by Dodie Smith
‘For God’s sake don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you. What are you doing in my bed? Damn this lighter.’
Again the flame sprang into life. Clare, always a quick waker, was now in full possession of her senses and she saw at once that the man by the bed, though like Mr Rowley, was younger. He was, however, still pretty old – too old, she’d have said, to be anyone’s grandson, but Mr Rowley’s grandson he must be, come back from abroad. She felt furious with him but she did not feel frightened – perhaps because she was so relieved that he wasn’t his grandfather.
‘I have no intention of screaming,’ she said haughtily. ‘And I’ve every right to be here. I’m employed by Mr Rowley. You, I suppose, are Mr Charles. I’m sorry no one warned you I was in your room but it’s not my fault. Now please go away.’
A snort came from the face beyond the flickering flame. ‘Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
She thought this abominably rude. Glaring, she spoke with cold indignation. ‘Go away at once – unless you want me to ring for help.’
‘You don’t need help. Oh, blast!’ Again the lighter had gone out.
She heard him stumble over something and hoped he was leaving, but he had only gone to the window to draw back the curtains. A moment later she saw him in the light from the street lamps. Apart from being tall, dark, heavily built and heavily featured, he was less like Mr Rowley than she had thought – ugly in his own right she decided, greatly disliking the bags under his eyes. She took him to be quite fifty.
He turned to her. ‘Listen, please – just for a minute.’
She had sat up while he was moving to the window. Now, conscious of the thinness of her nightgown, she clasped herself.
‘Here, put this round you.’ He picked up her cloak from a chair and tossed it to her, then sank into the chair. ‘I really am very sorry I burst in on you. It must have been frightening. Not that you seemed frightened.’
‘Of course I was – until I saw it was you.’
‘What? Well, I’m glad I look so innocuous.’
She wasn’t going to explain. Instead, she said severely:
‘Why didn’t you let someone know you were coming back?’
‘I didn’t know it myself less than half an hour ago. It was a sudden emergency.’
‘But if you were abroad—’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Well, Nurse Brown thinks you were.’
‘She thinks no such thing. We telephone each other almost every day. It’s just that my grandfather has to believe I’m abroad. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ said Clare.
‘Well, you needn’t. All I ask is that you won’t tell him you’ve seen me – and that you’ll let me sit here quietly till morning.’
She said indignantly, ‘Of course you can’t. You’ll have to ask for another bedroom.’
‘If I go downstairs and say I found you in my bed it’ll be all over the hotel by tomorrow. Do you like the idea?’
‘I like it better than having you here. Besides, it’s bound to be known. Somebody must have seen you come in. Isn’t there a night porter?’
‘There is, but he wasn’t around. I had my key and simply walked upstairs. Anyway, I don’t want the trouble of getting another room – if there is one; the hotel’s usually full. I’m all in, and I’ve a very important day ahead of me.’ He yawned. ‘You can see I’m half asleep already. Do let me rest. I’ll slip down the back stairs as soon as it’s light.’
She found the yawn infectious and failed to stifle one of her own. ‘But it won’t be light for hours and hours.’
‘Of course it will.’ He lit his cigarette lighter again and looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s six-fifteen already.’
‘Goodness! I thought it was the middle of the night.’
‘Well, it isn’t. Now if you ask me, you’re as sleepy as I am. Just take a little nap – and when you wake up I shall be gone. And if you’re a wise girl, you’ll tell no one I’ve been here.’
‘I won’t tell Mr Rowley. But I must tell Nurse Brown.’
‘I wouldn’t. It’s most unfair but I think she might count it against you. She can’t know you very well yet and she knows me rather too well. Some of my shocking character might … well, brush off on you. Still, please yourself.’
Clare felt obscurely blackmailed. Would Nurse Brown count it against her?
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Charles. ‘You just think things over quietly. And I promise you no harm will come of it – if you play it my way.’ He pulled up the dressing-table stool and put his feet on it.
She was still far from sure she ought to let him stay – but how could she get rid of him, short of ringing for help and creating a scene? And if the night was nearly over …
A loud snore from Mr Charles decided her. She would let this sleeping dog lie till daylight – and dress in the bathroom before waking him. Then, if he refused to go, she could go herself. She slid down in the bed, longing for sleep but sure that the snoring would keep her awake. How did the wives of snoring husbands ever get to sleep? She had never before listened to a man snoring, a very strange noise indeed …
She was suddenly aware that she had dropped off – but not for long; it was still night. The snoring had stopped. She looked towards the armchair, which was silhouetted against the window. Surely … yes: the chair was now empty. Where, then, was Mr Charles?
The next instant, she knew. He was lying beside her, jacket off, sleeping most peacefully. The quilt was over both of them and, though he lay on the blankets and she between the sheets, they looked exactly as if they were in bed together. Barely had she taken this in when a distant clock began to chime. She counted the strokes: unmistakably, five. Then he had lied to her about the time! She had no idea when he had arrived – or how long he had been beside her.
Furious, she sat up intending to shake him. Then her rage was replaced by caution. Judging by some of her favourite novels, men were apt to find angry women provocative – and he had admitted to a shocking character. She must be icily calm, and she must still wait for daylight. On no account must she fall asleep again; but she would not, as long as she remained sitting upright.
Her cloak had slithered to the floor but she was not cold – she was far too … exhilarated. How extraordinary! And it was even more extraordinary that she had never, once she’d escaped from the nightmare, felt frightened. She was not introspective, finding attempts to understand herself both boring and baffling; indeed, she could never concentrate on them. But for once she was interested in her own reactions. He had said she was sure of herself, and that was exactly how she felt. Why? When as a rule she was so drearily tentative, so conscious of inferiority?
But as usual, her thoughts slid away from herself and she was soon reviewing the whole incident impersonally and objectively. London, dead of night, the great hotel, silent corridors, closed doors, a sleeping girl suddeuly awakened: it was exciting enough to be in a book – and it reminded her of some book. The pitch-dark room … yes, in The Three Musketeers, when D’Artagnan passes himself off as Milady’s lover. ‘At Night all Cats are Grey’ – fascinating title of a fascinating, if unconvincing chapter; surely his voice would have given him away? Not for the first time Clare considered the matter very thoroughly, living so intensely in Milady’s dark bedroom that she only returned to her own when the darkness was yielding to dawn. Her complete absorption had kept her very still; back in the present she found it hard not to fidget. And it was now light enough to get up.
But first she peered closely at Mr Charles. Had she overestimated his age? Yes, he might not be more than forty-five. But she hadn’t overestimated his ugliness … those bags under his eyes, that heavy nose, the deep lines from the nose to the mouth – which wasn’t too bad and he slept with it firmly closed, even though he was lying on his back. No doubt those snores had been histrionic – what a trick to play on her! But she no longer felt furious; merely elated, faintly amused and – most astonishing of all –
just a little sorry for him. Lost in deep sleep he looked so … helpless. But she told herself briskly that he wouldn’t look it once he awoke.
Cautiously she slid out of bed and picked up her cloak. He stirred slightly. She was instantly still but it was too late; the next second, he had opened his eyes. She hardly had time to fling the cloak around her before he was saying, ‘Hey, wait, you silly girl! What’s the point of rushing out, now?’
‘I’m not rushing out,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that I have to use this cloak as a dressing-gown. I forgot mine.’
‘There’s one of mine here you’re welcome to – though of course it’ll swamp you. Good gracious!’ Fully awake now, he gave her a long look. ‘No wonder you were so sure of yourself.’
After a blank instant, she guessed that he meant she was pretty. Ignoring both his speech and his eyes, she said coldly, ‘What time was it really, when you arrived?’
He grinned. ‘Around two-thirty. Now don’t look so indignant. This is my room – and I was dead beat. And you weren’t in the least afraid of me. If you had been, you wouldn’t have gone to sleep.’
‘I happened to be dead beat too,’ said Clare.
‘Poor child! You’re much younger than I realized. My grandfather’s readers are usually older, more experienced and a great deal more friendly.’ He threw back the quilt and got up.
‘Please go now,’ said Clare.
‘I will as soon as I’ve had a bath and a shave. All right?’
‘Certainly not! Get out!’ She had a strong desire to hit him. He looked at her admiringly. ‘I’ve always had a special fondness for angry kittens. Now listen: I must freshen up before I go out. Surely I’ve made it clear that I mean you no harm? Why not co-operate a bit? Here’s an idea: you order a large breakfast while I bath and shave – and then we’ll share it.’
‘You’re not going to bath and shave.’
‘Well, come in and stop me,’ said Mr Charles. ‘I’ll leave the door open.’
She followed him across the entrance hall and slammed the bathroom door on him, then went back to the bedroom. Infuriating man! Such arrogance! But somehow … as well as wanting to hit him, she wanted to laugh.
She went to the dressing-table and had a good look at herself. As a rule she thought her prettiness insipid and old fashioned. This morning she felt fairly pleased with her face – well, considering it was entirely devoid of make-up. Should she put on powder and lipstick? She decided it would be unwise to pay him any such compliment and merely combed her hair; then sat down and waited.
He was back sooner than she expected, looking fresher if no less ugly.
‘What, no breakfast? Well, my hopes weren’t exactly high. I could just ring for the waiter and order it myself.’
She surveyed him calmly. ‘And I could tell your grandfather you’ve been here.’
‘What a despicable threat!’ He sounded shocked. ‘But you win, of course. It’s rather heartbreaking that anyone so young should be so unscrupulous. Do you know the corners of your mouth are twitching? Is it a nervous trick or an incipient sense of humour? Ah, that’s better! What nice white teeth!’
She switched off her smile but found herself saying, ‘Perhaps I might order you some breakfast – if you hide in the bathroom while the waiter brings it in.’
He shook his head. ‘Here’s where my true nobility comes out. It’s time I went, if I’m to avoid being seen. I’d rather go starving into the storm than blemish your spotless reputation.’ He turned up the collar of his jacket.
‘The sun’s shining,’ said Clare.
‘Is it? My mistake. Well, come and see me off. You’d better make sure there’s no one in the corridor.’
They went into the entrance hall, where she opened the door and looked out, then turned and nodded to him.
‘All clear? Dear me, that is a comic cloak – suggests some kind of holy order. Don’t forget you can use my dressing-gown. Tell me, are you an actress?’
‘Me? No. Do I look like one?’ The idea pleased her.
‘Frankly, no. It was just that I shouldn’t have thought any girl who wasn’t acting innocence could look quite as innocent as you do – not in these days.’ He smiled down on her. ‘Are you fooling me?’
‘Well, I’d hardly tell you if I were,’ said Clare, trying now to look enigmatic. She considered it shaming for a girl of twenty-one to be so abysmally innocent as she was.
‘Excellent answer to an idiotic question,’ said Mr Charles. ‘Perhaps I will have some breakfast.’
‘No, you won’t, not now,’ said Clare. ‘But wait a second. I must take another look out.’
‘Wise girl. You’re obviously an old hand at this kind of thing.’
The corridor was still empty. ‘Now go at once,’ she told him sternly. ‘Don’t start another conversation.’
‘Of course you’re not an actress. You were born to be a schoolmistress.’
‘Just go.’ She held the door open for him.
He made a sudden dive and kissed her on the top of her head, which came well below his chin, then sprinted for the door leading to the back stairs. Reaching it, he looked back and smiled. She glared indignantly. He turned down the corners of his mouth lugubriously, then hurried down the stairs.
She closed her door and, for no reason she could possibly have explained, put the palm of her hand on the top of her head.
4
A Garden Enclosed
By five o’clock that afternoon, when Mr Rowley was left to take his nap, Clare had been on duty for eight hours. She had been sent for while finishing her breakfast (served by a fatherly floor waiter who had been much distressed to hear that her lights had fused. ‘Such a thing to happen here – and to a young lady!’) She had read the morning paper aloud for a short time and then been forced to talk until lunch arrived. It was a dull meal of steamed fish and rice pudding but at least it gave her a chance to stop talking as Nurse Brown was in attendance and Mr Rowley was eager to hand on much that Clare had said. Nurse Brown made such comments as ‘Well, now, isn’t that interesting? She must tell you more about that, mustn’t she?’ and beamed on Clare, who now felt she had nothing more to tell him about anything whatever.
After lunch she firmly suggested she should read.
‘Lots of nice books on the table there,’ said Nurse Brown. ‘I expect Mr Rowley’s in the middle of one of them.’
‘I was, but my last young lady made it seem very dull. Anyway, Clare must start a new one or she won’t enjoy it herself. Make your own choice, my dear.’
As all the books proved to be detective novels she felt her chance of enjoyment was small, but anything would be better than talking. Choosing the one with the most attractive jacket, she read as brightly as she could, even attempting to be dramatic. But it was no use. After a couple of chapters Mr Rowley stopped her.
‘Even so splendidly read, this isn’t interesting. Detective stories aren’t what they used to be.’
To the best of Clare’s belief, what they now lacked they had never had. She asked if he ever read historical novels. ‘Oh, not modern ones; they’re usually dull – or horrid. I mean lovely romantic ones, like Dumas.’
Mr Rowley smiled reminiscently. ‘Dumas? He gave me great pleasure when I was a boy. How delightful to meet a young lady who knows his work. Kindly ring for Nurse Brown. She will telephone my bookseller.’
When the nurse came he told her to order a complete set of Dumas. Clare, about to protest that even one Dumas novel would last them for weeks, restrained herself. If complete sets existed she was all for having one around. Nurse Brown soon reported that Dumas had written several hundred books, many not obtainable, but a fine set of novels was being sent by special messenger.
‘Then we shall have plenty to read this evening,’ said Mr Rowley. ‘So, for the moment, we’ll talk.’
Somehow Clare got through the afternoon. Tea, with Nurse Brown present, made a break. And at last it was time for Mr Rowley’s pre-dinner nap – before sett
ling down to which, he made sure Clare would dine with him.
‘It won’t be like this every day,’ Nurse Brown assured her, when they had closed the door on him. ‘It’s just – well, you’re a novelty. Anyway, Miss Gifford’s going to see that you get a good salary – I’ve told her what a fancy the dear old gentleman’s taken to you. Now you’d better get some exercise. You can walk in the park.’
Clare hurried out, eager for fresh air and for a chance to think; not that she could make much of her thoughts. She was troubled by a sense of flatness – well, who wouldn’t be, after having to talk so much? But there seemed more to it than that.
Walking in the autumnal park she took herself to task. She should be feeling nothing but gratitude for having found a job she could actually do – and one which included most luxurious board and lodging. And she should also be grateful for having come through last night without disaster; if she had made a scene it might so easily have been counted against her. She had kept her head. Surely most girls would have panicked? Really, she could be a little proud of herself. And now, presumably, Mr Charles had gone back ‘abroad’ and would trouble her no more. An elderly, ugly, arrogant man …
She turned to face the hotel and wondered which was the window of her room; then remembered it looked onto the street, not the park. She had a vivid memory of Mr Charles’s tall, heavy figure as he drew back the curtains. What an adventure to have on her first day away from home! Considered as an adventure it seemed somehow valuable, to be recalled with pleasure, and she would recall it in fullest detail while taking a pre-dinner bath. She had that morning evolved a technique of lying back supported by one foot on the bath-rack.
Re-entering the hotel, she was conscious of welcome. The commissionaire saluted, the hall porter smiled. Was that her special page? Yes! She responded to his wide grin. The lift man knew her floor, which was more than she did. Barely twenty-five hours ago she had arrived scarcely daring to hope. Now she was an accepted resident. Everything was wonderful. But she still felt flat.