Sea of Glass (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Dennis Parry

  On fine afternoons when she did not go out Varvara generally sat on the lawn. That day the weather was excellent. Yet she chose the morning-room—and I do not think that she could ever explain why.

  On reaching my room, I thought I would write a letter. I had been at this task for about twenty minutes when I heard a strange wheezing noise come up the stairs. Then my door rattled violently as someone tried to open it in the wrong direction. I got up and turned the handle from the inside.

  Before me stood Turpin, or rather a disintegrated parody of him. He was too old and too fond of the bottle to run up three long flights with impunity. His breath went huck-a-huck-a-huck like a motor on a cold morning. The genial rosy varnish of his face, which was produced by a nice blending of white flesh and purple veins, had broken up starkly into its separate components. The dark worms across his cheeks looked like hæmorrhages below the skin.

  ‘Good God!’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  He could not answer at first. I dragged him into the room and put an easy chair beneath him. After a few seconds he recovered sufficiently to speak.

  ‘It’s Mr. Cedric . . . I was sitting in my pantry when suddenly there’s a noise like a big bird squawking . . . and then another, like someone ’ad squashed a sack of fruit. I felt the place give a shake and, same time, it got dark. ’Ullo, I said to my budgies, thunder comin’ on. . . .’ As with many shrewd men, who have not had much education, Turpin’s sense of relevance and logical order went to pieces under any violent shock. He tended to dwell on incidentals whilst neglecting the crux. On this occasion it took me several seconds of questioning to extract it.

  Cedric Ellison had fallen off the roof-garden two storeys up, and had impaled himself on the area railings just above the pantry window. Turpin had forced himself to approach the victim closely enough to be certain that he was dead.

  ‘I’d better ring the police,’ I said. ‘You see that all the maids are kept away from any window that overlooks the scene.’

  As I spoke it struck me that Mrs. Ellison must be up and about for her appointment with the lawyer. Presumably she was in her boudoir, which looked on to the roadway, but if Mr. Pyne was much later she might come out to make inquiries. However she was ultimately to learn the truth, it must not be at first hand.

  I had no faith in Nurse Fillis’s ability to weather the news and remain competent. She was too much involved emotionally. On the other hand I saw nothing for it but to risk telling her.

  As I pushed into her room I had one of the few flashes of inspiration which have ever visited me. Like most such enlightenments it was very simple. Gabbling out the essentials of the story, I deliberately slurred the title before the name so that it sounded like Miss, rather than Mr., Ellison.

  To my relief wishful thinking did the rest. She did not question that it was Varvara who had been overtaken by disaster. White, but speaking quite firmly, she said:

  ‘Certainly Mrs. Ellison must not be allowed to know anything about this at present. I’ll go to her immediately.’

  (Lest I now seem to be imputing callousness to a woman of whom in other respects I have found little good to say, I would point out that I had minimized the more horrible features of the case.)

  Downstairs in the hall I was rapidly put through by the exchange to the nearest police station. The sergeant there was helpful, and promised that he and one of his men would be with us in a few minutes. He also said that he would arrange for a doctor and an ambulance.

  ‘One thing, sir,’ he added. ‘Don’t move the patient.’

  ‘Patient?’ I echoed. ‘Oh, you mean the body.’

  ‘We prefer people shouldn’t draw conclusions until a doctor’s been,’ he said repressively.

  As I finished telephoning I was facing towards the door of the drawing-room. It opened slowly and Varvara came out. I remember wondering what she had been doing in there, for she had often told me how much she hated its atmosphere of tawdry splendour.

  Her face was strained and set; so that for a moment I imagined her as sharing my knowledge. Then with a sigh I realized that I must recapitulate the story once again: hoping for my nerves’ sake that it would not be received in the spirit of Deborah celebrating Sisera’s death.

  In fact, Varvara listened with complete impassivity. She did not seem surprised or even particularly interested. But as I made for the door which gave on to the garden at ground-floor level I heard two pairs of footfalls behind me. She was following, as well as Turpin.

  ‘Go back,’ I said. ‘This will be a ghastly sight.’

  Varvara did not reply; nor did she slacken her step. I was not equal to arguing; if she wanted to saddle herself with a recurrent nightmare, well, let her.

  As on other occasions when I tried to assert my masculinity over her, the comparison of strength went humiliatingly against me. I had underrated the revolting quality of the spectacle in the garden. I shall not describe it. I will merely say that Cedric was a large-bodied man and he had fallen from a considerable height straight across a row of iron stakes with broad paddle heads like those of Kaffir spears.

  I was forthwith sick and, through the scalding tears which were forced into my eyes, I could hear old Turpin retching dryly. Varvara however was not overcome—at any rate in the physical sense. Kneeling on the grass border opposite the impaled body, she began to pray aloud in Russian. This behaviour neither repelled me as theatrical nor touched me as an example of spiritual valour; it seemed to me to be purely an hieratic gesture, belonging to a world with which I had no contact.

  The scene was ceasing to be the private property of No. 8. The houses for some way along the Terrace overlooked each other’s gardens. Now we could see white caps and aprons bobbing at the upper windows and on the balconies, and hear a shrill twittering, interspersed with cries of horror.

  The police drove up at almost the same moment as the doctor who came in an ambulance with two attendants. I signalized their arrival by another lapse. As I greeted the newcomers I was shaking with hysterical laughter. However, they seemed to understand.

  My memories of the next hour are confused. Mr. Pyne made a belated appearance and, though badly shaken, took charge of the domestic situation. He shepherded Varvara and myself into the house—very properly, for the manner of Cedric’s death had set the authorities a hideous mechanical task. They had to send for more men and tackle from the hospital in order to detach his body.

  Pyne went upstairs to break the news to Mrs. Ellison, who must by now have realized that something was amiss.

  Varvara and I were left sitting in the dining-room. For half an hour we scarcely spoke: then she leapt up quivering and slamming her palms on the table.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ she said, her voice rising abruptly. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wasn’t staring at anything.’

  I went over meaning to comfort her, but she shied away from me. It seemed that old England had shown her something against which even Doljuk could not proof the nerves.

  At last we heard the ambulance drive away. A few minutes later the sergeant came in with his notebook. He was extremely considerate and before he questioned us he repeatedly asked for assurances that we felt equal to the ordeal.

  During his short interrogation, Varvara uttered one extraordinarily ill-judged remark. A few days before, in some chance context, I had observed that sensible people did not make important statements to the police in the absence of their lawyers.

  ‘If that solicitor is on our side,’ she said, ‘perhaps we should fetch him back.’

  The sergeant blenched visibly, as if he had been asked for his warrant whilst collecting for a police charity. Nevertheless his questions maintained the same level of perfunctory blandness.

  My story was the one which I have already recounted in all its featureless innocence. Varvara deposed that she had entered the morning-room after passing me on the stairs. There she had exchanged a few casual words with her uncle. Then, knowing that he had a busin
ess appointment, she had excused herself and continued downstairs. As she left she had seen him walking out onto the roof-garden.

  The sergeant said: ‘Now, Miss Ellison, did you know of any reason why your uncle should lose his balance?’

  Varvara’s eyes, never inexpressive, dilated like those of the heroine in a primitive film.

  ‘Why should I?’ she countered. The man was taken aback for a second time.

  ‘Families usually know of any little weakness in each other,’ he suggested mildly.

  ‘I knew of my uncle’s wickedness, but not his weakness,’ said Varvara. ‘But now that he is dead I forgive him with all my heart.’

  He let her go after that, rather thankfully. It was obvious that he did not know what to make of her and an expression of bewilderment verging on suspicion lingered in his eyes. As I saw him to the door I tried to apply a corrective.

  ‘This has completely bowled everyone over,’ I said. ‘In a way it’s harder on Miss Ellison than the rest of us because she’s only been in this country a few weeks. I dare say you noticed . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ said the sergeant, interrupting. ‘A foreigner, eh?’

  It seemed that I had done more harm than good. Any allowance which he might make for foreigners was obviously outweighed by his conviction that, like Voltaire’s Habbakuk, they were capable de tout.

  I was retracing my steps across the hall when Turpin came up the back stairs with an immense funereal dignity which showed he had taken several bracers for his morale. He held up his hand to detain me.

  ‘ “Nothing in ’is life became ’im like the leaving of it”,’ he said in a sepulchral tone. ‘I don’t bloody think!’

  When Mrs. Ellison sent for me about nine o’clock I made sure she would tell me that I must make other arrangements for the rest of my vacation. Indeed after a few stammerings of sympathy I volunteered to clear out next day.

  ‘Please do not consider it,’ she said. ‘Unless you find that this house now distresses you. For myself I would welcome your staying on.’

  She had borne up marvellously. Her manner was at its clearest and coolest; there was even a kind of sparkle about it. I had heard that great blows sometimes produced this effect for a short while before the shock of them was fully apprehended.

  ‘I shall need you, David,’ she said, adding with a slight catch in her voice, ‘now that I no longer have another man about the house.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted to do anything I can,’ I said. ‘Not that it’s likely to be much.’

  ‘I shall have to manage things by myself now,’ said Mrs. Ellison.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do it excellently.’

  ‘I shall have to manage by myself,’ she repeated. ‘I shan’t have anyone to tell me what I must do about this and that. It’s never been so for me. First there was Joseph all the time, and then poor Cedric. . . .’

  Her voice tailed away in the contemplation of her future defenceless and unharried state. It was impossible to believe that she found the vision displeasing. A younger and stronger person would have been better able to conceal the fact that she had discovered a compensating aspect of the tragedy.

  At the time I was a little shocked and I came to a false conclusion. I thought her attitude meant that, despite their relationship, she could not honestly mourn Cedric. I did not then understand how absurdly low is the human power of concentration and how the most sincere grief is liable to be upset by some involuntary calculation of personal advantage: nor that, so far from being blind, love is often painfully clear-sighted and permits an extraordinary degree of impartial judgment, even about such matters as the value to the world at large of the loved one’s continued existence.

  Mrs. Ellison gave a faint chuckle.

  ‘Fulk never gave me orders. “Do it your own goddam way, Mother,” he’d tell me.’

  I had expected that Nurse Fillis would supervise my talk with Mrs. Ellison or at least that she would interrupt it as soon as she thought fit. But in fact I was left to make my own excuses when I saw that the old lady was getting tired. This indifference was so far removed from her usual professional standards that I felt vaguely disturbed. Half-knowing what I would hear, I crossed the vestibule of the invalid’s self-contained suite to the room occupied by her nurse. From behind the closed door came the sound of deep laboured breathing which never quite mounted to a sob.

  I was seized with pity for this unlucky young woman. She was probably suffering more acutely because she could not even demand recognition of her grief. Besides it is a bitter thing for the survivor of a one-sided passion to know that if the other party could be recalled to momentary consciousness he would not share her sense of loss.

  I tapped on the door. After a few moments it was opened by Nurse Fillis. She stood there in her dressing-gown, trying to control her features.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘Just let me get her tablets and the brandy.’

  ‘Mrs. Ellison’s all right,’ I replied. ‘I think it’s you who could do with a shot of brandy.’

  She must have caught the unfamiliar kindness in my tone, for she dropped her attempt at normality. Her body sagged against the frame of the door.

  ‘You’d better lie down again,’ I said.

  She went back to the bed, pushing aside the top pillow on which there was a dark patch of moisture. I found the decanter which she kept for Mrs. Ellison’s emergencies and poured a tot into her tooth-glass.

  ‘Good night,’ I said. ‘Try to sleep. You’ve had a terrible day.’

  ‘Does everyone see it like that?’ she asked bitterly.

  ‘Yes, of course. You—you mustn’t imagine things.’

  I moved to the door, but she called me back.

  ‘Stay for a moment, Mr. Lindley . . . I promise I won’t be rude to you.’

  ‘The shoe’s generally on the other foot.’

  She said: ‘I’m not keeping you to swap compliments.’ Shock and despair had tautened the loose genteelism of her speech. She went on: ‘In spite of what you might think, I’ve always respected your cleverness and your good education. They stand out a mile.’

  ‘That confirms my worst fears,’ I said, in a feeble attempt to raise a smile.

  ‘So I want to ask you something. . . . Do you believe in a future life?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m inclined to think not. But it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  She accepted this equivocal answer with an ease which made me suspect that she had already settled the basic hypothesis to her own satisfaction and had still to reach the real object of her inquiry.

  ‘The Christian religion says that we’re all miserable sinners,’ she said, ‘and we shall have to make up for our sins. I’ve never understood it properly, like my mother and my sister, who’re real Church people. . . . But, Mr. Lindley, do you think a person gets credit for his death?’

  ‘Credit?’ I repeated blankly.

  ‘You know—if he has a sad, painful sort of death, will it count towards the time he has otherwise to do in . . . purgatory or somewhere?’

  I felt another stab of pity. This form of solicitude was new to me and in my eyes it had an absurd pathos like that of a doll’s funeral.

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ I said. ‘That’s why saints like to be martyrs.’

  She seemed happier and I gave her another brandy to fix her in that state. But it was an over-compensation and made her once more slightly aggressive.

  ‘Why should he have fallen like that?’

  ‘Swimmin’ in the ’ead,’ I quoted automatically.

  ‘First I’ve heard.’

  ‘He kept quiet about it,’ I replied diplomatically.

  ‘Ah,’ said Nurse Fillis, ‘but did he keep quiet enough?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘The matron I did my training under used to say that a good many patients would still be alive unless their relatives had known what could go wrong with them. It gives people ideas.’

  ‘You’re
overstrung,’ I said.

  Though I pooh-poohed her ambiguous yet crude suggestion, it left an uneasiness which followed me upstairs.

  My landing was in darkness. As I approached its further end I heard a rustle from behind the curtains which half-covered the recessed window. Then I noticed a fold of lighter-coloured material and a stockinged foot protruding towards me. Varvara was looking out over the sweep of Aynho Terrace in which the street-lighting had just come on. She did not start when I called to her.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked softly.

  ‘There!’ she hissed, pointing at the other side of the road, directly opposite to our window.

  A policeman on his beat had paused beneath one of the lamps and was idly scanning the façades around him.

  ‘I don’t see anything odd,’ I said.

  ‘Already I am being watched.’

  Her whisper vibrated with dismay and dramatic satisfaction.

  ‘What the hell! He can’t see into the house.’

  She dug her nails into my arm with exasperation.

  ‘To stop me escaping, you fool.’

  ‘Why should you want to escape?’

  ‘You are pretending in order to keep up courage in your heart. The police believe that I have killed my uncle.’

  Now that she had expressed her fear I realized that I must have made a considerable subconscious effort to avoid recognizing the grounds for it. They existed; but I could still say with a fair degree of candour:

  ‘Nonsense. They might as well suspect me.’

  ‘That is not unlikely,’ said Varvara with conviction.

  11

  I had hoped that a night’s rest would restore their senses of perspective, such as they were, to both Varvara and Nurse Fillis. But in the former at any rate the symptoms of persecution mania seemed to have waxed overnight. Breakfast began in an atmosphere of clotted melodrama.