The Malady in Maderia

by Ann Bridge

  “I’m sorry. Still, she had to get old sometime—perennial as she has always seemed! Where will she be staying?—Reid’s?”

  “Oh dear no! She’s going to the Shergolds’—some sort of relations of hers.”

  “Oh yes, up at the Serra—a nice place, and fresher than Funchal.”

  “Why, do you know it?”

  “Yes—Ag and I stayed a night with them last year, and went up the Pico do Ruivo. But tell Mrs. H. to take some warm things—it can be quite chilly up there, in the evenings especially; it’s a completely different climate from Funchal.”

  “Not sunny?—Madame B. will be disappointed.”

  “Oh yes, sunny all right—only don’t let them leave all their tweeds and woollies at home, because they may be glad of them.”

  “I’ll remember; thanks for letting me know. Well, I suppose I’d better ring off. Give Aglaia my love—she’ll know how sorry we all are.”

  “No, wait a second.” There was a pause.

  “Yes?” Edina asked.

  “Have you heard from Julia?” Colin asked, rather hesitatingly.

  “Mrs. H. had a letter a day or two back.”

  “And did she sound all right?”

  Edina guessed what prompted these questions. Ever since a boy and girl affair between the cousins, years ago, Colin had preserved a deep devotion to Julia Probyn, which neither her marriage to Philip Jamieson, nor his to Aglaia Armitage, had altered; his feeling for Julia, his sister guessed, would always be one of the most important things in Colin’s life. And now he and Philip Jamieson had been on a mission together, and he had returned, and Philip had not. She decided to suppress the fact that Julia had admitted to missing the old Duke, with its implications of unhappiness.

  “Oh yes, quite all right” she said; hurriedly recalling some items in Julia’s letter from Gralheira, she passed them on—the hot water, and some estate improvements that Nicholas Heriot was introducing on his late father-in-law’s Portuguese estate. “Mrs. H. is half hoping Julia might come on to Madeira too” she said then. “She thinks there must be boats from Lisbon—are there? You might ask Mr. Armitage that too.”

  “Of course there are—or you can fly to Porto Santo and go on in a launch.”

  “Ah, with Nannie Mack and the Philipino I expect she’d rather go by boat” Edina was saying, when the sound of a gong boomed through the house and down the telephone to London. “Oh, there’s lunch—I must go” Edina said, and rang off.

  As she went downstairs to the dining-room she debated with herself as to when would be the best time to tell Mrs. Hathaway about the baby’s death. Better let her eat her lunch first, she decided—this would upset the old lady very much. Indeed she would really rather have put it off till tea-time and let her get her afternoon nap in peace; but the papers came soon after lunch, and Mrs. H. was apt to take her own Times up to her room with her. So over coffee in the library she said, without preamble— “Mrs. H., I’ve got some sad news for you.”

  Mrs. Hathaway looked up, a little anxiously.

  “Not about Colin?” she asked.

  Now why did she say that, Edina wondered, even as she said quickly—“Not him himself. It’s the baby—it was born dead.”

  “Oh dear!” the old lady exclaimed. “What happened?—and is Aglaia all right?”

  Mrs. Reeder repeated what Colin had told her, and his injunction that no one was to write to his wife just yet.

  “Does Ellen know?” Mrs. Hathaway asked then. Ellen Monro was Edina’s and Colin’s mother, and lived in her own establishment in one wing of the house.

  “No, I haven’t had time to tell her yet—I was still on the telephone when the gong went. I’ll go across in a few minutes, before the papers come.”

  “Yes, you should do that” Mrs. Hathaway said, measuredly. “She will be dreadfully disappointed. How is Colin taking it?”

  “He’s very sad, of course, especially as it was a boy; but at the moment he’s thinking more about Aglaia, naturally.”

  “Yes, of course. Is he going to take her away now?”

  “He can’t take her, because he’s off on another job; but she’s going to Madeira too—you’re to do the taking, Mrs. H.!” Edina said cheerfully. She explained about the Armitage cousins, and how Mr. Armitage was to be laid on to get them all onto the same boat.

  “Oh, that would be nice, if this person can arrange it” Mrs. Hathaway said. “We can try to cheer her up, and she can look after us.”

  “I wonder is she’d be much good at doing that” Edina said, though not unkindly. “She always seems rather an ineffectual little creature, to me.”

  “She’s very pretty” Philip Reeder remarked.

  “Oh yes—couldn’t be prettier! P’raps that’s why.”

  “Why’s she ineffectual? Do the two things go together?” her husband asked, amused.

  “Oh well, the very pretty do have everything easier than other people—a sort of automatic head start over the rest of the world” his wife replied airily. “Anyhow, I’ve always had the impression that Aglaia was rather wet.”

  “We don’t really know her very well, do we?” Mrs. Hathaway observed mildly.

  “No, we don’t. Somehow I’ve never found it easy to get to know her. There’s that immense prettiness, and tininess—and of course charming manners and all that; but I never felt I could get through to anything solid underneath.”

  “You suspect a soft-centre chocolate, in fact?” Philip asked.

  “Yes, an absolute fondant!—sweet and melting, but nothing to chew on.”

  “Well, Mrs. H. will have a chance to find out a bit more on the boat” Philip said, “if this shipping type is able to fix them all up.”

  “Will she be near the Shergolds in Madeira?” Mrs. Hathaway asked.

  “Not very, I don’t think. Colin spoke of having spent the night when he and Aglaia went to them.”

  “The whole place is so small that they can’t be very far away” Philip Reeder pronounced. “I believe the whole island is under forty miles long.”

  “As small as that?” Mrs. Hathaway asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “That reminds me” Edina put in. “Colin told me to tell you and Madame Bonnecourt to take some warm things, Mrs. H. He says that up at the Serra, where the Shergolds live, it can be a bit chilly, especially in the evenings.”

  “Oh dear” said Mrs. Hathaway. “I thought Madeira was a case of summer frocks all the year round.”

  “I expect it will be quite warm enough” Edina said. “He just said it wasn’t as hot as Funchal, up there.”

  “It was kind of him to think of it—he is a kind boy” the old lady said. “It’s always better to be forewarned. Anyhow” she added cheerfully, “it is so nice to be going to a new place. I expect we may come in for all sorts of surprises.”

  2

  Some Three Weeks later Julia, Nannie Mackenzie, and Luzia Ericeira, now the wife of Nicholas Heriot, were inspecting a pleasant double cabin on a Portuguese boat at Lisbon docks; it had two bunks, and its own lavatory and wash-basin.

  “Well, you and the Philipino will be all right here, won’t you, Nannie?” Julia said.

  “Yes, Madam; very pleasant” Nannie replied.

  “Muito bem” Julia said to the purser. “Now, Luzia, where am I?”

  The man led them a little way down the passage, and bowing, threw open a door with a large A on it, leading into a small drawing-room with two sofas, several armchairs, and some small tables; another door led into a bedroom with a proper bedstead —the walls and even the ceilings of both rooms were covered in quilted satin. Julia stood still, aghast.

  “Oh but Luzia, I don’t need all this splendour!—and it will cost the earth. Ask if I can’t have an ordinary single cabin?”

  Luzia spoke to the purser in Portuguese, and then turned back to Julia.

  “This is the best suite, but they wish you to have it, as you are our friend—it will not cost you any more” she added, with
a little sigh.

  “Oh, well—if it’s like that” Julia said; she knew what an extraordinary position the Duke of Ericeira had held in his own country. “Muitissima obrigada” she said to the purser. She went on now into the bedroom, where a door opened into a bathroom beyond. “Perfect!” she said. “I’ll tell Nannie about the bathroom” she added; “she hates showers.”

  An hour later the boat sailed on its two-and-a-half-days journey to Madeira. Julia took leave rather sadly of Luzia Ericeira, once, long ago, her pupil, and ever since a close friend. In fact Philip Reeder had been quite right—her long stay at Gralheira had helped to take her mind off the loss of her husband. She had known the place before she knew him; it, and the people there, belonged to quite a different part of her life; in a curious way she had been able to slip back into it and almost forget the recent past, even with the presence of her little son as a reminder. Small Philip Jamieson was now a sturdy child of three, and already so much an individual on his own account as to do surprisingly little to recall his father, especially in these different surroundings; what Julia dreaded was a return to London and the double set of chambers in Gray’s Inn, where she and her husband had lived so happily during the brief periods when he had been at home—since much of his time had been spent on missions abroad for British Intelligence. Soon, when she returned to England, she would have to give up the chambers, she had already decided: it had been a terrific wangle Philip’s getting them anyhow, as a reversion from two legal uncles; a widow with a small child would not be welcome in those austere masculine precincts, and they were too full of memories for her to wish to hold on to them. But that uprooting would be a painful business, which she was in no hurry to embark on; that was why she had jumped at Mrs. Hathaway’s suggestion that she should join her at the Shergolds’ in Madeira, followed up as it was by a warm invitation from Pauline Shergold herself. She had always meant, sometime, to go and stay with Pauline, and see this strange place about which her former school-friend was so enthusiastic, but somehow she had never got round to it; now was the perfect opportunity. As the boat steamed down the Tagus estuary she found herself in a mood of happier anticipation than she had thought possible. A new place was to Julia the sort of stimulus that drink is to some people—she was relieved, now, to find that she could still react to it.

  The boat was large, since it continued its run from Madeira to Portuguese Africa; the food at luncheon was admirable. To reach the dining-saloon they had to pass through a large circular lobby off which passages opened, and flights of stairs led to upper and lower decks; swing doors on both sides gave on to the port and starboard promenade decks. The lobby was furnished with green cloth-covered benches round the walls, and a few chairs and tables; at these Julia noticed with surprise that people were sitting, for the place was draughty, and yet smelt unpleasantly of stale tobacco-smoke; it was also very noisy, with a constant coming and going of stewards and passengers, the banging of the swing doors, and a distant clatter of glasses from the bar along the main corridor. After lunch they explored the boat a little, and found a pleasant small saloon evidently intended for the use of children, since it contained two play-pens, some boxes of bricks, and an old-fashioned rocking-horse; small Philip had never yet encountered one of these objects, and rode on it triumphantly till Nannie Mackenzie bore him off to the cabin for his rest.

  Julia went on deck. The coast of Portugal was fading behind them; she could just make out the blunt blue shape of Cabo da Roca, the most westerly point of the mainland of Europe, and her mind went back to many adventures in that small and well-loved country, and to calm and happy weeks spent there as well. It was interesting to be going to see Madeira, the first of Prince Henry the Navigator’s discoveries, the first settlement made overseas by that tiny nation which, little more than a century later, had colonised a third of the known world. But the wind was chilly—they were now in the open Atlantic, and the sun had gone in; she went down to her luxurious suite. And there, quite suddenly, a wave of loss and unhappiness swept over her. Almost automatically she had picked up her despatch-case; this was the time when she usually wrote to Philip—and now there was no Philip to write to! She put the case down again. Oh, why had he had to die? Why should he, the one in the party with most experience, have been the one to walk into an ambush? It wasn’t like him—as Philip Reeder had done, she recalled her husband’s curious instinct for danger, and his intuition about the mined satellite-tracker he had found in the Scillies. She remembered too her walk with him on Tresco, in a fierce wind, when they had seen the Russian trawler which first drew their suspicions to that point on the further island—how happy they had been, before they were even engaged, and in spite of their anxieties about Mrs. Hathaway’s poor silly old Professor. Julia buried her face in her hands.

  She soon pulled herself together—it was no manner of good giving-in, even to grief. She re-did her face, and then went to see if the child and Nannie were ready for tea; they were not, and she went to wait for them in that noisy, draughty lobby. In fact there were very few people there now, but she noticed a little group of four nuns sitting on the rather comfortless, wooden-armed, green chairs; they wore a head-dress that was new to her, with little goffered white frills inside the sort of hood which framed their calm, healthy faces. Curious, as always, Julia went over and got into conversation with them—she wanted to find out what order they belonged to. They were quite ready to talk, and soon volunteered the fact that they were “Dorothéesses”, as they called it, members of a teaching order; they were going out to found a new house and a third school in Angola. Their eager cheerfulness and simplicity helped to restore Julia, and when the child and Nannie Mackenzie appeared she was able to make jokes over their tea, and then invigilate another ride of small Philip’s on the rocking-horse while Nannie got his bath ready. Afterwards she heard his prayers, and told him stories while he sipped his mug of Cow-and-Gate milk, and Nannie had an early supper; that helped to fill up the time till it was reasonable to go and have a cocktail before dinner. On the way to the bar she encountered the purser, who came in with her, and after the manner of pursers made trivial conversation. No, the boat was not very full; it was not the season for many tourists. Yes, the weather was fine and the sea calm; it would probably be calm all the way to Funchal. Did the Senhora suffer from mal de mer? Julia said no, never. Ah well, on this part of the trip few passengers suffered; it was usually calm between Lisbon and Funchal.

  She went to bed early, and fell asleep quickly; about one she awoke, trembling all over, from a nightmare—as so often now, it was about Colin: he was in some sort of danger, and there was something she ought to do to save him but, as happens in nightmares, one trivial mishap after another was preventing her. She switched on the light and lit a cigarette. It was curious, she thought, how since the news of his death reached her her nightmares were no longer about Philip; before that they had always tormented her on his account. She finished her cigarette, put out the light, and tried to go to sleep again, but it was no good—she was broad awake, restless and unhappy. The cabin was rather stuffy, and she decided to try a turn on deck; putting a coat on over her dressing-gown, she went out.

  In the circular lobby the lights had been turned low, but they were still strong enough for her to see some dark shapes lying on the green benches round the walls. What an odd place to sleep, she thought, and tiptoed nearer—it was the four nuns bound for Angola, and as she stood in surprise one of them opened her eyes; seeing Julia, she smiled at her. Julia went over, and sitting down asked in French, in a whisper, why on earth they were sleeping there. The nun explained that they were travelling third class—there is seldom any luxury travel for religious orders—and instead of being put all together, or at least in pairs, as their rule enjoins on journeys, they were scattered about in four different compartments; so they had decided to sleep all together in the empty lobby. They were quite all right, the nun said cheerfully; much better than in the stuffy, crowded emigrants’ quarters do
wn below, where men and women were talking, smoking, drinking and singing all night long.

  This made Julia really angry. She roused them up and swept them all off to her V.I.P. suite, where Reverend Mother was installed in the bed, and the others on the two sofas and a couch made of three chairs pushed together; they were thrilled with the bathroom and wash-basin, pulled out little plastic toilet bags from under their cloaks, and all had a good scrub even before they settled to sleep. “But what about Madame?” Reverend Mother asked, earnestly.

  Madame had her own ideas about turning this incident to good account; the nuns were going to have proper accommodation for the rest of the voyage to Africa, or her name was not Julia!—and she had already decided on the best way of ensuring this. She went into the bathroom and put on a cardigan over her nightdress, and taking her burberry, and a cushion from one of the chairs, she reassured the good nun, and went out and bedded herself down on one of the green benches. It was not at all bad; with the burberry round her feet, and wrapped in her coat, she was quite warm enough—she fell asleep at once.

  She was waked soon after six by a bustle of stewards, come to clean the lobby; they stared at her in amazement. She told one of them to bring her some morning tea. When it came she sat up and sipped it, and lit a cigarette, watching the men Hoovering the floor, emptying the ashtrays, and polishing the tables—to the steward who came to take away the tray she said to charge it to Suite A, and to let the purser know that she would like to see him when he was about. After the men had left she took a comb and compact out of her hand-bag, and tidied her hair and face; she had barely finished when the purser came hurrying in—he looked at the sofa-cushion and the burberry still wrapped round her feet, but it was clear that the stewards had already told him that they had found her asleep there.