The Paying Guests(44)

The thought dismayed her. She turned away from him. And, in doing so, she saw that, over on the terrace, Mrs Playfair and her mother were watching her. Or, rather, they were watching her and Mr Crowther, in a sly but interested way, as if there were something significant about the fact that they were sitting quietly together in the dusky garden; as if to gauge how the two of them were ‘doing’.

The predictability of it made her more dismayed than ever. She let out her breath in a puff of impatience; he heard, raised his eyes, then glanced across at the terrace himself.

‘Ah, yes. I think I was meant to sing for my supper in more ways than one this evening. I can only wish, Miss Wray, that I wasn’t such a poor sort of song-bird for you.’

‘Not in the least,’ she said tightly. ‘You mustn’t think that.’

‘You wouldn’t care to play along? We could take a turn around the garden, or —’

‘No, I’d rather not.’

He looked into her face, his smile fading at last. ‘I’m afraid you’re upset.’

‘Not upset. – Oh, I can’t explain.’

He waited, in a kind enough sort of way; but he didn’t wait very long. He went back to fussing with the cat, and they sat in silence for another few minutes, until the creature, suddenly bored, sprang from his knee like a pale monkey and went chasing after a moth.

Frances rose. ‘Shall we join the ladies?’

Once the four of them had moved indoors she sat saying little, doing her best to return smiles; but it was no good. Her resolutions were peeling from her like bark from a tree. She could feel herself advancing steadily but helplessly into a state of dejection – as steadily and helplessly as if she were being screwed into it. Patty brought a tray of liqueurs. A game of auction bridge was proposed. ‘Emily, you’ll be my partner,’ Mrs Playfair told Frances’s mother, in her high-handed way. ‘We can pit our wits against these youngsters.’

But, ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be up to playing,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve something of a headache. I expect it was the sun, at dinner.’

‘Oh, what a pity!’

The older women were disappointed. One could hardly, after all, play auction bridge with three. So instead the gramophone was opened, and a couple of old-fashioned waltzes were aired. They discussed the day’s news: loans to Germany, society divorces… But with Frances’s rather chilling presence in it the little party quickly began to falter. In the end they were all grateful to Yum-Yum, who returned noisily to Mr Crowther’s knee to butt her head against his fingers, and who at least gave them something to look at.

At twenty to ten Patty was asked to bring the hats. Mr Crowther, obliging to the last, escorted Frances and her mother the short distance to their garden gate.

The two of them went into the house in silence, to find the hall unlighted and everything looking, as it often did after a visit to Mrs Playfair’s, rather dim and small and crowded. The stairs, thought Frances in despair, might never have been polished, the floor never cleaned, though she had been down on her knees that morning, going over the skirting boards with Vim.

She took off her hat, then stood on her tiptoes to put a match to the gas.

Her mother was lingering. ‘How’s your head?’

‘It isn’t too bad.’

‘Will you have an aspirin?’

‘No. I’ll go straight to bed, I think.’

‘Oh, will you? Then it’s hardly worth your doing the light.’

‘The Barbers will want it, later. I suppose they’re out again.’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so… And you’re really going up right now? Won’t you sit with me a minute? You could tell me what you and Mr Crowther were chatting about.’

‘There’s nothing to tell, Mother.’

‘You seemed so deep in conversation. There must be something.’

‘Nothing, I assure you!’

Her mother tutted. ‘Well, you certainly seem in a very odd temper tonight. I can’t think why.’

Frances put away the box of matches. ‘Can’t you?’

They looked at each other across the tiles, the only sound between them the slow pant of the gas. Then her mother’s expression closed.

‘Well, I shall let you get to your bed. I hope your head is better by the morning.’

‘Thank you,’ said Frances, turning away. And by the time she had seen to the stove and taken out the milk-can her mother was in her room with the door shut.

She started up the staircase, hating the sight of it. She drew together the curtains at the turn and wanted to rip them from their rings. She really did have a headache now – or, anyhow, could feel it gathering, tightening, mounting from the muscles at the top of her spine.

Then she climbed the last few stairs, and saw a light in the Barbers’ sitting-room, heard the thump of feet on the boards – and realised with an extra plunge of dismay that the couple were at home after all. Her step slowed, then speeded up. But she was not quite quick enough. Mr Barber emerged on to the shadowy landing at the very moment she did.

He was slipperless and jacketless, dressed in one of his soft-collared shirts, and had two empty tumblers in his hands. ‘Miss Wray! We had the notion you’d be out until late. Everything all right?’

Could he have overheard her exchange with her mother? She didn’t want him to suppose that she was going to bed in a huff. So she forced a smile. ‘Yes, quite all right. We’ve been for dinner at a neighbour’s.’