Better to Eat You (5 page)

A bird cried: the lonely protest of the sound echoed in Sarah's breast. It had hurt a great deal to say no. She thought she would rather help David Wakeley write his book than travel around the world, than be crowned Queen, than find the treasure of the Incas, than discover a new thing like radium, than win the Nobel prize … than any foolish dream that had ever gamboled through her mind.

Sarah was twenty-eight years old. Once upon a time she had been in the stream of life, working, playing, flirting, fighting. But now she did not dare. There was one thing more.
Her
heart was no giddy young heart. It would not, like the other fourteen in the classroom, so easily forget him and pass on.

Sarah's hair fell around her ears and her head went down. Or forget his sweetness, his respectful listening, his stubborn sympathy. Her thoughts circled wearily. Forget him, she thought, because there is nothing I can do. Couldn't work close beside him, not while this strange and evil thing hung over her. Would it ever lift?

Well, she had been in love with Peter Lamont and he was dead and she had never known him and he was beginning to be forgotten. So it was possible to forget, to leave love out. But was it possible to leave life out, friends, work, human connections? She thought it was not … not much longer.

Sarah threw off her brooding, brought herself into that control that was being exercised a little too often these days. Better go up now. Dress and join them in the big room by the fire and listen to Grandfather talking before dinner. It was too lonely here. It was too lonely everywhere.

She put on her rubber-soled shoes and thrust her arms into the coat sleeves. Found her glasses and put them on. She began to climb. The path was narrow. It went looping back and forth but steadily upward It never leveled off, so that the climb although not steep was long and breathtaking. From the top Sarah could see the ugly rocks straight below. She shivered in the sea-borne breeze.

Gust Monteeth, the manservant, kept a tub of clear water here beside the glass door at the end of the bedroom wing. Sarah carefully washed her feet of sand and dried them on her towel. Shoes in her hand, she let herself in at the end of the long corridor.

On her left were two bedrooms, her own first, then Malvina's. On the right the door to Grandfather's bedroom from which enormous chamber he had access to his hexagonal study at the front of the house. But the passage in which she stood led straight through to the living room and, looking along it now, Sarah thought for a moment that she was hallucinating.

She could see firelight on a face, the face of a man who was sitting, quiet, established, big as life, in a chair at Grandfather's fireside. She thought the man was David Wakeley. Sarah leaned on the wall and closed her eyes. Then there was something wrong with her. Maybe it was true, what she so often felt was implied in Malvina's smile, in Edgar's taciturnity. Much, that she thought she knew, was illusion.

She could hear Grandfather's voice. “I try not to speak too often or too boastfully of the old days,” he was saying in his chirruping way, “It makes me feel old, you see. But we were clever. Yes, we were. And my dear old Lupino,
he
was the cleverer of the two of us.”

After a little silence a man's voice said, “Have you any film records, sir?”

Sarah could have sworn it was David Wakeley's voice … his known familiar voice. Her heart began to pound and the shoes fell out of her hand.

“Is that Sarah? Tell Sarah to come here,” said Grandfather.

So she opened her eyes and Malvina was coming toward her. “Grandfather wants you, Sarah. Come along in.” Malvina's voice was gentle as if she spoke to an unhappy child.

“I can't come,” said Sarah. “I must dress.”

“Grandfather wants you to come in now, because Mr. Wakeley must leave soon.” There was not the slightest hint in Malvina's manner that Sarah had said anything worth attention.

Sarah's mouth was dry as a bone. She walked on her cold bare feet upon the bristly carpet. She came into the big room and both tall men, Edgar and David Wakeley, rose.

“Come here to me,” said Grandfather from his own place on the cushioned bench of the ingle-nook. “Your hands are cold, little Sarah. So cold. Come, sit between me and the fire and you shall have a muffin and some tea.” She must obey as if she were a child who needed coddling.

Here sat Edgar, David himself, in their town clothing, and Grandfather in his snug double-breasted deep-red velvet jacket. Malvina in her soft green gown and her golden beads. All decorously like gentlemen and a lady around the genteel tea table. And even Mrs. Monteeth, bustling in with fresh muffins, was wearing her decent black-and-white. But here Sarah must come in a red bathing suit and a dampish white coat that came only to her knees, barefoot, with her hair sea-blown. She sat down, bewildered, in the chimney corner.

David sat down again quite near Malvina.

“We have made plots,” said Grandfather roguishly, “while you have been gone. Now, I won't tell you until you are cozy and warm.”

“Tea, Sarah?” asked Malvina.

“Put a drop of rum in it,” said Edgar without emotion. “She looks frozen.”

“If you had let me dress …” said Sarah struggling against an atmosphere of pity and indulgence.

“Now, it doesn't matter,” cried Grandfather. “She looks very charming, eh Mr. Wakeley?” His bright eyes peered at David.

“But hardly businesslike,” said David, “or secretarial.”

Sarah's heart jumped into her throat and she wanted to cry out, No, don't … But of course one never did anything to startle Grandfather. One must do as he wished and move only gently.

“Do you like the muffins?” asked Grandfather, licking butter from his thumb. “Moon does something extraordinary to them. My Chinese cook, Mr. Wakeley. Not one word he says is comprehensible to us. But he understands what
we
say, although somewhat adventurously.”

Sarah had heard Grandfather talk about Moon before. She drank tea with rum in it, desperately bewildered, while Grandfather, nodding and dimpling and using his short-fingered plump hands in punctuating gestures, explained about Moon. How he always got a menu almost exactly right. But never quite. Always some little surprise, a twist of his own. “It's rather fun,” said Grandfather.

“These are delicious,” David said. “But I asked you a moment ago … I know so little about the work you did sir. I have missed a lot. Is there a film record of your … what would you call it … performances? If so I would …”

“Alas,” said Grandfather, “no film record can catch a thing which exists only at the moment of perfect rapport between the comedian and his audience. Everything we did, Mr. Wakeley, bounced upon our audience and returned to inspire us to send back a little more. It was like tennis. But a film would be as if we hit our ball against a deadening wall. No, we were not on the films. I do not regret it.”

“My loss, nevertheless,” said David politely.

“You are quite right, of course,” said Grandfather complacently. “The photographs give nothing.”

The familiar photographs were lying, Sarah saw, by David's hand. Two little men, drowned in too much cloth, the clown-masks of their made-up faces, putty noses, charcoaled brows, both solemn, full-face toward the cameras. The photographs of Fox and Lupino had never seemed funny, but old-fashioned and grotesque, and even somewhat pathetic by their stillness as if there must have been some noise and energy about the two quaint little figures not captured in the picture and so lost forever.

“Nothing at all,” said Grandfather.

David stirred. “I must think about going. I can't stay, I'm afraid.” David looked at Sarah.

“Then we must explain to Sarah.” Grandfather turned and took her hand. His eyes peered earnestly into her face. “Mr. Wakeley, who prefers not to be called Professor … eh, Sarah?…” Sarah had a sense of coming dismay and waited helplessly. “Mr. Wakeley, then, proposes to write a history book. Malvina has taken him to see the studio over the garage and he declares it is perfect. So he will write his book here, at the Nest. And you will be his secretary.”

“But I can't …” said Sarah faintly.

“Why, you can,” Grandfather said, cocking his head with all his dimples playing. “Mr. Wakeley thinks you would like to.” Sarah knew the longing and the pain were in her eyes for Grandfather to see. “It will do you so much good to be occupied, as we all agree. And there is no need to worry at all, dearie. You are safe from this bother of yours … you know that … here, with the family.”

Sarah brought her trembling hands together.

“Mr. Wakeley … although I think I will soon come to call him David …” Somewhere in the blur Sarah knew that David smiled …“David, then,” Grandfather went on, “will stay in the guest house with Edgar, and I shall have the pleasure of presiding over the writing of a book. Now fancy! Here in my Nest, to hatch such a thing! Eh, Sarah?”

“Oh, Grandfather, I … don't know.…”

“But I have seen to it,” Grandfather said, the smallest hint of petulance in his voice. Sarah heard the voices joining in to explain, all the coaxing cajoling voices. And Grandfather saying, finally, “Therefore David will become a part of the family and that answers everything. Isn't it simple? Am I not clever?”

“You are so good.” Sarah smiled at him. But she was struggling for her identity as a grown person, against all this coaxing and petting of a reluctant baby. “Does Mr. Wakeley really want …?”

Mr. Wakeley said, as if she were grown, “I can't tell you what the offer means to me, Miss Shepherd. Such a place to work is beyond anything
I
could afford. But there is no question of coming at all unless you agree. I would be delighted to come and to have your help, but you must be the one to decide whether you want to work with me.”

“Surely you see what a happy plot it
is,
Sarah!” cried Grandfather.

Sarah swallowed. One mustn't thwart Grandfather too far. She sat as straight as she could. She began to feel her outcast state, for here sat four people, intelligent, grown, living people, and only she, bedraggled in the corner, was afraid of anything. “None of you,” she said slowly, “none of you think there is anything to be afraid of?”

Grandfather said, “Ah, now, Sarah …” His dry old hand was fluttering on her own. “The ghosts can't follow you here, my dearie.” Malvina was smiling. Sarah knew the quality of that smile, so fresh and kind and yet hinting scorn. Edgar's face was smooth, his small eyes watchful. He said nothing. Sarah looked searchingly at David Wakeley.

“Of course there is nothing to be afraid of,” he said.

She drew in her breath, disappointed. Well, then, they had talked to him, they'd got around him, they'd changed his mind. He had said it wasn't chance. Now he must think, as Edgar and Malvina did, that most of it was moonshine.

“None of you? Only me.”

“Oh, Sarah,” said Malvina, her voice mournful with reproach, “Grandfather
wants
him to write his book here. And he'd
like
to. Do you never think of other people?”

“Perhaps …” David began and Sarah caught on
his
face that look of pity.

Grandfather interrupted. “But I have arranged it.”

“I am foolish,” said Sarah, stung, hurt. “And you are very good to me, Grandfather. Of course, it's a wonderful plot.”

“Now, then,” said Grandfather merrily. “Now, that's better. Now, he must fetch his things. I daresay he will need pencil and paper. Oh, and a typewriter. Eh, Malvina? Have we a typewriter?”

“There's the portable, Grandfather, but I imagine …” Malvina's glistening eyes turned to David.

“I'll bring a typewriter,” David said and he smiled at Malvina as if they two were in the know about these things. “You suggested Monday, sir?”

“Monday is the day for new beginnings,” chirped Grandfather. “I am so pleased to have thought of this.…”

Things were going too fast for Sarah. “But Grandfather, won't it … mightn't it disturb you? Maybe Mr. Wakeley doesn't understand …”

“He has been told about your grandfather's health,” said Edgar in his flat voice.

“Now, how can it disturb me?” Grandfather was gay. “He will not be in the house. You and he will work quietly … although I confess I don't see whatever he will put in his book. But no matter, we can dine together from time to time and speak of a variety of things, I'm sure. And besides, dear Sarah, it is all for your sake.” Grandfather twitched.

And it wasn't good for him to twitch. So Sarah pumped gratitude and ease into her voice. “You are so good, it was so clever of you.” She caressed his hand. “It was just the surprise …”

“Poor Sarah's at a disadvantage,” drawled Malvina. “By Monday, dressed for the part, she will seem more efficient.” Malvina's apology for Sarah succeeded in pointing out her bare feet, her wild hair, her doubt and her quaking.

“I hope I will be able to hang on to
my
efficiency,” David said, “in this beautiful place.” His eyes were on Malvina as he rose.

He was perceptive enough not to weary Grandfather with many thanks or too much leave-taking. He said, “Walk with me to the gate, Miss Shepherd?”

“We all will,” said Malvina charmingly.

So Malvina walked beside him across the garden, purring like a great cat, a big comfortable domestic pussycat, talking about the routine of the house and, like a cat, she seemed to be arching her back and puffing out her fur.

Sarah's bare feet stumbled and were bruised on the bricks. “Edgar,” she appealed, “I don't know …I don't like this.…”

“If your grandfather says it's all right …” murmured Edgar. He was watching the two who walked ahead.

“Malvina,” Sarah caught at her sleeve, “please. Stop, all. of you. Please. Mr. Wakeley, don't you see, if anything should happen, how I would feel?”