“It has been nice to see you,” said Erica Winlake. “Don’t forget that you are coming one week-end to stay with us in the country.”
“I should like that very much,” said Alison. She made a mental reservation that it would have to be when Douglas was much better, but there was no need to mention that until the invitation materialised, which it might never do. She went out with Peter to the car, and sat with him in the front.
“Oh, I did enjoy that, Peter,” she said. “Thank you so much for taking me. I hope you enjoyed it, too.”
“Very much,” he said, realising that he had, in fact, enjoyed it more than usual. When he asked himself why, he thought, a little guiltily, that it was because Lydia had not been there. Lydia always made him feel so responsible for her: he could never be quite free of the nagging thought that he should be constantly escorting her, while Alison left him free to enjoy himself, and managed to enjoy herself unaided.
They came to the house.
“I’ll leave you here,” said Peter, “and take the car round.”
Alison prepared to get out, taking as much of her full tulle skirt as possible in her hand, to avoid treading on it. She turned towards Peter, saying: “Well, good-night, Peter. It wa
s
fun.” At the same moment, Peter leaned across her to open the door on her side; and for a moment their faces were so close that Alison found herself breathless and immobile. There was a strange moment of suspense between them; an odd moment in which neither of them knew what the other would do. Then Peter unfastened the door, and it swung outwards.
“Good-night, my dear,” he said.
Alison got out of the car, and stood on the pavement to watch him out of sight. Then she let herself into the house and went up to her room. He called me my dear, she thought, not my dear child, which is his only form of endearment for me. She knew she was being stupid, that it probably meant the same thing, but it pleased her.
She paused outside Douglas’s door, wondering if he were sleeping or awake. She could hear nothing and decided not to disturb him, but went on to her own room. She stood before the long mirror, admiring her beautiful dress, quite the loveliest she had ever possessed. Al
l
Peter, she thought; all Peter; the dress and the evening; in fact, the life I lead; all Peter. If it weren’t for him, I would be earning my living, probably a very scanty living, somewhere on the Continent. Dear Peter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE fortnight of rest made a great improvement in Douglas’s general condition, and the doctor said that he could once more be taken to the cottage by the sea; only stipulating that he should rest completely for two or three hours every afternoon, and that Alison should make sure of this.
They drove down at a week-end, and as Guy and George were free of their offices until Monday morning, they went too. They took Peter’s car again, and George drove it, luxuriating in its smooth elegance, its restrained power, after the vagaries and uncertainties of his own “little bus.”
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas were waiting to welcome them. The cottage was comfortable and sun-filled, and Mrs. Thomas promised that tea should be brought in right away.
“We’ll have it in the sun porch, please,” said Alison.
“We were so surprised that you had to stay in London. Thomas and
I
felt we ought to come back, too. It’s been a real summer holiday for us—just the two of us down here.”
“I hope you enjoyed it,” said Douglas.
“We did that. We’ve seen all the summer shows already.”
Tea was brought to them, and Alison sat at the table and dispensed it. There was always such a gay and carefree atmosphere about the cottage, thought Alison. Though these three young men would have created a carefree atmosphere anywhere. She realised that she was lucky to be in her position, where she had three devoted escorts whenever she wanted them; and she was particularly grateful to Guy and George for the unobtrusive help they were always ready to give to Douglas.
The weather was really hot on Sunday, and Douglas declared his intention of going into the sea. “I won’t say I’m going to swim,” he said, “because I’m not sure
if I shall be able to; but I can at least float.”
They thought no harm could come to him, and the four of them went in together, at least one of them keeping near Douglas all the time. It was a great success, and Douglas was immeasurably cheered and encouraged when he came out again. Alison, realising that she would not care to accept this responsibility when Guy and George had returned to town, decided that she must find out if Thomas could swim; if he could, he could accompany Douglas in future.
Guy and George left by the last possible train on Sunday evening. Before they went, Alison went into the garden to pick flowers for them, George being particularly fond of them in his room. Guy followed her out.
“Don’t bother, Alison,” he said. “We’re sure to forget to give them fresh water, and they’ll die.”
“They won’t last long anyway,” said Alison, “but if George likes flowers, he shall have flowers. When you come again, we shall have hundreds of roses.”
“When are we coming again?” asked Guy.
“Whenever you wish. We are always pleased to see you.”
“That would be every week-end.”
“Then come every week-end.”
“We can’t do that. Mrs. Thomas would get fed-up with us, even if you didn’t.”
“Mrs. Thomas is enjoying her job, and what she is earning here this summer, is going to buy her a television set for the winter; so she won’t get fed-up. And I think Douglas and I can put up with you.”
“It’s you I care about, Alison. Would you want me here every week-end?”
“I? I’m always ready to welcome you. I’m very grateful to you
—
and George
—
for your goodness to Douglas.”
“You won’t give me the slightest encouragement, Alison, will you?”
“It wouldn’t be fair, my dear.”
“Ah well.” He turned to walk beside her. “Well, if you really mean it, Alison, we’ll come next week-end.”
“Yes, do
...
Now, isn’t this a beautiful bunch of flowers? And you can have another next week-end.”
He took it from her, a little moodily.
“I expect George will give them to one of his girls at the tennis club,” he said.
“Why don’t you have a nice girl at the tennis club too, Guy?”
“Because I’d rather have you,” he said hopelessly.
“Well, nobody is going to have me for years and years,” she said cheerfully. “I’m much too young, and I want to enjoy a few years of freedom.”
“Then I shall hang around until you’ve had enough freedom,” said Guy.
They went into the house, and Alison drove the car to the station and saw her visitors on to their train.
The very pleasant routine of life at the cottage was resumed. Usually, from Monday to Friday, Alison and Douglas kept each other company, and Douglas did most of his resting during these days. Often, from Friday to Monday, there were visitors to be entertained; Guy and George, or Peter for a delightful week-end; once Elisaveta, who arrived at short notice, bringing with her a young friend of the ballet, who had been ill and was convalescing. When Elisaveta went back to town, she left her young friend behind for a week, and Douglas, who was rather charmed by the young friend, learned a good deal about the ballet.
One Saturday morning, however, Alison and Douglas sat on the sandy beach alone. Nobody was coming this week. Alison lay sunbathing on her rug, reading a novel; and Douglas, who had been swimming with Thomas, was lying beside her resting. Thomas had promised to bring their elevenses out to them. The sun was hot, the sound of the sea was soothing, laziness was in the air. Children’s voices made a pleasant, distant music.
Suddenly, Douglas sighed a long sigh that was almost a groan, and Alison looked quickly up at him.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
He apparently did not realise that he had made any sound. He looked surprised.
“Headache?” she asked.
“No.”
“Just tired?”
“A bit.”
“Want to go back?” She suddenly remembered something the doctor had said. “Backache?” she asked.
“Helluva backache,” he said, smiling.
As there was no masseur to be easily had, she said:
“Let me rub you. I won’t be professional, of course.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“Don’t be silly. Perhaps I can make it better. Turn over.”
He rolled over on the sand. He was still wearing his swimming trunks.
“Your back is getting beautifully brown,” said Alison. “Now tell me where it aches. Is it here?”
“Higher,” he said. “To the right—no, a bit the other way. Oh, that’s heavenly, Alison. Rub harder.”
He lay with his head on his arms, and she rubbed his back. Thomas came out of the cottage, carrying a tray, and beside
him
walked Peter, who had arrived unexpectedly.
“There they are, sir,” said Thomas, pointing out the pair on the beach. “I think you’ll see a difference in him. He’s taken it a bit easier this time, and now he’s improving out of all knowledge.”
Peter looked at them; Douglas lying at his ease in the sun, head on arms; Alison sitting beside him, looking out towards the sea and rubbing Douglas’s back. She turned her head, laughing, to answer something that Douglas had said, still running her fingers backwards and forwards over his brown skin. They looked utterly happy and contented, thought Peter; and realised what opportunities, what splendid opportunities, they had here for getting to know each other perfectly. Douglas looked up and saw Peter coming, and at once waved an arm in his direction. Alison looked to see why he was waving, and saw Peter, too.
Thomas put the tray down on the rug, while Peter greeted his young brother and Alison.
“There you are,” said Thomas, “I’ll be back for the tray later on, sir.”
“Come and sit down, Peter,” said Alison. “We didn’t expect you this week-end.”
“No. I’ve just run down for the day. I wanted to put a holiday proposition to both of you; but that can wait for a while. How have you been getting on?”
Douglas launched into an account of his prowess at swimming, which the doctor had said was very good for him; and Peter saw that his brother was, indeed, looking much better and stronger, putting on flesh as well as a golden-brown tan; his eyes brighter, his voice, even crisper.
“You swim with him, Al
i
son?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. But Thomas comes, too. I’m afraid that, supposing Douglas got cramp, I wouldn’t be able to manage him. So we have Thomas for moral support.”
“Well, we’ll dispense with Thomas this afternoon, and I’ll go with you both instead.”
“That will be nice,” said Alison. “If Guy and George are here, they are our supporters; so really, we do very well.”
“Are they often here?” asked Peter.
“Nearly every week-end,” she said. “They’ve been wonderful, haven’t they, Douglas?”
“Sure,” said Douglas. “She has the three of us dancing to her tune; but we all enjoy it.”
Peter did not doubt it.
Later, when they had swum in the afternoon, and were back in the cottage, he told them why he had come.
“We’re making up a party to go to Italy in a few weeks,” he said, “and it struck me that you two might like to join it. We’re going to a little place on the Italian Riviera, where there would be plenty of sun and warm sea-bathing for Douglas; and where Alison could visit some of her old haunts. We are taking our cars, of course. What do you think about it?”
“It sounds lovely,” said Alison. “Don’t you think so, Douglas?”
“Yes. It would suit me down to the ground.”
“Who will be going?” asked Alison.
Peter named a number of his friends, some of whom Alison knew, others who were unknown to her, but Lydia’s name, as Alison had guessed, was on the list.
Peter outlined the plans that had been made, and the preparations that must be made. Both their passports were in order, and Peter promised to arrange their currency; and when he left that evening, both Douglas and Alison were beginning to feel a little excited at the thought of the impending trip.
When Alison received a short note from Lydia, she was puzzled and surprised, but in no way connected it with the Italian trip. Lydia’s note simply asked Alison to be at the station to meet her at a certain time on the following Thursday, as she had something to discuss; and she hoped that Alison would not mention this visit to Douglas.
On Thursday, Alison said she would be away for a short time with the car, but offered no further explanation, and Douglas, who did not wish her to feel chained to his side, asked no questions. Alison, wearing a yellow linen dress and tan sandals, her golden hair free to the sun and the wind, went to the station, wondering what Lydia could possibly have to say to her that was important enough to warrant a longish train journey. Why could she not have written it? It was almost lunch time when the train came in, and Alison proffered an invitation to Lydia to lunch at the cottage, almost sure beforehand that it would be refused.
“Thank you,” said Lydia, “but I will not keep you from your own lunch at the cottage.” So, thought Alison, this is going to be brief then. Perhaps she is going to meet somebody else, and is only seeing me in passing. But Lydia did not enlighten her. She said only:
“Where can we talk privately?”
“In the car?” suggested Alison. “I can drive to a quieter spot.”
“Very well,” said Lydia, and Alison drove to the end of the promenade farthest away from the cottage, and stopped the ca
r
overlooking the sea. She was still consumed with curiosity. She took her hands from the driving wheel and turned to face Lydia.
Lydia, as perfectly groomed in town clothes as ever, appeared to be perfectly poised, completely calm. She said:
“I want to discuss the Italian trip with you.”
“Yes?” encouraged Alison.
“In the hope,” said Lydia, “that I can prevail upon you not to join our party.”
“What!” exclaimed Alison, astonished.
Lydia knew that she had heard and did not repeat her words. Alison looked at her with wide eyes.
“Why should I not join the party?” she asked.
“Are there no reasons completely obvious?”
“No,” said Alison. “On the contrary, there are reasons why we should, Douglas and I. It would be so beneficial for Douglas’s health
...”
“I was not suggesting,” said Lydia, interrupting her “that Douglas should not come. I agree with you that it would be beneficial for him. I suggest that you do not come.”
Alison tilted her chin at an uncompromising angle.
“Peter has invited me,” she said proudly, “presumably because he wants me to come
...”
Lydia smiled. It was a particularly unpleasant smile, and it stopped Alison.
“Peter invited you, yes,” she said. “Presumably, you say, because he wants you to come. Why do you presume that? Aren’t you, perhaps, presuming a little too much? Do you know
why
Peter invited you to join the party? Shall I tell you? He invited you because you are always a weight on his conscience. Because he feels eternally under an obligation to you. Simply because your parents at one time in his life, were kind to him
—
and I ask you, who would find it difficult to be kind to Peter? they liked doing what they did, and it was little enough in all conscience—simply because of that, he is prepared to penalise himself for the rest of his life on your account. And in penalising himself, he penalises me, too; and not only me, but all our friends
...
We plan a holiday together, a few friends who have been intimates for years; we know each other, like each other, have our mutual likes and mutual tastes; but now, all of us have to suffer the inclusion of you and Douglas in our party. I dislike it most because I suffer most; but the others dislike it too.”
“I have only your word for that,” said Alison. “Peter would not do anything that was going to cause discomfort to his friends.”
“Peter has this terrible sense of duty. It is because he considers it his duty to you. Do you
want
to be part of a group that only suffers your inclusion?”
“Naturally not, but I think you are mistaken.”
“Very well, then, you may think I am mistaken about the others, if it eases your pride; but I am not mistaken about my own feelings. It was entirely unnecessary for Peter to make you his ward. If he felt obliged to pay off an old debt, he could have done so adequately in a different way. But his sense of duty and obligation imposed this on him; and imposed conditions on me that I hated to accept. He does not live his own life because he is concerned about others; first, it is necessary to wait until Douglas is better; then it is necessary to wait until something is done about you. How do you think that
I
like this? And now, even our holiday is to be spoiled because Peter’s charity has not already extended far enough
...”