The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [63]
"No one, dear; those are only lodging houses."
Mrs. Heccomb tapped on the glass, and the taxi, which already intended stopping, stopped dead with a satirical jerk. They got out; Portia carried the parcels Mrs. Heccomb could not manage; the taxi-man followed with the suitcases. They all three scrabbled up a steep shingly incline and found themselves alongside the butt end of a terrace. Mrs. Heccomb showed Portia the esplanade. The sea heaved; an oblique wind lifted her hat. Shingle rolled up in red waves to the brim of the asphalt; there was an energetic and briny smell. Two steamers moved slowly along the horizon, but there was not a soul on the esplanade. "I do hope you will like it," said Mrs. Heccomb. "I do hope you can manage those parcels: can you? There is no road to our gate—you see, we're right on the sea."
Waikiki, Mrs. Heccomb's house, was about one minute more down the esplanade. Numbers of windows at different levels looked out of the picturesque red roof—one window had blown open; a faded curtain was wildly blowing out. Below this, what with the sun porch, the glass entrance door and a wide bow window, the house had an almost transparent front. Constructed largely of glass and blistered white paint, Waikiki faced the sea boldly, as though daring the elements to dash it to bits.
Portia saw firelight in the inside dusk. Mrs. Heccomb rapped three times on the glass door—there was a bell, but it hung out of its socket on a long twisted umbilical wire—and a small maid, fixing her large cuffs, could be seen advancing across the livingroom. She let them in with rather a hoity-toity air. "I have got my latchkey," said Mrs. Heccomb. "But I think this is practice for you, Doris.... I always latch this door when I'm out," she added to Portia. "The seaside is not the country, you see.... Now, Doris, this is the young lady from London. Do you remember how to take her things to her room? And this is the matting that the man is just bringing. Do you remember where I told you to put it?"
While Mrs. Heccomb thanked and paid off the driver, Portia looked politely round the livingroom, with eyes that were now and again lowered so as not to seem to make free with what they saw. Though dusk already fell on the esplanade, the room held a light reflection from the sea. She located the smell of spring with a trough of blue hyacinths, just come into flower. Almost all one side of the room was made up of french windows, which gave on to the sun porch but were at present shut. The sun porch, into which she hastily looked, held some basket chairs and an empty aquarium. At one end of the room, an extravagant fire fluttered on brown glazed tiles; the wireless cabinet was the most glossy of all. Opposite the windows a glass-fronted bookcase, full but with a remarkably locked look, chiefly served to reflect the marine view. A dark blue chenille curtain, faded in lighter streaks, muffled an arch that might lead to the stairs. In other parts of the room, Portia's humble glances discovered such objects as a scarlet portable gramophone, a tray with a painting outfit, a half painted lampshade, a mountain of magazines. Two armchairs and a settee, with crumpled bottoms, made a square round the fire, and there was a gate-legged table, already set for tea. It was set for tea, but the cake plates were still empty—Mrs. Heccomb was tipping cakes out of paper bags. '
Outside, the sea went on with its independent sighing, but still