A Little Treachery

28

She was not outwardly affected by this event, but there was a change within, unknown to herself. She did not even mention to Emmy that Hungerford had called, imagining Emmy’s incomprehension and her own inability to explain. After all, she herself found this treatment which had been meted out to them indescribable.

At breakfast next morning, other subjects were to the fore. Emmy was pondering seriously over letters from London, and, among these, one from her newspaper friend. They discussed this correspondence a little; Emmy gave family news out of her friend’s letter, and Catherine, pleased with the diversion, questioned her.

‘Yes, it’s from Greg. Greg’s been a real pal to me – but you wouldn’t think much of him, not if you don’t like that style of humour. . . . Oh, Gawd, just as I thought – here’s Greg tells me Mumsie’s old lad looks to be cooling off. The trouble with poor Mumsie is that she’s got so fat. Unfortunately, she isn’t one of the sort of fat artistes who do well out of it. Still, you must have heard her on the air, I reckon, some time, without noticing the name, for she had one or two numbers in the Wally Elfin show only recently. So you must have heard her, some time, singing, “I’m as bad as you”. She’s got ever such a sweet voice!

‘It was Ferdy who introduced me to Greg, worse luck – for that’s the trouble, you see – Ferdy’ll never let me forget it’s through him I’ve made my millions. It was Greg who pushed me in. I should never have got where I am, never, under my own steam – for you don’t nowadays. I couldn’t draw much when I started, only I’d got a natural talent for caricature. Greg’s a good sort, he’s good at handing me ideas. But the trouble with Greg is that he’s so often boozed. And it won’t do in that profession – you’ve got to be on your toes all the while. Time was, as I expect you know, when the boys wrote in whisky – well, it isn’t like that now. Sots needn’t apply. And so I’ve told him. . . . And of course that must have been how he came to let on to Ferdy where I am –’

‘So Ferdy knows where you are, does he? But it seems likely that he would have found out somehow.’

‘That’s true, so he would have. However – Well, I’m damned if I know what to do.’ And she pondered, with a touch of gloom such as she rarely showed.

‘The trouble with Ferdy –’

But it appeared to Catherine that the trouble with Ferdy was not so easily explained as the trouble which seemed to attach to most of Emmy’s friends and relatives. Emmy had an air of drawing a veil. The trouble had a vague character, which seemed slightly ominous.

‘A kind-hearted chap, too, Ferdy is. I remember him, when he was a kid, letting out a whole lot of birds and creatures in a shop under us, and the devil to pay! I was only a little bonnet then, but I’ve never forgotten it. Couldn’t bear to see them boxed up. Can’t, even now. Yes, he’s got a heart, and that’s what I like. He’s been converted once or twice – it makes a difference. Still, you’ve got to scratch up the necessary, haven’t you, now? Don’t get me wrong – Ferdy’s a hard worker, he puts a lot into his business deals, and they’re on the level – he’s smart and the police haven’t got anything to say to him.’

But did honesty reside in not being caught, Catherine wondered? She believed that it inclined to do so among such types as these.

‘However, fact is, all our family’s got temperament, except me. . . . What does that clock say? Well, now, this morning I’ve got to get down to it and no nonsense. Here’s Greg fixed me with a bunch of wonderful ideas.’

The young woman’s habits were purely bohemian; she could work with tense energy and concentration, and then for days on end she would do nothing. And obviously it was only the necessity to earn bread and butter, or else sheer relish in the use of her talent, which would ever move her to work at all. There was no question of orderly industry, no idea of self-discipline. It was the same with the work about the house. She could never be relied on to assist with the daily round, not even in tending Simon. She seemed not to understand the necessity for a certain amount of work every day, and would stand aghast before the idea that a room must be brushed and dusted at regular intervals. She would complain, ‘What’s the good of going out after invisible dust? It gives me the willies to see you creeping about after nothing!’ Catherine, amused, had hitherto gone on with the daily performance of household work at her own pace.

But let there be a heavy job or the overwhelming mess of a surprise calamity, something sensational, and Emmy was in the thick of it. Above all, she liked a good household disaster, which not only gave the energies scope but also provided grounds for sardonic mirth. Burst pipes, phenomenal falls of mortar down the chimneys – she magnified them, she dramatized them; and finally, whose fault was it? But Emmy had no idea of being a good little housewife; and this was a spirit to which Catherine easily succumbed. Her own boredom with domestic work had always been acute, and it was not for herself that she had ever done it. Now, who cared? Then there was no slaving over cookery. Nearly every day they went out to lunch rather than trouble to prepare food, though the expense was out of all proportion with the means of either of them. But a restaurant life was natural to the girl and she obviously preferred it. Besides, Emmy liked her glass. They got their meals at the Unicorn, the principal inn of the town which kept a high-class grill-room where the food was especially good. These were meals such as Catherine had not had for many a year, for nearly always Emmy insisted on ordering and paying, and Catherine allowed this as part of her contribution to household expenses. And how Emmy did it, she never inquired, suspecting that was best.

Such habits had a disintegrating effect on domestic life.

Emmy, having declared that she must work, began to laugh over one of her letters and then went on discoursing about her London friends; and to these details of a foreign world of scoundrelly vitality Catherine listened with a subtle pleasure. It was only when Emmy started to rough out sketches upon the littered table that she rose and cleared away the crockery; and while she was in the kitchen, she heard Simon saying, ‘Who is Ferdy, Emmy? Emmy, is that a letter from those boys of yours? Who is Greg, who is Greg?’ Emmy answered absently and rather sharply. Next it was, ‘Emmy, are you going to be in the garden this morning?’ ‘I haven’t time for you, my lad, today.’ ‘Why haven’t you time for me?’ came from Simon anxiously.

Catherine went out with some crumbs on a platter, and after casting these down into the little clearing she stood for a few minutes to enjoy the sun.

‘There’s Simon getting worked up.’ And she felt concerned.

But suddenly there came a fresh turn of thought, like an abrupt change in the wind; some process in her mind resembled a check and confusion among clouds, and then, like a dart of lightning thus produced, her whole attention gave a savage lunge in the direction of Hungerford. An idea in some such shape as this was the outcome: ‘So you trust me? That is simple indeed!’ Indistinct and very transitory, it was hardly recognized; and to it succeeded a much deadlier feeling, a carelessness and languor, and she thought of the little boy mildly, amiably, but without the least real concern.

She came in to find a stolid, silent child on her hands, Emmy having got down to work and driven him from her. Catherine could not interest him in anything and did not long try.