The Umbrella Man and Other Stories (19 page)

She sat still in the car with her hands clasped together tight under the rug.

“Will you write to me?” she asked.

“I’ll see,” he said. “But I doubt it. You know I don’t hold with letter-writing unless there’s something specific to say.”

“Yes, dear, I know. So don’t you bother.”

They drove on, along Queen’s Boulevard, and as they approached the flat marshland on which Idlewild is built, the fog began to thicken and the car had to slow down.

“Oh dear!” cried Mrs. Foster. “I’m
sure
I’m going to miss it now! What time is it?”

“Stop fussing,” the old man said. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s bound to be cancelled now. They never fly in this sort of weather. I don’t know why you bothered to come out.”

She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to her that there was suddenly a new note in his voice, and she turned to look at him. It was difficult to observe any change in his expression under all that hair. The mouth was what counted. She wished, as she had so often before, that she could see the mouth clearly. The eyes never showed anything except when he was in a rage.

“Of course,” he went on, “if by any chance it
does
go, then I agree with you—you’ll be certain to miss it now. Why don’t you resign yourself to that?”

She turned away and peered through the window at the fog. It seemed to be getting thicker as they went along, and now she could only just make out the edge of the road and the margin
of grassland beyond it. She knew that her husband was still looking at her. She glanced at him again, and this time she noticed with a kind of horror that he was staring intently at the little place in the corner of her left eye where she could feel the muscle twitching.

“Won’t you?” he said.

“Won’t I what?”

“Be sure to miss it now if it goes. We can’t drive fast in this muck.”

He didn’t speak to her any more after that. The car crawled on and on. The driver had a yellow lamp directed on to the edge of the road, and this helped him to keep going. Other lights, some white and some yellow, kept coming out of the fog towards them, and there was an especially bright one that followed close behind them all the time.

Suddenly, the driver stopped the car.

“There!” Mr. Foster cried. “We’re stuck. I knew it.”

“No, sir,” the driver said, turning round. “We made it. This is the airport.”

Without a word, Mrs. Foster jumped out and hurried through the main entrance into the building. There was a mass of people inside, mostly disconsolate passengers standing around the ticket counters. She pushed her way through and spoke to the clerk.

“Yes,” he said. “Your flight is temporarily postponed. But please don’t go away. We’re expecting this weather to clear any moment.”

She went back to her husband who was still sitting in the car and told him the news. “But don’t you wait, dear,” she said. “There’s no sense in that.”

“I won’t,” he answered. “So long as the driver can get me back. Can you get me back, driver?”

“I think so,” the man said.

“Is the luggage out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good-bye, dear,” Mrs. Foster said, leaning into the car and giving her husband a small kiss on the coarse grey fur of his cheek.

“Good-bye,” he answered. “Have a good trip.”

The car drove off, and Mrs. Foster was left alone.

The rest of the day was a sort of nightmare for her. She sat for hour after hour on a bench, as close to the airline counter as possible, and every thirty minutes or so she would get up and ask the clerk if the situation had changed. She always received the same reply—that she must continue to wait, because the fog might blow away at any moment. It wasn’t until after six in the evening that the loudspeakers finally announced that the flight had been postponed until eleven o’clock the next morning.

Mrs. Foster didn’t quite know what to do when she heard this news. She stayed sitting on her bench for at least another half-hour, wondering, in a tired, hazy sort of way, where she might go to spend the night. She hated to leave the airport. She didn’t wish to see her husband. She was terrified that in one way or another he would eventually manage to prevent her from getting to France. She would have liked to remain just where she was, sitting on the bench the whole night through. That would be the safest. But she was already exhausted, and it didn’t take her long to realize that this was a ridiculous thing for an elderly lady to do. So in the end she went to a phone and called the house.

Her husband, who was on the point of leaving for the club, answered it himself. She told him the news, and asked whether the servants were still there.

“They’ve all gone,” he said.

“In that case, dear, I’ll just get myself a room somewhere for the night. And don’t you bother yourself about it at all.”

“That would be foolish,” he said. “You’ve got a large house here at your disposal. Use it.”

“But, dear, it’s
empty.”

“Then I’ll stay with you myself.”

“There’s no food in the house. There’s nothing.”

“Then eat before you come in. Don’t be so stupid, woman. Everything you do, you seem to want to make a fuss about it.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.”

Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.

Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. “Well,” he said, standing by the study door, “how was Paris?”

“We leave at eleven in the morning,” she answered. “It’s definite.”

“You mean if the fog clears.”

“It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.”

“You look tired,” he said. “You must have had an anxious day.”

“It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”

“I’ve ordered a car for the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”

“Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.”

“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.”

She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.

“The club is downtown,” she said. “It isn’t on the way to the airport.”

“But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?”

“Oh, yes—of course.”

“That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.”

She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.

Next morning, Mrs. Foster was up early, and by eight-thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.

Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. “Did you make any coffee?” he asked.

“No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.”

They were standing in the hall—they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays—she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.

“Your luggage?”

“It’s at the airport.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes—
please
!”

“I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.”

She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.

“What time is it?” she asked him.

“About nine-fifteen.”

Mr. Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.

“Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,” he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.

“Hurry, please,” she said to the chauffeur. “Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.”

The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.

“
Just
a moment!” Mr. Foster said suddenly. “Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?”

“What is it, dear?” She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.

“I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,” he said. “Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I came down.”

“I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?”

“A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don’t want to forget it today.”

“A little box!” Mrs. Foster cried. “I never saw any little box!” She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.

Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his jacket. “Confound it,” he said, “I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I won’t be a moment.”

“Oh,
please
!” she cried. “We haven’t got time!
Please
leave it! You can mail it. It’s only one of those silly combs anyway. You’re always giving her combs.”

“And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?” he said, furious that she should have forgotten herself for once.

“Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But . . . ”

“Stay here!” he commanded. “I’m going to get it.”

“Be quick, dear! Oh,
please
be quick!”

She sat still, waiting and waiting.

“Chauffeur, what time is it?”

The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. “I make it nearly nine-thirty.”

“Can we get to the airport in an hour?”

“Just about.”

At this point, Mrs. Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.

“Here it is!” she cried. “I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll be up there for ever searching for it! Chauffeur, quickly—run in and call him down, will you please?”

The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth, didn’t care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned and came back. “Door’s locked,” he announced. “You got a key?”

“Yes—wait a minute.” She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.

“Here it is! No—I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know where he’ll be.”

She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it—and then she stopped. Her head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited—five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place far away inside the house.

Yes—quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a
listening
one. She appeared actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house.

Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came running back down the steps.

“It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!”

The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.

“Hurry, driver, hurry!”

“Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked, astonished.

“Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club. It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll get a cab. Don’t sit there talking, man.
Get going
! I’ve got a plane to catch for Paris!”

With Mrs. Foster urging him from the back seat, the man drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic, reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all, but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had done than anything else, and as the plane flew further and further away from New York and East Sixty-second Street, a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as she could wish.

She met her grandchildren, and they were even more beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought them presents, and told them charming stories.

Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her husband—a nice, chatty letter—full of news and gossip, which always ended with the words “Now be sure to take your meals regularly, dear, although this is something I’m afraid you may not be doing when I’m not with you.”