The Diamond Waterfall

by Pamela Haines

  But I’m reminded of it often. Daddy speaks of it. “It will be yours, Missy,” he says. He often calls me “Missy.” Then he says things like, “It’s meant for your kind of beauty.” What beauty? When he said that the first time, I went and looked in a mirror. It may be … my hair. Or my skin. But it is none of my doing—and it only makes people like Reggie Gilmartin pester me. It is a burden already.

  And yet I am a happy person, she thought, pulling her coat collar up to her neck. Her neck was too long, longer than other people’s, and so a nuisance. She could not think why it was considered a sign of beauty.

  I am a happy person, she thought, kneeling in prayer. Oh dear God, keep peace in the world and let there never be a war again.

  “Little drinks? Drinkettes? You’ve time?”

  Mrs. Fisher, bearing down on them outside the church. Her mouth seemed over full of teeth, and if you got too near, she spat. (In cold weather, Sylvia thought, it would freeze on your chin in little icicles.)

  “Lily, my dear. And little Sylvia“—I am not little, lama full head taller than she—”you shall come too. I’ve already asked the dear doctor—so distinguished, don’t you think? A Military Cross and I don’t know what else besides. So sad about his wife.”

  Reggie hovered nearby. She knew he wanted to speak to her. Just then Mrs. Fisher swept them off. “Now, at once. The motor will bring you back.” Getting with Mother into the high chauffeur-driven car, sitting squashed beside Dora Fisher, who smelled of mothballs, and Parma violet.

  A solid comfortable Georgian house sitting four square. Inside it had been quite ruined. Or so Lily always said. Mrs. Fisher looked about her:

  “Have we everybody, my dears? Sylvia, my little one, I’d meant to ask that boy who admires you so extravagantly—Lucy Fraser’s nephew, poor Reggie. Oh dear, all these war cripples. Of course I’m quite distracted at the moment, full of ideas for Bertie’s little dance. Dancette. Only two weeks now. Dear Lady Firth is coming, are you not?”

  Mother smiled in a way Sylvia knew well. It would be a token appearance, if any, on the night.

  “Bertram is so looking forward to it. It’s only the young nowadays who know how to enjoy themselves. Bertie dear, come and talk to Miss Firth.”

  A heavy, acne-pocked young man, who’d been standing sulkily by a giant arrangement of dried flowers and feathers, came and sat beside her:

  “I say, do you like to dance?”

  “Listen to him,” his mother said fondly.

  Fortunately, Sylvia thought, nobody seemed to. Mother by now was talking quietly with Dr. Selwood and the wife of the retired clergyman. Three or four others were grouped near the window.

  She managed as best she could, but the conversation died a natural death. She felt shy and ill at ease. She didn’t like the sherry, which tasted too sweet. She wished she’d had the courage to ask for lemonade, or cider.

  “Bertie, you’re monopolizing the pretty girls again. Come over at once and talk to Colonel Backhouse.”

  Bertie left her reluctantly. A voice said:

  “I think we have met only at the bottom of the stairs. Or was it the top?”

  “Halfway,” she said. “Halfway. You were in rather a hurry—”

  “Only too likely, I’m afraid. Although it shouldn’t be. It’s just, what time I have I like to give to the patients. In between, I hurry. But I wouldn’t wish to appear a hurrying person.”

  “Just hurried,” she said. He smiled. He was sitting now on a leather stool at her feet. He was so tall that he had to lean forward, chin an knees. “Hurried is different,” she said. “It’s a temporary thing—I think. A state. You won’t spend your whole life like that.” She paused. “Or will you?”

  He put his head on one side, smiling again. He seemed to be deciding something. “Yes,” he said, “I rather fear that I will.”

  For a few seconds, they were both silent. Then: “You—” she began, and “Do you—” he said.

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry!”

  “My dears!” whooped Dora Fisher. “There goes another man monopolizing little Sylvia. Sylvia deaf, come and tell all the ladies what you’re going to wear for Bertie’s party. I expect you to be quite the mirror of fashion— with a mother once a stage star.”

  It was a dress of silk georgette in two shades of orange, made up by their dressmaker. Mother had sent to London for patterns. “That one,” she’d said of their choice, “girlish but not fussy. It is never right to look fussy.” Then she’d added thoughtfully:

  “A little party like Dora Fisher’s. It’s probably all right—even though you haven’t come out.”

  But Sylvia did not want to come out. To be a debutante and presented at Court (presentations that had only just begun again last summer after the interruption of war). To be on show. But she didn’t dare to rebel, to say (although she wanted to—so much!), “I think I’ll stay at home and not bother—thank you.”

  “Grierson will go with you to the Fishers’ and wait with the servants, then accompany you back not later than one o’clock. Although you may leave earlier, of course—if you find you are not enjoying yourself.”

  But she did enjoy herself. At least until the strange after-supper event. The dance music (she who spent quiet mornings with Chopin) had a rhythm she could not ignore. Her feet began to tap even before she had stepped out onto the floor.

  Bertie was at the gramophone, winding the handle frantically. Then, hair plastered to his temples, he jerked her around the room. Conversation wasn’t necessary. Of that she was glad.

  Reggie was there. He embarrassed her at once by turning away from his partner and staring fixedly at her.

  Bertie panted, “I say, you certainly can twinkle. You’re awfully good.” Then, looking about him hurriedly: “The noise box. I must—”

  Sitting on one of the chairs lined up against the wall was the younger Hawksworth girl, Edie, looking lonely. She was a sallow, pudgy-featured girl. Sylvia had never been a particular friend—the age difference, although small now, had seemed in childhood impossible. The older sister, Amy, Teddy’s friend, was married now. Edie, at twenty, looked already thirty.

  Sylvia sat on the chair next to hers. “I do like your shoes, Edie.” Fine silver kid, single strapped, revealing a slim ankle. Edie smiled slowly. Her lumpish face smoothing a little.

  “I know scarcely anyone …” Sylvia began, when suddenly she saw Reggie standing in front of them. He ignored Edie.

  “Miss Firth, if I could have the pleasure …” He scarcely waited for her to agree. He was very flushed. She hoped it wasn’t from drink, remembering some remark overheard. His right hand clasping her waist was uncomfortably tight—perhaps because he had no left hand to hold hers. She could sense the slight imbalance. He was breathing heavily. When he didn’t speak, she said awkwardly:

  “Isn’t that English weather, Captain Gilmartin? Rain like this when dancing on the lawn was planned—”

  He said abruptly, rudely almost, “The name’s Reggie.”

  “Of course—Reggie.” He looked for the moment like an angry schoolboy. The expression on Hal’s face when … Memory slipped, and was lost. Something in the schoolroom? Our darling Gib, his tutor. Jack who drowned. Hal …

  Death intruded suddenly into the dance.

  “Will you mind awfully if I call you—Sylvia?” His clasp tightened. But the music had stopped. It was over. A Mr. Scarfe, whom she had met vaguely last week, asked for a dance. Pale of hair and eye, he was pleasant enough, his ungloved hand cool. He smiled and told her she was quite lovely.

  “You’re staying with the Hawksworths, Mr. Scarfe? Well”—she surprised herself by the sharpness of her voice—“you must ask Edie for a dance.”

  He said, still smiling, “I shall do my duty.” Then just as he left her: “My dear girl,” he said, “people come to parties to enjoy themselves. God knows our generation have earned it.” But she saw that he moved across to Edie.

  During supper, when she sat with Bertie, Reggi
e came and sat on the other side. He paid little attention to his own partner but kept staring at Sylvia. She was embarrassed, but Bertie, who had a good appetite, was busy and seemed not to notice.

  Immediately after:

  “You promised me the supper dance,” Reggie said. When she denied it (where had he got that idea?) she felt her arm suddenly grasped. “Dance with me now. Please.”

  She felt angry and thought, I don’t have to. She thought of Mother’s maid, Grierson, waiting, and how she might go home if she wished.

  Waltzing was difficult. He seemed to sway to one side. But his manner was affable again.

  “Your hair—Sylvia. Awfully good you don’t bob. I’m old-fashioned, you see. Pin-ups, Kirchner girls, when I was out in France—girls with lots of hair. My mother had lovely hair, lovely. Haven’t drunk all evening, haven’t had a drop, you know. Don’t go in for it much, don’t need it …”

  He seemed to be talking to himself. At the end of the record she made an excuse and went upstairs to the room set aside by Mrs. Fisher. Her face was very pale and she pinched her cheeks, high up, then bit her lips so that the blood rushed to them. Her hair felt heavy and she thought, Perhaps I might get it bobbed. To bob or not to bob, that is the question. But then she remembered: Daddy likes it, he praises it often. And he may not have so very long to live.

  Looking over the banisters, she saw Reggie in the hall. At first she hesitated, thought of going back—but then he turned, and saw her.

  At the foot of the stairs, he said, “Miss Firth—Sylvia. Need to speak to you. Urgently.”

  “Of course.” She waited.

  “Not here.” He looked behind him to a half-open door. “Think that’s empty.” Perhaps he noticed her reluctance because he went on, “Shan’t shut the bally door if that’s what’s worrying you. Trust Reggie, can’t you?”

  They went into the room. Small, with a sofa and two armchairs. He showed her to the sofa and then sat opposite on one of the chairs.

  “Would it bore you pallid to marry me?”

  She was completely taken aback. Her voice a little shaky, she said, “It’s very kind of you—you’re very kind, Captain Gilmartin … Reggie … but I …”

  “Would bore you pallid—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “No, no. No, of course not. It’s just—surely you see you’ve taken me by surprise?” Then, gently: “Thank you very much, but no.”

  “Offer declined, eh? Not wanted on voyage …?”

  She said, “No, no. Really, I didn’t mean … It’s … I barely know you …”

  “Hasn’t stopped chaps from proposing before. If a chap doesn’t when he has the chance, another chap comes along. Asks first. I wanted … If you can’t say yes now, would you make a fellow happy by thinking about it, eh, Sylvia?”

  She wondered again if he had been drinking. She thought she smelled it. She felt suddenly more than ever sorry for him. The useless sleeve hanging …

  “Had it in mind to come up and see your pater. The family heiress—he’d want to know a chap was all right. Then thought—better find out where I stand—if it’s to be aurev or adieu.”

  He added rather pathetically, “There’s a title in the family. Second cousin. Through my mother, you know.”

  She thought, He hasn’t said “I love you,” or any of the things they say in books. It can’t be meant to be like this.

  “If you’re wondering about my settling down … got a pension, of course. Off at the shoulder, you know, the arm. Can’t have a hook. But mean to work. Back in ’13 I’d a year, year and a half in a shipping office. Family connection, that sort of thing. But jobs now—’22, not exactly waiting for a chap. I’ve got business talent. Certain of that. Just need to get started, you know. Have someone, and something, behind me.”

  Oh, but it was amazing. And alarming. She thought she would never get away. When she did at last, she found that she’d promised him she’d think about it.

  She went home soon after that. Mother wasn’t up, and her light out, otherwise she might have told her about Reggie. She went to sleep at once, but only to dream. It was frightening. She dreamed about Teddy. Teddy and the new doctor. They sat in a tea shop and talked about her. She knew something was very wrong, and that she must help. She could not shift this sadness, which sat on her almost physically. “You are in danger,” she called out to them as they sat over the teacups. “Terrible, terrible danger.”

  2

  “I hate you,” Teddy said. “It’s the most delicious sensation.”

  She looked at him. George Andrew Sainthill. Gib’s friend, Saint.

  They were eating outside, in a restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne. Quenelles just served, piping hot. She burned a finger now, touching the edge of the plate.

  “What were your ancestors up to, Saint? Someone must have been pious, holy …”

  “Own that you like me, just as I am.”

  She wrinkled her nose, mocking distaste. It came over her in a wave that she was bored. Worse still, perhaps, was herself boring? And no amount of badinage between her and Saint, no amount of eating at amusing little places could fill up that quite terrifying emptiness—the cavern yawning beneath.

  Or was it simply length of days? Life stretching before her, interminably. Over before it had begun. (“Poor little girlie, poor lass,” they said. “She’ll wed again.” But why? Why bother? Unless it is to have a child.)

  Teddy does just as she likes, goes where she likes, is quite, quite free. Teddy Nicolson. Mrs. Gilbert Nicolson. It is that wonderful, much-to-be-envied Mrs. which separates me from those of my age, and older. That is what marriage and widowhood have done for me. I am at liberty to dine in a Paris restaurant, on this September evening of 1922, alone with a man. It is not even necessary to explain what it is I am doing in Paris. I can travel. I have money. Although I take care to give no details of its origin. (If I hadn’t confronted Mother with the facts, what convoluted version of the truth might she not have given me? Something probably like the vaguenesses which seem to have satisfied not only Sylvia but everyone else too. But at least I know now why Father has never liked me.)

  “I hate you, Saint.” She broke her bread roll. “You shouldn’t tease me so. I do have feelings.”

  “And I tread on them. And you don’t mind—or why else would you hang around Paris with me? Answer that, now.” Triumphantly, looking at her over his wineglass.

  When Gib had spoken of this friend, this far-back-in-time Cambridge friend (and was not 1909 and all that so far away as to be another world?) it had always been with amusement, affection.

  “We never kept up as we should have done,” he’d said. “A few visits to his home when we were first down, then … I’m not sure. Letters, yes. Then I ran into him after Gallipoli—as if it had been yesterday. He was always charming—the secret perhaps those few drops of Irish blood.”

  She had bothered to look out the group photographs from Cambridge days, and seen him smiling there. He could not have changed at all for she had had no trouble in recognizing him when he had called, on leave from the Navy, not long after they had had news of Gib’s capture.

  It was he who had written to her after Gib’s death, in those first blank days of shock and anticlimax. “I have heard the dreadful news. What can I say? I would like to see you.” It had been apparent to her at once that he needed, very much, to talk to someone who had known his friend. That they should share a common pain.

  And friendship, of an easy sort. Renewed in Paris, earlier this year— when they had become lovers. It was only gradually that this tone had crept into their relations, a tone that was now the everyday mood.

  Outside on the grass, among the strung lights, two children chased each other down among the tables, unsupervised. The younger ran too fast for his short legs and fell headlong, and at once set up a howling. She thought of moving but saw that an elderly woman had already pushed aside her chair.

  “I had a letter from Sylvia. A very long one.” She reached for
her handbag, fiddled with the clasp, brought out some crumpled pages.

  “The Baby Sister—”

  “The Baby Sister. And would you believe it, she’s had the most amazing and unexpected proposal—” “Decent, indecent?”

  “Saint! Proposal of marriage. Captain Reginald Gilmartin, late of the Artillery … one-armed …”

  “I see. She refused him?” A waiter was filling his glass.

  “Of course. She can do much better. And he is only the first—she isn’t out yet. Mother plans quite a sensation for her. She has looks. Capital L.”

  “She has Looks, and you have—”

  “Style. No, but she—Sylvia is beautiful. Perhaps she will be the one in the family to get it right.”

  “Get what right?” He looked amused, but puzzled.

  She said a little sadly, “Just—get it right.”

  “If you mean our present way of life, our liaison …”

  She fingered the tablecloth. “Partly, yes. Possibly …”

  “At least you are independent. Even if I wished it, my means would not stretch to a femme entretenue.”

  “Ah, forget it,” she said impatiently, always wanting to be done with it as soon as it arose, any discussion about their life together.

  “Actually, the letter’s quite amusing. A dreadfully funny account of the Fisher dance. Mrs. F too frightful—and son Bertram. Gentle Sylvia—sometimes pen in hand she can be quite wicked. Though not of course like you, Saint, when you take it up—and wield it like a sword.”

  “You’re referring to my journalism?”

  “Yes. It’s better than your painting.”

  “For those few kind words—”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed them.” Opening her bag again, bringing out the lighter, the cigarette case.

  “Is there one for me?”

  “They’re Virgins—”

  “No matter,” he said, “they’re cigarettes not women. Seeing you light up even in the middle of an excellent meal—I need one.” “You’re all the same, you ex-service—”

  “I smoked right through. Wardroom, night watch. Can’t imagine life without.”