Dorothy Eden (62 page)

But the feeling persisted that it might be convenient for them that Bella drank. Sometimes it might be convenient. Such as when someone or something cried in the night…

“Simon, I found a long grey hair in one of the empty rooms.”

Simon stared at her with what seemed to be complete amazement.

“What on earth made you pick that up? How disgusting!” Then he said, “We had a char in once or twice. What a funny girl you are.”

A charwoman. That would be the explanation, of course. Simon was right. She was being foolish.

Simon, dancing a little unsteadily, was now pursuing his own thoughts.

“I wish Iris hadn’t wanted that cat. It’s unfair of me not to let her have a pet, but I’m nervous about my birds. If he should get one he’d tear it to bits in a minute. Tear it to bits.”

“Antonia!” came Dougal’s voice. “It’s time you danced with me.” He had her in his arms almost before Simon had vaguely relinquished her. In the first step he trod on her toe.

“Oh, how clumsy you are!” she exclaimed exaggeratedly.

“Sorry! I know that other fellow’s a better dancer than me.”

“You mean Doctor Bealey? Yes, he dances very well.” Perversity made her refrain from adding that she would prefer to dance with anyone in the world rather than Doctor Bealey.

“You shouldn’t be dancing on that ankle, anyway,” he said disapprovingly.

“I know. It’s beginning to swell. Isn’t it odd, Dougal, Ralph Bealey was that man I told you about in the plane.”

Now she had his startled interest. His clear blue eyes, wide apart beneath their thick golden brows, stared at her. She looked back into them, taking deep pleasure in their straightness, their lack of guile.

“He wanted to meet me,” she said dreamily.

“That old stuff!” There was contempt in his voice.

“It still works. At least Ralph thinks it does.”

“And do you?”

She smiled. She wanted to feel the kitten’s tongue roughness of his skin against her cheek again. She wanted to listen to him talking, just about anything at all. She mustn’t have any more gin or she would begin to think she was in love with this nice, honest, unimaginative New Zealand solicitor. It was unlikely he would return her love and then she would be extremely unhappy. It was safer not to be in love.

“Me! Oh, anything works if you like a person.”

His face stiffened. He trod on her toe again and said angrily, “Sorry! Are you sure he’s not a fortune hunter?”

Antonia laughed merrily.

“Dougal, this is 1951. Four thousand pounds isn’t even remotely a fortune. It’s only some people’s income tax.”

“Are you sure—” Dougal was beginning, when suddenly there was a loud screeching and spitting from the hall. Iris darted to the door.

“Gussie!” she screamed. “Gussie, put that cat down!”

Gussie, Antonia saw, as she too reached the door, had Ptolemy held firmly by his four paws, two in each hand. He was swinging him in a circle while the cat struggled and spat. As Iris ran forward Gussie retreated to the stairway.

“See!” he cried in wicked glee. “See him doing a nose dive.”

He swung the frenzied animal in another wild swoop, then with a last screech Ptolemy escaped him and fled for the open door.

Iris, beside herself with rage, reached Gussie and slapped him stingingly on either cheek.

“You little brute! You heartless little brute!”

“Ah!”
gasped Bella in pain.

Gussie rubbed his cheek. He began to whimper.

“I’ll tell on you. I’ll tell something you don’t want me to.”

Bella ran unsteadily forward.

“Gussie, come here! Can’t you keep out of mischief, you little devil!”

Iris turned her flushed angry face.

“Bella, for goodness’ sake keep him under control. He’s getting impossible. First that mess in my room, and now this.”

Bella put her arm round the boy roughly but not unkindly. Gussie had his arm crooked over his eyes.

“Her hit me!” he muttered. “I’ll tell Miss Webb what—”

“You be quiet now,” Bella hissed. “You come and get off to bed.”

“Yes, take him to bed, Bella.” Suddenly Iris sounded very tired. She gave a brilliant but worn smile at her guests. “Sorry for that diversion, folks. Gussie, as you will perceive, is something of a problem child.”

Simon went to take her hand, in a kind of clumsy embarrassment, as if he couldn’t get used to fondling her in public.

“Don’t let it worry you, sweet. If Gussie’s going to be too troublesome—”

But Iris had resolutely recovered her self-control. She said remorsefully, “No, we must be more patient with him. Poor little devil, he hasn’t had a chance. And Ptolemy wasn’t hurt. I don’t think Gussie would really hurt him. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Let’s all have another drink.”

The scene, however, had spoilt the party, and it broke up within a few minutes. The Conroys went home and the Halsteads and Doctor Bealey to the bed in the other wing.

Antonia, vaguely distressed that in the general upset Dougal hadn’t had an opportunity to say good night to her alone (would he have wanted to?) went slowly upstairs to her room. She didn’t feel even remotely sleepy. She stood for a while at the open window watching the lights twinkling over the bay and listening to the dull thunder of the sea on the rocks below. The wind was almost still tonight. There was no sound of the melancholy whistling buoy. It was a good night for the first night Iris’s guests spent here. They would at least be able to sleep soundly.

(If it had been seagulls that had cried that first night why had she never heard them again?)

Presently, down the hillside, she distinguished the light going on in the Conroy house and she thought with affection of Henrietta’s big generous face and wild theories. His mother’s colourful mind and interminable chatter would tend to make Dougal reserved. What went on in his mind? Why did he look at her with that slight frown of perplexity as if something about her was worrying him? Why, after all the men she had met, did this quiet-eyed, golden-browed young man in New Zealand have to get so frequently into her thoughts?

Antonia heard Simon’s heavy footsteps down the passage. She heard him yawn loudly and start making bumping movements in the bedroom. Then abruptly something slithered in the passage. Iris’s voice came in a loud angry whisper, “Get downstairs, you bad boy! At once.”

Antonia went to the door to see Iris clutching Gussie’s thin shoulder and pushing him to the staircase.

“What’s he doing up here?” she called.

Iris turned a flushed face.

“Heaven knows! I’m just about tired of him.” She gave Gussie a final push. “Now get away downstairs to bed.”

She came along to Antonia’s room.

“What a child! Can I come in and have a cigarette?” She was breathing quickly and her eyes were too bright again.

“Yes, do. I’m wide awake myself. Gussie is getting naughty, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s impossible. It’s only because I’m sorry for his mother that I tolerate him at all. Now he’s getting a new trick of making up the most extraordinary stories. Tell me, has he been running to you with any of them?”

“He said he was going to tell me about something someone gave him. That’s all. I didn’t pay much attention.”

Antonia lit a cigarette and watched Iris. She walked to the window and drew the curtains across in a quick movement.

“I wonder what it was. But children of that age attach so much importance to nothing at all.” She sat down and inhaled smoke, sighing deeply. “God, I’m tired now. Wasn’t it a nice party until Gussie spoilt it? Tell me, did you like Ralph Bealey?”

“He dances well,” Antonia said non-committally.

“I know. And his manners are entrancing. I think he’s rather a pet. He’ll definitely be our medical adviser. He has taken rooms in town, you know, but so far he hasn’t found a place to live. He’ll marry, of course.”

“I daresay he will,” Antonia murmured. What was in Iris’s devious mind now?

“As a matter of fact,” she went on honestly, “I didn’t quite trust him.”

Iris opened her eyes wide.

“Not trust him! Whatever do you mean? Surely you aren’t old-fashioned to think he’s going to seduce you!”

“It wasn’t seduction I was thinking of,” Antonia answered coolly.

“Then what are you thinking of?”

“I don’t really know. I should think he’s a very devious person.”

“Darling, you shouldn’t always analyse people like that. Accept them, enjoy them as I do. I think Ralph’s quite charming, and if you only knew it your prejudice simply arises from this peculiar antagonism you have for doctors. It’s a psychosis you have. But let’s not worry about it now. I’ll leave you to get a good sleep. Good night, dear.” She bent to put her cool lips against Antonia’s forehead. “You must rest more. Don’t get up until late in the morning.”

In bed Antonia fell asleep almost at once, but she had a disturbing dream about Ralph Bealey in which his hands, enlarged to gigantic proportions, were twice the size of his body, and he was coming towards her with the fingers curled. Then, as she frantically pushed them away she found she was holding a telephone and a low whispering voice was saying, “It’s your turn next. It’s your turn next.”

And then the scream came.

That wasn’t part of her dream. She was positive it wasn’t. She sat upright, her heart pounding, perspiration cold on her forehead.

Now there was no sound at all except the sighing of the pines, and the faint intermittent clatter of the flax bush. She forced herself to get out of bed and go to the window.

Moonlight lay over the hillside, and sparkled in a cold colourless light on the water. The only movement in the garden was the slight bowing of tree shadows. There were no lights on in the house. No one else had been disturbed.
Had
she heard that scream?

Doubtful now, she was just going back to bed when she heard stealthy footsteps up the stairs. A chink of light showed under her door and then moved away.

All her impulse was to dive into bed and hide trembling beneath the blankets. But that way she would never find out anything. With a superhuman effort she made herself cross to the door and throw it open.

Someone a little way down the passage turned sharply, and a flashlight went out.

“Oh, is that you, Tonia?” Iris whispered. She was out of breath and breathing in great gulps. “Did I disturb you? I went down for Ptolemy. He was fighting with a great tomcat. I heard him screech.”

In the darkness Antonia could just distinguish the pale blur of the cat against Iris’s breast. She gave a deep sigh of relief.

“I heard that screech, too. I thought it was someone screaming.”

“And no wonder.” Iris was beginning to recover her breath. “He has a voice like a banshee. Haven’t you, sweetie? I’m sorry you were disturbed, Antonia. Go back to bed and get some sleep.”

H
IS SLAPPING THE PREVIOUS
evening had done Gussie good for he had got up early and cleaned all the shoes. But Iris had to confess that his good intentions had broken down at that stage and he had sneaked off fishing before breakfast.

“One can be too lenient with a boy of that type,” Doctor Bealey observed. “The only thing they really respect is severity, and Gussie obviously doesn’t get that from his mother.”

“Well, we’ll know in future,” said Iris. “Tell me, did everyone sleep well? I did, when I had settled a fight between Ptolemy and a perfectly horrible stray. I expect you all heard it.”

But Iris didn’t look as if she had slept well at all. She was very pale and there were smudges under her eyes. And she still had that unexplainable look of excitement and tension.

Joyce Halstead said that when she went to bed she slept like the dead. So did her husband. Doctor Bealey made no comment at all. His narrow pale face was bent over his plate as if he were concentrated on his food, but he wasn’t missing anything, Antonia knew. He had a quick restless look that was expressed more in the rapid movements of his hands than in anything else. He was not, she decided, a comfortable person.

“Anyway, Antonia,” Iris was saying, “you didn’t get into any trouble last night.” She addressed her remarks to the rest of the company. “Antonia has been doing extraordinary things. First she imagines she hears queer noises all night and then she falls down the stairs.”

“Queer noises!” exclaimed Joyce Halstead, her eyes open wide. “How spooky! I expect it would be seagulls, wouldn’t it? Or is the house haunted?”

“Not that we know of. We haven’t been here long enough to find out. No, it was seagulls, of course. I’ve heard them myself on nights when there’s a storm coming.”

Antonia was aware of Ralph Bealey looking at her.

“Are you a sleep-walker?”

Iris answered for her. “She swears she isn’t, but as I say, how does one know whether one sleep-walks or not? It’s only other people who know.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Antonia said flatly.

She had a perfectly unreasonable feeling that everyone here, beneath their apparent friendliness, was really her enemy—Simon taking large mouthfuls of toast and chewing them up, his little moist full mouth moving rapidly, his eyes never meeting hers; Iris with her friendly concern and her slick smooth explanations, her quick flaming temper and her wariness; Ralph Bealey, too interested, too aware of her, his eyes glinting with excitement and meaning when he looked at her; Joyce and David Halstead not so much hostile as disturbed and disliking anything not quite normal.

If she were going to think things like that, she told herself uneasily, she really was becoming a little unbalanced. There was no reason on earth for any of these people to be hostile. It was purely her imagination.

“Such a malady,” said Doctor Bealey suddenly, “could be brought on by a nervous condition. Have you been ill, Antonia?”

“I had flu rather badly before I left London,” Antonia answered defensively.

“Ah! Perhaps your system is depleted.”

“You don’t look strong, dear,” Joyce Halstead said sympathetically. “I’m sure this place will do you all the good in the world. All that sea air coming up. So fresh and bracing. There’s nothing like New Zealand air, I say.”