by Ann Bridge
‘You had every excuse, but I am sorry that it should have happened,’ she said presently. ‘A most charming man, but a coureur’.
‘Was that why you said he was capable de tout?’ Julia asked, wiping her eyes.
‘Yes. I mean that I said it because I thought it; I wasn’t warning you—one doesn’t warn people of your age, it wouldn’t be any good if one did. But I did recognise both his quality—which is great—and his charm, and I became rather alarmed on your account.’
This speech was immensely comforting to Julia; it made her feel less of a fool.
‘There really is good in him, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘As well as all his gifts and his interests, like birds and flowers and climbing?’
‘Yes, I think so. Only at his age he should be less self-indulgent and more scrupulous,’ Mrs. Hathaway pronounced. ‘His fatal weakness is that he hasn’t realised this. But you may have taught him something.’
‘I felt such a beast, not going to see him, or taking him flowers or anything,’ Julia said, immensely relieved at getting all this secret trouble at last presented before the incorruptible tribunal of Mrs. Hathaway’s standards.
‘Oh no, you were quite right. When I telephoned from Beatenberg he was always begging to see you, but I said that you were too busy. I think he took it in, in the end,’ the old lady said.
The train slowed to a halt; from the darkness outside, farther down the platform, came the demand ‘Les passeports, s’il vous plaît,’ addressed to the non-Wagons-Lits passengers. Julia got up, her little seat flipping up behind her.
‘I think I’ll just go and lurk,’ she said.
‘Leave it to the man, unless there is trouble—but I feel sure there won’t be,’ Mrs. Hathaway said.
In the corridor Julia found Watkins lurking too, but for a different reason.
‘I said I’d just let her get undressed and into bed,’ the maid said, with a nod towards her and June’s compartment. ‘Is Madam in bed? She ought to be.’
‘Yes, all tucked up some time ago,’ Julia replied.
‘That’s right. I didn’t like to come in and disturb you. Has she got her Fishy Water?’ Watkins asked, with an old servant’s jealous interest in her mistress’s welfare.
‘Yes—and with a cork in the bottle, so it won’t spill. Would you like some Vichy, Watkins?’ Julia asked.
‘Oh no thank you, Miss. I only tried it once, and fishy it tasted to me! There’s a water-jug in that wash-stand affair, if we’re thirsty.’ She tried to peer out of the window. ‘Why are we stopping? Is this a town?’
‘Not really—it’s the frontier, where they do the passports.’
‘Ah. Will she be all right?’ Watkins asked, with another nod in the direction of the sleeper door. ‘She seemed a bit worried about her passport—something wrong with it, I gathered.’
‘She’s got a new one,’ Julia said. Oh, dear foolish gabbling June!—how much else had she told Watkins? She soon learned some of it.
‘You know, Miss, she’s really a very decent little girl, if she is a bit flighty and silly,’ the maid pursued. ‘She gives a lot of her pay to her mother, to help her out—a widow’s pension isn’t much. But I don’t fancy the idea of her going on doing all this modelling, or whatever they call it. It’s my belief that these agencies lead young girls astray, as often as not—I mean I think they’re often agencies for other things than adverts! And she’s silly enough, in a way, to be taken in by anyone. Couldn’t you get her into some decent job, where she’d be safe? She’ll take anything you say, that I’m positive of; she thinks the world of you.’
Julia, glancing down the corridor, saw the frontier officials in a huddle outside the Wagons-Lits man’s little cubby-hole, going through the passports of the sleeper passengers—she watched them, and was immensely relieved when they went out to by-pass the sleeping-car on their way to the next coach.
‘Good!’ she muttered. ‘Yes, Watkins, I think there is a chance that I might find quite a nice job for Miss Phillips, and I mean to try, presently. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, Miss,’ the maid said, and after a tap on the door re-entered her compartment.
Julia stood a moment longer in the corridor. First the Pastor; then Mrs.H.; now Watkins! Undoubtedly June was her neighbour; there was no escaping that fact. But June’s pretty, silly face was not the memory that she must carry home from this journey, whether she would or no; it was the memory of a gothic face, with triangular eyelids and a twisted smile. Tears smarted again behind her eyes; she brushed them away angrily—goodness, what a fool she was! Anyhow there would be peace at darling Glentoran, and in time she would forget. Like Watkins she tapped on a polished wooden door, and went in and rejoined Mrs. Hathaway.
This electronic edition published in July 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Ann Bridge
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN: 9781448204953
eISBN: 9781448204519
Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for
newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers