Towards Zero

‘My dear,’ said Lady Tressilian, and her voice was deep and concerned, ‘are you sure this isn’t going to hurt you? You were very fond of Nevile, you know. This may reopen old wounds.’

Audrey was looking down at her small gloved hands. One of them, Lady Tressilian noticed, was clenched on the side of the bed.

Audrey lifted her head. Her eyes were calm and untroubled.

She said:

‘All that is quite over now. Quite over.’

Lady Tressilian leaned more heavily back on her pillows. ‘Well—you should know. I’m tired—you must leave me now, dear. Mary is waiting for you downstairs. Tell them to send Barrett to me.’

Barrett was Lady Tressilian’s elderly and devoted maid.

She came in to find her mistress lying back with closed eyes.

‘The sooner I’m out of this world the better, Barrett,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘I don’t understand anything or anyone in it.’

‘Ah! don’t say that, my lady, you’re tired.’

‘Yes, I’m tired. Take that eiderdown off my feet and give me a dose of my tonic.’

‘It’s Mrs Strange coming that’s upset you. A nice lady, but she could do with a tonic, I’d say. Not healthy. Always looks as though she’s seeing things other people don’t see. But she’s got a lot of character. She makes herself felt, as you might say.’

‘That’s very true, Barrett,’ said Lady Tressilian. ‘Yes, that’s very true.’

‘And she’s not the kind you forget easily, either. I’ve often wondered if Mr Nevile thinks about her sometimes. The new Mrs Strange is very handsome—very handsome indeed—but Miss Audrey is the kind you remember when she isn’t there.’

Lady Tressilian said with a sudden chuckle:

‘Nevile’s a fool to want to bring those two women together. He’s the one who’ll be sorry for it!’

May 29th

Thomas Royde, pipe in mouth, was surveying the progress of his packing with which the deft-fingered Malayan No 1 boy was busy. Occasionally his glance shifted to the view over the plantations. For some six months he would not see that view which had been so familiar for the past seven years.

It would be queer to be in England again.

Allen Drake, his partner, looked in.

‘Hullo, Thomas, how goes it?’

‘All set now.’

‘Come and have a drink, you lucky devil. I’m consumed with envy.’

Thomas Royde moved slowly out of the bedroom and joined his friend. He did not speak, for Thomas Royde was a man singularly economical of words. His friends had learned to gauge his reactions correctly from the quality of his silences.

A rather thickset figure, with a straight solemn face and observant thoughtful eyes, he walked a little sideways, crablike. This, the result of being jammed in a door during an earthquake, had contributed towards his nickname of the Hermit Crab. It had left his right arm and shoulder partially helpless which, added to an artificial stiffness of gait, often led people to think he was feeling shy and awkward when in reality he seldom felt anything of the kind.

Allen Drake mixed the drinks.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Good hunting!’

Royde said something that sounded like ‘Ah hum.’

Drake looked at him curiously.

‘Phlegmatic as ever,’ he remarked. ‘Don’t know how you manage it. How long is it since you went home?’

‘Seven years—nearer eight.’

‘It’s a long time. Wonder you haven’t gone completely native.’

‘Perhaps I have.’

‘You always did belong to Our Dumb Friends rather than to the human race! Planned out your leave?’

‘Well—yes—partly.’

The bronze impassive face took a sudden and a deeper brick-red tinge.

Allen Drake said with lively astonishment:

‘I believe there’s a girl! Damn it all, you are blushing!’

Thomas Royde said rather huskily: ‘Don’t be a fool!’

And he drew very hard on his ancient pipe.

He broke all previous records by continuing the conversation himself.

‘Dare say,’ he said, ‘I shall find things a bit changed.’

Allen Drake said curiously:

‘I’ve always wondered why you chucked going home last time. Right at the last minute, too.’

Royde shrugged his shoulders.

‘Thought that shooting trip might be interesting. Bad news from home about then.’

‘Of course. I forgot. Your brother was killed—in that motoring accident.’

Thomas Royde nodded.

Drake reflected that, all the same, it seemed a curious reason for putting off a journey home. There was a mother—he believed a sister also. Surely at such a time—then he remembered something. Thomas had cancelled his passage before the news of his brother’s death arrived.

Allen looked at his friend curiously. Dark horse, old Thomas!