Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

“No, I haven’t.” She said it without any particular expression, just announced it.

He looked his surprise. She met his glance calmly. He said nothing for a moment, then, with an attempt at a lightness he did not feel, he ventured: “I can’t understand that. In fact, I can’t understand you at all, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She showed none of the usual feminine pleasure at being hard to understand, inscrutable, unfathomable, mysterious, older-than-the-rocks-among-which-she-sits; no Mona Lisa reaction at all. She merely accepted his lack of understanding, then coolly dismissed it with “Go on.”

“Go on? With what?”

“About your house and what you’re going to do.”

“Oh-that! Well, there really isn’t a lot more to say, unless you want some technical details-and I don’t suppose you do. But, believe me-” and now he lit up again “-I’m going to have some fun with it in a quiet way. Three years and-”

But she cut him short, though not rudely. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” And she eyed him strangely.

He found this embarrassing. Was he happy? He had never thought much about it. “Well-I think I’ve been pretty lucky, really. I’ve a job I like, and I’m not doing too badly at it. I have”-he caricatured it-“me ’ealth an’ strength, y’know. I’ve some good friends-”

“No,” she cried sharply, “can’t you see it’s not really like that at all?”

He stared at the surprising girl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she went on, harshly and with a vehemence he had never expected, “it just isn’t like that. You’ve never looked at things properly. You’re talking like a child. This job of yours-what does it amount to? How long are you going to keep your health and strength, as you call them? How do you know these people are really good friends? Have you tried them out? Have you tried anything out yet? You know you haven’t. You’re just talking a lot of pipe-dreams, that’s all. You don’t know yet-you’ve never tried even to think-what life’s really like-”

“Here, wait a minute,” he stammered, beginning to recover from this astonishing outburst and onslaught. “How old are you?”

“Oh-what does that matter?” she returned impatiently. “Don’t tell me I’m not as old as you. I know I’m not, though I’ll bet I’m only four years younger. But that’s nothing to do with it.”

“What has, then?”

“Oh!-” then she checked herself, and suddenly pulled her wrap over her golden shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Reluctantly he stood up. “It’s quite early, y’know.”

She hesitated a moment. “I know it. But I’d like some air. If you like, I’ll drive you to the top where we can see something.”

That was very different. Happily he paid the bill, which was unreasonable but not completely monstrous, and then joined her in the car, which she was driving herself to-night. This was certainly a very odd girl. He gave her a glance or two as they moved off, saw she was now sunk inside herself, not wanting to talk, so he did not break the silence. She drove at a frightful speed up the steeply curving road, but there was nothing about her to suggest that she was aware of the fact. As the night swirled about them, and lights flashed and then fled out of sight, and destruction seemed to wait round every corner, he felt very uneasy. This she sensed, without so much as a look at him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, with a touch of scorn. “I can drive. You won’t be killed.”

“Thanks very much,” he returned tartly.

“Sore?”

“Sore? No, I ache a bit after this afternoon-”

She laughed, it seemed for the first time. “I meant, sore at me. Mad. Angry.”

“Oh-no, not at all.” But even to himself he sounded rather stiff. And a bit pompous. Very English, no doubt.

She said nothing more until she had brought him, by a series of heart-shaking miracles, to the high top road, along which they roared until at last they arrived at a place that showed them miles of the Riviera coastline glittering below. It was a clear but moonless night, rather cold, and below the immense darkness in which they now came to a halt the promenades and casinos and hotels far below were picked out in twinkling light. The scene had a certain hard beauty typical of the region, like that of some handsome woman of the world wearing all her diamonds. They got out, and looked down at it all, silently, for some moments.

“Like Southern California,” Andrea announced at last, “only not so good.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“And don’t want to go, eh?”

“Yes, I’d like to. As a matter of fact, there’s a chance-just a faint chance-I might. One of our clients-he’s one of these film magnates who came to England, and now he’s in Hollywood, but he’s coming to England again-and wants to build a house near the English studio-and he’s very impatient, wants to discuss plans and all that-so one of us might have to go-don’t suppose I’ll nab it though, no such luck.” As she made no reply, he felt compelled to go rambling on. “Don’t much care for this part of the world, though. Too faked and dolled up. No real atmosphere. Not real at all. Like most of the people who come here-they’re not real either. I only came for the tennis.”

“Well,” she said, softly, slowly, “you’ve had that. Even if your partner wasn’t so hot.”

“My partner,” he replied firmly, “was good, very good. Also, my partner, besides being shatteringly handsome, is a very puzzling, mysterious young woman. Nobody seems to know anything about her. Some people say Baker isn’t her real name. I have a feeling myself it isn’t, though I don’t know why.” He turned to look at her in the darkness, and could just see her face, mysteriously illuminated by the distant lights, a dim enchantment of a face. She did not return his look.

“If you must know,” she replied, “it isn’t.”

“I hope Andrea’s all right. I like Andrea.”

“Yes.”

“And the other?”

“What does that matter?” She sounded impatient.

He hesitated a moment, then replied quietly: “It matters rather a lot, I think, to me.” She did not reply but made an impatient little sound and a restless movement or two. These did not deter him. He moved closer, so that their shoulders were touching. “You see,” he began, “I seem to have done a very silly thing this week. I seem to have spent most of the week, when we weren’t playing together, thinking about you-”

“Oh, don’t start that,” she cried, and moved sharply away from him. “Don’t think because I haven’t been around all the time, I haven’t had plenty of that stuff handed to me, specially on dark nights. If you thought I brought you here for that, you’ve got me all wrong.” She stared away from him.

He felt as if she had hit him in the face. “I can’t walk back to my hotel in thin dress shoes,” he explained carefully, “so would you mind driving me back?”

She turned without a word, and he followed her into the car. Their descent was even more terrifying than the climb had been, and the girl appeared to care little if she should kill the pair of them. But this time he did not show his uneasiness. He sat there rigidly, ready to make a polite reply to any remark she might make. But she made none. It was a most unpleasant half-hour.

Within sight of the hotel, she was compelled to slow down, and finally she stopped altogether, close to the entrance. Then she looked at him, it appeared reproachfully.

“Well?” he enquired.

“Oh-why did you?”

“Did I what?”

“You know-start that stuff. I hoped-” but she did not tell him what she had hoped.

What he said now surprised himself, being entirely unrehearsed. “I think,” he began slowly, quietly, “you’ve got me all wrong too. I’m going to say something important-I mean, important to me -so if you really don’t want to listen and are going to lose your temper again, please stop me now.” He waited.