Ladies From Hell (5 page)

She sipped, made a luxurious sound and lay back. “It’s like the songs,” she said dreamily. “Distant and delicate and cool.”

I set the bottle down between us. We watched the mist form on it and start to trickle. Then she said, “It was kind of you this afternoon.”

“What?”

“Well, taking me out to start with. Then making the drawing. Me as the Nymph. I wouldn’t admit it but it bucked me up no end.”

“You were the Nymph,” I said.

“That’s silly.”

“Any woman can be Coventina if she wants to,” I said. “That’s how she shows herself.” A grotesque and monstrous lie of course, but by God I uttered it with conviction. “I see her on my own too, sometimes,” I said. “But then of course I’m mad. It’s a great help in my work.”

She shook her head, eyes closed. She said, “You’re the sanest man I know,”

I topped her glass up, hastily. Couldn’t have Service Officials getting perceptive; where would we all be then? “I really am mad,” I said. “You just don’t realize. You’ve only scraped the surface.”

She grinned, without opening her eyes. She said, “You like women, don’t you?”

“I paint them,” I said modestly.

She shook her head. She said, “M-mm, there’s more to it than that.” She sat up a bit, located the glass. “This really is gorgeous … Why didn’t you ever get married?”

I didn’t answer at once, and she frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a bit private.”

“Not private at all,” I said cheerfully. “No secrets from the State.” I took a slurp myself. She was right, it was superb. “I’d only have married the Nymph,” I said. “Nobody else would have done. So it wouldn’t have been fair.”

“How do you mean?”

I thought again for a moment.
“Watching her get older,” I said. “Wondering how long I could go on loving her. This way’s better. I keep finding her all the time.”

She said, “How strange. It’s rather lovely though. You are a fascinating man.” She set the glass down. She said, “Show me the painting again.”

“Coventina?”

“Please …”

I’d lit a couple of candles. I moved one round. The Nymph emerged from gloom. The dim light made her eyes look bigger than ever, and dark. Netta said, “Did she honestly cause all that trouble?”

“With the Controller? Yes, he was fearfully waxy.” I pointed. “He said if I’d been a proper artist I’d have put a little leafy branch across. Just there.”

She giggled. She said, “Or dressed her in a blue serge suit.”

“Yes, I suppose they’d like that. But there’d still be little erotic bumps.”

She turned to stare at me. Her eyes were big and dark too. She said, “This girl, Amaryllis. Does she really look like that?”

“A bit,” I said. “She was younger then of course.”

She lit a cigarette, sat staring at the match. It nearly burned her fingers before she blew it out. She said, “Do you always work from models?”

“Generally. Or photographs.”

She said, “I thought that was cheating.”

“Of course not. Leonardo would have used a camera if he’d had one handy. Canaletto did. You can tell by his perspective.”

There was a pause. Had we been fencers, I would have said we’d reached the end of a phrase. I filled her glass, and started again. “That’s why these annual things we have are so useful. I get a lot of work done then. It keeps me going.”

She said, “I haven’t understood about those yet. Are you what they call a school?”

“Not really. Just people who like the same sort
of things. We come from all over. Clancy’s a Canadian for instance. Her real name’s Clarissa though nobody ever uses it. I don’t know why she sticks it out here.”

She said vaguely, “Oh, they’ve got their problems as well. What’s going to happen this summer? Have you got any Big New Plans?”

“A few,” I said. “There’s a new painting of Coventina to start with. That’s what the sketches were for this afternoon.”

She looked interested. She said, “What’s it going to be like?”

I gave forth. The explanation saw the first bottle away so I fetched number two. She looked alarmed. She said, “Gosh, not for me. I’m tiddly already.”

“Nonsense,” I said briskly.

“But it must have cost a fortune!”

“Not to me,” I said. “And people who hoard wine are like people who hoard paintings. It’s there to be enjoyed.”

She wavered. “I shall have to go somewhere first,” she said, “or I shall pop.”

By that time of course every early warning system I possess had already rung itself hoarse. For God’s sake, she’d even set up Standard Excuse No. 1. Though I still think it’s a shame they have to bother. “Clarence,” I said to myself, “you’re either dead in luck or dead out of it, depending on the viewpoint.” My name isn’t Clarence, by the way.

She was gone for some time. When she came back she was carrying her handbag. And she
was
squiffy too, by George. Not falling about of course, she was far too feminine for that; but something in the care with which she set her feet down was a dead giveaway. She put the bag on the floor, took a tissue from it and touched her nose. She drained her glass, picked the cigarettes up, threw them down, changed her mind and lit one anyway. She said, “I can get drunk if I want to, can’t I?”

“My dear,” I said, pouring, “anybody should be able to do anything they like. As long as it’s not hurting somebody else, the universe can go to hell.”

“The universe can go to hell,” she said. “I like it.” She fell to brooding again. I didn’t interrupt her. I’d got more time than she had. She put the cigarette down, picked it up
again, stubbed it and lit another. Finally she said, “Would. I do?”

“What for?”

“As a model.”

“Of course,” I said enthusiastically. “Any time. I can always use costume studies. Even got old George posing once or twice, but he can’t sit still long enough. Got the Service Twitch.”

She looked crestfallen. She said, “I didn’t quite mean that.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m not with you.”

She stared at the cigarette. She said, “For the new one. Coventina.”

I was properly shocked. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“Well, would I or wouldn’t I?”

I shook my head regretfully. “It just isn’t on. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Meaning I’m not good enough!”

“No, no, no,” I said. “It isn’t that at all.”

Those icy grapes had got her in their grip all right; she didn’t know whether to burst into tears or belt me. “This afternoon,” she said bitterly, “you said I was the Nymph. I thought you’d take it back,”

“Look,” I said, “I was only thinking about George. You know how he got over the priming …”

She used a word she’d previously shown no sign of knowing. “
That
to George!”

“Well, your career then. You just don’t seem to realize …”

The Word rent the air again. She had got good lungs, after all; the echoes took ages to die away.

“I can’t
help
it,” I said firmly. “It wouldn’t work, and there’s an end of it.”

She slammed the cigarette into the tray. “Then it’s like I
thought …
”

“It’s nothing like you thought,” I said gently. “It’s just … well, a bit difficult to explain.”

She was breathing through her nose like a bad-tempered pony. She said, “Why don’t you
try…
”

“Well,” I said carefully, “it’s a matter of background really. Am models, I know; but you see both her parents are
painters, she’s been brought up with it. It’s a nice idea of course, it was sweet of you to offer; but I wouldn’t want you embarrassed …”

She looked up. She said, “You think I wouldn’t
dare
!”

I shrugged.

You know, what I go for in women is their decisiveness. It’s one of the few things they really do have in common with cats. One moment she was sitting down, the next she was on her feet. Her hand went to her neck; and the dress peeled away, with a rustle and a waft of scent. As I’d thought, it was all she was wearing. She shook her hair, walked toward me and stood looking down. By which time of course there was nowhere to go except forward. She’d fallen among the apples all right, tripped right over the fruitbowl; all that stuff about Nymphs, and running water. I lay back; she gave herself a sweetie, said “Don’t come out” in a hard little voice and climbed aboard. Amazing what you can get now and then by lying back; it was something poor old George still had to learn.

She was good; and she was hungry. I suppose one might have said Good and Hungry. Getting up afterwards, she had an Erotic Event. Some hot gel landed on my foot, which brought me up to scratch again; so the second round took place in the bathroom. Halfway through the third the Overseer walked in. She was trying it Roman style by that time; she’d put Coventina’s chain round her neck and slung it over her back to stop the U-bolt knocking me unconscious, but he didn’t seem impressed. Neither did she. I wondered arbitrarily what she’d try to cover up, only having one pair of hands. She settled for her eyes; I’m sure if I’d had a pile of sand handy she’d have gone for it head first, poor little bugger. After he’d shut the door, and the Barn had stopped shaking, she tried to disentangle herself; but I wasn’t having that, not with me on a hat trick. She wasn’t too pleased about that either. “You,” she said, “are quite the most … unfeeling man … I
know
!”

But that isn’t true, it was never true. Come
back to me, my Grey Lady, and I’ll show you how I feel. I love you, for your splendour; as I love them all.

I took her up to the House later on, for James to look after; I knew they’d find her a bed. Lucky the old devil sits up all hours drinking. The shock had got to her by then. She didn’t answer when I said goodnight, didn’t even look at me. When I got back there were lights on in the lounge but the Overseer wasn’t in evidence. I left the Barn again by the side door, taking the rest of the wine with me. I didn’t really want to have a heart-to-heart with him till he’d got things more in perspective.

There’s a raised walk overlooking the Rose Gardens. There’s a summerhouse at one end with a balustrade of crumbling stone; from it you can see down to the brook, the humped, silent masses of trees. I sat and warmed my feet on the moon, like one of Daudet’s rabbits. She’d wanted so little, really; to be the Nymph, and wear a chain of rusty iron, and sink her poor, parched, Official little body in a deep green brook. Just once, before it got too late; and why, why ever not? Instead; well, that didn’t matter. It was in the past already. And I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d wanted to, I’d never seen a woman so determined to peel. I told myself, if you poke your fingers into a train of cogs you’re going to get hurt; that’s rule one. It didn’t help though. Her face kept getting in the way; pale, lips parted a little, eyes staring at the wall. If she’d been crying it wouldn’t have been so bad. She couldn’t stay on the Attachment of course; that was obvious. To leave it she’d have to resign; and the Service doesn’t give second chances. Not these days.

When there was only a mouthful of wine left I got up and walked to the bridge. I poured it into the water. It was for the Nymph; her last exaction of the night. Then I put my tired old body to bed.

I was reading the morning paper when the Overseer came through. He looked as if he’d had a rough night. The only thing about him that was showing colour was his eyes; they were pink. I gave him the time of day but he didn’t answer directly. Instead he came and stood over me. He
said, “I suppose you’ve got an explanation for that disgusting exhibition?”

“Of course,” I said cheerfully. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. Have a good trip?”

He yelled, “Get on your feet when you’re talking to me!”

I lowered the paper and looked at him.

He had clenched his fists. “This time,” he hissed, “you’ll go Inside. I’ll make sure of it.” He turned and marched out; and I heard the Office door slam.

I sighed, and folded the paper. I went through to the Barn, stood staring round and scratching my head. I didn’t feel like tackling anything that needed too much concentration. In the end I decided I’d make it a varnishing day. I worked till lunch-time, but he didn’t show up again.

James came down in the afternoon with a canvas holdall. He ferreted round in the spare room for a time, left with it bulging. Half an hour later the big Alpha ghosted out through the gates. I wondered if that meant I was
non grata
with Lady A as well.

George reappeared at six. He stood in the doorway for a bit as if he was unsure what to say. Finally he coughed. He said, “Would you come through, please? There are some things we have to talk about.”

I put my brush down and followed him. Always ready to oblige, that’s me; as long as folk keep a civil tongue.

If anything he was looking worse than he had in the morning. There was a threequarters-empty bottle of Scotch on the desk blotter, and reinforcements on the filing cabinet. Obviously he’d had a hard day as well. He sat down heavily, and there was silence. Finally he said, “I’m still waiting.”

“What for?”

“An explanation,” he said. “Of last night.”

“You’ve had it already,” I said shortly. “Nothing to add.”

He poured himself a stiff one. His hand was vibrating, but he was still taking it neat. He said, “I suppose you know she’s gone.”

“Yes,” I said.

He glared at me. “And have you considered the possibility
that you might have made her pregnant?”

I wondered which was bugging him most; his Assistant’s fall from grace, or the prospect of breeding between tax classes. “No way,” I said cheerfully. “She’s got a coil. Uses spermicides as well, sort of a belt and braces syndrome—”

He yelled again. “
I don’t want to know!
”

“Sorry,” I said contritely. “I thought you’d need it for the Report.”

He knew The Word as well. He used it, very loudly indeed. He said, “You know, and I know, I can’t make a Report.”

“In that case,” I said, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“No,” he said savagely, “you wouldn’t.” He took a gulp of Scotch. “There is a small matter of a ruined career,” he said. “But that doesn’t affect you, does it?”

“Since you put it so bluntly,” I said, “no. It doesn’t.”