Dorothy Eden (73 page)

Somewhere out there, in the mist beneath the leafless trees perhaps there was a person called Clementine, a queer faceless menacing person. Or was it just a funny little man in a large black hat innocently selling his wares? Whoever the person was, he was not for her to see. She was the pampered patient in the aristocratic Spanish bed doomed to be kept in the dark for ever.

Upstairs, Prissie peremptorily shut the children in the nursery. Nicky expected a reprimand for his unguarded mention of Clementine, and another lecture on telling lies. But quite mildly Prissie told them to play with their toys while she wrote a letter. Half an hour later, after biting her pen more than writing words on paper, Prissie went to the telephone that had an upstairs extension outside the nursery door.

Nicky stood with his ear against the keyhole and listened shamelessly. Prissie wanted to speak to Clementine, he knew. But how could she speak on the telephone when Clementine was just outside in the square, kicking up the dead leaves and looking at the house with sharp beady eyes.

Surely enough Prissie came back and went on with her letter. Nicky, creeping silently close enough, could see the thick black writing she was making, as if she were angry with the words she was putting on paper.

It’s no use any more, I do love Fergus—I’ve lied to you about it, but now I’m telling you the truth. I know from the way he kisses me that he loves me, too. So like Phillip, who took what he wanted by force if necessary, I am going—’

The telephone rang outside. Prissie, stopping writing, listened. No one downstairs went to answer it. Finally she went to answer the insistent ringing herself.

At first her mind had not been on Fergus. It was still on the letter that she had ceased to try to compose tactfully. Rather absently she picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hullo,’ crisply, as Brigit would have done.

‘Biddy, is that you, darling?’ It was Fergus, and he had mistaken her voice. He thought he was speaking to his wife.

Without a clear idea as to why she did so Prissie said, still in an excellent imitation of Brigit’s voice, ‘Yes, this is me,’ and Fergus went on:

‘First, darling, I love you. Please will you think of that and keep it in your mind all the time.’

‘Yes,’ Prissie whispered, in all the voice that she could command. Her face had gone tight, her fingers gripped the receiver until the knuckles stood out as if naked of skin. Those whitened knuckles seemed to express all the anger viciously held inside her body.

‘Darling, are you listening?’ came Fergus’s urgent voice.

‘Yes, I can hear.’

‘Will you remember what I said?’

‘Yes, Fer—darling.’

‘That’s my girl. I’m afraid the news is bad. Guy died half an hour ago.’

Now there was no need to pretend shock and grief. She felt both, so keenly that her voice was almost inaudible.

‘Oh,
no,
Fergus!’

‘I’m afraid it’s true. He never recovered consciousness.’

‘But
why!’
Now she was more consciously Brigit again, and trusted that Fergus would not later wonder at the temporary strangeness of his wife’s voice.

‘He’s left a letter. Something about that car accident, and—other things. But we won’t talk of it now. I’ll be home later this evening. And, darling, remember what I said. I love you.’

Prissie was silent. She was trying not to tremble. She felt as if a storm were breaking inside her, a storm of rage and pain and desolation.

‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ came that maddening caressing voice that was not for her. Those kisses, those false false kisses!

‘I did wonder—about Prissie—’ she began in Brigit’s hesitating uncertain voice.

‘Oh, my darling, no! No! As I will explain when I get home. Don’t grieve too much for Guy. I think he’s happier where he is.’

And then the telephone clicked, and it was she who was bereaved. Completely and for ever. Prissie was not used to being without some driving emotion. Only temporarily was she numbed. Then, within her small taut body, hate began to grow.

On one of her impulses, which usually had such brilliant successes, she ran downstairs and went swiftly and quietly along to Brigit’s room.

The room was darkened, so that Brigit would rest. At first one could scarcely see her fair head, like a daffodil, on the pillow. Her illness had not dulled the brightness of her hair, nor indeed her eyes nor the warmth of her smile. One would have thought she would, by this time, have grown anaemic and colourless…

‘What is it, Prissie?’ came her courteous voice.

‘Oh, Mrs Gaye, your husband has just telephoned.’

Brigit started up. ‘Fergus?’

‘Yes, he spoke to me. He said not to disturb you.’

‘Not to disturb me! But—’ The hurt was obvious in Brigit’s voice. Nevertheless, she collected herself instantly and went on, ‘What did he say, Prissie? What about Guy?’

‘Guy’s dead.’

Perhaps she spoke too brutally. Momentarily she felt a stirring of her own angry grief. Then, looking at Brigit’s lovely ashen face, she whipped up her hatred and jealousy.

‘Fergus said he would be home later, and not to worry.’

‘Not to worry!’ Brigit echoed in a disbelieving whisper.

Prissie came forward.

‘You’ve had a shock, Mrs Gaye. Shall I get you a sedative?’ But Brigit shrank back against the pillow.

‘No, no! Just leave me! Please leave me!’

So that was done. Prissie went slowly upstairs, fingering her locket. Now one had only to wait until Fergus came home. Then she would begin using her wiles on him. Never before had she known them to fail with a man… She smiled secretly to herself, regaining her confidence. Of course he would have to speak like that to his wife when he was breaking such tragic news to her. It needn’t have been true. Or it needn’t be true for much longer…

Idly Prissie’s fingers pressed the catch of the locket and from habit felt for the folded paper within.

It was not there.

Prissie stood still, aghast. When had she taken it out? She hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Then who could have taken it? Who had had the opportunity?

With the blood draining out of her face and fear filling her to the exclusion even of hatred and jealousy, Prissie remembered Fergus’s traitorous kiss, his fingers on her locket. She, trusting susceptible little fool that she was, had lost every sense but that of delight. And Fergus’s prying fingers had found what they wanted.
Now what was she to do?

N
ICKY REFUSED TO PUT ON
his coat. He said, ‘But Mummy said we were not to go out today. It’s too cold.’

He stood rigidly defying Prissie to attempt to force his arms into the sleeves of his new coat with the velvet collar, that he had had to wear ever since his old one had been mysteriously lost.

Prissie said in a very quiet voice that was somehow more frightening than her cross one, ‘It isn’t cold now. The sun is almost shining. Come along, Nicky, don’t be difficult.’

It took courage to disobey this new white-faced unsmiling Prissie, but not as much as it would have taken to go out into the square where Clementine lay in wait. The thought of her malicious little face caused him to grow more resolutely stubborn.

Sarah, already in her overcoat, danced about saying, ‘Come on, Nicky. Come on, Nicky,’ impatiently.

Prissie silently held the coat before him, waiting for him to slip his arms in the sleeves. Nicky summoned all his courage, and struck it out of her hands on to the floor.

‘I won’t go,’ he said.

Prissie looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then she said quite quietly, ‘Very well. You wait here while I get my things on. Perhaps by then you will have changed your mind.’

It had never happened before in broad daylight. But it happened today just as Prissie, wearing her coat and hat and carrying a suitcase, came back. The croaking voice sounded from the wardrobe at the other side of the room.

‘Are you being a naughty boy, Nicky? Didn’t I tell you what happens to naughty boys? The dark hole, Nicky. The deep dark hole…’ There was a dreadful chuckle. Then, quite brightly and cheerfully, the voice went on, ‘Do as Prissie tells you, Nicky, that’s a good boy.’

Nicky looked dumbly at Prissie who was standing listening beside him. She nodded in agreement, and helplessly he held out his arms for the coat to be put on.

Almost at once he began to sob.

‘Not to Clementine’s house! Please, not to Clementine’s house.’

Prissie lifted her slender black brows.

‘Who is Clementine?’ she asked.

Sarah, whose sympathetic nature was always affected by tears, abruptly began to sob in company with Nicky.

‘Oh, goodness, you are a fine pair!’ Prissie exclaimed. ‘We’re only going out for some fresh air. Come along, and please don’t make so much noise. You’ll disturb your mother and you know she will never get better if she’s always being disturbed. Down the stairs as quietly as you can.’

In spite of her injunction to hurry, however, Prissie lingered on the stairs, looking at the portraits with a queer expression, almost as if she were going to cry. Then she ran her fingers over the banisters and looking at them said ‘Dust!’ in a disgusted voice. There were dead flowers drooping in a vase, as if no one cared how they looked. One of Aunt Annabel’s cats, a thin tabby with a sad pointed face, ran in front of them. Prissie’s gaze flickered from it to the dead flowers and the dust. Then it went again to the portraits. ‘Liars!’ she said in a clear contemptuous voice, and began to hurry the children down the stairs.

In a few moments they were out of the house and in the misty street. It was not true that the sun was beginning to shine. It was darker than ever, and Nicky was sure that Clementine was lurking behind one of the trees, although he could not see her. He was inordinately thankful when Prissie unexpectedly hailed a taxi, and pushed the two of them into it, following herself with her suitcase. At least they were safe for a while in a taxi.

But it had been too much to hope that they would not go to Clementine’s house. They arrived there all too soon. But still blessedly there was no sign of Clementine. Prissie hustled them up the steep narrow stairs, and into a room that had almost no furniture in it, and was very cold. She threw off her coat and scarf, leaving them lying across a chair, and said:

‘Stay here until I come back. And try not to make a noise.’

Then she went out, shutting the door, and making it click. After a moment Nicky went cautiously forward and turned the knob. It wouldn’t open the door, and he knew that what he had suspected was true. The click had been the key turned in the lock. He and Sarah were in prison.

Sarah, after pottering about inquisitively, looked distressed. Her lip began to tremble.

‘Go home!’ she whimpered.

‘We can’t. We’re in prison,’ Nicky told her. ‘The door’s locked.’

Sarah’s mouth hung open. She sensed both Nicky’s fear and the strangeness of the room. She began to sob.

Nicky badly wanted to sob, too, but he knew that that would bring either Prissie, or, worse still, Clementine. Valiantly he tried to comfort Sarah.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ll do you my tricks.’ He whipped the coloured silk handkerchiefs from his pocket and began sliding them through his fingers. Gratifyingly, Sarah did stop sobbing to watch. Suddenly she saw the scarf Prissie had flung on the chair. It was a brilliant red one with a design of tiny white leaves. She pounced on it, and began to clumsily imitate Nicky, saying, ‘Look! Me, too!’

But Nicky momentarily forgot his tricks in looking at the scarf. He had seen it before somewhere and it had frightened him. Where?

After Prissie had left her with Fergus’s message Brigit was too forlorn even to weep.

So Fergus’s contempt for her family had finally reached her. How could it be otherwise when he chose to give such tragic news as the death of her brother to a comparative stranger.

But of course Prissie was no stranger to him. No, indeed, he counted on Prissie for everything now, the care of his children, the nursing of his poor sick wife, the comfort and pleasure of her company during his short intervals at home.

(Oh, Fergus, my darling, couldn’t you have been patient a little longer, to see if I would get well? Or even if I were well, would you still have wanted Prissie? You brought her home that day, flaunting her like a carnation in your button-hole…)

Aunt Annabel was bending over her, stroking her brow.

‘Don’t grieve, dear. You know Guy wouldn’t want you to. After all, he chose this way.’ Her voice quivered piteously. ‘Look, I’ve brought you a little hot milk. I’m having some, too. Drink it up now, that’s a good girl.’

Like a child, Brigit drank from the glass held to her lips. When she had finished Aunt Annabel gave a satisfied sigh.

‘That’s right, dear. There was a sedative in that. Now you will get some rest.’

Brigit started up wildly.

‘But I don’t want rest! Guy’s dead, and there’s that horrible man making threats about the children, and Nicky says Clementine is out there in the square—do look, please, Aunt Annabel—and I don’t believe I’m ever going to walk again, and—and Fergus—’ Brigit’s voice died away in stifled sobs.

Aunt Annabel, peering through the window, said, ‘I can’t see anything for mist. Oh, there’s a man sweeping up leaves. That’s all, dear. Just a man with a barrow. So you can sleep in peace.’

‘But I don’t want to sleep!’ Brigit protested. Nevertheless, already Aunt Annabel seemed a vague shape, with her wild white locks, like a kindly witch, and the pillow was deep, deep…

She dreamed that she was walking. It was cold and misty, and through the mist she kept seeing the lighted shop windows, little square glowing caverns of light and brilliance. Here were jewels, in all the colours of the rainbow, here were hats with pink roses as large as cabbages, here were shoes studded with brilliants, here laces and ribbons and ballerina skirts with frothing frills. One could warm one’s hands at the glow of the windows. But if one could walk into the inviting doorways of the shops it would be better still. If only one’s legs would move. They were so heavy, so slow, as if they were dragging through thick mud…