The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [139]
But Lilian's mother said that Lilian was out with her father: quite certainly, Portia was not with them. "Oh, dear," Lilian's mother said, with a touch of smugness, "I'm so sorry. What a worry for you!" Anna at once hung up.
Then Thomas started, on a sustained note that soon became rather bullying: "You know, Anna, no one but us would let a girl of that age run round London alone." "Oh, shut up, darling," said Anna, "don't be so upper class. At her age, girls are typists." "Well, she is not a typist; she's not likely to learn to be anything, here. Why don't we send Matchett to fetch her, in the afternoons?" "We don't live quite on that scale: Matchett's rather too busy. One thing Portia can learn here is to look after herself." "Yes, in theory all that is excellent. But in the course of learning she might, perhaps, get run over." "Portia takes no chances: she's much too scared of the traffic." "How can you know what she's like when she's alone? Only the other evening, just outside here, I had to pull her back from right under a car." "That was because she suddenly saw me." Anna with a bold and frightened little inflection, said: "Well, do we start to ring up the hospitals?"
"Before that," said Thomas, impervious, "why not ring up Eddie?"
"Because, for one thing, he is never in. Also, why on earth should I?"
"Well, you quite often do. I grant that Eddie's not bright, but he might have some idea." Thomas picked up the glass of sherry St. Quentin had left poured out, and drank it. Then he said: "After all, they are quite thick."
"By all means let's try everything," Anna said, with the perfect smoothness of ice. She dialled Eddie's number, and for some time waited. She had been right: he was out. She hung up again and said: "What a help telephones are I"
"What other friends has she got?"
"I can't really think of any," said Anna frowning. Taking a comb from her bag, she ran the comb through her hair—and this nonchalant action only proclaimed her utter lack of indifference. "She ought to have friends," she said. "But can we do that for her?" Her eye travelled round the room. "If you were not here, St. Quentin, I could telephone you."
"I'm afraid I should not be much help, even if I were not here.... I'm so sorry I can't think of anything to suggest."
"Well, do try. You're a novelist, after all. What do people do? But, after all, Thomas, it isn't eight o'clock yet: it's not really so late."
"Late for her," said Thomas relentlessly. "Late if there's never any place you do go."
"Well, she may have gone to a movie...."
But Thomas, whose voice had become legal—obdurate, tough, tense—bore this down without considering it. "Listen, Anna," he said, "has anything special happened? Had she been upset about anything?"
The sort of blind dropping over the others' faces made it clear that they were not prepared to say. The air immediately tightened, like the air of a court. Thomas cast a second look at St. Quentin, wondering how he came to come in on this. Then, looking back at Anna, he saw that behind her face, with its non-committal half smile and dropped eyelids, Anna clearly believed she was alone. An individual deep .guilty knowledge isolated her and St. Quentin from each other—she did not even see St. Quentin's fishy look; she had no idea he had anything on his mind. This split in the opposite party encouraged Thomas, who just allowed Anna to finish saying: "I didn't see her this morning, as a matter of fact," before, himself, going on saying: "Because, of course, in that case she might just be staying out. It's a thing one's inclined to do."
"Yes, you are," agreed Anna. "But Portia's almost unfairly considerate. However, how can one know what people might do?"
St. Quentin, amiably putting down his glass, put in: "She's quite a mystery to you, then?" Ignoring this, Anna said: "Then, Thomas, you mean she may just be trying it on?"