Towards Zero Read online

  “And nice to see you,” said Audrey.

  There was a quality of intangibility about Audrey Strange. She was of medium height with very small hands and feet. Her hair was ash-blonde and there was very little colour in her face. Her eyes were set wide apart and were a clear pale grey. Her features were small and regular, a straight little nose set in a small oval pale face. With such colouring, with a face that was pretty but not beautiful, she had nevertheless a quality about her that could not be denied nor ignored and that drew your eyes to her again and again. She was a little like a ghost, but you felt at the same time that a ghost might be possessed of more reality than a live human being….

  She had a singularly lovely voice; soft and clear like a small silver bell.

  For some minutes she and the old lady talked of mutual friends and current events. Then Lady Tressilian said:

  “Besides the pleasure of seeing you, my dear, I asked you to come because I’ve had rather a curious letter from Nevile.”

  Audrey looked up. Her eyes were wide, tranquil and calm. She said:

  “Oh yes?”

  “He suggests—a preposterous suggestion, I call it!—that he and—and Kay should come here in September. He says he wants you and Kay to be friends and that you yourself think it a good idea?”

  She waited. Presently Audrey said in her gentle placid voice:

  “Is it—so preposterous?”

  “My dear—do you really want this to happen?”

  Audrey was silent again for a minute or two, then she said gently:

  “I think, you know, it might be rather a good thing.”

  “You really want to meet this—you want to meet Kay?”

  “I do think, Camilla, that it might—simplify things.”

  “Simplify things!” Lady Tressilian repeated the words helplessly.

  Audrey spoke very softly.

  “Dear Camilla. You have been so good. If Nevile wants this—”

  “A fig for what Nevile wants!” said Lady Tressilian robustly. “Do you want it, that’s the question?”

  A little colour came in Audrey’s cheeks. It was the soft delicate glow of a sea shell.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do want it.”

  “Well,” said Lady Tressilian. “Well—”

  She stopped.

  “But, of course,” said Audrey. “It is entirely your choice. It is your house and—”

  Lady Tressilian shut her eyes.

  “I’m an old woman,” she said. “Nothing makes sense any more.”

  “But of course—I’ll come some other time. Any time will suit me.”

  “You’ll come in September as you always do,” snapped Lady Tressilian. “And Nevile and Kay shall come too. I may be old but I can adapt myself, I suppose, as well as anyone else, to the changing phases of modern life. Not another word, that’s settled.”

  She closed her eyes again. After a minute or two she said, peering through half-shut lids at the young woman sitting beside her: “Well, got what you want?”

  Audrey started.

  “Oh, yes, yes. Thank you.”

  “My dear,” said Lady Tressilian, and her voice was deep and concerned, “are you sure this isn’t going to hurt you? You were very fond of Nevile, you know. This may reopen old wounds.”

  Audrey was looking down at her small gloved hands. One of them, Lady Tressilian noticed, was clenched on the side of the bed.

  Audrey lifted her head. Her eyes were calm and untroubled.

  She said:

  “All that is quite over now. Quite over.”

  Lady Tressilian leaned more heavily back on her pillows. “Well, you should know. I’m tired—you must leave me now, dear. Mary is waiting for you downstairs. Tell them to send Barrett to me.”

  Barrett was Lady Tressilian’s elderly and devoted maid.

  She came in to find her mistress lying back with closed eyes.

  “The sooner I’m out of this world the better, Barrett,” said Lady Tressilian. “I don’t understand anything or anyone in it.”

  “Ah! don’t say that, my lady, you’re tired.”

  “Yes, I’m tired. Take that eiderdown off my feet and give me a dose of my tonic.”

  “It’s Mrs. Strange coming that’s upset you. A nice lady, but she could do with a tonic, I’d say. Not healthy. Always looks as though she’s seeing things other people don’t see. But she’s got a lot of character. She makes herself felt, as you might say.”

  “That’s very true, Barrett,” said Lady Tressilian. “Yes, that’s very true.”

  “And she’s not the kind you forget easily, either. I’ve often wondered if Mr. Nevile thinks about her sometimes. The new Mrs. Strange is very handsome—very handsome indeed—but Miss Audrey is the kind you remember when she isn’t there.”

  Lady Tressilian said with a sudden chuckle:

  “Nevile’s a fool to want to bring those two women together. He’s the one who’ll be sorry for it!”

  May 29th

  Thomas Royde, pipe in mouth, was surveying the progress of his packing with which the deft-fingered Malayan No. 1 boy was busy. Occasionally his glance shifted to the view over the plantations. For some six months he would not see that view which had been so familiar for the past seven years.

  It would be queer to be in England again.

  Allen Drake, his partner, looked in.

  “Hullo, Thomas, how goes it?”

  “All set now.”

  “Come and have a drink, you lucky devil. I’m consumed with envy.”

  Thomas Royde moved slowly out of the bedroom and joined his friend. He did not speak, for Thomas Royde was a man singularly economical of words. His friends had learned to gauge his reactions correctly from the quality of his silences.

  A rather thickset figure, with a straight solemn face and observant thoughtful eyes, he walked a little sideways, crablike. This, the result of being jammed in a door during an earthquake, had contributed toward his nickname of the Hermit Crab. It had left his right arm and shoulder partially helpless which, added to an artificial stiffness of gait, often led people to think he was feeling shy and awkward when in reality he seldom felt anything of the kind.

  Allen Drake mixed the drinks.

  “Well,” he said. “Good hunting!”

  Royde said something that sounded like “Ah hum.”

  Drake looked at him curiously.

  “Phlegmatic as ever,” he remarked. “Don’t know how you manage it. How long is it since you went home?”

  “Seven years—nearer eight.”

  “It’s a long time. Wonder you haven’t gone completely native.”

  “Perhaps I have.”

  “You always did belong to Our Dumb Friends rather than to the human race! Planned out your leave?”

  “Well—yes—partly.”

  The bronze impassive face took a sudden and a deeper brick red tinge.

  Allen Drake said with lively astonishment:

  “I believe there’s a girl! Damn it all, you are blushing!”

  Thomas Royde said rather huskily: “Don’t be a fool!”

  And he drew very hard on his ancient pipe.

  He broke all previous records by continuing the conversation himself.

  “Dare say,” he said, “I shall find things a bit changed.”

  Allen Drake said curiously:

  “I’ve always wondered why you chucked going home last time. Right at the last minute, too.”

  Royde shrugged his shoulders.

  “Thought that shooting trip might be interesting. Bad news from home about then.”

  “Of course. I forgot. Your brother was killed—in that motoring accident.”

  Thomas Royde nodded.

  Drake reflected that, all the same, it seemed a curious reason for putting off a journey home. There was a mother—he believed a sister also. Surely at such a time—then he remembered something. Thomas had cancelled his passage before the news of his brother’s death arrived.

  Allen l
ooked at his friend curiously. Dark horse, old Thomas!

  After a lapse of three years he could ask:

  “You and your brother great pals?”

  “Adrian and I? Not particularly. Each of us always went his own way. He was a barrister.”

  “Yes,” thought Drake, “a very different life. Chambers in London, parties—a living earned by the shrewd use of the tongue.” He reflected that Adrian Royde must have been a very different chap from old Silent Thomas.

  “Your mother’s alive, isn’t she?”

  “The mater? Yes.”

  “And you’ve got a sister, too.”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Oh, I thought you had. In that snapshot—”

  Royde mumbled, “Not a sister. Sort of distant cousin or something. Brought up with us because she was an orphan.”

  Once more a slow tide of colour suffused the bronzed skin.

  Drake thought, “Hullo—o—?”

  He said: “Is she married?”

  “She was. Married that fellow Nevile Strange.”

  “Fellow who plays tennis and racquets and all that?”

  “Yes. She divorced him.”

  “And you’re going home to try your luck with her,” thought Drake.

  Mercifully he changed the subject of the conversation.

  “Going to get any fishing or shooting?”

  “Shall go home first. Then I thought of doing a bit of sailing down at Saltcreek.”

  “I know it. Attractive little place. Rather a decent old-fashioned Hotel there.”

  “Yes. The Balmoral Court. May stay there, or may put up with friends who’ve got a house there.”

  “Sounds all right to me.”

  “Ah hum. Nice peaceful place, Saltcreek. Nobody to hustle you.”

  “I know,” said Drake. “The kind of place where nothing ever happens.”

  May 29th

  “It is really most annoying,” said old Mr. Treves. “For twenty-five years now I have been to the Marine Hotel at Leahead—and now, would you believe it, the whole place is being pulled down. Widening the front or some nonsense of that kind. Why they can’t let these seaside places alone—Leahead always had a peculiar charm of its own—Regency—pure Regency.”

  Rufus Lord said consolingly:

  “Still, there are other places to stay there, I suppose?”

  “I really don’t feel I can go to Leahead at all. At the Marine, Mrs. Mackay understood my requirements perfectly. I had the same rooms every year—and there was hardly ever a change in the service. And the cooking was excellent—quite excellent.”

  “What about trying Saltcreek? There’s rather a nice old-fashioned Hotel there. The Balmoral Court. Tell you who keeps it. Couple of the name of Rogers. She used to be cook to old Lord Mounthead—he had the best dinners in London. She married the butler and they run this hotel now. It sounds to me just your kind of place. Quiet—none of these jazz bands—and first-class cooking and service.”

  “It’s an idea—it’s certainly an idea. Is there a sheltered terrace?”

  “Yes—a covered-in veranda and a terrace beyond. You can get sun or shade as you prefer. I can give you some introductions in the neighbourhood, too, if you like. There’s old Lady Tressilian—she lives almost next door. A charming house and she herself is a delightful woman in spite of being very much of an invalid.”

  “The judge’s widow, do you mean?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I used to know Matthew Tressilian, and I think I’ve met her. A charming woman—though, of course, that’s a long time ago. Saltcreek is near St. Loo, isn’t it? I’ve several friends in that part of the world. Do you know, I really think Saltcreek is a very good idea. I shall write and get particulars. The middle of August is when I wish to go there—the middle of August to the middle of September. There is a garage for the car, I suppose? And my chauffeur?”

  “Oh yes. It’s thoroughly up-to-date.”

  “Because, as you know, I have to be careful about walking uphill. I should prefer rooms on the ground floor, though I suppose there is a lift.”

  “Oh yes, all that sort of thing.”

  “It sounds,” said Mr. Treves, “as though it would solve my problem perfectly. And I should enjoy renewing my acquaintance with Lady Tressilian.”

  July 28th

  Kay Strange, dressed in shorts, and a canary-coloured woolly, was leaning forward watching the tennis players. It was the semifinal of the St. Loo tournament, men’s singles, and Nevile was playing young Merrick, who was regarded as the coming star in the tennis firmament. His brilliance was undeniable—some of his serves quite unreturnable—but he occasionally struck a wild patch when the older man’s experience and court crafts won the day.

  The score was three all in the final set.

  Slipping on to a seat next to Kay, Ted Latimer observed in a lazy ironic voice:

  “Devoted wife watches her husband slash his way to victory!”

  Kay started.

  “How you startled me. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I am always there. You should know that by this time.”

  Ted Latimer was twenty-five and extremely good-looking—even though unsympathetic old colonels were wont to say of him:

  “Touch of the Dago!”

  He was dark and beautifully sunburnt and a wonderful dancer.

  His dark eyes could be very eloquent, and he managed his voice with the assurance of an actor. Kay had known him since she was fifteen. They had oiled and sunned themselves at Juan les Pins, had danced together and played tennis together. They had been not only friends but allies.

  Young Merrick was serving from the left-hand court. Nevile’s return was unplayable, a superb shot to the extreme corner.

  “Nevile’s backhand is good,” said Ted. “It’s better than his forehand. Merrick’s weak on the backhand and Nevile knows it. He’s going to pound at it all he knows how.”

  The game ended. “Four three—Strange leads.”

  He took the next game on his service. Young Merrick was hitting out wildly.

  “Five three.”

  “Good for Nevile,” said Latimer.

  And then the boy pulled himself together. His play became cautious. He varied the pace of his shots.

  “He’s got a head on him,” said Ted. “And his footwork is first-class. It’s going to be a fight.”

  Slowly the boy pulled up to five all. They went to seven all, and Merrick finally won the match at nine seven.

  Nevile came up to the net, grinning and shaking his head ruefully, to shake hands.

  “Youth tells,” said Ted Latimer. “Nineteen against thirty-three. But I can tell you the reason, Kay, why Nevile has never been actual championship class. He’s too good a loser.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It isn’t. Nevile, blast him, is always the complete good sportsman. I’ve never seen him lose his temper over losing a match.”

  “Of course not,” said Kay. “People don’t.”

  “Oh yes, they do! We’ve all seen them. Tennis stars who give way to nerves—and who damn’ well snatch every advantage. But old Nevile—he’s always ready to take the count and grin. Let the best man win and all that. God, how I hate the public school spirit! Thank the lord I never went to one.”

  Kay turned her head.

  “Being rather spiteful, aren’t you?”

  “Positively feline!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t make it so clear you don’t like Nevile.”

  “Why should I like him? He pinched my girl.”

  His eyes lingered on her.

  “I wasn’t your girl. Circumstances forbade.”

  “Quite so. Not even the proverbial tuppence a year between us.”

  “Shut up. I fell in love with Nevile and married him—”

  “And he’s a jolly good fellow—and so say all of us!”

  “Are you trying to annoy me?”

  She turned her head as she asked the questi
on. He smiled—and presently she returned his smile.

  “How’s the summer going, Kay?”

  “So, so. Lovely yachting trip. I’m rather tired of all this tennis business.”

  “How long have you got of it? Another month?”

  “Yes. Then in September we go to Gull’s Point for a fortnight.”

  “I shall be at the Easterhead Bay Hotel,” said Ted. “I’ve booked my room.”

  “It’s going to be a lovely party!” said Kay. “Nevile and I, and Nevile’s Ex, and some Malayan planter who’s home on leave.”

  “That does sound hilarious!”

  “And the dowdy cousin, of course. Slaving away round that unpleasant old woman—and she won’t get anything for it, either, since the money comes to me and Nevile.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ted, “she doesn’t know that?”

  “That would be rather funny,” said Kay.

  But she spoke absently. She stared down at the racquet she was twiddling in her hands. She caught her breath suddenly.

  “Oh Ted!”

  “What’s the matter, sugar?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just sometimes I get—I get cold feet! I get scared and feel queer.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, Kay.”

  “It doesn’t, does it? Anyway,” she smiled rather uncertainly, “you’ll be at the Easterhead Bay Hotel.”

  “All according to plan.”

  When Kay met Nevile outside the changing rooms, he said:

  “I see the boy friend’s arrived.”

  “Ted?”

  “Yes, the faithful dog—or faithful lizard might be more apt.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind him. If it amuses you to pull him around on a string—”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  Kay said:

  “I believe you’re jealous.”

  “Of Latimer?” His surprise was genuine.

  Kay said:

  “Ted’s supposed to be very attractive.”

  “I’m sure he is. He has that lithe South American charm.”

  “You are jealous.”

  Nevile gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

  “No, I’m not, Gorgeous. You can have your tame adorers—a whole court of them if you like. I’m the man in possession, and possession is nine points of the law.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” said Kay with a slight pout.