The Little Girls (4 page)

“He needs chums of his age, I expect—don’t you think?
” Dinah would ask.

“Bit of a lone wolf, possibly,” Frank would comment, when sympathetic—when not, it was, darkly: “I could tell you what
he
needs.”

She would then firmly say: “He needs more intellectual life than he has in the country.”

Francis never desisted entirely from work. It was clear to him that if he ceased to do anything whatsoever he might have to go, and that might not suit him. Meanwhile, he compensated himself for being unable to be in the Secret Service. In an unbreakable code he wrote in a fat notebook, which he did not carry upon his person lest it bulge, instead keeping it wedged among the bowels of plumbing under the pantry sink. That came to be a hiding-place known to all—for he returned his cahier to it ostentatiously. Also, no letter entering Applegate was unread by him, unless Dinah remembered to lock it up—a precaution she rarely took; she had the impression that Francis was probably able to pick locks. The stubs in her cheque book, bills, Income Tax demands, and correspondence with brokers were of interest also. No form of written communication was beneath his notice. Waste-paper baskets never delayed him long: he was already conversant with what was in them. It was not surprising that he by now knew how everything stood.

Dinah stowed all her papers inside her writing desk in the drawing-room. This morning, Francis opened the desk’s flap with no keen or particular expectation—today’s post, arranged by him on her breakfast tray, had been unusually meagre, insipid-looking. Nor, even, would his investigation today have the charm of requiring stealth and haste—she was off in her car round the village, which, given her way of chattering in the shops and custom of dropping in on the Major, meant (or did usually) out till lunch-time. Francis therefore embarked on his routine check somewhat listlessly, though in a practiced manner. Then, though, all of a sudden he was rewarded. For here (and certainly fresh since yesterday) was a wad of thin, crumpled sheets in her handwriting—scarred with erasures, corrections, inserts, loops, brackets, arrows, marginal scrabblings. And all (that was, to judge by the first glance) saying, or attempting to say, the same thing, here or there with omissions or variations. He was sincerely puzzled— what was she up to? Scooping the stuff from the desk, he carried it to the neighborhood of a window, where he sat down on a sofa to sort it out. Smoothing the sheets, he compared them with one another. Drafting something—ha. A document, was it?

It would have been this—whatever this was—that she had been muddling away at late last night, till all hours, after the Major left. Francis, weaving his way downstairs to eat a banana at 1:30 a.m., had seen light still showing under the drawing-room door. A new Will, eh, due to a brainstorm? No: these repetitious jottings mentioned no money. An advertisement: could she be advertising Francis? At that thought, Francis wore a grimace which Dinah (who’d come on it once or twice) likened to that of an infuriated Chinese warrior’s decapitated head, being brandished about by a foe, in a gory drawing… . No, however: calmer inspection showed him she had not had the wits, yet, to think of that. He returned to work, which was to say, analysis. Throwing out the more tangled convulsive sheets, early stages in her trial-and-error, he was left with what finally she had let stand. Here, presumably, were her “fair copies.” They reduced down to five in number, and ran as follows:

Will the former Clare Burkin-Jones and Sheila Beaker at once get in touch with the former Diana Piggott, with whom they buried a box. Imperative Dicey confer with Mumbo and Sheikie. The past not so buried as it appears. Write Box xxxx.

It is urgent that Sheila (Sheikie) Beaker and Clare (Mumbo) Burkin-Jones, once day-boarders at St. Agatha’s school, Southstone, should, whether married or otherwise or living under real or assumed names, without delay get in touch with Diana (Dicey) nee Piggott. They will know why. Crisis arisen. Write Boxxxxx.

Sheikie and Mumbo, where are you? Your former confederate Dicey seeks you earnestly, in connection with matter known so far only to us. Whole affair now looks like coming to light. Essential we meet before too late. You or anyone knowing the present whereabouts of Sheila nee Beaker and Clare nee Burkin-Jones, who in 1914 were at St. Agatha’s, Southstone, should at once write to Box xxxx.

Will Clare Burkin-Jones and Sheila Beaker, who took part in a secret rite with Diana Piggott, at once contact her. Unforeseen developments make a talk essential. Dicey will always stand by Mumbo and Sheikie. Write Box xxxx.

Where are Sheila Beaker and Clare Burkin-Jones, last heard of in Southstone? Anyone who can throw light on their disappearance is requested to contact their anxious friend, the former Diana Piggott. If alive but in hiding, the two should know they have nothing to fear from Dicey, who continues to guard their secret. Should they care to write, she will not reveal their whereabouts. Whatever the past, she would gladly see them. Write Box xxxx.

To the five drafted notices, Francis found, were appended various notes and queries:

Times, Telegraph.

? Would they read
Times
? Husbands anyway should, if any and living.

Southstone and area papers, how find out names of? ? Telephone Mayor’s office?

Also cast net wider. Rest of England?—Scotland,

Wales, Ireland, also, oh my heavens! Do all places have papers? Telephone
all
mayors’ offices?

Continent, Commonwealth, U.S.A.? What a bundle of hay. See what breaks
here,
first?

Which of my adverts to go into which papers?

Why not all 5 in rotation in
all
papers? YES. Place order on those lines—standing order? Cash advance necessary? Afterwards pay weekly?—monthly? Memo: remember to pay. See how Bank is, sell out something if need be. Why notl Get typewriter, get someone to type, get paper to type on, envelopes, paper clips, oceans of stamps. Get map of England.

What a labour of Hercules.

IDEA, though. Get hold of Packie. Knows all the ropes, always did—or
is
he still furious? No harm trying.

On NO account let—

At that point, the reader was interrupted. Francis’s ever-acute hearing warned him of Mrs. Delacroix’s car now in the lane—far off still, but tearing along. Vexed, he rose from the sofa. What a wrecker she was, what trouble she gave. Thoughtless. Of all scatter-brained homecomings, here was the most untimely. He set about restoring the many sheets to the disorder in which he’d found them, stowed them back where they came from, looked round the drawing-room. Why not partake of a little music? This, provided nobody was around, it was understood he should always be free to do. Showing of interest in his interest in music was a condition of having Francis assigned to one. Would there be a stereophonic gramophone for him? She had a record player. He strolled to it and switched on—letting the needle fall upon a record which dwelled almost permanently upon the player: “Rhapsody in Blue.” Few were the days and still fewer the evenings on which either sustained bursts or torn-off snatches of this did not fill Applegate, Dinah having for years been as wedded to it as now was Francis, and Frank acclimatized to it, perhaps more.

Yet on this occasion it was with an air of mutiny that Dinah entered her sounding drawing-room. She was in a mood, but not one for this. She flapped for silence.

“I’m sorry, madam. I understood you were out.” “That doesn’t alter the fact that I’m now in. Haven’t you got anything to do?”

“There is no Silvo.”

“Anyway, get out, will you? I want to telephone.”

He at once shot at her, out of his mobile eye, a look of intelligence she could not fathom.

The tea room at the top of a Knightsbridge department store was the place appointed; the time, 3:45 of an afternoon by now some way on into September. The
decor
nicely estimated the patrons* likings: tables low, chairs sympathetic, and carpet costly. Now and then a mannequin prowled through. There have been stranger places for a council of war.

A big woman wearing a tight black turban, and on the lapel of her dark suit a striking brooch, sat down, with all but no hesitation, opposite a woman already there at the table. The already seated woman seemed in two minds as to whether to rise or not. She advanced a hand uncertainly, took it back again, slightly opened her mouth but did not speak, Given her almost excessively mondaine air, her look of being slightly too smart for London, her inadequacy was in itself dramatic. Her hat was composed of pink roses.

First, each drew a breath, summoning her forces. Then, as though at a signal, they looked straight across at each other, then away again. Having got
that
over, they simultaneously uttered a sort of titter. Black Turban, settling into her chair, bumped a leg of the table with her knee, whereat Pink Roses tittered: “There you ge, againl” She added: “Imagine seeing
you
again!”

‘I’d been going to say, imagine seeing
youl”

As airily as could be, Pink Roses hazarded: “You’d never have known me, I suppose?”

The other grinned, but didn’t commit herself: “I don’t say it wasn’t a good idea to describe your hat.”

“That was my husband’s idea,” said Pink Roses, in a tone which made plain that it was her rule to do that individual justice whenever possible. “He said that as this was bound to be embarrassing enough for both of us, you and me I mean, it would be a mistake to start by going around staring at the wrong women, inviting snubs. ‘So let her know what you’ll wear,’ he said, ‘and be sure you wear it.’ He also hoped neither of us would be surprised if we got a shock.—No, I don’t suppose I’d ever have spotted you if, in return, you hadn’t described your brooch.—I should like to ask you: is it Italian?”

“Not my type, in a general way,” observed Black Turban, ducking a look at her lapel. “Too much of an eye-catcher. Still, it’s served its purpose.”

Pink Roses narrowed her eyes, to continue to look at the brooch, gluttonously. “Directly after I wrote you,” she went on, “I thought, whatever made me say
this
hat? Suppose it had rained? Coming up for the day, you never know. And it’s rather a summery hat for this time of year.” … Suddenly conscious of being studied, in a leisurely, neutral manner, across the table, she flamed up into suspicion, became defiant. “Or perhaps
you
think—?”

“No,” decided the other (still cocking an eye, though). “I don’t. No, you can still get away with it.”

“Well, thanks.—China or Indian?” A waitress indeed was waiting. The order given, the waitress watched out of hearing, Pink Roses deliberately turned her head and said: “Well, Clare …”

“Hello to you, Sheila.” -

They both leaned back as far as their chairs would go.

“You know, Clare, it’s a curious thing—as I said, as you
now
are I’d normally not have known you. That is, if not for the brooch, and me looking out. And yet now, this minute, with you sitting there opposite, I quite distinctly see you the way you were. You so bring yourself back that it’s like a conjuring trick. I had all but forgotten you.”

“And why shouldn’t you?”

“Yes, why not, after all? If we had even known each other as girls … But since we met’s been the greater part of a lifetime. We weren’t girls then, even. What were we both? Eleven.
Little girls don’t make sense.”

Clare launched her bulk forward. “You, on the contrary, do the vanishing trick! To me what you’ve done’s the opposite way round. You still are (in some way?) like
enough what you were to make me actually ‘see’ you the way you
were
less clearly than I—for instance—did an hour ago, on the way here. Know what I mean?”

“No,” said the other flatly, without regret.

“Aha, though, I’d know that ‘no’ of yours anywhere! It was always ‘no’—when it wasn’t ‘oh.’
”

“You must still be clever,” said Shelia coolly. Not expecting an answer, she opened her crocodile bag, brought out a rolled-gold compact, tapped it open, and regarded herself in the lid mirror, without comment or, it seemed, curiosity. Not much of what now was her face was to be seen; for the roses, though receding above her forehead, showing a peak of blue-blonded hair, clung round her cheeks like a somewhat loose-fitting wreath. Her rouge blended in with them. Her long rather than large eyes, sea-grey, still tilted—as it could be remembered that they had. A long nose, tilted slightly up at the tip, had not lost its shapeliness with maturity: below it, a recalcitrant mouth, carefully outlined, wore the look of having resigned itself, not good-humouredly, to not saying much that it might have said, and also, probably, to having kissed for the last time. The flesh of her face had hardened, perhaps through the effort involved in resisting change. For the greater part of a lifetime she had been very pretty; she was still not bad.

Clare wore a look of sombre jollity. Her forehead, exposed by the turban, was for ever scored by the horizontal lines into which it rolled up when she raised, as she often did, her comedian’s eyebrows. Bags underhung her eyes; deep creases, down from the broadened lobes of the nostrils, bracketed her mouth. Her pug nose and long upper lip (which she still drew down) should have been recognizable features, had the whole of her not so paralyzed Sheila’s eye. Strictly, she was massive rather than fat: her tailor-made, tailored to contain her, did not minimize (as she sat in it at the table) shoulders, chest, bust, or rib-cage. Clare had arrived, you might feel, by elimination at the one style possible for herself, and thereafter stuck to it. It did not so much fit her as she it. If that had meant forgoings, they had been worth it. Contrary to what might have been once expected, she looked like something, and was unlikely to let herself feel like anything else.