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Authors: Elizabeth Bowen
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away again, “is Frank.”
“Who won’t be?” shouted Clare, through the Mini’s window.
“Not today: he’s in London,” called back Dinah, getting into the Hillman. She and it executed a lightning turn, then slid past Clare (ready in gear) at gathering speed. They were off. Clare drove with great intensity. Her ferocious image was never for long gone from the Hillman’s mirror, many as were the turns and twists of the lovely roads. She seemed to be less tailing the car ahead than hunting it. The run to Applegate, cross-country, was about fifteen miles.
Dinah, turning in at her gate, saw Francis framed in the porch, in his whitest coat. He stepped out to meet her— clearly, bearer of tidings. “Chops not come?” she asked, getting out of the car.
“The lady you are expecting is here, madam.”
“I’m not expecting a lady; I have one with me.” (Clare, entangled with cattle back in the lane, could be heard banging on her horn.) “So whoever this one is, she will have to go. Who did she say she was?”
“She appeared to know her own business, so I did not…”
“Never mind—where is she?”
“I put her into the drawing-room with the Major.”
“Now you are seeing things, Francis: he’s in Londonl Went by the early train.”
“All I know is,” Francis said in a hard-tried tone, “he walked in this morning, shortly after you’d left, saying he’d changed his mind. Said he considered today too fine for London. Not finding you anywhere, he asked where you’d gone. I could give him no information, beyond the fact that you were expecting a guest for luncheon. He appeared dissatisfied and put out, but took himself off for a prowl round the potager. He re-entered the house and rang for a drink shortly before the lady’s taxi arrived. Having brought the tray in, I left it to the Major to do the honours.”
“Everyone must be mad.”
“We are also right at the end of the Noilly Prat.”
The Mini came sailing in at the gate, to be brought to rest neatly behind the Hillman. Clare, saying something about the cattle, got out. She shook herself into order and looked round—taking in the lawns, the house, and the copper beech. “Nice,” she remarked contentedly, “isn’t this?”
“Sometimes. Today’s an inferno. Mumbo, what do you think? Frank’s not only ratted on London, Francis says, but now has a woman in the drawing-room!”
“Well, well.—Look, I should like a wash.”
“Oh, come in, come in!” Dinah propelled her guest through the Gothic porch into the neo-Jacobean hall. “And welcome, of course, and everything, Mumbo darling!
I suppose this still is my house, though I sometimes wonder.—Straight up, first on your right. No, sorry, second!— I’m all but out of my mind. The lengths I went to, arranging London: but oh, no—slippery as an eel! … I hope you’ll find everything,” Dinah shouted, despondently, after ascending Clare. “ I’ll just, I think, now go and see about getting that harpie out.”
She lost no time in tackling the drawing-room door.
The big-windowed drawing-room, at this hour, was more dazzling than had been the open country. Sun, magnified by the plate glass through which it poured (windows she had left open were now shut), lavished itself on lavish bowls and tureens of early chrysanthemums, late dahlias, surviving roses, and with sunny malice lay on fine films of dust over the satiny surfaces of the furniture. Armchairs and sofas looked over-exposed and crushed. Blazing into the fire, the sun all but brought off its trick of putting the fire out; though wood ash, consuming itself at white heat, made the air pungent and faintly blue: Frank’s pipe, too, had been going for some time. Nor in other ways was the room as it last had been—a chic collapsible hat had become intimate with the faded needlework stool, opposite Dinah’s desk, on to which by the look it had been light-heartedly flung, and a magazine glossier and more knowing than any
“Who won’t be?” shouted Clare, through the Mini’s window.
“Not today: he’s in London,” called back Dinah, getting into the Hillman. She and it executed a lightning turn, then slid past Clare (ready in gear) at gathering speed. They were off. Clare drove with great intensity. Her ferocious image was never for long gone from the Hillman’s mirror, many as were the turns and twists of the lovely roads. She seemed to be less tailing the car ahead than hunting it. The run to Applegate, cross-country, was about fifteen miles.
Dinah, turning in at her gate, saw Francis framed in the porch, in his whitest coat. He stepped out to meet her— clearly, bearer of tidings. “Chops not come?” she asked, getting out of the car.
“The lady you are expecting is here, madam.”
“I’m not expecting a lady; I have one with me.” (Clare, entangled with cattle back in the lane, could be heard banging on her horn.) “So whoever this one is, she will have to go. Who did she say she was?”
“She appeared to know her own business, so I did not…”
“Never mind—where is she?”
“I put her into the drawing-room with the Major.”
“Now you are seeing things, Francis: he’s in Londonl Went by the early train.”
“All I know is,” Francis said in a hard-tried tone, “he walked in this morning, shortly after you’d left, saying he’d changed his mind. Said he considered today too fine for London. Not finding you anywhere, he asked where you’d gone. I could give him no information, beyond the fact that you were expecting a guest for luncheon. He appeared dissatisfied and put out, but took himself off for a prowl round the potager. He re-entered the house and rang for a drink shortly before the lady’s taxi arrived. Having brought the tray in, I left it to the Major to do the honours.”
“Everyone must be mad.”
“We are also right at the end of the Noilly Prat.”
The Mini came sailing in at the gate, to be brought to rest neatly behind the Hillman. Clare, saying something about the cattle, got out. She shook herself into order and looked round—taking in the lawns, the house, and the copper beech. “Nice,” she remarked contentedly, “isn’t this?”
“Sometimes. Today’s an inferno. Mumbo, what do you think? Frank’s not only ratted on London, Francis says, but now has a woman in the drawing-room!”
“Well, well.—Look, I should like a wash.”
“Oh, come in, come in!” Dinah propelled her guest through the Gothic porch into the neo-Jacobean hall. “And welcome, of course, and everything, Mumbo darling!
I suppose this still is my house, though I sometimes wonder.—Straight up, first on your right. No, sorry, second!— I’m all but out of my mind. The lengths I went to, arranging London: but oh, no—slippery as an eel! … I hope you’ll find everything,” Dinah shouted, despondently, after ascending Clare. “ I’ll just, I think, now go and see about getting that harpie out.”
She lost no time in tackling the drawing-room door.
The big-windowed drawing-room, at this hour, was more dazzling than had been the open country. Sun, magnified by the plate glass through which it poured (windows she had left open were now shut), lavished itself on lavish bowls and tureens of early chrysanthemums, late dahlias, surviving roses, and with sunny malice lay on fine films of dust over the satiny surfaces of the furniture. Armchairs and sofas looked over-exposed and crushed. Blazing into the fire, the sun all but brought off its trick of putting the fire out; though wood ash, consuming itself at white heat, made the air pungent and faintly blue: Frank’s pipe, too, had been going for some time. Nor in other ways was the room as it last had been—a chic collapsible hat had become intimate with the faded needlework stool, opposite Dinah’s desk, on to which by the look it had been light-heartedly flung, and a magazine glossier and more knowing than any
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