The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [46]
"It's a lot more cheerful than the conversations in my head. In those, reproaches are being showered on me. I don't get on at all well with myself—But I thought you said you talked to Matchett at nights?"
"Yes—but she's not in London, she's in the house. And lately, she's been more cold with me."
Eddie's face darkened at once. "Because of me, I suppose?"
Portia hesitated. "She never much likes my friends."
Annoyed by her fencing, he said: "You haven't got any friends."
"There's Lilian."
He scowled this aside. "No, the trouble with her is, she's a jealous old cow. And a snob, like all servants. You've been too nice to her."
"She was so nice to my father."
"I'm sorry, darling—But listen: for God's sake never talk about me. Never to anyone."
"How could I, Eddie? I never possibly would."
"I could kill people when I think what they would think."
"Oh Eddie, mind—you've splashed tea on my diary! Matchett only knows I know you because she came on your letter."
"You must not leave those about!"
"I didn't: she found it where it was put."
"Where?"
"Under my pillow."
"Darling!" said Eddie, melting for half a moment.
"I was there all the time, and she didn't do more than hold it. All she knows is, I've had a letter from you."
"But she knows where it was."
"I'm sure she would never tell. She likes knowing things they don't, about me."
"I daresay you're right: she's got a mouth like a trap. And I've seen her looking at Anna. She'll keep this to use in her own way. Oh, do beware of old women—you've no notion how they batten on things. Lock everything up; hide everything! Don't bat an eyelid, ever."
"As if this was a plot?"
"We are a plot. Keep plotting the whole time."
She looked anxious and said: "But then, shall you and I have any time left?"
"Left for what, do you mean?"
"I mean, for ourselves."
He swept this aside and said: "Plot—It's a revolution: it's our life. The whole pack are against us. So hide, hide everything."
"Why?"
"You've no idea what people are like."
Her mind went back. "Major Brutt noticed, I think."
"Idealistic old wart-hog! And Thomas caught us—I told you we should never have gone in." "But you did say you wanted my diary." "Well, we were mad. You only wait till Anna has had a word with Brutt. Shall I show you the talk I and Anna will have then?" Eddie posed himself, leaning sideways on one elbow with Anna's rather heavy nonchalant grace. He drew his fingers idly across his forehead, putting back an imaginary wave of hair. Seeming to let the words drop with a charming reluctance, he began: " 'Now Eddie, you mustn't be cross with me. This bores me just as much as it bores you. But I feel—' "
Portia cast an anxious look round the tea-room. "Oh, ought you to imitate Anna here... ?"
"I may not feel in the mood to do it again. As a rule, the thought of Anna makes me much too angry. I should like you to hear the things she would say to me if she got this unparalleled opening.... She would say, to remember you're quite a child. She would imply she wondered what I could see in you, and imply that of course I must be up to something, and that she only just wondered what it was. She would say that of course I could count on her not to say a word to you about what I am really like. She would say that of course she quite realised that she and Thomas were dull compared to me, because I was a genius, too superior to do any work that she did not come and offer me on a plate. She would say, of course, people who pay their bills are dull. Then she would say she quite saw it must be a strain on me, having to live up to my reputation, and that she saw I must have what stimulus I could get. Last of all, she would say, 'And, of course, she is Thomas's sister.'"
"Well, I don't see the point of any of that."
"No, you wouldn't, darling. But I would. Anna'd be on the sofa; I should sit screwed round on one of her bloody little yellow chairs. When I tried to get up she would say: 'You do make me so tired.' She'd smoke. Like this"—Eddie opened his cigarette case, raked the contents over languidly with his finger-tips, his head on one side, as though playing the harp, selected one cigarette, looked at it cryptically, fastidiously lit it, and once more shook back an imaginary lock of hair. "She would say," he said, " 'You'd probably better go now