“Please?”
Mandy said to Ruth Deeping, “Bread is one of the things we’re going to have to be a bit careful with—just in case. Can they manage with one slice each? There’s more macaroni and cheese, if they’re still hungry.”
“Of course,” Ruth Deeping said, “they can do without bread.”
Andy put his fork down. “I’d like some bread and jam,” he said. He looked up at Mandy with a calm smile. “Can I, please?”
Ruth Deeping said, “Perhaps they could have the one slice you mentioned?”
Mandy said, “Of course. I’ll get it.”
The boys, when she came in again, had reverted to an earlier speculation about the length of time they were likely to remain cut off from the world.
Stephen said, “More than a week, perhaps. A fortnight.”
“A month,” Andy suggested.
“Six weeks,” Stephen said, “and then well miss all the rest of term.”
Their mother said, “Don’t you worry, you’ll be back at school by the beginning of next week.”
“What do you think, Mrs. Hamilton?” Andy asked.
He had a trick of putting his head on one side when he asked questions, an inquiring, appraising gesture that, from so young a child to an adult, was almost but not quite pert.
Mandy said, “I think your mother’s right, Andy. You won’t be more than a day or two late in getting back.”
“Swizz,” he said. “I like it here.” His gaze did not drop from her face as he smiled. “Thank you for the bread and jam. Black currant? I love black currant.”
There was something in his manner, she thought, which was oddly flattering. As though, having a generalized contempt for the world of grownups, he exempted you from it. He was interesting in a way that not many small boys were and, of course, physically more attractive than his elder brother. She wondered, had they been hers, whether she would have favored him, as Ruth Deeping so plainly did. I had no favorites as far as mine were concerned, she thought—I left them all.
Stephen was tackling his bread and jam by eating his way around the crust first.
Ruth Deeping said, “Eat it properly, Stephen.”
“I like leaving the middle part till last.”
She said more sharply, “Do as I say.” As though feeling a need to explain herself, she said to Mandy, “If I let him, he would eat his way round everything. It’s important that they learn how to behave at table. Don’t you agree?” Mandy said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Andy was eating his decorously, sitting up properly, his elbows tucked in. That made a difference, too, probably: one who had to be checked all the time, and another who did not need telling. She saw him wink at his brother, a friendly conspiratorial act, but one that did not exclude a certain awareness of superiority. There was a good deal of unfairness in life, Mandy thought. One had to get used to it; and one did.
For supper she served them baked ham, which was received enthusiastically. Afterward, as they had done the night before, they played bridge and dice, and once again the dice school lasted longer than the other. Mandy went up to bed at half past ten. It was all going very well, she thought—better than she had expected it would. No trouble so far, no friction from being confined together. She took the bottle out and measured her nightcap carefully; it was important not to become careless about it. Then she washed, and combed her hair, and knelt down to say her prayers.
3
A dedicated man, Selby Grainger thought, would be starting to worry now about the possibility of delay in getting back to work. He stretched back in the chair and gave a small grunt of satisfaction. Dedication, in his particular field, had a slightly comic sound—except, of course, in wartime. The day a week he gave to the Children’s Hospital was more than balanced by the four days at the Clinic, not least financially. He put his mind lazily to the recollection of his list. Mrs. Enderby—breasts. Nathan, Levi, and Moncrieff—noses. Juliet Minchin— naevus. The last was the only one which was likely to give him any personal satisfaction. Breasts, however proud the patient might be of the improvement, did not usually go on public show, and he rarely felt entirely happy about noses. One would need to remodel the whole face for a really good result; as it was, the reshaped nose generally seemed wrong to him, however pleased the patient was. But a naevus was something else. Taking that ugly blotch off the girl’s face was going to be one of the satisfying jobs.
He reached for the coffee, which Mandy had just brought out. Even for that, there was no hurry. Little Juliet had carried it around with her for twenty-seven years, and a few more days were not going to make the difference. The aunt who had died and left her the couple of thousand pounds which had brought her to the Clinic … for the rest of her life, the girl would bless her name. But she had left nearer twenty thousand to the nephew in Rhodesia, and since school little Juliet had looked after dear Auntie, and been a companion to her, and carried her head on one side to conceal that hideous right cheek. He would get rid of the blemish for her, but he was prepared to bet that, even as ah old woman, she would look at the world with her left eye.
There was no point in dwelling on life’s unpleasantnesses when one could do nothing about them. He drank his coffee and looked out across the snow. The weather was clear again now; a few small clouds clustered around the peaks on the other side of the valley, otherwise a vast, deep blue. All very nice. He was glad they had come here, despite his initial opposition. He had thought of Marrakesh or, if Switzerland, somewhere lively at least. But Elizabeth had had the Hamiltons recommended to her; she had liked the notion of an English enclave up in the Alps and, as always, she had been the one to watch the expense. If they were to get to Greece in late summer, they could not really afford to splurge on a holiday now. A point difficult to contest, especially since he was aware of his own private reason for wanting to go somewhere gayer and concerned that Elizabeth might become aware of it, too. And yet here he sat, he thought contentedly, in perfect weather, cut off from the world, with this sweet little black-haired creature sitting beside him. Admittedly, with Elizabeth on his other side, but he did not really mind that. The fact that Elizabeth was beautiful, while the Blackstone girl was no more than pretty, gave him a particular sensation of pride. And there was time, plenty of time.
His position with regard to Elizabeth was, he reflected, ideal. She knew that he had an eye for a pretty face or figure and, in the consciousness of her own superiority, was not worried by it. She knew that he flirted with women, and it amused her. She knew also that no woman could ever take her place in his life. All these things were true. What she did not know, and—he was determined— never would, was that occasionally the flirtation took a more intimate turn. He needed these little adventures, from which he returned to Elizabeth more loving and more appreciative than ever, but he never allowed the need to overcome discretion. So they did not take place with women of Elizabeth’s own acquaintance, although, God knew, that was not for lack of opportunity, and he was careful in the kind of girl he picked. Diana’s sister, for instance, although in fact more to his taste, he had ruled out almost at once. A young widow, as such, was a promising proposition, but this one had a seriousness about her which he was not prepared to risk.
No, it was Diana who interested him. She was not, he was prepared to bet, a virgin; on the other hand, not promiscuous. Her approach to life was fundamentally lighthearted and, from the fact that she appeared to spend no time writing letters and had no telephone calls, he was fairly sure that there was nothing of importance in her romantic life at the moment. Her trick of inviting attention from any male who was around was not significant, but the occasional surreptitious glance he had had from her was in a different category.
All that was necessary was to take things easy. Wait, and it will be granted you. Here, at Nidenhaut, a small harmless flirtation, under Elizabeth’s indulgent eye. He turned to look at Elizabeth, with a smile and renewed admiration and affection. She was a wonderful woman.
He. said, “Are we about ready for the slopes again?”
She shook her elegant head. “My knee’s a little rocky from that last fall. You take Diana out. I’ll sit and watch you.”
He got up and stood before Diana. “Come on, girl. Time for action.”
“I think I would just as soon rest, too,” she said; but she hung on to his hands and he pulled her up.
She had not skied before this holiday, but had picked things up extremely quickly and was not at all bad. She would have good thighs, Selby thought, a clean lithe body. He touched her arm as they came out to get their skis, and felt the slight backward pressure against his fingers. Yes, he thought, with a pleasant tingle of anticipation, this one is going to be fun.
When they came in again, there was no sign of Elizabeth; she had probably gone upstairs to prepare herself for lunch. George had the bar open, and Deeping was sitting in there drinking a beer. Selby got Campari-sodas for himself and Diana, and took them out to the veranda. No one else was there. She was leaning against the wooden balustrade in a pose which, even wearing a bulky ski jersey, did a lot for her. He let his eye register its appreciation and she smiled, lips slightly parted.
“Thank you, Selby. I was looking for Elizabeth.”
“She’s upstairs, I should think, gilding refined gold, painting the lily.”
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” But she did not sound worried about it.
Selby said, “Very. Enough soda in that, or shall I fetch the siphon?”
“It’s lovely.” She arched her body a little more. “I am
enjoying this. It only seems a pity we weren’t cut off at the very end of our holiday, like the Deepings.”
“We still may be.”
“No such luck. Back to dreary London and dreary work.”
“What do you do? I mean, I know you’re a secretary, but at what sort of place?”
“Accountant’s office. Couldn’t be duller. Not even big flashy tax-dodgers. Company audits, and very solid companies at that.”
“Do you live with Jane?”
“Heavens, no. We wouldn’t get on well for long. She lived in the country till Harry died. She’s been floundering about in hotels since then. I think she ought to get a place of her own.”
“Do you have that—a place of your own?”
“I,” she said, striking a histrionic attitude, “live with a friend in West Chelsea. Fulham, that is. Walk up three flights, and there we are. Two rooms, kitchenette, share the bathroom. Her name is Sylvia Farley, and she works for a firm that sells diamonds. Alas, no samples. We have a gas cooker, a transistor radio, a rented TV, and we share a cat along with the bathroom. All the amenities. Friday nights, we wash our hair.”
“All the amenities? That includes a telephone, I take it.”
She looked at him, biting her lip. “So happens, yes. A pretty little pink one. Costs shared, but it’s my name in the book. Blackstone, Diana, Finsborough one two three six. One plus two plus three equals six. Everyone says it’s an easy number to remember.”
He heard footsteps approaching from the salon, and recognized them as Elizabeth’s. He permitted himself a faint smile before turning around to greet her.
“Yes,” he said. “I rather think it is.”
Elizabeth was not very keen on coming out in the afternoon, either, but Selby talked her into it. He had gone as far with Diana as, under the present circumstances, he wished to go, and could now concentrate on allaying any faint tremors of suspicion that might have crossed Elizabeth’s mind.
He said boisterously, “Come on! You’ve got to work off some of that carbohydrate.” Mandy, for lunch, had made them a rich stew with dumplings, followed by an apple-and-apricot pie. “Can’t have you getting out of condition.”
They headed, Diana accompanying them, for the top western corner of the bowl, from where it was possible to get a good run down—of well over a mile if one wanted, to the point where the road to Nidenhaut was blocked by the fall. In practice, they would not go far beyond the house, probably to the point where Jane, with Douglas Poole and the Deepings, was practicing on one of the easy slopes.
“One run,” Elizabeth said, “then I shall leave you and Diana to carry on.”
“Nonsense,” Selby said. “It’s the climbing that does you good. There’s very little exercise in skiing down.”
They reached their agreed departure point, and stood there, panting. They were about half a mile west of the house and at a slightly greater elevation; the sweeping curve of the bowl ran between, marred by the rubble of snow and ice and rock which had come down with the lesser fall. Fortunately it did not extend far enough to be in the way of their run.
The Deeping boys, Selby saw, had got the toboggan out again, and were using it to slide down the steepest part of the hillside, just beyond the fall. They were going quite fast, probably not entirely in control, but at least they were unlikely to do themselves any harm: the snow was deep about there. As though in confirmation, he saw the sledge buck, and bury itself, along with its passengers, in a snowbank. They climbed out pretty quickly, and their voices, excited and happy, carried thinly across the snow.
Elizabeth said, “They’re having more fun.” There was a note in her voice which came as near to wistfulness as her placidity allowed. “Sledging was what I always liked most about winter.”
“Right,” Selby said. “When we’ve made this run, we’ll sledge. We’ll get the big one out. George will lend a hand.”
“The boys,” Diana said, “have they found something?”
The little one, Andy, was grubbing in the snow. He had his back to them, and was bending over. He straightened up, and called to his brother, who was pulling the toboggan back up the slope. Then he bent down again, and slid forward gently on his face.
Some kind of a game they were playing, Selby thought, but there had been something disquieting about the way the boy had fallen. He stood there, irresolute, watching. Stephen came down to where Andy was, stooped, lifted and turned him. He squatted with his brother a dead weight in his arms, and looked up, as though seeking help. Selby wasted no more time, but dug his sticks in and started down toward them.
An ordinary syncope, he thought, seeing the white unconscious face, the limp body. Too much exercise too soon after lunch, or perhaps a delayed shock from the tumble off the sledge. He said to Stephen, “All right. I’ll have him.”
“He’s fainted,” Stephen said.
“Yes. He’ll be all right in a jiffy.”
He had stripped off his ski gloves and the boy’s gloves, and his fingers went automatically to the pulse. He was shocked, incredulous. He bent his cheek to the child’s mouth, slipped his hand up under the jersey and shirt to rest against the heart. He was holding him like that, the other arm supporting him, when there was a flurry of snow beside him and Diana was there, Elizabeth just behind her.
Diana said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s fainted,” Stephen repeated. “He just fell over.” Selby said to Elizabeth, “Undo my skis, would you? I’m going to carry him back to the house.”
He kept Ids voice neutral, but he could tell from her face that she had guessed it was serious. She worked quickly and efficiently to unbuckle his skis. He stepped out of them, and carried the boy up through the snow to the house. Those who were down on the lower slopes had not apparently noticed anything, but Mandy came to the door to meet him.
“Is it an accident?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
She stood aside and he carried the boy through into the salon. He put him down on the carpet, in front of the fire, and stripped off the upper garments. He massaged the still warm chest, tried to blow breath into the collapsed lungs. But he knew it was hopeless long before he desisted and looked up. Elizabeth and Diana were there.
Elizabeth said, “Mandy has taken Stephen into the kitchen. Selby, is he dead?”
He nodded silently.
“But how? What happened?”
/>
“His heart stopped. There may have been a history of weakness.” He shook his head. “He didn’t look like a heart case.”
Diana said flatly, “I can’t believe it.” She turned her gaze from the small body and walked over to the windows that looked out across the veranda. “They’re still skiing down there,” she said. “Someone will have to tell them.”
“I’ll do it,” Elizabeth said. She bent down and touched the dead boy’s face, as though the touching would make the fact of death more believable. “Are you going to leave him here?”
“For the time being.”
Waiting for the Deepings to come, he felt stunned himself. In the early days, in general theater, he had encountered his full share of sudden death, in all its forms. But that was years ago, and there had always been some warning, some explanation. Now he stared at the child’s unmarked body in bewilderment and resentment. His own working days were spent in patching up imperfections in the human frame, winning small triumphs over nature’s indifference, conducting a cool and measured campaign, against ugliness. And here this child lay, delicate, flawless, dead. The supreme indifference, the final ugliness. Beside that, all he had done or hoped to do seemed derisory.
Until she spoke, he had forgotten Diana was still in the room. She said, “Do you think I should go—before she comes?”
He only half heard her. “As you think best.”
“I can’t stand scenes, and it isn’t as though I can do any good.” She gave a small nervous laugh. “And I feel I must have a cigarette.”
“Yes,” he said. “Go and do that.”
Elizabeth came in with the Deepings. She was at her best in situations such as this: quiet, sympathetic, serene. She put her arm, unobtrusively but firmly, round Ruth Deeping’s shoulders as she led her across the room.
No one spoke for the first few seconds. The silence was broken only by the crackle of the open fire, the ticking of the huge, elaborate cuckoo clock on the wall. Ruth Deeping had dropped beside her son, and raised his head to cradle it in her arms. When she looked up and spoke, her voice was reasonable, restrained.