by Nevil Shute
The old man took the coins. ‘That is extremely good of you,’ he said. ‘May I ask if you are going far?’
‘To America,’ said Dennison.
‘Ah yes,’ said the tipster. ‘I once visited America, but I did not care for the country. I wish you a prosperous journey, sir, and a happy return.’
He held out an envelope. ‘You will take this suggestion for the Oaks?’ he said. ‘I think it is a good one.’
Chapter Seven
It seemed that Antony was ill. That was not an infrequent event and Sheila would probably have heard nothing about it until it was all over but for the loquacity of her cook. As it was, the news was exact and recent, coming direct to Cook from the mother of the housemaid at the Vicarage. Mr Antony was laid up again and was in bed at Oxford with a cold in his chest. His mother was very upset about it, and suspected that it was caused by his landlady neglecting to air the sheets.
At the time the news did not appeal very much to Sheila. Antony was always getting ill, and Sheila had enough anxiety of her own to occupy her mind at this time. Since Dennison had left her she had had no word of him; that was nearly two months before. She knew that she must wait upon events; in all her trouble she was quite sure that he had given up Hong Kong. But – if only she could hear something of him. As the weeks went by she grew more anxious and more miserable; small inanimate objects seemed to combine together to irritate her, a conspiracy of pinpricks. The centre of this conspiracy was in her bedroom where things got in the way so that she trod on them and hurt herself. In some mysterious way her bed grew harder and coarser, so that she lay awake at night listening to things rustling and creaking about the room that had never rustled or creaked before. She realised that the trouble lay with her, and commenced to take a tonic.
But she had little thought for Antony and his ailments.
Gradually, however, the news of Antony’s illness began to appeal to her. It was bad luck on him, just as the weather was getting nice, to be laid by the heels by a cold that would not go away. She knew how much he had been looking forward to the summer term, and now he was missing it all. In her loneliness, she recalled what good company he had been for the week after she had sent Dennison away; she began to think more of him. Antony was ill in Oxford, only eighteen miles away. She could quite easily drive over and see him.
‘I’m sure I wish you would,’ said his mother. ‘He gets so tired of bed, and his friends come and sit on his bed all day so that the room is always full of tobacco smoke. I don’t think it’s right of them to smoke in a sick-room, do you? And they bring him such horrible things to read.… ’
So she had lunch and took the big car and drove herself over to Oxford. She knew the town fairly well and had sometimes visited her brother when he had been up after the war. Immediately she reached Carfax she noticed a great change in the type of undergraduate. The bronzed and cheerful men that she had been accustomed to were gone and were replaced by pink-cheeked youths, callow and arrogant upon the pavements. Oxford was herself again.
Sheila drove on down the High, turned into Long-wall Street, and drew up at Antony’s digs. She rang the bell and asked if she could see him.
A stout lady in a print apron beamed at her in the doorway and ushered her up three flights of perfectly dark stairs to the room where Antony lay in bed. As Sheila entered she cast a quick glance round and was in time to catch the merriment dying from the faces of his visitors at her arrival.
Antony was sitting up in bed in a cardigan, a muffler round his neck. His hair was tousled and there was a feverish look about him. ‘I say,’ he said. ‘How perfectly splendid of you to come. Please sit down – oh, it doesn’t matter about my clothes a bit. Or you can sit on the bed. Mrs Williams!’
In some mysterious manner his friends had faded from the room. ‘Mrs Williams!’ said Antony.
The landlady stood in the doorway, her arms akimbo, a placid smile upon her countenance. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said comfortably.
‘Mrs Williams, I want you to give us tea in about half an hour.’ He turned to Sheila anxiously. ‘You’ll be able to stay, won’t you?’ His brows knitted together. ‘Please. I shall want the China tea in my silver teapot, and the silver milk-jug and sugar-basin – the crystal sugar, you know. And buttered tea-cakes, and could you send out and get a nice chocolate cake with the fluffy sort of chocolate on the top. And thin bread and butter, and a little of the midlar jelly.’
‘All right, sir,’ said the woman cheerfully. ‘You shall ’ave them.’
Antony lay back on his pillows with a little sigh and turned to Sheila. ‘It’s so nice of you to have come,’ he said. ‘How did you get here? By car? Do you know, I was hoping that perhaps you might – I’ve been wanting to see you.’
‘It’s simply silly of you to get like this in the summer term,’ said the girl. ‘How did you manage to do it?’
Antony smiled reflectively. ‘I think I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘It was such fun – worth every bit of it. I told my mother that it was the sheets not being aired, and that was rather unfair to Mrs Williams because she really is most careful about the sheets, and of course I shouldn’t have stayed here so long if she did that sort of thing. But it really was the “Usterov Mcoterov” – that’s a club, you know; the last first and the first last. It was such fun. We had a whole day of it.
‘First of all we got up and dressed for dinner. And one man had a drink of warm mustard and water because he said he always did that before going to bed when he was drunk and he was sure that he was going to get drunk at dinner. But I think that was carrying it too far, don’t you? And then we met and sat round the fire drinking coffee, and then we had the port. And then, at about half-past ten in the morning, we went in to dinner and went all through it from the dessert to the soup. And then we had a cocktail and then we changed and had a bath. And at about one o’clock, we had tea, and at about five we had lunch, and about nine o’clock we had breakfast – bacon and eggs and kidneys. And then the others went and had the before-breakfast bathe in Parsons’ Pleasure. Only, of course, I couldn’t do that, but I went with them and watched them. And there was such a heavy dew – the grass was wet with it, only I didn’t notice it till I got home, and then I found that the legs of my trousers were quite wet. And next day I had this cold.’
‘Anyway,’ said Sheila, ‘you’ll never forget that the first should be last and the last should be first.’
‘No – it’s an awfully good lesson in humility, isn’t it? That’s what we all felt – it was such a good thing to do … and incidentally it was rather amusing.’
They chatted happily till tea-time about books and pictures. Antony’s epic poem had made some progress and he was much exercised in his mind as to what was to become of it. Sheila gathered that it was quite unpublishable, too long for Oxford Poetry, and he could not bear the idea of putting it away in a drawer with a view to publication in future years among his Collected Works. The talk revived Sheila; she felt more herself than she had done for weeks. Antony, however, had been quick to notice the difference in her and to mark the gradual brightening in her manner. Presently came tea, and after tea the broader outlook engendered by repletion.
Antony snuggled down a little beneath his bedclothes. He had been worrying over Sheila. He had hoped that she would come to see him; now that she was here he was prepared to employ every means in his power to reach a solution of the problem that had been puzzling him. He was very fond of Sheila, and it distressed him to see her unhappy.
He threw an arm up round his head and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. ‘What’s Dennison doing?’ he inquired,
The girl avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said indifferently. ‘We haven’t seen anything of him.’ She picked up a book from the table and fingered the binding. ‘I do like these editions. They get them up so well.’
‘Do you know,’ said Antony, ‘I think you made a frightful mistake in sending him away. I do hope,’ he added, ‘that you aren’t g
oing to go away, but you may if you want to. But it would be nicer of you to stay and amuse me, and it amuses me to talk to you about Dennison. And it’s very good for me, too. I’ve been thinking such a lot about you. I do wish you’d married him.’
Sheila was dumbfounded. For a moment all that she could think of was – ‘This serves me right for coming. I’ve brought this on myself.’ His last words threw her into a panic and brought back the worst of her fears redoubled. How much did Antony know and why – oh, why had he put it so definitely in the past tense? She remained silent.
‘You know,’ said Antony, ‘when I was a boy I used to think I was in love with you myself. I found out later that I wasn’t, of course. I don’t think I’m capable of ever loving anyone better than myself, and you simply weren’t in it beside me, you see, and so I knew that I couldn’t be in love with you. And ever since I found that out I wanted to see you marry someone you really cared about, and who cared for you. And then it didn’t come off.’
Sheila found her voice. ‘I suppose you thought I was going to marry Peter,’ she said. ‘Well, how do you know I’m not?’
Antony gazed at her round-eyed. ‘But you sent him away!’ he said.
‘He’d have been perfectly miserable in China,’ said the girl.
For a moment Antony’s brain worked rapidly, then he sat up in bed. ‘You sent him away because of that?’ he said. ‘But didn’t you tell him?’
The girl turned away her head. ‘Not about that,’ she said at last. ‘I – I just told him that I couldn’t go to China. It was better that way.’
‘I see,’ said Antony slowly. ‘But what’s going to happen now?’
Sheila raised her head and smiled. ‘I think he’ll poke about and get a job in England that we can marry on,’ she said. ‘And then he’ll come back.’
Antony lay back in bed and gazed out of his window. Outside there were chimney-pots, russet and black, and sparrows, and a great expanse of blue sky and white cloud. The girl, expecting some commendation, waited, and as she waited the smile died from her lips. Antony thought she had done wrong.
‘He’ll never come back,’ said Antony.
He turned to her before she could reply. ‘It’s only the small men who come back,’ he said, ‘the men of no courage or the men of no principle. A man who acts on principles will never come back, because that would be giving in. Didn’t you know that? Lots of men would far rather go unmarried than marry a girl who keeps then dangling on a string and expects them to come back. They stand by the first answer.’
The girl gazed at him steadily. ‘Do you mean I’ve lost him?’ she said.
Antony leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘I’m frightfully glad you came today,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ve lost him at all. But you hurt him frightfully, you know. It was the wrong way to take him altogether. You see, he was giving up everything that he cared for to go to China for you … and you told him that you couldn’t give up even the little things. Didn’t you think it would pay to be honest with him?’
He paused and continued, ‘Do you remember the morning he left, when he and I got up early to photograph the birds? You remember that etching I made of you? He asked if he might have it once before, and I had it all ready for him then, done up in paper. And he wouldn’t take it.
‘And then of course, I knew that he wasn’t coming back. He’s not the sort, you know.’
He lay back on his pillows. A copy of a gaudy French comic paper slipped from under the bedclothes and fluttered to the floor. Sheila realised that probably it had been secreted on her arrival. Mechanically she picked it up and placed it on the table.
After a time she got up. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ she said. ‘I’m going to walk up to the Turl and get you a bowl of hyacinths, in peat, you know. It’s silly of you not to have any flowers. What colours would you like?’
Antony considered. ‘White and blue, please, in a blue bowl,’ he said. ‘And think it over.’
The girl stood looking down on him, chewing her glove. ‘You’re rather a dear,’ she said at last. ‘I think I shall have to write to Peter, shan’t I?’
‘I should think it’s the best thing you can do,’ said Antony cheerfully. ‘You ought to have done it weeks ago.’
It was a very long letter. Sheila wrote it in her bedroom one evening; it took a long time to write partly on account of its length and partly on account of the view over the woods from her window. It was evening, and whether the sunset influenced her letter or her letter drew her attention to the sunset is a point that probably will never be cleared up. For the rest of her life she remembered every detail of that evening; years afterwards she could sit down in the sunset and recall the phrases that she had written to her lover.
It was a very bulky letter, but she squeezed it into an envelope, walked down to the post, and posted it to Dennison in London.
It is curious how seldom one gets the answer to a letter of importance. One calculates the posts and one determines the hour of the arrival of the reply; it should come by the second post next Wednesday. On Wednesday morning, lying awake in bed, one admits a doubt, born perhaps of previous experience. Perhaps Wednesday was a little too soon to expect an answer. The answer to such a letter would take a little time to prepare; one could not really expect it on Wednesday and, whatever happens, one will not be disappointed if it doesn’t come. Wednesday passes, and Thursday.
And perhaps the answer never comes at all.
Sheila was dismayed. She had been prepared for a rebuff, unlikely though she had thought it. But that Dennison should not have answered her letter at all was incomprehensible. It was not his way.
In her letter she had suggested that they should meet in town to discuss their affairs. Now she sent him a postcard, stating very briefly where she would be lunching when she went to town on the following Saturday. To that there was no reply.
She lingered over her lunch till three o’clock, then took a taxi for Chelsea. Already she suspected that he must be away, yet she must put the matter to the test, whatever the cost. She could not return home with nothing accomplished, nothing discovered to bring her peace of mind.
Dennison lived in the middle of a long row of drab grey houses. Sheila paid off her taxi, marched up the steps, and rang the bell.
The maid came to the door. ‘Can I see Mr Dennison?’
The maid hesitated. ‘He’s gone away, miss,’ she said.
So that was it.
‘I see,’ said Sheila. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I don’t know, miss,’ said the girl. ‘He’s gone flying – on the sea, you know. With them in the papers.’ Then, with evident relief, ‘Mr Lanard is upstairs if you would like to see him. He knows all about it.’
Sheila produced a card. ‘Will you ask Mr Lanard if he can give me Mr Dennison’s address?’
The maid took the card and went upstairs. Presently she returned. ‘Will you come up?’
Sheila followed her upstairs and into the sitting-room. Gazing past the maid and past Lanard she saw her letter and her postcard on the mantelpiece.
Then her attention was directed to Lanard. He stood on the hearth-rug with her card in his hand, tall, dark, and very neat. He was not a handsome man at the best of times, and he greeted her with a particularly unpleasant smile. The girl’s first impression was that this was the coldest and rudest man that she had ever had to deal with. His smile in itself was an insult, as though he had spat at her.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Wallace,’ said Lanard. He spoke with little cordiality, and he said no more. He knew perfectly well with whom he had to deal. He had read Sheila’s postcard to Dennison. Dennison was in New York at the moment; Lanard had determined to wait in that afternoon in case the girl turned up. He had been desperately worried over the flight. His was the temperament that broods and magnifies every danger in the imagination; he had been miserable since his friend had left. He blamed the girl who had started his friend on th
e run; he blamed himself that he had not gone with Dennison on the Irene. There were times when a man needed looking after. That had been one of them.
Well, here was the girl. This was the girl who would be glad enough to marry Dennison if he remained in England, but who could not face the prospect of going out to China with her husband. And yet, one who could not let him go, but must tag on to him as long as he remained in reach to prevent him settling down to forget that he had loved. As she came into the room the fire blazed up in Lanard.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ said Sheila, ‘– but I wonder if you could give me Mr Dennison’s address? Is he away for long?’
‘He’s gone to America,’ said Lanard crisply. ‘He’s in New York.’
The girl faltered. ‘In – in New York?’ she said. ‘Why – when did he go over there? Is he going to be away for long?’
‘He’ll be back in about a fortnight’s time.’
The girl was evidently puzzled. ‘Do you know what he went over there for? I mean, I saw him quite recently and there was no mention of it then.’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ said Lanard. He paused and eyed her gravely, then continued picking his words with cruel care.
‘He has had a good deal of trouble recently. After it was all over he went away for a bit, and got mixed up in this attempt to fly the Atlantic. In an aeroplane. You have heard about it? Dennison is the navigator. I believe the pilot is a friend of yours. Mr Morris.’
The girl gazed at him steadily. ‘I knew nothing of this,’ she said.
Lanard smiled again and raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’ he said. ‘Your brother knows the details. I believe he dined with Morris the other day. Perhaps it would be better if you were to ask him to tell you about it. He can probably tell you more than I.’
The girl flushed angrily. ‘When is the flight to take place?’ she demanded.
‘On June the second.’
‘Can you give me Mr Dennison’s address in New York?’ She took a paper and pencil from her bag.