The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [155]
Yes, and what would he think of you, out all over London at this time? No, it wasn't right of you, not to give me a turn like that. What would your father say, I should like to know? To start with, you never said you would not be back for your tea. I'd got a nice tea for you, I was keeping it. It wasn't till half-past five that I thought to myself, oh well! She's with that Lilian, I thought, but she did ought to have said. So then I expected you round six. No, you did give me a turn. I couldn't hardly believe the clock. When I did hear the front door, it was nothing but Mr. Thomas.
I couldn't believe the clock. It didn't seem like you, really. Not like what you was. Whatever's come over you? Oh, you have got a silly fit, these days. First one thing, then it's another. Stuffing nonsense under your pillow—I could have told you then. You'll do yourself no good. You're not like what you were. And when it's not that Eddie, it's those Heccombs, and this, that and the other off at the seaside. You didn't ought to have gone to the seaside; it was there you came back from with that silly fit. You did ought to know better, after all what I told you. No good ever came of secrets—you look at your father. And you didn't ought to have gone to a gentleman's hotel.
South Kensington Station . , . Well, I don't know, I'm sure.
Well, and did you get a good supper? Wholesome, was it? You never know at those places; they're out to make what they can. And that Major Brutt's just an innocent: he would never know. Him and his puzzles. However... No, what I'm on about is, you staying out like this, you coming right off here, you giving me such a turn. No, it's high time you came out of this silly fit. You stay quiet, now, and remember what I said. I've got your fire on; it looks nice in your room now; and I've got those biscuits you like. You'd be all right if you'd only be like you were.
No, I'm not going on at you. No, I'm done now. I've said what I've said. Don't you be upset and silly. You come back with Matchett and be a good girl.
My, the hotels in this street! They're like needles in hay.
Now, what does he think he's up to? Oh, so we're stopping, are we? Well, I don't know, I'm sure.
The driver, slowing into the kerb, looked boldly at her through the panel. He pulled up, then pottered round to open the door—but Matchett was out already standing and looking up. The sad gimcrack cliff of the hotel towered above her, with colourless daylight showing over the top. "Well, ma'am," said the driver, "here's our little surprise." With a movement of implacable dignity she drew herself up and read The Karachi Hotel. Her eyes travelled stonily down the portico to the glass door, the dull yellow brass knob, then down the steep steps blowsy from many feet. Not looking round, .she said: "Well, if you've brought me wrong, don't think you'll get your money. You can just drive right back and I'll speak to the gentleman."
"Yes, and how'm I to know you'll be coming back out of here?"
"If I don't come out of here with a young lady, that'll be because you'll have brought me wrong."
Matchett straightened her hat with both hands, gripped her bag more firmly, mounted the steps. Below the steps the grey road was all stucco and echoes—an occasional taxi, an occasional bus. Reflections of evening made unlit windows ghostly; lit lights showed drawing-rooms pallid and bare. In the Karachi Hotel drawing-room, someone played the piano uncertainly.
All the same, in the stretched mauve dusk of the street there was an intimation of summer coming—summer, intensifying everything with its heat and glare. In gardens outside London roses would burn on, with all else gone in the dusk. Fatigue but a sort of joy would open in all hearts, for summer is the height and fullness of living. Already the dust smelled strong. In this premature night of