The Dangerous Years (11 page)

“Come along,” he said, almost tearfully, “we can't wait any longer.”

This broke the assembly, amid laughter and much brushing away of crumbs and creases from clothes sat in overlong. Napkins were thrown down, chairs pushed in, and people began to move back to the sitting-room.

Mary found herself accompanied still by the minister.

“What has become of the gallant colonel?” he whispered playfully, as they passed through the middle room. “I have not been challenged for at least ten minutes.”

Then they were parted, to join again after the minister had been round the group of adults waiting before the Christmas tree.

“I was foolish to expect anything more enchanting, Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said.

She found this excessive, but was content to let it go, having no experience in dealing with such gallantry.

“You have adopted the manners of the country,” she said, trying to be severe, but feeling that it was impossible to snub a man whose admiration was candid.

“Only because I am gratified to meet a fellow-countrywoman who does England so much credit. I can assure you that it is of no small diplomatic advantage to have such a visitor to Paris.”

Before she could reply, the door burst open and the children poured in, leaping and dancing, wild with anticipation. They were shepherded to front places; or rather, they thrust the elders aside and stationed themselves in a half-circle as close to the heap of parcels as possible, without treading on it. Cries of delight, impatience, competition, “Hurry up! Hurry up, Father Christmas!”

His appearance accounted for the disappearance of Colonel Batten. Mary recognised the trouser-ends beneath the red cloak. A lane was cleared for the bearded demigod, who, after bowing to the assembly, strode forward stiffly to take his place beside the tree. There he made a pretty little speech to the children, then, switching on the
lights of the tree, began the ceremony of distribution of presents. From that moment, paper wrappings flew about the room, to cries of ecstasy, wonder, exhortations to “Look here! And look
here
! Oh, just what I wanted!” and all the rest of the familiar but ever-endearing chorus of childhood delight.

Nor were the adults forgotten, with their token gifts of handkerchiefs, gloves, slippers, cakes of soap, books, boxes of chocolates and cigarettes. Mary found herself with two gifts; the first was from the colonel, which he must have vamped up that day, and at some expense, for it was a black handbag. She was so embarrassed by this, that the second gift, from Dr. Batten, did not instantly command her attention. But after a few moments, she opened it, and found a bottle of scent that puzzled her senses. Then, almost painfully, she realised that it was the same perfume as the doctor had given her on her wedding day a quarter of a century ago. Surely it was impossible, she told herself, that this choice was consciously made? But she realised that the doctor was capable of that. She knew it, and looked across the room at him now, where he stood beside his wife, quietly contemplating the scene, as though withdrawn by half his attention being alert for a call from the outside world; perhaps a professional habit of mind.

Mary lifted the bottle to her nose, and drew in her breath. She saw the doctor watching her, and she knew instantly that the choice of perfume had been made by a man who forgot nothing, and missed nothing, in the matter of human observances, evidences, and values. He gave a little nod of his head, and smiled at her. The gesture said, quite plainly, “Yes, dear lady, and I am still your friend.”

After so many years of forced emotional reserve, to which she had subjected herself under the persuasion of grief, and the sense of responsibility toward her orphaned daughter, Mary felt that this kindness was likely to be
disastrous. It threatened to break down the character which she had built up over the years of widowhood, that public self devoted to good works, and a relinquishing of all self-searching emotions, all intimacies, and certainly all passions.

She tried to keep herself equable now, bowing gravely to the doctor across the crowded room, and the roar of excitement, while the voice of Father Christmas, in concise military tones, pursued its duty.

At last all the gifts were distributed, and the exclamations of surprise and congratulation had subsided. The children settled down, either in the room or scattered around the flat, to play with their new treasures, while the grown-ups collapsed into chairs, grateful for cups of tea after the dining and wining, the heat and vociferation. The guests began to be somewhat more normal, more personal, content to chat, smoke, one or two of the elders even dozing without disguising the fact.

“Where do we go from here?” said Joan, suddenly appearing at her mother's side. Mary was sitting, resting her feet, and wondering if there was any danger of her falling asleep. She had lost the gallant minister, but while Joan was speaking, he reappeared with the doctor, both of them seating themselves with her, and drawing up a chair for Joan. The little group had not had time to open a conversation, however, before the American guest approached. He appeared to have grown larger, perhaps because he was wearing a grotesque paper hat of vivid magenta. Under it his face shone, reflecting the mineral dye, so that his capacious jowls gleamed as though carved in bronze. This metallic effect was heightened by the glint of a gold tooth in his lower jaw.

“This gives me an opportunity, Doctor, to let you know how very, very much I appreciate this Christmas hospitality. I am an American in a strange land …” The minister's monocle flashed a signal of derision …
“… and you know how we feel about this time of year in my country. I call that most considerate, most considerate. If it had not been for my friend the colonel, I might have been sitting in the lounge of the Hôtel Meurice, lost and home-sick. Well, well …” He shook his great head, and drew up a chair, to fill the space which the doctor and the minister had been forced to make for him.

The small circle was increased by the appearance of Colonel Batten, somewhat over-heated by his recent task. He moved a chair forward, and sat himself between Mary and the minister. She was conscious of a slight grimace of amusement on the lips of that urbane person, as he looked at her behind the back of the colonel, who was leaning forward to take a cup of tea.

“I hope that went well,” said the colonel to Mrs. Winterbourne.

“You were all benevolence,” she replied; and to her surprise, she meant it. The hand holding the cup looked good-natured. She studied his person, which was of a piece with this character she had given him. She found herself speaking with some ardour, close to his ear. “I think you must be the kind of uncle that children worship.”

“Do you mean that?” he whispered, seriously. “I'd like to think so too. It would take some of the solitude out of life. One gets rather desperate about that at my time of life.”

“Why, Colonel Batten, you sound most melancholy. I can't believe that …”

“Drop the Colonel, Mrs. Winterbourne, please. It sounds too stiff. I would like to think that we may be less formal than that. Tom Batten's my name … but I beg your pardon. I am going too fast. It's very odd. I don't know why, but I've begun to accept the fact that I know you well: though it is hardly a fact yet, I suppose. I'd like to believe it is, though.”

“So would I, Col … Mr. Batten … what
must
I call you?”

“Not
must
, Mrs. Winterbourne. It is your choice.…”

They fell silent, as the American grew more enthusiastic and drowned all private conversation. He was directing the talk toward his main object.

“There's no doubt that the juniors take first place at this time of year. It did me good to watch them around that Christmas tree. I like to contemplate those young lives, and to wonder what time will make of them. Maybe there is a destiny ahead for more than one of them.…”

“It will lead to the gaol for those two brats of Lady Millicent. They are the plague of the Embassy staff.” The commercial minister had not disclosed to the rest of the group that he knew Aloysius Sturm. He was content to drop a long shot from time to time. The American looked at him, puzzled at first, then realising who this critic must be, he set out to subdue him also by ingratiation.

“Well, sir. I had not expected to meet you in this homely company. That does me good, too. The human side of things, I say. It is always there …”

“You never said a truer word,” said the minister. Mary saw the doctor glance shrewdly from one to the other of the two guests. He said nothing, but sat relaxed, deep in his chair, the cup of tea on his knee perilously balanced. Mr. Sturm continued.

“Naturally, in my occupation, I like to look ahead along the roads that human personality will have to take. Call it predestination, if you like. I would say it was conscious method. Take any talent which a child may show, and I will say that it can be developed by wise and careful handling. That was a grand parable of Our Lord's; a grand parable. The talent wrapped in a napkin. Think of that! Many is the napkin that I have unearthed, and unfolded … to reveal something that has made a mark in the world. I hope to go on with that gracious work.
It makes me feel that my life has a purpose, and …”

“And a profit,” added the minister. The American looked at him gratefully.

“You never said a wiser word, sir. Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treads the corn. Mine is a humble task, Dr. Batten; but it brings a great sense of service into my life; just as your work must. But with you too, the labourer is worthy of his hire.”

“Every time,” said the minister.

“What's biting him?” whispered the colonel to Mary, leaning close to her, so that she caught a pleasant whiff of shaving-soap. “What has he got against this chap?”

“Isn't it the usual attitude of the Civil Servant toward the business man?”

“Maybe; but I wish he'd let him alone.”

The colonel was so earnest that Mary was forced to try to reassure him.

“Surely Mr. Sturm can hold his own? But is he a friend of yours?”

“Well, in a way. I've not known him very long. But he is a character, and a decent one too. The fact is, he wants to hear my nephew play. I have told him about the boy, and that roused his professional curiosity. He is an impresario: goes about the world talent-spotting, and promoting the careers of his finds. So what he has been saying is quite true; very near the bone.”

“That should make the meat sweeter,” she said, teasing him.

“Would you disapprove of that?” he asked.

“Why, would it matter if I did?”

“I begin to realise that it would mean a great deal.”

They looked at each other, and the intimacy was taken a step nearer. Mary again felt that touch of recklessness in the face of changing and breaking circumstances. Life was bringing surprises. She closed her eyes for a moment, as one does when spring sunshine caresses one's face.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sturm was closing on his quarry. Addressing himself to the doctor, he said, “I'd take it as a privilege, Dr. Batten, if I might hear your little son play. My friend the colonel has told me of his gifts. It would be good to know if he is really a musician. Then we might discuss his future.”

“His future is safely in hand, Mr. Sturm,” said the doctor quietly, but dryly.

Further talk was stopped by a round game, proposed by the young ladies from the Embassy, two of whom were professional organisers. The group was broken up by a demand for chairs, which had to be set along the centre of the room for a game of musical chairs. The company took their places, and the children were dispersed among the grown-ups, so that an adult here and there was aware of clasping a miniature, and over-warm hand, taut with nervous excitement.

“I'll play! I'll play!” cried little Adrian: and he rushed to the piano, opened the lid, and clambered on to the stool.

“Is that the boy?” whispered Mr. Sturm, hungrily, to Mrs. Winterbourne, who stood next him in the human chain. She felt his hand tighten as he turned to look over his shoulder at the child on the piano-stool. Her other hand was in the colonel's, and she gave an involuntary squeeze, which made him look at her secretly. She had showed that she was willing to share any conspiracy with him.

Adrian began to play ‘If all the world were paper, and all the sea were ink', and the game began. So it proceeded, without incident, the players one by one dropping out as Adrian broke off and the scramble for chairs followed at each pause. At last only two were left, Joan and Mr. Sturm. Adrian's delight at seeing this was noticed by everybody, for he shouted across the piano, while playing with exaggerated rhythm, marking the beat,
as he thought, to Joan's advantage, trying through the music to tell her when to plunge for the last chair. He was successful, and Joan won the game.

Before the guests dissolved their attention, to break into separate conversation and proposals for a new game, Adrian cried aloud, “Joan's won! Joan's won! And here she is, walking home!”

He played the tune loudly, then began to improvise a variation. Silence fell over the company. Even the children stood listening, the two small ruffians from the Embassy tiptoeing to their handsome mother, subdued by something that was, perhaps, a little too much for them; a little frightening.

Mary stood with her hand still in the colonel's. She was watching Aloysius Sturm, who glared at the boy, his eyes protruding, his face covered in sweat. The doctor looked annoyed, but grew calmer as the music went on, winding its way through the strange imagination of this infant, clear as a hillside brook, and as precisely banked and bedded. It glittered, it paused and rushed, it changed pebbles to agate and chrysoprase, and weeds to strands of coral.

The little boy leaned closer to the keyboard, working his body, or having it worked, under a compulsion that drained the colour out of his cheeks and the light out of his eyes. The expression on his face was almost cretinous; or rather the lack of expression. His mouth moved, the lips twisting as though trying involuntarily to shape the notes that poured out. Now the boy was adapting the theme to a loose passacaglia, sending it tramping along like a crowd moving towards a public spectacle, louder and louder, more and more feet; the crowd grew, it became touched with mass hysteria; it was dangerous. Suddenly the boy broke the procession by three strong chords. Then he lifted his hands, looked at them, and woke from his trance. His mouth worked convulsively, he
turned and stared at the roomful of people. Then he spotted the two boys with their mother, and made a dive for them. They instantly responded, with a rough and tumble that broke the general tension, and the Christmas spirit surged back again.