Mansfield with Monsters (14 page)

“Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?” said Laura.

“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.”

“Have one each, my dears,” said Cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma won't know.”

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream.

“Let's go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nice men.”

But the back door was blocked by Cook, Sadie, Godber's man, and Hans.

Something had happened.

“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked Cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story.

“What's the matter? What's happened?”

“There's been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.”

“A man killed! Where? How? When?”

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his very nose.

“Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of course, she knew them. “Well, there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a giant weta which was dragging off a dog, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed.”

“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber's man.

“Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber's man with relish. “They had to chase off all number of carrion things. Them wasps as can carry a man's body away if'n three or more catch hold, a centipede the size of an elephant's trunk, and a swarm of crow-sized moskeeters had gathered afore anybody got close to 'im. They were taking the body home as I come up here, what's left anyhow.” And he said to the cook, “He's left a wife and five little ones.”

“Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There she paused and leant against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified, “however are we going to stop everything?”

“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“Stop the garden party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant.”

“But we can't possibly have a garden party with a man dead just outside the front gate.”

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens, and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. The bloated bugs that had so ruined the countryside since the passing of the comet two decades earlier seemed particularly drawn to places of squalor, to the damp and crowded tenements of the poor. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and the swollen critters that lurked in every shadow. Since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through, armed and armoured in case the scuttling things grew bold. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.

“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,” said Laura.

“Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic.” Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. “You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,” she said softly.

“Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I'm going straight up to tell Mother.”

“Do, dear,” cooed Jose.

“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass door-knob.

“Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a colour?” And Mrs Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat.

“Mother, a man's been killed,” began Laura.

“Not in the garden?” interrupted her mother.

“No, no!”

“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it on her knees.

“But listen, Mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful story. “Of course, we can't have our party, can we?” she pleaded. “The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours!”

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

“But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally—and I can't understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes—we should still be having our party, shouldn't we?”

Laura had to say ‘yes' to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.

“Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?” she asked.

“Darling!” Mrs Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her mother, “the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And she held up her hand-mirror.

“But, Mother,” Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turned aside.

This time Mrs Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.

“You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now.”

“I don't understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bed-room. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is Mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the house, talons and mandibles and stingers glinting from every shadow. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan…

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis-court.

“My dear!” trilled Kitty Maitland, “aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf.”

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall.

“Laurie!”

“Hallo!” He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. “My word, Laura! You do look stunning,” said Laurie. “What an absolutely topping hat!”

Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.

Soon after that people began coming in streams, armoured cars and articulated walkers disgorging exquisitely dressed revellers safely within the Sheridans' compound. The band struck up; the hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee and the perimeter patrols redoubled their discreet efforts. Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

“Darling Laura, how well you look!”

“What a becoming hat, child!”

“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking.”

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, “Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special.” She ran to her father and begged him. “Daddy darling, can't the band have something to drink?”

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals closed.

“Never a more delightful garden party…” “The greatest success…” “Quite the most…”

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the porch till it was all over.

“All over, all over, thank heaven,” said Mrs Sheridan. “Round up the others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on giving parties!” And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.

“Have a sandwich, Daddy dear. I wrote the flag.”

“Thanks.” Mr Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. “I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened to-day?” he said.

“My dear,” said Mrs Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.”

“Oh, Mother!” Laura didn't want to be teased about it.

“It was a horrible affair all the same,” said Mr Sheridan. “The chap was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say.”

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of Father…

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas.

“I know,” she said. “Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!” She jumped up. “Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard.”

“But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?” said Laura.

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

“Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—”

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother.

“Take it yourself, darling,” said she. “Run down just as you are. No, wait, take a pistol and your best brass suit. People of that class are so impressed by clockworks.”

“And Hans in the Leviathan, as escort,” said practical Jose.

“And, Laura!”—her mother followed her out of the marquee—“don't on any account—”

“What, mother?”

No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! “Nothing! Run along.”

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. The gentle ticking of the great clockwork engine in the back of her suit was comforting as she stepped out into the road. A big dog ran by like a shadow, its black eyes reflecting in the polished brass of her armour. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, “Yes, it was the most successful party.”

Hans walked ahead of her, a little tuft of hair visible over the bulk of the Leviathan suit. He was almost too wide for the lane as he thundered forward, his heavy footfalls shaking the limbs of the overhanging branches, the array of blades and fire-spouts and snares on each arm swinging lightly as the suit's gyroscopic stabilisers aided his precise little gait. Laura's own suit was an elegant, decorative affair. It complemented her new hat perfectly.

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across a window. A great roach swung down from the eaves of a house and leapt toward an urchin, but Hans dispatched it with a swipe of the Leviathan's hedge-trimmer. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her armour shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer—if only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?