‘People grow duller as they grow older,’ young Ellen wrote in the diary which was her confidant. ‘They care less. One way or the other, nothing matters to them.’
This was, she decided, today’s Great Thought. She underlined it, added some exclamation marks, then slammed the book shut - with a bang so loud that two ladies, seated at the far end of the room, both turned to look at her with concern. This was by no means the first time she had disturbed them: in fact, for a long wet morning in a small guest-house drawing-room, a less ideal companion than Ellen was hard to find. Had it been a half-grown leopard who sprawled on the window-seat, Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry (who, in their two arm-chairs, were respectively knitting and trying to read a novel) hardly could have been less at ease. This seventeen-year-old girl - with her long legs, shock of curls thrust on end, ever-jingling bangles, rumpled grey flannel skirt - seemed to be making a point of not settling down: nor, if others succeeded in doing so, would it be her fault. To start with, she had prowled round the centre table, listlessly but at the same time loudly turning over the pages of magazines. Next, she had made an inexpert attempt to smoke, striking many matches and then coughing. When at last she produced her diary and began to write, her two fellow-guests had hoped for some minutes’ peace. Clearly, however, this was not to be.
Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry, all unaware of the drastic comment upon them Ellen had just indicted, did their best to remain (or appear) calm. Mrs Ordeyne, reaching into her knitting-bag for yet another ball of angora wool, told herself that one must make every allowance: it was hard on a girl being cooped up indoors like this, for day after day of a precious holiday. Yes, it was miserable for her. But what, on the other hand, had induced her to do such a silly thing as to come all alone to this guest-house, where she knew no-one, and where there were no other young people for her to get to know? The clientele of The Myrtles, at Seale-on-Sea, consisted of elderly, quiet folk, plus one or two married couples with small children. Had Ellen got friends staying elsewhere at Seale-on-Sea? If so, they must be letting her down.
Alas, thought the plump, kindly lady over her knitting, there it was: Ellen, unhappy during these days indoors, had become the admitted scourge of the guest-house. Her woebegone air and aggressive moodiness were not to be ignored. Should not someone advise her to make the best of things? Look at Miss Kerry, for instance, giving her whole mind to that no doubt very interesting book! Mrs Ordeyne, who practically never read, had the highest respect for those who did so.
Miss Kerry, if the truth were to be known, kept her eyes glued to the printed pages only by the strongest effort of will. Concentration became impossible; she had reached a stage when she could neither read nor fall back on her own thoughts. Younger by fifteen years than Mrs Ordeyne, and by temperament much less patient, Miss Kerry was more on edge than she cared to show. It was second nature with her to conceal feeling - the fact that, for good or ill, her entire future was to decide itself within the next few days was suspected, here at The Myrtles, by not a soul. Her habit of carrying round a book (which she read at meal-times, even, at her solitary table) earned her the reputation of being ‘clever’: in fact, the volume chiefly served as a barricade against people’s attempts to make conversation - behind it she could remain, as she wished, alone. Mrs Ordeyne had perceived, and at once respected, her fellow-guest’s wish to keep herself to herself: the two had drifted, during these last few days, into one of those friendships which are the result of circumstance. Mrs Ordeyne was happy to knit in silence; Miss Kerry, in her odd state of suspense, felt soothed by this easy companionship. She had no idea how intriguing, how mysterious she appeared sometimes, or how strong a curb Mrs Ordeyne - who loved to know people’s stories - often had to keep on her curiosity.
Young Ellen, of course, wrote Miss Kerry off as a thin and no doubt frustrated spinster. It was for Mrs Ordeyne, with a homely woman’s generous love of grace, to see that here was distinction - and, often, beauty. Erica Kerry’s blue-white hair framed a somewhat remote, fine-featured face, which youthfulness sometimes crossed like a flash of sunshine. Her eyes were a changing, intense blue. The unusual, subtle though inexpensive elegance of her dress set off her slender figure; nor could one fail to admire her feet and hands. As a rule, Erica Kerry wore a mask of irony and reserve: though the former might wear off, the latter did not. Mrs Ordeyne, in general, got the impressions that here, somewhere, was ice on the point of thawing; yet, at the same time, ice which dreaded to thaw. The few exterior facts which had been let drop were as follows - Miss Kerry worked in a London, office, supported her mother, was here for her annual holiday, and expected a friend to join her - she did not say who, or when.
Mrs Ordeyne, having long been happily married, was now a widow. She had raised satisfactory sons and daughters, who were now giving her grandchildren: contented, she nowadays asked no more of life.
These were the two who - when Ellen, having done with her diary, proceeded to fling it violently to the floor - once again turned round; this time not in silence.
‘What is the matter?’ exclaimed Miss Kerry.
‘My dear, is anything wrong?’ supplemented Mrs Ordeyne.
The girl on the window-seat, stretched at full length, rolled over on to one elbow to eye them blankly. “Wrong?” she repeated in a dumbfounded voice. ‘Matter?’ Words seemed to fail. Having reared herself up, shaking back her hair, she went on to direct a fierce, single, eloquent nod towards the outdoor scene framed by the window. ‘What about that?’ she asked.
It was depressing enough. Rain hung in a chilling, sombre, steadily-falling veil over the garden’s sodden greenery, smoke-dark trees, beaten-down borders and spoiled roses. Beyond, where there should have been a smiling view of the sea, a sullen grey-brown smudge could be just perceived. And, the worst of this was that it was nothing new: today was the fourth wet day in succession. What an obliteration of summer hopes - was this not July, a holiday month, on the so-called sunny South Coast of England? Nor would the weather, even, be kept out: gloom from it, entering through large windows, overcast the shabby-elegant, pretty drawing room. From the washed-out cretonnes of the arm-chairs and sofa, all colour finally stole away; on the parquet flooring the faded rugs looked bleak. The fact that the Myrtles had once been a private house, and that its owner Miss Plackman still preferred to keep it much as it was in her father’s and mother’s time, proclaimed itself by gilt-framed water-colours, mirrored brackets and Oriental and other knick-knacks - but these, too, looked mournful and blotted out. In the elaborate turquoise-blue tiled grate a fire, lit by Miss Plackman’s orders, tried but failed to burn in the damp air - Mrs Ordeyne and Miss Kerry sat over it because the idea was cheerful, at any rate: little heat was sent out by the reality!
Trees soughed and dripped; a heavy, uneven trickle splashed past the windows from an upstairs balcony.
‘No, it certainly isn’t nice,’ Mrs Ordeyne agreed, with a slight shiver. ‘Just give the fire the weeniest little poke, dear,’ she went on, to Miss Kerry, ‘then we shall see what happens, it hardly could be worse. Poor Miss Plackman, always so kind and thoughtful! Now, she’s a person I really am sorry for: between ourselves, this year she’s having a shocking season. We are not by any means up to full numbers, and on top of that there’ve been several cancellations - people lose heart, this weather; they’d just as soon stay at home. I hate to think of that poor brave little creature fighting a losing game - and look how she works, never off her feet! It would be worry enough to own a place like this, when it’s going badly - all her savings are in it, I understand - without being manageress as well! How plucky she is, when one comes to think she was not brought up to this sort of thing. Her father, was, you know, a colonel, and her mother had money: they once used to live very comfortably in this house. How queer it must be for Miss Plackman, I sometimes think, to see all these rooms, with their memories, full of strangers!’
‘I would have rather sold it,’ Miss Kerry said.
‘Well, I don’t know - she loved it; it was her home. And last year, for instance, everything went so well - the place was packed out, and we were all so happy. But then last summer was perfect - do you remember? - almost endless wonderful cloudless days. One lived out-of-doors; by the sea, or in some nook here in the garden. Yes, how delightful it was,’ she concluded, with a reminiscent smile. ’You should have been here last year,’ she told her friend.
‘Don’t,’ cried Miss Kerry, ‘please!’
Abruptly, she shook her head, as though to dispel some tormenting dream. ‘If only last summer could have been like this! Blue skies, pink roses, dazzling days by the sea, long lovely evenings under these trees here... Do you suppose I don’t see it all? The ideal summer... that was what I had pictured, what I had hoped-’ She broke off, caught a breath and resumed: ‘All that was what I’d been counting on. One should never count on anything that is too important. In fact, one should never count on anything - should one?’
Mrs Ordeyne, after a rapid and searching glance, said, discreetly, nothing. The intensity, passion even, in Miss Kerry’s voice had confirmed, more than the speaker knew, Mrs Ordeyne’s suspicion that her friend had ‘a story’ - and, still more, an unfinished one.
Never till this moment had Miss Kerry so nearly broken the silence in which she enclosed her life. What more might have come, if the wretched Ellen had not been also present? Mrs Ordeyne longed for a tête-à-tête. She reproached herself for her wish to prove - at the same time, might it not do Erica good to talk?
Over her spectacles, the good lady fixed on the window-seat a kind, thoughtful state. ‘It’s very dull for you in here,’ she said to Ellen. ‘Do you know what I should do if I were your age? I should put on my mackintosh and some nice thick shoes and take myself out.’
‘Out where?’
‘Oh, just out, you know - for a walk. Rain won’t hurt, if you’re thoroughly well wrapped up.’
‘I don’t care to walk by myself.’
‘Do you know nobody here?’
‘It’s not so much that.’ Ellen paused and darkly seemed to reflect. ‘I haven’t got a mackintosh,’ she said finally, ‘or’ (with the air of scoring a point) ‘thick shoes.’
‘What a rash way to come away on a holiday!’ Mrs Ordeyne felt it right to observe.
‘What a beast of a holiday to have come away on!’ returned Ellen. She yawned, to show that in her view that was that. She then looked contritely at her diary - now lying face-down with rumpled pages, where she had flung it on the floor. Why had she been so rough with it? It was her only friend. It shared, too, her secret, known to nobody else - her private reason for coming to Seale-on-Sea. Those early entries which held the clue were, however, for that very reason, tormenting reading.
The first was dated last May:
Have this evening met only man I shall ever love, called Peter Manfrey. I feel certain we are each other’s Fate. I could see he found me quite different from other girls. He is older than me, and quite a man of the world. From now on I shall be thinking of nothing else but Peter, and how to see him as much as I can.
Then, a fortnight later:
The only trouble with Peter is, he is too good-natured. He lets all these other people keep hanging on to him. At all these parties and at the tennis club it is always the same. What is the good of him and me living in the same place if we are never to be Alone? Much the best hope would be for him and me to be right away in some exquisite and romantic spot. I wonder where he is going for his holidays? Owing to all this constant interruption, I have not even so far had a chance to ask him.
Next, June.
Oh, I am so happy! Everything has worked out as though by magic! Not only are his holidays in the same month as mine, but I have managed to get a room for myself in the same place he is going to, Seale-on-Sea. He is to be with his parents (because they have not seen much of him since he came out of the Army) in a hotel on the front. Even if I could afford a hotel, and if they were not all certainly booked up now, I know Dad and Auntie, being so old-fashioned, would fuss at my going to one alone. But by good luck - Fate again! - I have heard of this guest-house, also at Seale-on-Sea. It is much cheaper and I dare say pretty awfully dim, but as I shall be out all the time with Peter I shall not care. Dad and Auntie are much puzzled as to what I intend to do there, all by myself, ‘All by myself’ - little do they know!
Poor Auntie keeps keeping on at me about why won’t I go with the Robinsons to Cornwall!!!
I must now tell Peter. How his face will light up. This will be just the Chance he must have been always wanting as much as I have.
If little Miss Plackman, sore-tried proprietress of the guest-house, could have been afforded a glimpse of Ellen’s diary, she would have murmured: ‘Ah yes, I see - I thought so!’ Of Miss Plackman’s wet-weather troubles, Ellen was not the least. It had been an extra trial, these last few days, that the only telephone at The Myrtles was on the desk in Miss Plackman’s office. As a rule, the instrument was not used much: most of her guests came here to be quiet, and showed no wish to communicate with the outside world. Since Ellen’s arrival, however, all that had altered: from time to time the girl had been rung up; almost incessantly she put through calls. It was Ellen’s wont to come crashing in and out of the office as though the place were a public phone box. Not only was it far from being that; it was the only place the poor lady had to herself. Here, it was Miss Plackman’s habit to seek refuge for occasional breathing space, however short, in the course of her ceaselessly busy days. In one corner, loomed over by the large desk, was a little old arm-chair which had been her mother’s: into this she from time to time collapsed - kicking off her shoes from her aching feet, closing her eyes, allowing her bright, professional smile to fade. Here, she could be alone with her own thoughts.
This week, her thoughts had been but poor company. Miss Plackman could not fail to be aware of the heavy depression, more than meteorological, which had settled down over her establishment. Everybody, it seemed, was in low spirits. The remorseless rain showed up all the deficiencies of The Myrtles - deficiencies which in fine weather never appeared. The place, far too large nowadays for a private house, began now, with everyone kept indoors, to seem far too small, inadequate, for its present purpose - there were not enough sitting-rooms; there was no sound-proof playroom in which the pent-up children could rampage; there was no elbow-room for those indoor games by which adult energy could have found release. Boredom, together with loss of appetite, was making people criticize the food. Several of the ladies had taken to remaining upstairs till lunch-time - this obstructed the work of the staff, who grumbled. It had been in the hope of luring her guests down that Miss Plackman had had that fire lit in the drawing-room. However, one peep in there, just now, had been enough to show her that the device had failed - no-one had been in there but the ever-dependable Mrs Ordeyne and her well-mannered friend. And, of course, Ellen. One had to face the fact: no, no one stayed long anywhere with that girl.
Poor child! There existed in Miss Plackman an incurable friendliness to youth, an inexhaustible sympathy for the wish for happiness. But then, did not all these summer guests who came to The Myrtles also bring with them dreams and longings? How much it meant to everybody, a holiday! She could guess how people depended for strength and courage, throughout the year to come, on memories to be stored in a few weeks - so short a time!
Bright hours, the gay, care-free, timeless sense of enchantment - what fuel to life they were! Officially, when after her father’s death Miss Plackman decided to turn the old home into a guest-house, she had been embarking upon a commercial venture. At the same time, shyly and secretly, she had hoped to add in some way to the good of the world.
Now - having retreated into her office, after her anxious glance round the drawing-room door - she sat, hearing rain drum on a glass roof, thinking, “How unkind weather can be!” Her eyes instinctively turned, for encouragement, to the martial family photographs hanging on the wall: not for nothing was she a soldier’s daughter. Fight on she would - but, oh dear! Piled on her desk, behind her, were those ledgers with their disheartening story; and this was the day on which she must do accounts. Miss Plackman, setting her teeth, forced herself to rise from the dear arm-chair and face up to business. Then, the telephone rang.
‘Hullo?’ said a pleasant young man’s voice (by now familiar). ‘Oh, hullo, that you, Miss Plackman? How are you, this sweet morning? Rain coming through the roof yet?’ (This joke was a shade too near the bone for Miss Plackman’s taste.)
‘Listen,’ he went on, ‘would it be too much to ask you to give a message to Ellen?’
‘Unless,’ suggested Miss Plackman, ‘you’d rather speak to her? I happen to know she’s in the drawing-room.’
‘I don’t think I’ll do that, thank you: I’m in a bit of a rush.’ (As to that, she perfectly saw his point: those conversations with Ellen, so clearly dissatisfying at Ellen’s end, had never seemed able to terminate in under fifteen minutes.) ‘Just tell her,’ he went on, ‘that I wish she’d come round this morning, to our hotel. We’ve got table-tennis going, and we’re a cheery crowd here - I know it would do her good. Do get her to come!’
‘Well, I’ll do my best, but-’
‘I know,’ he cut in, “but, but, but” - I’ve had nothing but “but” from her. Something’s eating her, and I wish you could tell me what! She won’t join up and go to a movie, won’t come and play rummy, won’t try a tramp in the rain.’
‘I don’t think she’s got a mackintosh,’ hazarded Miss Plackman.
‘Heavens,’ he said, ‘hasn’t she? The girl must be nuts. She’s an angel, but must she be such a bind. Listen, I dote on Ellen; I hate to have her feel low, but in this stinking weather what can one plan? Fun is so obviously restricted - the best hope, so far as I can see, is for as many as possible of us to get together, all keep as merry as possible, and keep going. That’s what I keep telling her, but she won’t cooperate.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ repeated Miss Plackman, not hopefully.
‘Do,’ he implored. ‘I’d come for her in the car, but the trouble is that it’s the family car, Dad and Mother naturally have first call on it, and this morning he’s running her in to the hairdresser’s. And, after all, it’s less than ten minutes’ walk. Could you, by chance, fix her up with a mack?’
‘I’ve already tried,’ said Miss Plackman. ‘But I’m afraid she said there wasn’t one in this house she’d be seen dead in.’
‘Well, simply give her the message. It’s up to her.’ He rang off.
Miss Plackman, sitting down at her desk, re-read the two letters of cancellation before tearing them up. That would leave how many rooms empty? Three - no, four next week, when the Begbies left. If the weather changed, the Begbies might just stay on. If it did not change, the Thompsons might go back to London a week earlier. Was it only the rain, she asked herself, which was gradually emptying The Myrtles? Or was it some infectious bad morale? Together, I’m sure, she thought, we could face this out - it can’t go on forever. ‘Co-operate,’ that was what he’d said, ‘co-operate.’ If only everyone would... This seemed to her a campaign with a crucial battle ahead. St Swithin’s Day - when was St Swithin’s Day?
Tomorrow...
Ellen had laid out her holiday shopping money on beach wear of the most dazzling kind - supplemented by sun-glasses on the Hollywood model, oils which guaranteed a deep, even tan, and a rainbow range of varnishes for her toe-nails. She had bought a smart, short, second-hand evening dress from a girl friend who had grown too fat to wear it. Two pairs of sandals, a chalk-white light woollen coat and a waterproof lipstick completed her purchases. She had, it is true, tried on one rather glamorous coral-pink raincoat, with the idea of donning this during a sunshine-shower - but, at this point, discovered her purse was empty. Well, let it go - she had shown forethought enough by including one cardigan and the flannel skirt. Her outfit, when she reviewed and packed it, seemed to her quite ideally planned. Was she not going to meet Romance, on the hot gold sands, by a whispering, deep blue sea? Three whole weeks, day after day, of that. By night, moonlight, dance-music - finally, kisses.
She’d let drop, to Peter, quite off-hand, the fact that she would be going to Seale-on-Sea. For the fraction of a second (one might have thought) Peter’s reaction was somewhat negative. Then - ‘Why that’s where we’ll be going,’ he pointed out. ‘What an amazing coincidence; how extraordinary! Now whatever brings you there? It’s an awfully nice little place, but it’s pretty quiet. You going with friends?’
‘No’ she said shortly.
He seemed surprised - for, so far, Ellen had shown an impassioned ardour for society: she was inclined to crash parties, or tag on to older groups who did not always want her. ‘Anyway, it’s splendid that you’ll be there,’ he added, with rising enthusiasm. ‘We must see a lot of each other. You’ll certainly like the crowd.’
‘What crowd?’ asked Ellen, with sinking heart. ‘I thought you said you were going with your father and mother?’
‘So I am, but you know how people collect - old friends of theirs, old friends of mine, and so on. However,’ he quickly said (for he sensed a drop in the atmosphere), ‘if you’d rather, we can always pull out - go swimming, dancing, or take the car off somewhere. Round there it’s very attractive country: woods, and inns where they let you eat out of doors; and best of all there are the downs, of course - it’s wonderful up there on a summer night! Don’t know what it is,’ he said, waxing lyrical, ‘but there are places which seem to belong in another world. One feels anything might happen.’
Anything might happen... On those magic words, Ellen had pinned her hopes.
Peter, at twenty-two, combined the most winning bonhomie and high spirits with a so far apparently quite disengaged heart. Everyone liked him, and he liked everyone: he had something warmer, more genuine than mere charm. Moreover, he had an attractive way of giving his whole attention to whoever he happened to be talking to: this built people up in their own eyes, making them feel more interesting than they did normally. That this, when a girl was in question, could be misleading, Peter had no idea: his simple wish was that everyone should be happy and feel good. Unlike many popular men, he was quite unspoiled - he worked hard, got on well at the office, and was a devoted son.
Yes, Ellen, in the bestowal of her affections, had made an excellent choice. All that now remained was to get him all to herself - away.
The worst, unforeseen, had happened - rain, spelling frustration! Indoors, no place to be alone; nowhere to go, sit, be. Would she go to his hotel, to hang around, making just one more of the crowd? Ellen shook her head stonily: she would not.
After tea, on the eve of St Swithin’s, the rain stopped. This event, so important to many, was not dramatic: the downpour simply thinned, wavered, lightened, and slowly ceased. Clouds, as though undecided, still hung low; a heavy drip-drop from trees was to be heard through The Myrtles’ garden, across whose humid air stole the scent of sweet William, syringa, flowering privet. A moist gleam, not yet sunshine, began to filter through from the west; in the distance the sea first paled, then brightened. One by one, the guesthouse people opened their windows, and drew in deep, incredulous, happy breaths. Soon, then, there began a movement outdoors - children were buttoned into their jackets and hurried out for a blow on the sea-front; elderly couples set off two by two. Mrs Ordeyne, having put on her hat and coat, paused on her way downstairs to tap on Miss Kerry’s door. ‘Anything I can do for you in town?’ she called out. ‘Or would you care to come too?’
No answer: either Miss Kerry was not there or she was sleeping off the fatigue of a day indoors. Mrs Ordeyne, philosophical, went her way.
Miss Kerry was in her room - at the sound of the knock and voice she sat frozen; not, till her good friend’s footsteps were out of hearing, daring to breathe. Though her heart smote her, she could not now, at this moment, bear to face anyone. In the act of slipping the letter she had just written into an envelope, her hand shook; she felt knocked to pieces by what had been an agonizing decision. Before sticking down the envelope, she paused - had she, in her desperation, expressed herself clumsily? Had she not made herself clear? Might she give unnecessary pain? She must make sure. Once more unfolding her letter, she scanned its last pages with eyes burning with unshed tears.
So don’t [she had written] don’t, after all, come here. This terrible weather, now, on top of the strain of all these years we have lived apart, has unnerved me. It is a bad omen! If things between us were to go wrong again, after all this waiting, all we went through before, it would be unbearable - wouldn’t it? As for this place - well, if you could see it you’d understand: there would be nowhere for us, literally nowhere. The last straw, for me, has been a miserable, disappointed girl in this house - lashing and throwing herself about, she’s to me a sort of parody of my inside self. I remember, it was my lack of calm which for both of us ruined things, long ago.
You may say, if we don’t meet again now, then better not meet again at all. I’ve a feeling you will say that: if you do, I must accept it. I have lived in my thoughts of you all these years; I shall live in them every day till I die.
Erica
Yes, there it was: said. She was sadly, coldly certain that she was right. To hesitate at this last moment, to reconsider, would that not only be to drag out the pain? Swiftly she closed, addressed and stamped the letter, then crossed the room to put on her raincoat. Passing the window, she noticed for the first time that the rain had stopped. ‘What of that?’ she told herself fiercely, ‘it will begin again!’
Taking gloves from a drawer, she saw herself, suddenly, in the mirror - the blue of the raincoat brought out the vivid blue of her eyes. ‘I could have been beautiful,’ she thought.
The stairs, the hall of The Myrtles were deserted. Slipping out through the porch, pushing open the shabby, damp white gate, Miss Kerry crossed the road-way to the post-box. In went the letter, nothing could now recall it - this was the end. Rapidly, in flight from her own solitude, she walked on, under dripping trees, past endless garden walls - residential outskirts of a small coastal town. Then, swerving sharply, she took the turn to the sea.
Gratefully taking advantage of their emptiness, Miss Plackman was making a tour of the downstairs rooms. To begin with, she gave them a thorough airing; she then tipped out the ash-trays, smoothed down wrinkled loose-covers, plumped up cushions, dusted table tops, straightened rugs, pushed chairs back into place and sorted out magazines. The results were encouraging: quickly the rooms took on the stylish air they had worn in her parents’ day. Her spirits rose accordingly. ‘We’ll pull through,’ she said to herself and the house, ‘you’ll see!’ Only one thing was still bother her - the emptiness of the bowls and vases. Dared she dash down to the garden to cut and bring in flowers, wet though they could but be? If she did, might she not run head on into the new arrival - who had, so firmly though courteously, indicated his wish to be left alone?
The tall gentleman, hair lightly flecked with grey, had, five minutes ago, marched in at The Myrtles’ front door with a singular, imperious lack of ceremony. Dumping down a bag, he had at once inquired for Miss Kerry. While Miss Plackman went to look for her, he had paced the hall. On being told that Miss Kerry must have gone out, he cast around him, spotted the drawing-room door, and forthwith made off again, straight through the drawing-room into the garden, via a French window. Miss Plackman, left breathless, had watched him disappear down the path to the summer-house, flanked by a privet hedge. This only could, she supposed, be Miss Kerry’s friend - but, in that case, he was not expected for two days more. (Miss Plackman never made muddles about her books.) What a strange, high-powered, headstrong friend he seemed for that fragile, somewhat withdrawn creature.
How she wanted, how badly she wanted, to bring in flowers! Not only did she yearn for them for their own sakes, but the sight of them, back in these rooms again, might give everyone’s spirits an upward turn. While she stood, riven by indecision, Miss Plackman heard the porch door open behind her; then a light, somehow listless step in the hall. She cried: ‘Is that you? Oh, I’m so glad. You have a visitor.’
‘You - you must be mistaken,’ Miss Kerry said, standing there like a ghost.
‘On the contrary: he’s gone down the garden. You’ll find it still very wet.’
Out there, birds twittered and fluted in the damp, sweet silence; the few last drops hanging on sprays and branches glittered in the twilight before they fell. Rose bushes run to briar drooped over to meet the privet hedge, whose waxy blossoms brushed on Miss Kerry’s raincoat. Ahead of her, tangled in honeysuckle, came curling smoke and the smell of a cigarette. In the half-dark between the pillars, somebody stood.
Miss Kerry came to a halt. ‘It’s not you?’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘But....’
‘I know, I’ve come two days early. I couldn’t wait. Do you know, I thought you might run away?’
It was later, with his arms round her, her forehead leaning against his shoulder, that she said: ‘Shall I tell you why I was out? I was posting a letter telling you not to come.’
‘Perfectly foolish,’ he exclaimed, ‘foolishly perfect! When shall we start teaching each other sense - today, tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s St Swithin’s.’
‘Could there be a better day?’
They both looked up at the sky. The clouds, dissolving, lifting, had thinned to vapour, which was in its turn now being softly drawn like a veil from the evening clearness above: by tonight, one would see the stars. ‘Just in time,’ said she.
That evening, at supper, there were flowers on all the tables - damp but gay - but there was no Miss Kerry; and, for the matter of that, no Ellen. The former’s absence was so far unexplained; but it was generally known, and to universal relief, that the girl, that night, had been swept away to a dance. Her radiant departure, in fact, had been watched by many - Ellen, in her slender wisp of a dress, curls brushed into a burnish, eyes shining, silver sandals twinkling as she dashed downstairs to the waiting car - hardly was she to be recognized as the morose young slut of this morning. She bounced like a happy puppy; she was a pretty thing. Her fellow-guests at The Myrtles saw her off with genuine sympathy and benevolence: in fact, so forgiving is human nature that they remarked to each other, when she had gone, that it did one good having young life around a house.
So she set off, with Peter. How was she to return?
Ellen woke, the morning after the dance, to a long-unfamiliar sense of sheer light-heartedness. Could this be only the sunshine? Sunshine indeed there was: slipping between the half-drawn curtains, it floated her bed and the whole of her room in light. Hands under her head, she lay basking, blinking: slowly and (how amazingly) without pain, there returned those memories of the night before.
The moment she got into the car with Peter, she’d realized something was in the air. He had been in a mood she’d never seen before - sometimes singing as he drove, sometimes falling silent, with an intent smile, sometimes taking one hand from the wheel to, in an affectionate but abstracted manner, pat her knee. ‘Happy?’ He once or twice asked her, ‘feeling fine?’ - yet, somehow, failed to await her answer. This lasted for the greater part of their drive. Then, as they were approaching the large hotel where the dance was to be, he pulled the car in to the roadside, slowed down, stopped. He turned to face her. ‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘be extra happy tonight. For my sake: will you?’
‘Why for your sake?’ she said.
‘Because we’re such friends, and something marvellous has happened. I’ve got engaged.’
Ellen’s heart stood still. ‘To who?’ she said - then, primly: ‘I mean, to whom.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t know her: the name’s Janetta.’
‘This is extremely sudden. Someone in your hotel?’
‘Oh, it’s not sudden - been my idea for years, but I never used to think I had got a hope. Wait till you see Janetta and you’ll see why - she’s not just “someone,” she’s something out of this world! Yes, she’s been staying at our hotel, all right: I persuaded her and her mother to come along. That was one of the reasons I kept asking you over: I was so keen you and she should meet. You’ll be crazy about each other, I’m quite certain. However, you’ll meet in a minute or two, tonight. This, you see, is our celebration party.’
He re-started the car and drove on. ‘Yes,’ he added, ‘it’s been so odd these last few days, in this stinking weather. If I could have fallen more in love with Janetta, the way she’s played up, through it all, would have made me do so. She never got frowsty like some girls do indoors; she was always on for a heel-and-toe in the rain - and, my heavens, she looks divine in a mackintosh! - she’d play with the various children, poor little brutes, or cheer up the older types when they felt low... It’s not just that she’s lovely,’ he sang out, ‘she’s weatherproof!’
Lights from the hotel porch flowed into the car; already, the throb of dance-music could be heard. Ellen moved as though in a dream through the next few minutes: when she came to herself she was on the ballroom floor, dancing a samba with a young man called Gerry. ‘Here I dance,’ she thought, ‘with a smiling face which covers a broken heart.’ Then slowly, reluctantly, she realized that she was enjoying herself very much indeed - frankly, more than ever before. Max succeeded Gerry; David succeeded Max; then, here was Gerry again! The great gold room with its mirrors and glittering chandeliers, rose-red curtains framing the floodlit outdoor terrace, swirled and melted round her; rhythm ran through her being; her whole soul seemed to throb with this famous band. How delicious it was to float from partner to partner, smiled into face after face - without all the time looking round one, jealous, intent and worried, to wonder where one special person might be!
So much so, that when Peter grabbed her, crying: ‘Hi, faithless, spare an old married man a dance,’ she was aware of a feeling of anti-climax - had he ever so slightly, ever so slightly faded? There was something dull, she thought, about people who got engaged. Would she, she wondered, feel this if he’d got engaged to her? Yes, she was sorry to find she would - what she wanted was everything, everyone, the whole world! Feeling bad about this, she was especially nice to Peter: ‘Janetta’s sweet,’ she said, ‘I adore her dress; she’s quite darling.’
‘Well, she’s mad about you,’ said Peter. ‘And so, it seems, are the chaps.’
So it seemed. She was driven back to The Myrtles in Gerry’s car, supported by David, Noel and Max: they wound down the windows, let in sea air and starlight, began to sing. At some point during the singing, she fell asleep with her head on somebody’s shoulder: the rest was silence - somehow, she’d got in, got upstairs, and got to bed. And all this, the young men had murmured, on lemonade....
So today, she woke to this clean-washed, sparkling morning. She could not wait to behold this enormous world, of which she now felt queen and ruler. Springing from bed, she went to stand at the open window, stretching her arms out as though they were wings and she could fly. Green of trees, blue of sea, brilliance of garden - there spread below her the early perfection of a summer day.
‘What a splendid thing,’ she thought, ‘to be not in love! Yes, one grows wiser as one grows older.’
Should she note this down in her diary? She decided not; she had a feeling it had been said before.