I and My True Love (27 page)

19

Kate awoke with the second ringing of the alarm clock. Last night she had placed it on the mantelpiece to make sure she would get up. But now, after all, she didn’t rise. She listened to it drowsily, stretched her body under the warm sheets, yawned and curled up once more. The alarm stopped and she closed her eyes again. The pleasant breeze from the wide-opened window fanned her cheek.

Again the bell rang. Who could believe that anything so small could make so much noise and keep on making it? She stumbled out of bed and switched off the alarm. Ten minutes to nine. She looked at the bed and then at the clock. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

As she dressed, she began to sing, a serenade for the flame dance dress collapsed over the armchair like a very deflated lady, armless, headless, with invisible feet stuck into the thin-strapped sandals posing so neatly under the ripple of the wide hem. She opened the door, still brushing her hair, as she heard Minna’s solid weight plod upstairs. “Morning, Minna.”

“Singing so early?” Minna’s white face, intent on the breakfast tray she carried, softened into a slow smile. “You had a good time,” she said.

“Wonderful. We went dancing. Tell Mrs. Pleydell that I’ll be along in one minute.” Then Kate looked at the breakfast tray with its single cup and saucer. “Oh, didn’t Mrs. Pleydell leave a note for you, Minna? We were going to have breakfast together.”

Minna shook her head. “I’ll bring up a tray for you, Miss Kate,” she said quickly.

“There’s no hurry,” Kate said, trying to hide her disappointment. Perhaps, she was thinking, Sylvia had forgotten all about her invitation.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Pleydell you’re coming along,” Minna said, walking on, her bent arms as stiff as her broad white apron, her hands holding the tray as securely as her flat heels gripped the carpet.

Kate went back to the mirror, finished brushing her hair. It’s surprising how tired you don’t look, she told her reflection. Four hours of sleep. Bob probably had only had the time to change his clothes, and get transportation back to camp for reveille. Her idea about a soldier’s life was hazy, picked up from stories written by some returning heroes of the last war. Bob wasn’t very much like them: he hadn’t talked about the battles he had seen or even about his present assignment; he hadn’t cursed the sergeants or thought that colonel was another word for fascist; he didn’t blame the Air Force or Navy; he hadn’t criticised the Marines; he hadn’t claimed that if only the generals would take his advice all losses could have been avoided; he hadn’t even lamented about the military mind or set himself up as its conscience. What
did
we talk about? she wondered.

About me, and San Francisco, and a couple of funny stories from Japan, and mountain climbing, and Texas, and the Shasta Dam, and the Museum, and Ravel, and families, and de Falla, and the
Bicycle Thief,
and the Navajo Museum outside of Santa Fe.

“Yes, Minna?” she said, suddenly aware that Minna was standing at the door. “What’s wrong?” For Minna’s white face was frightened, and her brown eyes were bewildered.

Minna said, “She isn’t there! She isn’t there, Miss Kate,” her voice rising as if to give emphasis. She stared after the girl who moved so quickly into the upper hall, along the corridor to Mrs. Pleydell’s room. Then she followed, almost unwillingly.

Kate halted at the door of Sylvia’s white bedroom.

“I’ll open the curtains,” Minna said, and hurried to pull the cords and let the sunshine stream into the room.

Kate’s impulse was to say, “Close them!” But she came slowly into the room, smoothing down a twisted rug with her foot, looking around in bewilderment. A small table was overturned near the chaise longue, its lamp smashed on the floor, its photographs scattered. A vase had been broken, a stool upset, and on the dressing-table the bottles of perfume had fallen forward and one had spilled, filling the room with the scent of jasmine.

“Open the windows, Minna. Wide.”

“She didn’t sleep,” Minna said, uncomprehending, pointing to the nightdress still lying neatly arranged on the down-turned lip of white sheet. The pillows were smooth and undisturbed, but the white silk blanket cover was pulled and crumpled and lay half on the floor. On the floor, too, lay Sylvia’s blue dress, just as she had thrown it along with her other clothes.

Kate walked over to the closet, and opened its doors wide. Dresses still hung there, hats were on their stands on the pink satin-edged shelves.

“Minna, is anything missing?”

Minna came forward and looked. “Her travelling coat. The grey suit.” She searched quickly, her square strong hands pulling aside the silks and laces. “A couple dresses, maybe.” She turned to face Kate. “Not much.” She pointed to a high shelf where some suitcases were neatly stacked. “Just one case.”

“Yes,” Kate said, staring in wonder at the blue evening shoes which had been placed neatly together at one side of the closet wall, and then looking back at the dress they matched, dropped so carelessly on the bedroom floor. It wasn’t like Sylvia to be so untidy. It wasn’t like Sylvia either to fall into such a fit of rage. Kate moved over to the dressing-table and began straightening the bottles. Then she opened Sylvia’s jewellery drawer, but all her clips and brooches were there; and her pearls; and ear-rings were neatly paired on a ridge of velvet. The rings were safely boxed. Everything was in order.

There was a light step behind her, and she turned round to face Walter.

“I heard Minna cry out,” he said, as if to explain why he should have come here. He smoothed down his green apron. It was his only sign of nervousness. But even so, Kate thought, I’ve never seen him nervous before, and I’ve never heard him offer any justification either.

“Quiet, Minna!” Walter said, and stopped the woman’s flow of tears. “Mrs. Pleydell has just gone away for a holiday. There’s nothing to weep about.” He looked around the disordered room more closely. A look of surprise came over his placid face.

“Where has Mrs. Pleydell gone?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know, miss. But she’s been ill, and I know Mr. Pleydell hoped she would go away for a rest. So I thought”— he looked round the room again, his quick eyes now resting on the clothes on the floor—“I thought that she had gone.” But the certainty had left his voice.

“But when? And without saying goodbye?” He’s remembering something, Kate thought, he knows more than I do.

“Mrs. Pleydell has been very nervous, recently,” he said, “very hard to please, not at all like herself.” He was retreating now, covering up his thoughts, giving the explanation he could believe in. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and picked up the broken vase. He began to arrange the room. “Minna! Take that tray downstairs. And make some breakfast for Miss Jerold.” He gathered up the photographs. “I don’t think you need to stay up here, miss,” he suggested to Kate as she didn’t move.

I’ve never seen him volunteer so readily for a job of work, Kate thought as she watched him. What is he doing—clearing up the room or trying to hide something?

“Was the front door chained this morning?” she asked.

“No, miss.”

But I chained it when I came in, she remembered. “Does Mr. Pleydell know that Mrs. Pleydell has gone?”

“I don’t think so. He came down for breakfast at the usual time. Everything seemed normal. Until Mr. Clark called him on the telephone and then he left his second cup of coffee unfinished. Oh, it was just a business call,” he added quickly, “nothing to do with Mrs. Pleydell. Seems as if there’s something urgent at the office. I gave that message last night to Mr. Pleydell when he came in, and Mr. Clark was making sure he had got it.” There was a slightly tolerant smile over any doubt about an important message going astray if Walter had charge of it.

“And Mr. Pleydell said nothing to you about Mrs. Pleydell going away—for a vacation?”

“Not this morning.” There was a pause. “Mr. Payton only said that it looked as if he might have a very busy week-end at the office, so he probably would stay at the Club which is near by.” He thought over that. “Mr. Pleydell has done that before, whenever there have been important conferences,” he explained carefully, emphasising how normal everything was.

“He wasn’t worried? Or upset?”

“Only after Mr. Clark’s call.”

Walter had himself in control of the situation now, Kate thought, and he could go on covering up indefinitely. Whatever he might have heard last night, he wouldn’t say. “Well, what shall we
do,
Walter?” she asked in desperation. She turned away to pick up Sylvia’s clothes. “I suppose we’d better call the office,” she added slowly, “and let Mr. Pleydell know.”

She lifted the dark blue dress and shook it out. It was torn to pieces. She stared at the shreds of chiffon. Then, quickly, she bundled them up and dropped them in a corner of the closet. She threw the other clothes after it and shut the doors.

She looked at Walter. But he chose to be busy with the broken lamp. He was the master of evasive action, she thought, but at that moment she was grateful.

“I would be inclined,” he said, “not to disturb Mr. Pleydell meanwhile.”

His voice was quiet, unalarmed, normal. She was grateful for that too. “What explanation can we give for the delay?”

“That we ’phoned Whitecraigs and several of Mrs. Pleydell’s friends before we alarmed Mr. Pleydell.”

“And when shall we let him know?”

“About lunch-time?”

“Yes,” she said, eagerly grasping at this suggestion. “That would give Mrs. Pleydell time—”

He frowned at her rash frankness. “Yes, miss. Time to return, perhaps.”

They stood looking at each other.

“Thank you, Walter,” she said.

“I’ll attend to the telephoning if you like, Miss Jerold. I shan’t alarm anyone.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” She hesitated. “And deal with any other calls too, will you?”

He nodded. “I think you will find Minna has some fresh coffee waiting for you downstairs. And there’s also a message from Mrs. Clark. She ’phoned around nine o’clock. She wanted you to call her before breakfast.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I was late in giving you the message.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “You’ve been a miracle of—of efficiency. You’ve even calmed me down.”

For a moment he became human. He half smiled and shook his head. Then he collected the last fragments of pottery and placed them carefully in the waste basket.

* * *

In the dining-room, Minna was waiting with a carefully prepared breakfast.

“I must ’phone first, Minna.” And listen to Amy and pretend all was normal.

“Eat now, please,” Minna said worriedly. “That was Mrs. Pleydell’s trouble. She never would eat enough. Please, Miss Jerold. The coffee’s hot, the toast is fresh.” She held out a glass of orange-juice invitingly. Kate took it, glad of the excuse to delay her talk with Amy. What if Amy wanted to speak to Sylvia?

“Has Mrs. Pleydell left?” Minna whispered.

“For a vacation.” That’s what Walter would say. Strange, she thought, that we’ve become allies ready to throttle all scandal before it can start murmuring.

“If she goes, then I go,” Minna said. “And you, Miss Kate?”

“It is time I looked for a place of my own.” I won’t stay here, she thought. Once I’ve an idea where Sylvia is. I’ll leave. But where do I start finding Sylvia?

“Then I go, too,” Minna said firmly. “Today.”

When you get old, Kate wondered as he looked at Minna’s placid face and remembered Walter’s calm fatalism, do you accept the fantastic as real, the incredible as possible? When you’ve seen as much of strangers, living in their houses as Walter and Minna had done, then did you find very little to surprise you in human beings?

She drank a cup of coffee and ate a slice of toast to please Minna. She even talked to Minna—impossible as it seemed— about the headlines in the morning newspaper, and Minna stopped whispering. But listening to Minna, she was thinking of Sylvia and waiting for a message.

At last, she rose. She couldn’t postpone talking with Amy any longer. She went into the library, slowly, still giving Sylvia every possible second. But the telephone didn’t ring. She had to pick up the receiver and dial the Clarks’ number.

Amy was breathless as if she had run all the way to answer the call. “Are you alone?” she began. “Is anyone listening on one of the other ’phones?”

“Not this morning,” Kate said, sure of the truth of that.

“Come round here for lunch, Kate.”

“I can’t—at the moment I can’t leave here. I’m sorry but—”

“Please, Kate.”

“I’m waiting for a telephone call.”

“From Sylvia?”

“Yes,” Kate said, and in spite of her new trust she looked quickly over her shoulder into the hall.

“This is it, darling.”

“I’ll come now. Right away.”

“My dear, I’ve my week-end marketing to do. Come at halfpast twelve. That’s time enough. Oh, by the way, have you any cash?”

“Cash?”

“Yes, money. You know, that nice expendable stuff.”

“I don’t carry much money around with me. I can get—”

“It’s Saturday,” Amy reminded her. “The banks are closed. Oh, well, I’ll cash a cheque at the drugstore to help out. See you at half-past twelve.”

Kate went upstairs to her room, marvelling over Amy’s business-like voice. Southern women could be amazing: there was Amy, harbouring Sylvia as well as possible twins, taking efficient charge, remembering details such as bank-closing days. It was just as well that Amy had even thought of the drugstore, for Kate had exactly nineteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Not much of a contribution towards a fare to California.

She tried to copy Amy. She packed all her clothes and trinkets, methodically and calmly, and stacked the locked suitcases neatly in the corner where they could easily be collected. When she walked out of this house, she’d stay out.

She stood by the window and smoked a cigarette as she waited. At twelve o’clock, she picked up her small overnight case and went downstairs.

Minna was opening a florist’s box in the pantry. “For you, Miss Kate,” she called and handed Kate the envelope with a smile that shared the flowers. “Beautiful,” she said, “beautiful!” She lifted the mass of blue iris and yellow roses and pink tulips with gentle hands. “From the lieutenant?” she asked hopefully.