‘What a shame (bring me half a dozen oysters, will you?). Never mind. So am I. We must cheer each other up.’
Pause. He leaned back, and looked leisurely round the room. Most of the people at near-by tables were staring at them, interested by the sudden descent of the smart, authoritative young man on that pretty, dowdy little thing. One or two of the young women looked faintly envious. So did Mrs Brodhurst. It was simply lovely. Viola was in heaven.
Victor, not troubling to talk, ate his oysters with an occasional affectionate smile at his companion. He never had much conversation anyhow, unless there were something definite to be said about business or sport. Phyllis had suspected for a long time that old Vic, though a gem, was not overburdened with the grey matter (her words); he talked so little.
Feel as though I’d known her for years – a very bad sign, he thought. But dammit, I can’t help it. I had no idea she was here, had I? Last person in the world I expected to see. It’s not my fault if the one day I come down here she happens to be here too, is it? I couldn’t cut her, could I? Besides, I ought to explain to her … That was a very dirty trick; she got as worked up as I did that day. I owe her an apology. He decided that presently he would take her for a moonlit run in the car and give her the apology he owed.
‘What will you drink, Violet?’
‘Could I have champagne, please?’ firmly asked Mrs Wither, who had made up her mind to have everything she wanted on this heavenly occasion; and after all, he had asked her, and though champagne cost a lot, she had always heard, ever since she was a little girl, that he had plenty of money. She stopped herself from saying ‘If it isn’t too expensive, please,’ remembering that Shirley said men hated that sort of remark.
‘Feel like that, do you?’ opening his hazel eyes wide, and laughing at her. ‘You fond of champagne?’
‘Oh yes. It’s my favourite wine.’
‘But don’t the bubbles tickle your nose?’
‘Oh yes, fearfully, and I always choke when I take the first sip,’ derisively.
He had not expected back-chat from the little Wither, and was amused. He ordered the champagne, which came in a silvery bucket misty with ice-dew, and he poured it out.
Fancy me saying that, thought Viola, drinking the champagne with bright eyes looking at him over the top of the glass. Frightful neck. But I can’t help it, I’m so happy and I don’t feel a bit afraid of him, it’s just as though I’d known him for years and years.
Champagne can never be ordered without the temperature shooting up. The dining-room at the White Rock was of course used to champagne, but a tiny quiver of interest went through the near-by tables. Those people are drinking champagne – up goes the rocket! Diamonds and orchids … thoroughbreds and sables … I know for a fact he made a cool fifty grand … champagne!
‘Come for a run in the car afterwards?’ asked Victor suddenly; he wanted to make sure that this evening, so unexpected and so pleasurable, would be prolonged.
‘I’d simply love to.’
I’d got her all wrong, he thought, filling her glass. She isn’t playing any game at all, she’s just a kid. But, oh boy, what a temperament! It would be so easy … but I think not. No, decidedly not. It would be a damned shame. She’s a sweet kid.
Viola made no attempts at sensible conversation, and this kept the atmosphere dreamlike and almost tender. They exchanged a few remarks about the weather, and the number of visitors in Stanton, and Victor casually explained that he had only come down for that afternoon to Bracing Bay on business. Bracing Bay, of course, was a Hole; it was not possible to eat decently in Bracing Bay, and as most of his friends in Stanton were away, he had come in to the White Rock for dinner.
‘Great luck I did,’ filling her glass. ‘You enjoying this stuff?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ tranquilly swallowing.
‘Aren’t you afraid of getting tight?’
‘No. I’ve got a very good head.’
Victor roared, and one or two people glanced across amusedly.
‘You have, have you? What do you usually drink?’
‘Oh well, lemon and barley at The Eagles, but of course I’ve had cocktails and gin and lime and sherry and all those things, and none of them made me tight. I’m very fond of drink, only we don’t have much of it at The Eagles,’ ended Mrs Wither regretfully.
No, I’ll bet you don’t, he thought, but he only lifted his glass, laughing across at her, and said nothing. He did not even trouble to say that he was motoring back to town that night. His mother and Hetty were in London for some months, having shopping excursions with the females of the Barlow tribe. The wedding would be in early spring, when the fruit trees were out. Phyl had such artistic ideas; she planned to decorate her bridesmaids with apple blossom.
They finished the champagne in friendly silence, sometimes smiling at each other with bright eyes, a little dazed. Viola had forgotten Tina, absent on her risky weekend, as though her sister-in-law had never existed; she had forgotten all the other Withers, and the marvellous girl Victor was engaged to, and the dead Teddy. There was nothing real in the world except this delightful floating feeling in her head, and Victor’s eyes looking fondly at her above the smoke of his cigarette.
‘Go and get your coat,’ he said at last, glancing at his watch, ‘and we’ll go for a run – that is, if you’d still like it?’
If she would like it! She floated upstairs; and floated down again, looking like the Snow Queen with her fair curls above the tough white coat.
He led her out to where the car stood, tipped one of the White Rock commissionaires who held the door open, and waved her in. People stood about chatting after dinner in the mild autumn air, waving cigars at the moon. Cars glided up, paused to set women down, glided away again. There was a stimulating atmosphere of money and leisure which Hetty would have recognized as the Smell of Progress.
Victor made for the south cliff road, where the bungalows grew fewer towards a tract of wildish country.
Below the cliff on one side spread the silver-black sea, breathing sadness and a stealthy whispering into the night; on the other side rough fields glided past, their tussocks ghostly in the moonglow. A rabbit dashed out and scooned in front of the car for a hundred yards while Victor hooted indulgently; Viola saw the white glint of its scut as it dashed at last into the hedge. There were not many cars on the road, because Stanton liked sitting indoors playing bridge better than it liked moonlit motoring; and presently they had the road to themselves.
At last Victor stopped, on a lonely stretch of cliff. Far below, the white edges of the waves rippled in a blaze of moonlight on the lonely sands, a haunting whisper came up faintly. He threw away a match and leant back, staring at the moonway on the black water and wishing that he could start kissing her without saying anything. But he owed her an apology and he wanted to make it. She was a sweet kid. Besides, he had not brought her here to kiss her.
‘You know,’ he began, still not looking at her, ‘I’ve been wanting to say I’m sorry about what happened in the summer. I’m afraid I hurt your feelings.’
‘Well, you did rather,’ mildly, ‘but it’s all right now.’
‘Sweet of you.’ But still he did not look at her. ‘I lost my head, I’m afraid.’
Viola said nothing. Of course, it was nice of him to say he was sorry, but she would have liked it much better if he had started the kissing. What else had he brought her here for?
‘You – er – you – I suppose you heard—?’
‘About your being engaged? Oh yes.’ She went very red, then white. Why bring that up? She began to feel miserable, and wished he would take her home. Everything was getting horrid. An enormous lump rushed into her throat.
‘Yes. Oh yes. Yes, we’re getting married in the spring.’
In another minute, he thought savagely, I’ll be saying I’m sure she’d like Phyl and we must all do a show together some time. Blast. I never ought to have started this. To hell with everything.
Sniff.
‘Violet darling, what’s the matter? Don’t cry. Here, have mine. There – is that better? What’s the matter, you funny little object?’
‘It’s Viola, not Violet. You always get it wrong,’ crying copiously on his shoulder, ‘and you always make me miserable and I think you’re a beast. I was quite all right until you started about getting married. And you don’t even know my name properly, either. It’s’ (a kind of wail) ‘an insult, that’s what it is.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. There, there,’ patting her cautiously the young women in his set did not need patting; or, if they did, they patted themselves. ‘Darling, do please stop. I’m awfully sorry.’
‘So I should hope.’
Viola blew her nose, speaking as haughtily as possible, but continued to recline on his shoulder. Her hair brushed his cheek and it felt pretty good. The fact is, she gets me where I live, he thought angrily, and I was a fool to bring her. I might have known what would happen. Now of course I can’t stop kissing her. But he was not trying very hard.
‘That better?’ he said at last.
In the pause, they did not hear the desolate whisper of the waves. She nodded.
‘Powder for the nose.’ He held her case while she powdered, then watched while she combed her curls. Her profile was dark and delicate against the silver path on the sea.
‘That’s grand,’ helpfully.
She said nothing.
Better get her back as quickly as I can. He started the car. I’ll never be with her alone like this again … I’ll see to that. But that’s what I said before. He fell back on thinking, hell.
‘Well,’ he observed at last as they sat in silence with the engine ticking over, ‘I’m afraid this evening hasn’t been exactly a riot. I’m sorry. (You’ll know that noise of mine by heart soon).’
‘Oh, I enjoyed the first part, it was lovely,’ earnestly, ‘and I’m sorry I was such an ass. It’s all right, really, I mean, I don’t mind as much as all that.’
‘Don’t you?’ dejectedly. ‘Oh. That’s grand. Well, shall we be getting along?’
They got along; and presently there were cars on the road again and bungalows; and the town was near.
‘Will you be married at Sible Pelden?’ inquired Viola in a martyred voice.
Not if I bloody well know it we won’t, with you in the congregation.
‘No. In Town.’
‘Oh.’
Pause.
‘You’re not cross, are you?’
‘Blast it, Viola,’ very crossly indeed, ‘shut up. Can’t you see what – oh hell. Here, have mine.’
Despite her second outburst, he managed to get back to the White Rock without any more talk. Talk was no use. He supposed that he wanted her so much that it was making him fond of her; it sometimes did, but a weekend soon put that right and he was his own master again. Only in this case there could be no weekend, and he dimly felt that it might be some time before he could risk passing long hours winding wool alone with Mrs Wither.
The car stopped outside the White Rock.
‘Here we are. Good night, Viola.’ He took her hand in a friendly clasp, with a friendly smile, and moved it up and down in a friendly waggle. ‘You go in and get some sleep, and you’ll feel quite different in the morning, I expect. So shall I. Moonlight and champagne, you know … wonderful what they’ll do …’ He ended in an indescribably dreary tone, ‘Well … on your way, sailor!’
‘I can’t go to bed now; it’s only nine o’clock,’ said Viola sulkily, getting out of the car.
‘Well … read or something. Goodbye.’
And this time it really is goodbye, he thought, smiling determinedly at the tall forlorn girl lingering on the moonlit steps, looking so sad. This has just about something’d up the whole something works, this has. If I’d gone on kissing her I should have asked her to come away with me and to hell with everything.
And that (thought Victor, driving much too fast along the London road in the moonlight), that’s not the frame of mind for a man who’s shortly going to be married.
Presently he thought, zooming through Colchester, I’ll bet she wouldn’t mind having kids.
CHAPTER XIX
Even Viola’s gentle nature felt some indignation after the events of Friday evening. In the midst of the crying fits that occupied much of Saturday and Sunday, she frequently told the pillow that Victor was a beast. That Beast he had now become, instead of He and Him. Of course, it was very kind of him to buy her all that champagne and take her in his car, but why need he start talking about his beastly engagement?
I was just getting over it, and he comes along and stirs it all up again. Now my heart darned well is broken and I do wish I was dead. I didn’t really wish it before because something marvellous might happen and I’d miss it, but now it has happened, and it was beastly and I do wish I was dead.
But hotels are not built to cry in. People come popping in and out, carrying clean linen and trying not to look at the desolate figure on the bed; and soon the desolate figure gets up.
Viola’s indignation helped her to sit in the Palm Lounge, reading with smarting eyelids, to go for walks by the sea that had suddenly become autumnal and sad, even to accept an invitation to take coffee with Mr Brodhurst on Sunday morning; Mrs Brodhurst had been suddenly recalled to London because her mother was ill. Mr Brodhurst seemed to admire Viola, and that was comforting. He told her that she ought to take up golf, she had the figure for it. Willowy, but rounded, said Mr Brodhurst. She could not help a miserable inward giggle, thinking how Shirley would brand Mr Brodhurst as a D. O. M. and One of The Wandering Hand Brigade.
But even with the help of indignation and Mr Brodhurst, she was very miserable and lonely, and pleased to see Tina back to lunch on Monday.
Tina did not look as a person should look who has been spending a wicked weekend with the invalid husband of an old school friend. She was a little absent in her manner, as Viola had seen her look when she was planning a new outfit or learning a new embroidery stitch, but she was cheerful and calm, noticed at once that something was wrong with her young sister-in-law, and affectionately inquired what. Viola began to cry, and told her all the unhappy little story.
Tina was kind as kind could be. She did not tell Viola to pull herself together and take up some interesting hobby, nor did she say too harsh things about Victor and make Viola want to stick up for him. She took the exciting, comforting point of view that Victor was really in love with Viola and trying not to be.
‘Why?’ demanded Viola.
‘Oh well, I imagine that he thinks you’re not suitable – no money, and all that sort of thing.’
‘Do you think he minds me having worked in the shop?’ reddening.
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised. That’s the kind of thing people do mind,’ bitterly. ‘Not so much as they did, of course; nothing like; and intelligent people nowadays don’t even think about it. But in the country people mind, and rich people mind, especially people who haven’t been rich for very long, like the Springs. Old Spring only made his money in the War, you know.’
‘Did he? Oh yes … now I seem to remember Dad saying …’
‘Yes. Jam for the troops or something.’
‘Then do you think he’ll go on thinking I’m not suitable, and marry her?’ tears starting again.
‘I’m afraid so, Vi. You see, a man like Victor Spring is sensible about marriage, in a way most women simply can’t understand. He wants someone who can run a big house, and entertain smart flashy people, and do him credit. Now from what I’ve seen of that Barlow hag, she could do all that. She’s hardly what I’d call a human being at all, but she can do just the things he wants, and he’s known her for years (you heard what his cousin said) and – oh, it’s all most suitable. You couldn’t, you know. Run a big place, I mean.’
‘Yes I could if I had proper servants. Shirley says that’s all it is.’
‘You couldn’t manage them. You’re too soft.�
��
‘I’d let him and a housekeeper manage them.’
‘Yes, well, that’s an idea. It might work. But I’m afraid he won’t give you the chance, my poor dear. It’s terribly rough luck, and I think he’s behaved quite detestably, but I’m afraid you must just make up your mind to go on caring about him for a long, long time; unless, of course, someone else comes along.’
On this melancholy note the conversation ended, and as Tina had to go off again that very evening to see Elenor, they did not talk about Victor again that day. But though she had depressed Viola’s spirits by pointing out how unlikely it was that Victor should marry her, she had raised them by suggesting that he was in love with her. Viola had not dared to think that he might be; she had only hoped that perhaps he might like her, and she was much comforted by the notion that he was struggling with a passion for her. She imagined him looking gaunt and worn and Miss Barlow asking him what was the matter, and him starting and biting his lip until the blood came and muttering ‘Nothing,’ with a sigh that was almost a groan.
But in spite of these solacing reveries, their last week at Stanton was most depressing, for the weather turned wretched, sending September out in floods of rain, and Adrian Lacey became so ill that not even Tina was allowed to go over and see him; and on the Friday before they went home she told Viola that she had had a telephone message from Elenor to say that poor Adrian had passed away peacefully in his sleep just after lunch. Tina would not go to the funeral; she felt too grieved. Elenor would sell the bungalow and go out to her married sister in Malta.
So that polished off the Laceys; and what with the funeral and the weather and her private grief, Viola was really pleased to see Saxon drive the car up to the White Rock on Saturday morning, and felt that it was pleasant to be going home. She was looking forward to seeing Polo again, of whom she was fond, and she would be twenty miles nearer Grassmere.
‘Good morning, Saxon.’
‘Morning, Mrs Theodore.’
Saxon looked so cheerful, brown and well that he might have been to the sea, too.
Nightingale Wood Page 26