Coral Glynn (23 page)

*   *   *

Coral sat at her open window looking down into the garden, waiting for it to be time to walk across the park and have dinner with Clement at Durrants.

She had bathed and was wearing her best dress, which was still the navy blue with white polka dots she had worn to visit Walter DeVries. The only difference was she had a navy blue bag now, which was much better with the dress than the black.

A woman entered the next-door garden and emptied rubbish into a bin, then lit a cigarette. She stood there smoking, basking in the early evening light. The rain had stopped, leaving an almost cool freshness behind. Coral watched the smoke from the woman’s cigarette drift up into the lighted air.

Someone knocked on the door and Coral called out, “Come in.”

Madame Paszkowska opened the door. Coral stood.

“Coral,” Madame Paszkowska said, “how pretty you look. What a pretty dress.”

“Thank you,” said Coral.

Madame Paszkowska stood in the doorway, as if uncertain why she was there. “Are you feeling better?” she finally asked.

“Yes,” said Coral. “I am feeling fine now. It is a lovely evening.”

They both looked at the open window. “Yes,” said Madame Paszkowska, “how I love these summer evenings.” She said nothing more, but continued to gaze out of the window at the pale blue sky.

After a moment Coral said, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I am afraid—I think I did do something wrong this afternoon.”

Coral waited for her to continue, and when she did not, Coral said, “What did you do?”

“This afternoon, when you were in the drawing room with your friend, do you remember I said I would bring you tea?”

“Yes,” said Coral. “I remember.”

“Well, I did, but instead of bringing it into the room, as I should have done, I am afraid I stood outside the door and listened to your conversation.”

“Oh,” said Coral.

“I am very sorry,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I know it was a wrong thing to do. And I am not in the habit of, how do you say—eardropping?”

“Eavesdropping,” said Coral.

“Oh.” Madame Paszkowska seemed doubtful, but continued. “And so I learned that your friend—that man—he is your husband. That you are married, no?”

“Yes,” said Coral.

“Of course I am surprised. You have never mentioned to me that you are married.”

“No,” said Coral. “I have not.”

“It is all very confusing, I know. All of our lives. But I learn this about you today, and now I do not know what to do…”

“About what?” asked Coral.

“I know—I cannot help but know—that you and Lazlo have been …
intime.
And I think that perhaps, I could be wrong, but yet I think that you may have some love for Lazlo.”

Madame Paszkowska paused, but Coral did not respond. It was almost as if she had not been listening to what Madame Paszkowska said.

“Oh, Coral!” exclaimed Madame Paszkowska. “I do not know what is right or wrong. I only want to help you, because I have such warm feeling for you, and you seem to be so alone. Is this man today your husband?”

“Yes,” said Coral. “But not really.”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” said Coral. “Not really. We were married to each other before I came to London. But it was an odd marriage.”

“Many marriages are odd,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I myself have had two.”

“Mine was very odd,” said Coral. “It lasted a day. Less than a day.”

“But you will be together again, now that he has found you?”

“I don’t know,” said Coral.

“Is it because of Lazlo that you do not go back to him?”

“No,” said Coral. “It has nothing to do with Lazlo.”

“That is what I worry,” said Madame Paszkowska. “I worry that perhaps you think Lazlo— I do not know what Lazlo has told you, if you know that he is engaged to be married.”

“No,” said Coral. “I did not know.”

“A girl he has met on holiday in Lowestoft. She is a nice girl, from a good French family, he says. Her name is Yvonne Marchand. They will marry in September.”

Coral closed her eyes. She cannot be from a very a very good family if she spends her holiday in Lowestoft, she thought. She opened her eyes and reached out and straightened the painting that hung on the wall, the painting of the two red-breasted robins perched upon the rim of their nest. Then she sat upon her bed. “Why do you tell me this?” she asked Madame Paszkowska. “I don’t think it concerns me.”

“If I am unwelcome, please forgive me,” said Madame Paszkowska. “It was wrong, perhaps, to speak to you of this. But I was not sure, all afternoon, I wonder what I should do, what I should say, or if I should do, say, nothing, and I think it is best to say these things because they may mean something to you, but you must forgive me if I have done the wrong thing.”

“No,” said Coral. “You have been very kind. And I am very happy for Lazlo and Yvonne. And how happy you must be!”

“Lazlo is bad sometimes, but I love him.”

“He was not bad to me,” said Coral. “You must not think that. He was good to me.”

“Oh, Coral … What will you do? He seems such a nice man, your husband. Surely you will go and be with him now. This is no life for you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Coral.

“I mean here, in this room, in this house. Going out every day as you do, taking care of strangers. I do not think that is a good life for you. Do you not want a home, and children?”

“I don’t know,” said Coral. “I don’t know what I want. But I like my life. Here, in this room, in this house. Taking care of strangers.”

“I do not think it is a life for a woman like you. You will finally be like Miss Lingle, with her rabbit.”

“Miss Lingle seems very happy to me,” said Coral. “I could do much worse.”

“Yes, of course, but you could also do much better. Now is your chance for a proper life.”

“A proper life? What is a proper life?”

Madame Paszkowska crossed the room and sat beside Coral on the bed. She reached out and patted Coral’s hair, smoothed it, and held her hand gently against Coral’s head.

“You seem so lost, so unhappy,” said Madame Paszkowska. “What is the problem with this man? He seems to love you, I think. Do you love him?”

Coral said nothing. She did not realise she was crying until Madame Paszkowska wiped the tears from her cheek.

“What did he do, that you run from him? Did he beat you?”

“Oh, no,” said Coral. “No. He was good to me. I always felt safe with him.”

“Then why? Why do you leave him, and come here to London, and be alone?”

“I told you,” said Coral. “It was all a mistake. A muddle. We were both scared, frightened—”

“Frightened? Of what?”

“I can’t explain it all,” said Coral. “It was like a dream, a bad dream, and now it is over. Or I thought it was, until he appeared today.” She stood up and looked out the window.

“It is not over,” said Madame Paszkowska. “It has hardly begun.”

“No,” said Coral. “It is over. Or perhaps it never was.”

“Did you not ever love him?”

“I don’t know,” said Coral.

“I think you did. You must have. Otherwise, why would you wear that dress? Why would you look so beautiful?”

“I don’t,” said Coral. “And this is my only dress.”

“It is not. You have several dresses. I have seen them. None is like this. You always look very pretty, yes, but not like this. So you must feel something if you wear this dress.”

Coral said nothing.

“You said he was good to you. And that you felt safe with him. No?”

“Yes,” said Coral. “But that is not love.”

“Is it not? How do you know? Do you know what love is?”

“No,” said Coral.

“I think you do,” said Madame Paszkowska. She got up and stood in the doorway. She turned and smiled at Coral. “Of course you do,” she said. She left the door open behind her.

Coral looked out the window. The woman had left the garden next door, and the sun had fallen behind some distant buildings.

*   *   *

Clement sat in the lobby of Durrants. The grating noise of mirth flowed out of the dining room. It was far past the expected hour, and there was obviously no point in him sitting there any longer, abandoned, on display, but he could not bear the thought of returning to his room, or the prospect of dining alone. He had engaged a table for two and asked for a chilled bottle of Sancerre to be waiting.

A maid came through the lobby and turned on the lamps: it was getting dark. The porter asked him, for the second time, if he was waiting for a taxi. He shook his head and then got his key and went up to his room. He left the lights turned off and crossed the room to the window, where an artificial brightness from the world outside dully shone.

He sat on the bed. He wanted to get out of the hotel but he had no idea where he could go. He supposed he could try to get a train home—it was still relatively early—but he realised the idea of arriving at Hart House in the small dark hours of the morning was as unbearable as staying where he was.

In fact, he suddenly realised, there was nowhere he could bear to be.

He got up and opened the closet. The rod was too low, and his weight would break it in any case. He wished he had brought his gun with him, but of course he had not. That left his razor.

He turned then and looked at the window, at the night light falling through the net curtain, and listened for a moment to the sounds that rose up from the street. A woman’s laughter—laughter!—and automobiles passing in front of the hotel. He crossed the room and shut the windows and pulled the drapes closed and then it was dark in the bedroom, and almost silent. He removed his jacket and his shoes and socks. He undid his tie and then undressed completely. He turned on the light in the bathroom only long enough to find his razor and balance it on the rim the tub, and then he went back and turned the light off. It was completely dark then and he felt his way across the room to the tub. It was old, deep and long, and he stepped up into it and then lay down along the porcelain, and felt the coolness of it against his naked flesh. It was the right time and the right place. He felt certain about it, and for a moment there was something positive about this surety that confused him, that made him think perhaps he was wrong. But no—that was a trick. He was sure. He lay very still in the dark, letting the feeling of surety well up inside him.

After a moment he heard someone walking along the corridor, towards his door, and he thought: Coral has come; she has changed her mind. He sat up and listened to the steps come closer and then stop outside his door.

While hoisting himself out of he tub, he knocked his razor to the floor. He heard it skitter across the ceramic tiles and stepped upon it while searching for the light. It seemed blindingly bright in the bathroom when he had turned it on, and the knocking on the door sounded extremely loud, as if his nakedness exposed him too vulnerably to the assaulting world.

He stood there for a moment, confused, dazed by the light and the sound and the sharp pain he suddenly felt on the sole of his foot where the razor had cut him, and then he heard the knock again and realised it was not Coral at the door, not Coral at all: the knock was far too brisk and bold to have come from her.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Major Hart?” A young man’s voice: the porter. “I have message for you. A note.”

“I’m in the bath. Slip it beneath the door.”

“Yes, sir,” the porter said, and Clement heard the sound of paper being pushed beneath the door, but the carpet inside the room prevented it from entering.

“It won’t go,” said porter. “The carpet or something is stopping it. Can you open the door, sir?”

Clement realised he did not want the message in the room. “No,” he said. “Read it to me.”

“Sir?”

“The message. Please read it to me.”

“I believe it’s a private message, sir.”

“Of course it is. Just read it.”

He waited but heard nothing. “I can’t hear you,” he said.

“I’m opening the envelope, sir. It says, ‘I am terribly sorry, but I think we both know it is not meant to be. Better to stop now. Coral.’”

After a moment the porter said, “Did you hear, sir? Would you like me to read it again?”

“No,” said Major Hart. “I heard. Thank you.” He felt his foot slip against the floor and looked down to see the blood.

“Will you still be wanting your table, sir?”

“What?”

“The table you reserved in the dining room. Mr. Simpson, the maître d’, wonders will you still be wanting it, sir?”

“No,” said Clement.

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Could you bring me a bandage or something? I’ve cut my foot.”

“A bandage, sir? Are you bleeding?”

“Yes,” said Clement. “I am.”

*   *   *

The following morning, before she left the house, Coral found Madame Paszkowska reading the morning paper in her private sitting room.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Coral!” cried Madame Paszkowska. “Come in. Sit down.”

“No,” said Coral. “I’m late for work. I’ve only come to tell you that I will be leaving Grantley Terrace at the end of the month. I want to give you proper notice.”

Madame Paszkowska smiled at her. “So, you will be joining your husband after all?”

“No,” said Coral.

“No? But why? I thought—”

“I will be staying here in London,” said Coral, “but I must leave Grantley Terrace.”

“Buy why, Coral, why? What has come over you? What has happened?”

“Nothing has happened. Nothing at all. I just don’t feel it is right for me to live here any longer, under the circumstances.”

“There are no circumstances. Do you mean Lazlo? He will not be here again until Christmastime.”

“I will not want to be here then, so it is best for me to leave now. I have thought it all over, and I am sure I am doing the best thing.”

“But you must not leave, Coral, you cannot! Oh, what have I done? I see now I was wrong to speak to you yesterday, it is always wrong to interfere, I should have kept my tongue still in my head. Oh, please, Coral, forget everything I told you. I wanted to help you, but I see now I was wrong.”