The New Moon with the Old (25 page)

Clare, too, found her appetite stimulated, as much by the fact that Mr Charles had taken the trouble to choose her dinner as by what he had chosen. But it was not a cheerful meal as Nurse Brown was worried about Mr Rowley. When the waiters came to remove his dinner table, she left her coffee and went into his room with them. She came back more worried than ever.

‘Something
is
wrong – he’s eaten hardiy anything. But I don’t think he’s ill, because Mr Charles is looking as cross as cross and he never would if the old gentleman wasn’t well. Mr Charles is ever so sympathetic. Oh, dear, I do hope they haven’t had a disagreement – so soon! And just when we’ve got you, and everything seemed so nice. You’d better wait a while, in case Mr Rowley wants you to read to him. I’ll be in my room, having a word with the night nurse.’

Clare sat by the fire with volumes of Dumas beside her but found she had no desire to read. Usually reading was her means of escape from life. Now life had become more interesting than any book and she wanted its pages to go on turning.

Soon after nine o’clock Mr Charles came into the room. She asked if Mr Rowley was ready for her.

‘He won’t need you tonight,’ said Mr Charles, closing the door.

As he came towards her she saw that he was looking unusually serious; indeed, his mouth was set quite grimly. She asked if Mr Rowley was ill.

‘No, merely a little distressed because I must leave him so soon. Unfortunately, I have urgent business abroad.’

‘Oh, goodness!’ She stared at him in dismay. ‘Really abroad – or will you just pretend again?’

He frowned. ‘Did Nurse Brown tell you about that?’

‘You did, too. On our first night together.’

His expression relaxed. ‘How delightful you make that occasion sound. Yes, I remember now.’ He sat silent for a moment, then said, ‘No, not really abroad. But this time I was pretending to you, not my grandfather, to avoid explanations. And you mustn’t ask me for any. I can only tell you that I expect shortly to leave the hotel. So I’m afraid this must be goodbye.’

‘Do you mean for ever?’

‘That does sound depressingly final. But I rather think it would be as well. I’m hardly a suitable friend for you.’

‘
I
think you are. Still, just as you please, of course.’ She tried and failed to sound casual.

‘My dear child! Do you
want
to go on being friends with me?’

‘I seem to,’ said Clare.

‘Why, exactly?’

‘I suppose I must like you. And I so seldom do like anyone.’

He smiled. ‘I hadn’t realized you were such a misanthrope. Well, I like you, too, as you must have guessed. Dear me, I’d no idea I’d made such headway. When did you decide to like me?’

‘I didn’t decide – I’ve only just noticed it, really. Though I did decide I could let myself be friends with you, when you told me … well, that it would be all right. You remember? Last night, in my room.’

‘Of course I remember. I managed to make you believe you could trust me, and so you can.’

‘And it’s been such fun all today – going shopping and everything.’

“That reminds me: as I shan’t be available for our shopping expedition tomorrow, I’ll have some clothes sent in for you to choose from, and a fitter to make any alterations you need.’

She shook her head. ‘I should choose the wrong ones. I always do. And it’d be no fun without you. Besides, I can’t accept any more presents – from someone who doesn’t like me enough to see me again.’

‘Of course I like you enough. I may be able to arrange something later. No, I mustn’t undertake that. The whole situation’s become impossible, and the damnable thing is that I can’t tell you why.’

‘Perhaps I can guess,’ said Clare. ‘Is it that you find it a bore, being friendly with anyone as … as innocuous as I am?’

He looked amused. ‘You still think of me as a ravening wolf. No, my child, it would never be a bore – though I’ll admit it just might become a
strain
. I doubt if I’m really cut out to remain an everlasting uncle. But that’s not the trouble now. What can I say to stop you from jumping to wrong conclusions? This room’s unbearably hot.’

He went to a window, flung it open and stood looking out. After a moment, she joined him and waited silently. The autumn night was misty, the trees in the park motionless, the air damply cold by contrast with that of the overheated room.

At last, without turning to her, he said: ‘You’d get a plausible lie if I could think of one but as I can’t you must have a portion of the truth. My grandfather wants me to do something which is quite out of the question. I’ve told him so but he’s determined to undermine me – and if I let him, I should never forgive myself. So I must clear out at once and stay away indefinitely.’

‘But surely that will upset him terribly? It might even make him ill.’

‘If so, I can’t help it. I wouldn’t give into him now even to save his life.’

She was shocked by the harshness of his tone. Very tentatively she said, ‘But mightn’t you be sorry later? He’s so old and frail. Couldn’t you possibly do what he wants?’ Her voice became coaxing. ‘Then we could all go on being happy.’

He turned towards her so suddenly that she backed a step.

‘Do you
know
what he wants?’

‘Me? How could I?

He looked at her searchingly. ‘You might conceivably guess.’

‘Do you mean it’s something to do with me?’

‘I can’t tell you any more, Clare. But it’s just possible my grandfather might, after I’ve gone. If so, will you promise not to walk out on him – anyway, without giving me the chance to persuade you not to? Nurse Brown will always know where to find me.’

‘Well, of course I’ll promise. But can’t you
please
tell me what the trouble is?’ She looked at him miserably. ‘If it is to do with me, if I’m to blame in some way …’

‘It’s abominable to bewilder you like this. Go back to the fire. You’re shivering. Give me a moment to think.’

After a few seconds he closed the window and followed her.

‘If I tell you the whole truth, will you try not to count it against him? You mean so much to him, Clare, and I’m so desperately afraid you’ll leave him.’

‘I won’t, truly I won’t,’ she assured him earnestly.

‘I must risk it, anyway. I can’t leave you in the dark. Now listen, my dear. You said something to him, in all innocence I’m almost sure …’

He broke off as the door was opened by Nurse Brown.

‘Mr Rowley’s asking for you, Mr Charles.’

After a second’s hesitation he said he would come at once, then turned to Clare. ‘You should go to bed. We’ve no right to let you work such late hours.’

‘I haven’t done any work today,’ said Clare. ‘And it’s too early for bed.’

‘Well, go off duty, anyway. You can read in your room.’

He looked at her very directly and then gave her the suspicion of a wink, which she instantly took to mean he would come and visit her. She flashed him a smile and said she would go at once.

‘Good night, then.’

‘Good night. And please say good night to Mr Rowley for me.’

‘I’ll remember to.’

She hurried to her room and sat down to wait – and to think. What could she possibly have said to cause trouble? She cast her mind back over the hours she had been forced to talk to Mr Rowley – about her home, her family, her childhood, her schooldays, books, the house in the walled garden … She could disinter nothing which could have led to his asking Mr Charles to do something unreasonable. Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense, two men being obstinate and proud. Mr Rowley at least had the excuse of old age. Mr Charles ought to give in, and once he had told her the truth, surely she could persuade him to? Of course she could; she was suddenly confident of it.

By eleven o’clock she was less confident. Suppose he hadn’t really meant to come and see her? Or suppose he had changed his mind? Suppose he actually went without seeing her? He had shown he didn’t
want
to explain …

The telephone rang. She rushed to answer it and heard his voice.

‘Clare? I’m speaking to you from my room. I’d hoped to come to you but now my grandfather has sent for me again.’

She said eagerly, ‘I don’t mind how late you come.’

‘Well, I do. I shan’t come now. It’s possible that he’s decided to see reason; if so, I shall be here in the morning. If not, I’ll get in touch with you – that’s a promise. Now go to sleep. Good night, my dear.’

‘But please …’

He had rung off. For a moment she considered ringing him back – or should she intercept him on his way to Mr Rowley? It wasn’t fair to leave her in suspense … She opened her door and looked along the quiet corridor, only to see Mr Charles enter the suite and close the door behind him.

Well, at least she had his promise. And his tone when he said, ‘Good night, my dear,’ had been very kind – even if he had hung up on her. She went to bed and to sleep.

At eight o’clock next morning the telephone woke her. She answered it sleepily.

Mr Charles, in a voice she scarcely recognized, said: ‘Clare, I have bad news for you. My grandfather is dead.’

After a few gasped words of dismay she had said she would come at once. But Mt Charles had told her not to, saying there was nothing she could do.

‘But I’d like to come – really! You must be dreadfully upset.’

‘Of course. But you can’t help me. Stay where you are. I’ve rung up to make sure you do.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t argue, Clare. Just give me your word you won’t leave your room until you’re sent for.’

She had done as he asked. Now, having dressed, she waited miserably. Sorry as she was about Mr Rowley she was even more distressed by the harshness of Mr Charles’s tone. She tried to believe his own distress accounted for it but could not help fearing he might, in remorse for quarrelling with Mt Rowley, blame her for – somehow – having had a share in it. And how awful that she had warned him he might be sorry later!

Around nine-thirty Nurse Brown telephoned.

‘You can come in now, dear. They’ve taken Mr Rowley away.’

Clare found the door of the suite open, as was every door within and most of the windows. It seemed to her that even the memory of Mr Rowley was being driven out.

‘Couldn’t he have stayed here in peace until the funeral?’ she said, unhappily.

‘Not in a hotel, dear. You couldn’t expect it. Mr Charles is seeing to everything.’

Clare had now realized that Mr Charles was not in the suite. She asked when he would be back.

‘Not for a day or two, he said; no doubt he’ll be ringing me up. I shall be staying on here for a while and he hoped you’d be kind enough to keep me company. I told him you’d be entitled to a month’s salary and, of course, he agreed. And he said how very sorry he was this should have happened so soon after you came to us.’

‘I still can’t take it in,’ said Clare. ‘It was so terribly sudden.’

‘Death’s never sudden when a man’s ninety,’ said Nurse Brown.

Clare was surprised to find how calm and almost cheerful the nurse seemed. Perhaps her professional acceptance of death ruled out personal regrets; or, rather, any display of them, for there was no doubt of the tenderness in her voice when she told Clare Mr Rowley had died in his sleep: ‘Just as I always hoped he might. But I wasn’t able to be with him, like I wanted. Well, that’s my loss, not his. He couldn’t have looked more peaceful.’

The night nurse had found Mr Rowley dead just before dawn. She had summoned Nurse Brown, who had waked Mr Charles. ‘Poor soul, he was shattered. But I’m thankful he was here when it happened.’

‘Were they – was everything all right between them?’ Clare’s voice dwindled as she saw the nurse look at her quickly.

‘How do you mean, dear?’

Clare thankfully remembered a justification for her question. ‘Well, last night you were worried about them.’

Nurse Brown looked away. ‘Oh, that was just my imagination. I’m sure they had ever such a happy evening together.

‘Mr Charles didn’t go to bed until nearly midnight. Now, have you had your breakfast?’

Clare said she didn’t want any.

‘I know how you feel, dear, but you must eat. And frankly I’ll be glad of something myself. Just ring for the waiter, will you? And after breakfast perhaps you’ll help me to pack Mr Rowley’s belongings. I must send for his trunks.’

The trunks, when they were eventually brought to the suite, proved to be old-fashioned, luxurious and huge, capable of holding far more than there was to be packed in them. Clare was astonished that Mr Rowley had retained so few clothes.

‘You see, he never went out,’ Nurse Brown explained. ‘That is, not for the last three years. Lots of things were sent to charities – refugees and the like.’

‘One would have thought he’d have had more personal possessions, photographs, souvenirs.’

‘There were never any here – not since I came, anyway. Of course he couldn’t see very much. By the way, dear, you’re to have those books you were going to read to him. I asked Mr Charles if I should send them back but he said his grandfather would have wished you to have them.’

Clare’s spirits, already low, sank lower. Though delightful in itself, the set of Dumas seemed so like a farewell present – along with a month’s salary.

‘I suppose I’ll have to look for another job,’ she said gloomily.

‘Whenever you like, unless I have to be out. One of us must be here in case Mr Charles rings up.’

‘I don’t know where to go, except Miss Gifford’s. I could telephone her. But she won’t be there this morning as it’s Saturday.’

In any case, Clare would not have telephoned. She felt incapable of it until she had been in touch with Mr Charles; though what she hoped of him she had no idea. Even if he had not turned against her, he was unlikely to know of
a job she was suited for – as hardly any such jobs existed. Already she had been overtaken by her old sense of spineless inadequacy.

The day dragged on, punctuated by meals served by the fatherly floor waiter, now positively motherly in his desire to sympathize. Clare was left much alone as Nurse Brown, after lunch, went to write letters and after dinner decided to get an early night. By then Clare realized that the nurse no longer wanted to talk and that her manner, when she could not avoid talking, had become guarded. While helping to pack Mr Rowley’s clothes, Clare had asked various questions about him and Mr Charles, only to be gently stonewalled again and again by a vague ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, dear’. The nurse had spoken fairly freely about her own plans: she was going to retire and live with a widowed sister in Birmingham. ‘I’ve saved quite a bit, and Mr Charles told me this morning that I’d never need to worry.’ But as regards anything approaching gossip her shutters were now up.

Clare spent the evening reading
Louise de la Vallière
. Ever after, she was to associate that book with these days of waiting.

There were three more of them ahead of her. On the Sunday Nurse Brown only appeared at meals; she spoke of having to write more letters and sort all her belongings before she began packing them. She had now discarded her uniform and looked smaller, older and less impressive. On the Monday she went shopping: ‘You won’t mind staying in, dear? There’s so much I need to buy before I leave London.’ On the Tuesday she shopped again. It rained all day, the fatherly floor waiter was off-duty, and by the late afternoon Clare’s low-spirited lethargy had changed to such acute misery that she made one of her rare attempts at self-analysis. Surely her circumstances didn’t warrant such utter wretchedness?

She would have a month’s salary (not that she’d ever discovered what her salary was to have been); a set of Dumas
(possibly valuable but she would never sell it); and a superb dressing-gown (which had put her off all the other clothes she possessed). Quite a lot to have achieved in less than a week … and Mr Charles
might
know of some job for her. If only he would ring up. It was this waiting that was getting her down; this waiting, waiting, waiting for the telephone to ring! But it would be even better if he would walk in – while Nurse Brown was out.

Her longing to see him was so intense that she suddenly wondered if she had fallen in love with him. But she was instantly sure she hadn’t. His age would not have worried her (the characters she admired in history or novels were usually pretty mature) but he really was very ugly and most unromantic (though she still thought their first meeting romantic in its own right). All she felt for him was a comfortable sort of liking. ‘And that was very important to me,’ she told herself and remembered he had called her a misanthrope. She treasured the word because he had used it.

Nurse Brown at last came in, laden with purchases and willing to talk about them. And she remained fairly sociable throughout dinner, during the course of which she said she hoped to leave London in about a week. ‘My room won’t be ready till then. My sister’s having it done over for me.’

‘Shall I have to leave here when you do?’ asked Clare.

‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, dear,’ said Nurse Brown, and changed the subject.

Again Clare sat reading till midnight, vainly willing the telephone to ring. As if to spite her, it eventually rang the next morning before she entered the suite.

Nurse Brown told her Mr Charles had sounded more cheerful. ‘I suppose we should call him “Mr Rowley” now. He says the dear old gentleman was cremated yesterday and everything went off nicely.’

(Did cremations, Clare wondered, ever not go off nicely?)

The nurse was continuing: ‘I’m to take Mr Rowley’s clothes to an address Mr Charles has given me – some charity; I’ll get a taxi this afternoon. And you’re to wait in and be ready dressed to go out at three o’clock.’

‘Out? Where?’ said Clare eagerly.

‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, dear. Mr Charles said he’d let you know later. He’ll probably telephone you.’

‘Do you think he might have some job in mind for me?’

But all she got was another ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, dear,’ and Nurse Brown turned away to order breakfast.

For the first time since Mr Rowley’s death Clare enjoyed her food. Her lethargy was replaced by pleasurable excitement; the telephone became her friend, though she resented the fact that at two-thirty it still had not rung. By then lunch was over and Nurse Brown was ready to go out.

‘Get your outdoor things and wait here for your call,’ she told Clare. ‘I’ve got to go somewhere else after taking Mr Rowley’s clothes so I want to be off.’

Clare got back to the suite as Nurse Brown was tipping porters for taking down Mr Rowley’s trunks. ‘That’s almost cleared the Beggars’ Bowl,’ she said, ‘and I’m nearly spent out. Mr Charles is posting me a cheque. Have you any money to spare, dear?’

Clare produced her still unchanged five-pound note.

‘Thanks, dear. I’ll get it changed downstairs, take a couple of pounds, and have the rest sent up to you. Put some of it in the Beggars’ Bowl, will you? I’ll straighten it all out when I get Mr Charles’s cheque. Bye-bye, dear.’

Once more Clare was left staring at a silent telephone.

Just before three the door bell buzzed. She opened the door expecting the change from her five-pound note, but the page who stood outside only handed her a letter.

‘For you, miss, and the car’s waiting.’

It was the page who had first shown her to the suite, just a week ago. She remembered he had hoped she would get the
job and that she hadn’t been able to tip him. Now she gave him the last coin in the Beggars’ Bowl before opening her letter.

‘The envelope contained two keys, one large, one small, and a note written in a heavy, black, strongly characterized writing which seemed to her particularly representative of Mr Charles.

She read the letter twice, then dashed after the departing page, calling that he was to hold the lift for her. As they went down she remembered she hadn’t had the change from her five-pound note; but no matter, as she would be meeting Mr Charles. Indeed, she rather liked the idea of venturing into the unknown without any money at all.

Bewildered, she was also enchanted; and the bewilderment was part of the enchantment. Getting into the large black car she smiled to think Mr Charles had imagined she might question the chauffeur. Not for worlds would she have known where she was going and she made no attempt to guess what was ahead of her. She merely gazed out at the sunny autumn afternoon and journeyed on in a haze of hope.

But she did wonder why those completely silent keys were supposed to speak for themselves.

The car took her up Bond Street; she recognized with pleasure the chocolate shop she had visited with Mr Charles. (Hardly any of her chocolates were eaten but her lovely roses had now begun to fall.) Was that the jeweller’s where they
had window-shopped? From then on, there were no more landmarks for her and she could not have said if she was being driven north, south, east or west. Vaguely she noticed wide, busy streets, then the entrance to a park and then a pleasant white church. Soon after this, they turned off the main road into a quiet residential district of old, well-kept houses; and here, in a narrow tree-lined street, the car drew up.

The chauffeur helped her out and she found herself facing a high garden wall with a green wooden door in it. And at last the keys spoke.

She took them from her handbag and fitted the largest into the keyhole of the green door. ‘The chauffeur stood by until she had opened the door, then saluted and went back to the car. Soon after she passed through the doorway and closed the door she heard him drive away.

She stood quite still, looking around her. The moment she had seen the door in the wall she had remembered Mr Rowley’s walled garden. So it was here in London, not outside some continental capital city. There was the lily pond, drained now, and two large bushes still retaining some shrivelled heads of lilac. Except for a scatter of recently fallen leaves the little enclosed garden was perfectly tidy, with the arid, minimum tidiness of a grave when its upkeep is paid for.

Ahead of her was the shuttered house. Walking towards it, she tried to remember what Mr Rowley had said about the interior … something about a room seen across a lighted hall. She had a quick expectation of cobwebbed chandeliers, a setting for the Sleeping Beauty without any occupants – or would everything be shrouded in dust-sheets? She turned the small key in the lock and opened the door.

The little hall was as tidy as the little garden.
Here
were no dust-sheets, no cobwebs – and no glass chandelier; the brass light-fitting hanging from the ceiling had three thick white globes and was a gaselier.

The doors opening onto the hall were festooned with maroon velvet draperies edged with a fringe of black,
silk-covered
balls. An empty brass
jardiniere
stood by a carved black oak hatstand of staggering ugliness. ‘Well, at least it’s a bearable floor,’ she thought, looking down at the black and white tiles. ‘I wonder they didn’t cover it with lino.’