Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  Lord Heriot may have been right in telling his wife (even while his son was pondering and worrying in the darkened garden below the windows) that if Nick found that he cared for the Portuguese girl enough, he would make a move; but Nick being the self-deprecating person that he was, this is by no means certain. However he received the necessary impulse from another source. When the oblongs of light on the lawn, coming from the drawing-room windows, disappeared, he realised that the family had gone to bed, and went in, but not straight to his bedroom. He had left a book in his and Dick’s sitting-room, and went to fetch it—he must try to read himself to sleep. (Nick was a poor sleeper at the best of times.) The light was on; Dick was there, fiddling with the record-player.

  ‘Hullo’ he said—‘I thought you’d gone to bed, like all the rest.’

  ‘I’m just going—I’ve come to get my book.’ He hunted about among the litter of papers and magazines. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He made to leave the room.

  ‘Half a minute’ Dick said.

  ‘Yes?’ Nick was seldom impatient, but he did not feel equal to any encounter just then; he stood with his hand on the door.

  ‘No, come back’ his brother said; and now something in his voice arrested Nick’s full attention; he came back and stood by the untidy table.

  ‘Luzia’s given me the bird. She says she won’t ever marry me.’

  ‘When was this?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Just now, in the study, when we went to telephone. That was only an excuse. I thought you might as well know.’ He went out, shutting the door behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Luzia’s second drive up to Larége with Nick the following morning was not nearly as pleasurable as the first one; in fact it was rather gloomy. She was burdened by Julia’s injunction to tell Nick that she had dismissed his brother, but could not quite bring herself to do so, lacking some excuse; the young man, immensely relieved as he had been by Dick’s brusque statement, felt that it was impossible to cash in, as it were, immediately on his twin’s generosity. There had been generosity behind it, but Dick’s words were prompted by an emotional impulse: the need to tell someone, and most of all the person closest to him in the world. Oh, this terrible twin-ness!—suddenly it struck Nick as frightening. The pair were very silent till they reached Larége and picked up their passenger, who was waiting for them in the Place.

  As good luck would have it, Edina Reeder’s letter to Julia, saying how glad she and her Philip would be to employ Bonnecourt as a stalker, and do all they could to make his wife’s life easy and pleasant at Glentoran, arrived just over an hour before Mme. Bonnecourt got to Pau. Philip Jamieson had in fact taken rather a chance on this, driven by circumstances: Bonnecourt had simply got to be removed from France at once, Julia had suggested it, and she knew the set-up completely; moreover he had spent several days sailing with the Reeders himself, and formed his own opinion of them. ‘They’re sensible people’ he said, when at one point his wife had expressed belated qualms about his launching the hunter off to Scotland with Colin before getting any reply from her cousin. ‘They won’t throw him out; it will do for the time being, anyhow I expect they’ll find him jolly useful.’ All the same he was definitely relieved to see Edina’s letter, when he went in to pay his usual morning visit to his wife. ‘That’s all right’ he said. ‘Now all you have to do is to boost Madame’s morale.’

  ‘Well, let me get up and dress’ Julia said. ‘She may be less embarrassed if I’ve got a frock on.’

  ‘Oh, it’s to be a frock today, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Darling do clear off; I’ve got to fit in a feed before she comes, too.’

  ‘Greedy monster, young Philip Bernard!’ the man said, as he went out.

  At first Julia thought it was going to be rather difficult to boost Mme. Bonnecourt’s morale. Luzia brought her in and introduced her easily and delightfully; sat her down in the solitary arm-chair, and suggested that she ask for coffee. Then she left. But even after the coffee was brought the hunter’s wife sat on the edge of her chair, looking shy and frightened; she kept a steady gaze on Julia’s dress, and the first remark she volunteered was— ‘C’est de Dior, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Non, de Hardy Amies’ Julia replied, amused.

  ‘Ah, I have never seen an example of the haute couture anglaise. C’est formidable!’

  Julia began to feel that the frock had perhaps been a false move; however, they talked clothes for a few minutes. How little she was, and how timid, Julia thought, at once compassionate and alarmed; how on earth would she get on with the rather dour and silent Highlanders? Edina was far too busy to spend much time in succouring her. She switched the conversation from clothes to cows, and spoke of the pedigree Ayrshire milking herd at Glentoran. This aroused a more hopeful sign of interest.

  ‘Three hundred cows! But what do they do with the milk? Make cheese?’

  ‘No; what is not required on the place goes by lorry to Glasgow, twice a day. But Mrs. Reeder always needs more help than she can easily get for cleaning out the churns and the coolers, and for feeding the calves. Of course the milking is done by electricity.’

  ‘Tiens! I have heard of this; I should like to see it. These tubes and so on, also, must need great attention.’

  ‘Indeed they do; and of course they make their own butter’ Julia added, encouraged.

  ‘Ah, this I can do! But I believe the English use salt; we, we make sweet butter.’

  Putting the salt in is quite easy; Mrs. Reeder could show you that’ Julia said. She got up and opened her despatch case; she had made time the evening before to hunt through her suitcases, packed at Larége by Luzia, and found a folder with some snapshots taken at Glentoran. ‘This is Mrs. Reeder’ she said, holding out a photograph.

  ‘She is so like Monsieur Monro’ the Frenchwoman said. ‘Have you any pictures of the cows?’

  Alas no, Julia had not—but she showed pictures of the big house, the garden with the rhododendrons in flower, the azalea glen. Mme. Bonnecourt was impressed.

  ‘But this is a Paradise!’

  ‘Yes it is, really, in spring and summer. In the winter it’s a bit cold, and it gets dark early—and it rains a great deal all the year round. But of course there is electricity in all the cottages, and any amount of wood for fires.’

  ‘We cut this?’

  ‘No, the foresters do that, and a tractor brings loads from the saw-mill to each house.’

  Now they really got down to brass tacks. Julia described the cottage at Ach-an-Draine, and its garden and byre—‘If you wanted to keep pigs too, there is a stye.’ Mme. Bonnecourt was startled, as well she might be, at the degree of comfort in which employees on big British estates live. ‘But we pay for our milk?’

  ‘No, that’s thrown in.’

  ‘And the wood?—and the electricity?’

  ‘Certainly not for the wood; I’m not sure about the electricity.’ She had an idea that since Glentoran stopped making its own supply and went onto the national grid Philip Reeder, shocked by old Mrs. Monro’s fecklessness (which had practically reduced the place to bankruptcy) had insisted that his workers should pay for their own electric light, as in the past they had always bought the paraffin for their lamps. ‘Anyhow, that’s about all you do pay for.’

  ‘But the rent of the house is how much?’

  ‘Usually there is no rent. Estate people get their cottages free, or at a tiny rent; something like 5/6 a week—say 4 francs.’ Julia tried to explain to the astonished Frenchwoman the English system of ‘tied cottages’, which the Socialists now use as a dirty word; to Mme. Bonnecourt it did not appear dirty at all.

  ‘It seems impossible! A house with five rooms and a bathroom, eau courante, and a garden and a maison des cochons, at such a price! How can the propriétaires afford it?’

  It was the custom, Julia told her.

  ‘Eh bien, I should wish to do all I can for Madame Reeder, since she is so liberal. How far is our house from the dairy?’ She became very pra
ctical; Julia felt much more hopeful. After several further questions—‘And is there Mass in the village? Or how far off? Mme. Bonnecourt asked.

  ‘Well actually twenty-five miles. But don’t worry’ Julia said hastily, seeing the horrified look on the little face. ‘The Church of England church is in the same town as the Catholic one; Mr. Reeder drives his wife and any other Anglicans down every Sunday morning, early, in the Estate van; and they pick up one Catholic family on the way. He calls it “the ecumenical bus” ’ she added, smiling.

  When Luzia arrived to take Mme. Bonnecourt out to luncheon she found the little woman very cheerful; Colonel Jamieson drove them to the small restaurant he had chosen, and over their déjeuner the hunter’s wife expatiated on the wonders of life at Glentoran as described by Julia. ‘Écosse must be a marvellous place— all provided!’ She had found Mme. Jamieson wonderful too: ‘So practical, so full of understanding.’ Presently Luzia took her in a taxi to get her hair-do; no, Mme. Bonnecourt said, she had no desire to do any shopping, except for a pair of shoes, and these could be bought practically next door to the coiffeur. But she would dearly like to go to the cinema; there was a splendid film, beginning at a quarter to four. It would be over by 5.30; would that be too late for Monsieur Nicolas to drive her home? ‘I adore the films, and I so seldom see them; the little woman said wistfully. ‘But of course not if it is inconvenient.’

  Luzia realised that this would make Nick terribly late for dinner; he could not get back till well after nine. However she took upon herself to say that it would be all right, and that she would tell him. The cinema was quite near the big tree-shaded Place in which the Hotel de France stands, and she settled that Mme. Bonnecourt should go straight to a seat near the hotel entrance; it would be easier for Nick to pick her up there than among a crowd of people swarming out into a narrow street, where he could not park. They parted with warm farewells.

  Luzia walked back. She wanted time to do some thinking, and she had very little time left in Pau. When Lady Heriot had told her that she could stay to move Julia from the clinic to the Victoire she had written to her Father, telling him that she would be starting home on the 27th, and asking him to book her a sleeper from Bordeaux to Lisbon—the voucher had come that very morning. But today was Friday; tomorrow she would be first packing, then unpacking for Julia, and seeing that she was comfortable. She had slipped round to the Victoire that morning during Mme. Bonnecourt’s interview and inspected Julia’s room; she asked for another armchair and two more small tables. ‘But for books and papers, and for les boissons,’ she replied firmly to the patron’s protests. ‘Does Monsieur not desire that Madame should be in comfort?’ She had switched on the bed-side light; as usual in France it was a 25-watt bulb; she pulled it out. ‘This must be replaced with one of 60 watts; Madame will read much in bed. Monsieur le Patron cannot wish to put out her eyes!’ With a reluctant laugh the Patron had agreed—’ But there must be a slight surcharge.’ Luzia told him to discuss that with M. le Colonel. The Jamiesons could afford ‘surcharges’, outrageous as they were. Anyhow the move would occupy tomorrow—and Monday was the 27th! Oh goodness, and she had forgotten to get any flowers when she was up in the town; down here in the suburbs there didn’t seem to be any flower-shops. (Luzia had grown up with the idea that any move to a new place must be greeted with flowers in the room.)

  She walked on; the pretty, light-filled streets were getting hot; suddenly she felt tired and discouraged. She hailed a passing taxi, and drove to the Heriot mansion; she dismissed the cab at the gate, and turned into the shrubberies. If she went up to the house she was sure to be caught by someone, and she must think—especially about if, and when, she should carry out Miss Probyn’s injunction to ‘be fair to Nick,’ and tell him that she had broken with his brother. The girl felt uncertain about this, much as she trusted her ex-governess’s judgment. If she did, Nick might feel obliged to propose to her, even if he didn’t want to; and if he did want to, he would propose, and she didn’t feel equal to deciding about that either, yet. Everything was happening much too fast; she wanted time, and quiet; and there was almost no time left.

  At such moments important and unimportant matters jostle one another in the agitated mind. Catching a glimpse of the rosegarden, glowing brilliant through the dusky shrubs, Luzia thought again of some flowers for Julia. She always carried nailscissors in her hand-bag; she could cut a bunch of roses. Lady Heriot would not mind, there were thousands; the second blooming was in full flood. She emerged from the shrubbery into the rosery; there she was fairly caught—Lady Heriot, seated on a camp-stool, wearing a shady hat and armed with a vast basket, was snipping off dead flowers. Luzia tried to retreat, but her hostess caught sight of her too soon. ‘Come and tell me how it all went’ she called.

  Reluctantly, Luzia walked down one of the grassy paths which intersected the rose-beds.

  ‘I think it went well’ she said. ‘Mme. Bonnecourt seemed quite enthusiastic about going to Scotland.’

  The old lady glanced up at her.

  ‘You look tired’ she said. ‘Come and sit.’ There were wooden seats at the end of all the intersecting paths; Lady Heriot chose one in the shade, and again studied the face of the girl beside her as they sat down.

  ‘It’s rather hot today’ she said. ‘I expect you’ve done too much, with that second early start, and all. I hope you’ll be able to have a quiet day tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow I pack for Mrs. Jamieson, and take her to the Victoire’ Luzia said.

  ‘Oh Lawks!—so you do. I wish I could help you in any way, my dear child.’

  ‘Could you perhaps give me some roses for Mrs. Jamieson’s room? I was distraite in the town, and forget to buy any flowers for her.’

  ‘Yes of course—I’ll cut you some. There’s never any need to buy flowers, in this house! Now I think you should go in and rest; tell Jeanne to bring you tea in your room.’

  ‘Lady Heriot, I have done one thing which perhaps I ought not—only I am so sorry for Mme. Bonnecourt.’ She mentioned the arrangement about the cinema. ‘This will mean that Nick is terribly late for dinner; I hope that Lord Heriot will not mind?’

  ‘My husband is sorry for Madame Bonnecourt too; I feel sure he won’t mind’ Lady Heriot said comfortably. ‘Anyhow I don’t think you can do wrong, in his eyes!’ she added, smiling.

  “Oh, he is kind!—and you also. But where is Nick? I must tell him how to meet Madame—just after 5.30, outside the Hotel de France.’

  ‘I will see to that. In the Place, about half-past five? Right; leave it to me. Now you go and rest.’

  There was something else that Lady Heriot considered saying, but she decided against it; clearly the girl had had all she could manage for the moment. As far as Dick was concerned, she had carried out the ‘soundings’ enjoined on her by her husband, and learned that Luzia had refused him the night before. The boy had made no bones about telling his Mother. ‘Yes, she turned me down flat. She’s been saying No all along’ he said ingenuously, ‘but this was absolutely final. I don’t know why, except that I made a fool of myself at the Gave the other morning.’ After a moment of hesitation—’ And she’s seen a bit more of Nick, now’ he added.

  ‘Does Nick know?’

  ‘Yes, I told him. I thought I’d better.’ He hesitated again. ‘But Maman, she hasn’t been playing about with me—don’t ever think that! She’s never said anything but No. It was just I that kept on and on.’

  ‘I don’t wonder, dearest. She’s a most dearly-beloved person.’ Lady Heriot used the charming Scottish phrase for someone completely lovable. But she had left it at that with Dick, and now she left it at that with Luzia.

  Her considerateness was in vain, as far as sparing Luzia any more emotion went. When the girl emerged from the lift Nick popped out of the twins’ sitting-room—he had heard that giveaway click when it reached the landing.

  ‘Oh, there you are’ he said.

  ‘Yes—I go to rest.’

  He stud
ied her face.

  ‘I expect you’d better; you look a bit tired.’ He hesitated. ‘I did want to see you for a moment’ he said, doubtfully. ‘Everyone’s out, so it seems a good chance. Could you spare just a few minutes?’ He opened the drawing-room door as he spoke.

  ‘Very well’ Luzia said. Whatever it was, better to get it over: there was so little time left. She went in and sat down. ‘Alors?’ she asked, still with Julia’s injunction in mind.

  What Nick had to say let her out on that. Rather nervously, he repeated what his brother had told him the night before.

  ‘This was good of Dick’ she said.

  ‘Yes—he is good. All the same, I’m pretty sure you were right. But what I wanted to say—he checked, troubled by the difficulty of saying what he did want to say.

  ‘Yes?’ She leaned towards him, her vivid face now full of sympathy and attention. ‘Dites, Nick.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel that we can go ahead too fast, just now. He’s frightfully in love with you, and he’s taken this knock. It’s so wretched that it should have to be him, of all people!’ the boy said sadly, and not very lucidly. ‘I mean, I don’t know how you feel about me, though I know how I feel about you. But I’d really rather let it all spin, for the moment—and later on you might let me come to Gralheira, and meet your Father, and see how it all looks then. What do you say?’