Birdcage Page 16

  * * * *

  It was raining outside, hard, heavy rain with no wind, and bringing out a flowering of coloured umbrellas from the lunch-going women which rivalled the wet, enamelled blooms of the precisely patterned flower beds in the Park. Arnold Geddy watched them from where he sat in the window seat of Kerslake’s small office and thought with mild delight of Cadogan Square later.

  On the desk before Kerslake were the various documents which he had brought back from Miss Branton in Portugal and which conveniently Geddy had come to collect.

  Kerslake said, “By the way, one small point occurred to me. I did, of course, tell Miss Branton that any communications to your office should be addressed to you. But it is conceivable that she might telephone Cheltenham and ask for me. One never knows when something odd like that might . . . well, cause embarrassment. She could ask for me and your telephone operator might-be dumb about it. No Mr Kerslake here, madam. I give myself a black mark for not having thought of it and covered it while in Portugal.”

  Geddy smiled. Bright young man. As he had once been. You can’t think of everything. That power was given to no man. Nice chap. He, himself, had overlooked the point, but there was no need to reveal that. Curtsey while you’re thinking what to say. It saves time. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, nodded wisely and then said, “It occurred to me, Mr Kerslake. My switchboard girls have instructions that any calls for Mr Kerslake should be put through to me.”

  “That was very percipient of you, Mr Geddy. My thanks.”

  “Habit, my dear boy. Although you’ve never mentioned it —and quite rightly—you must know that I once worked here. Sat where you do now as a matter of fact. Happily, though you may not agree, my engagement was only of a temporary nature.”

  Kerslake smiled. “Yes, I did know it. Were you under Quint then?”

  “Oh, dear me, no. This was wartime. Quint was doing a spell in Washington. No, I worked for Polidor—a charming Greek—well, perhaps not charming to men, but certainly to women. It was, as a matter of fact, one among many of his assets.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “My dear Kerslake . . . there are lots of people who have worked here that a lot of people who work here now have never heard of. Anyway, poor Polidor is long dead. I must add since ‘the slightest approach to a false pretence was never among my crimes’ that I personally never cared for him. Now tell me a little more about this Richard Farley. Generally speaking, I mean. Not officially.”

  Kerslake gave him the general facts known about Farley and his background, and finished, “I only met him once for any length of time and that was when they came to my hotel to dinner. I liked him, but I wouldn’t say he was a type ever to make his mark at anything. One of the waiters at my hotel had once worked for him—when he ran a small restaurant on the coast, he told me. He was a good employer but a bad business man, gave his chums too much credit and found eventually that the tradesmen and suppliers withdrew theirs. A happy-go-lucky drifter, perhaps. But not, according to the waiter, with any interest in women.”

  “Queer?”

  “No. Just not interested. You’re thinking about Miss Branton?”

  Geddy shook his head. “No. She’s fresh out of the egg as you might say. But she’s the daughter of Lady Jean and if she’s only got half her mother’s nature——” he smiled gently, “——and the other half equally endowed with a strong streak of selfconcern—then she’s well protected.”

  “And well-endowed. An allowance from her father, a good one. And now she’s picked up from her mother——” Kerslake tapped the documents on his desk which Geddy would take away, “——this very valuable gold belt thing. Though she did say she didn’t want it insured because she was going to give it to Farley for saving her life.”

  “Indeed.” Geddy hesitated, remembering the Duchess’s precept—“If everybody minded their own business—the world would go round a deal faster than it does.” And then decided that he could allow himself the vanity of telling a Birdcage man something which he clearly did not know. He said, “I doubt that it would do this Farley man any good. It’s a nice piece worth a few hundreds, I suppose. But it’s a replica—though Lady Jean never knew that. Lord Bellmaster, who gave her the original, had it made and then just changed them over when he was going through a very difficult financial phase many years ago.

  I know because——” he was enjoying the stillness of Kerslake’s eyes and face, “——as his solicitor in the matter I negotiated the sale of the original quietly for him to a German, now dead, who, I think, left it to some continental museum.”

  “Did you ever tell Birdcage this?”

  “Why no. My connection had long been broken. I’m back in and here now, you know,” he said with gentle humorous ruefulness, “only because I have been re-coopted, shall we say, without the option. But since I don’t like Bellmaster I thought it was a little unconsidered trifle you might find amusing. But I’ve no doubt that on some higher floor they know.”

  When Geddy had gone Kerslake walked to the window. The lake in the Park was lead-coloured and white-pocked with the assault of the heavy rain. He was grateful to Geddy, but he realised now why his had only been a passing assignment to Birdcage—there was too much of the old woman and gossip in him.

  As he stood there the door opened behind him and Quint came in, wearing his hat and a raincoat. He said cheerfully, “I love rain. It clears the air and eases my old bellows. The office car will be round in a few minutes. As you’ve been a good, tidy boy I’ve decided to take you to lunch at Scott’s. How was dear Geddy? Still quoting Lewis Carroll?”

  “That’s what it was?”

  “That’s what it always is. He once told me that this place should be called Crocodile, not Birdcage. “And welcomes little fishes in with gently smiling jaws’

  “Big fishes, too, sir.”

  “Aye—there are no size limits or off seasons.”

  Moving to get his own hat and coat from the stand by the door as he saw the office car draw up outside and glad to have momentary cover for his own doubt about speaking, he said, “He came clean to me about once working here. With someone called Polidor, he said.”

  “Did he now? Yes, that’s right he did work with . . . well, more precisely, under Polidor. Nobody ever worked with Polidor. Either above or below.” Quint paused, watching Kerslake put on his coat. Then with a dry grunt said, “Come to think of it. . . yes, it might be a good exercise for you. I’ll give you a chit for his confidential file after lunch. Read it through and give me your thoughts about it.” He beamed. “He’s long dead, you know. Tragic accident. Oh, very. Well, come along.” He put a fatherly hand on Kerslake’s arm and steered him through the doorway. Kerslake, allowing himself to be ushered out, his face hidden, smiled happily. It was the first time he had ever been promised a reading of the confidential file of any past or present member of Birdcage and he knew it to be—because he knew his Quint—not just a rewarding titbit but an act of far from momentary impulse on Quint’s part. Random impulses with Quint were as rare as water in a desert.

  * * * *

  Farley, in his pyjamas and dressing gown, gave the partly open door of the bedroom a bunt with his backside and went in carrying the breakfast tray. Sarah was sitting up in bed, a short silk bedjacket slipped over her shoulders.

  He said, grinning, “Breakfast, Senhorinha. And good-morning again.” He set the tray before her and gave her a brief kiss. He poured coffee for them both and carrying his cup went to the window and sat down at the bureau.

  Sarah said, “Richard—shut the door. Fabrina.”

  Going to the door and closing it, he said, “Don’t worry about her. She already knows.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes—and don’t you want anything to eat?”

  “No. Just coffee. She knows because you can’t keep love out of the eyes. Mine and yours. And she’s no fool. There is a world of difference betwee
n a bed which has really been slept in and one which has just been rumpled about to make it look as though it had been slept in. And anyway, if you want to make it really all right—then all you have to do is to tell her we’re going to be married. There isn’t a country in the world where lovers don’t jump the gun.”

  “You’re very coarse.”

  “I know—it’s because I’m happy. You’ll have to get used to it.”

  “Are we really going to be married?”

  “Not if you’ve got a better idea.”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Well, then that’s settled. Did you want something flowerier in the way of a proposal?”

  “No, you idiot. It’s just what I wanted. Oh, Richard—I can’t believe it.”

  “No—you should always be truthful. Of course you can believe it. No half measures. If I paint a pool I paint the whole of it. And so on. Do you want us to talk seriously about this or shall we just enjoy our breakfast and looking at one another?”

  “I could look at you forever. Do you think I’ll have a baby?” He laughed. “What makes you think you won’t the way we’re carrying on?”

  “You’re being coarse again.”

  “All right, I’ll be practical. You realise that I’m marrying you partly for your money, don’t you? All I have in the world is about two thousand escudos, a few clothes and a car that’s long since seen its best days.”

  “We shall manage. I’ve got this villa, and there’s the allowance from my father . . . and we could raise some money by selling the Venus girdle.”

  “While I just loaf around? Oh, no—that won’t do.”

  “What do we do then?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He was silent for a while, knowing that they had not been idle words, phrases to shelve real thought about the future. There was no wish in him to question or analyse what had happened between them. Time and chance had brought them to a discovery of one another. Each moment since then he had felt the growth of his love for her and hers for him. It was not in his nature to question what had happened to him and to her. All that mattered was their shared gratitude for the laying of ghosts on his side and hers. She sat now, looking at him, the same woman, but a different woman. And he was still Farley, but a different Farley. Some evolutionary jump of emotion, spurred by their needs, had changed them, and there it was—they had a new unexpected happiness. She was full woman and he was full man now. A true flowering. Ripeness was all. There was no virtue in pulling it to pieces just to see how it had grown and why it ticked. That way there was always a danger of not getting the thing back together again.

  As though she had, through some recently acquired powers of telepathy, caught his thoughts Sarah said, “There’s no need to rush to any decisions. We’ve all the time in the world to organise ourselves and our life.”

  “That’s right.” He smiled. “Let’s just go on floating together three feet off the ground for a while. When we touch down we can be very practical.”

  “Even so, Richard. I’d like to write and tell my father about it. He’s the only family I’ve got and—no matter about the past—he’s been good to me now.”

  Sitting slewed round sideways to the bureau he reached out to one of its pigeon-holes and said, “Would you like some writing paper to do it now?”

  “Idiot! But I will do it today some time. It is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “Of course . . .” He turned from her a little so that she could not see the whole of his face. Without anguish now, the ghosts so recently laid, he thought how much pleasure it would have given them had they been alive to get a letter from him. His mother would have adored Sarah . . . and his father at some time would have said, If you ever treat her badly I’ll flay the hide off you. Embarrassed a little, still hiding his face, he let his fingers fidget with a book that lay on the desk and his eyes caught the title along its spine—Dialogues of the Soul and Body— Saint Catherine of Genoa.

  He picked it up and turning to her went on, “This sounds pretty heavy stuff for you to be reading.”

  She laughed. “Far from it. It’s my mother’s diary. It came from Estoril with the belt. The title was her way of protecting it in case she left it lying around, I suppose. She loved little deceptions like that.”

  “Did she now? She sounds a very interesting woman, your mother. You must tell me all about her some time.”

  “Of course, I will—but why don’t you read the diary? You’ll get a much better picture than I can give.”

  “What? I couldn’t read someone else’s diary.”

  Sarah laughed. “Oh, Richard, you did sound so pompous then. Of course you can read it if you want to. It’s mine, anyway. She left it to me—and what’s mine is now yours.”

  “Well, perhaps some time.” He put the diary back on the bureau and then slewed round and faced Sarah fully. He watched her as she buttered a piece of toast and spread it with peach conserve. The warmth of his love for her flooded through him. Unlike him she was a hearty breakfast eater; and a beautiful girl. . . woman now, full-breasted, passionate . . . dear God, what a waste of years she had known. There had to be something wrong with that whole business . . . how could God want people to kennel themselves away from the world? He shook his thoughts from him, and said lightly, “Your peach jam is dripping all over the place. I don’t like sleeping in sticky sheets.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll change them. Come here and give me a kiss and I’ll give you some more coffee.”

  He went over to her as she put her toast on the tray and wiped her mouth with a napkin. He picked up the tray and put it on the floor and then slid into bed beside her.

  “Richard, you can’t! Oh, Richard!”

  “Sarah . . . darling, Sarah . . .”

  * * * *

  Colonel Branton, his back to Geddy, stood at the window looking down at the Promenade. The new leaf on the trees lifted on the slight breeze, sunlight running over it like water. May was soon coming in. Everything was stirring and increasing . . . lambs, crops . . . the young girls . . . aye, and the older girls . . . the young men and the miserable old men like himself. He smiled to himself.

  He said, “I had to be in Cheltenham so I thought I’d call in and show it to you. Not wasting much time, is she? Eight years in a convent. . . a few weeks out and she’s in love and is going to marry. She must have a touch of the old Eve her mother had in plenty. Know this chap?”

  Geddy looked up from Sarah’s letter which he had just finished reading. “I know of him. One of my staff went down there to settle up business and met him briefly. He says he’s a nice type, but not over ambitious. His father was regular Navy, finished up lieutenant-commander.”

  “That’s something.”

  “Also—he happens to be the one who pulled her out of the sea.”

  “That so? Then the thing’s as plain as the nose on your face. What could more impress a dewy-eyed innocent like Sarah? They’re both coming over some time soon to see me. Wants to do the job properly, I suppose. Ask for her hand . . . old-fashioned stuff, but I go along with it. Quite touched in fact. I’ve often thought that when she was young Lady Jean quietly turned her against me. God knows why. I suppose you’d better let Bellmaster know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Branton smiled. “Perhaps he’ll make a marriage settlement . . . through me, of course.”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “Neither do I. Odd chap, Bellmaster. Can’t really get to the bottom of him. I could never really understand why he didn’t marry Lady Jean himself. He didn’t really have to marry that American pork-pie-or-whatever-it-was heiress for her money. He was loaded himself. Unless he knew that he’d be taking on too much with Lady Jean. Too much of a handful for marital bliss. My God, she was a woman and a half where men were concerned.” Branton moved to the table and picked up the letter. “Do you want to make a copy of this?”

  “No, thank you. But I’m glad y
ou let me see it. I hope she’s going to be very happy and shall write and tell her so.”

  “You do that, Geddy old man. Nice family-solicitor gesture.” He laughed. “Nice family solicitor . . . sound, solid and respectable. I’ll bet you’ve had to clear up some nasty messes in your time.”

  Without any sign of the irritation he felt Geddy replied quietly, “Well . . . so have the Army haven’t they?”

  “Not only clear ’em up. But get themselves into them. I’ve seen more damned fools promoted over first-class chaps than I care to think about. Well, I’ve got to go and pick up my succubus from her hairdresser’s. Women . . . God bless me I love ’em, but it takes a damned good pair of hands to manage some of ’em. Got to admit it, though. I never was up to Lady Jean—God rest her Irish soul.”

  When Branton had gone Geddy lit himself a rare cigarette. For some reason which eluded him Branton had irritated him today. Where normally he usually felt more sympathy for him than he showed, today he had come close to disliking him. So the girl was going to get married. Well, if the man were right, it would be the best thing in the world for her. It came to him then that that was why maybe Branton had been using a particularly nasty though polite manner. Yes, of course. And he should have had the wit to recognise it at once. Why shouldn’t he be full of bitter regret? Bellmaster—with himself to dot the Vs and cross the t’s—had mucked up his life. The one thing in the world he would have liked to have had was a son or daughter of his own truly to love and cherish. He’d have been a good father, too. Poor Branton, he’d sold himself for money and the promise of preferred promotion. How like Bellmaster to have cheated him over the one promise which had meant the more to him.