From
behind the tulip tree Constance saw all:
Philip laughing with Sarah, that hint of unqualified energy in both of
them, unwatchfully themselves, rather more unusual in public, in Sarah, but
always there behind the thumb-sucking.
They kissed lightly but definitely.
Sarah's silvery head thrown back, her beautiful mouth and nose distorted
with laughing so much and the kiss.
Philip kissing Sarah was nothing
complicated. Or, at least, you could say
it had been happening for years. More
unexpected - this was Sarah kissing Philip, for she had put out her long thin
arms and pulled his face down to her mouth.
Everyone doing it, kissing Philip, these days, public and private. Philip had not sneezed at this capture, of
course, but it was the laughing and talking that counted; that, and Sarah examining his coat
buttons; the intimacy of it and the way
it carried Sarah out of herself.
Sarah had already walked off still
laughing, swanking, very like Frances, with her bottom wagging, when Constance
saw Camilla watching. Philip,
absentminded once more, had kicked the old deflated football flying. Constance knew, sadly at last, he did not
want girls. Constance hurried to catch
Sarah up, as if Sarah, having suddenly joined in proceedings, had now become
vulnerable.
"That'll give Camilla something to
sulk about," said Sarah pleasantly.
Constance construed that. That
was: one, taking Philip and his sister
seriously as lovers; two, attempting to
admit impediment between them; three,
completely overlooking the position, expectations and possible rights going
back now many, many months, of Frances in the question of Philip Harisonn's
mature embraces; four, being totally
ignorant of how things had proceeded, had seemed to proceed, as between Philip
and Constance; five, underestimating the
new Philip into the bargain. Constance
had a thrilling shock of pure isolation;
one sees not what another sees, even though this one was her sister
Sarah, and she, Constance and all her cohorts, had her by the invulnerable arm.
"Philip's got a new girl-friend, I
think" said Sarah.
For one delirious moment, Constance
thought Sarah must be referring to her.
"Ah! Look who comes. I thought he would." Sarah, standing stock-still, waited.
Dr. Gerald Streeter joined them, a
smooth and substantial man, with such a weary look. Gerald never moved fast if slow would do,
never answered quickly if an answer could be suspended while silence took
place. But it was deceitful of him
because in the matter of a quick answer his thought-processes seemed well above
average, and in the matter of questioning you, he could give you the impression
you had been suddenly seized by a lie-detector.
Constance was wary of Dr. Streeter.
Not old. Extremely well-dressed,
in that quiet way doctors favour.
Straight grey eyes, clean-shape, doctor, friend. At least, Constance had the impression that
he occasionally noticed her.
"Hello," said Sarah, and
sucked her thumb. "Gerald, when are
you going to find that old case for me?
My paints will exactly fit it."
Sarah whined and sounded about ten years old, took Gerald's hand, and
went on sucking her thumb.
Constance was seeing something having
to do with the fact that she herself could greet Gerald Streeter only far more
gravely and, this afternoon, as it happened, meltingly, for she was tired of
being unnoticed and Gerald had looked searchingly at her when she smiled at him.
This time, however, she was
disconcerted with being so melted. She
rushed off through the rose-hedge, round the rose-hedge, and back into the
drawing-room diving between Matthew and Molly on their way out.
She flopped into a puffy chair,
conscious of behaving in a ridiculous manner for her age, and
disappointed. All this rushing about was
not how she felt. She discarded, as
being all too likely to succeed, the idea of going home unnoticed, and
substituted for it the idea of going out and getting thoroughly run over by a
lorry. From where she sat she could see
Philip in the garden having a well-deserved bad time with Frances. They were quarrelling were they? Tom, who now couldn't leave Philip alone, or
perhaps it was Frances in Philip's company he couldn't leave alone, was at that
moment approaching them with his father.
Dull old Matthew. Frances,
recovering her glances from the trees and restraining certain admonitory gestures,
instantly held court. The Evanwoods had
arrived out there, Sarah embraced Mervyn and ignored his father, John Evanwood,
MP., to whom she had not spoken for years.
Constance envied her sisters their self-possession in the presence of
men.
But then, had either of them ever been,
for instance, in the hands of a priest who for years had been feeling the
cockles of their bottom on Wimbledon Common?
That little worrying secret had not yet come out. It might and it might not. What would Frances do in such a
situation? Constance would think up no
circumstance which would find Frances wanting at least a word or gesture
exactly appropriate to that circumstance's place in time, space and world
thought. Frances would have hit him
perhaps? Father Horbark, confessor,
friend, and neighbour? Nothing to
Frances. Minimally, you could say
Frances would know exactly what she, Frances, thought. Constance did not know what she, Constance,
thought. She had tried to be nice to
Father Horbark at the same time as keeping him at arm's length and well out of
the thickets on the Common through which for several years he had insisted on
carrying her. Until one day she simply
couldn't help laughing. Her great legs
sticking out of his old puffing belly, his beard buried in her stomach. Being nice to him was still especially
difficult because on these occasions he was such a bore. On, and on, and on, the same question: ought she to be punished for being such a
naughty girl? On and on. Only to change it, when she would not answer
to: if so, how? Hand, brush, or ruler? Always the same. Why not lightning, fire, or boils? For he was an intelligent and kindly man and
a very interesting theologian despite his sadism. The green and the yellow were always rinsed
out of those afternoons, turning them grey all over with the boredom of all
that thoughtful pain politely suffered.
Indifference without rudeness, very difficult. Just as friendliness without sexual desires
seemed rather difficult this afternoon.
Constance, with resignation, remembered that Father Horbark would want
to take her out for a walk tomorrow afternoon after Sunday-school, and Aunt
Molly would say how nice of course she must go, and extraordinarily, she would
go, politely, unable to disappoint him.
As if she owed him something.
Sarah had disappeared once more. Lucky old Sarah. Constance always missed her when Sarah
followed her luck. One could be quite
sure that Sarah would come out of a Father Horbark encounter smiling. Sarah would never get into it, of
course. Really, she seemed to have the
most complete sense of self-preservation Constance had ever known. Sarah had a self such as nothing in the
world, with the exception perhaps of Gerald Streeter, could qualify against
Sarah's will.
Tom, deprived of a further private
conversation with Philip, or, as it may be, Frances, was on his way in from the
garden. He stopped at the doorway.
"And another thing," he
called to his father and Aunt Molly behind, "you have to bear in mind that
in another five years or so you're going to fall into the hands of a generation
who want something different, who didn't go to the wars at all, and won't go,
and who don't care for all this living in the gallant past... "
Tom's imitation of living in the
gallant past, with that hair and those fat hips and lips wobbling and
swaggering was ludicrous. Constance
burst out laughing. He looked at her
very sternly and winked.
"If you, dear Tom, are an example
of those you refer to, I trust we shall all be dead," Aunt Molly said
coming in as Tom and Philip left the room again. "He's right, of course," she said,
"and one welcomes it. Freshness and
zest."
"But we are not to cramp their
style, are we, by too ready an accommodation?" Laekia followed on. Molly Absecond, who believed in the
subversion of society under cover of manners and the conventions, beamed
appreciatively. Her two little soft
chins, her little beak of a nose and her bright eyes. She's like a sweet shiny little bird today,
Constance thought. It was
reassuring. Constance dozed.
Laekia laughed and shook, and her
bangles shook and tinkled. Constance
woke up. "No, no, no. I insist, you are a nation of worriers,"
Laekia said. "That is my most
useful sense of you.
Conscience-mongers," she added a little more tartly and with
amusement to see them pay attention.
"Two sides to every question.
But rarely three, or seven, or seventeen sides. Just two.
Good and bad, right and wrong, for and against, public and private, life
and death, and never the twain to meet.
And those who do not work at their opinions monopolise one side of every
question just the same. Oh no, excuse me
Geoffrey, pragmatists or not, you British are rarely free to celebrate your
twenty-five experienced selves. You have
crumbs on your chin, Geoffrey."
"Laekia, I shall miss you,"
Molly said.
"East is East and West is West and
never the twain shall meet," chanted Mrs. Penny Evanwood, bending her
young bulk stiffly from the waist to secure a lonely cucumber sandwich from a
low table.
I don't know about that, Constance
thought, sleepy and disgruntled, watching Camilla now on Philip's arm; oh, I don't know.
"The North Korean Army crossed the
parallel last Saturday the twenty-fourth of June," Geoffrey gulped his
whisky ferociously, saying what apparently had to be said, was expected to be
said, pleasant little gathering or no, to Molly Absecond who could not agree
with him. The aggressors, she said were
the South Koreans.
Constance dozed.
Mrs. Sage entered noisily with
refillings of water and a new brew.
Constance opened one eye. How did
Mrs. Sage figure as a British worrier?
She was a worrier, of course. She
was a British worrier of the class who worry about who they can get to do their
worrying for them effectively; as though
Mrs. Sage did not feel herself, somehow, fully-fledged in her rights in the
worrying respect.
Sarah was back softly playing the
piano, beautifully playing the Scarlatti Pastorale, despite Mrs. Penny
Evanwood's weighty presence on the piano, her unsynchronized foot-tapping
work. Sarah paused in what seemed a flawless
phrase, rearranged an emphasis, frowned ...
"Ah! You know, you should take it up
seriously. Oh no, I quite mean what I
say, you should take it up seriously. Oh
no, please, I must say what I think, I think you should take the piano up
seriously, take music up seriously."
Mrs. Evanwood beamed on Sarah, who sat dumbly looking at her. "You're a shy modest child. I know.
And I know how well your teachers think of you, I've been talking to
your Aunt, and you must overcome your reluctance. You play divinely."
"I don't play divinely. I play seriously."
"Naughty child," Penny
Evanwood cooed, fluttering her fingers under Sarah's nose. "You must make an effort. Effort!
I know you young people. You're
all lazy. Like my pretty one,
Shirley. Going in for nursing. If she only took it seriously as she ought,
she could be a doctor."
"This piano is out of tune,"
Sarah said in a straight-eyed way that caused Mrs. Evanwood to place her point
solely on one more flutter of her fingers and a bleat: "Naughty girls. Naughty girls." Sarah excused herself and went back into the
garden.
Geoffrey Harisonn was explaining to
Molly what a typical Hate Week in China was like. Molly Absecond, on behalf, apparently, of the
Chinese was resisting him. Constance
looked at them balefully.
"What's the matter with
you?" Matthew bent down. "Off your food? Fallen in love? I haven't seen a single smile the whole
afternoon." Matthew had just
planted an avuncular rub on Constance's head when Camilla that tall and bronze
young woman, not much older than Frances, came over to her mother bringing,
very subvertly, Gerald Streeter's attention with her. Constance was unmistakably excited and
envious about that. Leaving Camilla to
take on her duties, Laekia came round the table to start leave-taking of her
guests. She asked first for news of
Matthew's Patricia. Constance sat by
their standing figures with her eyes closed.
"Patricia has taken a real fancy
to Ludlow. She's there now. She means to renovate it. I think I shall have to inhibit one or two of
her more ambitious schemes," Matthew laughed, in a way most loving of
Patricia and himself. "It's needed
a woman there for years. I can't tell
you how delighted I am."
Ludlow!
Just the very name made her heart stop beating for a moment. Arden.
Arcadia. It was a loss very hard
to bear and more powerful, for a moment, than the memory of the kisses Philip
had given and forgotten. She put her
hands in her face. Where the hell was
Sarah?