The Watersplash (2 page)

Susan said bluntly, “You mean Arnold doesn’t like you, and Lord Burlingham doesn’t like Arnold.”

Edward burst out laughing. “You’ve got it in one!”

Emmeline Random was giving a tea-party. When Susan Wayne came in the room appeared to be already quite full of people, but then it was so full of other things to start with that there wasn’t as much space for the human visitor as there might have been if Emmeline and her drawing-room had been different. For one thing, it wasn’t really a drawing-room. It had begun life as the front parlour of the south lodge at the Hall, and when Emmeline was left a widow her brother-in-law, James Random, installed her there. He gave the parlour a bay window, and since she had always been accustomed to a drawing-room, it never occurred to her to call it anything else. The bay window certainly let in a good deal more light. It had also made it possible to admit the cottage piano with green silk flutings which she had inherited from her grandmother. But it did not really increase the wall space, which was a good deal taken up with ancestral portraits of a rather dark and forbidding nature. There was an Admiral whose features could hardly be distinguished from the maroon curtain against which he stood. There was a lady in black velvet and black ringlets whose features could not really be distinguished at all. They were Emmeline’s great-grandparents, and she was very proud of them, because the Admiral had served with Nelson and was reputed to have had a better command of forcible language than anyone in the British Navy either before or since.

Jonathan Random, her late husband, whose portrait occupied the place of honour on the jutting chimney-breast was neither dark nor forbidding. He smiled upon the room in the same charming manner in which he had smiled his way through life. He had been fifty when Emmeline married him, and he had never managed either to make or to keep any money. If he had lived a year or two longer, Emmeline would not have had any money either. As it was, there remained a pittance, and the hospitality of the south lodge, where she had now been living for so long that she quite felt as if it belonged to her.

She was a small, slight person with a quantity of fair hair which was turning grey and a sweet inconsequent manner. Her finely arched eyebrows enhanced the effect of a pair of misty blue eyes. When Edward was about seven he had once remarked, “It’s there, but she sees through it.” Pressed as to what he meant, he had burst out indignantly, “The mist of course! It’s there, but it doesn’t stop her seeing things!”

A great deal had happened since Edward was seven years old. James Random had gone the way of Jonathan, and Arnold reigned at the Hall in his stead. There had been a world war, and an air raid which had killed Mr. Plowden’s prize pig and a cherished cat belonging to Dr. Croft’s housekeeper. Edward grew up, and when the war was over he took a course in estate management. Then he fell in love with Verona Grey, had a furious row with his Uncle James, and was seen no more in Greenings. He did not come back, and according to the postmistress he did not write. Emmeline cried a good deal, and comforted herself with cats. She would rather have been making believe that Edward’s children were her own grandchildren, but you must have something, and kittens were better than not having anything at all. At least there were always plenty of them.

After what seemed like a very long time there was a report that Edward was dead. It was quite circumstantial, and James Random believed it. He told Emmeline that he had talked with a man who had seen Edward lying dead, but he wouldn’t tell her anything more than that. He said it would only distress her. And then he went away very grave and shocked, and made the will which left everything to his brother Arnold. He had been dead six months when Edward Random came back, walking in upon Emmeline in the late dusk of a winter evening and telling her nothing. She cried a great deal, but she didn’t ask any questions—she didn’t really want to. He had been away and he had come back, he had been hurt and he must be comforted. It was enough. She was therefore able to meet the storm of questioning that broke upon her with an invariable “My dear, I really don’t know.” And since this was a bedrock fact, it did ultimately put the questioners to silence —that is, as far as Emmeline was concerned.

They naturally went on talking to one another. Edward had been in China—he had been in Russia. Mrs. Deacon who did for Miss Blake, and whose daughter was housemaid at the Hall, was quite sure that Mr. James Random had been saying something about Russia the day his solicitor came down and he signed his will. Doris had heard the word quite plain when she was going past the study door, which wasn’t quite shut. “Russia” —that was what she heard, but nothing more that she could swear to. It was not much, but like the kittens it was better than nothing. Some very interesting and dramatic stories were built up on it.

And then the great China myth came into circulation. Someone had a cousin who had a friend who had seen—actually seen—Edward Random in a hospital at Shanghai. Or was it Singapore? Eastern names, you know—all so very much alike.

Edward did nothing to resolve the rumours. Everyone was interested and sympathetic. Arnold Random would certainly have to do something for his nephew. He would never have come in for the property if his brother James had not believed that Edward was dead. The least, the very least, that he could do was to hand over the estate and, well, half the money. And when Arnold did nothing of the sort, there were some very harsh things said about his conduct. It was not as if he had not enough money of his own, because he had, or as if there could have been the slightest doubt as to James Random’s intentions. And it wasn’t as if Arnold had a wife and family. He had no one but Edward, and the least he could do…

Edward had been back for a month or two, when a more sinister rumour began to go round. Nobody knew where it had started, and most of those who passed it on were careful to explain that they didn’t believe it themselves. But of course there is no smoke without any fire. People don’t disappear unless there is a reason. Possible reasons for Edward’s disappearance crept into the news. It was at first hinted, then introduced as a matter of speculation, and finally whispered as a fact, that he had been in prison.

It was when these rumours reached Lord Burlingham that he came across the High Street at Embank and, joining the fish queue, told Emmeline at the top of his voice how glad he was to have been able to offer her stepson the job of land agent. He was a large, energetic person, and his voice was an extremely carrying one. “Old Barr is retiring. He has only stayed on the last six months to oblige me. Edward can take right over. I told him he had better have a refresher course—latest up-to-date methods and all that kind of thing. Must produce more food for the nation—everyone’s duty. Always liked the boy—been away too long. Always glad to do a good turn to a neighbour. Tell your brother-in-law I said so.” At which he burst into hearty laughter and went back across the road to buttonhole old Mr. Plowden, leaving the ladies in the queue to pause, gasp, look at one another, and then rush into asking Emmeline a great many more questions than she could answer.

Lord Burlingham was a selfmade man. He had run barefoot, he had sold papers in the streets. He had acquired a fortune, bought a country estate, joined the Labour Party and been wafted to the House of Lords upon one of those occasions when the Tory majority there was proving more than usually irritating. There may have been other reasons. It was said that he did not bow very complacently to the Party yoke, and that he was developing an inconvenient habit of getting up in the Commons and saying what he really thought. There may have been a feeling that it would be safer to let him say it somewhere else.

He stood in the village street polishing his face with a red and green bandanna and telling Mr. Plowden that Edward Random was going to succeed old Barr.

“And someone had better tell Arnold Random before we all meet on the Bench next week, or I shall do it myself, and perhaps I had better not! He might have a fit! Hates my guts, you know—thinks I’m common! And so I am! What’s wrong with it? Common sense, common law, the common people of England—what’s the matter with any of them?”

His voice with its broad accent and occasional uncertainty over an aitch rang out vigorously and reached the ladies in the fish queue. Old Mr. Plowden’s quavering “Certainly—certainly, my dear fellow,” was carried away by the wind.

That was a little time ago. And now Emmeline sat behind her gimcrack table and counted heads. “The Vicar and Mrs. Ball—Mildred Blake—Dr. Croft and Cyril—four, and myself five—and Susan should be here at any moment, only of course she may have taken the later train—six—or is it seven? Then Edward—” Impossible to say. So nice if he and Susan could have met and come up together. But on the other hand Edward wouldn’t be at all pleased about the tea-party. Such a pity, because they were all so kind—even Mildred, though of course she could be very trying too. But it wasn’t good for Edward to shut himself away, and of course the more he did it, the more talk there would be. You couldn’t expect anything else—“Seven cups—but I seem to have eight on the tray—oh dear, there’s another little crack, and I must have done it myself, because nobody else touches this set!”

She said, “Oh dear no, I don’t think so,” to Miss Blake, who was complaining of the increasing lack of manners amongst the young, but she had heard it all so often before that her real attention was given to considering whether the milk would go round. Of course it must be made to—but would there be any left over for the cats?

Fortunately, only two of them were present. On the window-ledge Scheherazade the matriarch, a magnificent tortoiseshell. On the top of the piano Lucifer, who was turning out so well that she had dropped the plebeian name of Smut. His coal-black fur fluffed out, his fire-opal eyes ablaze, the tip of his tail just twitching, he followed the exciting play of Cyril’s fingers as they rushed, glissaded, and scrambled from one end of the keyboard to the other and the black keys and the white keys kept jumping up and down. Since he was not yet six months old he might so far forget himself as to pounce. Emmeline gazed at him fondly. It would be very hard to resist him if he came and mewed for milk. She could do without any herself, but Scheherazade must come first.

She began to count all over again, and the numbers came out quite differently. There always seemed to be a cup too many or a cup too few, and if Edward— She sent a bewildered look across the room and saw Susan Wayne come in, her fair hair shining and her face fresh and rosy.

The room was hot and was going to be hotter. Everyone was pleased to see Susan. Even Cyril spared a moment to wave a large bony hand in her direction before going on with a piece which appeared to consist entirely of shallow glittering runs. Dr. Croft looked over his shoulder and said in an exasperated voice,

“Now that’s quite enough! I don’t like music with my tea! If you can call that music! More like a dog with a tin can at his tail!”

Emmeline smiled her sweet, vague smile.

“Oh, Dr. Croft, but I asked him to play, and I’m sure he does it very nicely indeed. He must have very strong fingers. But he will want his tea. And perhaps, Cyril dear, you wouldn’t mind handing round the cups.”

She began to count them again. “Susan—Cyril—Dr. Croft— Mrs. Ball—the Vicar—Mildred—that makes six—but I have another cup on the tray—”

Miss Blake’s long, pointed nose was seen if not heard to sniff. She bore no resemblance to her plump, fair sister. Her complexion was dark, her nose aquiline, and, a little too close on either side of it, there gleamed a very bright dark eye. Emmeline remembered her as a passably handsome young woman in her thirties. There had been a time when she had feared that she might be going to have her as a sister-in-law. Arnold Random had paid her some attention, but nothing had come of it. Certainly no one would call her handsome now. She never spent a penny if she could possibly help it, and had worn the same dreary clothes and dowdy hat for at anyrate the last fifteen years. She looked quite angrily at the tea-tray and said,

“Really, Emmeline—I suppose you are going to have a cup yourself!”

“Oh, yes, my dear. Let me see—yes, I believe you are right. Perhaps if I just pour out and Cyril hands them round… And the scones, Susan—while they are still hot—”

Mildred Blake turned to Mrs. Ball and said in a voice which she hardly troubled to lower,

“Really, Emmeline is becoming too absent-minded!”

Mrs. Ball always agreed with everyone unless her conscience intervened. It did so now. Miss Blake was inclined to be censorious—she must not be encouraged. She said in her slow, pleasant voice, “Mrs. Random is always so kind,” and then felt that she had been weak. She did try to love all her neighbours, but she found it very difficult to love Miss Blake. One just had to go on trying. She took her cup of tea and said,

“I do hope your sister is able to enjoy this lovely weather.”

Miss Blake bridled.

“Really, Mrs. Ball, you are very easily pleased! I should not call it lovely myself. We have scarcely seen the sun all day, and there is quite a chilly wind.”

Mrs. Ball’s round cheeks became even more like rosy apples.

“But it has not rained.”

“As you say, it has not actually rained. But the air is full of a clinging damp. The English climate can be very unpleasant in the autumn, or indeed at any other time of the year. But as far as my sister Ora is concerned it makes very little difference, since she moves only from her bed to the sofa and back again.”

“I know. It is very hard for her—and for you. I hope you are pleased with the new nurse. I haven’t met her yet, but she isn’t really a stranger here, is she?”

“She nursed Mr. Random in his last illness—Mr. James Random.”

“So Mrs. Random was saying. That was just before we came here. Miss Dean, isn’t it? I think I saw her in the street this morning—a pretty girl.”

“She is an efficient nurse,” said Miss Blake in a voice which made it quite clear that her interest in Clarice Dean did not extend beyond her professional duties.

Mrs. Ball sighed. It was being very hard work.

The Vicar and Dr. Croft were talking about cricket. Emmeline was putting down a surreptitious saucer of milk for Scheherazade. Cyril, having finished handing round the cups and the cake-stand, sat down by Susan.

“Nobody told me you were coming. Why didn’t they?”

If he had said that to Clarice Dean, she would have sparkled at him and asked why anyone should suppose he would be interested, after which you knew just where you were and could go right ahead. He had a date with Clarice for the evening. There was quite a good picture at the Royal in Embank. The bother was he would have to pay for them both, and it was going to be a pretty near thing. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t rather have been going with Susan, who always paid for herself. But then Susan was different.

She laughed and said,

“I didn’t know I was coming myself until two days ago. Mr. Random wants me to catalogue the library whilst my Professor is away. It ought to be rather fun. I believe they’ve got some good books.”

Cyril made a face. He was a long, gangling lad with straw-coloured hair and a lot of bone. He said,

“Girls do think the oddest things are fun! A lot of mouldy old books!” He edged nearer. “I’ve got lots to tell you. I’ve had it out with my father, and I’m not going back to school.”

“Oh, Cyril!”

He gave an emphatic nod.

“Well, I’m not. I failed for that beastly exam, and it would have meant another year’s grind, and perhaps crashing at the end of it again. And then five years at the medical, and probably a whole lot more, because if an exam can be failed at, I’m the one to do it. I ask you, what’s the point? Well, I put it to him, and of course he blew up. Parents always do! You would think by the time they were as old as that they would be able to talk a thing over calmly, but they never can! And can you tell me why? After all, it’s my life!” He jerked his chair nearer again. “Why shouldn’t I play in a dance band if I want to? I can get a job tomorrow. I’m good, you know, and the money is good too. Now, don’t say, ‘Oh, Cyril!’ again, because I’ve got it all planned. I’m eighteen next week, the Royal wants a pianist, and I can put in the time there until I’m called up for my military service. I’d make my keep and a bit over. Then when I’m out of the Army, I can look round for something really good. Now you’d think my father would see that was quite a sensible plan.”

“I don’t know—”

Cyril edged his chair forward again.

“Of course it is! But is he reasonable? No, he isn’t! And what do you suppose he wants me to do?” He made a really hideous grimace. “He wants me to stay in the Army and make a career of it! Susan, I ask you!”

“Well—”

“Exams—absolutely no end to them! Worse than the medical, because once you’re qualified you don’t actually have to take any more, but nowadays in the Army they practically never stop! If it isn’t courses, it’s the Staff College, and you go on having promotion exams until you’ve got one foot in the grave! Well, I told him flat out that I wouldn’t do it and he couldn’t make me, so there was another row. At the moment we’re having a coolness, but I expect he’ll come off it any day. He blows off steam, you know, but he’s not much good at keeping up a feud. You’ll put in a word for me if you get a chance, won’t you? He always says you’re such a sensible girl. I say, that sounds foul, doesn’t it? It’s meant as a compliment, only by the time you get to his age I suppose you don’t remember how to pay them.” He jerked his chair until it collided with hers. “I should think a girl would hate to be told she was sensible.”

“She does,” said Susan crisply.

Cyril’s large pale blue eyes goggled at her.

“Well, it wasn’t me, so you needn’t look at me like that. I admire you like anything—you know I do.”

Admiration is always gratifying, but Susan had now moved her chair back four times without managing to get any farther from Cyril’s bony nose and the unwavering stare of his pale blue eyes. She had begun to feel that she would almost rather he went on playing the piano—almost, but not quite—when a diversion was created by Lucifer. The saucer of milk had lured him from the piano, where the black and white notes no longer bobbed entertainingly up and down. Dropping lightly to the floor, he did a stealthy jungle crawl in the direction of the tea-table, where his magnificent mamma lapped languidly from a blue and gold saucer. She may or may not have noticed his approach, but the moment his nose appeared over the saucer’s edge and a pink tongue curled greedily towards the milk she dealt him a resounding box on the ear. He shrieked, spat, and fled back to the piano top, where he sat growling to himself. Some day he might stand up to the maternal tyrant, but not yet. There was a baleful glow in his amber eyes as he licked a paw and washed the insulted ear. “Really, Emmeline—those cats!” said Mildred Blake.