James Hilton: Collected Novels (50 page)

“Ill?
No, I—er—I didn’t know that.”

“That’s why I thought you might be Dr. Astley. He’s a London doctor they’re expecting.”

“But what about Sanderstead?”

“Dr. Sanderstead wanted to consult with Dr. Astley, sir.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. Of course he’s an old man, getting to be. It’s his heart.”

“Where’s the family?”

“They’re all here, sir, except Mrs. Jill and Mr. Julian.”

“Where are they?”

“On their way back from abroad, I think, sir.”

Strange to be edging one’s way into such realizations. The sick man was his father, and yet somehow, the springs of his emotion were dried up, could offer nothing in response to the news but an intensification of that feeling of numbness. He went on smoking thoughtfully. Really, when he came to think of it, Sheldon was the person he came nearest to any warm desire to see. … Marsh continued after a pause: “I could get you a nip of something, sir, if you wanted. It’ll take Mr. Sheldon twenty minutes at least to come down—all the cars are locked up, and it’s a good mile to walk.”

(As if he didn’t know it was a good mile to walk!) He answered: “That’s not a bad idea.”

Marsh went to an adjoining room and came back with two stiff drinks. “Thought you looked a bit pale, sir, that’s why I suggested it.”

“Do
I look pale?”

“Just a bit, sir. Or maybe it’s the light.”

Charles walked over to a near-by mirror and stood for a moment examining himself. Yes—there was a queer look; one could call it pallor, for want of an exacter word. Actually, he felt overwhelmingly tired, tired after the long and troubled journey, tired after that knock on the head in the early morning, tired after something else that was difficult—impossible—to analyze. He sipped the whiskey and relaxed as he felt it warming him. “By the way, Marsh—it’s some time since I was here last … any particular changes? You told me of one of them just now, for instance—Parsloe dead. Anything else?”

“You mean among the staff, sir? I’ve only been here fifteen months.”

“Well, the staff or—oh, anything.” He hardly liked to ask direct questions.

“There’s been a few changes in the house, sir—maybe you’ll notice. Mr. Rainier pulled down the old billiard room and built two new ones.”

“Two
new billiard rooms? Good God!”

“Well, one of them isn’t much used. There’s just a table in it, in case anyone wants to play. And of course since Mr. Rainier took ill—”

“He’s been ill a long time?”

“Six months, sir, just about. Sort of gradual, it’s been …”

And so on; so that when, eventually, the knock came at the door and Marsh opened it, recognition was silent, tight-lipped, almost wordless till they were alone together. Just “Hello, Sheldon”—and “Good evening!”

Leaving Marsh more puzzled than before, they turned into the darkness of the long curving drive. Out of earshot Charles stopped a moment, feeling for the other’s hand and shaking it rather clumsily.

“Sorry to be sentimental, Sheldon, but that’s how glad I am to see you. Matter of fact, it’s too dark to see you, but I’ve a feeling you look exactly the same.”

“I—I can’t quite collect myself yet, Mr. Charles—but—I—I’d like to be the first to—to congratulate you!”

“Thanks—though I don’t know whether congratulation’s quite the word.”

“It’s so—extraordinary—to have you back with us. I can hardly believe it—”

“Neither can I, Sheldon, so don’t press me for details. All I can tell you is that I was in Liverpool this morning—and don’t ask why Liverpool, because I don’t know any more than you. But I had some money as well as the devil of a headache from having been run down by a car, maybe … that’s all the evidence, so help me God. Before that I can’t remember a thing since—since all sorts of things I don’t
want
to remember—the war—lying between the lines with shells bursting … years ago, I realize. There’s a sort of dark corridor between then and this morning—don’t ask me about that, either. What you and I’ve got to decide now is how to go about the job of reintroducing me, as it were. … Any ideas?”

“If you’ll give me a little time, Mr. Charles—I’m still rather—”

“I know—bumfoozled is the word old Sarah used to use.”

“Fancy you remembering that.”

“What’s happened to her?”

“She’s still living in the village. Of course she’s very feeble.”.

“Poor old girl. … And too bad about Parsloe—how did that happen?”

“Pneumonia after the flu. Very sudden. We had quite an epidemic about a year ago.”

“The new man seems all right.”

“Marsh? Oh yes. Used to be one of the gardeners.”

“Don’t remember him. … God, what are we gossiping like this for?”

“Just what I was thinking, sir, because there
are
more important things I must tell you about. I’m afraid you’ll find the house in a rather disturbed condition—”

“I know. I realize I couldn’t have turned up at a more awkward moment—in some ways. Much rather have come when it’s quiet—nobody here—”

“You mean the family?”

“Well yes—bit of a problem, how to let them know.”

“We have to face it, sir.”

“They
have to face it, you mean.”

“Naturally they’ll be delighted to see you once they get over the—the surprise.”

“The surprise of finding I’m still alive?”

“Well, after such an interval, and with no news—”

“I know. For God’s sake don’t think I’m blaming anybody.”

“May I say, sir, speaking for myself—”

“I know, I know, and I’m grateful—think it was marvelous the way you kept your head in front of Marsh. Of course he’ll have to know soon, like everybody else, but I was glad you postponed the—er—the sensation. Funny … when I wanted to say something over the telephone that would make you know I was genuine and yet wouldn’t mean a thing to him, the only thing I could think of was the Left-Handed Room—remember how we used to call it that because the door opened the other way?”

“You remember those days very clearly, sir.”

“So clearly it’s like—like headlamps along a road on a dark flight.
Too
clearly, that is—everything a bit out of focus. It’ll all come right, I daresay.”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Well, let’s not talk about it. … We’ve got this other problem to settle, and my suggestion is what we always used to say when we were kids—leave it to Sheldon.”

“I was about to suggest that too.”

“Well, go ahead—any way you like. And in the meantime if you’ll find me a bedroom that’s a bit off the map I’ll get a good night’s sleep before making my bow at the breakfast table.”

“I’m afraid—er—Mr. Rainier doesn’t come down to breakfast nowadays.”

“I know, Marsh said he was ill. I’m sorry. You’d better go easy when you tell him—the shock, I mean.” He caught Sheldon’s glance and interpreted it. “Don’t worry about me, Sheldon—I know you’re thinking I’m not behaving according to formula, but I can’t help it—I’m too dead tired to face any reunions tonight.”

After a pause Sheldon answered: “I doubt if there
is
any formula for what you must be feeling, Mr. Charles. I could give you a bed in my own apartments if that would suit.”

“Excellent. … Thank heaven something’s settled. … Been having decent weather here lately?”

“Fairly, sir, for the time of the year. I noticed the barometer’s rising.”

“Good. It was raining in Liverpool this morning.”

He slept a heavy troubled sleep, full of dreams he could not clarify, but which left him vaguely restless, unsatisfied. December sunlight waked him by pouring on to his bed; he stared round, wondering where he was, then remembering. But he could not recognize the room—somewhere in the servants’ wing, he supposed, and he confirmed this by leaning up to the window. The central block of Stourton faced him grandly across the courtyard—there was the terrace, the big curving windows of the dining room, the East Wing with its corner turret. The spectacle found and fitted into a groove of his mind—somehow like seeing a well-known place and deciding it was reasonably like its picture postcards. … He was still musing when Sheldon came in with a tray.

“Good morning, Mr. Charles. I brought you some tea.”

“Thanks.”

“The barometer’s still rising. Did you sleep well?”

“Pretty well. What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock. The family usually begin to come down about nine, but perhaps this morning—we stayed up rather late, you see … on the other hand, they may be anxious. …”

“I understand. You can’t ever be certain how people will react, can you?”

“No, sir.”

“You should have brought an extra cup for yourself. Sit down and tell me all about it. What time did
you
go to bed? You look fagged out.”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been to bed at all. There were so many things to do—I had to talk to Dr. Sanderstead—and then your clothes—you’d hardly wish to wear them again, I think.”

“No?”

“I took the liberty of borrowing a suit from Mr. Chetwynd—”

“Look here, never mind about all that—let’s have first things first. You told them all?”

“Not your father, sir—but I told the others.”

“How did they take it?”

“They were naturally surprised—in fact they could hardly believe me at first.”

“And then?”

“Well, I suppose they
did
believe me—eventually. They expect to see you at breakfast.”

“Good … but you say you haven’t yet told my father?”

“That was why I went to see Dr. Sanderstead—to ask his advice.”

“Ah yes, of course. You always think of the sensible things, Sheldon.”

“He was rather troubled about the danger of giving the old gentleman a shock—he says he’d like to have a talk with you about it first.”

“All right, if he says so.”

“I also took the liberty of telephoning to Mr. Truslove.”

“Truslove?”

“It seemed to me that—er—he ought to be informed also, as soon as possible.”

“Well, maybe that’s sensible too, though it hadn’t occurred to me. … How about a bath?”

“Already waiting for you—if you’ll follow me.”

“What about the servants, if I meet any of them?”

“They don’t know yet, except Wilson and Lucas—I shall call the others together during the morning and tell them. And Mr. Truslove will be here for lunch—along with Dr. Sanderstead and Dr. Astley from London.”

By that time they were at the door of the bathroom. “Quite elegant, Sheldon—new since I was here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From which I gather the family income remains—er—not so bad?”

A wrinkled smile. “Like the barometer, sir—still rising. …”

He bathed, smoked a cigarette, and put on the clothes Sheldon had laid out for him. Brown tweeds—Chet had always favored them, and they fitted pretty well—as children he and Chet could generally wear each other’s suits. And a Netherton tie—trust Sheldon to think of details.
Netherton;
and a whole cloud of memories assailed him suddenly: strapping on cricket pads in front of the pavilion; strawberries and cream in the tuckshop; the sunlight slanting into the chapel during Sunday services; hot cocoa steaming over the study gas ring in wintertime; the smell of mud and human bodies in a Rugby scrum. … Netherton. And then Cambridge. And then the cadet school. And then France. And then … the full stop. … He controlled himself, leading his thoughts back from the barrier, gently insinuating them into the immediate future. He found he could best do this by adopting a note of sardonic self-urging: come along—trousers, waistcoat, tie, shoes, coat—button up for the great family reunion. “All aboard for the Skylark”—which set him recollecting holidays with his mother as a small boy—never with his father; his father had always been too busy. They used to rent a house at Brighton, in Regency Square, taking servants with them—Miss Ponsonby and a maid named Florrie, and every morning they would walk along the front not quite as far as Portslade, turning back so inevitably that Portslade became for him a sort of mysterious place beyond human access—until, one afternoon while his mother was having a nap, he escaped from the house and reached Portslade a dauntless but somewhat disappointed explorer. “I hope the clothes will do for the time being, Mr. Charles.”

“Fine—just a bit loose in front. Chet must be putting on weight.”

“I’ll have a talk with Mr. Masters sometime today. He has your old measurements, but it might be safer to have him visit you again.”

“Much safer, I’m sure. You think I’ve changed a lot, Sheldon?”

“Not in appearance, sir. You took very fit.”

“And yet there
is
a difference?”

“In your manner, perhaps. But that’s natural. It’s a nervous strain one can well understand after all you’ve been through.”

“I’d understand it better if I knew what I
have
been through. But never mind that. Time for breakfast.”

He walked across the courtyard, entering the house from the terrace. No one had yet appeared; the usual new-lit fire was burning, the usual blue flames distilling a whiff of methylated spirit from under the copper dishes. The
Morning Post
and
Times
on the little table. A cat on the hearthrug—a new cat, who looked up indifferently and then resumed a comprehensive toilet. Wilson was standing by the dishes, trying hard to behave as if the return of a long-lost son were one of the ordinary events of an English household.

“Good morning, Mr. Charles.”

“Morning, Wilson.”

“What can I get you, sir? Some kedgeree—or ham and eggs—kipper—kidneys—”

“Suppose I have a look.”

He eased a little of his embarrassment by the act of serving himself. He knew Wilson must be staring at him all the time. As he carried his plate back to the table he said: “Well, it’s good to be back.” It was a remark without meaning—a tribute to a convention that did not perfectly fit, like Chetwynd’s clothes, but would do for the time being.

“Yes, indeed, sir. Very glad to see you again.”

“Thanks.” And he opened
The Times,
the dry and crinkly pages engaging another memory. “You still warm the paper in front of the fire, Wilson?”