by Nevil Shute
She shrugged her shoulders. “Guess I’d rather be sitting in this office than lying dead some place, even if I am back in England when I meant to be over on the Coast today.”
“You think that there was danger in going on?” I asked curiously. “Honey convinced you, did he?”
“I don’t know anything about these things,” she said. “Out there at Gander they’re all saying that he’s nuts. Well, I don’t think that — and I’ve met some crackpots in my time, believe me. I’m just as glad I didn’t have to fly on in that airplane, after hearing what he said.” She paused, and then she said, “I reckon Captain Samuelson, the pilot of the plane, he was kind of relieved, too, when it sat down on its belly, though he was as mad as hell.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Miss Teasdale,” I said, “would you mind waiting here a minute, while I go and see my chief — the Director of this Establishment? I think he might like to meet you.”
“Sure,” she said. “Go right ahead.”
I went down to the Director; fortunately he was free. “About this Honey business, sir,” I said rather desperately. “I’ve got a film star here who knows a lot about it. Miss Monica Teasdale.” I had a feeling that my blazing row was getting altogether out of control.
He looked at me, smiling. “Do you want me to see her, Scott?”
“I think you ought to,” I said. “She travelled over with Honey and knows all about what happened on the crossing, and at Gander. She came back specially to tell us all about it, and so far as I can make out she’s the only witness who has come back to this country.”
“Are you going to put this lady from Hollywood up against Sir David Moon and E. P. Prendergast?” he asked. But he was grinning, and I knew that he was pulling my leg.
“I think you ought to see her,” I said stubbornly. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever get another chance of moving in such high society.”
“By all means bring her down,” he said. “I’ve never met a film star in the flesh.”
She came into his office with a radiant smile and hand a little bit outstretched, a perfect gesture from a very lovely woman. “Say,” she said, “it’s just terribly nice of you to see me, and I’ll try not to waste any of your time. I just wanted to tell you what a marvellous front your Mr. Honey put up out at Gander, and how grateful to him I feel as a passenger.”
She launched into the story, as she had with me, and talked for about ten minutes. At the end of that the Director thanked her, talked to her about a few casual matters, asked if she would like to see the less secret parts of the Establishment, and asked me to show her round. I took her out on to the tarmac where the aeroplanes were parked awaiting test, and walked her round a little, and introduced her to Flight-Lieutenant Wintringham, who was properly impressed. And while we were chatting in among the aircraft, he inquired, “How’s Elspeth this morning?”
“Better,” I said. “She’s got a headache and she was sick again during the night — Shirley was up with her a good bit. But she’s going on all right.”
“Honey know anything about it yet?”
“No,” I said. “He’s got enough on his plate out at Gander without bothering him with that.” It was common knowledge by that time what had happened.
He laughed boyishly. “I would like to have seen him do it.”
“Miss Teasdale did,” I said. “She saw the whole thing happen.”
He turned to her. “You did?” But she was already speaking to me.
“Who is this Elspeth, anyway?” she asked. “Not Mr. Honey’s little girl?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “She fell downstairs the night he went away, the night that you flew over to Gander, Sunday night. She’s been rather bad.”
She stared at me. “How did that happen? Mr. Honey told me that he’d got the hired woman to come and stay in the house.”
“She didn’t turn up,” I explained. “Elspeth was alone in the house. She thought she heard a burglar in the middle of the night and got up to see, and fell downstairs and knocked her head. She was unconscious for over twelve hours; my wife found her about eleven o’clock on Monday morning, lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs. But she’s getting on all right now.”
She stared at me in horror. “The poor child! Where is she now?”
“As a matter of fact, she’s lying in my bed,” I said ruefully. “My wife’s looking after her. I slept round at Honey’s house last night, and I suppose I’ll do the same tonight.”
She said slowly, “I’m just terribly sorry to hear this, Dr. Scott. I know how anxious Mr. Honey’s going to be when he gets to hear of it — he just thinks the world of his little girl. Is there anything that I can do?”
I smiled. “It’s quite all right, thanks. We shan’t tell him about it till he gets back here, I don’t think. She’s getting on quite well, and it would only upset him.”
She said, “Your Mr. Honey was mighty nice to me, Doctor. Isn’t there any little thing that I can do at all?”
I thought for a minute, wondering how far this actress was sincere, or putting on an act. It would thrill Shirley to meet her, in any case. “What are you doing for the rest of today, Miss Teasdale?” I inquired.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m completely free.”
“There is just one thing you could do,” I said. “My wife’s tired out; she got practically no sleep last night, sitting up with Elspeth. If you could go and sit with Elspeth while Shirley takes a nap on the sofa, it really would be very kind indeed.”
She said, “Why, certainly.” She was more Miss Myra Tuppen than Miss Monica Teasdale at that moment; far from the honky-tonk the simple past was opening before her. “I’d be real glad to do that. Tell me, where do I go? And will you call your wife and tell her that I’ll come right over?”
We went back to the offices and I rang up Shirley and told her simply that a friend of Honey’s, a Miss Teasdale was coming over to sit with Elspeth while Shirley got some sleep. I didn’t feel equal to explaining to my tired wife upon the telephone that I was sending her a movie queen. Then we went down and she got into her enormous car, and I told the chauffeur where to find my little flat, and Wintringham and I were left as they moved off.
“The old devil!” he said with a note of admiration in his voice. “Fancy Honey collecting a Popsie like that!”
It did seem rather curious, when you came to think of it.
I went up to my office, but Miss Learoyd said the Director wanted me, and I went down again. He said, “What have you done with our distinguished visitor, Scott?”
“I’ve sent her off to sit with Elspeth Honey while my wife gets some sleep,” I said. “She seemed to want to help, so I took her at her word.”
He raised his eyebrows, “And she went?”
I grinned. “She did. Just like an ordinary woman.”
“Really ...” He asked me about Elspeth, and I told him. And then he said, “You know, the thing that interested me most in Miss Teasdale’s story was the reaction of the pilot, Samuelson. He didn’t seem to be sorry that it was impossible to fly that aircraft any farther.”
“I know,” I said. “I think that wants looking into. He couldn’t have diagnosed anything wrong with the machine, though, from his own experience. I wonder if old Honey shook his confidence a bit?”
“Maybe,” he said. “About Honey, Scott. I’ve been talking to the Air Ministry. There’s an old Lincoln from the Navigation School due to fly from Winnipeg back here one day this week, and they’re instructing it to land at Gander and pick Honey up. I’ve got a draft signal here from us to him that I’d like you to look at.”
We got that off, and I went back to my office to deal with my overflowing IN basket.
Shirley, wearily cooking up a cup of arrowroot for Elspeth to see if she could keep that down, heard a ring at the door and thought it was the butcher; she was so tired she had already forgotten all about Miss Teasdale. She went with her overall on and a wisp of hair hanging down across her eyes a
nd an enamel tray in her hand to receive the joint, and there was a most lovely and most beautifully turned out woman standing at the head of the dark staircase that led up to our flat. Her face was vaguely familiar and her voice soft and husky and slightly Middle West.
She said, “Say, it’s Mrs. Scott, is it?”
Shirley said, “Oh ... of course. My husband rang me up.” She fumbled with the tray in her hands. “I’m so sorry — I thought it was someone else. Please, do come in.”
Miss Teasdale said, “I was visiting with Dr. Scott this morning, and he told me what a time you’re having with Mr. Honey’s little girl, and he suggested I could come and sit with her a while so you could get some sleep. I’d be glad to do that, if it suits you, Mrs. Scott. I’m free all day.”
Shirley said mechanically, “Oh, you don’t need to bother — really.” She hesitated. “Would you come in?”
Miss Teasdale took hold firmly as they went into the sitting-room. “My dear, you’re looking real tired,” she said. “I’m a kind of friend of Mr. Honey. I’m quite free to stay here up till ten o’clock tonight, or all night if it suits. Just show me where things are and where the little girl is, and then you get off to bed and get some sleep.”
Shirley stared at her. “Aren’t ... don’t I know you?”
“Sure you know me, if you ever go to pictures,” said the actress. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t look after a sick child, same as anybody else.”
“Monica Teasdale?”
“That’s right.”
“But — do you know Mr. Honey?”
“Surely. Now you just — —” She stopped and glanced out of the window at the Daimler. “Just one thing first of all, my dear,” she said quietly. “We don’t want any trouble here with Press or fans or anything. I don’t think anybody noticed when I came in. Do you mind — would you go down and tell the chauffeur he’s to go right back because I’m staying here a while? Say I’ll call them at the office later in the day.”
Shirley went down to the car in a state of tired bemusement; the chauffeur touched his cap to her, and the great car moved off. When she got back to the flat Miss Teasdale was not in the sitting-room; Shirley went down the passage to the bedroom and there she was, standing in the doorway, leaning reflectively against the jamb, looking in at Elspeth who was sleeping in our double bed, with a basin at her side.
She turned at Shirley’s step. “She’s just the image of her father,” she said quietly.
Shirley stopped by her; together they stood looking at the sleeping child. “She is and she isn’t,” she said. “She’s got his features, but she’s awfully well proportioned. Look at her hands. I think she may be beautiful when she gets older.”
The actress said quietly, “That could be.” And then she said, “Did you know her mother?”
Shirley shook her head. “I only met Mr. Honey a few days ago.” She drew away from the door. “Don’t let’s wake her.”
They moved back to the sitting-room. “Say, is that the only bed you’ve got?” the actress asked.
Shirley nodded. “It’s only a small flat,” she said. “We’ve not been married very long.”
“Kind of difficult for nursing a sick child, isn’t it?”
“It’s a bit hard on Dennis — my husband. He had to go and sleep in Mr. Honey’s house last night.”
“Where did you sleep, then?”
Shirley laughed. “I didn’t sleep much, anyway. I lay down on the sofa for a bit.”
“Well, you lie right down on that sofa again, and get some sleep. I’ll sit in the bedroom to be near her if she wakes.” She was tired herself after two nights sitting up in an aircraft, but she did not want to sleep. She could rest sufficiently by sitting quiet by the sleeping child.
Shirley said, “It’s awfully kind of you — I would like to lie down a bit. Let me get some lunch first.” They went together to the kitchen; the actress watched, a little helplessly, while Shirley got out the cold meat and salad and put on a kettle. And then she said, “Would you like for me to take her up to Claridge’s? We’ve got a suite there permanently reserved where she could have a bedroom and a private nurse and everything ...”
Shirley said quickly, “Oh thank you, but that wouldn’t do. She’d be worried to death — she wants to get back into her father’s house. She’s worrying that all their things will get stolen. It wouldn’t do to move her up to London — honestly it wouldn’t.”
“Okay,” said the older woman. “It was just an idea.” She watched Shirley for a minute, and then said, “What were you doing before you got yourself married?”
“I was a tracer.”
“In a drafting office?”
Shirley nodded. “That’s where I met Dennis.”
There was a long pause. “I was a stenographer,” the older woman said. “But that was quite a while ago.” She stood in thought, her mind full of memories of Eddie Stillson, the lame ledger clerk.
Shirley stared at her. “Really? I thought you were always in films.”
“You don’t get born that way,” Miss Teasdale said. “How old are you?”
Shirley said, “Twenty-four.”
“Well, I’ve been in pictures all your life, and maybe a bit longer. But I was a stenographer one time, in an insurance office.”
Shirley said curiously, “How did you come to meet Mr. Honey, Miss Teasdale?”
“It was this way.” They sat down to lunch at the dining table in the little kitchen; as she heard all about it Shirley studied her visitor. She had never before sat and talked with any American; she was overwhelmed by the sophisticated, carefully tended beauty of the actress, and confused by the real kindliness of the woman that lay under the sophistication. Above all she was tired, too tired to take much in.
Miss Teasdale said, “Now, you go right into that sitting-room and lie down with a rug over you, and let me see you make yourself real comfortable and warm.”
Shirley said, “I’ll just wash these things up first.”
“Wash — oh, the dishes. No, you leave those where they are. I’ll see to them.”
It was too incongruous; the woman was not dressed for housework, her nails too carefully manicured for washing dishes, her costume too good. Shirley said, “No — really, it won’t take me a minute.”
“You do what I say.” Shirley was too tired to argue any more; she took off her overall and gave it to the actress, showed her the rusty tin that contained soda. “This double saucepan’s got arrowroot in it,” she said. “Keep it warm, and give Elspeth a cup if she wakes up. The sugar’s here. She’d better not have anything else, and if she’s sick, just empty the bowl down the lavatory and wash it out, you know. Dr. Martin may look in this afternoon. It’s awfully kind of you.”
She went into the sitting-room and let down the end of the sofa; under the disciplinary eye of the older woman she lay down and pulled a rug over her. In ten minutes she was fast asleep.
Back in the kitchen, Monica Teasdale started gingerly upon the washing up. She had not done that in years because her negro house servants were genuinely fond of her, and had seldom let her down, but long ago Myra Tuppen had done it after every meal as a matter of course. The greasy feel of hot wet plates stirred memories in her. Old tunes came creeping back into her mind as she stood there at the sink, the dance tunes of her early youth, Redwing, That Mysterious Rag ... She stood there with these old tunes running through her head, washing the dishes mechanically, a middle-aged woman who had crept back into the past when everything was bright, and promising, and new ...
She finished washing the dishes without breaking anything, and found places for them in the cupboard where they seemed to fit. Then she took off her overall and did up her face in the small mirror of her flapjack. If she had married Eddie Stillson this would have been her life, the kitchen and children in Terre Haute or in some other city of the Middle West. She had done better for herself than that, or had she? She had seen India and China and the Philippines in films upon l
ocation, but Eddie Stillson’s wife could have learned as much as she about those countries by seeing the films. She had travelled once or twice in Europe for her holidays between the wars, but Eddie Stillson’s wife could have learned as much by reading the Geographic Magazine — possibly more. She had, however, tangible experiences that Eddie Stillson could not have provided. Twice she had started the Indianapolis Motor Race, in her own State. She had adventured three times into marriage. She had met interesting people in all walks of life; she had entertained Ambassadors. Now as her career was drawing to its close a life of idleness alone in an apartment lay ahead of her. All her experience and all the money she had earned had not secured for her a home and quiet interests for her old age, had not brought her children and grandchildren. She could never have those now, even if she married again. She smiled, a little cynically; for the fourth time. If ever she ventured into matrimony again she would look for very different qualities in a man.
She moved quietly to the sitting-room door and looked in; Shirley was asleep upon the sofa. She glanced around our room, thoughtfully, noting the second-hand carpet, the ten-year-old radio, the bookcases I had made in the evenings out of the planks of packing-cases stained with permanganate of potash. There were many flowers in the room because Shirley was fond of them; one spray of roses stood in a tall glass bottle etched with the legend MANOR FARM DAIRY. With a little pang she recognised the room for what it was, something she had never really known, the beginning of a home. Somehow, it seemed easier for folks to make a place like that when there wasn’t very much money. When you built a bookcase with your own hands instead of ordering it by telephone from the department store complete with books, it was a little tenuous link that bound you to the home.
She was forgetting her charge; she moved down the short corridor to the bedroom. Elspeth had turned over in bed; as the actress came to the door she moved and blinked sleepily, her hair over her eyes, only half awake. Miss Teasdale said, “It’s all right, honey. Mrs. Scott’s having a nice sleep and I said I’d stay around and look after you.”
Elspeth said, “What’s your name?”