by Ann Bridge
Up to the day before Hetta had been dreading her return to the Castelo-Imperial. She hated hotel life anyhow; and her mother, to her never a congenial or sympathetic person, would not only be angry with her, but would be reinforced by the detestable presence of Mme de Vermeil, her rival with Richard. The high-bred ease and pleasantness of life as it was led at Gralheira had, even in those two days, increased her reluctance and distaste. But now, everything was altered; she was engaged, secure; she need fear nobody, since Richard stood behind her.
Esperanza took her at once to her mother’s room. Dorothée was on her bed, the lowered sun-blinds only admitting a dim light; she had taken several aspirins to counteract the royal champagne and lay somnolent, triumphant, but more than a little cross.
‘So there you are! Well later on you can tell me what you’ve been up to, and where—but now I really have to rest. The wedding was marvellous, but these big functions are quite exhausting.’
‘I am so glad you enjoyed it, Mama. You got my note?’
‘Yes of course, but we must talk about all that later on. I really am too tired now.’
Hetta was hurt, with good reason, that this should be her mother’s sole reaction to the engagement of her only child. A sharp sentence came into her mind; she bit it back, remembering Father Antal’s words—‘Be kind, be kind,’ and bent over the bed to give her difficult parent a kiss.
‘Naturally, Mama. Rest well; I am sure you need it.’ As she stood up Esperanza came in.
‘A Senhor from the British Embassy asks for the Menina on the telephone. Shall I put the call through here?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Dorothy Páloczy said irritably. ‘Here, of course.’ Esperanza went out, and Hetta eagerly lifted the receiver of the bedside telephone; in a moment she heard Richard’s voice, to her full of reassurance.
‘Darling! Are you all right? I rang up the old holy, and found that he’d carted you back.’
‘Yes, quite all right,’ Hetta said.
‘The Major tells me that your private holy got away according to plan, and that you saw him off. I’m so glad.’
‘Yes; he was very kind to arrange this.’
‘Well I’m sure that has made you feel rather sad, sweetheart, and I’m having a quite hideous time here, trying to clear off my back-log of work. I suggest that presently we both call it a day, and cheer ourselves up by going out to have supper at the Guincho. What do you say?’
‘This is where I swam?’
‘Yes, my love, you did indeed!’
‘And the cooking was so good! Yes, Richard; I will come.’
‘Excellent. I’ll call for you soon after seven. Till then, dearest Hetti.’
The girl put down the receiver and addressed the rather collapsed figure on the bed.
‘Mama, that was Richard. He asked me to dine with him this evening. I have said Yes.’
‘Well really, I should have thought that tonight, at least, you might have dinner with me, and explain everything,’ the Countess said crossly. ‘Anyhow I don’t want you to do any more running around with young men, after this week’s escapade. You’d better call him back and say No.’
Hetta was silent for a moment.
‘I cannot do that,’ she said then, quite gently—‘at least, I shall not. Tonight, dear Mama, I dine with my Verlobter.’ (In the stress of this first moment of deliberate independence she could not remember the English word for ‘betrothed’.) She stooped down and gave her mother a second kiss. ‘Rest well. Why not have something to eat in bed? You must be so tired.’ She went out closing the door as gently as she had spoken. Alone in the darkened room Countess Páloczy burst into angry tears, interrupted by hiccoughs—in five minutes she was asleep.
Chapter 19
Before driving out to Estoril to take Hetta to dine Mr. Atherley carried out his intention of going to see the Ambassador; as he left the Chancery he was accosted by Tomlinson.
‘May I offer my congratulations, Sir? I understand that you are engaged to be married.’
Richard was highly entertained;—oh the delightful diplomatic grape-vine! Who would know about his engagement sooner than the messenger and the telephonist?
‘Thank you very much, Tomlinson,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I may say that my wife-to-be, like yours, is a very good cook!’
‘Yes Sir; so I understand. She cooked for quite some time for this Hungarian agent who was flown out today, didn’t she?’
Richard shouted with laughter.
‘Tomlinson, I believe you’re employed by Colonel Marques on the side!’ He went out through the walnut-wood and wrought-iron doors, while Tomlinson slipped into the telephone-room to report the Head of Chancery’s latest crack to his wife. ‘Mr. Atherley looks ever so happy.’
‘He’s nice—I hope she is,’ Mrs. Tomlinson replied. “Esta?” she said into the mouthpiece of her head-phones, and went on with her work.
Richard was looking more thoughtful than happy as he set out on that short up-and-downhill walk from the Chancery to the Embassy, through the cheerful inconsequent architecture of the Lapa quarter, brilliantly pink and white in the rich sunshine of late afternoon. During the night—and the day as well, for the few moments when his mind had been disengaged—he had been suffering from the back-thoughts inevitable to sensitive people after they become engaged. For Atherley these doubts were rather more acute than is usually the case, since he was perfectly well aware of the attitude of the Office towards foreign marriages; and while he was not inordinately ambitious, he did care a great deal about his work, and his career in connection with it. And he was not only marrying a foreigner, but one who had just come from behind the iron curtain; the vitriol press would undoubtedly seize on this, barely disguising malice as romance or sensation—there would be references to Burgess and Maclean. As he turned the last corner into the steep street leading down to the Embassy (in whose lower reaches washing, propped out on cords from the windows, flapped with a pleasant domesticity in the river-breeze blowing in from the Tagus), he threw up his head and drew a deep breath of the soft salty air that ruffled his bare head. Hetta was worth it, whatever happened!—and anyhow he could always retire to farm and shoot on his mother’s place in Herefordshire if the Office got really bloody-minded, and tried to send him to Bogotá.
The Ambassador always kept open house for his staff at the end of the day, with a choice of Scotch or Irish whisky, in a big downstairs room whose windows gave onto the Rua Arriaga, known as his study; he greeted Richard there. ‘It’s so warm, shall we go up and sit in the garden?’
They sat in that small paved courtyard where Hetta had read out the Latin inscriptions and armigerous mottoes of former envoys to the Duke of Ericeira. Richard realised that Sir Henry had suggested this arrangement in order that they should not be interrupted; down in the study the most junior of secretaries, under this accessible chief, could pop in through the Arriaga entrance un-announced, but up here in the private apartments permission must be asked. He was rather touched by this thoughtfulness; H.E. really was a kind old boy. It was pleasant in the courtyard: the delicate formal foliage of the great pepper-tree overhanging the steps cut a fine tracery against the blue sky, the scent of flowers came down from the beds fostered by Lady Loseley; from a cage outside the glazed passage her doves cooed gently.
‘Those doves!’ Sir Henry said. ‘Comical birds—they’re very knowing. They laugh, you know, when anything amuses them. I remember in 1938 listening on the wireless to the speech of one of our masters after Munich; it was chilly, so we had the doves indoors, and when he began to talk about “peace with honour” you should have heard them— “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!” We had to laugh ourselves, though it was no laughing matter.’
‘He doesn’t seem to have had exactly a way with animals,’ Richard said, delighted by this reminiscence. ‘Did you ever hear, Sir, about Miss Stark’s little alligator, or lizard, that some Sheik had given her, complete with a golden collar and chain? It rather liked music on the wireles
s, but one evening in Italy when they were listening to him too, the little creature got so furious that it broke its chain and ran away, and they spent two whole days hunting all through Asolo for it before they got it back.’
The Ambassador laughed loudly.
‘Your story is rather taller than mine, Richard, but I like it.’
‘What I really came for, Sir, was to thank you for those two extra days’ leave,’ the young man said. This was true, but he felt such confidence in his friendly superior that he was hoping for an opportunity to air his doubts and problems. He was not disappointed.
‘It worked out all right, did it? I gather you’re engaged.’
‘Yes. I don’t suppose the Office will like it much, but that can’t be helped—one really can’t marry merely to please the Private Secretaries and the Chief Clerk!’ Richard said somewhat acidly.
‘Well in the first place, Richard, I congratulate you most warmly. I think your little Countess is a splendid girl —pretty, intelligent, and learned.’ He threw a glance at the plaques. ‘And a good cook! I think you’ve done remarkably well for yourself.’ He cocked an eye at his Head of Chancery. ‘Now I’m going to make myself unpopular, and give some unasked-for advice.’
‘Please do.’
‘Don’t patronise her, Richard. Of course she’s got a good deal to learn superficially, but I suspect that her real knowledge begins where that of most diplomatic wives leaves off.’
‘I realise that, I think.’ Richard spoke slowly; he hesitated, and then said—
‘How much do you think this will affect—well, what I do?’
‘Anyhow you can obviously never be sent to any Curtain countries!’ Sir Henry said cheerfully. ‘That’s an enormous let-off in itself. Think of those poor devils in our Missions in Moscow and Prague and Warsaw—what a life! You’ll escape that.’ He eyed Richard. ‘Are you worrying about it?’
‘Just a little.’
‘I shouldn’t. It may prevent your being sent to Washington, at least for some time; but Washington is so infernally hot, and so infernally expensive!—that’s really a let-off too. The fact is, my dear Richard, I think your little lady will soon turn into such a winner—if you don’t cow her and make her nervous—that she will be a raging success anywhere.’
All this was nectar and ambrosia to Atherley, of course.
‘How would you like Rome?’ the Ambassador asked suddenly.
‘Rome? Why, am I being shifted?’
‘Not that I know of. But I think they may want someone for Rome quite soon, and I could slip in a word. If, of course, it would suit you to be shifted. I should be exceedingly sorry to lose you,’ Sir Henry said—‘but possibly you might prefer another post, now.’
‘Really I should be most grateful if you would slip in that word,’ Atherley said. ‘In fact “grateful” is silly; I should hardly know how to thank you—sorry as I shall be to leave. But—well, I think a change might make things easier for Hetta.’
‘I think so too,’ the Ambassador said drily. ‘Very well— I’ll do what I can. And now how about telling me that story we hadn’t time for the other day?—of the rescue. Didn’t you say the Duke’s little girl had played some sort of a lone hand? Another whisky?’
While Richard Atherley—keeping a furtive eye on his watch—was telling Sir Henry Loseley, with considerable relish, the full tale of Hetta’s rescue in the Embassy courtyard in Lisbon, the news of the engagement reached Gralheira. Mrs. Hathaway was with Nanny and Luzia when Antonio summoned her to the telephone; on her return she said—
‘That was Miss Probyn. It seems the wedding was quite splendid; she says she’s busy writing up her despatch about it, but they’ll all be back tomorrow afternoon, so we shall hear everything then. And Mr. Atherley is engaged to little Countess Páloczy. They settled it yesterday, on the drive down.’
‘Well, I call that very suitable,’ Nanny said. ‘It’s time he settled down, and she’s a very nice young lady; well-connected, I understand, too, in her own country.’
Mrs. Hathaway glanced at Luzia. The girl’s strange Celtic-classical face had taken on its Medusa look; it startled the Englishwoman—she watched that face, suddenly, with the sort of anxiety with which a disposal squad might look at an unexploded bomb.
‘Hetta is lucky,’ Luzia said at last—and Mrs. Hathaway let out the breath which, quite unconsciously, she had been holding. ‘Atherley’s wife will be very happy.’
‘Mister Atherley, Luzia,’ Nanny said mechanically, as so often before. But on this occasion Luzia was recalcitrant.
‘Atherley’s wife,’ she repeated; ‘or Richard’s. She is lucky,’ she said again—‘and I hope they will both be most happy.’ She sprang up from her chair and ran out of the room.
Mrs. Hathaway looked questioningly at Nanny.
‘Oh, ever since he came to the house to talk to Miss Probyn about the accident to her car, and all this business of the priests began, the child has been quite mad about Mr. Atherley,’ Nanny said. ‘I’m sure you know how young girls are, Madam—at about sixteen their heads are full of poetry and beauty, and absolutely nothing else. They’re just waiting for love, only they don’t know it; and the first man they see they fall for. Well that’s rather a vulgar expression,’ Nanny said apologetically. ‘These girlish fancies, they’re as fine-spun as cobwebs with the dew on them! But they can be very upsetting, all the same.’
Mrs. Hathaway was struck by Nanny’s percipience, and still more by the manner in which she expressed it. The neat elderly woman in the navy-blue suit and white silk blouse must at some point in her undiscoverable past life have been impressed by the silver gauze, spangled with dewdrops, spread out on autumn pastures in Leicestershire —to the point of using it for a comparison with the lyric love of sixteen, as she had observed it. Or had she experienced it, too? Almost awestruck by this idea, Mrs. Hathaway gazed at her companion. But Nanny soon brought her down to earth.
‘Personally, I think the Major much the more attractive of the two,’ she said. ‘But, of course, it’s been obvious all along that he has no eyes for anyone but Miss Probyn; whereas this business of the Countess and Mr. Atherley has been what you might call short and sharp.’
‘Ye-es,’ Mrs. Hathaway said thoughtfully. She had encountered Major Torrens with deep interest, and was still wondering how that affair stood, and whether he was really the person for her beloved Julia. She would have been rather glad to hear Nanny on this point, but could not quite bring herself to ask. Nanny, however, obligingly volunteered her views.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure, whether Miss Probyn will take him or not. And I find it hard to make up my mind whether she’d be wise to. He’s a splendid gentleman, but he’s solid, and she’s so quick—it mightn’t work.’
‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’ Mrs. Hathaway temporised.
‘Of course—what’s more, I admire her. Who wouldn’t, that had lived and worked with her?’
Mrs. Hathaway’s discretion was melted by this tribute.
‘Nanny, you think she—well, might blow him sky-high?’
‘She might; or he might pull her down. It wouldn’t hurt him to be given a bit of a lift, but I should hate to see her wings clipped,’ Nanny pronounced—and Mrs. Hathaway, deeply agreeing, could have embraced her for those words.
While this conversation was taking place the subjects of it were standing together at the window of the schoolroom in the Ericeira Palace in Lisbon, occupied with the same problem. The round table behind them was strewn with sheets of typescript; when the Major arrived Julia had been busy finishing her account of the wedding, which she intended to take out to Portela by car to catch the late plane for London—Julia was rather good at wheedling pilots or bribing stewards into doing this sort of job for her. Torrens’ arrival threatened to upset her time-table, but the moment he entered the room she realised that he was in a state of emotional urgency; she greeted him kindly, looked at her watch, and decided that he could have twenty-five minu
tes for whatever was eating him. She could guess all too well what it was.
‘Well, that job’s done,’ she said easily, after hearing his account of Father Antal’s departure.
‘Yes, thank God. It has been a teaser, too. And but for you I should have mucked it—they would have nabbed us at the level crossing coming out from Estoril that night. In fact really you’ve done it all.’ He looked at her. ‘The last time our lines crossed on a job you were against me, and you beat me; this time you were on my side. I—I very much prefer it that way.’
‘Well anyhow bless you, Hugh, for having taken Hetti out to the airport to see him off,’ Julia said, still lightly and without stress. ‘That was a real kindness.’
‘You say “Bless you” so easily,’ he said irritably. ‘But you know quite well that there is only one blessing I really want, and you go on and on withholding it. When are you going to make up your mind?’
The girl continued to stare out of the window onto the garden, where one corner of the lawn was rendered countrified by a coop in which a hen still sat on Nanny’s bantam eggs—that good woman had decided against taking the clutch up to Gralheira lest the drive should spoil them. She found it hard to answer the man beside her —moreover, she had a slight sense of guilt on his account. When she had first met him in Tangier, just over a year before, he had seemed determined and masterful, almost aggressive—up to a point that was something she approved of, and she had rather fallen for him. She did still like him very much; physically he could easily stir her. But—oh, what was it? Somehow in this Portuguese context he had shown himself as less than he had in Morocco; occasionally he had been at a loss, or out of key. All that was natural enough: he had found himself plunged into a totally strange environment, to her deeply familiar—it was no wonder that he had had to rely on her for a great deal. And to be just to him he freely admitted his debt. But— again—it was no good marrying someone whom you had to be just to! Perhaps later on it might all come right; in other circumstances, or elsewhere. She was angry with herself that at this moment there should arise in her mind, quite unbidden, the picture of Hugh sitting in the Land-Rover holding Luzia in his arms: that was irrelevant and unworthy—but having arisen, it stuck like a burr. Well he would have to wait, till she saw her way; no, felt her way, in a fashion which would make justice as irrelevant as his merciful care of that exhausted child.