Колесо крутится. Леди исчезает / The Wheel Spins. The Lady Vanishe

Although Iris spun out her meal to its limit, she was driven back ultimately to the lounge. She was too tired to stroll and it was early for bed. As she looked round her, she could hardly believe that, only the night before, it had been a scene of continental glitter and gaiety – although the latter quality had been imported from England. Now that it was no longer filled with friends, she was shocked to notice its tawdry theatrical finery. The gilt cane chairs were tarnished, the crimson plush upholstery shabby.

A clutter of cigarette stubs and spent matches in the palm pots brought a lump to her throat. They were all that remained of the crowd.

As she sat apart, the vicar – pipe in mouth – watched her with a thoughtful frown. His clear-cut face was both strong and sensitive, and an almost perfect blend of flesh and spirit. He played rough football with the youths of his parish, and, afterwards, took their souls by assault; but he had also a real understanding of the problems of his women-parishioners.

When his wife told him of Iris’ wish for solitude, he could enter into her feeling, because, sometimes, he yearned to escape from people and even from his wife. His own inclination was to leave her to the boredom of her own company; yet he was touched by the dark lines under her eyes and her mournful lips.

In the end, he resolved to ease his conscience at the cost of a rebuff. He knew it was coming, because, as he crossed the lounge, she looked up quickly, as though on guard.

“Another,” she thought.

From a distance she had admired the spirituality of his expression; but, to-night, he was numbered among her hostile critics.

“Horrible rabble.” The words floated into her memory, as he spoke to her.

“If you are travelling back to England alone, would you care to join our party?”

“When are you going?” she asked.

“Day after to-morrow, before they take off the last through train of the season.”

“But I’m going to-morrow. Thanks so much.”

“Then I’ll wish you a pleasant journey.”

The vicar smiled faintly at her lightning decision as he crossed to a table and began to address luggage-labels.

His absence was his wife’s opportunity. In her wish not to break her promise, she had gone to the other extreme and had not mentioned her baby to her new friends, save for one casual allusion to “our little boy.” But, now that the holiday was nearly over, she could not resist the temptation of showing his photograph, which had won a prize in a local baby competition.

With a guilty glance at her husband’s back she drew out of her bag a limp leather case.

“This is my large son,” she said, trying to hide her pride.

The Misses Flood-Porter were exclusive animal-lovers and not particularly fond of children. But they said all the correct things with such well-bred conviction that Mrs. Barnes’ heart swelled with triumph.

Miss Rose, however, switched off to another subject directly the vicar returned from the writing-table.

“Do you believe in warning dreams, Mr. Barnes?” she asked. “Because, last night, I dreamed of a railway smash.”

The question caught Iris’ attention and she strained to hear the vicar’s reply.

“I’ll answer your question,” he said, “if you’ll first answer mine. What is a dream? Is it stifled apprehension—”

“I wonder,” said a bright voice in Iris’ ear, “I wonder if you would like to see the photograph of my little son, Gabriel?”

Iris realised dimly that Mrs. Barnes – who was keeping up England in limp brown lace – had seated herself beside her and was showing her the photograph of a naked baby.

She made a pretence of looking at it while she tried to listen to the vicar.

“Gabriel,” she repeated vaguely.

“Yes, after the Archangel. We named him after him.”

“How sweet. Did he send a mug?”

Mrs. Barnes stared incredulously, while her sensitive face grew scarlet. She believed that the girl had been intentionally profane and had insulted her precious little son, to avenge her boredom. Pressing her trembling lips together she rejoined her friends.

Iris was grateful when the humming in her ears ceased. She was unaware of her slip, because she had only caught a fragment of Mrs. Barnes’ explanation. Her interest was still held by the talk of presentiments.

“Say what you like,” declared Miss Rose, sweeping away the vicar’s argument, “I’ve common sense on my side. They usually try to pack too many passengers into the last good train of the season. I know I’ll be precious glad when I’m safely back in England.”

A spirit of apprehension quivered in the air at her words.

“But you aren’t really afraid of an accident?” cried Mrs. Barnes, clutching Gabriel’s photograph tightly.

“Of course not.” Miss Flood-Porter answered for her sister. “Only, perhaps we feel we’re rather off the beaten track here, and so very far from home. Our trouble is we don’t know a word of the language.”

“She means,” cut in Miss Rose, “we’re all right over reservations and coupons, so long as we stick to hotels and trains. But if some accident happened to make us break our journey, or lose a connection, and we were stranded in some small place, we should feel lost. Besides it would be awkward about money. We didn’t bring any travellers’ cheques.”

The elder sister appealed to the vicar.

“Do you advise us to take my sister’s dream as a warning and travel back to-morrow?”

“No, don’t,” murmured Iris under her breath.

She waited for the vicar’s answer with painful interest, for she was not eager to travel on the same train as these uncongenial people, who might feel it their duty to befriend her.

“You must follow your own inclinations,” said the vicar. “But if you do leave prematurely, you will not only give a victory to superstition, but you will deprive yourself of another day in these glorious surroundings.”

“And our reservations, are for the day after to-morrow,” remarked Miss Rose. “We’d better not risk any muddles…And now, I’m going up to pack for my journey back to dear old England.”

To the surprise of everyone her domineering voice suddenly blurred with emotion. Miss Flood-Porter waited until she had gone out of the lounge, before she explained.

“Nerves. We had a very trying experience, just before we came away. The doctor ordered a complete change so we came here, instead of Switzerland.”

Then the innkeeper came in, and, as a compliment to his guests, fiddled with his radio, until he managed to get London on the long wave. Amid a machine-gun rattle of atmospherics, a familiar mellow voice informed them, “You have just been listening to…”

But they had heard nothing.

Miss Flood-Porter saw her garden, silvered by the harvest moon. She wondered whether the chrysanthemum buds, three to a pot, were swelling, and if the blue salvias had escaped the slugs.

Miss Rose, briskly stacking shoes in the bottom of a suitcase, quivered at a recollection. Again she saw a gaping hole in a garden-bed, where overnight had stood a cherished clump of white delphiniums… It was not only the loss of their treasure, but the nerve-racking ignorance of where the enemy would strike next…

The Vicar and his wife thought of their baby, asleep in his cot. They must decide whether they should merely peep at him, or risk waking him with a kiss.

Iris remembered her friends in the roaring express, and was suddenly smitten with a wave of home-sickness.

England was calling.