Cluny Brown (29 page)

“He told me,” mourned Mr. Porritt, “his turn-over was up ten per cent every year. That's what I like. That's steady.”

“He
is
steady. And he's wonderful to his mother.”

“He said, ‘There's some object to living over the shop.' What I said was, ‘If you've got a shop, stick to it.' There's nothing like trade.”

“You did get along well,” said Cluny. “Go on, have his egg.”

But Mr. Porritt waved it aside.

“We had quite a long chat. I don't know I've ever met a chap I liked better, not at first go. We got everything settled—”

Cluny offered the fourth egg to Belinski, and on his refusal ate it herself. She was quite untroubled, for she had still a child's capacity for contemplation: deep inside herself she was brooding quietly and continuously on the infinitely rich sensation of being at last where she belonged. She belonged with Adam Belinski. Were they in love with each other? Cluny could only have answered, she supposed so. All she knew consciously of love were its preliminaries as taught by the movies, and these she and Belinski had skipped: they had met at the centre of the maze, not on its outer rim: they accepted each other simply and finally as the basic fact of their joint lives.

Mr. Porritt talked on. They did not mind him, they did not even wish him to stop. The untidy supper table, the overheated kitchen, suited them very well. They were never to pay much attention to their material surroundings. Raising her head, Cluny met Belinski's eyes fixed on hers in a look of great peacefulness: it was a look she was to meet again and again in the diverse circumstances of their erratic, turbulent, haphazard existence. In shabby lodgings, in luxurious borrowed penthouses, travelling steerage or by air-liner, eating off gold plate or out of paper bags, peace would be theirs—not as a shield against the world (for they always welcomed the world, whether it pursued them in the shape of duns or disciples) but rather as a warm cloak, a travelling cloak, against the world's weather. Mr. Porritt's obstinacy was no more than a light mist; however he might talk, thought Cluny easily, he would soon come round. She was sorry for his disappointment, because Mr. Wilson was so obviously Uncle Arn's cup of tea, but he would get over it.…

She stooped down to see if her puppy was eating his supper. She had prepared him a saucer of bread and bovril; he had consumed about half and fallen asleep in the middle. Cluny picked him up and tenderly wiped his ears; through his soft fur she could feel the warm supper inside him. He put out his tongue and licked her hand.

“He knows you,” said Mr. Belinski.

Cluny nodded, feeling almost unbearably happy.

“What shall we call him?” she asked.

But before any one could make a suggestion, there was a loud knock at the door.

III

How various were the emotions with which each heard it! Cluny Brown turned pale: across her happy confidence shot a feeling of something very like guilt, and certainly like apprehension; Belinski, with his strong literary background, immediately thought of the knocking in
Macbeth;
Mr. Porritt turned on them both a look of sombre complacency, as of a man who sees Nemesis approaching, but not for him. It was he who answered the door, and he alone who felt a pang of disappointment as he returned not with Mr. Wilson but with only a telegram from him.

It was addressed to Mr. Porritt, and reply-paid. The boy waited; he was, for the time being, Mr. Wilson's, errand boy. Mr. Porritt left him in the hall and shut the door on him while, very deliberately, he read the message through twice. Then with a solemn gesture he laid it flat on the table between Belinski and Cluny Brown.

IF CLUNY BROWN IS WITH YOU
[said Mr. Wilson]
TELL HER I WILL MEET THE 3.15 TRAIN LEAVING PADDINGTON 10.40 TOMORROW TUESDAY STOP IF SHE IS NOT ON IT I WILL MAKE NO FURTHER COMMUNICATION STOP IF SHE IS NOT WITH YOU ADVISE YOU TRACE ADAM BELINSKI POLISH PROBABLY KNOWN TO POLICE STOP YOU HAVE MY SYMPATHY
W
ILSON

Cluny slowly raised her dark head.

“It must have cost shillings,” said she.

“All of five bob,” agreed Mr. Porritt. “See what he says? I have his sympathy.”

“He is undoubtedly a very magnanimous man,” declared Mr. Belinski.

They all paid Mr. Wilson the tribute of a moment's silence.

“What are you going to say?” asked Mr. Porritt at last. “It's for young Cluny to answer.”

Cluny slowly fetched the big diary, with pencil attached (in which she had once written the address of Mr. Ames), and sat down with it at the table. She knew her uncle was right: it was for her to answer. Under the eyes of the two men she wrote, crossed out, chewed her pencil and wrote again; and at the end of ten minutes silently drew back to let them read.

DEAR MR. WILSON
[Cluny had put]
PLEASE DO NOT TROUBLE TO MEET THAT TRAIN STOP I AM VERY SORRY TO BE A DISAPPOINTMENT TO YOU BUT BETTER NOW THAN LATER ON STOP I SHALL NEVER FORGET YOU STOP POSTAL ORDER FOLLOWS ALL THE BEST FROM
U
NCLE
A
RNOLD
M
R
. B
ELINSKI AND
C
LUNY
B
ROWN

If no one was quite satisfied with this production, no one could suggest any improvements—or none that Cluny would admit. Belinski felt he had been rather dragged in, but she insisted that this was a delicate way of publishing their intentions. Mr. Porritt wanted to send sympathy in return, which Cluny considered impolite to Belinski. She was not perfectly satisfied herself, but at least the message had one great merit, that of length; it was going to cost a lot more than Mr. Wilson had allowed for, thus showing they weren't mean. She took it out to the boy, and it was a solemn moment when they heard the gate close behind him and his footsteps diminish down the road.

“That's that,” said Cluny Brown. “Cheer up, Uncle Arn; we're not dead yet.”

She caught Belinski's eye, and wordlessly indicated that he had better take himself off. He bade his future uncle-in-law good-night, adding that he would come round in the morning (to which Mr. Porritt replied that he would be out on a job) and Cluny took her lover into the narrow hall, where for the first time he kissed her. They had been sure of each other already, but it was with a sweeter assurance still that Cluny returned to the kitchen and after a moment's hesitation sat down in her old place, opposite her uncle, across the Porritt hearth.

IV

It felt queer to be back; not quite real. She had been away only four months, but after Friars Carmel the familiar room seemed smaller than she remembered it. Cluny was glad to see it so clean and well-kept, yet its very neatness made her feel like a stranger. She had used to leave bits of sewing about, magazines, books from the twopenny library; now not a tea-cup was out of place. The spun-glass bird no longer adorned the clock, and her collection of calendars had all been taken down. Well, perhaps Mr. Porritt had never liked them.…

Cluny considered her uncle. He didn't look any smaller, but he too had changed. As he sat before the hearth, staring into the grate, he gave the very definite impression of a man used to living alone. He didn't look unhappy, but he looked remote. Cluny suddenly felt a great desire to recapture, if only for five minutes, if only for the last time, something of their old companionship. She said softly:—

“Been busy, Uncle Arn?”

“Fair,” said Mr. Porritt.

“Been getting along all right without me?”

“Well enough,” said Mr. Porritt. “Well enough.…”

Cluny paused. She did not really want to hear that he had missed her, for that would make it too hard to leave him and go to America; but she wanted him to say something affectionate. She wanted to say something affectionate herself, but could not find the words.

“How's Aunt Addie, Uncle Arn?”

“She's all right.”

“And Uncle?”

“They're both all right,” said Mr. Porritt.

“Do you still have dinner there on Sundays?”

He nodded impatiently, and silence fell again. Cluny began to wonder how long her sojourn in String Street was going to last: whether there would be many evenings spent like this; how long, in fact, it would take to get married. For want of something to do she rolled Mr. Wilson's telegram into a ball and offered it to the puppy to play with; but the puppy was asleep. Cluny involuntarily yawned. She was just about to say she would go to bed when Mr. Porritt turned and fixed her with a long, troubled look.

“I suppose you know what you're doing,” he said heavily.

“Yes, I do,” replied Cluny, waking up. “I'm going to be very happy. I'm going to have a wonderful time. I'm sorry it's not what you wanted, Uncle Arn, but it's what suits me. That's the great thing, isn't it?”

“In my day,” said Mr. Porritt, “it wasn't what suited you, it was what you got.”

Fortunately Cluny had not to take this remark at its face-value. She knew perfectly well that whatever he might say, Mr. Porritt had always liked being a plumber, he enjoyed the position and importance it gave him. But she didn't want to argue. Standing up, she said, very earnestly:—

“Uncle Arn, before I go and get married, I want you to know I'm grateful. You've done an awful lot for me, that I'll never forget. I'm very fond of you, Uncle Arn.”

She stooped and kissed him. He turned his head and rather clumsily kissed her back.

“That's a good lass,” said Mr. Porritt.

Epilogue

The reporters had just come on board. They had several people to interview, a famous bridge player, a Balkan prince, a minor British film star, and Adam Belinski. The prospect did not appear to excite them at all unduly; they advanced along the deck in a small, business-like group, five men, two women, with looks alert but reserved. They would have liked to find their celebrities in a bunch, lined up and ready for them; but it was their experience that celebrities, when about to be interviewed, rarely bunched.

“Now, there's some one who looks like somebody,” observed Miss Beebee.

The others followed her glance. Leaning against the rail stood a very tall young woman with a red scarf round her dark head and a small black dog under one arm. She returned their combined gaze with interest and complete ease.

“The film star?” suggested Miss Beebee.

“Too tall,” objected a colleague. “Also the film star's a blonde.”

“She's some one, anyway,” asserted Miss Beebee.

Detaching herself from the group she advanced purposefully on Cluny, née Brown, now Belinski. Cluny watched her approach with extreme admiration, thinking she had never in her life seen any one so beautifully dressed.

“Pardon me, but are you Miss Deirdre Foster?”

“Certainly not,” said Cluny. “I'm Mrs. Adam Belinski.”

“Lead me to him,” urged Miss Beebee. “I represent a whole row of women's papers, who are thirsting for an interview.”

“Oh, are you the Press?” asked Cluny. She had indeed been stationed there by Belinski to catch the Press as it came aboard, and before the edge was taken off its enthusiasm by the bridge player, the film star and the Balkan prince; but Cluny's ideas of the Press were gathered solely from films, and she had expected a far tougher, cigar-chewing, hat-on-back-of-head company.

Miss Beebee, returning Cluny's stare with interest, nodded. Mrs. Adam Belinski was certainly some one; and she looked almost as though she might be some one in her own right.…

“Then he's in the bar,” said Cluny. “He says he always meets journalists in the bar.”

“And a very good idea too,” agreed Miss Beebee warmly. But she hesitated. Turning to her colleagues, she said, “Boys, Mr. Belinski's in the bar. I'm just going to have a talk with
Mrs
. Belinski.…”

For a moment the others hesitated in turn; they had a great respect for Miss Beebee's acumen, and she looked as though she were on to something. However, the husband had to be dealt with at some point; they nodded, and went on.

“I believe,” continued Miss Beebee, returning to Cluny, “we'd like a picture of you with that cute little pup. I guess it's a bit early to ask your opinion of American women—”

“Are they all like you?” enquired Cluny seriously.

“Well, I naturally consider myself a piece above the average, but you can take me for a fair sample.”

“Then I think they're beautifully dressed, and very friendly.”

“Go on,” urged Miss Beebee. “Keep it up. Tell me something about yourself. How long have you been married?”

“Three weeks.”

“Then this is your honeymoon? Look,” said Miss Beebee, “why don't we go into the saloon or some place, where we can talk comfortably?”

Cluny was only too eager to do so. She was longing to talk, longing to tell some one how enthralling it was to be yourself, Cluny Belinski, invading America with your husband. And she had more to tell than even that; at last she had found some one willing to hear about Cluny Brown. She couldn't wait; she began at once.

“Well, I've had a very interesting life,” said Cluny joyfully. “I used to be a parlour-maid—”

“For goodness' sake!” exclaimed Miss Beebee, really startled.

“But I wasn't very good at it,” added Cluny, “because I didn't know my place. My husband says that won't matter so much in America.”

“He's probably right,” agreed Miss Beebee, considering Cluny very attentively. “May I ask where you were a parlourmaid?”

Cluny pulled herself up. After all, Lady Carmel had been very kind.…

“I don't think I'll tell you that,” she said. “They mightn't like it. I mean, so long as domestic service survives, the convenience of the employer naturally comes first.”

How strangely it sounded, that phrase of Mr. Wilson's, on the deck of the
Queen Mary!
How remote seemed those employers, Lady Carmel and Sir Henry, and Syrett and Mrs. Maile! Cluny cast them a final backward look as she followed the fascinated Miss Beebee into the saloon, and dismissed them for ever. She thought of Mr. Porritt and the Trumpers: less remote, but still dim, already fading. “Good-bye, Uncle Arn!” thought Cluny with a last flicker of regret; and sat down beside Miss Beebee, and opened her heart to the United States.