The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [109]
Personal letters for Thomas were not many, but to balance Anna's pile back was quite an affair of art. Portia tried to imagine getting out of a taxi to find one's own name written so many times. This should make one's name mean—oh, most decidedly—more.
With a stage groan, Anna said: "Now will you look at those letters!"
She did not, at first, attempt to pick them up: she read one or two messages on the telephone pad, and looked at a florist's gilt box on the chair—there was no room on the laden table for it. She said to Thomas: "Someone has sent me flowers," but he had already gone into the study. So Anna, smiling at Portia, said nicely to her: "One can't attempt to open everything, can one?... How well you're looking: quite brown, almost fat." She looked up the stairs and said: "Well, we certainly are clean. You got back yesterday evening, didn't you?"
"Yes, yesterday."
"And you enjoyed yourself frightfully?"
"Oh, yes, I did, Anna."
"You said so, but we did hope you did. Have you seen Matchett?"
"Oh, yes."
"Yes, you naturally would have: I was forgetting you got back yesterday.... Well, I must look round," said Anna picking up the letters. "How odd I do feel. Will you open those flowers and tell me who they're from?"
"The box looks nice. I expect the flowers are lovely."
"Yes, I'm sure they are. But I wonder who they are from."
Anna took her letters up, and went up to have a bath. Five minutes later, Portia came to tap on the bathroom door. Anna was not yet quite into the bath; she opened the door, showing a strip of herself and letting out a cloud of scented steam. "Oh hullo?" she said. "Well?"
"They are carnations."
"What colour?"
"Sort of quite bright pink."
"Oh God—Who are they from?"
"Major Brutt. He says on the card that they are to welcome you home."
"This would happen," Anna said. "They must have cost him the earth; he probably didn't have lunch and this makes me hysterical. I do wish we had never run into him: we've done nothing but put ideas into his head. You had better take them down and show them to Thomas. Or else give them to Matchett; they might do for her room. I know this is dreadful, but I feel so unreal... Then you might write Major Brutt a note.
Say I have gone to bed. I am sure he would much rather have a note from you. Oh, how was Eddie? I see he rang up."
"Matchett answered."
"Oh! I thought you probably would. Well, Portia, let's have a talk later." Anna shut the door and got into her bath.
Portia took the carnations down to Thomas. "Anna says these are the wrong colour," she said. Thomas was back again in his armchair, as though he had not left it, one foot on a knee. Though only a dimmed-down reflection of afternoon came into the study, he had one hand near his eyes, as though there were a strong glare. He looked without interest at the carnations. "Oh, are they the wrong colour?" he said.
"Anna says they are."
"Who did you say they were from?"
"Major Brutt."
"Oh yes, oh yes. Do you think he's found a job?" He looked more closely at the carnations, which Portia held like an unhappy bride. "There are hundreds of them," he said. "I suppose he has found something. I hope he has: we cannot do anything.... Well, Portia, how are you? Did you really have a good time?—Forgive me sitting like this, but I seem to have got a headache—How did you like Seale?"
"Very much indeed."
"That's excellent: I'm really awfully glad."
"I wrote and said I did, Thomas."
"Anna wondered whether you did really. I should think it was nice. I've never been there, of course."