The Sweet Dove Died (11 page)

XVII

‘Hello, Jimmie – guess who!’

‘Ned, of course,’ said James in a rather subdued voice, for his uncle was in the shop and the telephone call had interrupted a lecture Humphrey had been giving his nephew on the advisability of settling down to serious study of some particular aspect of the antique trade.

‘I know one learns a good deal by going round the sale rooms,’ he said, ‘but you should try to specialise in something – bronzes or porcelain or even furniture –
not
netsuke, I think,’ he added, perhaps remembering his visits to Mr Lambe, the dentist.

James had just been going to say ‘porcelain’, in view of Leonora’s birthday present to him, when the telephone had rung.

‘See who that is,’ said Humphrey crossly. ‘If it’s Mrs Hirschberg about that bronze, I’ll speak to her.’

‘Are you busy?’ Ned asked.

‘Yes, in a way,’ said James cautiously.

‘Okay, I’ll make it short then. I’m coming up to the British Museum for a few days, so I’ll look in on you at the weekend.’

‘Oh, but …’James was confused, both by his uncle’s presence and by the idea of Ned calling to see him at Leonora’s house.

‘You’ll be away?’

‘Possibly – can I let you know?’

‘No time for that and I’m not sure where I’ll be – I’ll just take a chance. If you’re there, I’ll see you – if not, not. That sounds beautifully simple, doesn’t it, Jimmie?’

‘Yes, simple. I must rush off now.’ But was anything about Ned ‘simple’?

‘Who was that – your girl friend?’ asked Humphrey without much interest. ‘I hope you’ve made it all right with her about that furniture. I didn’t like having to snatch it away so unceremoniously, but Leonora was upset and seemed to think you’d want it and you know what she is – women do fuss so,’ he added, but without disloyalty since it was a generalisation.

‘Yes, they do,’ James agreed. All the same, Leonora was being marvellous and he had settled down very comfortably in the flat. He had been afraid she would be always in and out wanting to know what he was doing but she didn’t bother him at all. Occasionally when he came back in the evening he noticed that fresh flowers had appeared in his sitting-room, and of course she always saw that his milk was put in the fridge and his rubbish emptied and all those practical things that helped to make life run smoothly but that one didn’t want to have to think about oneself.

Tonight
she
was dining with
him
and James hurried back, remembering to call at Harrods on the way for some of Leonora’s favourite lemon water-ice. He spent some time arranging the flowers, not quite as artistically as she would have done them, he felt. Then he had to ‘arrange’ himself and was only just ready when she tapped on his door.

‘Not too early, I hope?’ she said.

‘As if you could ever be.’

If the compliment was a little too glib Leonora gave no sign of noticing. ‘I’d intended to be just a fashionable few minutes late,’ she admitted.

‘I’m glad you weren’t – I’ve been longing to see you,’ he said, and really it was true. He was much more at ease with her than with Phoebe or even Ned.

It was almost as if they were meeting for the first time or in the very early days of their knowing each other, Leonora felt with delight. All that wretched business about Phoebe Sharpe and the furniture seemed like a kind of nightmare, if that wasn’t putting it too strongly. When the evening had advanced some way she planned to say just a
little
about Phoebe, to clear things up as it were. The position was not entirely satisfactory – the episode needed just a few touches to tidy it up before it was put away for ever.

‘Lemon water-ice –
clever
James!’

‘I was terrified it was all going to melt before I could get it home.’

She was touched to think of him going to so much trouble, when of course she could perfectly well have phoned Harrods to deliver it. Still, that wouldn’t have been at all the same.

‘Shall we draw the curtains to have our coffee?’ he asked. ‘Or would you like to sit in the gloaming with just one lamp on in the corner?’

‘Oh, in the gloaming, I think. What a lovely word that is – do you suppose it’s Anglo-Saxon or what?’

‘I don’t know, darling.’

‘That clever friend of yours probably would – didn’t you say she had a degree in English or something equally formidable?’

‘You mean Phoebe Sharpe?’ said James, frowning over the coffee percolator. He was puzzled that Leonora should appear to want to cast this shadow over what was being such a perfect evening.

‘Yes, Phoebe Sharpe.’

‘What about her?’ asked James uneasily.

‘Oh, nothing at all – she just came into my mind when I was thinking about the derivation of “gloam-ing”.’

James poured out the coffee.

‘Darling, I don’t want to go
on
about it, but I do hope you weren’t
too
unkind to poor Miss Sharpe.’

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ said James indignantly. ‘Miss Sharpe’ didn’t sound like Phoebe, anyway.

‘Don’t get cross with me – but she did look rather the kind of girl who might not find it very easy to attract a man.’

‘She’s not elegant or glamorous, certainly. It was just … Oh, why do we have to talk about her? I’m not going to see her again.’

‘You are not going to see her again,’ Leonora repeated slowly, not so much asking a question as stating a fact.

‘No. I had this letter from her thanking me’for those cigarettes, and she said she was leaving the cottage and going to Majorca for the winter on the money she’s earned – to write a novel or something.’

Leonora smiled in the half darkness. This was most satisfactory news. ‘One doesn’t like to see people hurt,’ she said gently.

‘Oh, Phoebe will be all right – please don’t let’s talk about her anymore.’

‘We won’t, then. I only wanted you to know that I do understand about everything. And you mustn’t think that I’d stand in your way if ever at any time … Some beautiful cultured girl, about twenty-two or three,’ Leonora mused. ‘Darling, I should positively
throw
you together. Interested in the arts and antiques, of course …’ Here she stopped, for it had suddenly occurred to her that such a girl might very well be working in Christie’s or Sotheby’s at that very moment.

‘Would you like some creme de menthe with your coffee?’ asked James, eager for a change of subject.

‘
Crème de menthe,’
 Leonora echoed with exaggerated emphasis, ‘of
all
things.’

‘I thought it was your favourite liqueur.’

‘Darling, it was and is. I was just thinking of the last time I drank it.’

‘When was that?’ asked James suspiciously.

‘One evening when Humphrey dropped in and the rain came through Miss Foxe’s ceiling –
your
ceiling, now – what ages ago it all seems.’ How Humphrey had
loomed
over her. Looming in the gloaming – she couldn’t really share the joke with James.

‘Well, nothing like that’s going to happen this evening,’ said James.

‘No? But of course not.’ Again Leonora smiled in the darkness. Would she have minded if it had been
James?
she asked herself, not for the first time. ‘Come and sit by me,’ she said.

‘I’ll sit here on the floor,’ said James, getting a cushion.

‘Then I shall stroke your hair. How curly it is! Like golden wires or whatever the Elizabethan poets said.’

No English literature, please, said James to himself; for having disposed of Phoebe, he did not at this moment want to be reminded of Ned.

XVIII

The next day was Saturday, but the promised visit from Ned did not materialise. He would hardly bother to come all this way, James decided, and certainly not without telephoning first. Once the phone did ring, but it was a wrong number. When evening came James tried to settle down with a book, but he couldn’t concentrate; there was a prickly feeling in the back of his throat and he began to wonder if he was getting a cold.

On Sunday morning he woke to the sound of a church bell ringing for the eight o’clock service. It was the church Miss Foxe used to go to, Leonora had told him. He could see its spire without getting out of bed. He turned over again and slept heavily, with vivid dreams of himself and Ned in Portugal, until half-past nine. He realised now that he
had
got a cold and lay pitying himself and wishing that somebody would bring him a cup of tea. But Leonora would not disturb him, he knew, and if he wanted tea he must get out of bed and make it himself. He lay for a while longer looking round the room, admiring the way Leonora had arranged his furniture and objects, better than he could have done himself. The only thing missing was the fruitwood mirror. Had he lent it to Phoebe and had she kept it? He puzzled over this but could not remember and in his weak state it seemed not to matter. When he sat up his head swam and he felt dizzy; perhaps it was something worse than a cold. He was sure he had a temperature.

Leonora, preparing her Sunday lunch, was conscious of the silence up above as she was of any sound, or lack of it, that came from the flat. No doubt James was having a nice long lie-in, she thought indulgently. He was still young enough to be able to sleep late in the mornings, which she never could now. How delightful it would have been to take breakfast up to him – she imagined the artistically laid tray – and to discuss the Sunday papers. But she mustn’t bother him or he might fly away. All she had done was to creep up very quietly at about half-past eight to lay his papers outside his door. Perhaps he would call on her later in the day for a drink or a little supper. In the meantime – well, one had one’s own Sunday routine which, for Leonora, included a little sleep in the afternoon with the papers or a book. One really needed it at one’s age if one was to appear fresh in the evening.

Just after four o’clock she woke up and put on the kettle for tea. There was still no sound from James’s flat; perhaps he had crept quietly out of the house while she was dozing. How odd it was, she thought, the way each of them crept about, so very careful not to intrude on or disturb the other. Surely this was the secret of their perfect relationship?

She was drinking her tea when the front door bell rang. Humphrey, perhaps, or her friend Liz? Whoever it was, she took out her powder compact and applied fresh lipstick before going to the door.

A stranger stood on the doorstep, a fair-haired young man – perhaps not all that young, she decided on a second glance, but younger than she was and certainly most attractive and personable.

‘You must be Miss Eyre,’ he said, ‘Leonora – that’s how I always think of you, I’m afraid – you don’t mind, do you? Jimmie’s told me so much about you.’

Leonora was instantly on her guard, she could not have said exactly why – perhaps hearing James called ‘Jimmie’, though it was more likely that the young man’s appearance and air told her that this friend of James’s was not quite like Jeremy or Simon, his old schoolfellows.

‘I’m sorry, he isn’t in,’ she heard herself saying, and this wasn’t exactly a lie because now that she came to think of it she was certain she
had
heard him go out while she was resting.

‘Oh, that’s a pity – I suppose I should have called him first to make sure. I did say I’d be in London this weekend. Never mind.’ Ned made as if to go. ‘Perhaps you’d just tell him it was Ned.’

‘Ah, then you must be the American James met on his travels.’

‘The same.’

‘Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’ Leonora asked. She had the feeling that Ned mustn’t be allowed to slip away and that she must take this opportunity – perhaps the only one she would ever have – of finding out more about him.

‘Thank you – that would be nice.’ Ned stepped into the hall, his glance moving towards his reflection in the fruitwood mirror and resting there for a moment.

The antagonism between them was of the coolest and most polite, almost like the feeling between herself and the woman in the shop where she had bought James’s birthday present, but here there could be no happy compromise. It was to be a confrontation in daylight and at the tea table, Leonora realised, dealing as calmly as she could with the business of getting an extra cup and saucer and pouring tea. The word that had suggested itself to her – 'confrontation' – was not one she would normally have used, but it seemed peculiarly appropriate as she listened to the quiet American voice, polite and charming, making the most agreeable small talk.

‘How my mother would adore this room,’ he said, gazing around him. ‘She just
loves
everything English. What pretty china you have – and this is Earl Grey tea, isn’t it?’

Talk of mothers and tea was reassuring but Leonora’s feeling of uneasiness persisted. She knew instinctively that Ned was far more of a danger than Phoebe could ever have been. This was something she had always been afraid of in her relationship with James, and it seemed ‘unfair’ that she should have to face it on a Sunday afternoon, when few women past their youth feel at their best.

And now Ned was looking at her in a most curious way. His eyes moved from her face, down over her body and legs; even her feet did not escape his scrutiny. She was reminded of the way a certain type of man, particularly, perhaps, a ‘foreigner’, would ‘undress you with his eyes’, as the old-fashioned saying put it, except that Ned’s appraisal was completely lacking in sexuality or desire. But after a while Leonora realised what he was doing – simply calculating the cost of her clothes and everything about her, including her hairstyle, make-up, jewellery, and even her shoes.

He must have been aware that she knew this for he smiled and, leaning forward, touched the sleeve of her blouse with the tip of one finger.

‘Wild silk?’ he enquired, the soft questioning note in his voice giving the words a sinister implication.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Leonora, drawing away from him.

‘Jimmie always said you had beautiful clothes and I can see that he was right.’

The words were flattering and Leonora loved compliments; but however charming he might appear this young man wanted to take James away from her and she was not going to let him.

‘How convenient that you had this apartment for Jimmie to move into,’ Ned went on smoothly. ‘It’ll be so handy for him. He told me all about your charming house.’

Leonora did not like to think of the two young men discussing her, as she supposed they must have done. She would never know if James had been loyal to her.

‘You’ve come to do some research in the British Museum, I believe?’ she asked.

‘Oh, my wretched thesis!’ Ned was a charming
enfant terrible
for the moment. ‘I wonder if I’ll
ever
get it done.’

‘What’s the subject?’

‘A study of some of Keats’s minor poems.’

‘Ah, Keats,’ said Leonora, feeling on safer ground. But Keats was not a favourite poet of hers and she couldn’t for the moment recall any of the minor poems.

Ned had picked up from the mantelpiece an alabaster dove, a present James had once given her, and was stroking it. She noticed what small hands he had.

‘I guess you must know his poem about the dove,’ he said.

‘The dove, of course.’ But again the poem eluded her. Ned began to quote,

‘I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving …’

‘Ah, yes, of course, that sad little poem.’ Leonora was relieved that it was something so simple and harmless. Whatever had she expected? ‘It died,’ she said rather foolishly. ‘Would you like some more tea?’

Ned passed his cup and went on with the verse, his voice lingering over the words and giving them a curious emphasis.

‘O, what could it
grieve
for? Its feet were
tied
With a single thread of my
own hand’s
weaving.’

‘You must go and see Keats’s house in Hampstead,’ Leonora said, agitation rising in her, for “now the harmless little poem seemed almost to have some obscure and unpleasant meaning. But that was fanciful and ridiculous, surely. ‘We might all go together,’ she said more firmly. ‘I don’t think James has ever been.’

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Ned, getting up. ‘And now I must go. It’s been wonderful meeting you. You’ll tell Jimmie I came?’ There was a note of teasing doubt in the request.

‘Yes, I’ll tell him, of course – and you must come to luncheon.’

‘Luncheon,’
he savoured the word as something peculiarly English, ‘that’ll be delightful.’ He crinkled up his eyes in a smile and was gone.

Leonora closed the front door and leaned against it. She found that she was trembling. She had stood up bravely to her ordeal, she felt, and it had certainly been a good move to suggest some future meeting, but the poem lingered in her mind. Would other people – would James himself – see their relationship like that? she wondered. Going to the fruitwood mirror for reassurance she saw that she looked pale and tense. She felt suddenly too old to fight, but was one ever too old to fight for one’s love – would one’s hold on that be as tenacious as on life itself? She had always seen herself as a weak woman relying on men – especially on men like Humphrey – to help her through the daily round, but when it came to a real crisis perhaps she was stronger than any of them. Certainly stronger than James.

James had slept through most of the afternoon and woke up when it was beginning to get dark. At one point he thought he had heard the front door bell ring and Ned’s voice, but when he tried to listen there was silence and he decided he must have been dreaming.

Now he got out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He felt lightheaded and in need of something to eat and drink, he couldn’t decide quite what. He went to the door and opened it, thinking he would go down to Leonora’s flat, but the house was silent. Perhaps she had gone out.

‘Leonora!’ he called.

‘Why, James, I thought you’d gone out. Have you been here all the time?’

‘Yes. I woke up not feeling well and I’ve been sleeping most of the day. I’ve got flu or something.’

‘My
poor
James – I had no idea. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘No, I didn’t feel like it and I hadn’t the energy . .

‘Get back into bed and I’ll bring you something.’

When Leonora returned with the artistically laid tray – soup and toast, scrambled egg and a bunch of black grapes – James had arranged himself on his pillows and was already feeling better. It was that time on Sunday evening when the bells start ringing for Evensong, which can be pleasant or melancholy according to one’s circumstances.

‘How soon it gets dark now,’ said Leonora, going to the window, ‘and all the sycamore leaves are falling – the garden’s full of them.’

‘I’ll tidy them up when I’m better,’ said James. He hated gardening but perhaps it was the least he could do for her.

They stayed in contented silence for a while, James picking delicately at his food and Leonora sitting on a chair by his bed.

‘Oh, by the way,’ she said at last, ‘I had a visitor this afternoon.’

A visitor – so he hadn’t been dreaming.

‘Your American friend, Ned.’

‘Ned? What’s
he
doing in London?’

‘Working at the British Museum, I gathered – he said he’d told you.’

James felt himself flushing at the cool tone of her voice, so lacking in reproach. It would have been better if she’d made a scene. He couldn’t remember now what he had told her about Ned. Certainly not a great deal. Really it could be said that he had deceived her again – first Phoebe and now Ned. He turned away towards the window. He could see a few leaves drifting down from the sycamore tree. Ned called this time of year the fall. He had a sudden impulse to run down and bury himself in those leaves, covering over his head and body in an extravagant gesture of concealment, return to the womb or whatever one called it. But then he imagined Leonora’s cool laughter or her unspoken ‘understanding’. He would never find a flat of his own. There was no escape from anything, ever. Now she was urging him to eat a few grapes.

‘One should always have grapes in the house,’ she said, ‘one never knows when they’ll come in useful.’

‘What did Ned say?’ he asked.

‘Oh, he was very charming. I’m thinking of giving a little luncheon party and asking him to meet a few of our friends. He’s really sweet.’

Hardly
sweet,
James thought, and yet now that Leonora had taken him over, who knew what he might become? She would arrange or adapt him to her satisfaction just as she had arranged Phoebe. Not to speak of the way she had arrangedjames himself. Yet he had the feeling that Ned might not be so easy to deal with. There was something basically intractable about him that would resist any kind of ‘arrangement’ on Leonora’s part …

‘You and me,’ Leonora was saying, ‘and Humphrey and Liz, of course. Do you think we need ask another woman? Whom do you suggest?’

‘Miss Caton,’ said James flippantly.

‘Darling, you are naughty! What a pity poor Miss Sharpe has fled to Majorca. I should have liked an opportunity to get to know her better, and Ned would have adored her – all that English literature.’

James reached out his hand and took another grape. He wished Leonora wouldn’t go on like this, for after all he wasn’t quite himself. He closed his eyes and to his relief she stopped talking.