Friendly Young Ladies (21 page)

“Don’t you fuss,” she said. “It’ll be all right. I’m looking after you the best way I can.”

This bewildering transition was too much for Elsie’s shaken emotional balance. She made a gulping noise.

Leo withdrew her arm and said, crisply, “If you cry all over that face I’ve done you, I’ll wring your silly neck.”

“I wasn’t. … I’ve got a bit of a headache from the sun.”

“Well, why on earth didn’t you say so? Here, have some of this. It’s a sort of cocktail they use in hospital. Helen brought it back.”

She poured some whitish stuff from a bottle into a glass; it tasted of aspirin with some extra bitterness added. “It’ll work in about ten minutes. Now come on, and pull your socks up. … Helen hasn’t had a chance to change; I must be a bit unsmart to keep her company, mustn’t I? Don’t worry, we’ll see it goes off all right. Ready now?”

“Yes,” said Elsie. “I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Oh shucks.” She put her head out of the doorway. “Hey! Tea’s just ready.”

They went down.

Peter, with Helen, reached the dining-room a couple of minutes later. It had been very pleasant on the roof; he was feeling, already, more than pleased that he had taken the trouble to come. His eyes still a little dazzled from the sun, he returned with puzzled cordiality the smile of the lad in the blue shirt and corduroys.

“I’ve put you here,” said Leo, “between Helen and Elsie. It’s rather a squash, I’m afraid.”

Peter blinked, stared and blinked again. But by the time he had accepted from Helen his cup of tea, a new brightness had come into his eyes. Inconspicuously he looked from the dark head on the other side of the table to the fair one bent over the tea-tray, and about him at the room with its mixture of possessions, so clearly individualized, the accumulation evidently of years. He was delighted. It was all going to be even more original and interesting than he had supposed. They were both so untypical, so different from the conventional idea. All kinds of possibilities opened. … Something was being waved in front of him. It was a plate of cress sandwiches, held in an unsteady wavering hand. He turned, with his most engaging smile, and took one.

“Why, Elsie,” he said, “what a marvellous frock you’ve been getting since I saw you last.”

T
HE FERRY-BOAT RECEDED
. Leo and Helen waved, amiably, until it was half-way across. They turned, caught one another’s eyes, went indoors, and sat down.

“Well!” said Helen.

Leo lit a cigarette and said, “Well?”

“Don’t look at me. I could have. But I didn’t.”

“I should hope not. What, on the roof? You were only up there fifteen minutes.”

“It seemed longer. … Elsie. I can’t fathom it. Can you?”

“I’m not sure. I think I can, as a matter of fact. Poor little swine.”

Helen locked her hands behind her head, and stared mistily at the ceiling. Leo lit her a cigarette, and passed it over. She smoked it for a minute or two before remarking; “Your gentlemanly behaviour impressed me very much.”

“Well. That was obvious, I should think.”

“It was only too obvious to me. At that stage of an encounter, it struck me as the worst possible sign.”

Leo laughed, and said nothing.

“You know, don’t you, you told him the train time half an hour early.”

“Of course. She’ll have that with him, even if it is in a draught in the waiting-room.”

“You’re generally so vague about these things. I thought it might be an accident. … You’re a fool. We’re both fools. The kindest thing we could have done would have been to play him along, and let her see in time.”

“I’m not particularly good at doing kindnesses like that to other women. It would make me feel sick, rather. In time for what, anyway? She’s up to her neck now.”

“Couldn’t you talk to her, or something?”

“Don’t be silly.”

There was another silence. Helen said, at length, “You could always send her home.”

“I know. How good do you think you’d be at amputating someone’s leg without an anaesthetic?”

“Not very, I suppose. There must be
something
.”

“One thing, it’ll fall of its own weight, inevitably, before very long.”

“Perhaps we could find her someone else.”

“Darling, you dazzle me. Perhaps we could turn a keen Evangelical into a Buddhist. Or perhaps not.”

Helen said, after another pause of fruitless thought, “If it were anyone but Elsie. You know, taken with a pinch of salt, he’s rather sweet.”

“And vice versa. I don’t know, but I have a feeling it’s someone like Elsie rather often.”

“I wonder what they’re talking about now.”

“Us,” said Leo, “I expect.” She blew a puff of smoke up into the air.

“What?”

“With, on his part, such exquisite tact that she won’t have the remotest idea what he’s driving at. I saw it in his eye.”

“Do you realize,” said Helen, “that he’ll probably come here again?”

“I realized that within two minutes, thanks.”

“So what?”

“Your answer’s as good as mine.”

“I don’t know. … Ask Joe what he’d do.”

“For God’s sake. What do you imagine Joe and I talk about? He’d say ‘All you can give her is rope,’ I expect. He believes in using rope very extensively.”

“That must save him a lot of trouble.”

“It doesn’t, because he minds rather what’s going on at the other end. He pretends not to, but … What on earth are we wandering off about Joe for? Where were we?”

“Deciding what line to take next time Peter called.”

“We can always be out, I suppose.”

Helen considered this. Her conclusion was to remark, thoughtfully, “Has something rather unusual struck you about us?”

“Not for several years. Why?”

“Only that I can’t remember an occasion when we’ve ever reacted to the same man.”

“It’s a providence,” said Leo lazily, “that watches over us.”

“My feeling is that it’s taken an afternoon off.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Sure?”

“No. Well, at least … It’s all so damned ridiculous.”

“I thought so. … Elsie’s our providence this time, I suppose. But honestly. If she weren’t there?”

“Well, I think … No, it’s absurd.”

“Taking that for granted, what?”

“His temptation, as far as I’m concerned,” said Leo slowly, “would be his complete invulnerability. He’s pure gutta-percha. He’d come back from anything. When you’ve—hurt people who don’t deserve it, it’s rather inviting.”

“I think it’s rather unkind.”

“Oh, he’s not like that all through. In his job, for instance, it wouldn’t surprise me to find him deeply perceptive and a hundred per cent sincere. I could work with him and like it. But in a personal relationship, you’d never puncture that beautiful understanding. … However, don’t worry. I’m not proposing to try. Are you?”

“Not while Elsie’s here, anyhow. You’re right; one couldn’t. It’s a form of selfishness, I suppose.”

“Very likely. I wish we could get her out of it some other way.”

“We’ll have to think. We make that remark rather a lot lately, don’t we. … We’ve never thought, have we, what we’d do if we both did react the same way, really, some time.”

“Just act natural, I suppose, and let it evolve. What else could one do?”

“Nothing, of course. It wouldn’t be important, anyway.”

“Well, this has all done Elsie a lot of good, hasn’t it? What a long time we’ve been getting nowhere. Let’s clear the tea. She won’t feel like anything as sordid as washing-up when she comes in.”

With the sinking sun throwing her long shadow stealthily before her, Elsie crept down the ladder from her room, hugging under her arm the little bundle she had made. There was no one in sight. She crossed the plank bridge into the garden, and, taking from the border a large stone, thrust it carefully into the centre of the package. The water below the bridge looked deep; but it would be deeper, no doubt, on the other side. She went down to the floating deck, and, leaning far over, dropped the bundle in.

“Whatever on earth,” said Leo behind her, “do you think you’re doing?”

Elsie gave one of those internal jumps which are so slight to look at, so horrible to feel. She spun round, gasped, and said, “Nothing, really. It’s quite all right.”

“Sorry,” said Leo. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But people do look odd, dropping their clothes into the river. I mean, it seems a bit drastic. If you’d had the lace collar off and put on a plain one, and taken in some darts here and there, that frock would have been quite wearable, you know. Maybe with the hat it
was
the only thing. Well, it’s your business, of course.”

“It wasn’t that. I—I thought I’d better.”

I suppose, Leo reflected, he has expressed a dislike of nigger brown. I must have spoiled the flavour of a
beau geste
. One shouldn’t do that. It leaves her, as far as I remember, with one jumper and skirt and a cotton frock. I wonder how it feels to immolate the third part of one’s wardrobe to love. Very beautiful, I shouldn’t wonder.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ve got a green one you can have instead, if you like. I hardly ever wear it. It’ll only want the hem letting down. Come up and I’ll show it you.”

Elsie dropped her eyes. “You are good to me, Leo,” she said to the planking.

“Oh, rubbish. You probably won’t like it. Come and try it on.”

“I ought to have told you. It was awful of me not to, when I’m staying with you and everything. I meant to tell you really. You see—I’m Wanted.”

“Oh,” said Leo. There was a short pause, while she took counsel of herself. At last she said, diffidently, “Don’t think me terribly interfering. But just what way does he want you, if you don’t mind my putting it like that? He’s very nice, of course. Great fun and all that. But you haven’t known him awfully long, have you?”

“I didn’t mean that.” Elsie’s stress of mind was such that she did not even blush. “I mean I’m wanted by the police.”

“By
who
? Are you feeling all right?”

“Really. Peter told me. I’ve been broadcast for by the B.B.C., Scotland Yard. My hat, and my frock, and the gold cross and everything. I’ve hidden the cross in a crack in the floor, I didn’t like to throw it away. …Suppose they had a clue, they could come here and search, couldn’t they? Only this morning I wore everything to church.”

Leo sat down on the wooden rail. She looked down at the water, then up at Elsie with straight troubled eyes.

“The family must have been pretty well wrought up,” she said, “to do that.”

“Perhaps the police did it on their own. Can they?”

“No. I don’t think so. … Mother always used to talk about having one’s name in the papers as if it were the last infamy. It won’t do Father any good in his job, either, unless local society’s changed a good bit since my time.”

“If they find me, can they send me to prison?”

“Oh, pull yourself together. Of course not. … They must have been going through hell. And each blaming the other, I suppose. Don’t you ever think about it at all?”

Elsie’s conscience had worked overtime that day already. She put her hand up to her head; it seemed to her that something would break there, that one should be able to call out “Enough,” and make it stop. The sun had melted Leo’s make-up on her face, and the sticky remains of it made her sunburn feel worse than before. The skin burned on her arms and forehead; she felt as if she had fever. She was beyond tears.

“Of course I think about it. I wake up in the middle of the night, and can’t go to sleep again for hours. Sometimes I feel as if I were the wickedest person in the world.” The words trickled away from her, without pressure, like the overflow from something that can hold no more. “When I was at church this morning I couldn’t go up to Communion, I felt too bad. I kept thinking perhaps I’d go to hell if I didn’t go home, and then that I’d go to hell if I did. I feel wicked at home too, you see, nearly every day. And then it was such a lovely morning I felt better; and in the afternoon. …” She looked down at the water, and shut her eyes. “And now it’s worse than ever.” She faced round to Leo and said with slow, dull horror, “You think I ought to go back. I know you do.”

“Don’t,” said Leo. “Please.”

Elsie looked up. The shell of her egoism was pierced by the voice. Leo had spoken as if to a grown-up person. She too was unhappy, and, more remarkable, was allowing it to be seen. Elsie had not guessed before; but Peter had known. Peter knew everything. He had shaken his head and said “Poor Leo!” as if he expected her to know what he meant, so that she had not liked to confess her ignorance by asking. Perhaps Leo was going to tell her now. Curiosity, and the thought of Peter’s omniscience, eased a little the tension in her head. She waited.

“How can I think you ought to do anything? My God, just how smug do you think I am? Surely you realize that a good half of any guilt you’re feeling really belongs to me?”

“I don’t see that.” To have had her emotion taken seriously by Leo was giving her, already, a dim feeling of importance. “Just because you let me be here. … You didn’t ask me to come. I did it of my own free will.”

“And what did I do? I went off with my own life and left you holding the baby. There wasn’t any way out of it, and I couldn’t take you with me. Still, the fact remains. You could have afforded to go away, couldn’t you, with a good elder sister living at home. Never mind, I used to say to myself, they’ve always got Elsie. Why shouldn’t you have been able to say, Never mind, they’ve always got Leo? Guilt isn’t just sin. That would be simple. Guilt is being responsible for the consequences. Orestes found that out. You’re my Eumenides, I suppose.”

Elsie had not read of Orestes, and did not know what Eumenides were, but the ringing mysterious words gave a kind of grandeur to her trouble, and she registered it for future use. Her brain relaxed, she was even interested.

“It isn’t either of our faults” (she had often revolved this problem at home) “that they married each other, is it? I’ve often wondered why they did.”

“We were born because of it. And whether we like it or not, they gave us the power to make them suffer.”

“We didn’t ask them to. We didn’t even ask to be born.”