Wild Thyme and Violets and Other Unpublished Works, page 30
Eleanor:
Imagine anyone doing a thing like that, to somebody’s car!
Craig:
He won’t do it again. Unless he’s got rocks in his head.
The conversation dwindles off. Marsh, fascinated, returns, plays back conversations. All kinds of knowledge — in tantalizing fragments. Eleanor and Craig seek a man named Cazzaro who stands in the way of some project involving a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He thinks back to another conversation. “Shopping center”, “Peralta”. Highly interesting …
Another call comes: for Eleanor.
“This is Mr. McGill, Mrs. Binkins.”
“Oh yes.” (guarded voice)
“I’ve had a report from the operative I put on your case. She seems to have had no particular trouble getting the information.”
“I’m glad to hear that!”
“I won’t mention names over the phone. In our talk you mentioned three possibilities, which, if you recall, you labeled A, B and C.”
“Yes. I remember perfectly.”
“Possibility C has proved out. Shortly after midnight he left with the girl, who was almost totally incapacitated.”
A pause. “Definitely?”
“That’s the information the operative received, and according to her, the information was quite explicit.”
“Well, well.”
“If you like, I’ll send you a written report with full details.”
“Yes, please. And send me your bill.”
“Very well, Mrs. Binkins. Thanks for your patronage; any other time I can be of help, let me know.”
Chapter VI
Eleanor turns away from the phone. She’s wearing a gown of pale green silk, a jacket of peacock blue with white brocade, a string of pearls. Her hair is swept up into a rather severe and unusual coiffure, which emphasizes the bones of her face and seems to bring them closer to the surface.
She returns from the hall to the living room, a long high chamber, with massive beams, plaster walls hung with paintings. There are a pair of heavy black iron Spanish chandeliers, four Persian rugs, furniture either antique Early California or Spanish, including a chest from Granada, a pair of iron candelabra from Barcelona, a pair of leather and olive-wood chairs from Cordoba bought by Eleanor herself.
In front of the fire sit BK, Nancy and dinner guests: Ralph and Loel Sampson. Loel is the former Loel Hardesty, classmate and sorority sister of Eleanor’s at Stanford. Ralph Sampson is member of an old California family, whose great-great-grandfather owned San Francisco’s first ship-chandlery, the business expanding into coastal lumber trade, then into lumber and timberlands.
A cart, built of teak and silver to Eleanor’s own specifications, carries various bottles, a battery of glasses, a silver coffee urn, warmed by a candle.
Amy comes quietly in, looks into living room, turns to leave. Eleanor calls her sharply, “Have you had dinner?”
“I had a sandwich downtown.”
“Where you been, chicken?” asks BK.
“A show with Christina.” — lackluster, polite.
Amy goes on up to her room.
“Girl needs a tonic,” says BK.
Eleanor compresses her lips, her voice becomes brittle.
Telephone rings. Nancy answers, sits at the little desk in the hall. It’s her friend Jane Rush, inviting her to a weekend house-party at Lake Tahoe. Nancy dubious. “I’d love to come. Who’ll be there?”
“Oh. Mother and Father, of course. Joyce, Deedee, Bernice, you and I. Richard, Phil, Shaun, Keeler Wilcox, and Chip Boggis. Only I don’t think Chip can come. I’ll have to think of another man … Ross Hannekin, perhaps.”
Nancy demurs. “He’s so utterly tiresome. All he can talk about is the stock market. Actually he’s just a clerk or a board-marker or something equally ridiculous.”
“What about Craig?”
“Craig Maitland? Oh dear. Not Craig. I’d vote for Ross first. Or even Bill Lukens.”
“Not Bill Lukens. He’s some kind of left-winger. At least that’s what Richard says, and Richard is fastidious about things like that. Not that I care personally, but it would be tiresome to spend the weekend arguing about socialized medicine, and you know Richard. Anyway, about Craig. I know what you mean. He is rather carnal.”
“Carnal, ha! He’s plain lecher. We wouldn’t be safe in our beds. Especially if he had a few drinks too many.”
“I agree entirely. Let’s omit Craig. I don’t mind living dangerously, but not under my father’s nose. Would you believe it, he’s becoming an absolute tyrant! You’d think by now he’d relax; after all, I’ll be twenty-one in September and I haven’t disgraced him yet. Are you laughing? At me?”
“Heaven forbid. I’m thinking of my cousin Barbara. She’s arriving Saturday, to spend the summer with us. Craig’s never met her, he’s only seen her picture. But already he’s pawing the ground and snorting madly.”
“Poor girl.”
“Her family is very old Rhode Island. They have a stunning place at Newport. BK stayed there last winter.”
“Why is she coming out here?”
“Just a visit. She was out last year too.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Well, I’ll warn her about Craig and after that she’ll have to fend for herself. I’m sure she’s had practice … Oh my.”
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s arriving Saturday at two. I should be at the airport to meet her. I really mustn’t go to Tahoe.”
“Oh Nancy! Please don’t say no.”
Nancy considers. “I don’t suppose it’ll make that much difference. I’ll tell mother we’ve been planning the weekend for months.”
“It’s true! I have. Really!”
“I don’t think she’ll insist. What time do we leave?”
“Noon Friday. You can drive up with us if you like.”
“It sounds much fun.”
The conversation ends. Nancy returns to living room. She mentions the house-party at Tahoe. Eleanor coldly asks if she’s forgotten Barbara’s arrival.
Nancy says, “Heavens, Mother, I’ll be back the next day.”
“I was counting on you to meet her.”
“Ask Craig to go,” says Nancy maliciously. “He’ll be delighted.”
Next day Eleanor telephones Craig, mentions that Barbara is arriving at San Francisco airport at 2:10 PM Saturday, TWA Flight 58. Nancy can’t meet her, nor can she herself.
Craig gallantly volunteers.
“Do you think you’ll recognize her?” asks Eleanor.
“Certainly. There won’t be two girls like Barbara aboard the flight. If there are, I’ll surround them both.”
“She’s dark, quite pretty and pert, blue eyes, not a large girl. I don’t know where she gets her coloring. Her parents are both blond.”
“I’ll meet her. I’ll give her a real Maitland-type reception, the works. Caviar, champagne, love and kisses. She’ll never forget it.”
Later in day comes a call for Eleanor. “Mrs. Binkins, you probably won’t remember me. I’m —” here the slightest of hesitations “— William Stillwater, a friend of Barbara’s. I’ve been planning to meet her at airport, but I seem to have misplaced the flight and time of arrival.”
Eleanor cool, but polite, gives William Stillwater details. “Someone else, of course, is meeting her. But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Have we met? Are you one of the Hillsborough Stillwaters?”
“They’re second cousins, something of the sort. We met at last year’s Allegro Ball. You were a patroness. I came with the Huysmans.” (“William Stillwater” has only this morning searched back files of the Oakland Tribune’s Society Section.)
“Oh yes. Yes, yes, indeed. I seem to remember. You’re the young man who composes for all the strange new instruments.”
“No, but I know the man you mean. David something or other. Have you seen the Huysmans lately?”
“Not since — oh heavens, I can’t remember when. Last year’s season, certainly. But aren’t they in Europe now?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Out of plain unashamed curiosity, where did you know Barbara? Back east? Or when she was out last summer?”
“Originally out here, but I saw her at a party or two back east. Are you meeting her at the airport tomorrow?”
“No, I’m simply too busy. A friend of the family is going out. I’m sure Barbara won’t be offended.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Well, maybe we’ll meet again before too long.”
“Yes, that would be nice. Do drop by the house, now that Barbara’s with us. You have our address?”
“It’s right here in the telephone book: ‘59 Mowbray Court’.”
After the conversation Eleanor telephones Craig, who grumbles and glowers when he learns of “William Stillwater”. “I’ll go anyway. This guy can say hello to Barbara if he likes, and then take off.”
Eleanor makes no comment. It’s none of her concern; she couldn’t care less who meets Barbara, whom she doesn’t particularly like.
Two hours later she’s called once more to the telephone. A rather uncertain female voice says, “Western Union. Telegram for Mrs. Eleanor Binkins.”
“Speaking.”
“Shall I read it?”
“Please.”
“‘Taking later flight, TWA 111, arriving S.F. airport 4:53 PM. Hope no inconvenience. Love.’ Signed ‘Barbara’.”
Eleanor notes information, relays it to Craig, who laughs in rather crude satisfaction. “This other joker will have a long wait.”
“I could try to get hold of him, perhaps through the Huysmans. But they’re in Europe.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” says Craig. “If Barbara wants him to meet her, she’ll let him know.”
Chapter VII
At 2 o’clock Marsh is waiting by the gate. He has taken great care with his clothes: gray flannel slacks, a herringbone tweed jacket, a dark green and gray striped tie. He feels an excitement he has not felt for years.
The plane comes in, Marsh watches passengers alight. Her? Her? No … Indisputably her! She looks around expectantly. Marsh approaches. She is even more attractive than he had expected: a girl of twenty-three or twenty-four, immaculately groomed, hair long, straight, rich brown, combed sleekly back in a deceptively artless pompadour. Her complexion clear, faintly sun-tanned, with a minimum of make-up. Her features are even; nose small, almost pert, mouth wide and composed, jaw rather delicate. She is slender, almost boyish; she carries herself with a quaint boyish directness. Her clothes are beautiful: a soft gray coat, black collar buttoned to the neck, with black regimental piping down the front.
Marsh approaches. “You’re Barbara Tyburn?”
She gives him a polite smile. “Yes.”
“I’m —” he hesitates “— ah, William Stillwater. A friend of Mrs. Binkins. She had some business she couldn’t get out of, and Nancy is gone for the weekend. So she sent me to pick you up.”
Barbara nods curtly, obviously a trifle annoyed by the offhand reception. “I see. Well, it’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all.”
Marsh picks up her luggage, takes her to his car. She is formally friendly, with the unconscious ease a lifelong background of wealth provides. She’s been sheltered and deferred to and while not precisely spoiled, she obviously intends to have her own way.
They drive out Bayshore Freeway. Marsh asks if she’s had lunch. “Yes,” she says, “on the plane.”
They ride in silence. Marsh decides that he rather dislikes this young woman. She’s too self-contained, self-assured; he can’t warm up to her, he can’t make any start at friendliness. The whole ploy is a fiasco.
Barbara actually has hardly noticed him, except to think that Marsh is a quiet, obviously well-behaved young man, undistinguished except perhaps for a certain austerity, a concentration, an intensity. Actually, she’s irritated by the casual manner in which Eleanor has sent a stranger to meet her. It’s patronizing, condescending, and it bodes not too well for her visit. Oh well, she thinks, this young man — what is his name? — Stillwater isn’t to blame. She looks at him, notices that he is frowning. She notices the gray at his temples — but he’s obviously young. His clothes are quiet — just clothes — which is good enough. In fact, her whole opinion of Marsh shifts faintly. She relaxes back in the seat, smiles at him. “You’re a friend of Nancy’s?”
“I’m more an acquaintance of Mrs. Binkins.”
Barbara frowns again. The implication seems to be that Aunt Eleanor sent to the airport the first man available. “Strange,” she says stiffly, “that she sent you over. If I had known, I could just as easily have taken a cab.”
“It’s no trouble whatever. In fact, I volunteered.”
“Why?” asks Barbara, once more amused.
“Oh — just because.” Marsh smiles too. He speaks, stumbling a trifle; he can’t bring himself to lie directly to this self-possessed young woman. Her eyes are careless, clear, but also merciless. “You don’t remember meeting me before?”
“No.” Carelessly forthright. “Have we met?”
“You’re a student at Radcliffe?”
“No longer. I’m a graduate. Don’t tell me you’re a Harvard man. You don’t look like one.”
“No. I’m not connected with Harvard.”
“I’m utterly sick of the word Harvard, of everything connected with Harvard.”
Marsh says, “I assured your aunt that I’d met you before — now I’m wondering whether I did or not.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. Do you ski?”
“No.”
She grins impishly. “Have you ever been a congressman, or a diplomat, or an economist? I’ve met hundreds.”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. When I was here last year I went to dozens of parties. Perhaps we met then.”
Barbara isn’t really interested. But Marsh is satisfied. He’s established himself, provided a past connection for himself, both with Barbara and the Binkinses.
Marsh appraises her. “Are you married?”
“Heavens no,” says Barbara primly.
“And you’re not engaged. At least I don’t see a ring.”
Barbara smiles. “I guess I just don’t have what it takes. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
Barbara looks away. She’s frowning. Apparently she’s not bored, just thinking. She gives him a slow calculating look. Perhaps she can use this Mr. Stillwater to promote her own ends. Unfair, of course — but she’s already reconciled herself to unfairness. In fact, she’s planning absolute ruthlessness. “Do you go to many of Nancy’s parties?” Her voice is light, artless.
“No.” Marsh is on his guard. “I hardly know her. Or her friends.”
“Hm … I wonder … Would you help me?”
“At what?”
But Barbara is silent. She sighs, shakes her head, rejecting whatever plans she has formed. “No, it wouldn’t work.”
“What wouldn’t work?”
“A rather idiotic idea. Please forget it. I just hope that Nancy doesn’t have a whole set of galas planned. I’m not in the mood.” She says this in a dispassionate voice.
“I see,” says Marsh. “You came out to rest.”
Barbara looks at him suspiciously. “No. I came out to get a job.”
Marsh is surprised. “What kind of job?”
“Something interesting. Not just any job.”
“And what interests you?”
“Oh — rather extraordinary things. I love to refinish old furniture.” She laughs. “Naturally I wouldn’t want to do it professionally. I have an opportunity to conduct a Round-the-World tour, but of course it can be a terrible headache.”
“You must be an experienced globe-trotter.”
“Not really. No more than anyone else. These would all be younger people, not too demanding, but I’m not really interested. My degree is in Political Science and I’d like to try for a job with the State Department.”
“Well — something is sure to turn up,” said Marsh.
“Yes, I think so.”
Marsh drives on in silence, half-amused, half-irritated. The girl has enormous dignity, she is incredibly adept at maintaining the precise interpersonal relationship on which she has decided.
Marsh turns off the road, to the left. “Where are we going?” asks Barbara at once.
“Across to the Coast Highway. No one is at the Binkins’ house, so I thought we’d take the scenic route to Piedmont.”
Barbara says nothing, but she evidently is accustomed to being consulted as to her wishes.
They drive along the Pacific shore; ten-foot breakers roar in, rumble up the beach. Overhead streamers of fog thread across blue sky. At the amusement park Marsh stops, buys two bags of popcorn. Barbara thanks him politely as they sit eating and watching the passersby. Marsh ruefully considers the distance between their two lives. Then he feels a surge of anger: at Barbara and himself, both. He’s through with defeatism, negativity. Any man by dint of sufficient ingenuity, energy and persistence can accomplish anything he has a mind to. So Marsh assures himself.
They cross the bridge. Barbara chats politely, but always impersonally. They approach the Binkins’s house; Marsh parks in the street, and in desperation blurts out a suggestion that they have dinner together in a couple days.
Barbara considers, with a faint smile. “Thank you very much, but I don’t have any idea what plans Aunt Eleanor or Nancy might have made. And I’d really better find out before making any commitments.”
Plausible, but Marsh feels rebuffed. The whole purpose of today’s venture is to secure an entrée to the Binkins’s house and their circle of friends. He says doggedly, “I’ll call you later in the week.”
“Of course,” says Barbara. “That would be better.”
Marsh turns into driveway, parks. He enters house, meets Eleanor, who graciously pretends to recognize him.
BK greets Barbara with warmth, and holds her hand rather longer than necessary. Eleanor shoots him a cold glance, BK becomes more formal.
