Heather lay on the packed sand of Kennebunkport beach and watched the rollers coasting in. Through dark glasses she saw them arch up in the late afternoon sun, break and pause, swing in a long backward sluice into the next coming waves. The air sang like the inside of a sea shell. The sun held her firmly to the sand, it glowed on her skin, it increased and spread her happiness so that she wondered if it were visible. Tomorrow she would be going home to Paul. She wondered how he would like her now: her back and arms and legs rich with sun, the rest of her skin like milk. Tomorrow his eyes would have her again.
From his letters she knew he had no job, but that he was writing and that the book was going well. She was glad. It seemed senseless for him to break off writing to look for a job now. Tomorrow she would return with her mother, would go back to living in the Methuen house on the side of the mountain. It wouldn’t be good, but it could be done; at least until his book was finished.
She picked up her beach-robe and began walking along the sand to the hotel. It was already late afternoon. Eight people stopped to talk to her before she reached the veranda, all Montrealers. Back in her own room she took a fresh-water bath, then put on a light frock and joined her mother in the lounge. Janet felt rather disturbed because Heather refused to wear mourning for her grandfather, but Janet’s black chiffon dress, black silk stockings and black accessories seemed to Heather enough mourning for one family.
Janet was exceptionally cheerful when Heather found her in the lounge. She had been playing bridge all afternoon with friends from Montreal. Over a cocktail she told Heather some of the details of the game, including the peculiarities of her partners, and then they went in to dinner.
“I’ve been thinking, dear,” she said, “we might as well stay here until the first of September. As a matter of fact, I tried to find the manager this afternoon. I’d like to keep the rooms we have.”
“But Mummy–” Heather laid down her soup spoon. “I thought we were leaving tomorrow!”
“It’s been very good for us both,” Janet said. “When you came back from Nova Scotia you were looking dreadfully thin and tired. I know I’ve needed the rest myself after this dreadful year.”
Heather picked up the spoon again. “You’re looking much better now, Mummy.”
A couple came into the dining room and left the door open behind them. The voice of a news commentator blared after them from the radio in the lounge. The situation in Europe had noticeably deteriorated in the past twenty-four hours, he said. It was rumoured that Hitler had summoned Count Ciano to Berchtesgaden.
“I do wish they’d turn that radio off!” Janet said. “Really–the announcers down here have such dreadful voices!”
“Then let’s go home,” Heather said gravely. “So you can listen to the bbc.”
“One ought to be able to get it here as well. Florence was saying that very thing this afternoon. After all, there are so many quite nice Americans. Florence was saying she simply can’t understand why they don’t do something about it.” Janet finished her soup and glanced out the window. The light was fading off the beach and the incoming combers looked cold. A slight fog was drifting in from the sea. “This is quite a pleasant place, you know. It seems foolish to go home when so many of one’s friends are here. Florence and I were laughing about it this afternoon. Three past presidents of the club are here now.”
A waitress came to take their soup bowls. Heather took a deep breath. “Sorry, Mummy. I’ve made my plans to leave tomorrow.”
Janet looked at her daughter with a flash of suspicion. “But you can easily change them, dear.”
Heather looked out the window and made no reply as the next course was set before them.
“I don’t understand you, Heather,” Janet said.
“Well, let’s not talk about it until after dinner.”
“But, dear–you know I can’t stay here alone.”
“I’ve enjoyed it,” Heather said. “It’s been lovely.” She concentrated on her plate. “But you said we’d stay three weeks, and I have an appointment in Montreal.”
Janet toyed with her roast beef. “It can’t possibly be more important than staying with me. There’s no one left in Montreal in August.”
Heather waited a moment, then she said, “Tell me what Daphne said in the letter you got this afternoon.”
“Didn’t you see it?” Janet relaxed and began to eat again. “Of course, she simply never tells anything in a letter. I think she does it on purpose.”
But in relating what Daphne did tell, Janet consumed ten minutes, and by that time the plates of the meat course were cleared. Daphne had been in Paris in early June but had returned to London for the season. Noel was so busy she seldom saw him any more. His factory was working day and night and Janet asked Heather if she didn’t think that was perfectly splendid. Noel himself was back in the R.A.F. “Of course,” Janet said, “if they’d taken Noel’s advice there’d have been no need for anyone to worry now. But they didn’t.”
“They could have taken the advice of other men besides Noel.”
“Oh, well–there’s no real need to worry anyway. Florence Murdoch was saying she’d met Lady Norne just before she came down here–she was Pamela Smith, you remember. She says nobody in London is worried; it’s only the Americans. That’s what the general always said. Whenever the Americans are worrying about England’s affairs, you can be perfectly sure England has everything under control.”
Janet continued to talk while they ate ice cream and cake. Heather lit a cigarette with her coffee but her mother refused to smoke. “American cigarettes are so harsh on my throat,” she said.
They rose from the table and walked out through the long dining room to the lounge. It was filled with old ladies knitting, and groups of young children trying to put off the hour of bedtime. The knitting women all looked up to note the entrance of Janet and her daughter. In the middle of the lounge Janet stopped. “Wait here a minute, will you, dear? I must speak to the manager now about holding our rooms.”
Heather touched her mother’s elbow. “Mummy,” she said quietly, “I meant what I said. I can’t stay any longer.”
Janet flashed her a sharp look. One hand smoothed the folds of the black chiffon over her flat abdomen as she glanced about the lounge and then back at her daughter. “I do wish you wouldn’t be so headstrong,” she said. “There’s no appointment you could possibly have at home that you can’t perfectly well get out of.”
Heather held her mother’s eyes. It was the same as it had always been; nothing she said ever made the slightest difference. She started to speak, and then she stopped. Finally she said, “Paul Tallard is there.” Sudden fixity in Janet’s eyes. “We’re–we’re in love. We’re–”
Janet’s nervous movements ceased. She stood quite still, and then she said, “Don’t be absurd, Heather! You know that’s quite impossible!”
The old ladies who watched them over their knitting saw no notable change in Janet’s manner. Some colour must have drained from her cheeks, but her smile in response to nods from friends was as gracious as ever. From the corner of one eye she saw Florence Murdoch approaching, and easily, sweetly, she turned to her fellow-director on many club boards.
“We’re all ready,” Florence Murdoch said. “The table’s set up in the sun-parlour tonight. And we’ve found a new fourth.” She laid chubby fingers on Janet’s forearm and added in a stage-whisper, “Mrs. Falconridge. We met her at tea yesterday. I do believe she’ll turn out to be one of the nicer Americans.” She turned to Heather. “Still not playing bridge?”
“Heather pretends to despise it,” Janet said brightly. She hunted for a white handkerchief in the black purse she always carried.
Florence Murdoch laughed. “I was reading a book by Somerset Maugham the other day. You really ought to get it, Heather. Mr. Maugham says a good bridge game is better than an insurance policy. Or something like that.”
“Heather reads everything,” Janet said. “Do you remember that passage, dear?”
Heather remembered it well. Maugham had said that to learn a good bridge game was the safest insurance against the tedium of old age.
“Of course! You were always so clever about books, weren’t you, dear?” Florence Murdoch went on. She turned to Janet and began a long description of Mrs. Falconridge. Janet remarked that poor General Methuen had said only last winter that on the whole he felt the Americans were improving. Janet promised to join the bridge table in a few moments, and Florence Murdoch moved away. The old ladies continued to count stitches.
When Janet turned back to Heather she found that her daughter had disappeared. Alone in the centre of the lounge, she drew in her breath and lifted her chin. The purse was tucked firmly under one arm and the white handkerchief was clutched in her right hand. Again she took a deep breath and moved carefully, with measured steps and a consciousness of many eyes upon her, to the desk. When she spoke to the clerk her voice had never sounded more British.
“I want you to put through a long-distance call for me,” she said. “Immediately. To Huntly McQueen in Montreal. I’ll be in the sun-parlour when it comes through.”