Idaho was a disappointment too. Ernie Chubbs, who said he knew the region well, assured me it was where the Old West still was; but needless to say that wasn’t true. A lifetime’s dream was shattered – not that I expected to find the winding trails just as they had been shown to me, but at least there might have been something reminiscent of them, at least there might have been a smell of leather. ‘You’re simple, Emily,’ the big doctor who came to the Café Rose used to say. And yes, I suppose I am: I cannot help myself. I’m simple and I’m sentimental.
‘How long is it?’ I asked. ‘How long have I lain here?’
But the Italian nurses only smiled and rearranged my pillows. I worried about how long it was; yet a moment later – or perhaps it wasn’t a moment – that didn’t matter in the least. The Idaho of Ernie Chubbs – his going out on business, the waiting in the motel room – must have made me moan, because the nurses comforted me again. When they did, the Old West filled my thoughts, driving everything else away. In the Gaiety Cinema there were no curtains to the screen. On to the bare, pale expanse came the holsters and the sweat-bands of the huge-brimmed hats, the feathered Indians falling one by one, the rough and tumble of the fist fights. I was seven, and eight, and nine, when Dietrich sang. ‘See what the boys in the back room will have,’ she commanded in her peremptory manner, ‘And tell them I’ll have the same.’ In my sedated tranquillity I heard that song again; and the Idaho of Ernie Chubbs seemed gone for ever. Young men I have myself given life to whispered lines of love to happy girls. The Wedding March played, bouquets were thrown by brides. The Café Rose might not have existed either.
*
‘Quinty.’
‘Rest yourself, now.’
‘There were other people. A young man and his girl who talked in German. Americans. Italians in dark suits. A woman in the fashion business. Three English people. Are they here too, Quinty?’
‘They are of course.’
‘Quinty, will you find out? Find out and tell me. Please.’
‘Don’t upset yourself with that type of thing.’
‘Are they dead, Quinty?’
‘I’ll ask.’
But he didn’t move away from my bedside. He visited me to see if there were grounds for hope, promise of a relapse. His eyes were like two black gimlets; I closed my own. Little Bonny Maye was employed in Toupe’s Better Value Store, attaching prices to the shelved goods with a price-gun. Small discs of adhesive paper, each marked with an appropriate figure, were punched on to the surface of cans and packets. At certain hours of the day she worked a till.
Little Bonny Maye was taken up by Dorothy, an older girl from the table-tennis club. Dorothy was secretary to a financier and had been privately educated. Her voice was beautiful, and so was Dorothy herself. Bonny couldn’t think why she’d been taken up, and even if Dorothy had a way of asking her to do things for her rather a lot Bonny still appreciated the friendship more than any she had known. She was only too gratefuclass="underline" all the time with Dorothy that was what Bonny thought. Her single anxiety was that some silliness on her part would ruin everything.
‘Did you ever read that story of mine, Quinty? Little Bonny Maye? I was surprised to hear myself asking Quinty that. It wasn’t our usual kind of conversation. He said:
‘It’s great you have your stories.’
‘I thought about them in the Café Rose.’
‘You told me that.’
‘I don’t remember telling you.’
‘You had a drink or two in, the time you told me.’
The three words of the title were blue on the amber of the book-jacket, the two girls illustrated below. I must have said so because Quinty nodded. Soon afterwards he went away. He might even have guessed I had begun to hear the girls’ voices.
‘Dear, there is an “h” in “house”, you know.’ Dorothy could bring out Bonny’s blushes, hardly making an effort. When they went on holiday together, while Bonny fetched and carried for the older girl, Dorothy drew up a list of words that Bonny should take special care with. ‘Our fork belongs on our plate, not in the air. I had a nanny who said that.’
When I dozed, the pain in my face sometimes dulled to a tightness and for the first time, probably, I tried to smile. The two girls were on holiday in Menton, and when Blane came into their lives he naturally took Dorothy out, leaving poor Bonny to mooch about on her own, since it wouldn’t have been right for her to tag along. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Of course not.’ She tried to keep her spirits up by eating ice-cream or going to look at the yachts.
I was aware of making no effort whatsoever. I controlled nothing. Faces and words and voices flowed over me. ‘Such an unhappy thing!’ Blane exclaimed. ‘Such rotten luck!’ Dorothy had developed appendicitis. An ambulance had come. ‘You need a cognac,’ Blane insisted. ‘Or a Cointreau. No, Bonny, I absolutely insist. Poor girl, how wretched for you too!’ Dorothy’s holiday was a write-off. Every morning Blane called for Bonny in his Peugeot and drove her to the bedside of her friend, who usually had made a list of things she wanted. Afterwards Blane and Bonny lunched together in the Petit Es-cargot.
Three months ago Blane had inherited Mara Hall, a great house in its own park in Shropshire. But as soon as he had done so he left England, being fearful of the house even though he loved it.
‘My mother died when I was one and a half. There was always just my father and myself.’
‘No brothers or sisters, Blane?’
‘No brothers or sisters.’
Bonny thought how lonely that must have been: a boy growing up in a great house with only his father and the servants for company. His father was severe, expecting a lot of his heir.
‘I’m a coward, I dare say. I’d give the world to take everything in my stride. I’m running away. I know that, Bonny.’
‘Was your father – ’
‘My father did things perfectly. He was a strong man. He married the woman he loved and never looked at another. The servants and his tenants adored him.’
There was a head gardener at Mara Hall, and several under-gardeners. There was a butler and a cook and old retainers in the way of maids, all of whom had been there as long as Blane could remember. Once there’d been footmen, but that was ages ago.
Mara Hall was more vivid than the shadows of nurses whose speech I did not understand, and the odour of an-aesthetic: the lawns and the tea roses, the mellow brick of the house itself and of the kitchen-garden walls, the old ornamental ironwork. I felt as Bonny felt – overawed with wonder. Bonny had not been abandoned in a bleak seaside town by a couple who rode a Wall of Death; but something like it was in Bonny’s past, even if it did not come out in the story. I felt that strongly now; I never had before.
‘It sounds so lovely, Blane. Your home.’
‘Yes, it’s lovely.’
They walked in the evenings on the promenade. He would marry Dorothy, Bonny thought, and take her to Mara Hall. Dorothy was capable as well as beautiful. Dorothy would gently lead him back to his responsibilities. He would become as strong as his father; he would do things as perfectly.
‘Dear Bonny,’ he said, in a tone that made her hold her breath. She could not speak. The sea was a sheet of glass, reflecting the tranquil azure of the sky. ‘Dear Bonny,’ he said again.
The doctors who attended me conferred. One spoke in English, smiling, telling me I had made progress, saying they were pleased.
‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ I replied.
‘You have been courageous, signora,’ the same doctor said. ‘And patient, signora.’
They passed on, both nodding a satisfied farewell at me. Blane took the modest creature’s arm; she trembled at the touch because no man had ever taken Bonny Maye’s arm before. No man had ever called her dear. She’d never known a heart’s companion.