The Garden Party, and Other Stories
ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly
sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out again—“father will
never forgive us for this—never!”
VI
Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever
when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his
things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on
Josephine’s list of things to be done. “_Go through father’s things and
settle about them._” But that was a very different matter from saying
after breakfast:
“Well, are you ready, Con?”
“Yes, Jug—when you are.”
“Then I think we’d better get it over.”
It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb
father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to
open the door without knocking even.... Constantia’s eyes were enormous
at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees.
“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia.
But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No,
Jug, that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.”
Josephine was just going to say—what at other times she wouldn’t have
owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last weapon, “But
you’re the tallest,” when they noticed that the kitchen door was open,
and there stood Kate....
“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her
best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate!
It couldn’t be helped. That girl was.... Then the door was shut behind
them, but—but they weren’t in father’s room at all. They might have
suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat
altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to
look. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut;
Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn’t any handle at
all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or the
whiteness—which? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth
hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper
filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost
expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her
nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the
cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.
“I had better pull up a blind,” said Josephine bravely.
“Yes, it might be a good idea,” whispered Constantia.
They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flew
after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as
if trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia.
“Don’t you think—don’t you think we might put it off for another day?”
she whispered.
“Why?” snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that she
knew for certain that Constantia was terrified. “It’s got to be done.
But I do wish you wouldn’t whisper, Con.”
“I didn’t know I was whispering,” whispered Constantia.
“And why do you keep staring at the bed?” said Josephine, raising her
voice almost defiantly. “There’s nothing _on_ the bed.”
“Oh, Jug, don’t say so!” said poor Connie. “At any rate, not so
loudly.”
Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide
swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew
it back again.
“Connie!” she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her back
against the chest of drawers.
“Oh, Jug—what?”
Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that
she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain
to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the
top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his
shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was
watching there, hidden away—just behind the door-handle—ready to
spring.
She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used
to in the old days when she was going to cry.
“I can’t open,” she nearly wailed.
“No, don’t, Jug,” whispered Constantia earnestly. “It’s much better not
to. Don’t let’s open anything. At any rate, not for a long time.”
“But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down.
“But why not be weak for once, Jug?” argued Constantia, whispering
quite fiercely. “If it is weak.” And her pale stare flew from the
locked writing-table—so safe—to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she
began to breathe in a queer, panting away. “Why shouldn’t we be weak
for once in our lives, Jug? It’s quite excusable. Let’s be weak—be
weak, Jug. It’s much nicer to be weak than to be strong.”
And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she’d done
about twice before in their lives: she marched over to the wardrobe,
turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock
and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary
smile that she knew what she’d done—she’d risked deliberately father
being in there among his overcoats.
If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had crashed down on
Constantia, Josephine wouldn’t have been surprised. On the contrary,
she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But
nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the
bigger flakes of cold air fell on Josephine’s shoulders and knees. She
began to shiver.
“Come, Jug,” said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, and
Josephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia had
pushed Benny into the round pond.
VII
But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room.
They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other.
“I don’t feel I can settle to anything,” said Josephine, “until I’ve
had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot
water?”
“I really don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Constantia carefully. She
was quite normal again. “I won’t ring. I’ll go to the kitchen door and
ask her.”
“Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell her, just
two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.”
“She needn’t even put the jug on, need she?” said Constantia, as though
Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there.
“Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour it
direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a
labour-saving indeed.
Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her
small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy
steam, making it flutter from one side to the other.
“Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine.
And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as
though he had.
“He’ll expect us to send him something of father’s, of course. But it’s
so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.”
“You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured Constantia.
“No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s no post. Only
runners.”
Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through
the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his
hands. Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening
like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about
Constantia’s tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very
unpleasant person indeed.... On the veranda, dressed all in white and
wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down,
as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least
interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane
rocker and flicked over the leaves of the _Tatler_.
“I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said Josephine.
Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.
“Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?”
“But of course, I’d disguise it,” said Josephine. “No one would know it
was a watch.” She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a
curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even
thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard
corset-box that she’d kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to
come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no,
it wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it:
_Medium Women’s_ 28. _Extra Firm Busks._ It would be almost too much of
a surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside.
“And of course it isn’t as though it would be going—ticking, I mean,”
said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of
jewellery. “At least,” she added, “it would be very strange if after
all that time it was.”
VIII
Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She
had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn’t it more usual for the only
grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative,
and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all
probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom
wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore
them from year’s end to year’s end. And it would be so nice for her and
Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. “I see you’ve
got on grandfather’s watch, Cyril.” It would be somehow so
satisfactory.
Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of
course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate.
“It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine.
“And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking what
she was saying.
However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties.
Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.
“Now, Cyril, you mustn’t be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con
and I bought them at Buszard’s this morning. We know what a man’s
appetite is. So don’t be ashamed of making a good tea.”
Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her
winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia’s only
respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.
“I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had lunch, you
know.”
“Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried Josephine.
Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll.
“It is, all the same,” said Cyril. “I had to meet a man at Victoria,
and he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch
and to come on here. And he gave me—phew”—Cyril put his hand to his
forehead—“a terrific blow-out,” he said.
It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be
expected to know.
“But you’ll have a meringue, won’t you, Cyril?” said Aunt Josephine.
“These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so
fond of them. We were sure you are, too.”
“I _am_, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you mind if I take
half to begin with?”
“Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.”
“Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con
gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers.
“Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily.
At that they both looked up.
“Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t know a thing like that
about your own father, Cyril?”
“Surely,” said Auntie Con softly.
Cyril tried to laugh it off. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s such a long
time since—” He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for
him.
“Even _so_,” said Josephine.
And Auntie Con looked.
Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a bit, Aunt
Josephine. What am I thinking of?”
He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee.
“Of course,” he said, “it was meringues. How could I have forgotten?