Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “For the better?”

  “But of course. You are harder now. Steelier. I like that. In fact, I sometimes think I like you best of all, even better than your brothers. Still, it’s useless to tell you that. You won’t believe me. You think me a hypocrite—or so you once said.” She paused. “Do you still think that, Acland?”

  Acland looked down at her. Her face, serious now, was still lifted to his. There was a small bead of sweat on her temple, like a tear. Her nose intrigued him. Her wide flat cheekbones intrigued him. He was intrigued by the abundance of her hair. Looking down into her face, Acland was possessed by an extraordinary, an irrational thought: If he could only bend just a few inches, if he were to touch that springy hair, if he were to kiss those parted lips, he would have the answer to her question once and for all. Was she a hypocrite? The taste of her mouth would tell.

  He turned away abruptly, releasing her hand. He said stiffly, “I’m going back to the house.”

  “Oh, wait for me. I’ll walk with you.” She put her arm through his. Floss cavorted at her heels. Ignoring Acland’s silence, she chattered about Freddie, his birthday, the picnic, the present she had bought, what they might eat, whether Francis would take a photograph….

  “Why do you call Boy that?” Acland said, out of a lingering irritation, a sense that he had been outsmarted and outplayed. “Why Francis, for God’s sake? No one else ever calls him that.”

  “It’s his name. Why not?” Constance gave a skip and a jump.

  “You do it so deliberately. You make such a point of it—”

  “But of course.” She gave another skip. “Francis likes it. You must have noticed that.” She released his arm, then ran ahead of him, Floss barking at her feet. The distance between them widened. Acland, suspecting she meant him to chase her, slowed his pace.

  They were out of the woods now, on the edge of the lawns. Acland stopped. Constance ran on, not once looking back. From a distance she was very much a child still, a tiny swift figure, a flirt of blue skirts.

  On the terrace beyond, his family were gathering. Straight as an arrow to its target, Constance ran across the terrace to Boy.

  Boy was given to sudden outbursts of coltish exuberance; Constance, Acland believed, liked to play on that. She did so then. As Constance launched herself at him, Boy gave a whoop of delight. He caught Constance up, swung her around in a blue circle, set her down on her feet again. It was the kind of horseplay an uncle might indulge in for the sake of a small child. Except that Boy was not Constance’s uncle, and Constance—in Acland’s view—was not a child.

  From the edge of the lawns he glared at the spectacle: Boy making a fool of himself; Constance teasing Boy as successfully as she teased him.

  Hypocrite, he said to himself.

  They began the picnic with a photograph.

  This is how Boy arranged them: in the center, Denton and Gwen, with Freddie, the guest of honor, enthroned between them. Acland and Steenie were to flank their parents, balanced on one side by Maud and on the other by Jane Conyngham. There were two other male guests to be accommodated: Ego Farrell and James Dunbar, Boy’s friend from Sandhurst and now his fellow officer.

  Dunbar, a young man who wore a monocle and had no apparent sense of humor, was the heir to one of the largest estates in Scotland. Farrell was stationed by Jane, Dunbar by Maud; the two men knelt, to improve the composition. Maud promptly obscured Dunbar’s face with her parasol.

  Since Montague Stern had remained at the house, awaiting news, the picture was then almost complete. Only one last component was missing: Constance.

  Boy fussed; Maud complained that the sun was in her eyes. Freddie, who was eager to open his presents, had begun protesting volubly. In the end Constance appeared; she darted forward and seated herself right in the center of the group, in front of Freddie.

  Since Freddie was tall and Constance tiny, this seemed to settle the matter. Boy disappeared beneath his camera hood.

  “Smile!” he commanded, one hand snaking out, ready to press the bulb.

  Everyone smiled; Freddie, leaning forward, put his hands on Constance’s shoulders; Constance, arching back a little, whispered something. Freddie laughed. Boy emerged from under the hood.

  “I can’t take it if you talk.”

  “I’m sorry, Francis.”

  Boy retreated beneath the hood. The bulb was pressed; the Videx whirred; the picture was taken. It is in one of the old albums still, sepia, distinct, the corners dog-eared, the only photograph I have ever seen of Constance, with my family, at Winterscombe.

  Constance holds her little dog Floss in her arms; she gazes directly at the lens; her hair flies out; her fingers are crammed with rings. Constance loved to be photographed; when you looked at a photograph, she used to say, you knew who you were.

  Freddie liked to receive presents. It was pleasant, for once, to be the center of attention, pleasant not to compete with Steenie’s dramatics or Acland’s wit. By the time Boy began to unpack the picnic food, Freddie had a pile of the most satisfying gifts beside him. Constance’s present, the last to be given, lay on his lap: a flamboyant cravat made of Paisley silk, the kind of cravat Sir Montague might have envied. Freddie looked at it uncertainly.

  “Don’t worry,” Constance said in a whisper. “That’s your public present. I shall give you your proper one later.” These words scratched away in Freddie’s mind, as Constance had probably intended. “Proper present.” “Later.” Freddie began to fidget.

  “Constance,” Boy said in a stern voice, “would you prefer the chicken or the salmon?”

  He looked up from the picnic basket in the manner of a man requesting that Constance make a serious and moral choice—between good and evil, salvation and damnation, perhaps.

  “Oh, salmon, I think, Francis,” Constance replied in a careless way, and withdrew to the shade of a small clump of birch.

  It was very hot. The air felt moist and steamy; the surface of the lake was without ripples. Freddie munched his way contentedly through the staple fare of Winterscombe picnics: gulls’ eggs, poached salmon, chicken in an aspic (which was beginning to melt).

  He shared a cold steak sandwich with his father; he ate raspberries, then a slice of apple pie. His birthday was toasted in pink champagne. Freddie tilted his Panama hat over his eyes and leaned back against the bank. A pleasant somnolence began to steal over him.

  Before this picnic, Acland had taken each person to one side; he had banned the topic of war, which so upset his mother. War might be uppermost in everyone’s mind, but consideration ruled. It was not mentioned. As Freddie lay back and began half to listen, half to dream, fragments of conversation drifted into his mind and out again. His father spoke of Scotland and salmon; Gwen and Maud discussed dresses; Acland and Jane talked about a book they had both read; Steenie gave a running commentary on the sketch he was making of the family group. Freddie half-closed his eyes. Steenie’s charcoal scratched on the drawing paper; Constance’s words scratched away in Freddie’s mind, like mice behind a wainscot. Constance, he saw (watching her beneath his eyelids), was laying siege to James Dunbar.

  Boy’s friend was not promising material, but Constance was not deterred. She liked to practice her charms on the intractable, Freddie sometimes thought; she did so with an air of sweet perseverance, like a would-be pianist practicing scales.

  After some while, Boy, who had also watched this display, began on a game. He picked up small twigs and pieces of branch and whittled at them. He began to toss them for Constance’s dog, and Floss chased after them. Floss was not an obedient dog; he had none of the instincts of a retriever. Once he had caught the sticks, he refused to return them to Boy. He pounced on them, toyed with them, flopped full-length, then gnawed at them.

  Constance leaned across; she smacked Boy’s hand.

  “Francis,” she said, “don’t do that. I’ve told you a thousand times. He will chew the bark. It makes him sick.”

  “Sorry.”

  Boy
seemed to ignore the sharpness of the reprimand.

  Constance turned back to Dunbar and continued her attack, which was taking the form of an inquisition.

  “Tell me,” she said, laying one small ringed hand on Dunbar’s sleeve, “are you a good soldier? Is Boy? What makes a man a good soldier?”

  Dunbar screwed at his monocle. He looked perplexed—such a question seemed not to have occurred to him before. He glanced across toward Gwen and then, judging she was out of earshot, decided to risk a reply.

  “Well now.” He cleared his throat. “Courage—of course.”

  “Oh, I thought you might say that.” Constance gave a small pout. “But you must be more specific. I’m a woman, and women don’t understand male courage. Our own kind is so very different, you see. What makes a man courageous? Is it daring? Is it stupidity?”

  Dunbar looked nonplussed. Acland, who had caught the remark, glanced up and smiled. Boy, seeing that Constance once more had her back to him, threw another, larger stick to her dog.

  “No, not stupidity,” Constance ran on. She smiled at Dunbar winningly. “That is quite the wrong word. I can’t imagine why I said it. Lack of imagination—that is what I meant. I’ve always thought the greatest heroes must lack imagination. They must refuse to imagine all the terrible things—pain and disaster and death. That is why they are strong—don’t you think?”

  As Constance said “strong,” Freddie noticed her place her small hand once again on Dunbar’s sleeve. Dunbar looked confused. He fiddled with his monocle cord; he let out a stertorous sigh. The argument might not have convinced him (it was, in any case, truly aimed at Acland, Freddie thought), but the eyes did. Dunbar made protective noises; he capitulated.

  Freddie smiled to himself. He knew quite well that Constance had considerable scorn for Dunbar, whom she called “the tin soldier.” He watched Boy throw one more stick, and Floss caper after it. Then he closed his eyes. He began to drift toward sleep.

  Words eddied toward him. “The thing is,” his father was saying in an aggrieved tone of voice, “they’re so damnably fussy about where they spawn. You give it the optimum conditions, and what does your salmon do? It goes up Dunbar’s river, that’s what it does….”

  “I almost think, Gwen, that I prefer Mr. Worth. I saw the most charming ensemble there last week. Montague would have adored it.”

  “It is a perfect book.”

  “Can anything be perfect?”

  “Books can. While one reads them.”

  “Women are the weaker sex—I’ve never doubted it,” said Constance, who believed no such thing. “A woman looks up to a man as she would to a father. He must be her protector, after all….”

  “Because the thing is—your salmon is a contrary creature. Concentrate on the trout, I sometimes think, and forget the damned salmon altogether….”

  “Little pin-tucks. Then, on the skirt, the most cunning embroidery …”

  Freddie heaved a comfortable sigh; a muddled vision swam through his consciousness: salmon in ball gowns, rivers flowing with books. He saw himself assembling a new fly and heard himself pronounce, with great authority, that with this fly he would catch them—by the volume. There he was, in his waders, up to his thighs in rushing water, playing the book on his line, and it was a book he had seen Constance reading the previous day (a book borrowed from Acland), a devious brute, a fifteen-pounder at the least, which he reeled in just so far when it started fighting….

  “Floss!”

  A sudden high cry of distress, so sharp it wakened Freddie at once. He sat up, blinking.

  His aunt Maud had jumped to her feet and was flapping her hands in a distressed way; Acland was rising; Constance was running toward the reeds in a blur of blue skirts.

  “Boy, that was your fault.” Jane stood. “Constance told you not to do it.”

  “It was only a game.” Boy stammered a little on the g.

  “It was a stupid game. Constance, is he all right? What has happened?”

  Freddie stood up. Constance had reached the reed bed. He saw her bend and pick up her dog. She cradled Floss in her arms. Floss wriggled; he squirmed. It was some while before Freddie realized that he was choking.

  “He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.” Constance’s face was white and waxy; her voice rose in distress. “Francis, I told you—you see! There’s something stuck in his throat. Oh, help me someone, help me—quickly….”

  Floss was making a kind of dry retching noise. A shudder passed through the length of his body from nose to tail. He squirmed, opened his mouth as if to yawn; his small tongue threshed; his paws scrabbled. Then he fell still. Constance gave a moan. She crouched down, head bent, clasping her dog more tightly, as if she wanted to hide his struggles from view.

  “Hold him still.”

  Acland pushed past Freddie. He knelt down beside Constance and grasped the dog’s throat. Floss jerked his head; he struggled so violently that Constance almost dropped him.

  “Hold him still.”

  “I can’t. He’s frightened. Stay, Floss—stay….”

  “Damn it, Constance, hold his head. That’s it.”

  Acland forced the dog’s throat back; he prised the clenched teeth apart; he hooked his finger into the dog’s mouth. Blood and saliva flecked his hand. A quick movement, then his hand was withdrawn. Acland closed his palm, then opened it. In it lay a fragment of stick, no more than an inch long. As they all looked at it Floss gave another tremor. He shook himself. He seemed to decide he could breathe. He snapped at the air, then licked at his muzzle. He made a heroic leap, and bit Acland.

  That done, he recovered rapidly. Hearing the sighs of relief and the endearments, knowing he was the center of attention once more, he vibrated with new energy. He batted Constance with his front paws and nuzzled her hand with his nose; he pranced about the group and raised his smart feather of a tail. It was at this point, when it was clear that the accident had been averted and Floss was saved, that Sir Montague Stern joined the group unseen, from the path behind them.

  It took a moment, amid the celebrations, for Stern’s presence to be registered. It took a moment more to understand the expression on his face. Once it was understood, the group wheeled and turned. They pressed upon Stern, pelted him with questions: It was certain, then? How did he know?

  War, war, war. The banned word was released, in spite of Gwen. Having been imprisoned and suppressed for so long, it seemed to leap from person to person with new vigor, like a tongue of flame.

  All eyes turned upon Stern, except those of Freddie. Freddie remained looking at Constance, and so it was Freddie alone who witnessed the strange thing that happened next.

  Despite the appearance of Stern, despite his news, neither Constance nor Acland had moved. They remained kneeling, facing each other, Floss sniffing and panting just to their left. They did not look at Floss but at each other.

  Acland said something that Freddie could not catch. Constance replied—again, he could not hear her words. Then Constance reached forward and took Acland’s hand. It was the hand Floss had bitten, and although the bite was neither serious nor deep, it was visible: a red half-moon of teeth marks. It had not broken the skin.

  Constance raised Acland’s hand to her face; she bent over it and pressed her mouth against the sickle of the bite; her hair fell forward, obscuring Freddie’s view.

  For a moment Acland did not move; then, in a slow way, as if he might at any second draw back, Acland lifted his hand too. He held it a few inches above Constance’s head; he lowered it, and let it rest upon her hair.

  They stayed thus, poised as two figures in a pieta, apparently deaf, blind, and indifferent to the lake, the sun, the family group, the cries and exclamations. This stillness, in two people Freddie associated with speed and constant movement, astonished Freddie and silenced him. He had been about to interrupt—perhaps to intervene. He did not.

  Walking back to the house a few minutes later, Freddie felt confused, a little truculent. Ther
e was something sour at the edge of his mind, a malaise as diffused but definite as a hangover. Acland walked ahead, his arm around his mother, who had begun to weep. Freddie brought up the rear of the procession. He glared at the sky.

  Constance came skipping after him, Floss bounding at her heels. She caught his arm; she registered the glare.

  “We knew it would happen, Freddie,” she said, in a kind voice. “It’s been inevitable for weeks.”

  “What has?”

  “War, of course.” She quickened her pace; the news seemed, if anything, to raise her spirits. “There are things to look forward to, even so.” She squeezed Freddie’s arm. “Don’t be a grump, Freddie. There’s your present, remember. I shall give it to you later.”

  “When?” Freddie asked, with some urgency.

  “Oh, after dinner.” Constance released his arm. “I shall give it to you then.”

  She tossed back her hair; she quickened her pace to a run. Freddie followed more slowly. His mind felt like a logjam. War and a present; war and Constance.

  Then, and later (this confused him), he found it impossible to dissociate the two.

  “Look here, Acland, Farrell—what will you do? Wait for conscription, or volunteer?” Dunbar, at dinner the same night, cut into a slice of beef; he surveyed the table with a manly monocled eye. It was clearly a relief to him that after the constraints of the afternoon, he could now speak of war.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” Ego Farrell looked away.

  “You should volunteer—both of you. Shouldn’t they, Boy? After all, the whole shooting match could be over by Christmas. It may never come to conscription at all.”

  “I would counsel patience,” Sir Montague Stern put in. “You might be being a little optimistic, Dunbar. Things might drag on longer, you know.”

  “Really, sir? Is that the verdict in the City?”

  Dunbar’s voice was one degree short of the overtly rude. By “City,” he clearly meant moneylenders; by moneylenders he implied Jews. The remark was designed, in short, to remind Montague Stern of his place, which—in Dunbar’s opinion—was not at a table such as this. True, certain prominent Jews, Stern among them, moved in London society, occasionally joined house parties such as this. That would not be the case, Dunbar seemed to imply, in Scotland, on his home ground.