Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake

by The Inn by the Lake (lit)

  He wouldn't need French, though, for a long time, he realised, with the end-of-holiday depression resting on his spirits like a small cloud. It would be at least a year before he could take another vacation, if then

  The extraordinary peace of Lugano seemed very far away as he leaned out of the windows. The traffic down Park Lane was busy, as usual, and between the thick foliage of the plane trees he glimpsed lights dancing through the dusk in the Park, and the bright patches of colour that were flower beds, and the summer frocks of the strollers. He would not be able to show her the lights of London in any real sense, he thought regretfully; it was the end of June, and true darkness would not fall until well after midnight. But perhaps the long summer twilight would appeal to Nicole, used to the shorter evenings of Lugano. At least it was not raining. It was warm, and the pavements below gave up the hot, dusty smell that is essentially of the city.

  In Combe Castleton the smell would be very different : a combination of sweet garden scents, the freshness from the moors, the salty tang of the sea. The fishing boats would be leaving harbour, perhaps, for their night's work, their riding lights twinkling like fireflies in the dusk.

  Jonathan, who had loved the West Country so passionately as a boy, realised that he was seeing it now with fresh eyes—the eyes of a newcomer, Nicki's eyes, in his mind. He hoped it would present itself to Nicole tomorrow in sunshine, smiling and glowing with its own especial soft colours, so that Nicki too might learn to love it and be consoled for Lugano. ... a little.

  He glanced at his watch and telephoned through to her room. A very small voice said, "Yes . . . ?" on a rising inflection of curiosity and fear. He would never know what it had cost her to cross the big bedroom and pick up the telephone by the bed, for who could be telephoning her already in London? She thought perhaps it was some message from the management below, who seemed to know Jonathan. Everywhere he went he was treated with respect, waited upon with willing service; and not only, Nicole judged, because he gave good tips.

  "Yes ... ?" she whispered into the shiny white mouthpiece, her heart bumping noisily about.

  "It's only me, you goose," Jonathan was laughing at her. He would be laughing a lot more if he could have heard her heart. "Did I startle you?"

  "No, you only frightened me to death." Nicole grinned her gamine grin suddenly; it was good to hear his deep, familiar voice with a laugh in it. "I have had a bath—what a bath! So much hot water—and they put scented stuff in it, and the towels were warm!"

  His chuckle consoled her for the way the chambermaid had looked at her, as if she were a native of Borneo, because she had not known how to manage the mixer-tap of shining chromium; because she had run about the big, tiled bathroom like a child, sniffing the bath salts, feeling the texture of the big, fluffy, warm towels on the electrically heated rail.

  "Madame would like her gown pressed for this eve-ning?" the girl had demanded, almost contemptuously.

  "No, thank you, I am not dressing tonight; we are going to have dinner somewhere simple," Nicki had answered in her best grown-up manner, unconsciously using Jonathan's description, inwardly giggling because the girl could not pronounce madame properly, for all her airs and graces. Anyway, I am not a madame but a mademoiselle, Nicki had thought as she wallowed in the large bath of hot, scented water. It was very different from the zinc tub at home that they filled from Lucia's big copper kettles. That took two of them to carry it out and empty it afterwards.

  Nicole could not know that one of the first things Jonathan had liked about her was her personal cleanliness; somehow, lacking all the much-advertised aids, she contrived always to be as fresh and sweetly scented as her own Swiss mountainsides. He did not think she needed the bath salts, but it amused him to consider her enjoying the unwonted luxuries of the hotel bathroom.

  "Did you have the bath-perfume stuff?" she demanded now.

  "No, just soap and water; but how good they were after all that dabbling in train wash-bowls!" he answered. "Now we'd better go and get something to eat. Will you meet me downstairs in the foyer in a few minutes?"

  "Yes, I'm ready." She did not tell him she had been ready for a long time, ready and waiting, staring out ove the park, in which lovers sprawled on the grass and the band was playing somewhere just out of sight. How could they lie on the grass, making love in front of all these hotels, with so many people walking past and the never-ending stream of cars and buses ... ? Nicole wondered.

  Jonathan waited for her to step out of the gilded lift, but she had chosen to walk down the stairs. Probably she was scared of managing the automatic lift by herself, he thought tenderly, and before they went out he took her across to the cage and showed her what all the push-buttons meant. He was struck again by her extraordinary mixture of worldly wisdom and complete innocence, when she turned her head away from the couples lying in the Park, and he saw that her cheeks were flushing rosily beneath their golden tan.

  "That is disgusting," she said softly, "to hug and kiss in front of the whole world! Not even Emilio would do that!"

  Jonathan acknowledged the truth of that by changing his mind and allowing the commissionaire to call a taxi for them. It was true; here, in sight of the windows of some of London's most expensive hotels, and the incessant stream of passing traffic and pedestrians, the sprawling couples lay. He had never given it a thought before, but as they drove off he said quietly, "You must understand, this is a city, Nicole. Those people work all day in shops and offices and factories. The parks are their little bit of country—"

  "Then they should go further away from the road, it is a big enough park! Or they should wait for the darkness," she retorted crossly.

  "They might have to wait too long, at this time of the year it is not dark until ten," Jonathan grinned.

  "I shall never understand the English!" Nicole said pensively. "Sometimes they are so reserved, so haughty! Especially one must not talk about love, or God. Surely God and love are the most important things in life, and afterwards babies and food and a roof over one's head?"

  "Perhaps that is why we can't talk about them lightly. And don't forget you are half English," he answered slowly. In Lugano, in spite of her gypsyish ways, she had seemed to him very much Evelyn's daughter. He hoped she was not going to talk like a foreigner when she arrived at Combe Castleton. Yet he sympathised with the fastidiousness in her that disliked the display of emotion in the Park.

  "All these taxis, and the hotel!" She turned towards him impulsively. "You will be ruined, Jonathan! Such expense—we could have walked, surely?"

  He was touched and amused again by her change of mood. He knew the hotel had been a mistake; the only amends he could make now was to take her to a restaurant where she could feel at home, and by a lucky chance he had remembered Giovanni's in Soho. He had eaten many a cheap meal there during his student days, and hoped the place would still be there. So many of the smaller restaurants had changed hands since then, or disappeared altogether.

  "I thought you might be tired."

  "I am not at all tired!" Certainly she did not look as if she had been travelling for twenty-four hours. The black frock had been her one presentable gown before the shopping expedition. She kept it for special occasions and did not tell Jonathan that it had been made for her mother's funeral. It had a full skirt to her ankles, and since then she had cut out the neck and inserted a ruff of starched broderie anglaise, in which she wore the only bit of jewellery she possessed—a simple cameo brooch. The whole effect was simple and charming, and Jonathan—who had seen the black frock come out for church every Sunday in Lugano—had no qualms about telling her to wear it tonight. Lucia's parting gift to her had been a white lacy shawl, exquisitely soft and light, and she had draped it stole-wise over her shoulders tonight. Without bothering her head to read fashion articles, Nicole had struck the right note with sure instinct.

  Giovanni's was still there, and Giovanni himself; the Italian looked very much older, with silver hair and a portly, almost disting
uished, appearance. He still welcomed his clients personally, though it was a full minute before he recognised in Jonathan the thin, rangy medical student he used to feed very well for so little money.

  "Dio mio! Mr. Gr-r-ant! How long it is since we have had the pleasure of your company!" Giovanni had lived in England so many years that he no longer embraced his English friends, but he did pump Jonathan's hands up and down excitedly, calling to his head waiter to give them the best table, the one in the corner by the old bottle-glass window. "Now you are the great surgeon you no longer come and wolf my ravioli," he murmured, with laughing reproach.

  "Only because I am seldom in London. I live now in Devon," Jonathan explained, and introduced Nicole, who had been standing by with sparkling eyes, enraptured, as Jonathan had known she would be. As Giovanni bowed over her hand she murmured in Italian that she was de-lighted to meet an old friend of Mr. Grant's. Giovanni's face instantly lost its sophistication. He seized her hand and kissed her soundly on both cheeks, exclaiming like a blessing, "Benvenuto, signorina! Da che parte dell'Italia viene?"

  He was so pleased to hear one of his patrons speaking his own language that he forgave her for being French and not Italian, for coming from Lugano and not further south, but he knew the Ticino canton well.

  "Eet ees ver' beautiful, that country!" he used English in courtesy to Jonathan, and they were ushered to their seats, followed by the kindly or amused glances of other people dining in the small restaurant. Though it was only dusk, candles were lighted on the scrubbed wooden tables, stuck in bottles. There were flowers in glasses and little jars, and the place was warm with the smell of good cooking, the flowers, and a summer evening in the city. Nicole smiled at Jonathan in their little alcove by the bottle-glass window.

  "You are kind!" she exclaimed softly. "To bring me here—this is like home. Here I don't feel foolishgauche—" She gave a little mock-shudder. "Your grand hotel, I hate it!"

  Looking at her in the flickering candle glow, Jonathan realised that she had changed already. She was a young woman, very good to look upon, with strikingly beautiful eyes. He smiled as she unfolded the clean napkin and stuck it, Continental-fashion, under her chin.

  "I don't think you need feel foolish anywhere, Nicki. You're quite able to deal with anything that crops up. But here, we put our table napkins on our lap, so—"

  She grinned at him, becoming instantly a child again. "Here we put it where I have put it"—she nodded towards several of the other diners—"but tomorrow I will do as you say. You must tell me everything, Jonathan—what do the Americans say? You must put me wise!"

  The ravioli was excellent, better even than Lucia's, and the Chianti chilled to exactly the right temperature.

  "To—your health and happiness, Mademoiselle Berenger," Jonathan toasted her lightly.

  "Votre santé, m'sieur," she replied, but he was appalled to see that the tears stood in her eyes. She said simply, "I am terrified when I think of tomorrow, Jonathan. Can we not pretend, just for tonight, that we are friends without a care in the world, exploring London. ... ?"

  "But we are friends, and we will explore London, and to blazes with tomorrow!" he answered, falling in with her mood, and feeling an almost boyish excitement rising in him. "I, too, have to face the return to duty tomorrow. Let us enjoy this lovely evening the gods have sent us—"

  "This lovely evening God has sent us," she corrected him gently, and for some hours Jonathan actually forgot the years between, and became a student again. Arm in arm they went into the warm, dusty streets, after thanking Giovanni for his good supper, and Jonathan showed her the hospital where he had trained, St. Cuthbert's.

  "We were very hard-up in those days, my mother and I, and I would probably have failed my exams if Giovanni hadn't fed me so cheaply," he reminisced aloud.

  Staring up at the great, grimy building, Nicole shuddered with no pretence at all. "I would not like to be ill there," she said definitely.

  "Oh, it's not so bad inside, and you'd be lucky to get a bed there," he grinned, making a long arm. "They have a first-class staff, a waiting list so long, and a reputation that is known all over the civilised world!"

  "Ah—yes. I remember now newspaper articles. I am afraid I am not what you would call civilised." Nicole sighed, and tucked her hand inside his arm again. She refused absolutely to remember who Jonathan was, tonight, because it seemed to remove him so far from her. Even in this dark suit, which he had never worn in Gandria, he looked different; the professional man, the famous surgeon . . . yet when he forgot the grim side of his recent experiences he looked so much happier.

  Jonathan was shelving memories, too, as they strolled among the crowds on the warm pavements, pausing to look in shop windows, at the photographs outside theatres and cinemas, at the books still displayed in Charing Cross Road (how many times he had bought second-hand text-books at Foyles!), and the luscious fruit piled on the barrows in the side streets off Leicester Square.

  It was years since he had had the time to wander like this, looking and listening to the chatter of a girl. And Fay had been so very different from Nicole; the only thing they had in common was the silken sheen of their fair hair. Fay had been brittle, hard and witty, even in the early days; her comments on the passing scene would have been critical; she was always grumbling because he could not afford to take her into one of the glittering restaurants or theatres . . . but he wanted to forget Fay. She seemed as unreal as a ghost tonight.

  "Would you like to go to a theatre—we might still get into one of the late shows?" he asked suddenly.

  Nicki shook her head. "Not tonight, thank you, Jonathan. . . . There is so much to see, and we have so little time!"

  So little time. . . .

  A few short hours to try and show this child something of the greatest city in the world. He was very content to wander round the West End and let her look at everything and everyone to her heart's content.

  "Piccadilly"—he presented it to her with a little bow, ironically—"supposed to be the heart of the world!" And he bought her a spray of gardenias to fasten in the belt of her black frock.

  The crowds and lights and noise bewildered her a little, but the shops in Regent Street were fascinating, though she did not linger by their windows for long. Jonathan was surprised to find she wanted to see the Houses of Parliament and St. Paul's, and Nelson's Column; she wanted to go into the Underground and take a bus ride.

  "Once a courier, always a courier," he teased her, but she was undaunted. He promised her a quick sight-seeing tour by taxi in the morning; their train did not leave until noon. But they did see Trafalgar Square, Jonathan had to buy some cakes in Lyons to feed the pigeons, and Nicki cried out with the delight of a child when finally she coaxed them to come and feed from her hands.

  "It is like Milan, only there are thousands of birds there! How huge this town is, Jonathan, and yet you have les étalages—what you call them—markets for the fruit—"

  "Stalls."

  "Fruit stalls, among your theatres, and ladies dressed so grandly! And the old women selling flowers—and pigeons! It is like home, that—"

  Jonathan sat on the edge of one of the fountains and looked at the girl's puzzled face. "Yes, in all the great cities, you will find things like this. And slums just around the corner from the most expensive residential district.... I suppose it is because London grew so gradually." He smiled and drew her to her feet. "And do remember that this is your home, now, Nicki. You are half English, you know."

  "I have no home, now," she said sombrely, but the shadows left her face as soon as she saw the river. It was not yet dark, but in the blue twilight the lights from the Embankment and the bridges were reflected in the swift-flowing water, and there were little ships of all shapes and sizes moored along the banks.

  "Oh, I love water!"

  "I'll take you further down tomorrow, to the Pool, and you will see everything from coal barges to ocean liners," he promised.

  She dragged him into a dub
ious-looking milk bar in the Strand to have a Coca-cola, and flushed when a gang of skinheads looked her up and down. "I thought this was a café, it looks like such a nice place!" She sighed as they went out again into the night. "But the Coca-cola was delicious!"

  Jonathan thought Coca-cola could never be delicious, but he was determined to let Nicole do anything she wished tonight, even to the ride on the Underground and the bus. It was late and they were both tired out and a trifle dishevelled when at last they got back to the hotel.

  In the lift Nicki smiled up at him, satisfied. "Thank you, Jonathan. I think you do not like walking the pavements very much, but I have enjoyed myself!"

  "I'm glad." He was thinking it was a mistake to be always in a hurry, to go everywhere in a metal and glass box on wheels that cut you off from the colour and smells and movement of humanity on the pavements. But she was a funny child, Nicki.... As they came across the foyer just now they could see the dancing in the hotel ballroom, hear the orchestra; most women would have regretted missing that, but when he had asked if she would like to dance she had shaken her head emphatically. "Among those—those icebergs? I'm not dressed for a ballroom, Jonathan!"

  "I've enjoyed myself, too," he said now, suddenly, as the lift stopped at her floor and he opened the doors. "Good-night, God bless you, and sleep well, darling."

  "Et tu aussi," she whispered, standing to watch the gilded cage carrying him away from her. The key in her hand seemed the key to another cage—a prison cell. Nicki grinned at herself at the absurdity of thinking the luxurious hotel bedroom a prison and bade a sleepy page good-night as she let herself in. The bedroom, in blue and gold, seemed enormous, the single bed big enough for a family, after the austerity of her room at the albergo, and she pulled a grimace at it. But she was tired, tired out at last, and she fell asleep in spite of the roar of traffic that never seemed to stop in London, and the unfamiliar, lonely room. The last thing she remembered was the sweet fragrance of the gardenias. Already their waxen petals were curling like brown paper at the edges, but she had put them in a glass of water on her bedside table. They reminded her of home, and Jonathan had given them to her.