The Death of the Heart (33 page)

“Suppose I’d felt giddy?” Eddie said, with a look.

“Oh, would you be such a sap?”

“Your marvellous yellow coat might make me come over queer.”

“I never,” said Evelyn, not knowing how to take this.

“I say, Dickie, your friend’s got a bad head. Don’t you think we all ought to go in?”

Dickie looked at his watch, still more sternly than he had looked at it the time before. “I can’t understand,” he said. “I told Bursely I would have you girls along here by six. I took it that that was understood—it is now between twenty and twenty-five past. I hope he’s not having trouble.”

“Oh well, that’s up to Daphne, isn’t it?” said Evelyn, saucy, putting stuff on her mouth. Dickie paused till she put away the lipstick, then said coldly: “I mean, with the car.”

“Oh, it’s quite an easy car: I’ve driven it, so has Clara. I daresay Daphne’s driving this afternoon. Look at Clara shivering. Do you feel cold, dear?”

“Slightly.”

Indoors, among the mirrors and pillars, they found Mr. Bursely and Daphne, cosy over a drink. Reproaches and rather snooty laughs were exchanged, then Mr. Bursely, summoning the waiter, did what was right by everyone. Clara and Portia were given orangeade, with hygienic straws twisted up in paper; Daphne had another bronx, Evelyn a side-car. The men drank whisky—with the exception of Eddie, who asked for a double gin with a dash of angostura: this he insisted in dashing in himself, and so much fuss had seldom been made before. Daphne looked flushed and pleased. She had taken her hat off: while she talked she re-set her curls with one hand or the other, or glanced down confidentially at the dagger in her green velvet choker scarf. Mr. Bursely and she—sitting side by side, saying not much—looked extremely conscious of one another.

Sucking quietly, leaning back from the party, isolated at the end of her long straw, Portia looked on. Now and then her eyes went to the clock—in three hours, Eddie would be gone. She watched him getting excited, saying the next were on him. She watched his hand go to his pocket—would he have enough money? He showed Evelyn what was in his pocket book; he rolled back his cuff to show the hairs on his wrist. He asked Mr. Bursely whether he was tattooed. He picked up the straw that Clara had done sucking, and tickled her neck with it as she burrowed into her bag. “Oh, I say, Clara,” he said, “you have never spoken to me.” She looked at him like an askance mouse. He dashed too much angostura into his second gin, then had to send for another gin to drown it. Propping an elbow on Cecil’s shoulder, he said how much he wished they could go to France together. He printed his name with Evelyn’s lipstick on the piece of paper off Clara’s straw. “Don’t forget me,” he said. “I’m certain you will forget me. Look, I’m putting my telephone number too.”

Dickie said: “We are making rather a row.”

But Mr. Bursely was also out of control. He and Eddie had made one of those genuine contacts that are only possible after drinks. With watery, dream-like admiration they kept catching each other’s eye. There was no doubt, Eddie worked Mr. Bursely up—first Mr. Bursely gave an imitation of Donald Duck, then, making a snatch at Daphne’s green celluloid comb, he endeavoured to second the orchestra on it. When the music stopped, he tried a tune of his own. He said: “I’m a shepherd tootling to my sheep.” “Sheep yourself,” said Daphne, upsetting her third bronx. “Give me that back! Stop monkeying with my comb!” “Look here,” Dickie said, “you can’t make that row here.” “There’s no can’t about it,” said Mr. Bursely, “we are.”

Portia heard a rush behind her; the curtains were being drawn; swathes of yellow silk rushed across the dark mauve dusk. Cecil went on with his whisky and said nothing. “Look here,” Dickie said to Mr. Bursely and Eddie, “if you two don’t shut up, I am taking the girls home.”

“No, no, don’t do that: we can’t do without women.”

Dickie said: “Better shut up, or you’ll find yourself chucked out. This is not the Casino de Paris … I shall take the girls home, then.”

“Right you are, Mussolini. Or let me.”

“Not all the girls, you can’t,” said Mr. Bursely, shutting one eye and looking through Daphne’s comb.

“Can’t I?” giggled Eddie, whacking Cecil’s shoulder. “You just ask Cecil: he knows France.”

“I must say,” said Evelyn sedately, “I do think you boys are awful.”

“Well, you tell Cecil: Cecil’s all in a dream.”

“Cecil’s a gentleman wherever he is,” said Daphne, tenderly fingering Cecil’s glass. “Cecil’s a really nice boy, if you know what I mean. I’ve known Cecil since we were both kids. Haven’t we known each other since we were kids, Cecil?… I
asked
you to stop monkeying with my comb. That’s
my
comb you’ve got. Give that comb back here!”

“No, I’m tootling on it: I’m tootling to my sheep.”

Dickie uncrossed his legs and leant back from the table. “Cecil,” he said, “we had better get the girls home.”

Cecil carefully smiled, then put his hand to his forehead. Then he rose and left the table abruptly. He was seen to steer his way between several other tables and vanish with the flash of a swing door. Clara said: “Now there are only seven of us.”

“What a gap he leaves,” said Eddie. “He was our only thinker. I dread feeling; I know Clara dreads feeling; I see that in her face. You do dread feeling, don’t you, Clara? Oh God, look at the time. How am I to catch a train when I don’t know where a train is? I say, Daphne, where do I find a train?”

“The sooner the better.”

“I didn’t ask when, I know when, I said where? Oh dear, you
are
a hard girl—I say, Evelyn, will you drive me to London? Let us rush through the night.”

But Evelyn, buttoning her yellow coat, only said: “Well, Dickie, I’m off. I don’t know what father would say—No thanks, Mr.—er—I don’t want your telephone number.”

“Oh God,” Eddie said, “then you are casting me off?”

Then he turned full on Portia, across the table, his frantic swimming eyes. He said loudly: “Darling, what shall I do? I am behaving so badly. What
shall
I do?” Then he dropped his eyes, giggled and struck a match and burnt the long spill with his name on it in lipstick.

“There I go,” he said: the ash dropped on the table and Eddie blew some about and ground the rest with his thumb. “I’d go,” he said, “but I don’t know where there’s a train.”

“We’ll ask,” Portia said. She got up and stood waiting.

“Well, goodbye, everybody, I’ve got to get back to London. Goodbye, goodbye: thanks ever so much.”

But: “It’s no use your saying goodbye,” said Dickie contemptuously. “You must get back to Waikiki to get your things—if you can remember where
that
is? You also said that your train was at ten o’clock; it is now five minutes past eight. It is therefore no use your saying goodbye here.
Hi, look here,
you all: are you all going? Someone must wait for Cecil.”

Eddie went white and said: “Well, you organise Cecil, blast you: let Portia organise me. That’s the way we get drunks home.”

The three other girls, at these words, scurried ahead like rabbits. Portia turned away to the yellow curtains: she got two apart and wrenched open the glass doors. A gash of dark air fell into the room; several people shivered and looked round. She stepped on to the balcony hanging over the black sea, lit by the windows’ muffled yellow light. In a minute, Eddie came after her: he looked round the dark and said: “Where are you? Are you still here?”

“Here I am.”

“That’s right: don’t go over the edge.”

Eddie leaned on the frame of another window, folded his arms and broke out into sobbing: against the window she saw his shoulders shake. Someone sobbing like that must not be gone near.

THE DIARY

Monday.

This morning Mrs. Heccomb did not say anything, as though yesterday had been all my dream. I have gone on with the puzzle, it has been knocked, so part that I did is undone and I could not begin again where I left off. Perhaps it is in the way in the sun porch? Daphne did not say anything more either. It is raining, but more dark than it rains.

Tuesday.

When I woke, it rained as much as it could, it has stopped now and the esplanade looks shiny. Mrs. Heccomb and I went into Toyne’s this morning, to buy clips to stop things blowing away, and coming out of Toyne’s she looked as though she was going to say something but she did not, perhaps she was not going to. On wet days the street smells much more of salt. This afternoon we went to tea with some people to talk about the church fete and they said what a pity I should not be there. It will be in June, by June I wonder what will have happened?

Wednesday.

It is queer to be in a place when someone has gone. It is not two other places, the place that they were there in, 
and the place that was there before they came. I can’t get used to this third place or to staying behind.

Mrs. Heccomb has a new piano pupil in Southstone, and took me in there when she went to give the lesson. I waited for her on a seat on the cliff. I saw the flags on the East Cliff Pavilion, but did not go near that

Thursday.

Daphne says Cecil is hurt with me. And she says Eddie burnt a hole in the eiderdown Cecil’s mother lent for his bed, which has made an awkward position with Cecil’s mother. Daphne says it cannot be helped but she does think I ought to know.

Friday.

I got a letter from Eddie, so did Mrs. Heccomb, he says to her he will always have memories of here. She showed me the letter and said wasn’t it nice, but still did not say any more about Eddie. She looked once as if she was going to but she did not, perhaps she was not really going to.

Cecil came this evening and said he had had an internal chill. I do not think he is really hurt with me.

Saturday.

Last week this was the day Eddie was coming.

Dickie is kindly taking me into Southstone to watch that ice hockey, Clara is coming too and we shall go in her car. Daphne and Evelyn are going to dance at the Splendide with Mr. Bursely and a man he will bring. Cecil says he has still rather a chill.

Sunday.

I went to church with Mrs. Heccomb this morning, it was raining hard on the church roof. You can hardly see inland because of all the rain. It must be wet in those woods and everywhere. Today I am going to tea with Cecil’s mother.

Monday.

I got a letter from Major Brutt thanking me for my letter thanking him for the puzzle. He wonders when we will all be back.

I think they have all forgotten everything that has happened.

Clara has been so kind, she asked me to come with her to Evelyn’s house to practise badminton, and we did, but did not get on very well. After that I went back to tea with Clara. Her father is rich, he is in tea. Her house is hot inside and has big game rugs, and on the landings there are flowers with their pots put inside big brass pots. Clara took me up to her bedroom with her, she has Dickie’s photograph by her bed, with Your’s Dickie written by him on it. She said it was often dull for me and her, because of all the others always working all day, and Clara sometimes thinks she will take something up. She gave me a chiffon handkerchief she has never used, and two necklaces off her own tray. I shall show these at once to Dickie to show how kind Clara is.

Tuesday.

I had a letter from Eddie, he says he is well and he asks how they all are. And I have had a letter from Thomas, with a postscript by Anna on one page. Anna said it did make her laugh to think of Eddie at Waikiki. I did not say he’d been here, perhaps Mrs. Heccomb did. She says not to write if I’m having such a good time, as they will be back soon and will hear all news then.

Wednesday.

Mrs. Heccomb suddenly said she was upset about me. I was glad when Cecil took me for a walk on the beach.

Thursday.

Mrs. Heccomb said she did hope she hadn’t said too much, she said she had had a quite sleepless night. I said oh no, she hadn’t, because of Cecil. I said I hoped I had not done anything, she said oh no it was not that, only she did wonder. I said wonder what, and she said she did wonder what she ought to have done. I said done when, and she said that was just it, she was not sure when she should have done it, she meant, if she had done anything. She said she did hope I knew she was so fond of me and I said I was so glad.

Friday.

There are still places I cannot walk past, though we only walked here those two days. When I walk I look for places we did not go. Today I stood on a canal bridge, another canal bridge that we never stood on. I watched two swans, they sailed under the bridge. They say the swans are nesting, but these two kept their heads turned away from each other. Today it is not raining but quite dark, black is all through the air though the green looks such bright green. All the days that go by only make me seem to be getting further and further away from the day I last saw Eddie, not nearer and nearer the day I shall see him again.

Saturday.

A fortnight since Eddie came. My last Saturday here.

Dickie came back at three from the Hockey Lunch. He says they have been winding up for the year. I was in the sun porch doing my puzzle, and he asked why I looked like that when he came in. I said it was my last Saturday here. So he asked if I’d like to walk round while he played golf. So when Clara came in her car to call for him they put me into the back part of the car and we drove up to the links. Clara tries with her golf because of Dickie, but Dickie plays a sort of game by himself. You see the woods from the links, right across a valley, but it is lovely up there, there is so much gorse. At the end Dickie said we would have tea, so we went and had tea in the club house. It is handsome in there, there is a huge fire and we had tea right in the bow window. I did enjoy myself. I think my being there made Clara feel rather more like Dickie’s wife, she insisted on getting some more jam. At the end of our tea, Clara got her bag out, but Dickie said, Here, I say, and he paid for the tea. It is only in front of Daphne he is unkind to Clara.