The Feast

by Margaret Kennedy

  She looked Hebe up and down and muttered:

  ‘Coined in nature’s mint in ecstasy. One can see that. Who were your real parents? Do you know?’

  Hebe obliged with all the details she could give, and Anna listened with flattering interest. It was very agreeable to Hebe. Yet, although her spirits rose, she had an odd sense of insincerity and dissatisfaction. She was far from sure that she really liked Anna and wondered at herself for these confidences.

  ‘So they adopted you,’ concluded Anna, ‘and now they want to turn you into a bread-and-butter miss. Why don’t you run away from it all?’

  ‘I’ve often thought about it,’ said Hebe, who had.

  ‘They’ll be furious, mind. But you might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. I’m going up to St. Merricks this afternoon to stay with some friends. I think you’d amuse them and they’d amuse you. Like to come along?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Lechene!’

  ‘My name is Anna.’

  ‘Oh, Anna! It’s very kind of you….’

  ‘Not at all. I happen to like naughty girls. I was one myself, once. But, as I say, I was a Sunday School prize winner compared with you.’

  ‘But won’t they miss me?’

  ‘Let ’em. Teach ’em a lesson. Now go and find Bruce and tell him I want him. Bring him back with you. But don’t tell him a word about our plot.’

  Hebe ran off and found Bruce hanging gloomily about in the yard. He gave her the scowl which she now got from everybody, and told her to hop it. But he had to come with her when she haughtily gave him her message.

  ‘Oh, Bruce,’ said Anna, when they reached her room, ‘will you bring the car round and pack yourself a bag? We’re going up to St. Merricks, to Mrs. Palmer, for a night or so. I’ve told them in the office.’

  Bruce looked at Hebe and did not know what to say. If she had not been there he might very well have refused to drive Anna up to St. Merricks, for he had been considering how to give her notice all the morning.

  ‘I felt an impulse to get out of here,’ added Anna blandly. ‘A policeman sitting in the hall this morning quite put me off my lunch.’

  That sent him off to get the car.

  ‘Now,’ she said to Hebe, ‘pop up to the top of the drive and hide among the bushes there. When he gets out to open the gate, and his back is turned, nip out and get in with me. I’ll have the door open.’

  ‘But hadn’t I better pack a …?’

  ‘No. Don’t bother to pack anything.’

  ‘Or put on a dress?’

  ‘No. Come just as you are.’

  Hebe wore shorts and a pullover. Her face was very dirty. This reversal of all visiting rules entranced her, and she felt that Anna’s friends would certainly be amusing. She sped off to hide among the bushes by the top of the drive.

  How frightened they would be, she thought, when they found her gone! A search would be made. Everybody would be sorry. Their faces would grow more and more haggard as the days passed and no trace could be found of the poor child whom they had persecuted. All attention would be diverted from the Coves. She would return a heroine, with Anna, and Anna’s prestige as a grown-up, to shield her from reproof. She giggled as she squatted among the bushes. And yet there was still this uneasiness, this nagging dissatisfaction. She did not really like Anna.

  Presently she heard the car coming up the zigzags of the drive. It rounded the top corner and crunched to a standstill by the gate. Bruce got out. At the same time a door opened at the back and she saw Anna beckoning. In three seconds she was nestling on a heap of rugs at Anna’s feet.

  ‘Lie low,’ whispered Anna.

  Bruce returned and drove them through. Then he got out again to shut the gate. After that they went on, their pace quickening when they reached the high road.

  Hebe soon grew bored, crouching there among the rugs and unable to see out of the window. It was very stuffy and the smell of petrol made her sick. She began to understand why so many dogs hate travelling in a car, and why they are always so anxious to get up on to a seat. But after a while she fell asleep.

  She woke up to hear Anna talking.

  ‘Nobody’s forcing you to stay there if you don’t like it. You can get yourself a room at the inn.’

  ‘I damn well will,’ came the voice of Bruce from the front. ‘I don’t want ever to see any of that lot again. How you can …’

  Anna saw that Hebe was awake and said quickly:

  ‘That’s enough. I’ve told you to please yourself.’

  Hebe made signs of enquiry, but Anna shook her head and motioned to her to remain hidden. They seemed to be going very slowly down a long hill. And then they were in a town, winding through narrow streets. Then they went up a hill and at last they stopped.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Anna, getting out. ‘Leave the car here, and garage it later. Go and get yourself a room. Come along, Hebe.’

  Hebe skipped out and laughed when she saw the amazement of Bruce. So did Anna, who explained:

  ‘I’ve kidnapped her. She’s a kindred spirit, I feel, and they don’t appreciate her properly at Pendizack.’

  ‘Anna! You can’t dream of … a kid like her….’

  ‘Don’t fuss. I’ll look after her. We’ll take her back on Friday.’

  ‘But Mrs. Palmer … a kid of that age … you know perfectly well that they’re …’

  ‘It’s no affair of yours, is it? Come, Hebe!’

  Anna pushed open a green door in a very tall white wall, took Hebe through it and shut it in his face.

  The garden went up hill in a steep succession of grass terraces and a flight of stone steps up the middle. At the top stood the house. And on the bottom terrace two people were lying on the grass, sun bathing. They lay on their faces and they wore slacks. They had such curly hair and such round bottoms that Hebe supposed they were girls, until, as she and Anna went past, they sat up, revealing masculine torsos.

  ‘Oh, Anna,’ said one of them. ‘Have you got any cigarettes? We’ve run out.’

  ‘Only enough for myself,’ said Anna. ‘Is Polly up at the house?’

  ‘I expect so. Where’s Bruce?’

  Anna laughed and took Hebe up the steps to the house. At the top they had a fine view of the harbour and the roofs of lower houses. And then they walked through a long window into a room full of people who looked all alike to Hebe, until she had begun to sort them out. They were not young and they were not old. Most of them wore slacks so that it was difficult to tell, in several cases, whether they were men or women. They did not seem to be particularly pleased to see Anna, but they stared at Hebe.

  Presently Polly, who had red hair and was unmistakably female, asked who she was.

  ‘This,’ said Anna, pulling her forward, ‘is Hebe. She’s staying at my hotel and I brought her along because she’s in dog-house over a slight case of murder.’

  This was received with some animation and an old gentleman, who was quite certainly not an old lady, came forward and shook Hebe by the hand. Hebe made the little curtsey she had learnt in America, but could not get her hand away until Anna intervened and told him that Hebe was only there to be looked at.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Polly crossly, ‘I draw the line at infant murderesses.’

  ‘Who did she murder?’ asked several voices.

  And somebody gave Hebe a drink.

  ‘She’ll be no trouble,’ declared Anna. ‘She can play with Nicolette.’

  ‘Nicolette’s not here. Her father has got her. Listen, Anna, I’ve had a letter from the landlord….’

  The drink was like nothing Hebe had ever tasted. Her head spun after a couple of sips. Their voices became booming and indistinct so that she could not be quite sure of what she heard. But it seemed to her that Polly had used one of THE WORDS. There were three or four of them, and she had seen them written up on walls but had never been able to find out what they meant—only that nobody ever used them, and that the people who wrote them up were not agreed as to spelling.
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br />   Presently Polly used it again, quite unmistakably, and then she used another. By the time that she had finished describing her landlord’s letter she had used them all and several which Hebe had never seen written up. But nobody seemed to be surprised and presently someone asked again about the murder.

  ‘Three adenoidal brats, staying at the hotel,’ explained Anna. ‘She took them to the top of an exceeding high cliff and pushed them into the sea. But unluckily some busybody came and fished them out again.’

  ‘Anna! You’re making this up.’

  ‘No,’ said Hebe loudly. ‘It’s true. Their names are Blanche, and Maud and Beatrix.’

  This was received with applause, and enquiries as to who Hebe was, anyway.

  ‘Nobody knows,’ said Anna. ‘Born on the wrong side of the blanket. But her mother …’

  ‘I won’t have her here. There’s no room. You seem to think I keep a bloody hotel….’

  ‘Never mind Polly, Hebe. Have another drink and tell us why you did it.’

  Somebody pushed her into a chair, saying:

  ‘Tell us about Blanche and Maud and Beatrix. Why did you do it?’

  ‘They wear combinations,’ giggled Hebe, starting on a second drink.

  This went down well.

  ‘And their teeth stick out.’

  More laughter.

  ‘And they believe in fairies.’

  This was the best joke of all. There was a concerted screech. A wave of nausea went over Hebe, but she could not tell if this was the drink or because she hated herself for jeering at the gentle and loyal Coves. She felt an impulse to sing, and did so, waving her glass:

  There are fairies at the bottom of our garden.

  They’re not so very, very far away….

  Her voice was drowned in a roar of laughter. Even the morose Polly was laughing and asking:

  ‘How old did you say it is?’

  Hebe stopped singing and stared at her owlishly.

  ‘I don’t like you,’ she said. ‘You’re awful. You’re a … a … harridan. My friends the Coves are very nice.’

  Soon after that she must have fallen asleep in the chair, for she lost the thread of what they were saying, though she could hear their booming, screeching voices. But somebody kept poking her and patting and stroking her, which she did not like, so at last she cried out violently:

  ‘Oh, get away!’

  There was a sudden silence and then Anna said angrily:

  ‘Bennett, you old goat. Leave the child alone. I told you …’

  ‘Why in hell did you bring her,’ interrupted Polly. ‘She’s pickled.’

  ‘She’ll sleep it off if she’s left alone.’

  ‘Better put her outside for a bit‚’ said another voice, ‘with Bint and Eggie. She’ll be safe as houses with them.’

  Somebody picked her up and dragged her out into the fresh air and down to the bottom lawn where the voices of the sun-bathers were raised in protest.

  ‘Polly says you’ve to look after her,’ said Hebe’s escort. ‘You must do something occasionally for your keep.’

  ‘How can Polly be so unkind? We’re not Sitters In.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ said Hebe.

  And was, amid angry squeals from Bint and Eggie who removed themselves and their mattresses onto a higher terrace and left her lying, exhausted and miserable, on the grass.

  How long she lay there she did not know. But at last she was aroused by someone exclaiming:

  ‘Oh, Hebe!’

  With difficulty she turned her head and opened her smarting eyes. Bruce was bending over her.

  ‘I felt I must know … I was worried … are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, Bruce, do take me home. I’m so sick and they don’t want me, and there was a horrible old man….’

  ‘That’s all right. Don’t cry. I’ll take you right back. Can you walk?’

  ‘No. I should fall down.’

  He picked her up and carried her through the gate in the garden wall to the car.

  5. Siddal’s Hour

  ‘Is the chauffeur joining us again to-night?’ asked Evangeline, as she sat on the terrace with Mrs. Paley after dinner.

  They were waiting for Gerry to bring out the tea basket before adjourning to their night’s quarters on the cliff.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs. Paley. ‘I believe he’s gone to St. Merricks with Mrs. Lechene. But Duff and Robin are coming, I think.’

  Evangeline made a face. She did not much want Duff and Robin.

  ‘What were you and the chauffeur talking about so late?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot of things. He told me about Nancibel’s plan for a party for the Coves. I’ve promised to help with it.’

  ‘What sort of party?’

  ‘A kind of universal beano, as far as I can make out. That’s what they want. But they’ve got no money, poor chicks. However … that can be remedied. It’s collecting the food….’

  ‘Perhaps I could help,’ said Angie. ‘I’ve some sweet points. When is it to be?’

  ‘As soon as they are quite well again. I think Friday would be a good day. And it has to be in the evening, because they want to invite the staff.’

  ‘I hope it will be outside,’ said Evangeline. ‘I hate this hotel. It’s so shut in, with the cliffs hanging over it. Mrs. Paley! I … I want to talk to you. I can’t make up my mind … about … if only … Gerry Siddal is so nice … but of course there’s …’

  ‘Talk connectedly or not at all,’ commanded Mrs. Paley.

  ‘Well … my father says I run after men.’

  ‘You don’t, I’m afraid. I wish you did.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Paley!’

  ‘A girl who runs away from men is a fool, Angie.’

  ‘But he says … he’s often said, that I’d snatch at anything in trousers, just to get away from home.’

  ‘Very natural if you did. I know I would.’

  ‘Yes. But I wouldn’t want to snatch at Gerry. He’s so nice. I’d want to be sure I really … I mean, I believe I could make him so sorry for me that … but it wouldn’t be fair. He ought to get somebody who really … who really … I’d never feel sure that I hadn’t just snatched …’

  ‘Are you worrying about your feeling for Gerry, or his for you?’

  ‘Mine for him, I suppose. Do I really … or is he just a harbour?’

  ‘You’ll have to fight like the devil to get him, Angie. Only a very determined girl could face it. I think by the time you’re through you’ll find that you’re very sure of yourself. You’ve got to rescue him from his family.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Evangeline, flushing. ‘It’s abominable….’

  ‘You’re not good at fighting for your own rights. You are more likely to become obstinate about his rights. And why should you do that, unless you care for him? Here’s Mr. Siddal. Now don’t get up and rush away. Stay and talk to him. He may be your father-in-law one of these days, and he has no idea what you are like.’

  Evangeline subsided, trembling, on to the swing seat beside Mrs. Paley, and watched the approach of Mr. Siddal, who had washed and dressed and come out of the boot hole to mix with the visitors. He had looked into the lounge but found nobody there except Sir Henry, listening morosely to the wireless. So he strolled out onto the terrace where Mrs. Paley and Miss Wraxton greeted him with inviting faces.

  He took a seat in a deck chair beside them and prepared to talk, to lecture indeed, upon any subject they should choose. Once launched, he seldom allowed anyone else to get a word in, but he always left the selection of a topic to his victims.

  ‘So what,’ he said to them, ‘shall we discuss to-night?’

  Mrs. Paley was obligingly ready with a subject.

  ‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m always at your service, Mrs. Paley.’

  ‘What is the difference between pride and self-respect?’

  There was a short pause while Mr. Siddal arranged his ideas.

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nbsp; ‘Pride …’ he began.

  ‘What’s that?’ cried Evangeline.

  Something had fallen on the grass quite close to them. She jumped up and searched for it in the gathering dusk. After a few seconds she found it, and brought it to them.

  ‘It’s a little … where did it come from?’

  Mr. Siddal laughed and took it from her.

  ‘It’s soapstone, I think.’

  ‘What?’ cried the ladies, who had both heard the story. ‘Again?’

  ‘We have a poltergeist, apparently.’

  ‘They are generally little girls,’ said Mrs. Paley.

  ‘Quite so. And this hotel is full of little girls. I’ll give this to my wife. She’ll know what to do with it. I’m terribly frightened of Mrs. Cove, aren’t you?’

  ‘You mean you think it’s the little Coves?’ asked Evangeline. ‘But they look so meek and timid.’

  ‘Not all of them. Personally I suspect the visionary one with the bad back. Well … pride …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Paley. ‘Pride. And self-respect.’

  ‘And self-respect. As you say, Mrs. Paley, they are often confused. This is because they give rise, to a certain extent, to the same kind of conduct. Proud people and self-respecting people prefer to sail under their own steam, paddle their own canoes and boil their own kettles of fish. They do not demand help or sympathy. But the motive …’ he emphasized the word by patting her knee, ‘the motive is different. Self-respect regards independence as a social and moral duty. We must not fling our burdens on to the shoulders of other people. We must not inflict on them the story of our woes. But self-respect is not antagonized by sympathy or offers of help. It may feel obliged to refuse them, but it can be touched by the offer and respect the generosity which makes the offer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Paley, ‘and the proud man is angry with any one who offers him help.’

  ‘The proud man is humiliated that anyone should suppose he needs help. The offer is an insult. His motive is not that of social obligation, but a desire for superiority. He always thinks in terms of superiority and inferiority. Help, he imagines, is given by the superior to the inferior, and to offer it to him is to degrade him. If he is obliged to accept generosity he hates the giver. His independence is an indulgence of his own ego.’