Careful, He Might Hear You

by Sumner Locke Elliott

  Sometimes, too, the maids would interrupt her with, ‘Oh, but Mrs Bult said … An order had been countermanded. Vanessa, feeling a slight slap in the face, would hurry on to some other aspect of the housekeeping. When she complained that this was undermining her prestige, Ettie merely laughed at her and waxed even bolder, even going one night to the Double Bay cinema with Elsie. Vanessa was shocked but held her tongue, and hating the spring and what it did to people, excused Ettie’s behaviour because there was nothing else to do.

  Everything was the same, she told herself without conviction. Everything was just the same, only—only what? Why could she not shake off this ominous feeling? The ghosts hung in the air, pushed out of closets at her, whispered among the vines, and in order to exorcise them she must find the real reason.

  She searched around in her mind, half-seeing it in periphery, afraid to look it in the face, putting off, excusing, delaying the showdown with herself, until, sapped by exhaustion and anxiety, she was unable to pretend to herself any longer.

  It was PS.

  It was something elusive that she couldn’t nail down. She had anticipated remonstrance and questions and had prepared careful answers to both. He asked nothing and instead of storms there was a deadly calm. He was the model child. At first she was relieved and pleased with the success of her training. But as the weeks went by, she came to suspect something deliberate about his politeness. It occurred to her that, perhaps without even being fully aware of it, he was using her own weapons against her. She tried to prod him into arguments but to no avail—black was white if she said so. She longed for a good healthy bad-tempered screaming match that would break the ice but he maintained an obdurate submissiveness. So damned solemn and obedient that sometimes she wanted to shake him. He went about the house like a little shadow. He had developed a habit (was it planned?) of being suddenly in her path, so that hastening downstairs she would find him sitting on the landing (‘Honestly, darling, stairs are not for sitting on. What are you doing?’ ‘Nothing.’) Nothing; it was always nothing that he was doing, nowhere that he was going, nobody that he had seen today. Coming into a room, she would almost fall over him, standing just inside the door; or turning from her dressing table, discover him behind her, dreamily absorbed in the bedspread, making her jump. (‘Heavens! I didn’t hear you come in. It’s polite to knock, you know. Is there something you want, dear?’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Well, then can’t you find something to do?’) She began to dread the late after-school hours when she must invent joys, create distractions. He would sit lumplike on her lap while she read Doctor Dolittle until her throat was hoarse, or they would sit silently playing ludo until, convinced that he was only playing to amuse and distract her—had purposely robbed her of her position—she would rise, defeated, and rush out of the room on some pretended errand to the kitchen. She told herself that it would all pass, that he could not keep this up. But more and more she felt he was playing some secret game with her and unless she could learn the rules (and who can learn the rules of children?) she would be beaten.

  The toys were part of it. Filling the bathtub for him and floating his ocean liner, she would return to find the boat abandoned while he lay on his back in the middle of the upstairs hall, playing with a piece of string. Tripping over his fallen donkey, she bent to stand it neatly upright when, appearing suddenly behind her, he said, ‘He can’t stand up.’ ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Because he’s dead.’ ‘Oh, oh, poor Burro. Why is he dead?’ ‘Because.’ Then, shutting a window against a sudden rain, she had seen that his new car was standing in the downpour with its lovely leather seats being ruined; had darted into the garden and was wheeling it on to the side veranda when she saw him watching her from behind the vines. ‘PS, you mustn’t leave your car out in the rain. Do you want it to rust? Do try to remember.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, bouncing a dirty rubber ball, and she knew instantly that he had wheeled the car out into the rain so that she would find it there. The impudence of it took her breath away; the hurt made her want to hurt him—hit him hard. He lifted an angelic face to her but the glint of amused triumph in his eyes had given him away and was so exactly like Logan that she turned away, shaking. ‘Go and ask Elsie for a rag,’ she said.

  Once, waking early in the morning, her throat parched, she got up for a glass of water and found his door open, the bedroom empty. Pulsating with fright, she tore downstairs full of unreasoning thoughts of Lila, abduction and flight; ran from room to room until she found him, still in his pyjamas, squatting on the floor of the silent drawing room.

  ‘What are you doing up? It’s only six o’clock.’

  Something he was hiding in his hand.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  Obediently he held out his hand. He was holding the little piece of rock with the fool’s gold that Logan had given him.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Again he simply gave her that look of calculated innocence.

  ‘Please, PS,’ she said. ‘Please …’ Petering out because she wasn’t sure what she really wanted of him.

  She took the piece of rock and put it in the drawer of the sewing table.

  Turning away from his upward gaze—it was too early in the morning to have to look at Logan—she opened a window as though she had come downstairs on purpose to do that and said, ‘Do you have to creep around the house at dawn? If you wake up too early can’t you stay quietly in your room and read or play with your toys? Is there something the matter with them?’ Found that she was talking to an empty room.

  Meaningless things, of course, and it was absurd to attach significance to them. Mrs Lawson, to whom she dropped a casual hint about it, offered her a Benson and Hedges cigarette and a morsel of assurance. Children were often like that, especially at that age. She had had similar trouble with Cynthia, who had been denied a pony and had fought her passively for six months. Vanessa, a computer at heart, vowed that she would stop adding two and two to everything he did. Yet, that very evening, when told he might now leave the table, passing Ettie’s chair he flung his arms around her neck, and kissing her all over the face, said in a high-pitched imitation of someone, ‘Oh, I could eat you up. Eatyouup.’

  ‘Oh, oh,’ squealed Ettie. ‘What lovely kisses and I didn’t even ask for them.’

  Vanessa, adding this to her list, said, ‘Aren’t you the favoured one!’ She thought that Ettie shot her a look that said, ‘Serve you right,’ before returning to her seed catalogue. Vanessa ate her blancmange like crow.

  She watched and waited, adding and subtracting, nursing her grievances, regarding them alone in her room as though she were looking for mothholes in the fabric of her existence.

  Punished. She was being punished for doing the logical thing. The right thing. In PS’s case it was the unreasonable punishment of a child who cannot understand what is best for him. But in Ettie’s case it seemed to Vanessa that the punishment was malicious and even more childish. Ettie, always jealous and possessive, was punishing her for winning the case; had in an inverted way sided with PS against her.

  When Ettie mentioned that one of her bridge companions was shortly going to England, Vanessa grasped at a straw. Why shouldn’t Ettie go with her? They could manage perfectly well, if Ettie would like the trip. PS and she would take a smaller house, a flat, even.

  But Ettie merely turned an astonished baby face to her and said, ‘Why, Ness! I could never leave you. Besides, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave the garden.’ Armed with gladiolus bulbs, Ettie marched out, leaving Vanessa and the situation just where they had been.

  A mistake to bring it up. Like the mistake she had made with Miss Colden. It had been a monstrous slip to confide in Miss Colden. But she had always seemed so reliable, so flat-heeled and sensible, and after all, she worked so much with children that Vanessa had yielded to the temptation. The music teacher had listened attentively, patting Vanessa on the arm sympathetically, until the word ‘i
ngratitude’ touched a spring deep in Miss Colden’s tartan heart.

  Ingratitude was something she knew all about.

  Miss Colden had come back from London, left her dear little flat in Chelsea (‘Just like you, dear Miss Scott’) to care for a girl named Lloydie, her friend since school days. Lloydie had got a tiny spot on the lung and Miss Colden had nursed her through a tricky operation, taken her to the mountains, cared for her, given up her musical career for her. In return, Lloydie had betrayed Miss Colden. The first intimation she had had of Lloydie’s treachery was a receipt she had found (‘I was just looking in her drawer for a comb, Miss Scott’) for a pearl necklace that Lloydie had purchased for a girl named Mickey. (‘Not that I was expecting anything for myself, Miss Scott.’) Well, then, by Jove, Lloydie, without paying back one penny of all the money she owed Miss Colden, had gone into business with Mickey. They had opened a little coffee shop together and furthermore …

  Vanessa, only half listening, had thought, Oh, God, why did I open my mouth? Why is it that if you confide a problem to people like her you have to take one of theirs in exchange? Finally, she had got up from the piano stool, hoping to put an end to it, but to her horror, Miss Colden had suddenly flung herself on to Vanessa’s bosom, bawling horribly that she was so lonely. So lonely now without Lloydie that no one, except you, dear Miss Scott, could understand.

  Vanessa, detaching herself from Miss Colden’s embrace, had said that she did not understand and that furthermore she had no wish to.

  Well, really! Miss Colden said, buckling the straps of her music case, well now, really. She had seen no reason why she could not be frank, especially as Vanessa had confided in her. She had considered Vanessa a friend. Dear, dear, one could certainly be wrong.

  Yes, agreed Vanessa, one certainly could. And incidentally, she had been thinking for some time of enrolling PS in the Conservatorium of Music. She would not require Miss Colden’s services any longer; would mail her a cheque that night.

  Miss Colden had said bitterly, ‘You’re a fine one to talk about ingratitude, I must say.’

  Vanessa had felt a pang of guilt watching poor Miss Colden trudge down the drive. There was something so defeated about the small kilted figure. Nevertheless Miss Colden had had no right to assume that she would be sympathetic to this tasteless little story; certainly had had no right to embrace her, touch her in that common, emotional way.

  ‘We just didn’t see eye to eye,’ she told Ettie.

  ‘Oh, what a shame. The poor dear.’

  ‘Why is she the poor dear?’

  ‘I’m sure she needs the money, Ness. It seems cruel, after she came to court and helped you get PS.’

  Impossible to explain to Ettie.

  However, the music lessons had given her a limp excuse to telephone Mr Hood. Well, now, Mr Hood had said patiently, decisions of that nature could be left entirely up to her.

  But she needed advice, she had added quickly. Oh, no, it wasn’t the kind of thing she would want to discuss with the judge. The judge might even think that she was not managing well. Yes, four o’clock would be fine.

  What she needed was Mr Hood’s firm masculine reassurance. She was surrounded by foolish women who were prey to the emotional mutations of spring. Mr Hood was a man, and a lawyer to boot, who would have no truck with fancies. He would give her that look of deep secret approval and she would be her own strong self again.

  But Mr Hood greeted her with a surprising lack of enthusiasm and once in his office, she found it hard to explain why she had come. It was impossible to put her disquiet into words. Everything she said sounded false and out of character. She could not logically explain why toys left out in the rain frightened her.

  Twice Mr Hood glanced at his watch. Finally he said, ‘I’m a lawyer, not a psychologist, but aren’t you making too much of this? The boy’s going through a natural reaction and if I were you I’d ignore it. Let things ride for a bit.’

  She wanted to say, ‘But it’s me. I’m running down like a clock and it isn’t my imagination. I’m frightened.’

  Instead she said, ‘Thank you.’

  Got up and shook hands, thinking, Oh, yes, you were all charm when you had a big fat fee coming to you but now I’m a nuisance. Her annoyance gave her a measure of calm. She walked out, resolved that she would confide no more in anyone.

  This tug of war was between her and PS alone.

  And he was waiting for her. Turning the corner into her quiet green street, she could see him looking through the grille of the front gate towards her. She waved. He did not. Yet he continued to stare right at her, vanished into thin air as she approached the gate; coming into the garden she saw him scuttling through the grape arbour towards the vegetable patch.

  ‘Hello,’ she called brightly. ‘Wait a second.’ But he was gone.

  Please stop this game. Please!

  Summer pushed spring out of the way with aching-hot blue skies, drying up the garden and browning the lawns so that the early evenings were full of the sound of gushing water from hoses and sprinklers, lawn mowers and the chatter of birds and people equally gasping for air, betting on whether or not there would be a cool, sweet, southerly buster. Everyone said it was unusually hot for October, yes, terribly hot for this time of the year and if it keeps up, imagine what it will be like by Christmas, heaven help us.

  Vanessa kept the house as dark as a tomb. Sitting in the marine light of the drawing room and touching her wrists and temples with eau de cologne, she went joylessly about her preparations for the birthday party.

  Lemonade, ginger beer, ice cream, paper hats, games, get the name of the hired magician, hire a slippery slide, paper streamers and gifts for the treasure hunt.

  Pretty invitations.

  ‘Whom do you want to invite?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, here’s the list I got from Miss Pile. Kevin Beresford—shall we ask him?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Jill Boynton-Jones? Is she one of your friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rather not have her? Say yes or no. It’s your party.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘We can’t have the whole class so I just want to know who your special little friends are, see?’

  ‘I don’t have any special friends.’

  ‘Course you do. The Lawsons are your friends. You go to their house. And Jacky Green. Hilary. Aren’t they your friends?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Well, tell me which ones, PS. The invitations have to go out tomorrow. What’s going on in the garden?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I thought there must be something fascinating, the way you’re staring out at it. Might I have your attention for five minutes, please? Please?’

  As always, she felt pride in her work, surveying the dining room with its canopy of bright streamers and paper lanterns. Pale-blue paper plates and cups, the bonbons in glistening scarlet and green tin foil, the gifts at each place setting all wrapped in gold and silver paper bunched with ribbon. At each place a white paper rabbit held out a card requesting Jill or Kevin (in Vanessa’s neat writing) to sit here. The slippery slide stood in the garden; the clues for the treasure hunt (racking her brains for clever humorous rhymes) had been hidden in the salvia bushes, the letter box, the hole in the fig tree and seventeen other carefully-thought-out, not-too-hard-to-find places. The drawing room had been cleared of breakables and the chairs stood in rows now, ready for the magician. Ellen had sweated over the cake and it sat miraculously in the pantry, two tiers of icy white ringed with blue and pink whirls, sugar roses holding up seven blue candles and ‘PS’ in delicious sugary silver balls.

  She had lingered long in toy departments, choosing her own gift, finally had decided on a butcher’s shop (the little windows read j. grubb & sons) with counters, scales and minute cleavers. The little roasts of beef and loins of lamb were marzipan.

  She bore it into his room, clearing the earlymorning
catarrh from her voice as she sang ‘Happy birthday to you,’ and caught a flash of appreciation on his face, quickly concealed. When Lila’s brown-paper parcel arrived with the postman, he unwrapped it solemnly and held it for a long time. It was a tin sailor which, upon being wound up, jittered into a dance that was distressingly remindful of locomotor ataxia.

  (Shall I explain that Lila can’t come? Blame the judge? But all I will get is that closed-up look.)

  He asked no questions. It was as though nothing special were going on.

  ‘Look,’ she cried eagerly, holding up paper stars. ‘See?’ she said, holding out little baskets of peppermint creams.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Please, oh please.

  Stop the game.

  The rainbirds called their prediction while she was dressing, and opening her bedroom window, she looked out at the sky and saw thunderheads piling up at sea. The air was sticky and hot.

  Damnation. Don’t let it rain after all my trouble. Except for the magician there’s nothing for them to do inside. What does one do with fourteen children inside a house? The success of the party was of immense importance to her; it could, she felt, even be the turning point in this curious battle which was not of her choosing.

  Promptly at three o’clock the children started to arrive in twos and threes accompanied by a swiftly departing mother or chauffeur.

  She stood with PS in the garden, pleased with him in his blue blazer with the brass buttons, proud of his prim, dignified manners.

  ‘So glad you could come,’ she cried gaily to the little girls in their party dresses with the big pink and blue sashes.

  ‘Hello, there,’ she said to the boys in their best suits.

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she gushed, as PS opened each proffered gift.

  The children automatically segregated themselves from their opposite sex, stood mute in little languid groups, remote as elderly people.