“Let’s have a look.” Cully brought the book over, hissing “Burn it” in her father’s ear as she put it close to the egg, which had now congealed almost to the stage where he might just feel able to put a little in his mouth. He opened the book. There was no inscription.
“Did it come through the post?”
“No. Pushed through the letter box. So Diedre said.”
“Fancy.” Barnaby slipped the book in his pocket. “Tom! What about the bouillabaisse?”
“A delight I fear we shall all have to postpone, my love.” Barnaby got up. “I’m off.”
As he left, he heard his daughter say, “Have you got the phone number of that boy who played Mozart?” and Joyce reply, “Open the door, Cully.”
Joyce bore the tray upstairs, put it down outside the spare room, and knocked gently.
Deidre had slept and slept. Even now, hours after she had been helped to bed after drinking a hot rum and lemon toddy, she was barely conscious. Sometimes she heard a voice, but very distantly, and occasionally chinking and chiming sounds that seemed to be part of a dream. She resisted wakefulness, already faintly aware that it was pregnant with such dismay that reaching it would make her long for oblivion again.
Joyce opened the door and crept in. She had already looked in twice, and found the girl so deeply asleep she had not had the heart to disturb her.
When Tom had brought Deidre home, she had been in a terrible state. Soaking wet and covered in mud, her face scratched and tearstained. Joyce had taken her temperature, and between them they had decided that she was simply distressed and exhausted and that there was no need to call out a doctor. Tom, when paying off the taxi, had discovered the starting point of Deidre’s journey, and Joyce had already rung the hospital before breakfast, hoping to have some cheerful news with which to wake the girl. But they had been very cagey (always a bad sign) and, when she admitted she was not a close relative, simply said he was as well as could be expected.
Now, she crossed to the side of the bed and watched consciousness wipe the look of sleepy confusion from Deidre’s face. Once awake, Deidre sat up immediately and cried, “I must go to the hospital!”
‘‘I’ve rung them. And the gas office. I just said you were a bit off color and wouldn’t be coming in for a couple of days.”
“What did they say? The hospital?”
“He’s doing … reasonably well. You can ring as soon as you’ve had breakfast. It’s nothing too complicated.” Joyce laid the tray across Deidre’s knees. “Just a little bit of toast and some coffee. Oh—and you’re not to worry about your dog. He’s being looked after at the station.”
“Joyce … you’re so kind … you and Tom. I don’t know what I would have done last night … if … if—”
“There, there.” Joyce took Deidre’s hand, thought the hell with being patronizing, and gave her a hug. “We were very glad to have the chance to take care of you.”
“What lovely flowers … everything’s so nice.” Deidre lifted her cup. “And delicious coffee.”
“You’ve Cully to thank for that. She didn’t think the instant was good enough. The nightie, too.”
“Oh.” Deidre’s face darkened. She looked down at her voluminous scarlet flannelly arms. She had forgotten Cully was home. She had known the Barnabys’ daughter since the child was nine years old, and was well aware of Cully’s opinion of the CADS, having heard it thoroughly bruited during her early teens. Now she was acting at Cambridge, no doubt she would be even more scathing. “I don’t think I can manage any toast.”
“Don’t worry—you have only just woken up, after all. But I expect you would like a bath?” Joyce had done no more previously than sponge Deidre’s face and hands while the girl had stood in front of the basin swaying like a zombie.
“Please. … I feel disgusting.”
“I’ve put out some clothes for you. And some warm tights. I’m afraid my shoes’ll be too small. But you could probably squeeze into my wellies.” Joyce got up. “I’ll go and run your bath.”
“Thank you. Oh, Joyce—did they find out after I’d gone—the police, I mean—who had … ?” Joyce shook her head. “I still can’t believe it.” Deidre’s face quivered. “What a terrible night. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”
“I don’t think any of us will,” replied Joyce. “You might like to ring the hospital while you’re waiting for your bath. I’ve left the number by the phone.”
After Joyce had gone, Deidre found her glasses, put them on, and sat on the edge of the bed staring into the dressing-table mirror. Cully’s gown billowed around her like a scarlet parachute. It was the red of wounds and freshly killed meat. Hearing the water start to gush reminded Deidre of the reservoir. She gripped the edge of the bed. In her mind the two images juxtaposed: Esslyn’s throat gaped anew. Blood came—a trickle, a stream, a torrent, pouring into the reservoir, turning the water crimson. Her father fell again from his boat, disappeared, and surfaced, his face shining, incarnadined. He did this over and over, like a mechanical doll. Oh, God, thought Deidre, I’m going to see those two things for the rest of my life. Every time I stop being busy. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I try to sleep. For the rest of my life. Futilely she covered her eyes with her hands.
“Hi.” Deidre jumped up. Cully stood in the doorway, pencil-slim, an eel in blue jeans. She also wore a T-shirt inscribed “Merde! J’ai oublie d’iteindre le gaz!” “You look much nicer than I ever did in that thing, Deidre. Do keep it.”
That’s a dig at my size if ever I heard one, Deidre observed to herself. She replied primly, “No, thank you. I have several pairs of pajamas at home. ” Then she thought, what if Cully was simply trying to be kind? How brusque and ungrateful I must sound.
“Okay.” Cully smiled, unoffended. She had perfect teeth, even and brilliantly white like a film star’s. Deidre had read once that very white teeth were chalky and crumbled easily. It seemed a small price to pay. “I just came to say that I got some super bath oil for my birthday from France. Celandine and Marshmallow—and it’s on the bathroom windowsill. Use lots—it really makes you feel nice.” Cully turned to go, turned back, and hesitated.
“Terrible business, last night. I’m so sorry. About your father, I mean.”
“He’ll be all right,” said Deidre quickly.
“I’m sure he will. I just wanted to say.”
“Thank you.”
“Not sorry about Esslyn, though. He was an outbreak of rabies and no mistake. If I were queen, I’d order dancing in the streets.”
When Cully had gone, Deidre rang the hospital and was told that her father was resting, that he was being seen that afternoon by a specialist and they would prefer her not to visit until the following day. On receiving the assurance that he would be told she had rung and given her love, Deidre made her way to the bathroom rather guiltily relieved that she had a whole day to rest and recover before the stress of a visit.
She measured out a careful thimbleful of Essence de Guimauve et Chelidoine, tipped it in, then stepped into the faintly scented water. Then, as she lay back letting go, floating away, sliding away, vanishing, her mind emptied itself of ghastly memories, and a new idea gradually, timidly drifted to the surface. It was an idea too appalling really to be given credence, yet Deidre, tensing a little with not unpleasurable alarm, braced herself to consider it.
Cully’s intemperate phrases when referring to the previous night’s disaster had shocked Deidre deeply. She had been brought up to believe that you never spoke ill of the dead. As a child, she had assumed that this was because, given half a chance, the dead would come back and savage you. Later she modified this apprehension to include the understanding that a) if you only said nice things about them, they might put in a good word for you when your turn came, and b) it just wasn’t honorable to attack people who couldn’t answer back.