Foreign Affairs - Alison Lurie [136]
As he stares toward Hampstead Village he sees another, even stupider-looking Druid climbing the path, coming from the wrong direction and obviously late for the show. At the crest of the hill she halts, peering anxiously about at the crowd of spectators; then she trudges on, wavering this way and that as if uncertain whether or not to approach her fellow-worshipers. Her welcome seems doubtful to Fred, for she is not only late but ill-equipped. She has forgotten her lantern; and small as she is her hooded robe is far too short; it doesn’t reach the ground by almost a foot, and exposes a pair of modern pumps.
Yes, Fred thinks as the foolish figure drifts nearer, this is what England, with her great history and traditions—political, social, cultural—has become; this is what Britannia, that vigorous, ancient, and noble goddess, has shrunk to: a nervous elderly little imitation Druid—
No. Wait a second. That isn’t a Druid, or even an Englishwoman. It is Vinnie Miner.
Eight hours later Fred is sitting on the front steps of Rosemary’s house in Chelsea, surrounded by all his luggage. Or maybe not all; when he jammed stuff into his canvas backpack early this morning he was still groggy from a second night of interrupted sleep. But if he’s forgotten anything, it’s too late now; his plane leaves from Heathrow at noon.
Though tired, Fred is in a far better frame of mind than he was last night. He knows now that Roo is waiting for him in New York; and he has managed to pass on his anxiety about Rosemary first to Vinnie Miner and then, with her help, to Edwin Francis, who is back from Japan and staying in Sussex with his mother.
“Oh dear,” Edwin said when Fred called early this morning and related his story. “I thought she must be away; she didn’t answer the phone. I was afraid of something like this. Well, I’ve nearly finished breakfast; I’ll take the first train in and go straight to Rosemary’s from Victoria.”
“All right. I’ll meet you there.”
“I don’t see the point of that. Besides, I thought you just told me you were leaving for the States this morning.”
“I can make it. My plane isn’t until noon.”
“Well—”
“I want to.”
“If you insist,” Edwin says with a sigh. “But promise me you won’t try to get into the house until I come.”
Restless now with waiting, Fred rises, crosses the street to the park in the center of the square, and scans the front of the house, both hoping and fearing that Rosemary will come out of it before Edwin arrives. The place looks deserted; all the shutters are closed and the stoop is littered with throwaway papers and advertising brochures. It’s hard to believe there’s anyone inside—let alone the woman he saw the day before yesterday. Or thought he saw. Was that really Rosemary, or was it only Mrs. Harris after all? What if his identification of the two was a delusion, a mental abberation caused by frustrated desire?
“Oh, there you are,” Edwin Francis says, getting out of a taxi; he looks white and anxious. “Did you try the bell? No? Good. Well, oh dear, let’s see now. I think perhaps you should go down the street a bit; it might upset her, seeing you suddenly.”
“I—All right,” Fred agrees.
He retreats, and from a middle distance watches Edwin ring and wait, then beckon him back.
“It’s rather worrying,” he says.
“Yeh.” Fred realizes that for Edwin, as for many Englishmen, the word “rather” is an intensifier.
“I think I’d better see if I can find the spare key.” He turns to one of the stone urns by the steps and begins to poke about in the earth under the ivy and white geraniums with a broken twig. “Yes, here we are.” Edwin takes out a large linen handkerchief of the sort Fred’s grandfather used to carry, and wipes the key and his small neat hands.
“I think you’d better wait,” he says, holding the door only slightly open. “Let me see what the situation is first.”
“No, I want—”
“Back in a moment.” Before Fred can protest Edwin slips into the hall and shuts