November there was a cryptic entry, Gosh, what a present!
Then a mysterious one, Answer solicitor’s letter.
Then, at the beginning of December, Can’t get away for holidays. Things here becoming too interesting.
And three weeks later, Good news, Alice is going to come. Can ask her advice.
But a day later she was writing, in agitation, if the wavering scrawl was any indication of her state of mind, D won’t wait.
Then, on the last day of the year, with great firmness, she had made the comment, Tomorrow New Year—will have to straighten things out. It might be fun, but it’s getting a bit dangerous. Perhaps I had better listen to D.
The calendar clasped in her hands, Alice sat back on her heels. The little room with its odour of carnation seemed uncannily still. One might be a goldfish in a green bowl swimming round and round, never arriving anywhere. Which was a good thing, because one didn’t quite care to arrive at any place or any conclusion to one’s startled thoughts.
To reassure herself, Alice got out writing materials and began a letter to Camilla:
‘You untidy little wretch, why do you always leave so many loose ends in your life? Here I am with them flapping all round me. You might think it amusing to go off and leave three men pining for you—I suppose now you have got the fourth (who is he, darling?) you don’t give a snap of your fingers for the three D’s. But I assure you it isn’t all fun for me.
‘Why did you have that irritating habit of referring to them all by their initial in your diary? Now I don’t know where I am because I never know whom you mean. Who is the impetuous one? Who is the impatient one? Why were things getting dangerous? Seriously, you must tell me, because it looks as if your mantle (and a troubled one) has fallen on me, and I shall have to cope with these three indignant swains.
‘Honestly, darling, what made you go off in such a mad rush and leave everything? I am packing your clothes and will send them on to you when you let me know where you are. I have gone through your drawers—just as if you were dead, it’s really a bit grim—but there’s a tin trunk I can’t find the key to. I expect I’ll find it in one of your funny unlikely places.
‘I have adopted your orphan family. The cat is beautiful, but Webster makes me intensely uncomfortable. I keep thinking he is my conscience—or yours! Only you haven’t got one, have you, darling?
‘Much against Dundas’s wish (he seems desperately anxious to burn down the house, and I admit it is a disgrace to a self-respecting school committee), I am staying here until I have been on the glacier and done all the tourist things. I can’t afford to stay at the hotel, anyway. This is my holiday, and I intend to make the most of it in spite of your defection.
‘Where the devil are you? The bathroom stinks of that awful carnation soap you use, and I expect you to walk in any minute. I can’t get over the feeling that you are much closer than we think…’
Now she was just writing her thoughts, overcome by the deep disturbing conviction that this letter would never be posted.
What was in that locked trunk? Suddenly she felt it absolutely imperative to know. The lock was old and rusty. She could probably break it with a poker.
After ten minutes of strenuous effort the lock fell to pieces. As Alice’s hands were on the lid of the trunk she was aware that it had begun to rain again. The mantle of clouds had settled down over the house like Camilla’s mantle of trouble on her own shoulders. The room was almost dark. The rain on the roof brought back her feeling of floating breathlessly under water, cool, dark, green water that had no surface. All the intensity of her apprehension was back. She could scarcely bring herself to raise the lid of the trunk.
That was silly, silly! It would just be full of more of Camilla’s hoarded rubbish. She and Dundas were a good pair. An odour of mothballs came out as Alice’s
Then a mysterious one, Answer solicitor’s letter.
Then, at the beginning of December, Can’t get away for holidays. Things here becoming too interesting.
And three weeks later, Good news, Alice is going to come. Can ask her advice.
But a day later she was writing, in agitation, if the wavering scrawl was any indication of her state of mind, D won’t wait.
Then, on the last day of the year, with great firmness, she had made the comment, Tomorrow New Year—will have to straighten things out. It might be fun, but it’s getting a bit dangerous. Perhaps I had better listen to D.
The calendar clasped in her hands, Alice sat back on her heels. The little room with its odour of carnation seemed uncannily still. One might be a goldfish in a green bowl swimming round and round, never arriving anywhere. Which was a good thing, because one didn’t quite care to arrive at any place or any conclusion to one’s startled thoughts.
To reassure herself, Alice got out writing materials and began a letter to Camilla:
‘You untidy little wretch, why do you always leave so many loose ends in your life? Here I am with them flapping all round me. You might think it amusing to go off and leave three men pining for you—I suppose now you have got the fourth (who is he, darling?) you don’t give a snap of your fingers for the three D’s. But I assure you it isn’t all fun for me.
‘Why did you have that irritating habit of referring to them all by their initial in your diary? Now I don’t know where I am because I never know whom you mean. Who is the impetuous one? Who is the impatient one? Why were things getting dangerous? Seriously, you must tell me, because it looks as if your mantle (and a troubled one) has fallen on me, and I shall have to cope with these three indignant swains.
‘Honestly, darling, what made you go off in such a mad rush and leave everything? I am packing your clothes and will send them on to you when you let me know where you are. I have gone through your drawers—just as if you were dead, it’s really a bit grim—but there’s a tin trunk I can’t find the key to. I expect I’ll find it in one of your funny unlikely places.
‘I have adopted your orphan family. The cat is beautiful, but Webster makes me intensely uncomfortable. I keep thinking he is my conscience—or yours! Only you haven’t got one, have you, darling?
‘Much against Dundas’s wish (he seems desperately anxious to burn down the house, and I admit it is a disgrace to a self-respecting school committee), I am staying here until I have been on the glacier and done all the tourist things. I can’t afford to stay at the hotel, anyway. This is my holiday, and I intend to make the most of it in spite of your defection.
‘Where the devil are you? The bathroom stinks of that awful carnation soap you use, and I expect you to walk in any minute. I can’t get over the feeling that you are much closer than we think…’
Now she was just writing her thoughts, overcome by the deep disturbing conviction that this letter would never be posted.
What was in that locked trunk? Suddenly she felt it absolutely imperative to know. The lock was old and rusty. She could probably break it with a poker.
After ten minutes of strenuous effort the lock fell to pieces. As Alice’s hands were on the lid of the trunk she was aware that it had begun to rain again. The mantle of clouds had settled down over the house like Camilla’s mantle of trouble on her own shoulders. The room was almost dark. The rain on the roof brought back her feeling of floating breathlessly under water, cool, dark, green water that had no surface. All the intensity of her apprehension was back. She could scarcely bring herself to raise the lid of the trunk.
That was silly, silly! It would just be full of more of Camilla’s hoarded rubbish. She and Dundas were a good pair. An odour of mothballs came out as Alice’s
Similar Books
