Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard that he had gone to Paris for some months, as was often his custom when the climate of London had begun to get on his nerves. He had drifted away like thistledown, without so much as a word of warning. He had not said goodbye nor had he written, so that Stephen felt that she had never known him, so completely did he go out of her life during his sojourn in Paris. Later on she was to learn, when she knew him better, that these disconcerting lapses of interest, amounting as they did to a breach of good manners, were highly characteristic of the man, and must of necessity be accepted by all who accepted Jonathan Brockett.
And now here he was back again in England, sitting next to Stephen at the Carringtons’ luncheon. And as though they had met but a few hours ago, he took her up calmly just where he had left her. “May I come in tomorrow?”
“Well—I’m awfully busy.”
“But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.”
“I’m afraid she’ll be out.”
“Then I’ll just sit and wait until she comes in; I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
“Oh, no, Brockett, please don’t; I should know you were there and that would disturb me.”
“I see. A new book?”
“Well, no—I’m trying to write some short stories; I’ve got a commission from The Good Housewife.”
“Sounds thrifty. I hope you’re getting well paid.” Then after a rather long pause: “How’s Raftery?”
For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition, regretted his question. “Not … not. …” he stammered.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “Raftery’s dead—he went lame. I shot him.”
He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery’s death could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to shoot Raftery.
She thought: “What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he actually feels something almost like grief—it’s my grief he’s getting—and tomorrow, of course, he’ll forget all about it.”
Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him in contact—a strong brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration.
II
For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening.
“You’ll get awfully little to eat,” warned Stephen, who was tired to death and who did not want him.
“Oh, all right, I’ll bring some dinner along,” he said blithely, and with that he hung up the receiver.
At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded like a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box containing the lobster salad.
He thrust the box into Stephen’s hands. “Here, you take it—it’s dripping. Can I have a wash rag?” But after a moment he forgot the new gloves. “I’ve raided Fortnum and Mason—such fun—I do love eating things out of cardboard boxes. Hallo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? A nice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it’s got a ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait a minute—what’s it called? Oh, yes, a baronia—it’s so humble to have such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful—don’t rock the lobster about like that. I told you the thing was dripping!”
He dumped his parcels on to the hall table.
“I’ll take them along to the kitchen,” smiled Puddle.
“No, I will,” said Brockett, collecting them again, “I’ll do the whole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people’s kitchens.”
He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood—the mood when his white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was too high and his movements too small for the size of his broad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to dread him in this mood; there was something almost aggressive about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing off like a child at a Christmas party.
She said sharply: “If you’ll wait, I’ll ring for the maid.” But Brockett had already invaded the kitchen.
She followed, to find the cook looking offended.
“I want lots and lots of dishes,” he announced. Then unfortunately he happened to notice the parlourmaid’s washing, just back from the laundry.
“Brockett, what on earth are you doing?”
He had put on the girl’s ornate frilled cap, and was busily tying on her small apron. He paused for a moment. “How do I look? What a perfect duck of an apron!”
The parlourmaid giggled and Stephen laughed. That was the worst of Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in spite of yourself—when you most disapproved you found yourself laughing.
The food he had brought was the oddest assortment: lobster, caramels, pâté de foies gras, olives, a tin of rich-mixed biscuits and a Camembert cheese that was smelling loudly. There was also a bottle of Rose’s lime-juice and another of ready-made cocktails. He began to unpack the things one by one, clamouring for plates and entrée dishes. In the process he made a great mess on the table by upsetting most of the lobster salad.
He swore roundly. “Damn the thing, it’s too utterly bloody! It’s
