53

“His Excellency says that he went to Sandhurst with a MacQueen of MacQueen,” said Bobbie. He was dressed in white naval shorts with knee socks and had epaulettes on the shoulders of his white shirt. The calf of one leg rested on the other knee, and his hands dropped over the arms of the Chinese throne. “I hope you can make the wedding, but you seem to have some pretty sporty companions.”

Bobbie had always been insufferable, thought Patrick, and he hasn’t improved much. Connie shuffled into the room with a large tea tray and set it on the opium couch. “I’ll pour,” she said without further comment.

The last tenants of Moville had hardly unpacked when they had been summoned elsewhere. Their forfeited deposit was no great comfort to Eva MacQueen, as she now had to go through the entire procedure again. Patrick was due to sail within two weeks, and he had recovered The Count of Monte Cristo, in a pile of dust, from under his bed. The housekeeping was not improving, either.

Connie passed the cups; each saucer contained a measure of tea. Bobbie placed his saucer on a teak side table and produced a large handkerchief from his breast pocket. The thought of this limpid fellow climbing between the sheets with that bursting young virgin Angella was the ultimate disgrace. Bill Cyples would have wept openly and unashamed.

“Is it a good marriage for you?” asked Patrick. He proffered the gold cigarette case, which startled Bobbie. Then, for good measure, he glanced at his gold watch. The sunglasses protruded from his shirt pocket.

Bobbie’s family were old Bermudian, but their large house had certainly seen better days, and the staff seemed to have dwindled to one elderly caretaker for his father. Bobbie had a precocious sister whom Patrick remembered well and his brother probably remembered much better. His new eminence at Government House had elevated him into a conspicuous, if minor, role in this miniature world. It required haughtiness, good manners—and no brains. Bobbie was pre-eminently good at his job.

“They’re a county family,” he said, waving at the air with his kerchief like a courtier of Louis XIV. “His brother is a bachelor, so the old boy will inherit a lot. She’s their only child, poor dear. She said that I looked like Doug Fairbanks.”

MacQueen almost choked on his tuna sandwich. She had told him exactly the same thing. The “poor thing” must have very bad eyesight indeed.

At that moment, Patrick saw a carriage pull up the front drive. His heart plummeted as he saw the figure of Rene Warnefeld-Davies descend. There was a knock on the brass door knocker.

“I’ll get it, Connie,” he called.

Bobbie rose to his feet as Patrick MacQueen went into the hall and opened both of the double doors. She stood there, framed in the high doorway, her lips pursed and a small red cape thrown over her shoulders.

“When we visited my grandfather’s estates in Silesia,” she said, “everyone knelt in the mud and kissed the hem of his coat.”

Bobbie quickly glanced through the arch of the Chinese room then withdrew his head. He coughed politely.

“Rene!” exclaimed Patrick. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Please come in….”

“I must be toddling along, old boy,” said Bobbie nervously. “Dinner with the Yanks tonight, and HE’s in a bad mood.”

“Bobbie, you met Mrs. Warnefeld-Davies at the school, I think—her son played Shylock in the play.”

“Yes, and jolly good, too,” said Bobbie, with a nervous stutter. “Thanks for the tea. Good afternoon, Mrs.—ah—Wermerfrun David…”

“Love to Angella,” called Patrick after Bobbie’s retreating back.

Rene was standing in the arch looking into the Chinese room. Its walls were silver, and a large black rug with tall storks in one corner hung above the black opium couch. This was scattered with red and gold cushions. Black carved teak furniture stood on another oriental rug, and a wall hanging with HEALTH, WEALTH, AND PROSPERITY in gold Chinese letters faced the opium couch from a red-lacquered wall.

“What was that about your grandfather?” asked Patrick. He placed Bobbie’s cup and saucer on the tray. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Patrick,” she said, sitting upright on the throne and crossing one leg over the other. “You are as big a fool as all of the rest of them. But you are my fool and I love you. I can’t do anything about that, and I know that you don’t love me. But you don’t hate me either, or we couldn’t have done all of those things together. Maybe you could learn to love me a little bit?”

The room suited her. She was so small that she sat on the edge of the throne like a child, with her back straight and her hands on her lap. She had studied every gesture carefully, and she spent hours each day on her grooming. She was an expensive package, and had once rebuffed Rudolf Valentino, calling him “a little Italian barber”.

She really belonged to the East, surrounded by idols and brass gongs, with wild tribesmen throwing tribute at her feet. Yet the point of a western sword had slipped into her armour and had tasted her gypsy blood.

That night she taught him restraint, and there were no fireworks. The long hours were soft and fragrant and filled with sad joy. They retraced their wild past with tender fingertips, and they blossomed as naturally as the lilies in the field. The poignancy of a vast regret enshrouded them, and they wept for all of the children of Eve.

When the sun rose, they had fallen asleep. Connie peeked into the Chinese room, then she quietly shuffled away.

“I am taking John to Florida,” she said over her salad at the long table. “The Americans will soon be in the war, and the ocean will be dangerous.”

In confirmation of that observation, the beaches of Bermuda were inundated with heavy oil from a torpedoed tanker. This indissoluble stuff clung to the rocks, surrounded the islands, and penetrated every inlet. There was nothing that anyone could do about it, and soaked seagulls staggered heavily up the beaches to die.