Endless Night (4 page)

“It's our secret,” said Ellie and looked embarrassed.

“Yours and Greta's? Tell me.”

She shook her head. “I must have
some
secrets of my own,” she said.

“Does your Greta know you're meeting me?”

“She knows I'm meeting someone. That's all. She doesn't ask questions. She knows I'm happy.”

After that there was a week when I didn't see Ellie. Her stepmother had come back from Paris, also someone whom she called Uncle Frank, and she explained almost casually that she was having a birthday, and that they were giving a big party for her in London.

“I shan't be able to get away,” she said. “Not for the next week. But after that—after that, it'll be different.”

“Why will it be different after that?”

“I shall be able to do what I like then.”

“With Greta's help as usual?” I said.

It used to make Ellie laugh the way I talked about Greta. She'd say, “You're so silly to be jealous of her. One day you must meet her. You'll like her.”

“I don't like bossy girls,” I said obstinately.

“Why do you think she's bossy?”

“By the way you talk about her. She's always busy arranging something.”

“She's very efficient,” said Ellie. “She arranges things very well. That's why my stepmother relies on her so much.”

I asked what her Uncle Frank was like.

She said, “I don't know him really so very well. He was my father's sister's husband, not a real relation. I think he's always been rather a rolling stone and got into trouble once or twice. You know the way people talk about someone and sort of hint things.”

“Not socially acceptable?” I asked. “Bad lot?”

“Oh, nothing really bad I think, but he used to get into scrapes, I believe. Financial ones. And trustees and lawyers and people used to have to get him out of them. Pay up for things.”

“That's it,” I said. “He's the bad hat of the family. I expect I'd get on better with him than I would with the paragon Greta.”

“He can make himself very agreeable when he likes,” said Ellie. “He's good company.”

“But you don't really like him?” I asked sharply.

“I think I do…It's just that sometimes, oh I can't explain it. I just feel I don't know what he's thinking or planning.”

“One of our planners, is he?”

“I don't know what he's really like,” said Ellie again.

She didn't ever suggest that I should meet any of her family. I wondered sometimes if I ought to say something about it myself. I didn't know how she felt about the subject. I asked her straight out at last.

“Look here, Ellie,” I said, “do you think I ought to—meet your family or would you rather I didn't?”

“I don't want you to meet them,” she said at once.

“I know I'm not much—” I said.

“I don't mean it
that
way, not a bit! I mean they'd make a
fuss.
I can't stand a fuss.”

“I sometimes feel,” I said, “that this is rather a hole and corner business. It puts me in a rather bad light, don't you think?”

“I'm old enough to have my own friends,” said Ellie. “I'm nearly twenty-one. When I am twenty-one I can have my own friends and nobody can stop me. But now you see—well, as I say there'd be a terrible fuss and they'd cart me off somewhere so
that I couldn't meet you. There'd be—oh do,
do
let's go on as we are now.”

“Suits me if it suits you,” I said. “I just didn't want to be, well, too underhand about everything.”

“It's not being underhand. It's just having a friend one can talk to and say things to. It's someone one can—” she smiled suddenly, “one can make-believe with. You don't know how wonderful that is.”

Yes, there was a lot of that—make-believe! More and more our times together were to turn out that way. Sometimes it was me. More often it was Ellie who'd say, “Let's suppose that we've bought Gipsy's Acre and that we're building a house there.”

I had told her a lot about Santonix and about the houses he'd built. I tried to describe to her the kind of houses they were and the way he thought about things. I don't think I described it very well because I'm not good at describing things. Ellie no doubt had her own picture of the house—our house. We didn't
say
“our house” but we knew that's what we meant….

So for over a week I wasn't to see Ellie. I had taken out what savings I had (there weren't many), and I'd bought her a little green shamrock ring made of some Irish bog stone. I'd given it to her for a birthday present and she'd loved it and looked very happy.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

She didn't wear much jewellery and when she did I had no doubt it was real diamonds and emeralds and things like that but she liked my Irish ring.

“It will be the birthday present I like best,” she said.

Then I got a hurried note from her. She was going abroad with her family to the South of France immediately after her birthday.

“But don't worry,” she wrote, “we shall be back again in two or three weeks” time, on our way to America this time. But anyway we'll meet again then. I've got something special I want to talk to you about.”

I felt restless and ill at ease not seeing Ellie and knowing she'd gone abroad to France. I had a bit of news about the Gipsy's Acre property too. Apparently it
had
been sold by private treaty but there wasn't much information about who'd bought it. Some firm of London solicitors apparently were named as the purchasers. I tried to get more information about it, but I couldn't. The firm in question were very cagey. Naturally I didn't approach the principals. I palled up to one of their clerks and so got a little vague information. It had been bought for a very rich client who was going to hold it as a good investment capable of appreciation when the land in that part of the country was becoming more developed.

It's very hard to find out about things when you're dealing with really exclusive firms. Everything is as much of a deadly secret as though they were M.I.5 or something! Everyone is always acting on behalf of someone else who can't be named or spoken of! Takeover bids aren't in it!

I got into a terrible state of restlessness. I stopped thinking about it all and I went and saw my mother.

I hadn't been to see her for a good long time.

M
y mother lived in the same street she had lived in for the last twenty years, a street of drab houses all highly respectable and devoid of any kind of beauty or interest. The front doorstep was nicely whitened and it looked just the same as usual. It was No. 46. I pressed the front doorbell. My mother opened the door and stood there looking at me. She looked just the same as usual, too. Tall and angular, grey hair parted in the middle, mouth like a rattrap, and eyes that were eternally suspicious. She looked hard as nails. But where I was concerned there was a core of softness somewhere in her. She never showed it, not if she could help it, but I'd found out that it was there. She'd never stopped for a moment wanting me to be different but her wishes were never going to come true. There was a perpetual state of stalemate between us.

“Oh,” she said, “so it's you.”

“Yes,” I said, “it's me.”

She drew back a little to let me pass and I came into the house and went on past the sitting room door and into the kitchen. She followed me and stood looking at me.

“It's been quite a long time,” she said. “What have you been doing?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“This and that,” I said.

“Ah,” said my mother, “as usual, eh?”

“As usual,” I agreed.

“How many jobs have you had since I saw you last?”

I thought a minute. “Five,” I said.

“I wish you'd grow up.”

“I'm fully adult,” I said. “I have chosen my way of life. How have things been with you?” I added.

“Also as usual,” said my mother.

“Quite well and all that?”

“I've no time to waste being ill,” said my mother. Then she said abruptly, “What have you come for?”

“Should I have come for anything in particular?”

“You usually do.”

“I don't see why you should disapprove so strongly of my seeing the world,” I said.

“Driving luxurious cars all over the Continent! Is that your idea of seeing the world?”

“Certainly.”

“You won't make much of a success in that. Not if you throw up the job at a day's notice and go sick, dumping your clients in some heathen town.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Your firm rang up. They wanted to know if I knew your address.”

“What did they want me for?”

“They wanted to reemploy you I suppose,” said my mother. “I can't think why.”

“Because I'm a good driver and the clients like me. Anyway, I couldn't help it if I went sick, could I?”

“I don't know,” said my mother.

Her view clearly was that I could have helped it.

“Why didn't you report to them when you got back to England?”

“Because I had other fish to fry,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “More notions in your head? More wild ideas? What jobs have you been doing since?”

“Petrol pump. Mechanic in a garage. Temporary clerk, washer-up in a sleazy nightclub restaurant.”

“Going down the hill in fact,” said my mother with a kind of grim satisfaction.

“Not at all,” I said. “It's all part of the plan. My plan!”

She sighed. “What would you like, tea or coffee? I've got both.”

I plumped for coffee. I've grown out of the tea-drinking habit. We sat there with our cups in front of us and she took a home-made cake out of a tin and cut us each a slice.

“You're different,” she said, suddenly.

“Me, how?”

“I don't know, but you're different. What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened. What should have happened?”

“You're excited,” she said.

“I'm going to rob a bank,” I said.

She was not in the mood to be amused. She merely said:

“No, I'm not afraid of your doing that.”

“Why not? Seems a very easy way of getting rich quickly nowadays.”

“It would need too much work,” she said. “And a lot of planning. More brainwork than you'd like to have to do. Not safe enough, either.”

“You think you know all about me,” I said.

“No, I don't. I don't really know anything about you, because you and I are as different as chalk and cheese. But I know when you're up to something. You're up to something now. What is it, Micky? Is it a girl?”

“Why should you think it's a girl?”

“I've always known it would happen some day.”

“What do you mean by ‘some day?' I've had lots of girls.”

“Not the way I mean. It's only been the way of a young man with nothing to do. You've kept your hand in with girls but you've never been really serious till now.”

“But you think I'm serious now?”

“Is it a girl, Micky?”

I didn't meet her eyes. I looked away and said, “In a way.”

“What kind of a girl is she?”

“The right kind for me,” I said.

“Are you going to bring her to see me?”

“No,” I said.

“It's like that, is it?”

“No, it isn't. I don't want to hurt your feelings but—”

“You're not hurting my feelings. You don't want me to see her in case I should say to you ‘Don't.' Is that it?”

“I wouldn't pay any attention if you did.”

“Maybe not, but it would shake you. It would shake you somewhere inside because you take notice of what I say and think. There are things I've guessed about you—and maybe I've guessed right
and you know it. I'm the only person in the world who can shake your confidence in yourself. Is this girl a bad lot who's got hold of you?”

“Bad lot?” I said and laughed. “If you only saw her! You make me laugh.”

“What do you want from me? You want something. You always do.”

“I want some money,” I said.

“You won't get it from me. What do you want it for—to spend on this girl?”

“No,” I said, “I want to buy a first-class suit to get married in.”

“You're going to marry her?”

“If she'll have me.”

That shook her.

“If you'd only tell me something!” she said. “You've got it badly, I can see that. It's the thing I always feared, that you'd choose the wrong girl.”

“Wrong girl! Hell!” I shouted. I was angry.

I went out of the house and I banged the door.

W
hen I got home there was a telegram waiting for me—it had been sent from Antibes.

Ellie was different. I saw it at once. We met as always in Regent's Park and at first we were a bit strange and awkward with each other. I had something I was going to say to her and I was in a bit of a state as to how to put it. I suppose any man is when he comes to the point of proposing marriage.

And she was strange about something too. Perhaps she was considering the nicest and kindest way of saying No to me. But somehow I didn't think that. My whole belief in life was based on the fact that Ellie loved me. But there was a new independence about her, a new confidence in herself which I could hardly feel was simply because she was a year older. One more birthday can't make that difference to a girl. She and her family had been in the
South of France and she told me a little about it. And then rather awkwardly she said:

“I—I saw that house there, the one you told me about. The one that architect friend of yours had built.”

“What—Santonix?”

“Yes. We went there to lunch one day.”

“How did you do that? Does your stepmother know the man who lives there?”

“Dmitri Constantine? Well—not exactly but she met him and—well—Greta fixed it up for us to go there as a matter of fact.”

“Greta again,” I said, allowing the usual exasperation to come into my voice.

“I told you,” she said, “Greta is very good at arranging things.”

“Oh all right. So she arranged that you and your stepmother—”

“And Uncle Frank,” said Ellie.

“Quite a family party,” I said, “and Greta too, I suppose.”

“Well, no, Greta didn't come because, well—” Ellie hesitated, “—Cora, my stepmother, doesn't treat Greta exactly like that.”

“She's not one of the family, she's a poor relation, is she?” I said. “Just the
au pair
girl, in fact. Greta must resent being treated that way sometimes.”

“She's not an
au pair
girl, she's a kind of companion to me.”

“A chaperone,” I said, “a cicerone, a duenna, a governess. There are lots of words.”

“Oh do be quiet,” said Ellie, “I want to tell you. I know now what you mean about your friend Santonix. It's a wonderful house. It's—it's quite
different.
I can see that if he built a house for us it would be a wonderful house.”

She had used the word quite unconsciously.
Us,
she had said. She had gone to the Riviera and had made Greta arrange things so as to see the house I had described, because she wanted to visualize more clearly the house that we would, in the dream world we'd built ourselves, have built for us by Rudolf Santonix.

“I'm glad you felt like that about it,” I said.

She said: “What have you been doing?”

“Just my dull job,” I said, “and I've been to a race meeting and I put some money on an outsider. Thirty to one. I put every penny I had on it and it won by a length. Who says my luck isn't in?”

“I'm glad you won,” said Ellie, but she said it without excitement, because putting all you had in the world on an outsider and the outsider winning didn't mean anything to Ellie's world. Not the kind of thing it meant in mine.

“And I went to see my mother,” I added.

“You've never spoken much of your mother.”

“Why should I?” I said.

“Aren't you fond of her?”

I considered. “I don't know,” I said. “Sometimes I don't think I am. After all, one grows up and—outgrows parents. Mothers and fathers.”

“I think you do care about her,” said Ellie. “You wouldn't be so uncertain when you talk about her otherwise.”

“I'm afraid of her in a way,” I said. “She knows me too well. She knows the worst of me, I mean.”

“Somebody has to,” said Ellie.

“What do you mean?”

“There's a saying by some great writer or other that no man is
a hero to his valet. Perhaps everyone ought to have a valet. It must be so hard otherwise, always living up to people's good opinion of one.”

“Well, you certainly have ideas, Ellie,” I said. I took her hand. “Do you know all about me?” I said.

“I think so,” said Ellie. She said it quite calmly and simply.

“I never told you much.”

“You mean you never told me anything at all, you always clammed up. That's different. But I know quite well what you are
like,
you yourself.”

“I wonder if you do,” I said. I went on, “It sounds rather silly saying I love you. It seems too late for that, doesn't it? I mean, you've known about it a long time, practically from the beginning, haven't you?”

“Yes,” said Ellie, “and you knew, too, didn't you, about me?”

“The thing is,” I said, “what are we going to do about it? It's not going to be easy, Ellie. You know pretty well what I am, what I've done, the sort of life I've led. I went back to see my mother and the grim, respectable little street she lives in. It's not the same world as yours, Ellie. I don't know that we can ever make them meet.”

“You could take me to see your mother.”

“Yes, I could,” I said, “but I'd rather not. I expect that sounds very harsh to you, perhaps cruel, but you see we've got to lead a queer life together, you and I. It's not going to be the life that you've led and it's not going to be the life that I've led either. It's got to be a new life where we have a sort of meeting ground between my poverty and ignorance and your money and culture and social knowledge. My friends will think you're stuck up and your friends will think I'm socially unpresentable. So what are we going to do?”

“I'll tell you,” said Ellie, “exactly what we're going to do. We're going to live on Gipsy's Acre in a house—a dream house—that your friend Santonix will build for us. That's what we're going to do.” She added, “We'll get married first. That's what you mean, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I said, “that's what I mean. If you're sure it's all right with you.”

“It's quite easy,” said Ellie, “we can get married next week. I'm of age, you see. I can do what I like now. That makes all the difference. I think perhaps you're right about relations. I shan't tell my people and you won't tell your mother, not until it's all over and then they can throw fits and it won't matter.”

“That's wonderful,” I said, “wonderful, Ellie. But there's one thing. I hate telling you about it. We can't live at Gipsy's Acre, Ellie. Wherever we build our house it can't be there because it's sold.”

“I know it's sold,” said Ellie. She was laughing. “You don't understand, Mike.
I'm
the person who's bought it.”