Consider Her Ways (15 page)

‘But she wasn't there?'

‘Oh, she was – at least, I think she was.'

Solly de Kopf looked at him with concern.

‘George, you gotta get a grip on yourself. You went there to meet her, see that she got properly mugged and all that, and bring her here. Well, where is she?'

George sighed.

‘I don't know, Solly. I reckon she's vanished.'

‘Al,' said Solly, ‘ask him what
happened
.'

‘Sure, Chief. Look, George, you say the plane came in all right – then what?'

‘It was what came out of it that was the trouble.'

‘Well, what did come out of it?'

‘Lolos,' said George gloomily. ‘Thirty-six made-to-measure Lolos. Not a trace of a colleen, or an Irish Rose among 'em. Thirty-six Lolos,
all
certified up to Marinstein movie-standard,
all
claiming to be Deirdre Shilsean,
all
saying they've got a contract with us. It's heartbreaking.'

‘You mean, you can't tell which she is?' inquired Al.

‘Well,
you
try – they're all downstairs in the lobby. Anyway, it's
too late now if you did. Oh, the blue mountains, the emerald turf, the silver loughs – and the sweet soft-eyed colleen with the laughin' eyes … All gone. – Vanished away. Nothing but Lolos.' He sagged further into his chair, radiating a despondency that touched even Solly de Kopf.

Al, however, preserved a thoughtful detachment, and presently he brightened.

‘Say, Chief!'

‘Huh?' said Solly.

‘I been thinking, Chief, maybe that Irish stuff wouldn't have been so hot after all – kinda chancy and out of line. But we do still have a sure-fire script on hand – remember that one about the Roman wolf-pack and the Sabrinas?'

Mr Solly de Kopf sat silent for a moment, teeth clenched on his cigar, then he exhaled, and a gleam came into his eye.

‘And thirty-six Lolos waiting in the lobby! Al, you got it! What are we waiting for? Get down there, Al. Get 'em signed up right away – option, mind you, no figures yet.'

‘Sure, Chief,' Al said, as he made for the door.

And that is why they keen in the cottage in Barranacleugh by the Slieve Gamph for poor Peggy MacRafferty; her that was lissom as the reeds by the bog, with the sweet trustin' ways of her – her that never was seen again, at all. Ochone!

On the sheltered side of the house the sun was hot. Just inside the open french windows Mrs Dolderson moved her chair a few inches, so that her head would remain in the shade while the warmth could comfort the rest of her. Then she leant her head back on the cushion, looking out.

The scene was, for her, timeless.

Across the smooth lawn the cedar stood as it had always stood. Its flat spread boughs must, she supposed, reach a little further now than they had when she was a child, but it was hard to tell; the tree had seemed huge then, it seemed huge now. Farther on, the boundary hedge was just as trim and neat as it had always been. The gate into the spinney was still flanked by the two unidentifiable topiary birds, Cocky and Olly – wonderful that they should still be there, even though Olly's tail feathers had become a bit twiggy with age.

The flower-bed on the left, in front of the shrubbery, was as full of colour as ever – well, perhaps a little brighter; one had a feeling that flowers had become a trifle more strident than they used to be, but delightful nevertheless. The spinney beyond the hedge, however, had changed a little; more young trees, some of the larger ones gone. Between the branches were glimpses of pink roof where there had been no neighbours in the old days. Except for that, one could almost, for a moment, forget a whole lifetime.

The afternoon drowsing while the birds rested, the bees humming, the leaves gently stirring, the bonk-bonk from the tennis court round the corner, with an occasional voice giving the score. It might have been any sunny afternoon out of fifty or sixty summers.

Mrs
Dolderson smiled upon it, and loved it all; she had loved it when she was a girl, she loved it even more now.

In this house she had been born; she had grown up in it, married from it, come back to it after her father died, brought up her own two children in it, grown old in it … Some years after the second war she had come very near to losing it – but not quite; and here she still was …

It was Harold who had made it possible. A clever boy, and a wonderful son … When it had become quite clear that she could no longer afford to keep the house up, that it would have to be sold, it was Harold who had persuaded his firm to buy it. Their interest, he had told her, lay not in the house, but in the site – as would any buyer's. The house itself was almost without value now, but the position was convenient. As a condition of sale, four rooms on the south side had been converted into a flat which was to be hers for life. The rest of the house had become a hostel housing some twenty young people who worked in the laboratories and offices which now stood on the north side, on the site of the stables and part of the paddock. One day, she knew, the old house would come down, she had seen the plans, but for the present, for her time, both it and the garden to the south and west could remain unspoilt. Harold had assured her that they would not be required for fifteen or twenty years yet – much longer than she would know the need of them …

Nor, Mrs Dolderson thought calmly, would she be really sorry to go. One became useless, and, now that she must have a wheelchair, a burden to others. There was the feeling, too, that she no longer belonged – that she had become a stranger in another people's world. It had all altered so much; first changing into a place that it was difficult to understand, then growing so much more complex that one gave up trying to understand. No wonder, she thought, that the old become possessive about
things
; cling to objects which link them with the world that they could understand …

Harold was a dear boy, and for his sake she did her best not to
appear too stupid – but, often, it was difficult … Today, at lunch, for instance, he had been so excited about some experiment that was to take place this afternoon. He had
had
to talk about it, even though he must know that practically nothing of what he said was comprehensible to her. Something about dimensions again – she had grasped that much, but she had only nodded, and not attempted to go further. Last time the subject had cropped up, she had observed that in her youth there had been only three, and she did not see how even all this progress in the world could have added more. This had set him off on a dissertation about the mathematician's view of the world through which it was, apparently, possible to perceive the existence of a series of dimensions. Even the moment of existence in relation to time was, it seemed, some kind of dimension. Philosophically, Harold had begun to explain – but there, and at once, she had lost him. He led straight into confusion. She felt sure that when she was young philosophy, mathematics, and metaphysics had all been quite separate studies – nowadays they seemed to have quite incomprehensibly run together. So this time she had listened quietly, making small, encouraging sounds now and then, until at the end he had smiled ruefully, and told her she was a dear to be so patient with him. Then he had come round the table and kissed her cheek gently as he put his hand over hers, and she had wished him the best of luck with the afternoon's mysterious experiment. Then Jenny had come in to clear the table, and wheel her closer to the window …

The warmth of the slumbrous afternoon carried her into a half-dream, took her back fifty years to just such an afternoon when she had sat here in this very window – though certainly with no thought of a wheelchair in those days – waiting for Arthur … waiting with an ache in her heart for Arthur … and Arthur had never come …

Strange, it was, the way things fell out. If Arthur had come that day she would almost certainly have married him. And then Harold and Cynthia would never have existed. She would have
had children, of course, but they would not have been Harold and Cynthia … What a curious, haphazard thing one's existence was … Just by saying ‘no' to one man, and ‘yes' to another, a woman might bring into existence a potential murderer … How foolish they all were nowadays – trying to tidy everything up, make life secure, while behind, back in everyone's past, stretched the chance-studded line of women who had said ‘yes' or ‘no', as the fancy took them …

Curious that she should remember Arthur now. It must be years since she had thought of him …

She had been quite sure that he would propose that afternoon. It was before she had even heard of Colin Dolderson. And she would have agreed. Oh yes, she would have accepted him.

There had never been any explanation. She had never known
why
he did not come then – or any more. He had never written to her. Ten days, perhaps a fortnight later there had been a somewhat impersonal note from his mother telling her that he had been ill, and the doctor had advised sending him abroad. But after that, nothing at all – until the day she had seen his name in a newspaper, more than two years later …

She had been angry of course – a girl owed that to her pride – and hurt, too, for a time … Yet how could one know that it had not been for the best, in the end? – Would his children have been as dear to her, or as kind, and as clever as Harold and Cynthia …?

Such an infinity of chances … all those genes and things they talked about nowadays …

The thump of tennis-balls had ceased, and the players had gone; back, presumably, to their recondite work. Bees continued to hum purposefully among the flowers; half a dozen butterflies were visiting there too, though in a dilettante, unairworthy-looking way. The farther trees shimmered in the rising heat. The afternoon's drowsiness became irresistible. Mrs Dolderson did not oppose it. She leant her head back, half aware that somewhere another humming sound, higher in pitch than the bees',
had started, but it was not loud enough to be disturbing. She let her eyelids drop …

Suddenly, only a few yards away, but out of sight as she sat, there were feet on the path. The sound of them began quite abruptly, as if someone had just stepped from the grass on to the path – only she would have seen anyone crossing the grass … Simultaneously there was the sound of a baritone voice, singing cheerfully, but not loudly to itself. It, too, began quite suddenly; in the middle of a word in fact:

The voice cut off suddenly. The footsteps, too, came to a dead stop.

Mrs Dolderson's eyes were open now – very wide open. Her thin hands gripped the arms of her chair. She recollected the tune: more than that, she was even certain of the voice – after all these years … A silly dream, she told herself … She had been remembering him only a few moments before she closed her eyes … How foolish … !

And yet it was curiously undreamlike … Everything was so sharp and clear, so familiarly reasonable … The arms of the chair quite solid under her fingers …

Another idea leapt into her mind. She had died. That was why it was not like an ordinary dream. Sitting here in the sun, she must have quietly died. The doctor had said it might happen quite unexpectedly … And now it had! She had a swift moment of relief – not that she had felt any great fear of death, but there had been that sense of ordeal ahead. Now it was over – and with no ordeal. As simple as falling asleep. She felt suddenly happy about it; quite exhilarated … Though it was odd that she still seemed to be tied to her chair …

The gravel crunched under shifting feet. A bewildered voice said:

‘That's rum! Dashed queer! What the devil's happened?'

Mrs
Dolderson sat motionless in her chair. There was no doubt whatever about the voice.

A pause. The feet shifted, as if uncertain. Then they came on, but slowly now, hesitantly. They brought a young man into her view. – Oh, such a very young man, he looked. She felt a little catch at her heart …

He was dressed in a striped club-blazer, and white flannel trousers. There was a silk scarf round his neck, and, tilted back off his forehead, a straw hat with a coloured band. His hands were in his trousers pockets, and he carried a tennis-racket under his left arm.

She saw him first in profile, and not quite at his best, for his expression was bewildered, and his mouth slightly open as he stared towards the spinney at one of the pink roofs beyond.

‘Arthur,' Mrs Dolderson said gently.

He was startled. The racket slipped, and clattered on the path. He attempted to pick it up, take off his hat, and recover his composure all at the same time; not very successfully. When he straightened his face was pink, and its expression still confused.

He looked at the old lady in the chair, her knees hidden by a rug, her thin, delicate hands gripping the arms. His gaze went beyond her, into the room. His confusion increased, with a touch of alarm added. His eyes went back to the old lady. She was regarding him intently. He could not recall ever having seen her before, did not know who she could be – yet in her eyes there seemed to be something faintly, faintly not unfamiliar.

She dropped her gaze to her right hand. She studied it for a moment as though it puzzled her a little, then she raised her eyes again to his.

‘You don't know me, Arthur?' she asked quietly.

There was a note of sadness in her voice that he took for disappointment, tinged with reproof. He did his best to pull himself together.

‘I – I'm afraid not,' he confessed. ‘You see I – er – you – er –' he stuck, and then went on desperately: ‘You must be Thelma's – Miss Kilder's – aunt?'

She
looked at him steadily for some moments. He did not understand her expression, but then she told him:

‘No. I am not Thelma's aunt.'

Again his gaze went into the room behind her. This time he shook his head in bewilderment.

‘It's all different – no, sort of half-different,' he said, in distress. ‘I say, I can't have come to the wrong –?' He broke off, and turned to look at the garden again. ‘No, it certainly isn't that,' he answered himself decisively. ‘But what – what
has
happened?'

His amazement was no longer simple; he was looking badly shaken. His bewildered eyes came back to her again.

‘Please – I don't understand –
how
did you know me?' he asked.

His increasing distress troubled her, and made her careful.

‘I recognized you, Arthur. We have met before, you know.'

‘Have we? I can't remember … I'm terribly sorry …'

‘You're looking unwell, Arthur. Draw up that chair, and rest a little.'

‘Thank you, Mrs – er – Mrs –?'

‘Dolderson,' she told him.

‘Thank you, Mrs Dolderson,' he said, frowning a little, trying to place the name.

She watched him pull the chair closer. Every movement, every line familiar, even to the lock of fair hair that always fell forward when he stooped. He sat down and remained silent for some moments, staring under a frown, across the garden.

Mrs Dolderson sat still, too. She was scarcely less bewildered than he, though she did not reveal it. Clearly the thought that she was dead had been quite silly. She was just as usual, still in her chair, still aware of the ache in her back, still able to grip the arms of the chair and feel them. Yet it was not a dream – everything was too textured, too solid, too real in a way that dream things never were … Too sensible, too – that was, they would have been had the young man been any other than Arthur …?