Colour Scheme. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ him. ‘If I may I should like to see my rooms.’

      He turned to Mrs Claire. ‘Dikon tells me you have taken an enormous amount of trouble on my behalf. It’s very kind indeed. Thank you so much.’ And Dikon saw that with this one speech, delivered with Gaunt’s famous air of gay sincerity, he had captivated Mrs Claire. She beamed at him. ‘I shall try not to be troublesome,’ Gaunt added. And to Mr Questing: ‘Right.’

      They went in procession along the verandah. Mr Questing, still uncovered, led the way.

      II

      Barbara sat on the edge of her stretcher bed in her small hot room and looked at two dresses. Which should she wear for dinner on the first night? Neither of them was new. The red lace had been sent out two years ago by her youngest aunt who had worn it a good deal in India. Barbara had altered it to fit herself and something had gone wrong with the shoulders, so that it bulged where it should lie flat. To cover this defect she had attached a black flower to the neck. It was a long dress and she did not as a rule change for dinner. Simon might make some frightful comment if she wore the red lace. The alternative was a short floral affair, thick blue colour with a messy yellow design. She had furbished it up with a devilish shell ornament and a satin belt and even poor Barbara wondered if it was a success. Knowing that she should be in the kitchen with Huia, she pulled off her print, dragged the red lace over her head and looked at herself in the inadequate glass. No, it would never become her dress, it would always hark back to unknown Aunty Wynne who two years ago had written: ‘Am sending a box of odds and ends for Ba. Hope she can wear red.’ But could she? Could she plunge about in the full light of day in this ownerless waif of a garment with everybody knowing she had dressed herself up? She peered at her face, which was slightly distorted by the glass. Suddenly she hauled the dress over her head, fighting with the stuffy-smelling lace. ‘Barbara,’ her mother called. ‘Where are you? Ba!’ ‘Coming!’ Well, it would have to be the floral.

      But when, hot and desperate, she had finally dressed, and covered the floral with a clean overall, she pressed her hands together. ‘Oh God,’ she thought, ‘make him like it here! Please dear God, make him like it.’

      III

      ‘Can you possibly endure it?’ Dikon asked.

      Gaunt was lying full length on the modern sofa. He raised his arms above his head. ‘All,’ he whispered, ‘I can endure all but Questing. Questing must be kept from me.’

      ‘But I told you –’

      ‘You amaze me with your shameless parrot cry of “I told you so”,’ said Gaunt mildly. ‘Let us have no more of it.’ He looked out of the corner of his eye at Dikon. ‘And don’t look so tragic, my good ass,’ he added. ‘I’ve been a small-part touring actor in my day. This place is strangely reminiscent of a one-night fit-up. No doubt I can endure it. I should be dossing down in an Anderson shelter, by God. I do well to complain. Only spare me Questing, and I shall endure the rest.’

      ‘At least we shall be spared his conversation this evening. He has a previous engagement. Lest he offer to put it off, I told him you would be desolated but had already arranged to dine in your rooms and go to bed at nine. So away he went.’

      ‘Good. In that case I shall dine en famille and go to bed when it amuses me. I have yet to meet Mr Smith, remember. Is it too much to hope that he will stage another fight?’

      ‘It seems he only gets drunk when his remittance comes in.’ Dikon hesitated and then asked: ‘What did you think of the Claires, sir?’

      ‘Marvellous character parts. Overstated, of course. Not quite West End. A number-one production on tour, shall we say? The Colonel’s moustache is a little too thick in both senses.’

      Dikon felt vaguely resentful. ‘You captivated Mrs Claire,’ he said.

      Gaunt ignored this. ‘If one could take them as they are,’ he said. ‘If one could persuade them to appear in those clothes and speak those lines! My dear, they’d be a riot. Miss Claire! Dikon, I didn’t believe she existed.’

      ‘Actually,’ said Dikon stiffly, ‘she’s rather attractive. If you look beyond her clothes.’

      ‘You’re a remarkably swift worker if you’ve been able to do that.’

      ‘They’re extraordinarily kind and, I think, very nice.’

      ‘Until we arrived you never ceased to exclaim against them. Why have you bounced round to their side all of a sudden?’

      ‘I only said, sir, that I thought you would be bored by them.’

      ‘On the contrary I’m agreeably entertained. I think they’re all darlings and marvellous comedy. What is your trouble?’

      ‘Nothing. I’m sorry. I’ve just discovered that I like them. I thought,’ said Dikon, smiling a little in spite of himself, ‘that the tableau on the verandah was terribly sad. I wonder how long they’d been grouped up like that.’

      ‘For ages, I should think. The dog was plainly exasperated and young Claire looked lethal.’

      ‘It is rather touching,’ said Dikon and turned away.

      Mrs Claire and Barbara, wearing their garden hats and carrying trowels, went past the window on tiptoe, their faces solemn and absorbed. When they had gone a little way Dikon heard them whispering together.

      ‘In heaven’s name,’ cried Gaunt, ‘why do they stalk about their own premises like that? What are they plotting?’

      ‘It’s because I explained that you liked to relax before dinner. They don’t want to disturb you. I fancy their vegetable garden is round the corner.’

      After a pause Gaunt said: ‘It will end in my feeling insecure and ashamed. Nothing arouses one’s self-abasement more than the earnest amateur. How long have they had this place?’

      ‘About twelve years, I think. Perhaps longer.’

      ‘Twelve years and they are still amateurs!’

      ‘They try so terribly hard,’ Dikon said. He wandered out on to the verandah. Someone was walking slowly round the warm lake towards the springs.

      ‘Hullo,’ Dikon said. ‘We’ve a caller.’

      ‘What do you mean? Be very careful, now. I’ll see no one, remember.’

      ‘I don’t think it’s for us, sir,’ Dikon said. ‘It’s a Maori.’

      It was Rua. He wore the suit he bought in 1936 to welcome the Duke of Gloucester. He walked slowly across the pumice to the house, tapped twice with his stick on the central verandah post and waited tranquilly for someone to take notice of him. Presently Huia came out and gave a suppressed giggle on seeing her great-grandfather. He addressed her in Maori with an air of austerity and she went back into the house. Rua sat on the edge of the verandah and rested his chin on his stick.

      ‘Do you know, sir,’ said Dikon, ‘I believe it might be for us, after all? I’ve recognised the old gentleman.’

      ‘I won’t see anybody,’ said Gaunt. ‘Who is he?’

      ‘He’s a Maori version of СКАЧАТЬ