The Sugar Mother (29 page)

“
And knows not one house
,” Edwin said, “
that is not haunted by some fury that destroys its quiet
.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Teddy, for being clumsy,” Daphne said. “We ought to draw the curtains and have a drink. Let's have a drink, Teddy. I can't possibly sleep just now. We can phone the airline later and see what's happening.”

Edwin, knowing that he was incompetent, fetched two glasses and tried to decide what to offer Daphne and what to have himself.

“Come on, Teddy!” Daphne said. “You're going to have to make some decisions; you'd better start now.”

Edwin thought he heard a rustling and a tap-tapping at the window, as if someone low down on the path outside was trying to reach above the sill to knock on the glass. He stood still to listen.

“D'you hear anything?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It's that old woody hibiscus and broom you've got out there; they're scraping against the house and your window. You need to do some judicious pruning, otherwise there won't be any way through. The path's almost disappeared.”

“There it is again.” Edwin hesitated by his desk.

“Yes,” Daphne said, “it's all those branches; a lot of dead wood to be cut out.” She thumped the cushions of the chair, rearranging them and settling herself against them. “Champers!” she said. “We've got at least one bottle left. Lucky! Let's share that.” Obediently Edwin fetched the champagne.

“Just perfect!” Daphne said, draining her glass and holding it out to be refilled. “What d'you bet,” she said, “that they”—she nodded her head towards the house next door—“that they won't be there in the morning. It makes me mad”—she gulped, apparently without noticing, the rest of her drink—“it makes me mad to think of all the money they've saved on rent.”

Edwin, thinking of the purgative qualities of champagne, shivered as he remembered the sheer suffering ahead of him.

“About the Wakefield plays…” He made a great effort to change the subject. “If a rewriting is under consideration…” But Daphne, tired out, was falling asleep. He wished he could ask her to stay awake. He hoped she would wake refreshed after a short sleep. He was afraid that the sugar mother family might indeed slip away sometime during the night. He was afraid that the phone might ring. He was afraid that someone would come in at the back door; it was not locked. He was afraid that the sugar mother family might still be next door in the morning.

“Wake up, Daphne, please,” he wanted to say. But Daphne needed to rest. He got up quietly and pulled the red blanket, the one Leila liked, off his bed and put it over her. He poured the rest of the champagne, reflecting on the impossibility of the little princess, a spirit child like a little cloud, on the Nile. The enormity of his foolish belief earlier that Cecilia would ever give up even a part of her work to carry out the duties of a mother overwhelmed him completely. Telling another person something that needs telling had proved impossible too. It seemed such a small detail and yet was immense.

Sugar mother. Every day he had called Sugar Mother, as he opened the front door of his house. He could not help thinking about these homecomings, which became every day more and more precious. He put his foot out as if to step into the hall. Sugar Mother, he called to Leila; he always called her as soon as he stepped into the hall and she always came at once to meet him.

Alongside the university, for part of the way, was a high gray wall of stone. Once when walking there with Leila, when they
had been to see his rooms, he had longed to show her some affection. Every day when he walked home he remembered how they had walked there. He knew he would never forget the afternoon when they had seemed to be the only two people in existence. Always on the way home he watched the children running and playing in their little playground in the pines. It was the thin nimble legs which attracted. At the backs of the childish knees the endlessly strong and tireless ligaments were clearly visible beneath the skin. Quite tiny children climbed the rope ladders with fearless happiness. He felt restored and rested as he walked on through the pines, walking faster as he drew nearer to his house….

A war would solve everything: World War Three. He held up his sparkling glass towards the light. “World War Three,” he said aloud, putting aside his pacifism, which he had never declared in any case. How could he have ever made such declarations when Buffy and Tuppy were always toasting their old regiments?

If a war broke out now Cecilia would be holed up (Buffy's words) in Cairo indefinitely. She would have Vorwickl for company and since babies were born everywhere and all the time, there would be no difficulty about employment. Perhaps a boardinghouse, a pension, rather than an hotel, for a longer stay…

He knew really that wars, though appearing to occur suddenly over some trivial incident, were really in preparation over a number of years. He tilted the champagne bottle but it was empty. In order to have a war, tremendous mass production, and full employment, should already have been in operation. Mass production of weapons, boots, uniforms, tents, blankets, ration books, posters—all kinds of things to be in readiness to accompany the battle cries and the prayers for victory.

He tilted his glass; it was empty. Putting the pages of the “Study of Man” lectures within reach, he drew the notebook of the intangible towards himself and waited for the expected stomach cramps.