The House in Paris (12 page)

'Yes, there was. But he made me miserable.'

3

Uncle Bill's guilty eyes, following Karen round, implored her to forget what had been said. But you cannot forget: now she saw the shadows over this house like clouds coming up faster; what was going to happen stood at the door. Only Aunt Violet went on being herself. She said she felt Karen should see more of the country, so Uncle Bill took their niece for drives inland and Aunt Violet thought this delightful for them both. Perhaps it was good for him to get right away from the house; all the same, it seemed unfair when there was so little time left.

County Cork is netted with white by-roads running up hill and down. Karen saw the gorse pouring burning like lava into the green valleys, down the sides of the hills; the car hummed through empty country full of this gold glare. Country people transfixed them with sombre unseeing blue eyes and goats lurched off through the uncurling fronds. Lonely white farms, rocks and valley poplars washed over her mind on a tide of light. All pleasure in looking seemed to have left her; she wanted the unkind edge of feeling again. Uncle Bill used to talk about Montebello: how it had been built, what improvements he had made, how even the stables were cut stone and what each room had contained.

At Mount Iris, the pits left in the lawn by the daisies healed; the court was re-marked and friends came in to tennis. Aunt Violet looked on while Karen and her uncle sprang about actively: balls pinged on the net at the sea side of the court. Warm weather set in and several more Rushbrook neighbours unburied themselves like tortoises. The more lifelike life became, the more Karen felt she must get away from Rushbrook while everything lasted. But she could not think how to make her visit end before the date she had said without making her going away the beginning of the disaster. At nights she began to lie awake, hearing the landing clock march ticking on through the dark; even at lunch she thought: This is no good. The drawing-room lamps began to shed less light and, sitting between her uncle and aunt after dinner, she no longer liked to raise her eyes from her book. Aunt Violet's probably dying was not only Aunt Violet's probably dying, it was like ice beginning to move south. Useless to wish she had never come to Mount Iris; the cold zone crept forward everywhere.

Getting away turned out to be quite simple: one day at lunch Karen said she must be back in London by Saturday of this week. Aunt Violet was sorry but not distressed. She did not say she was afraid it had been dull here, or ask Karen her plans. 'Uncle Bill will miss you,' she said. 'He's enjoyed your visit so much. We shall feel quite a small party.'

The Cork boat to Fishguard sails at about six. That last Friday afternoon, several people came in to tea. Someone soon to start on a journey is always a little holy, so Karen was allowed to stay outside the talk. Looking round the room she had looked round that first morning, she found it new now in an unforeseen way, for she was not likely ever to see it again. The milk-glass Victorian lamps with violets painted on them, the harp with one string adrift standing behind the sofa and the worked Indian shawl for Aunt Violet's feet would no longer be themselves, once put apart from each other and gone to other houses: objects that cannot protest but seem likely to suffer fill one with useless pity. Shrubs outside the window had come into leaf during her visit, and now cast blurred shapes on the wall. Beside Uncle Bill, a visitor's dog sat up to beg politely; he, frowning carefully, dropped tea-cake into its mouth.

He was determined she must not miss the boat, so they left before tea was over. Karen got blindly into the car, leaving Aunt Violet, in the porch, looking as though she had still something to say. From Mount Iris gate to the Tivoli end of the Cork tram, Uncle Bill drove in silence. Between Tivoli and the quay, he said: 'Well, don't tell your mother.
She
doesn't want that. She may write herself; I don't know; I've no idea.. . You mustn't worry.' He said: 'Don't worry,' three times. He came on board to take her things down to her cabin. She kissed him goodbye: tears started into his eyes and he walked quickly away.

Ray's next letter had not reached Karen at Rushbrook. Two or three days before she left she had written:

Ray: I am leaving here on Friday, so your next letter here may miss me; they'll send it on, I suppose. I know I had said I would be staying longer, but Aunt Violet is going to have an operation next month, so I cannot take up more of their time. If anything happens to Aunt Violet I shall inherit Uncle Bill, as there seems to be no one else, so I hope you will like him. He is like an unfledged bird that has already been blown out of its tree once.

I wish you were not away.

I didn't like the last letter I wrote you, but something in Ireland bends one back on oneself. One doesn't think exactly, but it upsets one — How is Sir H.? Has he begun to be difficult? You said something about liver, I hope that did not last. Aunt Violet loved the sapphire in my ring.

You said before you went away, do you remember, why didn't I go to Paris for part of the time? Well, I did get so far as writing to Mme Fisher, but have just heard she cannot have me, as her house is full up with two American girls. Oh, and here is some news (at least, it is news to me). Naomi Fisher is going to marry that man Max Ebhart, that French-English-Jewish man in a bank that they always see so much. I forget if I ever spoke of him. She adored him when I was there, but he made her too frightened to speak and me too angry to speak. He was really entirely Mme Fisher's friend, which makes me wonder if
she
can have made the match. I don't think Max E. could have thought of it on his own account; he has been used for years to seeing Naomi there but not seeing her (if you know what I mean). It was Mme Fisher he came to talk to: they had a kind of salon all to themselves, just they two. I think the Fishers are mad: he is not a person to trust. The way he and Mme Fisher ignored Naomi, and at the same time lorded it over her, always made me furious. He is not the sort of person you would care for at all. I cannot think what he wants Naomi for. Mme Fisher did also mention that they have come in for some money, a sister of Captain Fisher's has died in London. I do not think Max E. exactly mercenary, and even if he were, any Fisher money could not be enough to interest him. But this means the Fishers can stop taking in girls; these two Americans are to be the last. I expect they must be glad.

I'm sorry to write so much about people you've hardly heard of. But Mme Fisher's letter only came yesterday, so it is in my mind. And you know how fond I have always been of Naomi; now this news about her brings her so close. If he does not make her happy, I shall be miserable. I shall be seeing her: Mme Fisher also writes, which is good news, that Naomi is in London
now,
for a few days, on business about the legacy; seeing her makes one more reason to go back. Max E. is over too, helping about the business, I may have to see him too but rather hope not.

No special news from home. Christina and Robin are back from Spain, and glad to hear about us (they're up North again). I suppose they'll write. I have had sixteen more letters while I've been over here. We are certainly doing the right thing. Father sounds much the same. Tell Sir H., mother met a cousin of his at dinner at the T.'s, but unfortunately I cannot remember his name.

Forgive my impatient love. I suppose it's because I miss you.

KAREN

Are the people on board nice on the whole?

The boat did not sail up to time. Going down river on the tide in the bright green April dusk, Karen watched hills, houses, trees slip behind to become the past. The plaster horse still stood in the fanlight; the chestnuts would flower soon. But that first morning's mysterious clearness was gone. In less than a fortnight, how much had happened? Everything or nothing? You look at places you are leaving, thinking: What did I hope to find? She had had Ray's checking-up letter, learnt that Aunt Violet expected to die next month, and that Naomi was going to marry Max. When she got home they would ask: 'Well...? So ...? What was it like?' Could she say: 'Like a long afternoon with three telegrams'?

Karen felt hungry, empty instead of sad. Everywhere, widening water and darkening shores, with unlit mansions standing in knolls of trees. She went below to dinner before they cleared the estuary, so as not to have to look up and see Rushbrook. The saloon was already more than half full.

After a minute in there, a girl with high pink complexion, in a lemon-yellow hat, pulled out the other chair at Karen's table and bumped down on to it. Several other tables were still empty and Karen glanced at them pointedly: she did not want company. But Yellow Hat's face swooped across at her confidentially: 'D'you mind if I come?' she said. 'There's a fellow after me.' Her round slate-blue eyes rolled in a woman-to-woman way.

'Do,' said Karen with a polite smile.

Yellow Hat, who was large, billowed out pleated jabots between the lapels of her opulent fur coat. She had a highly respectable kind of flashiness, and was not what Mrs Michaelis would have called quite-quite. Karen had seen her being seen off noisily by a number of friends. Whoever the fellow was, he must be exceedingly bold. Yellow Hat heaved herself out of her coat and reached for the menu.

'Not much choice,' she said, 'but it's always good. I always go for the chops; they give nice loin chops. Of course, it depends how much the crossing upsets you. Me sister can't take a thing but tea and plain steamed fish. But they'll get you that if you ask, or I'll ask, if you like. I'm in with all the stewards; I cross this way so often. D'y ou often cross this way?'

'May I look?'

'Oh, so sorry!' She passed across the menu. 'Wasn't that Colonel Bent from Rushbrook with you just now?'

'Yes,' said Karen vaguely. 'Why?'

'I know him by sight at the Yacht Club; he's quite a dandy ... I'd like to bet you're not Irish?' said Yellow Hat archly.

'You would be right.'

'Over here for a bit of fun?'

'My aunt married Colonel Bent.'

'It's not been at all the same since the Army left.' Yellow Hat, sighing away regretfully, spread over half that table her elbows and bust. 'I guess you think we're all mad?' she went on invitingly.

'No, not specially. Why?'

Yellow Hat looked rather annoyed. 'Well, we are,' she said. 'Mad as hares. Reckless and mad and bad — that's what they say, you know: there's no harm in us. There's no holding us once we're off, though ... You ought to see the way all of us go on at home.'

'If I were mad, I don't expect I should know.'

Yellow Hat leaned across. 'Listen now,' she said recklessly. 'Will we split half a bottle of white wine?' When Karen nodded she grabbed at a steward's coat-tails and ordered Graves. 'That's a nice sweet wine,' she said. She seemed to be one of those decent pink pious racy girls who screech a good deal, speak of their fathers as Pappy and are really rather severely kept down at home. She could not help acting Irish even at Karen: once in England what a time she would have! The relation between the two races remains a mixture of showing off and suspicion, nearly as bad as sex. Where would the Irish be without someone to be Irish at? 'Now tell me,' said Yellow Hat, 'was this your first time over?'

'Not quite; I have been in Dublin.'

Yellow Hat had stopped listening; boldly, she was eyeing the sapphire on Karen's left hand. She said, '
You're
lucky, I see.'

'Yes.'

'Well, I suppose we all come to it,' said Yellow Hat piously. — 'Tell me, did you ever meet any Irish boys?'

'I don't think I did: no.'

'They're terrors,' said Yellow Hat, closing her eyes impressively.

'Are they?'

'Yes. Did you see that fellow with the red choker scarf saying goodbye to me on the deck just now? It was he spotted Colonel Bent saying goodbye to you. And it wasn't the colonel he spotted first, I may say! Now there's a terror for you: Jimmy Whelan, his name is. I wouldn't trust that one far! Is that tongue you have there? I didn't see tongue on the menu.' She sipped away at her Graves like a chicken drinking; generous colour spread over her face. 'Come on,' she said, nodding at Karen's glass. 'Your health.'

Karen said: 'Any terrors I've ever met have always been rather dull.'

'Ah, but,' said her friend astutely, 'perhaps
your
poison's not mine!'

Karen looked round reflectively, turning this idea over. The lit-up saloon was by now noisy with eating passengers. On the tables, glasses of porter had yellow slime round their rims; sauce-bottle stoppers were buttons of bright red; the cruets plied up and down. Business men shot their cuffs clear of the gravy and got down to it in a business-like way. People forked potatoes across each other and yelled at each other kindly above the zoom of the boat. Under this flashing chatter you heard the rush of strong dark unwilling water being cut through. Milky-faced Irishwomen looked round like vacant madonnas, their unspeaking eyes passing slowly from face to face; women like this accept that all men are the same, simply one fact: man. Of the short-headed, roaring and tusky Irish there were a great many, but here and there a long bluish-white Celt face hung on the smoky air like an unkind mask. The brass-rimmed portholes darkened: Rushbrook must be behind now ... This bright snug scene sealed up everyone in itself and made them seem bound for nowhere.

The saloon vibrated once; the engines checked and ground on. The ship had turned out to sea.

'I don't know what my poison is,' said Karen, smiling.

'Then beware, as the gypsy said!' exclaimed Yellow Hat. Her big silly face took on that immortal look people's faces have when they say more than they mean. The look passed; she twisted her string of pearls; her eyes rolled into Karen's with roguish morbidity. 'A girl never knows what may happen,' she said. 'Every time I get on this boat and the boys come to see me off I think: Well, who knows? A month is a long time!'