“How right the great Tolstoy was when he said that ‘Home is Hell.’ If one were to think for a century, one could add nothing to—or subtract nothing from—that devastating definition. Well, well! Let us pass to pleasanter topics. And now I want to know how you discovered that I am here.”
“It’s taken a week to find you. I knew you’d be near the West End, because you always seem to manage that. I know you are always hungry, so I went to cafés and milk bars and asked if they knew a huge man, very well dressed, who talked to everybody, and was always eating.”
“They must have thought you were looking for Goering. However, go on!”
“Yesterday, I went to a sandwich bar near Piccadilly Circus. Tiny place—with a few stools at the counter. I described you to a bald, red-faced men who was cutting sandwiches, then asked if he knew you. He said he did. He also said you owed him five shillings.”
“As I’ve already remarked, it’s pleasant to know one is not forgotten. Well?”
“Then a man on the stool next to mine, suddenly said: ‘You mean a huge bloke—talks no end—mad-keen on food.’ I said I did.”
Mervyn sighed, then echoed:
“A huge bloke—talks no end—mad-keen on food. What meagre terms in which to describe an immortal spirit! However, go on!”
“Then he burst out laughing and said I must be looking for Old Mervyn. I said I was—and that I was Old Mervyn’s daughter. At that, he laughed so much that he nearly fell off his stool.”
Pause.
“Well, by now, I had quite an audience. The red-faced man was listening—so was a rather jolly woman who serves the coffee—and a woman in dungarees, who said she’d often talked to you, and that you were a one.”
“She’s quite wrong there—unfortunately. But why did the lunatic next to you burst out laughing when you told him you were Old Mervyn’s daughter?”
“He said your trouble is that you have too many daughters. Then he looked me over with a somewhat bleary but expert eye and said that you did hand-pick ’em—and that he wished he had half your nerve.”
Mervyn regarded his nails critically, then said slowly:
“This is an incongruous planet. I was probably saying my prayers while my daughter was discussing me with these denizens of the underworld. Still, there it is! Everything will be revealed in its true perspective when the paper shortage is over and the Recording Angel sends his bulky manuscript to the printer.”
“Well,” Drina went on, “I had to convince the man next to me that I was your daughter—so I produced my identity card.”
“My dear child, that really was decidedly bright of you! I don’t know which I admire more: the fact that you had it with you, or the initiative which prompted you to produce it.”
“It’s the only time it’s ever been the slightest use. No! I’ve just remembered! It came in handy when there was a round-up by the police at the Corner House. They were looking for young girls who rob commandos. Anyhow, he studied my identity card till he was satisfied that I am your daughter. He then told me that you were living with Max Arnold, the artist, and gave me this address.”
“What was he like?”
“He said I was not to describe him, because I might have stolen the identity card and, anyway, you might not be best pleased at the arrival of one of the family. He paid for my coffee and sandwiches, then said: ‘You tell Old Mervyn he can keep the fiver he owes me.’ Then he went, rocking with laughter.”
“It’s difficult to retain a remnant of hope in humanity. But, in view of what he said about the fiver, you’d better give me a full description of him. Not now. Later will do. Evidently the man has occasional moments of decency. All the same, it is indicative of the general decay in standards that, although one pays rates and exorbitant income-tax, the authorities cannot protect one’s virgin daughter from the unwelcome attentions of stray lunatics in sandwich bars.”
He switched off some of the lights, made Drina move nearer the fire, then sat down and lit a cigarette.
“And now, Drina, there are one or two other things I want to know. And the first is: Where have you been living for the last three months?”
“With Kitty Tremayne.”
“Really? Such a nice woman! She put me up once for the night and lent me a pair of Alec’s very super pyjamas, which, by the way, I believe I still have. Is Alec still with her? Good! I like Alec. Extraordinary thing that he should have two such revolting brothers. I don’t know which depresses me more—Ernest, or the writhing Ezra. Ernest’s mere presence reduces everything to its lowest common denominator. Still, I think Ezra is worse. He will parade his religious virtues—although, actually, he’s about as Christian as a cobra.”
There was a long silence.
Evidently the time had arrived when even Mervyn realised that Drina would not have made such determined efforts to find him simply in order to chatter about the family and friends. I believe that he had purposely delayed discovering the real reason for her visit, because he recognised that he was impotent to deal with any practical problem which demanded immediate and decisive action. Mervyn had to remain at one remove from actuality—and he knew it.
“It’s rather a long story,” Drina said suddenly. “I haven’t told any of the family, because I couldn’t bear any fuss. But I must tell someone now.”
After a pause, she went on:
“Sounds stupid, but I don’t know where to begin. Six months ago, I met an American officer—John Earl. He was only twenty. We fell in love—instantly. You don’t believe in things like that until they happen to you. We became engaged on my sixteenth birthday.”
Mervyn sighed deeply.
“It really is frightening to discover what’s happening while one is waiting in queues, or trying to snatch a little sleep between the explosions of falling V 2’s. Did you say he was twenty?”
“Yes, and the only child. His mother is a widow, I wrote to her and said I was afraid she’d be very upset and would think it was just infatuation, but we really were very much in love. I asked her to believe that. Then I said that if this news made her very unhappy, we’d break off the engagement and wait till we had known each other longer. John made me send a photograph. And he wrote her a marvellous letter.”
Her lips began to tremble. She waited till she had complete emotional control, then said:
“I can’t tell you what an amazing letter I had from her. I danced for joy. She said that, although John was only twenty, she trusted his judgment and had never had a second’s anxiety about him. Then she said he was all-the-world to her—and always had been—but she’d always known that she’d have to share him one day and, if that day had come—it had come.”
Again, she waited for some moments, but eventually said:
“Then John went to Europe to fight. Whenever I got a letter from him, I cabled his mother to say that he was all right. I wrote too, of course. And she sent me things—food—all sorts of things! I can’t tell you! I didn’t know there were people like her.”
Then, after a pause:
“Three months ago, John got leave—and we became lovers. Then he had to go back. But he was certain he’d get through all right. He was certain.”
She shot to her feet.
“I can’t believe it! Even now, I can’t believe it. He was so young—so eager!”
She stood absolutely still for more than a minute, then sat down, but it was some time before she said:
“We had told his mother that we were lovers—and that we were going to be married on his next leave. And then—then—I had to cable that he had been killed in action.”