Cluny Brown (6 page)

“Do you know who's here? Adam Belinski.”

“What, European literature?” exclaimed Andrew.

“Never heard of him,” said Betty, who was quite uneducated.

“Darling, he's
the
man,” Andrew informed her. “But I thought they'd jugged him.”

“No. They just beat him up,” said John grimly. “He was lecturing at Bonn, and said something the
Herrenvolk
didn't like. I saw him last year in Warsaw and I recognized him straight away. He's over there by the piano.”

They all three stared. The celebrity was standing in a peculiar position, cramped between the keyboard and the wall, as though he had retreated till he could retreat no farther. He was a man in his early thirties, compactly built, with light blue eyes in a square face.

“He doesn't look very pleased with life,” remarked Andrew.

“He probably isn't.”

“If you ask me,” said Betty suddenly, “he looks utterly miserable.”

It was as though the force of their concentration plucked at his sleeve. He turned, for an instant met their three pairs of eyes, and at once turned away again.

“Come and talk to him,” said Betty. “Ask him what he's doing here. I believe he loathes it.”

Too lovely ever to have known diffidence, she marched across the room with the young men at her heels. Belinski watched them come towards him—watched even Betty come towards him—without a flicker of interest.

“We know who you are,” said Betty, unabashed, “but you don't know us. I'm Elizabeth Cream, and these are Andrew Carmel and John Frewen.”

“We are your great admirers,” said John, in German.

Belinski gave them a grave bow.

“We are very glad to see you here,” said Andrew, in French.

He bowed again.

“And we wondered whether you were enjoying this,” said Betty, speaking her native tongue, “because as a matter of fact, we aren't.”

The Pole appeared to turn this simple remark very carefully in his mind. Carefully, in excellent English, he answered it.

“It is some time since I have been to a party, I feel a little bewildered. But I find it charming.”

But Betty was unsnubbable. Her bad manners at least gave her ease.

“Oh, you can't!” she protested. “You needn't be polite with us, it's not our party. How did you get here?”

For the first time his face relaxed.

“It is indeed quite strange. I came to enquire after a friend who lived here, but who it appears has gone away. So I was brought in to the party. Why? I do not know.”

“I do,” said Betty. “Sylvia's always short of men. But there's no reason why we should stay if we don't want to. As a matter of fact, we're just going to eat somewhere. Will you come too?” She kicked John lightly on the ankle.

“We should be extraordinarily honoured, sir,” said John Frewen. “That is, if it wouldn't bore you.”

Belinski turned his serious glance upon Andrew. It was strange: he spoke English so well, he obviously understood perfectly; yet seemed not to comprehend what he heard. He wanted everything—rechecked.

“Nothing would give us greater pleasure,” said Andrew formally, “than your company.”

“Now?”

“Yes, of course now,” said Betty, “before we get caught up. Go and fetch your coats.”

They had a moment together, the three of them, while Belinski punctiliously sought out his hostess. Betty Cream was in the highest spirits, but Andrew and John looked rather solemn. They realized, as she did not, their guest's importance.

“I don't know how you had the nerve,” said Andrew. “He's one of the most distinguished men in Europe.”

“He looked so lost,” said Betty absently. “Where shall we take him?”

“Claridge's,” suggested John.

“Too stuffy. Let's go to Soho, to the Moulin Bleu.”

“We ought to go to the Club,” said Andrew. “Damn it, we ought to be giving him a Dinner!”

“The Club's out because of Betty. I still think Claridge's.”

At that moment Belinski reappeared. Betty at once took him into their confidence.

“Would you rather go somewhere where it's good food but a bit like the grave, or somewhere queer but rather amusing?”

“I am in your hands,” said Mr. Belinski.

II

They went of course to Soho; and minute by minute, all through the prolonged meal, the atmosphere grew queerer. There was no means of getting Belinski to talk, except by direct questioning; and his answers revealed a state of affairs startling in the extreme. To take his itinerary: from Bonn, where the trouble started, he had been going back to Berlin; political events, he said simply, made this unwise; so he went in the opposite direction, to Paris. There he found himself with the name of a trouble-maker: the Polish authorities discouraged his return to Warsaw, the French police took a marked interest in him. He sold a couple of jewelled Orders and came on to London, hoping to find his American publisher, who had unfortunately left a week earlier. On this publisher Belinski still pinned his hopes, for there had been some talk of his going to the States himself; apart from this he was apparently without any plan whatever. In the meantime, from day to day, he lived as in a vacuum. He had a room in Paddington, and spent most of his time in public libraries. He had made himself known to no one, and did not look to be sought out. His melancholy voice gave these facts not reluctantly, but as though they were uninteresting commonplaces which must be rather boring to hear.

“But, good God!” exclaimed John at last. “There must be people, places, simply asking for you. Cambridge, for instance, any of the universities. I mean, you're famous. You'd be an—an ornament to them. I don't understand.”

“Well, I've had enough of it,” said Mr. Belinski.

They were more surprised than ever. Their young eyes widened with astonishment as Adam Belinski addressed himself to his zabaglione. Enough of it? Enough of being a trouble-maker? Enough of being the centre of rows, secret enquiries, international complications? Such an attitude was explicable to them on only one ground, that of physical ill health. He couldn't have recovered from his beating-up.…

“You want a good rest,” said Betty encouragingly.

“I want to do some work,” corrected Mr. Belinski. “I am an artist, not a political figure. That is the trouble in Poland: there are not enough distinguished Poles to go round; every one must do double duty. Look at Paderewski—the greatest musician in the world, we had to make him President as well. If you win a motor race, you are made Secretary to the Board of Trade. I have a success with my writings, so I must become a lecturer. Thank heaven they did not give me the Police Force. So I get into a fight, and soon I can do no work at all.” He flung out his hand; for the first time they noticed that the wrist was crooked, as though it had been broken and badly set. “I do not wish to be anything but what I am, and that is my determination. Also, it appears that I bring trouble. Even if I would lecture again, I would not go to one of your universities, and perhaps bring trouble there.”

“In fact,” said Betty, with great interest, “you're hot.”

But Belinski's knowledge of English evidently did not extend to American colloquialisms. He looked blank.

“She means,” translated Andrew, “she quite understands—we all understand—why you have to lie low. But it's pretty damnable.”

He looked across at John Frewen, and at that moment, in the minds of both, the great plan was born. It hardly needed communicating; in a few words, under Betty's chatter, everything of importance was practically decided. “Horsham?” murmured John—referring to his home. “Better my place in Devon. Right off the map,” murmured Andrew. J
OHN
: What about your people? A
NDREW
: All right, I think. Ask him now? J
OHN
: No, later. To-morrow. Show we've slept on it.…

But when it came to the point they were both afraid that once they parted Belinski might disappear again before they could save him; so while John took Betty home Andrew walked with Mr. Belinski to Paddington, on the plea—for his company was at first refused—of having to meet a train. With complete gravity the Pole in turn insisted on accompanying Andrew into the station, but the latter, who had thitherto been unable to get their conversation off an abstract plane, was long past feeling foolish. The opportunity was nearly gone, and he was determined not to miss it.

“Mr. Belinski,” said Andrew.

“Yes? Cannot you find the train?”

Andrew discovered that he had been staring up at the indicator, and flushed.

“Mr. Belinski, would you care to come and stay with my people in Devonshire?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“At my home in the country. Very quiet, and all that. You could certainly work there, because there's nothing else to do.”

Belinski regarded him with amusement.

“Is it another party? This time for the week-end?”

“Oh, no,” said Andrew, “I thought you might stay a few years.”

Just then they were jostled by a porter (actually Cluny's Uncle Trumper) who also wished to look at the indicator. Andrew stepped one way, Belinski the other; and during the moment of separation the latter's mind must have worked with great speed, for when he joined Andrew again he looked no longer astonished, but simply pleased.

“My dear young friend,” he said warmly, “I cannot say how much I appreciate such generosity. It is magnificent!”

“Oh, rot,” said Andrew. “When will you come?”

“But of course, I cannot accept,” said Mr. Belinski hastily.

Andrew immediately asked why not. Mr. Belinski hesitated. He had what he considered a perfectly adequate reason, but he did not think it would appear adequate to his new young friend. He therefore selected another.

“I am not a suitable guest.”

“Nonsense,” said Andrew cheerfully. “I've taken home much rummer chaps than you.” The adjective slipped out before he could retrieve it, but Belinski did not seem offended. He stood looking at Andrew warily, but with something like affection.

“Please do not press me, because I feel so discourteous to refuse. For example, your parents do not know me. What you suggest is most generous, but also quite impossible.”

“I don't see why,” argued Andrew stubbornly. “You'd find it fearfully boring—”

“It is not to be thought of,” said Mr. Belinski.

Without another word he turned and walked rapidly out of the station. But Andrew hared after him, and followed him home, and once they knew the address he and John Frewen were able to dog Mr. Belinski's path, and argue with him in relays; and Andrew (as has been seen) went down to Devonshire to get his parents' approval, and came back with a written invitation from Lady Carmel; and at the end of another two weeks Mr. Belinski (other factors influencing him as well) suddenly gave way, and bent once more to his erratic fate.

III

“We'll go down in my car,” said John Frewen. “Can Betty come too?”

Andrew looked thoroughly horrified.

“I'll say she can't. Last time she upset the whole house. I'm not taking home any more disturbing influences,” said Andrew righteously.

Chapter 7

I

One person at least welcomed this fortnight's interval: Mrs. Maile felt she really couldn't do with visitors until she got her staff into some sort of shape. It was no easy matter. Friars Carmel, like many another once lavish household, was still strong on the administrative side, but weak on the executive. The rôles of butler, housekeeper, cook, were all filled; but Cluny and Hilda, like a stage army, had to march round and round—now housemaids, now parlour-maids, now kitchen-maids, laundry-maids, linen-maids or tweenies. This made them very hard to discipline, for though Mrs. Maile could easily keep in her head what each of six girls ought to be doing at any given hour, two girls doing six jobs confused her sadly. When she found Hilda upstairs at noon, or Cluny peeling potatoes at tea-time, she had to go away and think things out before going back to rebuke them; by which time Cluny was probably in the pantry and Hilda in the wash-house. What particularly upset Mrs. Maile was that Cluny at least evidently took this as the normal state of affairs in a well-conducted household. She was very good-natured. But Mrs. Maile would almost have preferred a complaining expert who knew what was what.

The two girls themselves got on very well. Cluny at once took the lead, bossed Hilda a good deal, and in return told her all about London and taught her many useful and amusing phrases. (The first time Hilda replied “Oh yeah?” to Mr. Syrett was a happy moment.) Their common bedroom was large, and they divided its conveniences meticulously, the only advantage retained by Hilda being an art-silk bedspread bought out of her own money. As a counter to this Cluny had her three photographs in their gold frame, which she stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. Hilda had no photographs as yet, because Gary was too young to take.

Gary was her infant son, and a source of great pride to her; she wagered that when his Dad came back and saw'n him'd wed she for sure—though whether her'd wed he was another story: him'd have to mend his wild ways, said Hilda sternly, afore her went to church with'n. Hilda's seduction by a seafarer, in fact, gave her the only consequence she was capable of, and she naturally leant on it. Cluny listened with great interest, and nearly invented an infant of her own; but Mr. Porritt's eye, even in a photograph, restrained her. Hilda thus kept an incontestible point of superiority, which usefully checked Cluny's instinct to domineer.

But all this was more trouble for Mrs. Maile. Before Cluny arrived the housekeeper had instructed Hilda to suppress, on pain of instant dismissal, all mention of young Gary; and she imagined herself obeyed. Then arose the question of Cluny's afternoon off—two till seven on Wednesdays. (Other maids had had till nine-thirty, but this was a special arrangement, made through Miss Postgate and Aunt Addie Trumper, on account of Cluny's youth and inexperience.) From two till seven, what was the girl to do? Her natural occupation, a visit to Hilda's home in the village, was barred by the presence there of Hilda's illegitimate offspring. Cluny missed her first Wednesday because she arrived on a Tuesday, but even in nine days Mrs. Maile had not discovered an answer. The problem really bothered her. In fact, only one thing bothered Mrs. Maile more, and that was Cluny's solution of it.