Miss Silver Deals With Death (3 page)

Meade had been packing parcels for three hours. It tired her dreadfully. She came out into the street and walked to the corner. She hoped she wouldn’t have to wait very long for a bus— not her usual one, because she had to go to Harrods for Aunt Mabel. It was this sort of extra that was the last straw, but she couldn’t say so, because that would invite the immediate retort, “If you can’t pack a few parcels, and do five minutes’ shopping to save me going right across London, how on earth do you think you’re going to get on in the A.T.S.?” She had to wait nearly ten minutes for her bus.

It was just on half-past five when she came out of Harrods by one of the side doors and met Giles Armitage face to face. Giles, looking down, saw a girl in a grey flannel suit and a small black hat—a little creature with cloudy hair and lovely eyes. The hair was dark, and the eyes of a deep pure grey. They looked at him out of a small, peaked face, and all of a sudden they lit up and shone like stars. Colour rushed into the pale cheeks. Her hands clutched at his arm, and a very soft voice said,

“Giles—”

And then everything went out. The colour, the light, the breath which had carried his name—they all failed together. She gave at the knees, and if he hadn’t been pretty quick with his arm she’d have been down on the pavement. A light little thing and easy enough to hold. It was rather like holding a kitten.

She knew him—that much was certain. He waved to a taxi which had just set down a fare, and put Meade in it.

“Get into the Park and drive slow. Go on till I tell you to stop.”

He got in and shut the door. The girl was lying back. Her eyes were open. Her hands came out to him, and before he knew what he was going to do he had his arm about her. She seemed to expect it, and so in some odd kind of a way did he. She held on to his arm as if she would never let him go. It all seemed the most natural thing in the world. He had the most extraordinary desire to look after her, to put the colour back into her cheeks and the light into her eyes, yet as far as he could remember he had never seen her before. She was saying his name again: “Giles—Giles—Giles—” A girl doesn’t say a man’s name like that unless she is awfully fond of him. The inconveniences of losing one’s memory obtruded themselves. What did you say to a girl who remembered what you had forgotten?

She drew suddenly away and said in a different voice,

“Giles—what’s the matter? Why don’t you say anything? What is it? I’m frightened.”

Major Armitage was a man of action. This had got to be tackled. He tackled it. Those very bright blue eyes of his smiled at her out of the square, tanned face. He said,

“I say—please don’t! I mean you won’t faint again or anything like that will you? I’m the one to be frightened really. Won’t you have a heart and help me out? You see, I’ve been torpedoed and I’ve lost my memory. I didn’t know anything could make one feel such a fool.”

Meade slipped away from him into the corner of the seat. Giles didn’t remember her. A frozen feeling gathered about her heart. She said,

“I won’t faint.”

It hurt too much for that. He was Giles come back from the dead, and he was a stranger. He was looking at her just as he had looked the first time they met, at Kitty Van Loo’s. And all of a sudden the frozen feeling went and her heart was warm again, because he had fallen in love with her then, at first sight, and if he had done it once, why shouldn’t he do it again? What did it matter that he had forgotten? He was Giles, and she was Meade, and he was alive. “Oh, God, thank you, thank you, for letting Giles be alive!”

He saw the light and colour come back. It gave him the strangest feeling, as if he had created something. He said in a different voice,

“Who are you?”

“Meade Underwood.”

He repeated it, “Meade—Underwood—It’s a pretty name. Did I call you Meade?”

Something flickered and went again, like the flash of light off a bird’s wing. He couldn’t catch it. She said,

“Yes.”

“Have I known you long?”

“Not very long. We met in New York, on the first of May, at Kitty Van Loo’s. Do you remember her?”

He shook his head.

She looked at the bright blue eyes, at the crisp fair hair above the ruddy brown skin, and thought, “He’s well—he’s alive. What does anything else matter?” But she was glad that he didn’t remember Kitty Van Loo.

“I don’t remember a thing, except about the job I went over there to do. I don’t remember going out there, or anything after Christmas ’39. Everything since then has just run into a fog as far as my personal recollection goes. Why”—his voice changed—“I didn’t even remember about my brother Jack being killed. He was with me at Dunkirk, and somehow I knew he was dead, but I couldn’t remember a thing about it—not a thing. I can’t now. I’ve had to get it all from a chap who was there with me. I can remember being in France, and getting away from Dunkirk, and the job I had at the War Office, but none of the personal things. I could tell them all about my job in the States—all the technical part. Funny, isn’t it, but I can remember a fellow in my first regiment, an extraordinarily fine bridge player. He used to get canned every night, but it never affected his game. I’ve seen him so that he couldn’t take in a word you said outside the play, but he knew every card that was out— never made a mistake. I suppose it’s something like that. Well, we met at Kitty Van Loo’s—and where did we go from there?”

He saw Meade sparkle. It went to his head a little. The whole thing was going to his head—this blend of the strange and the familiar. She said,

“Oh, we went places.”

“Nice places?”

“Yes, nice places.”

“Lots of them?”

“Lots of them.”

“And when did you come back?”

She was watching him. She said,

“In June.”

She saw the blood run up under his skin.

“But so did I—at least that’s what they tell me. That is to say, I started to come, and we were torpedoed.” He laughed. “I was picked up by a tramp a couple of days later. I’d got hold of a grating, and I believe they couldn’t get me to let go—had to more or less prise me off it. I don’t remember anything about it myself. I’d been hit on the head, and the next thing I knew I was in a hospital ward in New York, and nobody knew who I was. Well, that’s me. But you said June. I suppose the Atlantic wasn’t by any chance one of the places we went together… Oh, it was? Well, I hope I saved your life.”

Meade nodded. For a moment she couldn’t speak. It was all too horribly, too vividly present again—the darkness, the noise, and those rending crashes—the rush of the water, coming in, sucking them down—Giles lifting her, heaving her into the boat. She said,

“You put me into one of the boats.”

“You were all right—not hurt?”

“My arm was broken, and some ribs. They’re all right now.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.”

They looked at one another. There was a silence. Just as it became unendurable, he said,

“How well did we know each other, Meade?”

She closed her eyes. The lashes lay dark against her cheek. In three months she had not heard him say her name. When she had dreamt of him he had not said it. Now he was saying it like a stranger. It hurt too much. He said in a quick, anxious voice,

“You look all in. Can’t I take you somewhere? Where would you like to go? I say, you’re not going to faint, are you?”

The lashes lifted. She looked at him. It was very disturbing. She said in a whispering voice.

“I won’t if I can help it. I think I had better go home.”

They said good-bye on the steps of Vandeleur House, with the taxi ticking away in the road on the other side of a massive Victorian shrubbery. There was daylight still, daylight falling into dusk—grey daylight—no colour, no sparkle, no sun. There would be a mist again tonight. Meade was in the very mood of the mist, so tired that she could hardly stand. Reaction from the shock of finding Giles, only to find that she was forgotten, had left her as dull and lifeless as the day. They had met, they were saying good-bye, and perhaps they would never meet again. The pain of that came through the dullness and pierced her. He might just go away back to his job and think no more of their meeting than that it was a queer sort of business and best let alone. She must face it. It might very easily happen. He had been landed with a stupid fainting girl—for all he could remember, a total stranger. Men hated girls who cried and girls who fainted. He had been kind. Giles was kind. She had seen him being kind to stray dogs and tiresome old women—but once you got rid of the wretched lost creature you didn’t go out of your way to look for any more trouble. So here she was saying good-bye to Giles. She mustn’t cry, and she mustn’t faint. She must go through with it decently.

She put out a hand and he took it. Then he took the other one and held them both. Giles always had such strong, warm hands. He said in a serious tone, halting a little over the words as if there was some strong feeling behind them,

“This is—all wrong—we oughtn’t to be saying good-bye. It’s hurting you, and I’d give anything not to hurt you. Will you please not be hurt, and let me go away and get hold of myself a bit? It’s knocked us both endways. What’s your telephone number?”

This was so exactly Giles that she caught her breath on a laugh that hurt.

“You asked me that in New York, the first time we met.”

“I expect I did. Did you give it to me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, you’ll have to do it again. What is it?”

She repeated the number, and watched him write it down just as he had done that first time. But he’d got a new notebook. The other must be somewhere bobbing about in the Atlantic with her New York telephone number washed out of it as completely as she had been washed out of Giles’ memory.

He put the notebook back in his pocket and took her hands again.

“I’ll go now—but I’ll ring you up. You won’t mind?”

No, she wouldn’t mind. She said so.

He held her hands for a moment longer, and then went away to where the taxi was waiting, his footsteps crunching cheerfully over the gravel.

Meade watched him go. If he was going to ring up, it wasn’t really good-bye. Her heart warmed a little. She went up in the lift and got out at the first landing. The Underwoods’ flat was No. 3. She would have to tell Aunt Mabel, and the sooner she did it the better. She wished with all her heart that she had never told anyone about Giles. When you are all smashed up in hospital and a very kind uncle comes and holds your hand, things come out. Besides, she had to know about Giles. Uncle Godfrey had been most awfully kind, but of course he had told Aunt Mabel and Aunt Mabel had told everyone in the world, so now she had to tell Aunt Mabel that Giles was alive and that he had forgotten her, so of course they were not engaged any more. She must get it over.

She got it over. It wasn’t easy. Mabel Underwood did nothing to make it easier. She meant to be kind, but actually she was the last straw.

“He doesn’t remember you?”

“He doesn’t remember anything.”

“But how perfectly extraordinary! Do you mean to say that he doesn’t remember his name?”

“He remembers his name.”

“Or who he is—or about his job in the States?”

“He remembers that.”

Mrs. Underwood’s voice became strident.

“And he doesn’t remember you? My dear, it’s too thin! He’s trying to back out. Your Uncle Godfrey must see him at once. Don’t you worry—young men have these sort of turns, but your uncle will put it right. It’s not as if you hadn’t anyone to stand up for you. Don’t you worry—it’ll all come right.”

It was quite unbearable, but she had to bear it. Unkindness would have been easier. Aunt Mabel meant to be kind, but behind the kindness it was perfectly plain that she thought Giles Armitage a very good match for a penniless girl, and that she had no intention of letting him go.

Nothing lasts for ever. Meade was told that she didn’t look fit for anything but bed, to which haven she thankfully repaired. “And Ivy will bring you your supper. I’m going up to the Willards for some bridge.”

Blessed relief, even though she knew that the Willards would be told about Giles and treated to Mabel Underwood’s views upon the management of recalcitrant young men. It wasn’t any good thinking about it. Aunt Mabel was like that, and you just had to let it go.

She lay there and let everything go. No use thinking, no use planning, no use hoping, no use grieving.

Ivy came in with a tray—fish cakes and a cup of Ovaltine. Meade, sitting up in bed, thought, “She doesn’t look any too good herself. I wonder if she is unhappy.” She said on the impulse,

“You look tired, Ivy. Are you all right?”

“Got a bit of a head—nothing to write home about.”

A London girl, small and thin, with a pale, sharp face and lank brown hair.

“Where is your home?”

Ivy jerked a shoulder.

“Haven’t got one—not to speak of. Gran’s being ’vacuated. Ever such a nice lady she’s got billeted with. Bottled four dozen of tomatoes out of their own garden, and fresh veg. coming in every day—we could do with a bit of that here, couldn’t we?”

“Is that all the family you’ve got?”

Ivy nodded.

“Gran and my Auntie Flo—that’s the lot. And Aunt Flo, she’s in the A.T.S.—got one of those new caps they wear too—red and green on them—ever so smart they are. She wanted me to join up too, but I didn’t pass my medical. That’s on account of the accident I had when I was a kid on the halls.”

“What halls?”

Ivy giggled.

“Music halls, miss—V’riety—me and me sister Glad. Boneless Wonders we was—acrobats, you know. But there was an accident on the high wire and Glad was killed, and they said I wouldn’t never be any good for it again, so I went out to service, and seems like I’ll have to stay in it. Doctor said he couldn’t pass me nohow.”

Meade said, “I’m sorry,” in her pretty, soft voice. And then, “Get off early to bed, Ivy, and have a good rest. Mrs. Underwood won’t be wanting anything.”

Ivy jerked again.

“I’m not all that set on bed—seems like it don’t do me any good. I get dreaming, you know—about Glad and me, and having to walk that wire. That’s how I come to walk in my sleep when I was down in Sussex, and Gran said it wasn’t respectable and I’d better take and go in a flat where I couldn’t get out.”

Meade shivered, and then wondered why. It certainly wouldn’t be easy to get out of Vandeleur House after Bell had locked up. Horrid to think of wandering up and down that circular stair in the dead of night. She said quickly,

“You don’t walk in your sleep now?”

Ivy’s glance slipped away.

“Oh, I dunno,” she said in a vague voice. “Aren’t you going to have another fish cake? I made them the way Gran told me, and they come out lovely—tomato sauce and the least little bit of shrimp paste. Makes all the difference, don’t it?”

When the tray was gone and the room was quiet again, Meade took a book and tried to read, but what the book was, or what the lines of print had to say, she never had any idea. There was a shaded lamp beside the bed. The light fell mellow across her shoulder, and across Mabel Underwood’s pink sheets and the corner of a pink frilled pillow-case. This had been Godfrey Underwood’s room, that was why there was a telephone by the bed. Uncle Godfrey and a pink frilled pillow-case—nothing could be more incongruous. But he wouldn’t notice anything like that. The eiderdown bloomed with pink and purple paeonies, and so did the curtains. There was rose-coloured china on the washstand, and a rose-coloured carpet on the floor. There had been times when she felt that she couldn’t bear it for another moment, but it was like everything else, you got used to it.

The telephone bell cut across her drifting thoughts. Under them she had been listening for it, straining for it, expecting it. Now that it had come, her heart knocked wildly at her side and her hand shook. Giles’ voice said from a long way off,

“Hullo! Is that you?”

She said, “Yes.”

“It doesn’t sound like you.”

She caught her breath.

“How do you know what I sound like?”

At the other end of the line Giles frowned. How did he know? The answer to that was that he did. He said so.

There was no answer.

“Meade—are you there? Please don’t ring off—I’ve got a lot to talk about. I think it’s easier on the telephone—I mean we want to get the ground cleared a bit, don’t we? You won’t go away?”

“No, I won’t go away.”

“Where are you? Are you alone—can you talk?”

“Yes. My aunt has gone out. I’m in bed.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just tired.”

“You’re not too tired to talk?”

“No.”

“All right, then, here goes. I’ve been thinking, and I want to know where we left off. It seems to me I’ve got to know that. Don’t you see you’ve got to help me out? If I’d come back blind, you’d lend me your eyes to see with—read my letters for me, all that sort of thing—wouldn’t you? Well, this is just the same, isn’t it? I’ve gone blind, not in my eyes but in my memory. The things I can’t remember are like a letter that I can’t read. If I ask you to read it for me, you’re not going to say no, are you?”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I want to know how we stood to each other. We were friends, weren’t we?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Anything more? That’s what I really want to know. Was I in love with you?”

“You said so.”

“Then I meant it. I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t. What did you say?”

There was no answer. Her heart beat and her breath came quick, but there weren’t any words.

“Meade—don’t you see you’ve got to help me? I’ve got to know. Were we engaged?”

There was still no answer.

He said in an insistent voice,

“Why, I’ve got to know—you must see that. Were we engaged? Was it given out?”

She wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry. It was so very much Giles—so dearly familiar—the urgency of his voice, the way he said her name, the way he never could wait if there was anything he wanted. Echoes out of the past: “Meade, I must know”—the same insistent ring. Then it had been, “Can you care for me?” Now it was, “Did I care for you?” She said as quickly as she could,

“No, it wasn’t given out.”

There was a silence so utter and so prolonged that her heart contracted with fear. Suppose he had gone—hung up and gone away. Quite easy to do. Perhaps that was what he had done— hung up and gone away out of her life. She found herself quick and hot to deny it. That wouldn’t be Giles. He always said what he thought. He would tell her straight out—“I’m sorry. I can’t remember. It’s a wash-out.” He wouldn’t slink away like a thief in the night.

His voice came over the wire, strong and full.

“Well, that’s that. We’ve got it over. I didn’t want to spoil our lunch tomorrow. You will lunch with me, won’t you?”

Meade said faintly,

“I pack parcels from two to five—”

“Parcels?”

“For the bombed—clothes and things.”

“But you could get an afternoon off, couldn’t you, if you tried very hard?”

“It wouldn’t be smiled on.”

“I shouldn’t worry about that. After all, I don’t come back from the dead every day.”

He heard her catch her breath.

“That’s hitting below the belt.”

“I always do. You’ll come?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll come. Where?”

“I’ll be round to fetch you at a quarter to one. Go to sleep and dream about nice things. Good-night.”

She went to sleep, and did not dream about anything. For the first time since that June night she slept and did not dream at all. Everything in her relaxed and fell into rest. The effort of the will, the strain of endurance, the hurrying memories, thought which would not be controlled, all went from her. She slept without consciousness or movement until Ivy came in to draw the curtains.