Friends and Lovers

by Helen Macinnes

  We called on Dr. MacIntyre some days ago on his island stronghold. He is quite remarkable. And he was most kind.

  Again David paused. Better not mention the Lorrimers at all.

  Love to Father and yourself. Expect me when you see me. Trains are far away from this wild region, and I’ll probably miss at least one connexion when I do reach a railway line. It takes almost as long to reach London from here as if I were travelling from Munich. (There are language difficulties too.)

  Yours,

  David

  He read the letter over carefully. If it gave the impression of rather more fun and games than work that couldn’t be helped. Damned if he was going to start writing Margaret’s kind of letters. If she enjoyed writing letters with a neat pin-prick in every third sentence, then that was her loss. He wondered, as he folded the stiff sheet of notepaper and slipped it into one of the Lodge’s excellent envelopes, just what she would say if she were to open it and read, “The weather is putrid. The boys are howling dervishes. George is as good-natured as ever, but even that virtue can get on your nerves when there is nothing much else to go with it. I get no real time for my own work. I’ll be glad when I get back to London’s hot pavements and can be my own master again. If it weren’t for your holiday in Cornwall I would not be here now scrabbling for some extra cash to pay for it.”

  He smiled grimly, wrote the address—“Miss Bosworth, 7 Cory’s Walk, Chiswick, London, W.4”—and then allowed himself to crash the stamp on with his clenched fist.

  His second letter was to Dr. MacIntyre, a kind of bread-and-butter letter saying how much he had enjoyed the visit, and that he was sorry the visit to Inchnamurren had been cancelled today. That part was simple to write. But the next paragraph took more time:

  I promised to bring your granddaughter a book today—the new edition of Gerard Manley Hopkins—but now I must send it to her, and I find that I haven’t her address. I wonder if you would be so kind as to give it to Captain MacLean when he takes this note across to you? My thanks again for a memorable day. I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you next year when you come south for that visit to Oxford...

  Yes, it was all right, he decided, as he balanced the envelope in his hand. The reference to Penelope was fairly negligible. And he had a copy of that book, brought with him among the others he had packed in Oxford.

  He left the letter to his sister on the hall table, where the outgoing post was collected. But the letter to Dr. MacIntyre was carried upstairs to his room. Tomorrow morning he would take it down to MacLean’s cottage.

  He slept badly, but he could always blame that on his cold.

  8

  THE CRESCENT IS STORMED

  The Lorrimers’ house in Edinburgh was solid and comfortable. It was one of a row of three-storied houses in a quiet, crescent-shaped road, each with its broad white steps, polished doorbell, name-plate, letter-box, and large oriel windows set into thick grey stone. In front of each house was a carriage step overlying the deep gutter at the edge of the pavement. Across the quiet road was a narrow stretch of garden, well tended and charming with flowering shrubs. The trees that grew there added to the seclusion of the road, for the houses on the other side of the garden were screened from view. There was no one in the garden, and its gate was padlocked. There were no children playing, no people to be seen. Only the rows of large windows looked at you. David felt he was reviewing a line of spit-and-polish Guardsmen, and he did not quite know whether he should tiptoe in reverence or make a run for it.

  But here he was, and there was the house. (He had walked past it once already, halted at an imposing lamp-post, and then retraced his steps.) The choice was made in any case. It had been made last night, when, after a tedious journey by car and then by steamer and then by train from Oban, he had arrived in Glasgow and had purposely failed to catch the London express. He had spent a dull evening by himself in an unknown city, where everything seemed to be closed on Sundays; and a noisy night at a railway hotel until he could take a train on Monday morning to Edinburgh.

  His pace slowed down as he neared the Lorrimers’ house once more. What on earth had ever made him think of this idea, anyway? He should have posted his letter to Penny instead— it was still in his pocket, soiled and crumpled from five days’ handling—or, if he had had to obey the mad compulsion which had made him travel home by way of Edinburgh, then he ought to have telephoned first from the station. But after he had written the letter he had delayed posting it until it was too late. And this morning when he arrived in the Edinburgh station he had avoided the telephone-boxes. As if he were trying to postpone any attempt to get in touch with Penny. As if he had stage-fright.

  Hell, he thought, don’t be a bloody fool. He turned to the house, ran up the broad white steps, and pulled the bell before he could persuade himself to walk back to the bus-stop. When he released the knob of the bell he could hear its shrill tongue clattering away into the silent house. He had pulled it too violently. Oh, hell, he thought again. Well, either he would see her or he would not see her. That was all, and it was everything. If he were to see her he would know whether this strange self-tormenting was valid or not. If he didn’t see her—well, the thread was already so tenuous...a part of one afternoon spent with her, that was all—if he didn’t see her, then the thread might snap altogether and he would be free again. He would be able to laugh at the whole brief affair. A girl’s face. A girl’s way of talking. How easily he had surrendered. Damn fool, he told himself. But as he waited for someone to answer the bell’s clamour he was suddenly nervous, in case no one should be at home at all.

  A maid, stiffly correct in a starched dress, white apron, white cap, opened the door. Yes, Mrs. Lorrimer was at home. The maid glanced quickly at his pin-striped grey flannel suit, the long-pointed collar and striped tie, the brown suede shoes and soft felt hat. Would he come this way?

  He entered the polished hall, with its thick rugs and clean smell of cedar oil. The large grandfather clock at the foot of the white-enamelled, red-carpeted stairs chimed eleven o’clock, as if to remind him that he had chosen an unusual hour for his visit. He entered the drawing-room, a cool place of green and white with formalised roses to be picked off curtains and chairs, and was left with the three faces in the large portrait which hung over the mantelpiece for company. Three girls, heads conventionally together, throats and shoulders bare, with clouds of soft tulle caught carefully, well above breast-line, with pink roses. The artist had not captured the right colour of her hair, David thought with annoyance. Penny’s hair was much less obvious than the painter had made it appear; he had put in far too much of its red lights. Probably he fancied himself as another Titian.

  He turned to face the door as he heard the sound of a light footstep. “Mr. Bosworth,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, and came forward to shake his hand, “this is indeed a surprise.”

  He coloured slightly at her unobtrusive appraisal. He certainly would be found gravely wanting if he didn’t explain his visit adequately. His excuse, which had seemed so natural and excellent, now appeared weak in the extreme. His voice lost its assurance, as if he were apologising more for the excuse than for the actual visit. But actually there was no reason for any worry.

  Mrs. Lorrimer had her own particular problems: Monday was such a bad day to offer luncheon. Cook wouldn’t change the arrangements, either—not on laundry day. And you couldn’t give a man an egg and a salad, even if you did not particularly like him. She began to listen to him, worrying now because she had missed the thread of his explanation, something about having a book for Penelope.

  “I do hope I haven’t disturbed you,” he concluded. “It is very rude of me to descend on you like this without warning, but frankly I had no idea how long I should have in Edinburgh between trains.”

  “When does your train leave?”

  “This afternoon. Rather late in the afternoon.” He had a very charming smile, Mrs. Lorrimer thought, with surprise. He went on, “It seemed very dreary to sp
end the day here by myself. I don’t know Edinburgh at all, you see. I thought that your daughters might lunch with me, and show me the Castle afterwards.”

  “I’m afraid Betty and Moira are both out. And Penelope has settled down to do some painting in her room. At the moment she says she is very behindhand with something or other.”

  “I should be sorry to interrupt,” he said. Careful now, careful, he told himself. Gently does it.

  Mrs. Lorrimer’s sense of guilt at having missed so much of his first conversation now resulted in sudden affability. After all, a stranger in Edinburgh had to be welcomed decently. She eyed the thin book which he had drawn out of his pocket and now held in his hand. “I shall tell Penelope you are here, and she can thank you herself.” She rose and went to the door. “We have coffee at eleven in the morning. You will stay and have some with us?” He had obviously never expected to have luncheon here, she thought. That was a great relief. She left the drawing-room door open, and he heard murmured instructions to a maid, who then ran upstairs.

  David walked over to the window which overlooked the back garden. Front garden, he corrected himself. It was obvious from the care expended on it that this was really the front of the house. As if it had turned its back on the street to live its own life in contemplation of a long, narrow stretch of grass and flower beds and cherry-trees within its own high walls. The city seemed remote. Smoking chimneys and tram-cars and buses and shops and crowds did not exist. But it was a different kind of peace from that which he had just left in the Highlands. There it was peace with the feeling of a wild and savage freedom. Here it was sheltered, secure, possessive. It was my house, my garden, my peace. His sense of intrusion deepened, and he turned quickly away towards the door.

  He heard footsteps on the staircase running quickly down, and then a short halt in their rhythm followed by a thump as she landed neatly on both feet in the hall. She had jumped the last four or five steps. It was so out of pattern with the dignified house and its formal garden that his depression left him. A broad smile spread over his face.

  “What is it, Mother?” Penny was saying impatiently. And then she halted, and her voice altered, “David Bosworth!” She looked just as wonderful as he had remembered her.

  “Hello.” He tried to be casual. The result was that he forgot what he had been going to say. And the longer the silence lasted the more difficult it was to break. He dropped her hand as he heard Mrs. Lorrimer running to the room, and he spoke then much too quickly.

  “I brought you this book. I was passing through Edinburgh and had some free time. I hope I am not being a nuisance.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What about your work?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer established control the minute she entered the room. “Penelope, I never imagined you would come downstairs in that disreputable smock. You know, Mr. Bosworth, she won’t allow it to be laundered.”

  “What are you working on?” he asked curiously.

  “Oh,” she said, for the third time. And then, half laughing, “A chest of drawers.”

  Heavens, he thought, surely she isn’t one of those art-and-crafters, painting pretty flowers in between handles.

  Mrs. Lorrimer’s eyebrows had gone up as her daughter had spoken. “Why don’t you show Mr. Bosworth your work?” she suggested. Really, she was thinking indignantly, how silly of Penelope. Mr. Bosworth might have believed her.

  “I don’t think he would be interested,” Penny said.

  There was a pause, and as it lengthened David felt he had to say, “I should like to see it very much.” He was as embarrassed as Penny. He had never been adept at simulating admiration: he would say inadequate things, and she would be hurt.

  Penny stood hesitating for a minute, and then, catching the slight nod of command from her mother, who now was quite determined that Mr. Bosworth should not leave with a wrong impression of her daughter’s talents, she suddenly moved towards the hall. She led the way, without looking back, and David followed quickly. The sooner this was over the better. She was wearing fine silk stockings today, and the seams were straight, too, on an excellent pair of legs. He admired them all the way up the two flights of stairs.

  “Penelope insisted on changing her room to suit her own ideas,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, as they passed two sweetly pretty rooms belonging to Moira and Betty. There was the slight edge of amused criticism in her voice. Penny said nothing, but her chin was set and determined. David wanted to smile. But instead a look of surprise came into his eyes as he followed her into her room. The walls were plain, unlike the flower-patterned wallpaper which belonged to the other rooms, and they had been painted a strange shade of clouded blue, almost grey. The carpet, also unpatterned, was the colour of sand. Long, straight curtains (no frills and flounces here) were striped in white and coral-red. There were bookcases, open and low, against one wall, and above them a long, deep band of dark green felt over cork had been fixed to the wall. On this were pinned reproductions of pictures cut out of art magazines.

  “Good idea,” he said involuntarily. This was the kind of thing he would like to have in his room at Oxford. He looked at the pictures. They varied in emotion from Rembrandt’s self-portrait through Ingres to Gauguin and the Douanier Rousseau. There was also a magnificent photograph of the detail on the main door to Chartres Cathedral; a reproduction of Dürer’s Praying Hands; some British Museum postcards of Attic vases. And there was an excellent camera study, cut out of last month’s Vanity Fair, of a girl’s body stretched, with accent on long, tight thighs and firm, high breasts, against a dark background.

  “Here is Penelope’s work-room,” Mrs. Lorrimer said quickly. I told her yesterday that I didn’t like that thing, she thought angrily. She opened the door which led into Penelope’s small studio.

  As David turned away from the pictures to follow politely he glanced at Penny. She was watching him anxiously, as if she were afraid that he might laugh, as if that were the normal reaction she had come to expect. He said, most honestly, “I like this room.” Somehow he felt that in these last two minutes he had known her for two years.

  “It is so very small, of course,” Mrs. Lorrimer said of the work-room. It was very small, but it also looked very adequate. There was an easel, a battered table with sketches and pieces of charcoal and tubes of paint and a jar holding brushes, a high stool, a small electric fire, and some canvases standing on the floor with their face to the whitewashed wall.

  “So you paint,” he said, half to himself. Chest of drawers, he remembered, and smiled. Penny’s eyes were laughing.

  “Show Mr. Bosworth your drawings, Penelope, and then we shall go down for coffee,” Mrs. Lorrimer said.

  Penny hesitated. He walked over to the half-finished canvas on the easel. It was an Impressionist study of the west shore of Inchnamurren. By the black rock in the foreground two figures were roughly blocked in, but so far only the sky and the sea had been painted.

  “Where are the seals?” David asked.

  “At least you recognised it,” she said delightedly. “Mother, there you are! You always say that no one can recognise anything I try to paint. I am doing this as a kind of bread-and-butter letter to Grandfather. Do you think he will like it?”

  “I like it,” David said, and he was being honest. He was a little confused. The sea study was not at all bad. In fact, it was damned good. Surprising. It wasn’t just the pretty little picture that you might expect from a girl who liked to paint. He took a closer step to look at the two figures. One was certainly a girl. The other figure might be, could be... He looked quickly at Penny, but she was now much engrossed in a still-life which she was about to show him.

  “Imitation van Gogh, I know,” she said, and smiled. He had the grace to look embarrassed. He wasn’t accustomed to having his thoughts so quickly interpreted.

  “And roofs,” she said, showing him another canvas. “I do a lot of these. In a way they are like a sea. A petrified sea.”<
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  “Now, Penelope, get rid of that dreadful smock, and I’ll take Mr. Bosworth downstairs. I am sure the coffee will be cold if we wait any longer.”

  David and Penny exchanged glances.

  “That’s all, anyway,” she said. She seemed to be urging him to go, as if she did not want her mother to be annoyed. He reached quickly for the door-handle to let Mrs. Lorrimer pass through.

  “I always think this room is so bare, so masculine,” Mrs. Lorrimer said, walking quickly through Penelope’s bedroom.

  David thought it wise not to contradict, even politely. The colours were not those any man would have dared to use together. The amazing thing was that they made a quiet room and gave it a feeling of space. It would be pleasant to live in a room like that.

  “Your house is charming,” he said to Mrs. Lorrimer, as they went downstairs, and his remark won a real smile. It also involved a quick visit to a dark, book-lined room, all very leather-and-mahogany, with silver cups on the high carved mantelpiece.

  “This is my husband’s study,” Mrs. Lorrimer said.

  “Most impressive,” he said, and nodded to the silver cups.

  “For tennis,” Mrs. Lorrimer said. “He used to win everything. He hasn’t much time now, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  In the drawing-room the coffee-tray was waiting on a low table in front of the couch. As Mrs. Lorrimer poured coffee and hot milk in equal proportions into the cups she went on talking about her husband. “He enjoys the tennis at North Berwick, you know. We have gone there every August for years. If you had arrived here next week-end I am afraid you would have found a closed house.”

  David, whose chief worry during the last week had been that he might not discover Penny’s address before the Lorrimers left for North Berwick, said, “Then I should have been a very lost stranger in Edinburgh.”

  “I should have thought you would have stayed on for the Twelfth,” Mrs. Lorrimer said. “You are missing the chief excitement in the Highlands, you know.”