings on a horse when she could so obviously afford to back in pounds. She must have done it to make Nicole and herself feel at ease, knowing that they could not afford any more. She must have real delicacy of feeling.
But Romilly was not Philippa’s only cause of uneasiness. She was wishing with all her heart that Dennis would arrive. Nobody in the world knew about her feeling for Dennis. Open as she was in so many ways, she had been able to keep this secret locked in her heart. Dennis had never shown any marked preference for her and therefore she was not going to be the first to show her feelings for him. He was Romilly’s best friend and they had known each other for years, and he had always treated her rather in the way Romilly himself treated her—teasingly, as a younger sister.
The horses were off and for the next few minutes Philippa and Poppy both forgot their preoccupations in the excitement of the race. It was a thrilling finish and as Number Two just pulled ahead to win by a hair’s breadth as it seemed, Nicole and Philippa were screaming and hugging each other in their excitement.
Romilly waited for them at the bottom of the stand and they told him of their good fortune. “We all three backed it,” Philippa said. “Weren’t we clever?”
“How much did you have on?” Daphne Cunningham asked.
“Two bob each.”
Daphne made a little noise of contempt. “Hardly worth while queueing up for your winnings, is it?” she said.
“We shall make ten shillings each,” Philippa replied with spirit. “That is quite a lot to some people.”
“What can you do with ten shillings nowadays?” Daphne asked, still contemptuous.
“It would keep a large family in bread for a week,” Poppy found herself saying.
“You can’t live on bread alone.”
“There are starving millions in the world who would be glad to do so.”
“Only in the East, and they wouldn’t eat bread if you gave it to them. They only eat rice,” Daphne replied, cleverly, as she thought, and was confirmed in her opinion of herself when Arthur Bingle laughed.
“That is a quibble,” Romilly put in. “By bread Erika means the staple diet of life. In the West it is bread, in the East rice ... Ah, here is Dennis at last.”
Everyone was glad to see Dennis because the atmosphere had become a little tense. He was introduced to Poppy and Nicole. He knew the others.
“The traffic was awful,” he said. “I just couldn’t make it.”
“And I bet you drove like a lunatic,” Philippa said. "Guess what? I backed the winner. And so did Erika and Nicole.”
“Good for you. I’ve only missed the first race, haven’t I? Let’s go into the paddock and see if we can glean some inside information. Come on, my mascot,” and he seized Philippa by the arm and swept her away.
He was an attractive-looking young man about the same age as Romilly, with very bright brown eyes and rather untidy curly hair. He looked as if he had been driving bare-headed in an open motor-car—which in fact he had.
Just then a slight wind got up and Poppy found that she had to cling on to her unwieldy hat. When the runners for the next race went up she could not hold her hat and at the same time strike out on her card the horses which were not running. Romilly saw her difficulty and firmly took her card from her and crossed out the names for her. “You are in luck,” he said, “you’d better tell me what is going to win.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Philippa.”
“I’ll tell you what is going to win,” Daphne said. She tried to take him off again to look at the horses, but it seemed that he did not intend to be parted from the others. Arthur Bingle stuck close to Poppy and continued to ply her with questions about South Africa, many of which she found great difficulty in answering. It almost seemed to her that he was doing it on purpose to embarrass her. She did not care what he thought of her, but Romilly must have overheard their conversation and she was worried lest he should think some of her answers a little odd or evasive. But it was he who came to her rescue in the end. “Stop badgering poor Erika,” he said. “She’s in England now and trying to concentrate on what is going on around her.”
“Yes, she agreed, thankful for the excuse he had offered, “I don’t know what I’ve been saying to you. There’s so much to look at here. My mind’s a million miles away from South Africa.”
“Just as it was on the train no doubt,” Arthur Bingle replied. “When you were so engrossed in looking out of the window ... By the way, was that your father seeing you off?”
“Yes, did you notice him?”
“I noticed you both,” he answered, with a special emphasis on the last word, and a cold thrill of dismay went through Poppy for she suddenly realized without any doubt that this man knew her to be
an imposter. “Especially you,” he went on. “After all, that bright green suit you were wearing was very striking, wasn’t it? I could hardly have failed to notice you—even if you had not been so pretty,” he added gallantly.
“Thank you,” Poppy replied. She could think of absolutely nothing else to say. What was he going to do? Was he going to give her away? She suddenly felt small and defenceless, beset on all sides by enemies. A great longing came over her to run away—to run off and get swallowed up in the anonymity of the crowd ... If only he would unmask her at once; but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He seemed to be enjoying playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. What was his game? Did he just want to tantalize her or did he have some deeper motive? Would it be possible to come to terms with him? She must know. She could not bear the suspense.
She moved away from Romilly towards the crowds round the Tote, half hoping, half fearing, that Bingle would follow her and that they might come to some agreement with each other. Should she throw herself on his mercy and beg him not to give her away? And if so how much of the truth should she tell him? This trapped feeling was dreadful. She felt quite sick, and cold in spite of the warmth of the sun.
As she had half suspected Bingle did follow her and when they were out of sight of the others she felt the hateful touch of his hand on her elbow. “I hoped you would give me the chance to say a few words to you alone.” His voice sounded dreadfully sinister to her all at once, though it was probably only her imagination. “I was afraid I might have to make the opportunity myself.”
She turned and faced him. People were thronging round them but they might have been alone, so utterly were they concentrated on each other. “Well?” she said in a low voice.
“I take it that you do not wish me to give you away?”
“How can I prevent you?”
“Quite easily ... In fact, you know, I can be of great assistance to you. I happen to know South Africa rather well.”
Once You Have Found Him Page 6