Dorothy Eden (3 page)

‘He’s uncanny,’ Alice said.

‘Webster,’ Felix introduced him, as the bird skittered over the polished floor.

‘After the dictionary?’ Alice asked in appreciation.

Dundas had taken off his wet coat and followed them into the kitchen. He still looked upset and anxious, as if he took Camilla’s absence more seriously than did Felix. Perhaps it hurt him more that Camilla apparently had other affairs in her life. He looked as if he would be the sensitive kind. In spite of his grey hair he didn’t look more than forty. Of course, he would be in love with Camilla. That was a foregone conclusion.

‘But didn’t Camilla know you were coming today, Miss Ashton?’ he persisted.

‘Indeed she did. I had a letter from her saying she would be here.’

‘A letter, eh?’ Dundas’s voice sounded heavy and serious. His eyes looked puzzled.

The rain seemed to have become heavier and was pouring in a steady stream on the roof. A wet patch was growing larger in the ceiling. It was quite dark outside. The reflection of their faces hung in the gloom. Alice could see her own ruffled head, Felix’s high black one, his tilted eyes narrowed with laughter, and Dundas’s bright cheeks and worried eyes. If Camilla were to be coming home by the bush track now she would look in at them, and Alice could imagine her light-hearted chuckle at the complicated emotions she caused. Something would happen to her one day. One couldn’t go on playing like that always.

Perhaps, came the chilling thought, something had already happened. Dundas was pursuing the subject with great seriousness.

‘If Camilla said she would be here, why isn’t she? Did she leave things ready for you?’

‘The bed’s made in the spare room, that’s all.’ She went on nervously, ‘But she must be here. Her clothes are everywhere. She might have gone away for a night, that would be all.’

‘That must be it,’ Dundas agreed. ‘She’s at some farm and can’t get back. The rivers are flooded, you know. That would mean she wouldn’t be here until the morning, and not even then unless the rain stops.’

As he spoke a drip suddenly fell from the damp spot in the ceiling on to his neck. He rubbed his neck vigorously.

‘This house is a disgrace. We shouldn’t be letting anyone live in it.’

‘Dundas is the school chairman,’ Felix explained to Alice. ‘He takes his duties seriously. Quite rightly, too. This house
is
a disgrace.’ He lit a cigarette and went on, ‘So we’ve decided Camilla is marooned, have we? Probably you’re right, too. She could have gone away for a couple of days. That would explain the stale milk. Then in that case I’ll get along. Perhaps you’d be wiser to come up to the hotel tonight, Alice.’

Alice shook her head.

‘Oh, no, I’ll stay here. I’m crazy about the place already. It’s mysterious.’

‘It’s very unhealthy,’ said Dundas. ‘I don’t think you should stay here. Will you come over to my place? I have my daughter there.’

Felix’s merry eyes twinkled at her. Alice shook her head.

‘No. Thank you very much, but I’d rather stay here. If Camilla doesn’t turn up by tomorrow I’ll decide then what I’ll do.’

‘She must turn up by tomorrow,’ said Felix, ‘otherwise we’ll think she’s in trouble.’

‘Nonsense! What trouble would she be in?’ Dundas said.

‘I can think of several kinds. Alas!’ He shrugged himself into his wet mackintosh. ‘Good night, Alice. Sleep well.’

‘Oh, I shall. Don’t worry about me.’

She followed him to the door. He stood a moment in the dark cool air, full of wet bush scents.

‘Sure?’ he said.

‘Of course. What do you have here that could frighten me? Tigers?’

He leaned to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

‘Nice girl,’ he said.

Then he plunged off into the darkness, and Alice turned to see Dundas watching her. What interesting eyes he had, round and soft and kind and peculiarly innocent.

‘He’s very forward,’ she said mildly, rubbing her cheek. ‘But what’s a kiss for me? After all, he’s in love with Camilla.’

Alice always treated any subject airily, but momentarily she was sorry about this one, for Dundas looked shocked.

All at once he said emphatically, ‘You can’t stay here alone. You’ll have to come over to my place.’

‘But why?’ She looked at him seriously. ‘Good heavens, I really believe you think something has happened to Camilla.’

‘Nothing of the kind. Camilla’s the kind to look after herself. It’s this dreadful house. Look at the water coming through the ceiling. It’s not habitable in a heavy rain. It’s a shocking place to expect a visitor to stay.’

Alice had always disliked being organized. Quite apart from her irritation over that she had no intention whatever of leaving the cottage. Camilla might be home any minute. Even if she were not Alice had a curious feeling that she had to stay.

Dundas Hill, for all his kindness, was just a trifle pompous from being the local school chairman.

‘No, thank you,’ she said lightly but definitely. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I prefer to stay here.’

He stared at her with his worried intensity.

‘Are you determined about that?’

‘Quite.’

‘Then I might as well go.’ He opened the door to the dark night. He seemed reluctant to leave her. Almost she was reluctant to let him go. His square solid figure was reassuring and gave her a feeling of safety.

‘I hope you will come over and see my studio some time. Margaretta will make you a cup of tea.’ His voice had a velvety quality. It made Alice think of deep soft plush. It was extremely soothing to one’s nerves.

‘I’d like to very much,’ Alice answered sincerely.

‘That’s if you stay, of course.’

‘But I intend to stay,’ Alice heard herself saying definitely. She had made that decision all at once. There was something intriguing and unassociated with herself going on here. It was a relief to be an observer instead of a participator in a drama. Quite apart from the assistance it might be to Camilla, it would do her good to stay.

‘I only meant if—if you can put up with the discomfort of our atrocious weather.’

Curiously enough Alice had the impression that he had meant to say something entirely different.

‘And you’re very small to stay here alone,’ he added unexpectedly.

‘Small?’

‘Exquisitely small. Like my ladies.’

‘Your ladies?’ The nice little man was inexplicable.

‘I have a collection of Dresden china figures. My ladies, I call them. You shall see them when you come over,’

Alice watched him disappear into the dark, and suddenly all her apprehension was back. It had been easy enough, with the two men here, to talk lightly about the probable reasons for Camilla’s absence, but alone in the little half-lighted cottage she had an odd uncomfortable feeling that something was very much wrong. If the rain and the swollen rivers prevented Camilla from getting back couldn’t she have telephoned the hotel and had a message sent up? Of course, she might not have been able even to get to a telephone, Alice told herself reasonably. It
must
be all right.

The cat rubbed round her legs. It was still hungry, poor thing, after its meagre meal. She picked it up, hugging it for comfort. It began to purr, fixing its adoring pale golden eyes on her. Camilla’s eyes had had that same sleepy adoring expression whenever she had wished. The thought of that suddenly made Alice shiver, she didn’t know why. The sensation had come over her overwhelmingly that she would never see the warm sleepy light in Camilla’s eyes again.

When she went to bed, however, the thought of Camilla went out of her mind and it was Felix’s face that haunted her. Felix, long and thin in Malvolio’s ridiculous garb; Felix a wistful Hamlet torturing one with his beautiful yearning voice; Felix in the proud crimson and gold of Caesar; Felix an astonishingly convincing Falstaff, with the cushions under his doublet inclined to slip; Felix shouting at them all, ‘You’re bad, bad, bad! I loathe and detest you!’ Or saying caressingly, ‘Just conceivably this may be good. But don’t let the thought go to your heads.’

They had all slaved for him. They had all said he was wasting his talents dragging a small company round the world. They had stuck to him until the last gasp, until there wasn’t even enough money to pay their passages back to England. In a little theatre in Christchurch, New Zealand, the curtain came down for the last time, and the members of the company gaily and courageously decided to go their several ways.

That night was three months away now. Alice thought she had contrived to forget it sufficiently to take an interest in her new life. She thought that scene of Felix and herself sitting over a table in a small café had lost its power to make her weep. But here it was again, the red-checked tablecloth, not very clean, the grilled steak and bacon Felix had insisted on her having because he wanted to leave her with the memory of her having one square meal.

She couldn’t eat the food. She cut the bacon into small pieces and left it on her plate growing cold.

‘We’re through, aren’t we, Felix?’ she said miserably. ‘Not just the company. You and me.’

‘It looks like it,’ he said.

‘But, Felix—’ She looked at his face and saw the closed stubborn look that she knew would not change. It had been there when he had told her that the company was splitting up and she must go back to England. She, of them all, had no need to starve deliberately. Actually none of them needed to starve, but again only she had no need to seek some uncongenial occupation.

If only she had known how much of that scene was due to the fact that Felix would not impose poverty on her and how much it was because he no longer loved her. It was something of each, she knew. He was too sensitive about his lack of money and prospects, but also he liked and admired women. She would not be the first nor the last with whom he was in love. Sadly, she knew the whole lovely thing between them was a failure, and it was no use arguing. In any case Felix, in this mood, would not be argued with. She had heard his caressing voice saying ‘Little Alice’ for the last time.

‘If we could get drunk,’ she said wistfully, ‘we could face this with a flourish.’

He grinned suddenly, his long face lighting up.

‘Then let’s get drunk, but it will have to be on beer. I’ve got exactly nine shillings and twopence.’

But the beer had made Alice more sad and she had begun singing in her clear mournful voice,

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone.

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

People had turned to look at them, and Felix had patted her hand gently and said, ‘Come on home.’

In a way those had been his last words to her. ‘Come on home.’ They should have been beautiful words, she thought drearily.

But home to her, at that moment, had been a shabby hotel room. Felix had left her at the door. She hadn’t seen or heard of him again until today. She had been priding herself that she could recover as easily as he from a love affair, but when she had seen him in the bus the unexpectedness of it had left her speechless and trembling. She had wanted to giggle at the absurdity of it; she might have known Felix would be versatile and original in his methods of earning a living. But instead she had frozen into herself, and it was only at the end of the long journey that she had been able to develop an airy casual attitude towards him.

Lying in the narrow bed listening to the rain on the roof, Alice decided that that was the attitude she would maintain so long as she remained here with Camilla. For Felix’s interest in her was now only brotherly or paternal or something cold-blooded like that.

He had been interested enough to want to see her again, but it had been only out of pity. Pity! What a horrible word. He and Camilla had planned this between them. It was Camilla now who occupied his mind. But where was Camilla, the flighty little witch?

On that last puzzled thought Alice fell asleep.

She didn’t know how much later it was that the yellow cat startled her badly by jumping on the bed.

‘Hullo, puss,’ she murmured. ‘What do you know about Camilla?’

The rain had stopped and the silence after the steady downpour seemed unreal. Alice leaned over to open the little window, eager to smell the fresh mountain air. It was still completely dark. The window-pane brushed against a branch of fern, and cool drops of moisture fell on her hand. At the same time there was a rustle and crackle in the bush. Alice drew back, startled.

‘Who’s there?’ she called.

There was no answer and no other sound. Yet now, fully awake, she was conscious of a queer dream that she had been having that someone was moving about in the house. The cat’s arrival had woken her from it. Or had it been a dream? Perhaps it had been Camilla arriving home, creeping in quietly so as not to disturb her.

Fully awake, Alice knew she wouldn’t sleep again until she had investigated. Resignedly she lit a candle and got up.

Camilla’s bed was empty. The fragment of peach-coloured silk still hung out of her drawer. If Camilla was not a naturally untidy person it would look as if she had gone away in a hurry, throwing things into a bag. Where
had
she gone?

All at once Alice remembered the calendar with the scribbled notes on it, and a thought occurred to her. If Camilla made notes to jog her memory perhaps there would be notes for the future, too.

She went out to the kitchen and groped on the mantelpiece where she had put the calendar. She couldn’t feel it, and finally stood on a chair to look at the accumulated debris, matchboxes, cigarettes, old letters and dust on the high mantelpiece. It was then that she saw the envelope addressed in large printing to herself.

How silly! Here was the answer to the problem all the time and she hadn’t known. Camilla might have put it in a more conspicuous spot, of course. Probably she had, and it had slipped down, or the magpie, in his short flights, had knocked it over.

She tore open the envelope and extracted the note. It, too, was written in large printing, the kind Camilla probably taught her pupils in school.

DEAR ALICE,