Маргарет Миллар - The Iron Gates [= Taste of Fears]

Giles stood, shaken with envy and wistfulness. I’d like to. do that, he thought. I could do that.

“Martin is always uninhibited,” Polly said, “but especially in the first snow of the year.”

The portico light went on suddenly, and the door opened.

Giles had a confused impression that several women were rushing out at him all talking at once... “We didn’t hear the car...” “Andrew, you didn’t tie your scarf...” “You’re not chilled, Andrew?”

Polly’s voice rose above the babble, clear and cold. “Come on, Giles. I’ll fix you a drink while they’re taking Father’s temperature.”

The talk died down and Giles was able to see now that there were only two women. One of them was tall and thin and looked like Martin, with her dark curly hair cropped close to her head. She had bright birdlike eyes and a wide mobile mouth and it surprised Giles to hear how high and tight her voice was and how anxious her laugh. This must be Edith, Giles thought.

The other woman was taller, and seemed at the same time younger and more mature than Edith. She had the controlled subdued beauty that plain women sometimes acquire when they have achieved happiness and success and security. Her red-gold hair was coiled in a braid around her head.

She came toward Giles, holding out her hand and smiling apologetically.

“We’ve been terribly rude,” she said. “You’re Giles, of course. I’m Lucille Morrow.”

He shook her hand, very embarrassed because he still had his gloves on and because Polly had flounced ahead into the house without looking back.

“How do you do?” Giles said.

“And this is Edith, Polly’s aunt. Edith dear, come over and meet Giles.”

Edith darted at him. She was wearing something that fluttered in the wind and it seemed to Giles that she was entirely fluid and never stopped moving, talking, smiling, having ideas.

“Hello, Giles,” she said. “What a pretty uniform, don’t you think so, Lucille? We are so glad to have you here, Giles. Andrew, please go into the house at once, though you probably have pneumonia already.”

“Nothing I’d like better,” Andrew said and stamped ahead into the house.

“What a way to talk!” Edith slipped her hand inside Giles’ arm. “Polly is always rude, don’t mind her. One of the first things you have to do is teach her some manners. We’ve never been able to.”

Giles found himself being guided expertly and firmly into the house and down a hall. He had no time to look around or even to think. Edith did not once pause for a breath or an answer.

Her hand on his arm was like a bird’s claw, helpless and appealing, yet somehow grotesque. He thought if he moved his arm the claw would tighten from fear and the harder he tried to shake it off, the tighter it would cling.

“Here we are,” Edith said, and thrust him neatly into the living room.

Lucille was pouring out the hot toddies. Martin and Polly were sitting on the chesterfield talking, and Andrew stood in front of the fire warming his hands.

“Attention, everybody,” Edith said. “And Polly, this means you as well as everyone else because I’m going to make a speech.”

“I knew it,” Polly said tragically. “I knew it.”

“How could you know it when I just decided myself?” Edith said. “Besides, it’s a very short speech, and I consider this an occasion.”

“And occasions deserve speeches,” Martin added. “Preferably by Edith. Come on over here, Giles. We may be up all night.”

“You will if you keep interrupting me,” Edith said. “Anyway, I want to welcome you to the house, Giles. We are glad you could come and we think you will find us a... a happy family.” She blushed and gave Giles an embarrassed and apologetic smile. “I know how sentimental that sounds but I think it’s true, we are a happy family. Of course we have our lapses. Polly is invariably rude and Martin’s high spirits are a trial...”

“And Edith gets maudlin,” Polly said.

“Oh, I do not,” Edith said. “And Andrew can never find anything and then he gets cross, don’t you, Andrew?”

“I may become justifiably irritated,” Andrew said, “but never cross.”

“As for Lucille,” Edith said and smiled across the room at her sister-in-law.

There was a pause and the room seemed to Giles to become static. It was no longer a real room but a picture, the man standing warming his hands at the fire, the two women smiling and smiling at each other, the three figures on the chesterfield relaxed and yet unnatural. Happy family, Giles thought. An ambitious picture painted by an amateur. The smiles of the women were set and false, and the figures on the chesterfield sprawled ungracefully like stiff-jointed dolls.

“As for Lucille,” Edith said, “I don’t believe she has any lapses.”

Lucille laughed softly. “Don’t you believe her, Giles. I’m the worst of the lot.”

His eyes met hers and he felt suddenly warm and understood and contented. The rest of the family with their constant jokes and squabbles were a puzzle to him, but he felt that he knew and liked this quiet beautiful woman.

Something stirred in her eyes like mud at the bottom of a pool.

“I haven’t seen you before,” she said. “Have I?”

“No,” Giles said uncertainly.

“For a moment you reminded me of someone.”

“There!” Edith said triumphantly. “That’s Lucille’s lapse. Someone is always reminding her of someone.”

Lucille said, “Life is an endless procession of faces for me. I am always trying to match them up.”

She picked up her glass and looked into the murky liquid. It seemed to come alive and surge with millions of little faces, winking, frowning, sly, puckered, brooding, bitter, smiling little faces, incredibly mobile and knowing. She could not close her eyes and blot them out. She knew that then they would appear behind her eyelids and that she must walk alone through this delicate, soundless hell.

When Giles said good night to her she was still holding the glass, looking into it with bewildered melancholy, like a child trying to comprehend the universe.

“Good night, Mrs. Morrow,” he said.

She raised her head, and in her quick nervous smile he saw a flutter of questions: You? Where do you fit in? Have you a place? Have I?

“Good night, Giles,” she said in a composed voice. She glanced across at her husband. “Coming, Andrew? It’s very late.”

Very late, too late, later than you think... I mustn’t let my nerves bother me like this, or I’ll dream of Mildred again.

In the late afternoon of December the sixth Lucille Morrow disappeared.

The house had been quiet all day. Martin and Andrew were working, and Edith had gone on a shopping tour with Polly and Giles.

In the kitchen the two young servants, Annie and Della, were cleaning silverware. When the front doorbell rang Annie snatched up a clean apron, tying it as she ran along the hall.

As soon as she opened the door she regretted this waste of energy. It wasn’t a real caller but a dark shabby little man in a battered trench coat.

“Mrs. Morrow?” he said hoarsely.

Annie, who admired Lucille, was both flattered and angry at the mistake.

“Mrs. Morrow is resting,” she said, in a voice very like Lucille’s own. “She cannot be disturbed.”

The little man blinked, and shifted his feet. “I got something for her. I got to give it to her. You go and get her.” He turned up his coat collar and then slowly and patiently put his hands in his pockets. “Special delivery like.”

“I’ll take it,” Annie said. “And why you can’t use the back door is more than I can say.”

“Very special delivery,” the man said, but his voice lacked conviction. He seemed to have lost all interest in the matter and wasn’t even looking at Annie any more. “What the hell, you give it to her, I give it to her, what’s the odds. Here.”