Collected Works of E M Delafield, page 382
Hilary Moon he dismissed at once as being exactly like every other unemployed young man living in London and wearing round, horn-rimmed spectacles. He had certainly never done any hard manual work in his life, and Mr. Bolham surmised that his mental labours had gone no further than an occasional conversation, amongst drinks, with somebody who was in touch with somebody who had to do with the films, and perhaps a faintly fishy transaction or two in motor-cars.
Averting his gaze from the Moons, Mr. Bolham permitted it to seek and find Mrs. Romayne, in order that he might avoid sitting anywhere within reach of her conversation.
She was, as usual, surrounded by men. Her boy, Patrick, was there, looking faintly anxious and unhappy, as always, and her boy’s tutor, Mr. Buckland — on such much franker and happier terms with Mrs. Romayne, conversationally, than Patrick ever seemed to be. Sitting with them were the dark, silent American financier, Muller, and a narrow young man of sallow colouring, at whom Mr. Bolham glanced with acute dislike. The young man was his temporary secretary, Denis Waller, and had only been engaged by Mr. Bolham a month earlier — and then mainly because Mr. Bolham had felt — mistakenly, as he now knew — that it would be too much trouble to interview the many other applicants for the post.
At the next table were Mrs. Morgan and her three children. Mr. Bolham resembled the Moons in disliking the society of children, although for other reasons. Quite simply, they made him feel inferior. Of their mother, he was inclined to think well. She was at once the least smart, and the only distinguished-looking, woman at the Hotel. Moreover, she always took the trouble to talk to her husband at meals.
If it had not been for the three children, Mr. Bolham felt that he might have taken a chair next to Mary Morgan’s and talked to her. But she was listening to the earnest prattle of Olwen and David and Gwennie, and when presently they went down to the plage to bathe, she would probably go with them.
“Mr. Bolham, Mr. Bolham!”
Reluctantly turning round, Mr. Bolham found himself faced — as he had known, from the moment of hearing himself called, that he would be — by Dulcie Courteney. She was the thin, shrill, blonde daughter of the Hotel’s Mr. Courteney, whose duties lay midway between those of a social entertainer and a courier. His horrible child, as Mr. Bolham invariably designated her in his own mind — and sometimes, indeed, in his conversation — was permanently installed in the Hotel, and it was understood that she was always ready to make friends with any English or American children, in order to improve their French, and to perform the like service for the English of any French children. Her command of both languages was undeniable, but Mr. Bolham considered that her accent, in either, was totally lacking in distinction.
The same thing could be said of her appearance. She was prettyish in a thin, green-eyed, fair-haired style, but her teeth, even at sixteen, were brittle-looking and discoloured, her figure under-developed and angular, and she had a habit of grimacing slightly whenever she spoke.
“Mr. Bolham, is your bedroom door locked?”
“Why should my bedroom door be locked?” said Mr. Bolham. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
Dulcie gave a thin shriek of nervous laughter.
“You are funny, Mr. Bolham. I shall die. I suppose it did sound funny, me putting it like that. What I meant was, really, could I possibly pop in there, just for one second, to get something — well, it’s a bathing-cloak really — that’s fallen on to your balcony.”
“Again?”
Dulcie giggled uncertainly.
“It’s not my fault, Mr. Bolham,” she said at last, putting her head on one side.
“I know. It’s the Duvals.”
“It just dropped off their window-ledge, you know.”
“Did madame Duval send you to get it?”
Dulcie nodded.
“I expect she thought you might be a tiny bit cross, as it’s happened so often,” she suggested. Mr. Bolham felt her eyeing him anxiously, to see if this would get a laugh. He maintained, without any difficulty, a brassy irresponsiveness, and Dulcie immediately changed her methods.
“I like to do anything I’m asked, always — my Pops says that’s one of the ways a little girl makes nice friends,” she observed in a sudden falsetto. “And Marcelle — she lets me call her Marcelle, you know — she’s always terribly sweet to me. So naturally, I like to run about and do errands for her, Mr. Bolham.”
“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed doing this one,” said Mr. Bolham sceptically. “I’ll send the towel, or whatever it is, up by the chambermaid.”
“Oh, but Mr. Bolham,” wailed Dulcie, “Marcelle wants it now. She’s going down to bathe. Do let me just run in and get it. I won’t look at anything — truly I won’t.”
“There isn’t anything for you to look at — or not look at. Tell your friend that the next time she throws her clothes down into my balcony I shall complain to the management. No, don’t. Tell her that she ought to send her husband to retrieve them, or come herself — not send you.”
Dulcie stood on one leg, evidently uncertain how to take a remark that had, actually, been prompted by a slight feeling of compassion.
“But I like it, Mr. Bolham,” she said at last, feebly. “I always like to do as I’m asked. Pops says I’m ever such a helpful little girlie now that I’m growing older.”
Mr. Bolham, every frail vestige of compassion destroyed on the instant, walked away on to the terrace.
In his determination to avoid the society of Dulcie, he moved quickly, and rather carelessly, into Mrs. Romayne’s line of vision.
She called to him immediately.
“Come and sit here, Mr. Bolham. We’re just going to order drinks.”
At the sight of his employer, Waller stood up in an uncertain way, bowed, and sat down again with a slightly apologetic smile. He wore shorts and a singlet, and revealed a bony expanse of hairy chest and shoulders burnt to an ochrish brown.
“Of course you know Mr. Muller?” said Mrs. Romayne.
Mr. Bolham exchanged with Mr. Muller the briefest of nods. They had spoken to one another, shortly but quite amicably, about three times already, and Mr. Bolham approved of the great financier because he had never sought to carry the intercourse any further. He did not wonder why Mr. Muller should waste his time listening to Mrs. Romayne, because he knew only too well that people were very often allowed no choice in the matter.
Mrs. Romayne and her son’s tutor, Buckland, were chaffing one another, with shrieks of laughter, and a free exchange of personal remarks.
“I’ve had my hair shampoo’d at the place in the village here,” declared Mrs. Romayne. “Wasn’t it brave of me? Of course I couldn’t have had it properly set, but then I don’t need to. The wave is natural.”
She ran her fingers through the corrugated thatch of lustreless fair hair that fell on either side of her face and hung in unconvincing curls behind her ears.
“The wave’s natural,” she repeated firmly, “but I must say I don’t think they’ve washed it half badly.”
Buckland burst out laughing.
“They sprayed it all over with scent, or something. It’s stinking like a street-walker’s.”
“You would know that, wouldn’t you?” retorted Mrs. Romayne.
Mr. Bolham, to whom the conversation appeared offensive in the extreme, sought to distract his own attention from it, and averted his look from the speakers. It fell instead upon Patrick Romayne.
The white, puzzled dismay on the boy’s face, his pitiful attempts to seem amused, filled Mr. Bolham with a sudden horror. What on earth was going on beneath that surface of immaturity, that young inarticulateness? The mind of Mr. Bolham, at all times distrustful of personal relations, violently protested against any consideration of such a question. He had no wish to become involved with any emotional situation, least of all one that concerned the affairs of Mrs. Romayne, her insufferable young bounder of a tutor, and her sixteen-year-old son.
The waiter arrived with drinks, for which Muller signed the bill.
“Have you seen the new couple? They only arrived yesterday,” Mrs. Romayne said, without troubling to lower her voice.
Muller — habitually a silent man — said “Yeah” and Buckland exclaimed, with his usual familiarity:
“The girl’s marvellous. Quite extraordinarily pretty.”
“Have you succeeded in speaking to her yet?” enquired his employer derisively.
“Not yet, but I’m hoping to, on the rocks or somewhere. They’re going bathing, presently — I heard them say so.”
“If you get off with her, I suppose I must see what I can do with him. He looks as though he might be able to dive.”
“What’s the good of that, when you can’t?”
“He can save my life,” pointed out Mrs. Romayne.
She finished her Martini and stood up. She was tall and well made, astonishingly slim for a woman who was certainly over forty, and with definite good looks, and even charm. She was common, reflected Mr. Bolham, but she at least avoided the supreme commonness of affectation.
“Who’s coming? Mr. Muller?”
“I don’t think so, thanks.” Muller politely rose to his feet. Waller, who had not spoken at all, nervously followed his example, looked round and saw that Buckland had not stirred, and sat down again.
“Coming?” said Mrs. Romayne carelessly. “Hell, I believe I’ve forgotten my bathing-shoes. I must have them, if we’re going to that beastly plage down here. Or shall we get the car and run up to the rocks?”
“Yes,” said Buckland. “I’ll give you another diving lesson.”
“Not sure if I want one.”
“Yes, you do.”
She made a face at him.
“Patrick, d’you want to bring the car round for your mother?” Buckland enquired, still without moving.
The boy looked at his mother.
“He isn’t allowed to drive,” she said, her eyes on her son’s tutor all the time.
“Yes he is, if I say so. Cut along, Patrick.”
“May I, mother?” said Patrick doggedly.
“I suppose so, if Buck says so.”
The boy walked away, acute self-consciousness in every movement of his tall, overgrown figure. The laughter of his mother and the tutor — the pointless, spontaneous laughter of people who are exhilarated by one another’s companionship, rather than amused — rang across the terrace.
“Well — —” said Muller vaguely.
He moved towards the Hotel again.
“Can I fetch your shoes for you, Mrs. Romayne?” the sallow Waller enquired.
“Oh, don’t bother. I mean, why should you?”
“No bother at all,” said Waller eagerly. “A pleasure, I assure you.”
He sped into the Hotel.
“God, anybody would think he came from behind a counter,” ungratefully remarked Mrs. Romayne. “Come on, Buck. What a slack creature you are!”
She pulled the tutor out of his chair, and then stood, still holding his hands, laughing.
“Come down with us, Mr. Bolham.”
“Thank you very much, I’m not going to bathe again just yet.”
From the corner of his eye he saw the Morgan family gather up their bathing gear and prepare to start.
“We could give those kids a lift,” said Mrs. Romayne. “They’ve no car.”
She turned and shouted to the Morgan children.
“D’you want to go to the rocks? We’re going, and you can come along with us. Plenty of room.”
The mother of the children was with them. She came up.
“Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you.”
How strange, thought Mr. Bolham, to hear the accents of a well-bred English woman on the Côte d’Azur — or, for that matter, anywhere at all, in these days.
He looked at Mrs. Morgan. She was tall and slight, with a delicate, intelligent, colourless face, very beautiful deep blue eyes, and fair hair, coiled over her ears in shells. It was now of a neutral tint, but he felt sure that it had once been as golden as that of her children. Although she looked tired, she was not devitalised. Her eyes and mouth were expressive and mobile, and she carried herself well.
When her eyes met those of Mr. Bolham, she smiled frankly. They had already exchanged a good deal of conversation, and Mr. Bolham knew that his more malicious sallies at the expense of their fellow-guests were not unappreciated by Mrs. Morgan.
Mrs. Romayne, in her pale pink pyjamas, and still holding hands with her son’s tutor, looked through, rather than at, the other woman, although with complete amiability, and repeated her offer of driving them all up to the rocks, where there was better bathing to be had than from the plage. David and Gwennie, the two younger children, were already hopping about eagerly.
“Please, mummie, may we?”
“Certainly.”
Olwen, the eldest, said: “We said Dulcie might come and bathe with us this evening.”
“My God,” said Mrs. Romayne. “Well, I suppose one more doesn’t make any difference. Only hurry up, if you want to go and fetch her. Here’s the car.”
The car, an enormous Buick, was coming round the corner from the Hotel garage.
Waller returned with Mrs. Romayne’s shoes. When she thanked him, he replied: “Don’t mention it, please.”
The children climbed into the car, Dulcie effusively and tiresomely grateful, and Buckland said to Patrick Romayne:
“Out you get, my lad, I’m driving.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because we value our lives, even if you don’t,” retorted the tutor smartly, and looked round for approval. Waller, Mrs. Romayne, and Dulcie Courteney all laughed, and the boy at the wheel turned rather white.
“Climb out, Pat,” directed his mother. “Get in at the back. Buck, I’m coming next you.”
She took her place next to the driver.
“Here — you—” her look indicated Denis Waller. “Why don’t you come along too? Heaps of room.”
Waller, looking at Mr. Bolham, protested insincerely.
“If I’m not wanted elsewhere — —”
“Go, by all means,” said Mr. Bolham sourly.
“If you’re sure — but really — If I’m not trespassing on Mrs. Romayne’s kindness ... I could quite well walk — —”
“Get in!” shouted the hearty tutor, Buckland.
At last they were off.
Mary Morgan and Mr. Bolham remained together on the terrace, watching the car, diminishing swiftly, rush down the S-like curves of the long drive.
“Why do you allow your charming children to go anywhere with that vulgar woman and her appendages?” enquired Mr. Bolham, although aware that the question was quite unjustifiable, if judged by the extent of his acquaintance with Mrs. Morgan.
She replied to it, however, readily and without any trace of resentment.
“Partly because I’m sorry for the boy, Patrick. The children say he’s nice. And partly on principle.”
“What principle?”
Mrs. Morgan’s blue eyes rested on him thoughtfully, as though wondering if he were really interested. Mr. Bolham, who was, endeavoured to look as intelligent as he felt.
“If we’re going to discuss principles,” said Mary Morgan at last, “don’t you think we might sit down?”
Mr. Bolham, desiring nothing better than a conversation with her, brought forward two deck-chairs, and they sat down, by mutual consent finding a place in the now diminishing heat of the sun.
“Well — what principle impels you to expose your children to the contamination of a third-rate adventuress?” said Mr. Bolham pleasantly.
“I don’t believe in tying children to their mother’s apron-strings. They’ll have to meet all kinds of people in the end. They can only learn to discriminate by experience.”
“They’re too young.”
“No,” said Mary kindly, but with decision. “I assure you they’re not. I think so many mothers make that mistake. Of course, really, they want to go on believing that the children are babies — not individuals — because they’re afraid of losing them.”
“And how do you get over that — the fear of losing them, I mean?”
“I suppose by facing it. By letting them” — she smiled at him— “associate with third-rate adventuresses. Though really, you know, I do think you’re rather hard on Mrs. Romayne. She’s very good-natured.”
“I wonder if Waller intends to enter into competition with that outrageous tutor?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Yes — that is bad. I’m so sorry for the poor boy, Patrick. I suppose she thinks that he doesn’t notice.”
“Far more likely she never thinks about him at all.”
“He’s a nice boy — terribly pathetic. Olwen has made friends with him, I think.”
“I wonder you let them — However, I’ve said that before.”
“Well,” said Mary Morgan, “I will admit that I mightn’t have sent them all off just now, if I hadn’t known that my husband was already at the rocks. They’ll join up with him.”
“He’s a fine swimmer. Does he like this place? Do you?”
Mrs. Morgan appeared to consider. One of the things he liked about her was that she never seemed to be surprised by anything he asked, and she always gave consideration to her reply.
“Pretty well,” she said at last. “I like the sun, of course, and the swimming, and seeing the children turn brown. I don’t like the Hotel, much, or many of the people in it.”
Her eyes, perhaps unconsciously, wandered to where the new couple, the young Moons, were rising from their table and preparing to go indoors.
“That girl is lovely,” she added irrelevantly.
“No,” said Mr. Bolham. “Prettyish, if you like, and good legs. But a vicious fool. So’s he.”
“How irresponsible you are in your statements,” observed Mrs. Morgan.
Mr. Bolham, who had a not inconsiderable reputation as a savant in his own circles — which were London Library circles — received this in surprised silence.
The young man, Moon, approached them.
“I wonder if I might bother you for a light, sir,” he said, with an accent of nonchalance that completely neutralised his use of the respectful monosyllable. “One hasn’t yet learnt to realise that one isn’t wearing pockets.”
