North Face (17 page)

“Come on. If we’re lucky we might get an egg with it. They gave me two once. The riddle of the universe works out quite differently, after a couple of eggs.”

“G
OOD MORNING,” SAID MISS
Fisher briskly.

“Good morning.” Miss Searle’s voice was so remote that it reminded Miss Fisher, at once, of yesterday’s strained relations. She herself had had, as she said to herself, something better to think about. The Bridgehead encounter had been, of its kind, quite a success; she had arranged to repeat it. On her way downstairs she had looked forward to dropping the kind of hint which would indicate that her time was going to be less at her disposal. But, she thought, it seems we’re not speaking this morning; fancy anyone being so touchy. Passing behind Miss Searle, however, on the way to the steamed haddock, Miss Fisher saw that she was only absorbed in a letter; perhaps there was no ill-feeling after all. One place at the table had been used already; but Miss Fisher was used to that by now, and had decided in any case not to waste any more time on foolishness. A bird in hand was the thing.

Miss Searle, reaching the end of her letter, turned back and ran over the essential part again.

“I was so interested in your mentioning the schoolmaster, because Denis knew his name at once.” The paragraph went on for two pages, and turned back to the middle. “One does see how distressing it must have been for the Headmaster and
very bad indeed
for the boys, but Denis says he thinks it was
too much
covered up. He was there for Speech Day shortly after his demob, and feeling very
remote
from school of course, and said that the wildest rumours were going about, especially among the younger ones. Quite a number were saying that Mr Langton had
shot
this soldier and that the Headmaster and the Camp Commandant had conspired to hush it up! I am sure it would be quite impossible to do anything of the kind; boys do so love sensation, it seems there is another rumour, which
everyone
believes, that his hair went white in a night! Denis himself was quite upset about it all—I think when he was there himself Mr L was rather a
hero
of his, though he is much too grown-up now to be reminded of it! It really is terrible how quickly time …”

“Excuse me, would you mind passing the pepper?”

“So sorry.” Never, thought Miss Searle, a moment’s privacy. One should always open letters in one’s own room; it was impossible to know what might be in them. Nothing was more unpleasant than to be stared at as if people hoped to read the contents of one’s private correspondence reflected in one’s face. She put the letter back in its envelope.

“Too good to be true, isn’t it,” said Miss Fisher, “the way the weather holds?”

“Yes, we’re being very fortunate.” Miss Searle had another letter. She opened it and stared at it with fixed aloofness.

Miss Fisher’s spirits, which had been bouncing on the up-current of the morning sunshine, lost a little of their buoyancy. She had looked forward to the little vignette which, with the right emphases and omissions, she had meant to draw for Miss Searle. In the process of telling, the memory would have grown into the picture; it would have acquired a dash of sophistication, a little colour of romance. Now memory had to manage alone, without the gin and lime which had helped last night. Miss Fisher had a good memory for a face and a voice; hundreds of patients and their relatives were assimilated into it each year. It showed her now a face a little glazed with gin and lime, and a voice, rather maudlin and self-pitiful, making significant generalisations about marriages where all the give and take was on one side.

Miss Searle laid down her second letter (a short note from the Bursar) and reached for the marmalade.

“I hope,” said Miss Fisher, brightening, “I didn’t disturb you last night coming in.”

“No. No, thank you.” Miss Searle considered picking up the note again; but it lay on the table, its six typed lines incautiously displayed. She put it resignedly away.

“I was a bit nervous Mrs K might have locked up and gone to bed, and she’d wonder where I’d got to, not knowing I was getting a lift by car. You know how time flies when people get talking, and it was such a lovely night it seemed wicked really to come in.”

Miss Searle, shut in her room, had found the night swelteringly hot, and had not slept till one. She had longed to get out to the coolness she knew must exist at the edge of the sea; but it would have been ill-advised to go alone, one might be subjected to annoyance if nothing worse. A waft of Miss Fisher’s talcum powder reached her across the table, making her feel quite nauseated.

“Yes,” she said, with unmistakable finality.

Miss Fisher scraped margarine defiantly on to her toast, fighting her own sense of deflation. She hadn’t expected eager curiosity; only some routine opening like, “Oh, you met a friend.” Almost anyone in hospital would have unbent that far. Her memories began to form again, with unwanted clarity.

Miss Searle finished her coffee, after which it was her intention to excuse herself and rise. She wanted to go to her room and read her letters again. She was already rolling her napkin when the door opened.

“Good morning,” said Neil cheerfully to the room in general, and went over to the sideboard for food.

Miss Searle’s table-napkin was in her hand, half-rolled but still out of sight on her knee. Her fingers hovered over it, indecisively. The letter beside her plate seemed to be burning a hole in its envelope. She had taken for granted, when she came down, that as usual the used place at the table was his. The white streak in his hair always looked more startling when newly brushed. Now it was shocking to her, the concrete manifestation, crudely real, of ideas she was only used to receiving when they had been safely sterilised by literature. A strange and painful disturbance prickled in her back. If only she had saved the letter till later! She decided to go at once; but, at the moment of resolve, noticed Miss Fisher’s eye wandering towards her with hopeful calculation. Really, she thought, the woman was a harpy, there was no other word; it would be too inconsiderate to leave a quiet, reserved man exposed all through breakfast to her undiluted vulgarity. Rising, Miss Searle cut herself a small slice of bread.

Mr Langton’s reserve seemed, however, less in evidence than usual. He was positively talkative; and, taking casual charge of the conversation, kept it easily on common ground. Neil himself was not aware of making any particular effort. He had waked with an unanalysed sense of wellbeing, had experienced, for the first time in a long while, not the least discomfort at finding himself in the company of chance people, and was behaving as he might have done in the common-room when he had nothing better to do, blending the inharmonious elements with what (if he had thought about it) he would have felt to be very elementary savoir-faire. As often happens when people experience a radical change of mood, he felt quite naturally himself and unaware of producing a marked sense of contrast in others. Miss Fisher and Miss Searle each accepted the change as a personal tribute; each wondered when the other would become aware of her redundancy. The front door bell rang, but no one paid attention.

It was followed, however, after a few seconds, by the appearance of Mrs Kearsey. She looked distinctly shaken, and seemed to have some difficulty in finding words; directing at Neil, meanwhile, a glance compounded of doubt, reproach, and a determined hoping for the best.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Langton. But there’s someone—asking to speak to you outside.”

Neil got to his feet. “Is it the police?” he asked briskly.

Mrs Kearsey’s assent fell into a silence which was heard even by Neil, who, having got through most of the routine yesterday, had thoughtlessly associated everyone present in his own sense of the commonplace. Gazing at the three faces, he wanted almost uncontrollably to laugh. Confused by this into a vague idea that he was explaining everything, he remarked, “It’s all right, they had me yesterday. It’ll be Miss Shorland they want now. I’ll just run up and warn her.”

They heard his feet taking the stairs in threes, then a tap on a door. “Hullo, it’s only me. They’re here. Would you like—” After that the door must have opened, for his voice dropped, and only a general tone of solicitude could be heard.

Mrs Kearsey broke the silence with a polite nervous laugh. “There are so
many
regulations nowadays, aren’t there? I mean, really, nobody knows
where they
are, in a way. I must say, I do wish it could have been seen to without their coming here. Neighbours are so
silly,
you know.” Catching Miss Fisher’s eye she added with release, “And spiteful, well, you’d hardly believe.”

Miss Fisher said, “Well, I must say,” but the compulsion seemed to evaporate, for she said nothing more. At this point Neil came back into the room; his offer of support had not been taken up. The atmosphere hit him squarely, like a blast of conditioned air in the Tube.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to Mrs Kearsey, “that you’ve been bothered with this. It’s only about a body we found yesterday.” Seeing Mrs Kearsey’s eyes protruding, he added, “Washed up, I mean, on the beach.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Kearsey, settling. Through her little urbanisms, one could suddenly see in her a woman of the coast. “That’s the first since the war. It’s a nasty thing for anyone on a holiday.” Neil felt remorse for his initial carelessness.

“I’m very sorry I didn’t think to warn you, particularly as I’m responsible for their coming here. It shook Miss Shorland up a bit. I asked them to leave her over till she’d had a night’s sleep; she found it first, it was a bit of a jar.” A little awkwardly, but feeling it to be necessary, he added, “I don’t think she’ll want to talk about it very much.”

“Naturally not,” said Miss Searle formally. It was true that he had not looked at her; but she resented being included, even by accident. Her resentment was sudden and sharp, and surprised her by its force.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” said Mrs Kearsey forgivingly, “for some fresh tea. Miss Shorland will be able to do with a cup, after going over it all again, I’m sure.”

Miss Fisher, saying nothing, was remembering the first thing she had seen in hospital which had made her feel ill. Everyone had been too busy to notice. She had gone out into the sluice by herself, sat down on the bedpan-steriliser, put her head between her knees for a minute, and gone back again. No one had missed her but the Sister, who had snapped at her for not being on hand when she was wanted. She had just turned eighteen.

When Mrs Kearsey had left for the kitchen, Neil hovered indeterminately for a minute, trying to think of a casual remark. His last had had, he felt, a touch of proprietorship which in retrospect made him feel foolish. Both the women at the table were looking at him—speculatively, he thought. He felt one of those waves of irritation which sometimes signal repressed shyness in people of adult intelligence. Briefly and pointlessly he said, “Well, I suppose it’ll be in the papers tomorrow,” and went out into the garden. He could see from there when the policeman left.

In the dining-room, there was a short but crucial silence. Neither Miss Fisher nor Miss Searle was fully aware of the processes with which it was occupied. They merely experienced them, and reacted. Miss Fisher, trained to prompt reactions, finished first.

“I’m sure,” she said, “that when I read the papers, it isn’t to look for things like
that.”

A sudden wave of sympathy invaded Miss Searle. She had been hypercritical, she thought. Nurses must lead an extremely trying life, thanklessly giving their best while the doctors (Miss Searle pictured the doctors as exclusively male) stood about with unroughened hands, taking all the credit. It was enough to make any woman bitter and a little hard.

“It seems to be generally accepted among men,” she said, “that women’s interests are either trivial or sensational. It’s a very convenient theory, of course.”

Miss Fisher could, she hoped, take a friendly advance in the spirit in which it was meant. In the manner of one continuing the main thread of the conversation, she replied, “Talk about deep! No one would have guessed they knew each other to speak to, hardly. It just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“It does become a little clearer why the young woman elected to stay on.” Miss Searle was a little surprised to find she had said this but felt no inclination to withdraw it.

“More fish in the sea. Well, she seems to know her stuff all right.”

Though the expression was deplorable, Miss Searle could not find it in her to condemn the sentiments. “Really,” she said, “men are as simple as children in many ways. There seems nothing so obvious that they’re incapable of ignoring it when they wish, and a trained mind appears to make no difference whatever. The type of woman who can persuade them that she is helpless and sensitive and in need of protection … it would be quite comical, if it didn’t so often end in tragedy.”

“It’s a pity,” said Miss Fisher significantly, “his room’s so out of the way. If he’d been down in our corridor the other night, he might know different.”

Miss Searle felt, as she so often did with Miss Fisher, that the safe surface of the conversation had turned to a quicksand from whose depths she shrank. In unthinking haste to shift her ground, she said, “One would think a man used to keeping discipline would be a better judge of character; particularly when he has made one similar mistake already.” It was actually not until Miss Fisher’s being had resolved itself, before her eyes, into an erect point of interrogation, that she remembered she had not recalled a matter of common knowledge. She had always hated anything upsetting to happen at breakfast. Surely Miss Fisher would realise … But Miss Fisher was already saying
“Really?”
and waiting for an answer.

After all, thought Miss Searle, there had been no request for confidence in Madge’s letter; nor had anything been done to place one under obligations in any other quarter.

“I know very little about the circumstances,” she said, “so perhaps it was thoughtless of me to mention it. Most unlike me; I suppose this sudden invasion of police … I simply heard from mutual friends that Mr Langton’s marriage was rather ill-judged and turned out most unfortunately, I gathered.”