The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(233)

‘I think I ought to go up, Dad, and find out what’s happening.’

‘I wish to God you would. If it’s at all possible to patch things up, they ought to be.’

Dinny shook her head.

‘I don’t believe it is, and I don’t believe you’d wish it if Clare had told you what she told me.’

The General stared. ‘There it is, you see. In the dark.’

‘Yes, dear, but till she tells you herself I can’t say more.’

‘Then the sooner you go up the better.’

Free from the scent of horse, Melton Mews was somewhat strikingly impregnated with the odour of petrol. This bricked alley had become, indeed, the haunt of cars. To right and to left of her, entering late that afternoon, the doors of garages gaped or confronted her with more or less new paint. A cat or two stole by, and the hinder parts of an overalled chauffeur bending over the carburettor could be seen in one opening; otherwise life was at a discount, and the word ‘mews’ no longer justified by manure.

No. 2 had the peacock-green door of its former proprietress, whom, with so many other luxury traders, the slump had squeezed out of business. Dinny pulled a chased bell-handle, and a faint tinkle sounded, as from some errant sheep. There was a pause, then a spot of light showed for a moment on a level with her face, was obscured, and the door was opened. Clare, in a jade-green overall, said:

‘Come in, my dear. This is the lioness in her den, “the Douglas in her hall!” ’

Dinny entered a small, almost empty room hung with the green Japanese silk of the antique dealer and carpeted with matting. A narrow spiral staircase wormed into it at the far corner, and a subdued light radiated from a single green-paper-shaded bulb hanging in the centre. A brass electric heater diffused no heat.

‘Nothing doing here so far,’ said Clare. ‘Come upstairs.’

Dinny made the tortuous ascent, and stepped into a rather smaller sitting-room. It had two curtained windows looking over the mews, a couch with cushions, a little old bureau, three chairs, six Japanese prints, which Clare had evidently just been hanging, an old Persian rug over the matted floor, an almost empty bookcase, and some photographs of the family standing on it. The walls were distempered a pale grey, and a gas fire was burning.

‘Fleur gave me the prints and the rug, and Aunt Em stumped up the bureau. I took the other things over.’

‘Where do you sleep?’

‘On that couch – quite comfy. I’ve got a little bath-dressing-room next door, with a geyser, and a what-d’ye-call-it, and a cupboard for clothes.’

‘Mother told me to ask what you wanted.’

‘I could do with our old Primus stove, some blankets and a few knives and forks and spoons, and a small tea-set, if there’s one to spare, and any spare books.’

‘Right!’ said Dinny. ‘Now, darling, how are you?’

‘Bodily fine, mentally rather worried. I told you he was over.’

‘Does he know of this place?’

‘Not so far. You and Fleur and Aunt Em – oh! and Tony Croom – are the only people who know of it. My official address is Mount Street. But he’s bound to find out if he wants to.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Yes, and told him I wasn’t coming back; and I’m not, Dinny; that’s flat, to save breath. Have some tea? I can make it in a brown pot.’

‘No, thank you, I had it on the train.’ She was sitting on one of the taken-over chairs, in a bottle-green suit that went beautifully with her beech-leaf-coloured hair.

‘How jolly you look, sitting there !’ said Clare, curling up on the sofa. ‘Gasper?’

Dinny was thinking the same about her sister. Graceful creature, one of those people who couldn’t look ungraceful; with her dark short hair, and dark, alive eyes, and ivory pale face, and not too brightened lips holding the cigarette, she looked – well, ‘desirable’. And, in all the circumstances, the word appeared to Dinny an awkward one. Clare had always been vivid and attractive, but without question marriage had subtly rounded, deepened, and in some sort bedevilled that attraction. She said suddenly:

‘Tony Croom, you said?’

‘He helped me distemper these walls; in fact, he practically did them, while I did the bathroom – these are better.’

Dinny’s eyes took in the walls with apparent interest.

‘Quite neat. Mother and Father are nervous, darling.’

‘They would be.’

‘Naturally, don’t you think?’

Clare’s brow drew down. Dinny suddenly remembered how strenuously they had once debated the question of whether eyebrows should be plucked. Thank heaven! Clare never had yet.