Pappy was very drunk. Now that it was nearly three in the morning and most of the people had gone home, and there was nobody left but a few rather stupid women and tired men, Pappy was not funny any longer. He had reached the crying stage. He did not look any different, and he did not slur his words, nor did he fall down. He just cried. His left arm was round Celia’s shoulders, and his right arm was round some strange woman who wanted to go home.
“They’ve all gone and left me,” he said, “except this child here. Maria is out in the world, Niall is out in the world, but this child remains. She’s the flower of the flock. I’ve always said so, ever since she was a little child of three years old, wandering about with a finger in her mouth, looking like the infant Samuel. She’s the flower of the flock.”
The woman’s face was set in hard, weary lines of boredom. She was longing to go home. She could not catch her husband’s eye. If it was her husband. Celia did not know. One never did.
“Maria’s all right,” said Pappy. “Maria will go to the top, she’s got enough of my blood in her to get her to the top. See what happened tonight? Maria’s all right. But she doesn’t give a damn for anyone but herself.” The tears were running down his cheek. He did not bother to brush them away. He enjoyed the solace, the luxury of grief.
“Watch that boy, Niall,” he said, “watch that boy. He’s not mine, but I’ve reared him. Anything that boy does in the future will be due to me. He’s my son by adoption. And I feel he is mine. I know every thought that goes on in the back of that boy’s head. Watch him. Watch that boy. He’s going to startle somebody, some day. But he won’t startle me. And where is he now? Gone out and left me. Gone off, just like Maria. There’s only this child left. The best of the bunch.”
He found his handkerchief and blew his nose. Celia could see the woman making frantic signs to the man opposite her.
She looked away. She could not bear them to guess she saw the signs. The waiters were getting tired, and very bored. The Head Waiter came again and pushed the bill on a plate, neatly folded, under Pappy’s eyes.
“What’s this?” said Pappy. “Somebody want my autograph? Who’s got a pencil? Anyone got a pencil so that I can sign my autograph?” The waiter coughed. He avoided Celia’s eyes.
“It’s the bill, Pappy,” whispered Celia. “The waiter wants you to pay the bill.” A younger waiter, standing behind the Head Waiter, began to giggle. It was agony.
“We really must be going,” said the woman, getting up and pushing back the chair. “It’s been a wonderful evening, we have so loved it.”
The man opposite understood. He got up too. Celia knew that because of Pappy being drunk they were afraid they might get stuck with the bill. They must get away quickly, before it could possibly happen.
“They’re all leaving,” sighed Pappy. “Nobody wants to stay. Soon there’ll be nobody left in the whole damn world. They’re tricky and they’re funny when you have the ready money, but where are they when you’re stony broke? I shall have to sign this. I can’t pay. I shall have to sign it.”
“That will be all right, sir,” said the Head Waiter smoothly.
“It’s been a great evening,” said Pappy, “a great evening. Thank you. Thank you all. Wonderful supper. Wonderful service. Thank you.”
He rose from his chair and walked slowly and magnificently to the door. “A charming fellow,” he said to Celia, “a most charming fellow.” He bowed graciously to a couple leaving the room at the same time. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “We must all get together again very soon. It’s been a wonderful evening.”
The couple stared in astonishment. They had not been in Pappy’s party at all. Celia walked past them, her cheeks flaming, her head held high. She did not have to fetch her fur coat because she had it with her. She stood by the entrance, waiting for Pappy. He was ages in the cloakroom. She thought he would never come. When he did appear he was wearing his coat over his shoulders like a cape, and he had his opera hat tilted on one side. “Where are we going?” he said. “Has some other party been arranged? Are we all meeting somewhere else?”
Celia noticed the porter tried to hide his smile.
“No, Pappy,” said Celia, “it’s awfully late. We’re going home.”
“Whatever you say, my darling, whatever you say.”
They went out into the street, and the car was parked the other side. Celia held Pappy’s arm and steered him to the car. The snow was thick on the ground. Why had Pappy sent the chauffeur home? He always sent him home. He had this ridiculous conscience about keeping the chauffeur up late. He always made the chauffeur go home to bed. Pappy fumbled for his key. He could not find the key.
“I must arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,” he said. He quoted the whole poem with care and accuracy, and by the time he had finished it he had found the key.
“Get in, my darling,” he said. “Your little feet will be frozen.” Celia climbed into the front seat, and he lowered himself beside her.
“Her tiny hand is frozen,” he sang softly, and pressed the starter button. Nothing happened. He went on pressing it for quite a while. “It’s cold,” said Celia. “All the snow has made it cold.” He did not seem to hear. He went on singing snatches of La Bohème. “You’ll have to wind the handle, Pappy,” said Celia.
“Now seems it more than ever rich to die,” said Pappy, “to cease upon the midnight with no pain…”
Very slowly, very carefully, he lowered himself once more from the car, and stood outside it in the snow. His coat slipped off his shoulders. “Put your coat on, Pappy,” called Celia. “It’s very cold. You’ll catch a chill.”
He waved his hand to her. He went to the front of the car, and bent down. He was ages bending down by the front of the car.
There were curious, hopeless sounds of a handle that would not turn. After a long while he came back again and peered at her through the window. “We must purchase a new car, my darling,” he said. “This one appears to be inefficient.”
“Get in and try the starter again,” said Celia. “It’s only that the engine is cold.” In the distance she could see a policeman. He had his back turned to them, but any moment he might walk their way. He would come towards them, and he would see that Pappy was drunk and should not be in charge of a car, and he would do something terrible like taking Pappy to Vine Street, and then it would be in the papers in the morning. “Get back in the car, Pappy,” urged Celia. “Get back quickly in the car.” Once more he lumbered in beside her.
He pushed the starter, and nothing happened.
“I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces”
said Pappy. Then he huddled himself in the seat, pulled his hat down over his face, and sighed deeply, and composed himself for sleep.
Celia began to cry. Presently she heard footsteps on the pavement. She lowered the window, and saw a young man passing by.
“Please,” she said, “could you come here a moment?”
The young man stopped. He turned round and came to the window of the car. “Is anything the matter?” he said.
“We can’t get the car to start,” said Celia, “and my father isn’t very well.”
The young man looked at Pappy humped in the driver’s seat. “I see,” he said briskly. “Quite. What do you want me to do? Cope with the car, or cope with your father?”
Celia bit her lip. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes again. “I don’t know,” she said. “Whichever you think best.”
“I’ll tackle the car first,” he said.
He went to the bonnet, and bent down, as Pappy had done, and in a few moments he had started the car.
He came back, dusting the snow off his hands.
“That’s that,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind climbing into the back seat, I’ll push your father into the one you are in now, and I’ll drive you home. It seems a pity to wake your father. A little sleep will do him good.”
“You’re very kind,” said Celia. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “It’s all in the day’s work. I’m a medical student. I work at St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
Celia stared out of the window while the young man dealt with Pappy in the front seat. It was too much like trussing up a fowl. The proceedings lacked dignity. Still, if he was a medical student…
“There we are, all set,” said the young man. “Now, tell me your address.” She told him, and he started to drive the car in the direction of home. “Does this sort of thing often happen?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” said Celia hurriedly. “It’s only that we had a party.”
“Quite,” said the young man.
She dreaded that he would ask her name, because once she told him it would be fatal, he would know who she was and that Pappy was Pappy, and then the news would get round, he would tell his friends at St. Thomas’s Hospital that he had spent a most amusing time taking Delaney, drunk as a lord, back to his home in St. John’s Wood at half-past three in the morning. He asked no more questions, though. He was very discreet. When they came to the house the young man pulled up the car and Pappy woke up. He sat up and looked about him.
“Night’s candles are burned out,” he said, “and jocund day comes tip-toe o’er the misty mountaintops.”
“I agree, sir,” said the young man, “but how are you going to navigate the steps?”
Pappy stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“Your face is pleasant but unknown to me,” he said. “Have we met before?”
“No, sir,” said the young man. “I’m a medical student at St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
“Ah! A butcher,” said Pappy. “I know your kind.”
“He’s been so helpful,” began Celia.
“Butchers, all of them,” said Pappy firmly. “They can think of nothing but the knife. Is this St. Thomas’s?”
“No, sir. I’ve just brought you home.”
“Very civil of you,” said Pappy. “I have no desire to be cut to pieces in a hospital. Will you give me a hand out of the car?”
The medical student helped Pappy up the steps of the house. Celia followed with the coat and hat, both of which had fallen in the snow. There was a pause of a moment or two while Pappy searched for his latchkey. “Are you staying with us? I’ve forgotten,” he said to the medical student.
“No, sir. I have to get along back, thank you very much.”
“Take the car, my dear fellow, take the car. It’s no earthly use to me. I don’t know how the damn thing works. Keep it, it’s yours.” He walked slowly into the hall and switched on the lights. “Where’s Truda? Tell Truda to make me some tea.”
“Truda’s in hospital,” said Celia. “I’ll make you some tea, Pappy.”
“In hospital? Of course.” He turned again to the medical student. “You may come across our faithful Truda in the course of your butchery,” he said. “She’s in one of your morgues. Dear, faithful creature, been with us for years. Deal gently with her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Always the knife,” murmured Pappy. “They can think of nothing but the knife. Butchers, the whole damn tribe.”
He wandered into the dining room and stared absently about him. The medical student took Celia’s hand.
“Look,” he said, “isn’t there something more I can do for you? I can’t leave you with him alone. Please let me help.”
“It’s all right,” said Celia. “My brother will be upstairs. I can wake him up. It’s quite all right. Truly it is.”
“I don’t like to leave you,” he said. “You look so awfully young.”
“I’m sixteen,” said Celia, “and I always look after Pappy. I’m used to it. Please don’t bother about me.”
“It’s not right,” he said. “It’s not right at all. I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll telephone you in the morning. And you must promise to let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“Thank you very much.”
“I’ll telephone you about half-past ten. And I’ll put your car away in the garage now.”
“How will you get home?”
“Leave that to me. I shall get home all right. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Celia shut the front door behind him. She listened for the sound of the car starting up, and then the garage doors being opened, and the car driving in, and then the doors slamming to again. Then nothing more happened. Then he must have gone away. Suddenly she felt very lost and helpless. She went into the dining room. Pappy was still standing in the middle of the room.
“Come upstairs to bed, Pappy,” she said.
He frowned. He shook his head. “Now you are going to turn against me,” he said. “Now you are going to leave me. You are planning to run away with the butcher from St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
“No, Pappy,” said Celia, “he’s gone. Don’t be silly. Come along, it’s very late, and you must get to bed.”
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,” said Pappy. “You are trying to deceive me, my darling.”
Celia ran upstairs to fetch Niall. But he was not in his room. His room was just as he had left it, before going to the theater. Niall had not come home… She felt bewildered and frightened, and she did not know what to do. She went along the passage to Maria’s room. Perhaps Maria was not in either. Nobody was in. She opened the door of Maria’s room, and turned on the light. Yes, Maria was back. She was in bed, fast asleep. And there was a note on the dressing table with Celia written on it. She picked it up and read it. “Don’t wake me up when you come in,” said the note. “I’m dead to the world. And tell Edith not to call me in the morning. And tell everybody to be as quiet as possible.” There was another note with Niall written on it. Celia hesitated, then picked it up and read it too. It was shorter than hers. “There’s no need to be so po-faced,” it said.
Celia looked down at Maria as she lay asleep. She was lying with her face pillowed on her hands, as she used to do when she was little and they shared a room. “She’s the eldest,” thought Celia. “She’s older than Niall, and older than me, but in a queer way she will always seem the youngest.” The ring that Niall had given Maria glistened on her finger. The blue stone had made a little mark against her cheek. There was something else that shone also, it jutted out from under her pillow. Celia bent to look. It was a gold cigarette case. Maria sighed deeply, and moved in her sleep. Celia tiptoed from the room, and closed the door softly behind her.
She went downstairs again to find Pappy.
“Please come to bed,” she said. “Please, please, Pappy, come to bed.” She took hold of his arm, and he allowed himself to be led upstairs. Once in his room he sat down heavily on the bed and began to cry.
“You’re all going to leave me,” he said, “one by one. You’ll all go away and leave me.”
“I’ll never leave you,” said Celia. “I promise. Please, Pappy, get undressed and go to bed.”
He started to fumble with his evening shoes. “I’m so unhappy,” he said, “so dreadfully unhappy, my darling.”
“I know,” she said, “but you’ll be all right in the morning.”
She knelt beside him and helped him undo his shoes. She helped him with his coat and waistcoat, and his collar and tie, and his shirt. Further effort was beyond him. He lay down on the bed, rolling his head from side to side. She covered him up with a blanket.
“Time remembered is grief forgotten,” he said, “is grief forgotten… is grief forgotten…”
“Yes, Pappy. Sleep now.”
“You’re so good to me, my darling, so good to me.”
He still had hold of her hand, and she did not like to draw it away in case he should begin to cry again. She went on kneeling by the bed. In a moment he was asleep, and breathing deeply, like Maria. They were both of them asleep. They had no troubles and no cares. Celia tried to draw her hand away but he held it fast. She crouched on the floor, her hand in his, and she was so tired she laid her head against the side of the bed and closed her eyes. “I shall never get away,” she thought. “I shall never, never get away…” And to console herself she drew, in her mind, a picture of immortality. Her people were fairy people, with winged feet and flaxen hair; their kingdom was not of the world, nor of heaven either. Their clothes were more colorful, more glittering, more gold, and they walked forever in the sun. “One day I’ll draw this for children,” she said to herself. “One day I’ll draw what I mean, and only children will understand…” She went on holding Pappy’s hand while he slept, and the cold and darkness wrapped themselves about her.
The telephone woke her. She was stiff and numb. At first she could not move. The telephone persisted, and leaning forward she reached up to the table by the bed. The clock said half-past eight. She had slept then after all. She had been sleeping for three hours.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
A woman’s voice answered. “Can I speak to Mr. Delaney?”
“He’s asleep,” whispered Celia. “This is his daughter.”
“Is it Celia or Maria?”
“It’s Celia.” There was a pause, and a murmured conversation the other end. Then, to her surprise, she heard Niall’s clear, boyish voice take over the telephone the other end.
“Hullo?” he said. “Niall here. I hope Pappy didn’t worry about me.”
“No,” said Celia, “he didn’t worry about anyone.”
“Good,” said Niall. “He’s not come to yet, I suppose?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, we’ll have to telephone you later.”
“It’s half-past eight, Niall. What about your train?”
“I’m not catching the train. I’m not going back to school. I’m stopping here with Freada.”
“With who?”
“With Freada. You remember, she was at the party last night.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. What do you mean, you’re stopping with her?”
“What I say. I’m not going back to school, and I shan’t be coming home. We’re leaving for Paris in two days’ time. I’ll ring you later.” He clicked the receiver, and was gone.
Celia went on holding the receiver in her hand. After a moment the girl on the exchange said, “Number, please.” Celia put back the receiver. What on earth was Niall talking about? It must be a practical joke. Of course Freada had been at the party. That tall, nice, mad-looking woman who used to be a friend of Pappy’s and Mama’s. But why play practical jokes at half-past eight in the morning? Pappy was fast asleep. Celia could safely leave him now. She was so tired and stiff and cold that she could hardly stand. She could hear Edith downstairs drawing the curtains. She went down to warn her not to call Maria. Then she came upstairs again, to her own room, to dress. Her face looked pinched and yellow in the mirror, and her white evening frock was all crumpled from sitting on the floor. How terrible people looked in the morning, when they still wore evening dress. What could Niall have meant about going to Paris? She was too tired to guess, too tired to care. How nice to spend the day in bed, but with Truda away it would be impossible. Pappy would want her, Maria would want her. Somebody would want her. And anyway… the medical student had said he would telephone. She had her bath, and her breakfast, and when she was dressed she went along the passage once more to Pappy’s room.
He was awake. He was sitting up in bed in his dressing gown, eating a boiled egg. He looked fit, and well, and as if he had been sleeping for twelve hours, instead of five.
“Hullo, my darling,” he said, “I’ve had a series of most amazing dreams. All about some fellow in a hospital, trying to cut my gizzard with a carving knife.”
Celia sat on the edge of the bed.
“I must have drunk too much champagne,” said Pappy.
The telephone rang. “Deal with it, my darling,” he said, and he went on spooning his boiled egg, and dipping his toast in the yoke.
“It’s that Freada person,” said Celia, handing him the receiver. “She rang up once before, when you were asleep. She wants to talk to you.” And for some reason that she could not explain to herself, she slipped off the bed and went towards the door, and opened it, and stood outside in the passage. She felt uneasy, worried. She left Pappy to his conversation, and went to see if Maria was awake. Maria was sitting up in bed surrounded by newspapers.
“At last,” said Maria. “I thought you were never coming. They’re all good. The Daily Mail is damn good. A long bit all to myself. And another special bit in the Telegraph. There’s only one sniffy one, and that’s for the play, so it doesn’t matter. Look, you must read them. Come and sit down. What does Pappy say? Has Pappy seen them? Is Pappy pleased?”
“Pappy’s only just awake,” said Celia. “He’s on the telephone.”
“Who’s he talking to? Someone about the play?”
“No, it’s that woman Freada. You know, she used to be in Paris. Niall seems to be with her. I don’t understand.”
“How can Niall be with her? What do you mean? Niall must have left ages ago. His train went at nine o’clock.”
“No,” said Celia, “no, he’s still in London.” She heard Pappy’s voice roaring for her down the passage.
“I must go,” she said. “Pappy’s calling me.” Her heart was beating as she ran down the passage. He was still talking on the telephone.
“God damn it,” Pappy was shouting. “He’s only eighteen, I won’t have the boy seduced, I tell you. It’s the most monstrous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Yes, of course he’s clever, of course he’s brilliant. I’ve been telling all these damnfool schoolmasters that for years. Nobody listens to me. But because the boy is brilliant it doesn’t mean I’m going to deliver him up to you to be seduced… Paris? No, my God, no. A boy of eighteen. What do you mean, he’s starved? I’ve never starved him. He eats what he likes. My God, to think that you, one of our oldest friends, should stab me in the back like this. It’s nothing more or less than rape, seduction, and stabbing in the back…”
He went on and on, foaming at the mouth with rage, while Celia waited just inside the door. At last he slammed down the receiver.
“What did I tell you?” he said. “It’s his father’s blood coming out in him after all. His father’s rotten French blood. A boy of eighteen, goes off and sleeps with one of my oldest friends.”
Celia watched him anxiously. She did not know what to do or what to say.
“I’ll have the woman hounded out of England,” he said. “I won’t allow it. I’ll have her hounded out of England.”
“Niall said she was going to Paris,” said Celia, “and that he was going with her.”
“It’s his bad blood coming out in him,” said Pappy. “I knew it would happen, I always foresaw it. Freada, of all people. Let this be a lesson to you, my darling. Never trust a man or a woman with brown eyes. They always let you down. It’s monstrous, it’s unforgivable. The Garrick Club shall know of this. I shall tell everyone. I shall tell the world…”
Maria came in the doorway, yawning, her arms above her head. “What on earth’s the fuss about? What’s the matter?” she said.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Pappy. “Niall’s the matter. My adopted son. Seduced by one of my oldest friends. God! that I should live to see this day. And you”—he pointed an accusing finger at Maria—“when did you come in last night? When did you get home?”
“Before you did,” said Maria. “I was in bed and asleep by half-past twelve.”
“Who brought you back?”
“Someone from the theater.”
“Did he kiss you?”
“I really don’t see, Pappy…”
“Ha! you don’t see. My daughter, brought back at all hours of the night, dumped in the house like a sack of coals, kissed and cheapened, and my adopted son seduced. A fine night, I must say. And there was another fellow too, hanging about on the doorstep, pretending he was from St. Thomas’s Hospital. A fine night for the Delaney family. Have you anything to say?”
No one had anything to say. Everything had been already said…
“Here are the papers,” said Maria. “Don’t you want to read what they say about the play?”
He reached out a hand for the papers, and took them from her without a word. He disappeared with them into the bathroom and slammed the door. Maria shrugged her shoulders.
“Really, if he goes on behaving like this I shall have to live somewhere on my own,” she said. “It’s too absurd… You look awfully tired. What’s the matter with you?”
“I didn’t get much sleep,” Celia said.
“What’s the telephone number?” said Maria. “I shall have to ring up and find out what it’s all about.”
“Whose number?”
“Freada’s, of course. I have to speak to Niall.”
She went downstairs and shut herself in the morning-room, where there was another telephone. She was there a long time. When she came out she looked white and defiant.
“It’s true,” she said. “He’s not going back to school. He’s finished with school. He’s going to live in Paris, with Freada.”
“But—will she look after him?” said Celia. “Will he be all right?”
“Of course he’ll be all right; don’t be so stupid,” said Maria. “And he’ll have his music. That’s the only thing he cares about, his music.”
For one brief moment Celia thought that Maria was going to cry. Maria, who despised all crying, who never shed a tear. She looked lost and frightened and utterly forlorn. Then the telephone rang again. Celia went back into the morning-room to answer it. When she came back, Maria was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s for you,” said Celia. “It’s—you know.”
“Was it the secretary or was he speaking for himself?”
“He was speaking himself.”
Maria went into the morning-room again and shut the door. Celia walked slowly upstairs. Her head was aching, but she did not want to go to bed. If she went to bed she might miss the telephone call from the medical student. As she turned down the passage, Pappy came out of his bathroom, with the papers in his hand.
“These are really very good, you know,” he said, “very good indeed. All except that little nincompoop in the Daily. I wonder who he is. I’ll ring up the Editor. I’ll get him sacked. Listen to this one in the Mail. It’s headed, ‘Another Delaney triumph. The second generation gets away with it.’ ” He began reading the article aloud, smiling all over his face. He had forgotten about Niall.
Celia went back to her room and sat and waited. The telephone went on ringing all the morning. But it was never for her. It was always people ringing up to congratulate Maria. When Freada rang at half-past twelve Pappy was still abusive, but not quite so abusive as he had been at half-past ten. He would never forgive her, of course, but it was perfectly true that the boy was wasting his time at school, and if he really had this flair for composing tunes, as Freada insisted, then he had better go to Paris and learn how to write them down. But a boy of eighteen… “He may have been a boy last night,” said Freada, “but I assure you he’s a man this morning.”
Monstrous. Disgraceful. But what a story for the Garrick. He went off to lunch at his club in a happy state of indignation. And while Niall sat on the floor of Freada’s drawing room in Foley Street eating scrambled eggs with a bent fork, and Maria sat at a corner table at the Savoy overlooking the Embankment and eating oysters à la Baltimore, Celia sat alone in the dining room at St. John’s Wood eating prunes and custard and waiting for the telephone to ring. It never did. The medical student had not recognized Pappy after all. And he had forgotten to ask her name.