The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(219)

‘Well?’ he said.

‘She’s all right, dear, but it is a split, and I’m afraid complete.’

‘That’s bad!’ said the General, frowning.

Dinny took his lapels in her hands.

‘It’s not her fault. But I wouldn’t ask her any questions, Dad. Let’s take it that she’s just on a visit; and make it as nice for her as we can.’

‘What’s the fellow been doing?’

‘Oh! his nature. I knew there was a streak of cruelty in him.’

‘How d’you mean – knew it, Dinny?’

‘The way he smiled – his lips.’

The General uttered a sound of intense discomfort.

‘Come along!’ he said: ‘Tell me later.’

With Clare he was perhaps rather elaborately genial and open, asking no questions except about the Red Sea and the scenery of Ceylon, his knowledge of which was confined to its spicy offshore scent and a stroll in the Cinnamon Gardens at Colombo. Clare, still emotional from the meeting with her mother, was grateful for his reticence. She escaped rather quickly to her room, where her bags had already been unpacked.

At its dormer window she stood listening to the coorooing of the fantails and the sudden flutter and flip-flap of their wings climbing the air from the yew-hedged garden. The sun, very low, was still shining through an elm tree. There was no wind, and her nerves sucked up repose in that pigeon-haunted stillness, scented so differently from Ceylon. Native air, deliciously sane, fresh and homespun, with a faint tang of burning leaves. She could see the threading blue smoke from where the gardeners had lighted a small bonfire in the orchard. And almost at once she lit a cigarette. The whole of Clare was in that simple action. She could never quite rest and be still, must always move on to that fuller savouring which for such natures ever recedes. A fantail on the gutter of the sloped stone roof watched her with a soft dark little eye, preening itself slightly. Beautifully white it was, and had a pride of body; so too had that small round mulberry tree which had dropped a ring of leaves, with their unders uppermost, spangling the grass. The last of the sunlight was stirring in what yellowish-green foliage was left, so that the tree had an enchanted look. Seventeen months since she had stood at this window and looked down over that mulberry tree at the fields and the rising coverts! Seventeen months of foreign skies and trees, foreign scents and sounds and waters. All new, and rather exciting, tantalizing, unsatisfying. No rest! Certainly none in the white house with the wide verandah she had occupied at Kandy. At first she had enjoyed, then she had wondered if she enjoyed, then she had known she was not enjoying, lastly she had hated it. And now it was all over and she was back! She flipped the ash off her cigarette and stretched herself, and the fantail rose with a fluster.





Chapter Three




DINNY was ‘seeing to’ Aunt Em. It was no mean process. With ordinary people one had question and answer and the thing was over. But with Lady Mont words were not consecutive like that. She stood with a verbena sachet in her hand, sniffing, while Dinny unpacked for her.

‘This is delicious, Dinny. Clare looks rather yellow. It isn’t a baby, is it?’

‘No, dear.’

‘Pity! When we were in Ceylon everyone was havin’ babies. The baby elephants – so enticin’! In this room – we always played a game of feedin’ the Catholic priest with a basket from the roof. Your father used to be on the roof, and I was the priest. There was never anythin’ worth eatin’ in the basket. Your Aunt Wilmet was stationed in a tree to call ‘Cooee’ in case of Protestants.’

‘ “Cooee” was a bit premature, Aunt Em. Australia wasn’t discovered under Elizabeth.’

‘No. Lawrence says the Protestants at that time were devils. So were the Catholics. So were the Mohammedans.’

Dinny winced and veiled her face with a corset belt.

‘Where shall I put these undies?’

‘So long as I see where. Don’t stoop too much! They were all devils then. Animals were treated terribly. Did Clare enjoy Ceylon?’

Dinny stood up with an armful of underthings.

‘Not much.’

‘Why not? Liver?’

‘Auntie, you won’t say anything, except to Uncle Lawrence and Michael, if I tell you? There’s been a split.’

Lady Mont buried her nose in the verbena bag.

‘Oh!’ she said: ‘His mother looked it. D’you believe in “like mother like son”?’

‘Not too much.’

‘I always thought seventeen years’ difference too much, Dinny. Lawrence says people say: “Oh! Jerry Corven!” and then don’t say. So, what was it?’