The Garden Party, and Other Stories
“But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice within
her.
But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn’t be left. Other people, perhaps,
but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never
married, that lovely fascinating girl.
“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?”
“Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay
that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue”—no,
pink—“muslin frock, holding on a big cream”—no, black—“straw hat. But
it’s years ago now.”
“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.”
Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she
saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside
their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat.
Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a
burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart
leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized
him.
“Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly.
“Good evening.”
“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled.
Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed.
Everybody’s asleep.”
“Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her.
“What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s
not a soul about.”
Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something
reared its head.
The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!”
“Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her
seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to
go!
And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said,
gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!”
Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the
grass to the gate. He was there before her.
“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not
frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?”
She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her
everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the
shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.
“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?”
Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.
“No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl.
“Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go
as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!”
The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There
was a little pit of darkness beneath.
“No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl.
For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her,
turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be
silly!”
His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That
bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she
doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate
pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched
her to him.
“Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice.
But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.
“You are vile, vile,” said she.
“Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember.
Nobody answered him.
A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of
darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away,
and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of
a dark dream. All was still.
The Garden-Party
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more
perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm,
the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light
gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up
since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the
dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As
for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses
are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only
flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down
as though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?”
“My dear child, it’s no use asking me. I’m determined to leave
everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me
as an honoured guest.”
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her
hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green
turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the
butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.”
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It’s so
delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she
loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much
better than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden
path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had
big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura
wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was
nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly throw it away. She blushed
and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she
came up to them.
“Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But that sounded
so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little
girl, “Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?”
“That’s right, miss,” said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled
fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and
smiled down at her. “That’s about it.”
His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes
he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others,
they were smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smile seemed to
say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She
mustn’t mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.
“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?”
And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the
bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little
fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.
“I don’t fancy it,” said he. “Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a
thing like a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his easy way, “you
want to put it somewhere where it’ll give you a bang slap in the eye,
if you follow me.”
Laura’s upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite
respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But
she did quite follow him.
“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to
be in one corner.”
“H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another of the workmen. He
was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the
tennis-court. What was he thinking?
“Only a very small band,” said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind
so much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.
“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over there.
That’ll do fine.”
Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they
were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters
of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert
island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in
a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?
They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making
for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a
sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed
up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the
karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that—caring for the
smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a
thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why
couldn’t she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys
she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on
much better with men like these.
It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on
the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to
hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she
didn’t feel them. Not a bit, not an atom.... And now there came the
chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out,
“Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it,
the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow
how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura
took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little
drawing. She felt just like a work-girl.
“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from the
house.
“Coming!” Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps,
across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and
Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.
“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a squiz at
my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.”
“I will,” said she. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. She ran at
Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. “Oh, I do love parties,
don’t you?” gasped Laura.
“Ra-ther,” said Laurie’s warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister
too, and gave her a gentle push. “Dash off to the telephone, old girl.”
The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to
lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch
meal—just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what’s
left over. Yes, isn’t it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly
should. One moment—hold the line. Mother’s calling.” And Laura sat
back. “What, mother? Can’t hear.”
Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that
sweet hat she had on last Sunday.”
“Mother says you’re to wear that _sweet_ hat you had on last Sunday.
Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.”
Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep
breath, stretched and let them fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and the moment
after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the
doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft,
quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the
kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there
came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved
on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the
air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the
tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of
sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too.
Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was
quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.
The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie’s
print skirt on the stairs. A man’s voice murmured; Sadie answered,
careless, “I’m sure I don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs Sheridan.”
“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall.
“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.”
It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray
full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna