Classic Audiobook Collection - The Garden Party, and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield ~ Full Audiobook [drama]

Episode Date: November 19, 2024

The Garden Party, and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield audiobook. Genre: drama Katherine Mansfield's The Garden Party, and Other Stories gathers a vivid selection of her most celebrated short fiction, capturing ordinary moments that suddenly sharpen into revelations. Moving between sunlit lawns, cramped boarding houses, bustling city streets, and quiet family rooms, these stories follow children on the edge of adulthood, young women testing the roles set for them, and families whose polite routines hide tenderness, envy, grief, and longing. In the title story, an affluent household prepares an elegant garden party, but an unexpected death in the nearby working-class neighborhood forces a young woman to confront the fragile boundary between privilege and suffering. Across the collection, Mansfield's characters navigate social expectations, class divisions, and private inner lives that rarely match the faces they show the world. With precise detail and an unmistakable musicality, Mansfield turns small incidents - a conversation at breakfast, a new hat, a passing encounter - into charged dramas of perception. These stories invite listeners to linger in the unspoken, where meaning gathers in pauses, gestures, and fleeting thoughts that can change everything. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:40:14) Chapter 02 (01:22:40) Chapter 03 (01:55:28) Chapter 04 (02:38:44) Chapter 05 (02:58:41) Chapter 06 (03:11:58) Chapter 07 (03:26:38) Chapter 08 (03:50:29) Chapter 09 (04:09:36) Chapter 10 (04:21:22) Chapter 11 (04:36:53) Chapter 12 (04:51:25) Chapter 13 (05:18:31) Chapter 14 (05:26:38) Chapter 15 (05:41:41) Chapter 16 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Garden Party and other stories by Catherine Mansfield At the Bay, parts one to six. One Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea mist. The big bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it.

There were no white dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them. There was nothing to mask which was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall. The silvery, fluffy toy toy was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were the cold fuchs, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves.

It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, rippling. How far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone again. Ah, ah, sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny bashing. and out again, and there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else. What was it? A faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig, and then such a silence that it seemed someone was listening. Around the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small tossing woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted along quickly as

as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheepdog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway, the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man in a freeze coat

that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was covered, crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side.

The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes. They began to bleat and to ghostly flocks and herds, answered them from under the sea. Baa! Baa! For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles, the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view,

an enormous shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubb's shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of eucalymp, and now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling. He rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising.

It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape. Big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. the far-away sky a bright pure blue was reflected in the puddles and the drops swimming along the telegraph poles flashed into points of light now the leaping glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it the shepherd drew a pipe the bowl as small as an acorn out of his breast pocket fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl It was a grave, fine-looking old man.

As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. Baa! The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy head. Their cry sounded in the dreams of little children, who lifted their arms to drag down,

to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared. It was the Bernal's cat, Flory, sitting on the gate-post, far too early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog, she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. What a coarse, revolting creature, said Flory. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to side.

only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw and thought her a silly young female. The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and perching on the tip-top of a spray

it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, past the child-looking little worry, where Layla the milk girl lived with her old gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and wag the sheepdog paddled after, rounded them up and headed them

for the steeper, narrower, rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards daylight cove. Ma! Ma! Faint, the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast pocket

so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway, the soft soft, airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along the ledge of rock after something that smelled and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. Two. A few minutes later the back door of one of the bungalows opened and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared the style, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for deer.

life over the big porous stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, onto the hard sand that gleamed like oil. Splish-splosh, splish-splosh! The water bubbled round his legs as Stanley Bernel waded out, exulting. First man in, as usual, he'd beaten them all again, and he swooped down to souse his head and neck. Hail, brother, all hail thou mighty one! A velvety-base voice came booming over the water. "'Great Scott! Damnation'd take it. Stanley lifted up to see a dark head bobbing far out, "'and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout there before him. "'Glorious morning,' sang the boys. "'Yes, very fine,' said Stanley briefly.

"'Why the dickens didn't the fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to this exact spot?' Stanley gave a kick, a lunge, and struck out, swimming over arm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair, sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. I had an extraordinary dream last night, he shouted. What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same, always some piffle about a dream he'd had

or some cranky idea he'd got hold of or some rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with his legs. until he was a living water spout. But even then, I dreamt I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to someone below. He would be, thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it.

He stopped splashing. Look here, Trout, he said. I'm in rather a hurry this morning. You're what? Jonathan was so surprised, or pretended to be, that he sank under the water, then reappeared again, blowing.

All I mean is, said, Stanley, I've no time to fall about. I want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've worked to do this morning. See? Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. Bass, friend, said the bass voice gently,

and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple. But curse the fellow, it ruined Stanley's bath. What an unpractical idiot the man was. Stanley struck out to sea again and then as quickly swam in again and away he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated. Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell.

True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. He couldn't help feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he'd come. At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty. And now there came another. That was the way to live, carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got onto his feet and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand, to take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it,

that was what was needed. It was this tension that was all wrong. To live, to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, busking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty seemed to whisper, why not? But now he was out of the water, Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached all over. It was as though someone was. wringing the blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt his bath was spoiled. He'd stayed in too long. Three. Beryl was alone in the living room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily clean and brushed. He was going to town for the day.

Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. "'I've just got twenty-five minutes,' he said. "'You might just go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?' "'Mother's just gone for it,' said Beryl. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea. "'Thanks,' Stanley took a sip. "'Allo,' he said, in an astonished voice, "'you've forgotten the sugar.'

"'Oh, sorry.' But even then Beryl didn't help him. She pushed the basin across. "'What did this mean?' As Stanley helped himself, his blue eyes widened. They seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and leant back. Nothing wrong is there, he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. Beryl's head was bent. She turned her plate in her fingers.

Nothing, said her light voice. Then she too looked up and smiled at Stanley. Why, should there be? Oh, no reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather... at that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared each carrying a porridge plate they were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers their brown legs were bare and each had her hair plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse's tail behind them came mrs fairfield with the tray carefully children she warned but they were taking the very greatest care they loved being allowed to carry things have you said good morning to your father yes grandma They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl.

Good morning, Stanley. Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. Morning, mother, how's the boy? Splendid, he only wake up once last night. What a perfect morning. The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide open window streamed the sun onto the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was an old salad bowl

filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. "'You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother,' said Stanley. "'I've only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. "'Has anyone given my shoes to the servant girl?' "'Yes, they're ready for you,' Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. "'Oh, Kesea, why? you such a messy child, cried Beryl despairingly.

Me, Aunt Beryl, Kiesia stared at her. What had she done now? She had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it and was eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning and no one had said a word up till now. Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie? How unfair grown-ups are. But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you Lottie? I don't, said Isabel. smartly. I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with

their food. Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. Would you get me those shoes, Mother? And Beryl, if you finished, I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run into your mother, Isabelle, and ask where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a minute. Have you children been playing with my stick? No father. But I put it here, Stanley began to bluster. I remember distinctly putting it in this corner. Now who's had it? There's no time to lose. Look sharp. The stick's got to be found. Even Alice, the servant girl, was drawn into the chase. You haven't been using it to poke the kitchen fire by any chance. Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. Most extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself.

They've made away with my stick now. Stick, dear? What stick? Linda's vagueness on these occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathise with him? Coach! Coach Stanley! Beryl's voice cried from the gate. Stanley waved his arm to Linda. No time to say goodbye, he cried, and he meant that as a punishment to her. He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house and swung down the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over the open gate, was laughing up at

somebody or other just as if nothing had happened. The heartlessness of women. The way they took it for granted, it was your job to slave away from them while they didn't even take the trouble to see that your walking stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his whip across the horses. Goodbye Stanley, called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough to say goodbye, and there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with a hand. The worst of it was, Stanley had to shout goodbye too for the of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him. Yes, she was thankful. Into the living room she ran and called, he's gone. Linda cried to her from her room, Beryl, has Stanley gone? Old Mrs. Fairfield appeared carrying the boy in his little

flannel coatie. Gone. Gone. Oh, the relief. The difference it made to have the man out of the house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another. They sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over to the table. Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot. She wanted somehow to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked now. There was no man to disturb them. The whole perfect day was theirs. No, thank you, child, said old Mrs. Fairfield. But the way at that moment she tossed the boy up and said, a goose, a goose cigar to him, meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like chickens let out of a coop.

Even Alice, the servant girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless fashion. Oh, these men, said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and held it under the water, even after it had stopped the bubbling, as if it too was a man, and drowning was too good for them. Four. Wait for me, Isabelle. Keys here, wait for me. There was poor little Lottie left behind again, because she found it so fearfully hard to get over the style by herself. When she stood on the first step, her knees began to wobble, she grasped the post. Then you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of

stamp of despair, then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice. Wait for me! No, don't you wait for her, Kizia, said Isabel. She's such a little silly, she's always making a fuss. Come on! And she tugged Kizier's jersey.

You can use my bucket if you come with me, she said kindly. It's bigger than yours. But Kizier couldn't leave Lottie all by herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie. was very red in the face and breathing heavily. Here, put your other foot over, said Keizier. Where? Lottie looked down at Keizier as if from a mountain height.

Here, where my hand is, Keizier patted the place. Oh, there do you mean? Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot over. Now sort of turn round and sit down and slide, said Keizier. But there's nothing to sit down on, Keizier, said Lottie. She managed it at last, and once it was over, she shook herself and began to beam. I'm getting better at climbing over styles, aren't I, Keizier? Lotties was a very hopeful nature. The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabelle's bright red sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill.

At the top they paused to decide where to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating large, with their spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their lady help, who sat on a camp stool and kept order with a whistle that she wore tired round her neck and a small cane with which she directed operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girl's necks

or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys' pockets. So Mrs. S.J. and the poor lady help drew up what she called a programme every morning to keep them abused and out of bishop. It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything began with a piercing blast of the lady help's whistle and ended with another. There were even prizes, large rather dirty paper parcels which the lady help with a sile little smile drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully. for the prizes and cheated and pinched one another's arms. They were all expert pinchers. The only time the Bernal children ever played with them, Kizier had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper, she found a very small, rusty button hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a fuss. But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties at the bay,

and there was always the same food, a big wash-hand, bait. and a very brown fruit salad, buns cut into four, and a wash-hand jug full of something the lady helped called limonet deer. And you went away in the evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled all down the front of your open work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Joseph's leaping like savages on their lawn. No, they were too awful. On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little boys,

their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other patted in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They were the trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip were so busy digging and rags were so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they were quite close. Look, said Pip, look what I've discovered! And he showed them an old, wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared.

Whatever are you going to do with it? asked Kesea. Keep it, of course. was very scornful. It's a find, see? Yes, Kesea saw that, all the same. There's a lot of things buried in the sand, explained Pip. They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure, why, you might find. But why does rags have to keep on pouring water in, asked Lottie. Oh, that's to moisten it, said Pip, to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, rags. And good little rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown like cocoa. here, shall I show you what I found yesterday? said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand.

Promise not to tell. They promised. Say, cross my heart, straight dinkum. The little girl said it. Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. Now turn around, he ordered. They turned round. All look the same way. Keep still. Now. And his hand opened. He held up to the light something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green. It's a nemeral, said Pip solemnly. Is it really, Pip? Even Isabel was impressed. The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Auntie Berald had a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as a star

and far more beautiful. 5 As the morning lengthened, whole parties appeared over the sand hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at 11 o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to themselves.

First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags, then the children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes, the big summer hats with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield

in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped while their grandma sat with one hand in her knitting bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied they were safely in. The firm, compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pips and rags,

shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Keesia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding that they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn't follow at all.

She liked to be left to go her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again. Here, mother, keep those for me, will you? Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs. Fairfield's lap. Yes, dear, but don't you going to bathe here? No, Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. I'm undressing farther along.

I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kemper. Very well. But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs. Harry Kemper. Beryl knew it. Poor old mother. She smiled as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother. Old. Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. "'You look very pleased,' said Mrs. Harry Kemper. "'She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. "'It's such a lovely day,' said Beryl, smiling down at her. "'Oh, my dear!'

Mrs. Harry Kemper's voice sounded as though she knew better than that. "'But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something better about you than you did yourself. "'She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. her face too was long and narrow and exhausted looking even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered she was the only woman at the bay who smoked and she smoked incessantly keeping the cigarette between her lips while she talked and only taking it out when the ash was so long you could not understand why it did not fall

when she was not playing bridge she played bridge every day of her life she spent her time lying in the full glare of the sun She could stand any amount of it. She never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched out on the stones like a piece of tossed up driftwood. The women at the bay thought she was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care tuppence about her house and called the servant Gladys was disgraceful. Standing on the veranda steps, Mrs. Kemper would call in her indifferent, tired voice, I say, glad eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I've got one, will you?

And glad eyes, a red bow and a hair instead of a cap and white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal. True, she had no children and her husband. Here the voices were always raised. They became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he? How can he? It must have been money, of course, but even then. Mrs. Kemper's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow, sleepy smile,

a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and with it all, a mystery. Harry Kemper was like a man walking in his sleep. men couldn't stand him they couldn't get a word out of the chap he ignored his wife just as she ignored him how did he live of course there were stories but such stories they simply couldn't be told

the women he'd been seen with the places he'd been seen in but nothing was ever certain nothing definite some of the women at the bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day yes even while they talked to mrs kember and took in the awful concoction she was wearing they saw her stretched as she lay on the beach, but cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. Mrs. Kemper rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle,

and tugged at the tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey and stood up in her short white petticoat and her camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders. Mercy on us, said Mrs. Harry Kemper, what a little beauty you are. Don't, said Beryl softened. but drawing off one stocking and then the other she felt a little beauty.

My dear, why not? said Mrs. Harry Kemper, stamping on her own petticoat. Really, her underclothes. A pair of blue cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillowcase. And you don't wear stays, do you? She touched Beryl's waist and Beryl sprang away with a small affected cry. Then never, she said firmly. "'Lucky little creature,' sighed Mrs. Kemper, unfastening her own. Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of someone who was trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing suit all at one at the same time. "'Oh, my dear, don't mind me,' said Mrs. Harry Kemper.

"'Why be shy? I shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like all those other ninnies.' And she gave her strange, neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs. Harry Kemper made her feel it was silly, even something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed? She glanced quickly at her friend, standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette, and quick, bold, evil feelings started up in her breast. Laughing recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing dress that was not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. That's better, said Mrs. Harry Kemper.

They began to go down to the beach together. Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody's got to tell you some day. The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous, transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold. When you kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold dust. Now the waves just reached her breast.

Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump so that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. I believe in pretty girls having a good time, said Mrs. Harry Kemper. Why not? Don't you make a mistake, my dear? Enjoy yourself. And suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat.

Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how horrible. As Mrs. Harry Kemper came up close, she looked in her black waterproof bathing cap with her sleepy face lifted above the water,

just her chin touching like a horrible caricature of her husband. Six. In a steamer, chair under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Bernal dreamt the morning away. She did nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower dropped on her. Pretty, yes, if you held one of those flowers on the palm of your hand and looked at it closely,

it was an exquisite small thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell, and when you turned it over, the outside was a deep bronze colour, but as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them off your frock as you talked, the horrid little things got caught in one's hair. Why then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble, or the joy to make all these things that are wasted, wasted? It was uncanny. On the grass beside, lying between two pillows was the boy. Sound asleep, he lay.

His head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that everybody was down at the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had the garden to herself. She was alone.

dazzling white the picketies shone The golden-eyed marigold glittered The nasturtium's wreath The verandah poles in green and gold flame If only one had time to look at these flowers long enough Time to get over the sense of novelty and strangeness Time to know them But as soon as one paused to part the petals

To discover the underside of the leaf Along came life and one was swept away And lying in a cane-chair Linda felt so light, she felt like a leaf. Along came life like a wind, and she was seized and shaken. She had to go. Oh dear, would it always be so? Was there no escape? Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home leaning against her father's knee, and he promised, as soon as you and I are old enough Lenny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys together. I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China. Linda saw that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the yellow

hats of the boatmen, and she heard their high, thin voices, as they called. Yes, Papa. But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly, even uncovered. Linda's father pulled her ear teasingly in the way he had. Linney's bow, he whispered. Oh, Papa, fancy being married to Stanley Bernal. Well, she was married to him, and what was more, she loved him. Not the Stanley whom everyone saw, not the everyday one, but a timid, sensitive, innocent Stanley, who knelt down every night to say his prayers,

and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed in people, as he believed in her, for instance, it was with his whole heart. He could not be disloyal He could not tell a lie And how terribly he suffered If he thought anyone

She was not being dead straight Dead sincere with him This is too subtle for me He flung out the words But his open, quivering, distraught look Was like the look of a trapped beast But the trouble was He elender felt almost inclined to laugh

Though heaven knows it was no laughing matter She saw her Stanley so seldom There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm. But all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent in rescuing him and restoring him and calming him down and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the dread of having children.

Linda frowned. She sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was a real grudge against life. That was what she could not understand. That was a question she asked and asked and listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one, could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak. Her courage was gone through childbearing. and what made it doubly hard to bear was she did not love her children. It was useless pretending.

Even if she had had the strength, she would never have nursed and played with the little girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and through on each of those awful journeys. She had no warmth left to give them. As to the boy, well, thank heaven, mother had taken him. He was mothers or barrels or anybody's who wanted him. She'd hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay there, Linda glanced down. The boy had turned over.

He lay facing her and he was no longer asleep. His dark blue baby eyes were open. He looked as though he was peeping at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled, it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. I'm here, that happy smile. smile seemed to say, why don't you like me? There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that that Linda smiled herself, but she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, I don't like

babies. Don't like babies? The boy couldn't believe her. Don't like me. He waved his arms foolishly at his mother. Linda dropped off her chair onto the grass. Why do you keep on smiling? she said severely. If you knew what I was thinking about you, you wouldn't. But he only squeezed up his eyes slyly and rolled his head on the pillow. He didn't believe a word, she said. We all know about that, smiled the boy. Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature.

Ah, no, be sincere, that was not what she felt. It was something far different. It was something so new, so... The tears danced in her eyes. She breathed in a small whisper to the boy, Hello, my funny. But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. Something pink, something soft,

waved in front of him. He made a grab at it, and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another like the first appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a tremendous effort and rolled right over. End of Section 1 Section 2 of The Garden Party and other stories

This Librevox recording is in the public domain Read by Peter Dan At the Bay Parts 7 to 12 7 The tide was out The beach was deserted lazily flopped the warm sea

The sun beat down Beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the little drops of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells. It bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the sand hills.

Nothing seemed to move but the small sandhoppers. Bit, bit, bit, they were never still. Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at the low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced, they quivered,

and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Looking down, bending over, each pull was like a lake with pink and blue houses clustered on the shores, and oh, the vast mountainous country behind those houses, the ravines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and fearful tracks that led to the water's edge.

Underneath waved the sea forest, pink thread-like trees velvet an enemies and orange berry-spotted weeds now a stone at the bottom moved rocked and there was a glimpse of a black feeler now a thread-like creature wavered by and was lost

something was happening to the pink waving trees they were changing to a cold moonlight blue and now there sounded the faintest plop who made that sound what was going on down there and how strong how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun.

The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were exhausted-looking-dresses and rough-striped towels. Each back window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps of rock or a bucket or a collection of power shells. The bush quivered in a haze of heat. The sandy road was empty except. for the Trout's dog Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it.

His blue eye was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional desperate sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end of it, and was only waiting for some kind of cart to come along. "'What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and staring at the wall?' Kizier and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little girl, wearing only her short drawers,

her under bodice, her arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows on her grandma's bed, and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at the window with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light varnished wood, and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange. It was as though a little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a gyre of sea pinks, pressed so tightly together they looked more like

a velvet pin cushion, and a special shell which Keizier had given her grandma for a pin tray, and another even more special which she thought would make a very nice place for a watch to curl up in. Tell me, Grandma, said Keesia. The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through. She was casting on. I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling, she said quietly. My Australian Uncle William said Keesia. She had another.

Yes, of course. The one I never saw. That was the one. Well, what happened to him? Kizier knew perfectly well, but she wanted to be told again. He went to the mines and he got a sunstroke there and died, said old Mrs. Fairfield. Kiesia blinked and considered the picture again, a little man fallen over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole.

Does it make you sad to think about him, Grandma? She hated her grandma to be sad. It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look back, back, to stare down the years as Kesey's. had seen her doing, to look after them as a woman does long after they were out of sight. Did it make her sad? No, life was like that. No, Kesea. But why? asked Kesea. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things in the air. Why did Uncle William have to die?

He wasn't old. Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. It just happened, she said in an absorbed voice. Does everybody have to die? asked Keizier. Everybody. Me? Kesea sounded fearfully incredulous. Someday, my darling. But Grandma, Kizia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They felt sandy.

What if I just won't? The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. We're not asked, Kizia, she said sadly. It will happen to all of us sooner or later. Kizier lay still thinking this over. She didn't want to die. It meant she would have to leave here. Leave everywhere, forever.

Leave. Leave her grandma. She rolled over quickly. Grandma, she said in a startled voice. What, my pet? You're not going to die. Kizier was very decided. Ah, Kizia. Her grandma looked up and smiled.

Mild and shook her head. Don't let's talk about it. But you're not to. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there. This was awful. Promise me you won't ever do it, Grandma, pleaded Kesea. The old woman went on knitting. Promise me! Say, never! But still her grandma was silent. Kizier rolled off her bed. She couldn't bear it any longer, and lightly she leapt onto her grandma's knees, clasped her hands around the old woman's throat

and began kissing her under the chin, behind the ear, and blowing down her neck. Say never, say never, say never! She gasped between the kisses, and she began very softly and likely to tickle her grandma. Kizya! The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the rocker, she began to tickle Kizya. Say never, say never, say never, gurgled Kizier while they lay there laughing in each other's arms. "'Gum, that's enough, my squirrel. That's enough my wild pony,' said old Mrs. Fairfield,

setting her cap straight. Pick up my knitting. Both of them had forgotten what the never was about. Eight. The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Bernel shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the gate. It was Alice, the servant girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spruce, spots on it and so many that they made you shudder. White shoes and a leghorn turned up under the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones stained at the fastenings with iron mould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her perishal. Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly washed hair, thought she had

never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with a piece of cork before she darted out, the picture would have been complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common laricon and they'd go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous, they'd have hard work to hide with Alice in that rigout. But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs. Stubbs, who'd sent her an invite by the little boy who called for orders. She had taken ever such a liking to Mrs Stubbs ever since the first time she went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes.

Dear heart, Mrs Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side, I've never seen anyone so eaten, you might have been attacked by canning balls. Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on the road, though, made her feel so queer having nobody behind her, made her feel all weak in the spine. She couldn't believe that someone wasn't watching her, and yet it was silly to turn round, it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, hummed to herself, and said to the distant gum-tree, shan't be long now, but that was hardly company. Mrs. Stubb's shop was purchased on a little hillock just off the road. It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and a sign on the roof, scrawled Mrs. Stubbs, was like a little card stuck rate.

in the hat-crown. On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing dresses, clinging together as though they'd just been rescued from the sea rather than waiting to go in, and beside them they hung a cluster of sand-shoes, so extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted in one that was a little too big. Mrs Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of everything. The two windows arranged in the form of precarious pyramids

were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left corner of one window glued to the pane by four gelatin lozenges, there was, and there had been from time immemorial, a notice. Lost, handsome gold brooch. Solid gold, on or near beach, reward offered. Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red search curtains parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared.

With her broad smile and the long bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice was welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her manners. They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing what was set before her, or understanding what was said. Tea was laid on the parlour table, ham, sardines, a whole pound of butter, and such a large Johnny cake

that it looked like an advertisement for somebody's baking powder. But the primus stove roared so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down on the edge of a basket chair while Mrs Stubbs pumped the stove still higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown paper parcel. I've just had some new photos taken, my dear.

She shouted cheerfully to Alice. Tell me what you think of them. In a very dainty, refined way, Alice wet her finger and put the tissue back from the first one. Life, how many there were. There were three dozen, at least, and she held it up to the light. Mrs. Stubb sat in an armchair,

leaning very much to one side. There was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might be, for though the armchair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, miraculously skirting the carpet border, there was a dashing waterfall. On her right stood a Grecian pillar

with a giant fern tree on either side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with snow. It is a nice style, isn't it? shouted Mrs. Stubbs, and Alice had just screamed, sweetly! When the roaring of the primer stove died down,

fizzled out, ceased. and she said, pretty in a silence that was frightening. Draw up your chair, my dear, said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. Yes, she said thoughtfully as she handed the team, but I don't care about the size. I'm having an enlargement. All very well for Christmas cards, but I never was the one for small photos myself.

You get no comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them disheartening. Alice quite saw what she meant. Sighs, said Mrs. Stubbs, said Mrs. Stubbs. "'Give me size. That was what my poor dear husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small, "'gave him the creeps, and strange as it may seem, my dear.' "'Here Mrs Stubbs creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory. It was dropsy that carried him off at the last. Many's the time they'd drawn one and a half pints from him at the hospital.

It seemed like a judgment.' Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. she ventured. I suppose it was water. But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly. It was liquid, my dear. Liquid. Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing and wary. That's him, said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutting fat. Just below in silver letters on the red cardboard ground were the words, Be not afraid, it is I. It's ever such a fine face, said Alice faintly. The pale blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs' fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had.

It was bright pink where it began, and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to a colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. All the same, my dear, she said surprisingly. Freedom's best. Her soft fat chuckle sounded like a purr. Freedom's best, said Mrs. Stubbs again. Freedom. Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her mind flew back to her own kitchen. Ever so queer. She wanted to be back in it again. Nine. A strange company assembled in the Bernel's wash house after tea. Around the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey, a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked and nobody ever interrupted.

It was a small tin shed standing apart from the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a copper with a basket of clothes pegs on top of it. The little window spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mousetrap on the dusty sill. There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead, and hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with a form at either side. You can't be a bee, Kizya, a bee's not an animal, it's an insect. Oh, but I want to be a bee frightfully, wailed Kesea. A tiny bee, old yellow furry with striped legs.

She drew her legs up under her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. An insect must be an animal, she said stoutly. It makes a noise. It's not like a fish. I'm a bull, I'm a bull, cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous bellow. How did he make that noise that Lottie looked quite alarmed? I'll be a sheep, said little rags.

A whole lot of sheep went past this morning. How do you know? Dad heard them. Ba! He sounded like the little lamb that trots behind and seems to wait to be carried. Pockadoodleoo! Shriled Isabel.

With her round red cheeks and bright eyes, she looked like a rooster. What'll I be? Lottie asked everybody and she sat there smiling waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. Be a donkey, Lottie.

It was Kesea's suggestion. He-ho! You can't forget that. he whore said Lottie solemnly. When do I have to say it? I'll explain, I'll explain, said the bull. It was he who had the cards. He waved them round his head. All be quiet, all listen, and he waited for them. Look here, Lottie, he turned up a card. It's got two spots on it, see? Now if you put that card in the middle and somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say, he whore and the card's yours. Mine, Lottie was round-eyed, to keep.

No, silly, just for the game, see? Just while we're playing. The bull was very cross with her. Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly, said the proud rooster. Lottie looked at both of them, then she hung her head, her lip quivered. I don't want to play, she whispered. The others glanced at one another like conspirators.

All of them knew what that meant. She would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with a penny thrown over her head in a corner or against a wall or even behind a chair. Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite easy, said Kesea. And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up. Watch me, Lottie, and you'll soon learn. Cheer up, Lottie, said Pip. There, I know what I'll do. I'll give you the first one. It's mine, really, but I'll give it to you. Here you are. And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie. Lottie revived at that, but now she was in another difficulty. "'I haven't got a hanky,' she said.

"'I want one badly, too.' "'Here, Lottie, you can use mine.' Rags dipped into his sailor blouse and brought up a very wet-looking one, knotted together. "'Be very careful, Ewonder. Only use that corner. Don't undo it. I've got a little starfish inside. I'm going to try and tame.' "'Oh, come on, you girl,' said the bull. "'And mind, you're not to look at your cards. You've got to keep you. your cards under the table till I say go."

Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there in the wash-house. It was all they could do not to burst into a little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. Now, Lottie, you begin. Timidly, Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, had a good look at it, it was plain she was counting the spots,

and put it down. No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't look first. You must turn it the other way over. But then everybody will see it the same time as me, said Lottie. The game proceeded. The bull was terrible. He charged over the table and seemed to eat the cards up.

Bz, said the bee. Cockadoodle-do. Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows like wings. Ma! Little rags put down the king of diamonds, and Lottie put down the one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left. Why don't you call out, Lottie?

I've forgotten what I am, said the donkey woefully. Well, change, be a dog instead. Bow wow! Oh yes, that's much easier. Lottie smiled again, but when she and Kesea both had a one, Kizier waited on purpose. The others made signs to Lottie and pointed.

Lottie turned very red. She looked bewildered, and at last she said, he-ho, kizia! Shh, wait a minute. They were in the very thick of it when the bull stopped them, holding up his hand. What's that? What's that? What's that noise? What do you mean? asked the rooster. Shh, shut up, listen. They were mouse still. I thought I heard a sort of knocking, said the bull. What was it like? asked the sheep faintly. No answer. The bee gave a shudder.

Whatever did we shut the door for? She said softly. Oh, why had they shut the door? While they were playing, the day had faded. The gorgeous sunset had blazed and died. And now the quick dark came resting over the sea, over the sand hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the wash-house,

and yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled down. The kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece. It would be awful now, said the bull, if a spider was to fall from the ceiling onto the table, wouldn't it? Spiders don't fall from ceilings. Yes, they do.

Our men told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like a gooseberry. Quickly, all the little heads were jerked up. All the little bodies drew together, pressed together. Why doesn't somebody come and call us? cried the rooster. Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamplight, drinking out of cups, they'd forgotten about them. No, not really forgotten.

That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave them all by themselves. Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off the forms. All of them screamed too. A face, a face looking, shrieked Lottie. It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face. black eyes, a black beard.

Grandma, mother, somebody! But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another before it opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. Ten. He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come across Linda, walking up and down the grass,

stopping to pick off a dead pink or give a top heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again with a little air of, remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringed shore from the Chinaman shop. Hello Jonathan, called Linda, and Jonathan whipped off his shabby Panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee and kissed Linda's hand. "'Greeting my fair one! greeting my celestial peach blossom!' boomed the bass voice gently.

"'Where are the other noble dames?' Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's giving the boy his bath. Have you come to borrow something? The trouts were forever running out of things and sending across to the Bernels at the last moment. But Jonathan only answered, A little love, a little kindness, and he walked by his sister-in-law's side.

Linda dropped into Beryl's hammock under the manuka tree, and Jonathan stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried from the other gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along the sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking. It was muffled as though the dog had its head in a sack.

If you listened, you could just hear the soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking. And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan? asked Linda. On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim of another 11 months and a week answered Jonathan Linda swung a little

It must be awful, she said slowly Would you have me laugh, my fair sister? Would you have me weep? Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of talking that she paid no attention to it I suppose she said vaguely one gets used to it one gets used to anything. Does one?

Hmm. The hmm was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath the ground. I wonder how it's done, brooded Jonathan. I've never managed it. Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with Jonathan?

He had no ambition, she supposed that was it. And yet one felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music. Every spare penny he had went on books. It was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans, but nothing ever came of it all. The new fire blazed in Jonathan. He almost heard it roaring softly as he explained,

described and dilated on the new thing, but a moment later it had fallen in, was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church he was the leader of the choir, with such fearful, dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn put on an unholy splendour. It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to the office on Monday, said Jonathan, as it always has done and always will do. To spend all the best she years of one's life sitting on a stool from nine to five, scratching in somebody's ledger.

It's a queer use to make of one's one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream? He rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. Tell me, what is the difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner? The only difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever going to let me out. that's a more intolerable situation than the other for if I'd been pushed in against my will, kicking even, once the door was locked or at any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies

or counting the water's steps along the passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the walls, dashed, against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'm thinking, like that moth or that butterfly or whatever it is, the shortness of life, the shortness of life. I have only one night or one day, and there's this vast, dangerous garden waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored. But if you feel like that, why? began Linda quickly,

"'Ah!' cried Jonathan. And that ah was almost exultant. "'There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There's the maddening, mysterious question. "'Why don't I fly out again? "'There's the window or the door or whatever it was I came in by. "'It's not hopelessly shut, is it? "'Why don't I find it, and be off?

"'Answer me that, little sister.' "'But he gave her no time to answer. I'm exactly like that insect again. For some reason, Jonathan paused between the words. It's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the insect law to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pain even for an instant.

Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriously consider this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me leaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I have two boys to provide for, but after all they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job up country, or...

Suddenly he smiled at Linda, and said in a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret. Weak, weak. No stamina, no anchor, no guiding principle, let us call it. But then the dark, filverty voice rolled out. Would ye hear the story, how it unfolds itself? And they were silent. The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them, as if they would cover the whole sky.

Overhead the blue faded, it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Ormys God, the Ormys. mighty, whose eyes upon you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at his coming, the whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard. The cold, bright angel will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply. But tonight it seemed to linder that there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would

draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. It's all wrong, and it's all wrong, came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. It's not the scene, it's not the setting for three stools, three desks, three inkpots, and a wire blind. Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, Is it too late, even now? I'm old, I'm old, interned Jonathan.

He bent towards him. He passed his hand over his head. Look! His black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. Linda was surprised. She had no idea he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched,

she saw him for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind. He is like a weed. Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine, he murmured.

I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune. He was gone. Eleven. Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Flory the cat came out onto the veranda and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day.

Thank goodness it's getting late, said Flory. Thank goodness, the long day is over. Her green gauge eyes opened. Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly's whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Bernal's gate. Stanley was halfway up to the path before he saw Linda. Is that you, darling?

Yes, Stanley. He leapt across the flower bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. Forgive me, darling, forgive me, stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. Forgive you, smiled Linda, but whatever for. Good God, you can't have forgotten, cried Stanley Bernel. I thought of nothing else all day.

I've had the hell of a day. I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn't reach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda. But Stanley, said Linda, what must I forgive you for? Linda. Stanley was very hurt. Didn't you realize?

You must have realised. I went away without saying goodbye to you this morning. I can't imagine how I can have done such a thing, my confounded temper, of course. But, well, and he sighed and took her in his arms again. I've suffered for it enough today. What's that you've got in your hand? asked Linda. New gloves? Let me see. Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather one, said Stanley humbly. I noticed Bell was wearing some

in the coach this morning, so as I was passing the shop I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you smiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do you? On the contrary, darling, said Linda. I think it was most sensible. She pulled one of the large pale gloves on her own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling. Stanley wanted to say, I was thinking of you the whole time I bought them.

It was true, but for some reason he couldn't say it. Let's go in, said he. Twelve. Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? late. It is very late, and yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful as though you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this queer sensation that you're a conspirator?

Lightly, stealthily you move about your room, you take something off the dressing table and put it down again without a sound, and everything, even the bedpost knows you, responds, shares your secret. You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes, and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and off again.

But now it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little funny room. It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things. mine, my own. My very own forever. Yes, their lips met. No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense and rubbish.

But in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck. He held her. And now he whispered, My beauty, my little beauty. She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window, and kneeled on the window seat with her elbows on the sill.

But the beautiful night, the garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by day. The shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves, and wide-open flowers lay across the silvery veranda. The manuka tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing. But when Beiro looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

We are dumb trees reaching up in the night, imploring we know not what, said the sorrowful bush. It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. Or that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it's as though in the silence somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time. Beryl. Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl. Who wants me? Beryl? Let me come. It is lonely living by oneself. Of course there are relations, friends, heaps of them, but that's not what she means. She wants someone who will find the beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be that

Beryl always. She wants her lover. Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours from the very beginning. Let us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks at night. And the thought was almost, save me, my love, save me. Oh, go on. Don't be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while you young, that's my advice. And a high rush of silly laughter joined Mrs. Harry Kembers loud, indifferent nay. You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you're nobody. You're so at the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And you've always this horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at the bay, and it's fascinating to know

you've power over people. Yes, that is fascinating. Oh, why? or why doesn't he come soon? If I go living on here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. But how do you know he is coming at all? mocked a small voice within her. But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left, other people perhaps, but not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,

that lovely, fascinating girl. Do you remember Beryl Fairfield? Remember her, as if I could forget her, It was one summer at the bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue. No, pink, muslin frock, holding onto a big cream. No, black, straw hat. But it's years ago now.

She's as lovely as ever, more so, if anything. Beryl smiled, bit her lip and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings, as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart leapt. It seemed to turn right over and then to stop.

She recognised him. Good evening, Miss Beryl, said the voice softly. Good evening. Why don't you come for a little walk, it drawled? Come for a walk at that time of night. I couldn't. Everybody's in bed. Everybody's asleep. Oh, said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her, What does everybody matter? Do come, at such a fine night, there's not a soul about. Beryl shook her head, but already something stirred in her, something reared its head.

The voice said, frightened, it mocked, poor little girl. Not in the least, said she, as she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong. She longed to go. And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said gently and softly, but finally, Come along. Beryl stepped over her low window,

crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her. That's right, breathed the voice, and it teased. You're not frightened, are you? You're not frightened? She was. Now she was here. She was terrified, and it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered. The shadows were like bars of iron.

Her hand was taken. Not in the least, she said lightly. Why should I be? Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. No, I'm not coming any farther, said Beryl. Oh, rot! Harry Kimber didn't believe her.

Come along. We'll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along. The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. there was a little pit of darkness beneath. No, really, I don't want to, said Beryl. For a moment, Harry Kemper didn't answer.

Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly. Don't be silly. Don't be silly. His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here, the stern guard and asked her as the gate pushed open. and quick as a cat Harry Kimber came through and snatched her to him.

Cold little devil, cold little devil, said the hateful voice. But Beryl was strong. She slapped, ducked, wrenched free. You are vile, vile, said she. Then why, in God's name, did you come? stammered Harry Kimber. Nobody answered him. A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounds. sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur,

as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was still. End of Section 2. Section 3 of The Garden Party and Other Stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan, The Garden Party. And after all, the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden parties.

that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night. The green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels. Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquis. Where do you want the marquis put, mother? My dear child, there's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest. But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast,

and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Joes, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat in a kimono jacket. You'll have to go, Laura. You're the artistic one. Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread and butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides she loved having to arrange things. She always felt she could do it so much better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas and they had big tool bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got the bread and butter, but there was nowhere to put it and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to.

to them. Good morning, she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed and stammered like a little girl. Oh, have you come? Is it about the marquee? That's right, miss, said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his toolbag, knocked back his straw hat, and smiled down at her. That's about it. His smile was so easy, so friendly, that Laura recovered. What nice eye is. as he had, small, but such a dark blue. And now she looked at the others, they were smiling, too. Cheer up, we won't bite, their smiled seemed to say. How very nice workmen were, and what a beautiful morning. She mustn't mention the morning, she must be businesslike, the marquis. Well, what about

the lily lawn, would that do? And she pointed to the lily lawn with the hand that didn't hold the bread and butter. They turned, they stared, they stared in the direction. direction. A little fat chap thrust out his underlip and the tall fellow frowned. I don't fancy it, said he, not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquis, and he turned to Laura in his easy way, you want to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye if you follow me. Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite respectful of a workman to talk to her a bang slap in the eye, but she did quite follow him.

A corner of the tennis court, she suggested. But the band's going to be in one corner. Hmm, going to have a band, are you? said another of the workman. He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis court. What was he thinking? Only a very small band, said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was quite small, but the tall fellow interrupted.

Look here, miss, that's the place. against those trees, over there, that'll do fine. Against the Caracas. Then the Caraca tree would be hidden, and they were so lovely with their broad, gleaming leaves and their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary,

lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose, and snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture, she forgot all about the caracas in her wonder at him caring for things like that,

caring for the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with, and who came for Sunday night's supper. She would get on much better with men like these. It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang,

of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't feel them, not a bit, not an atom. And now there came the chock-ch-ch-of-wood-hammers. Someone whistled, someone sang out, Are you right there, matey? Maity, the friendliness of it, just to prove how happy she was,

just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread and butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work girl. Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura, a voice cried from the house. Coming!

Away she skimmed over the lawn, up the path, up the stairs, steps across the veranda and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. I say Laura, said Laurie very fast. You might just give a squeeze at my coat before this afternoon, see if at once pressing. I will, said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small quick squeeze. Oh, I do love parties, don't you? gasped Laura. Rather, said Laurie's warm boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too and gave her a gentle push. Dash off to the telephone, old girl.

The telephone. Yes, yes. Oh yes. Kitty, good morning, dear. Come to lunch. Do, dear. Delighted, of course. It will only be a very scratch meal, just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue shells and what's left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? You're white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment, hold the line. Mother's calling. and Laura sat back. What, Mother? Can't hear. Mrs Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. Tell her to wear that sweet hat she had on last Sunday.

Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good, one o'clock. Bye-bye. Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them fall. Ah, she sighed, and the moment after the sighed, sat up quickly. She was still listening. All the doors of the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft quick steps and running voices. The green bay's door that led to the kitchen ridge and swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a long,

chuckling, absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff casters. But the air, if you stopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little faint winds were playing. chase, in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors, and there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the ink pot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots, especially the one on the ink pot lid. It was quite warm, a warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. The front doorbell peeled, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured, Sadie answered, careless. I'm sure I don't know. Wait, I'll ask Mrs. Sheridan.

What is it, Sadie? Laura came into the hall. It's the florist, Miss Laura. It was indeed. There just inside the door stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind, nothing but lilies, canner lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems. Oh, Sadie, said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies. She felt they were in her fingers,

on her lips, growing in her breast. It's some mistake, she said faintly. Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find Mother. But at that moment Mrs Sheridan joined them. It's quite right, she said calmly. Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they lovely? She pressed Laura's arm. I was passing the shop yesterday and I saw them in the window. and I suddenly thought, for once in my life I shall have enough canner lilies. The garden party will be a good excuse. But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere, said Laurie. Sadie had gone.

The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear. My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the man. He carried more lilies still, another whole. tray. Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please, said Mrs. Sheridan. Don't you agree, Laura? Oh, I do, mother. In the drawing-room, Meg, Jose, and good little

hands had at last succeeded in moving the piano. Now, if we put this chest-field against the wall and move everything out of the room except the chairs, don't you think? Quite. Hunt, move these tables into the smoking-room and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the carpet, and one moment, Hans. Joe's loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. Tell Mother and Miss Laura to come here at once. Very good, Miss Jose. She turned to Meg. I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over, this life is weary. POM, da-t-t-t-t-t-da. The piano burst out so passion.

The passionately that Joseph's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. This life is weary, a tear aside, our love that changes, and then goodbye. sounded more desperate than ever. Her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile. Aren't I in good voice, Mummy, she beamed. This life is weary. Hope comes to die. A dream awakening. But now Sadie interrupted them. What is it, Sadie? If you please, Mum, Cook says, have you got the flags for the sandwiches? "'The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie,' "'echoed Mrs Sheridan dreamily.

"'And the children knew by her face "'that she hadn't got them. "'Let me see.' "'And she said to Sadie firmly, "'Tell Cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes.' "'Sadie went. "'Now, Laura,' said her mother quickly, "'come with me into the smoking-room.

"'I've got the name somewhere on the back of an envelope. "'You'll have to write them out for me. "'Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off your head. "'Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. "'Do you hear me, children?' or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home tonight? And Joe's pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning.

The envelope was found at last behind the dining room clock, though how it had got there, Mrs Sheridan could not imagine. One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag because I remember vividly, cream cheese and lemon curd. Have you got that? Yes. Egg and Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. It looks like mice.

It can't be mice, can it? "'Olive, pet,' said Laura, looking over her shoulder. "'Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive!' They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. "'I've never seen such exquisite sandwiches,' said Jose's rapturous voice. "'How many kinds did you say there were, Cook? Fifteen? "'Fifteen, Miss Jose.'

"'Well, Cook, I congratulate you.' Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife and smiled broadly. Godbus has come, announced Sadie issuing out of the pantry. She'd seen the man past the window. That meant the cream puffs had come. Godbers were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl, ordered Cook.

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course, Laura and Joes were far too grown up to really care about such things. same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive, very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. Don't they carry one back to all one's parties, said Laura? I suppose they do, said practical joes, who never liked to be carried back. They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say. Have one each, my dear, said Cook in a comfortable voice.

Yamar won't know. Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puff so soon after breakfast, the very very idea made one shudder. All the same. Two minutes later, Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream. Let's go into the garden out by the backway, suggested Laura. I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nice men. But the back door was blocked by Cook, Sadie, Godba's man and hands. Something had happened. Tuck, tuck, tuck, cluck, cluck, cook, like an agitated hen. Sadie had a hand clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache.

Han's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself. It was his story. What's the matter? What happened? There's been a horrible accident, said Cook. A man killed? A man killed? Where? How? When? But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his very nose.

Know those little cottages just below here, miss? know them, of course she knew them. Well, there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction engine, corner of Hawk Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head, killed. Dead! Laura stared at Godba's man. Dead when they picked him up, said Godba's man with relish.

They were taking the body home as I came up here. And he said to the cook, he's left a wife and five little ones. Jose, come here. Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of the Green Bay's door. There she paused and leant against it. Jose, she said horrified, however, are we going to stop everything? Stop everything, Laura, cried Jose in astonishment. What do you mean? Stop the garden party, of course. Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. Stop the garden party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant. But we can't possibly have a garden party with a man dead just outside the front gate? That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all.

There were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown, In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridan's chimneys. Washer women lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler and a man whose house front was studded all over with minute bird cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there. because of the revolting language in what they might catch.

But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordered. They came out with a shudder. But still, one must go everywhere, one must see everything. So through they went.

And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman, said Laura. Oh, Laura! Joe's began to be seriously annoyed. If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic. Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little

and fighting together. You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental, she said softly. Drunk? Who said he was drunk? Laura turned furiously on Joes. She said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, I'm going straight up to tell mother. "'Do, dear,' cooed Joes. "'Mother, can I come into your room?' Laura turned the big glass door-knob. "'Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's giving you such a colour?' And Mrs Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat.

"'Mother, a man's been killed,' began Laura. "'Not in the garden?' interrupted her mother. "'No, no.' "'Oh, what a fright you gave me,' Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it on her knees. But listen, Mother, said Laura. Breathless, half choking, she told the dreadful story. Of course, we can't have our party, can we? she pleaded.

The band and everybody arriving, they'd hear us, mother. They're nearly neighbours. To Laura's astonishment, her mother behaved just like Joes. It was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally,

and I can't understand how they keep alive in these pokey little holes, we should still be having our party, shouldn't we? Laura had to say yes to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill. Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us, she asked. Darling! Mrs Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat, Before Laura could stop her, she had popped it on.

My child, said her mother, the hat is yours, it's made for you. As much too young for me, I've never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself. And she held up her hand mirror. But mother, Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself. She turned aside. This time Mrs Sheridan lost her patience just as Joes had done.

You're being very absurd, Laura, she said coldly. People like that don't expect something. sacrifices from us, and it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now. I don't understand, said Laura, as she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that.

Is mother right, she thought? And now she hoped her mother was right. am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal,

like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided, and somehow that seemed quite the best plan. Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two, they're all ready for the fray. the green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis court. My dear, trilled Kitty Maitland, aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with a conductor in the middle of a leaf.

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him, Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right, and she followed him into the hall. "'Lorry! Hello?' He was halfway upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura, he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her.

"'My word, Laura, you do look stunning,' said Laurie. "'What an absolutely topping hat!' Laura said faintly, isn't it, and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him, after all. Soon after that, people began coming in streams. The band struck up, the hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked, there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridan's

garden for this one afternoon on their way to where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. Darling, Laura, how well you look! What a becoming hat child! Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking. And Laura, glowing, answered softly, Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion for it ices really are rather special. She ran to her father and begged him, Darling, Daddy, can't the band have something to drink?

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals closed. Never a more delightful garden party. The greatest, success. Quite the most... Laura helped her mother with the goodbyes. They stood side by side in the porch till it was all over. All over, all over, thank heaven, said Mrs. Sheridan. Round up the others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful.

But, oh, these parties, these parties, why will you children insist on giving parties? And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee. Have a sandwich, Daddy dear. I wrote the flag. Thanks. Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened today, he said. My dear, said Mrs. Sheridan holding up her hand. We did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off. Oh, mother! Laura didn't want to be teased about it. It was a horrible affair all the same, said Mr. Sheridan. The chap was married too, lived just below in the lane, and leaves her wife and half a dozen

kiddies, so they say. An awkward little silence fell. Mrs Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of father. Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all un-eaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas. I know, she said, let's make up a basket.

send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on? What a point to have it already prepared. Laura? She jumped up. Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard. But mother, do you really think it's a good idea? said Laura. Again, how curious. She seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? Of course, what's the matter with you today? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now...

Oh, well, Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother. Take it yourself, darling, said she. Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum-lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arum-lilies. The stems will ruin her lace frock, said practical Joes. So they would, just in time.

Only the basket then, and Laura! Her mother followed her out of the marquis. Don't, on any account! What, mother? No, better not put such ideas into the child's head. Nothing, run along. It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow.

The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. how quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute, and it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass, were somehow inside her.

She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky and all she thought was, Yes, it was the most successful party. Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings.

The children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light and a shadow crab-like moved over the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she'd put on a coat. How her frock shone. And the big hat with the velvet streamer.

If only it was another hat, were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come. She knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back, even now? No, too late. This was the house. It must be.

A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate, an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she was coming here. Laura was terribly nervous.

Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, Is this Mrs Scott's house? And the woman, smiling queerly, said, It is, my lass. Oh, to be away from this. She actually said, help me, God, as she walked up the tiny path and knocked.

To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied. Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. Laura said, are you Mrs. Scott? But to her horror, the woman answered,

Walk in, please, miss. And she was shut in the passage. No, said Laura, I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother sent... The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. Step this way, please, miss, she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her. She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. M, said the little creature who had let her in.

M, it's a young lady. She turned to Laura. she said meaningly. I'm a sister-miss. You'll excuse her, won't you? Oh, but of course, said Laura. Please, please don't disturb her. I, I only want to leave. But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? and the poor face puckered up again.

All right, my dear, said the other. I'll thank the young lady. And again she began, You'll excuse her miss, I'm sure. And her face swollen too tried an oily smile. Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom where the dead man was lying.

You'd like a look at him, wouldn't you? said M's sister, and she brushed past Laura. over to the bed. Don't be afraid, my lass. And now her voice sounded fond and sly and fondly she drew down the sheet. He looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear. Laura came. There lay a young man, fast asleep, sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow,

his eyes were closed, they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream. What did garden parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing

and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy, happy, all his well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content. But all the same, you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him.

Laura gave a loud, childish sob. Forgive my hat, she said. And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met Laurie. He stepped out of the shadow. Is that you, Laura?

Yes. Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right? Yes, quiet. Oh, Laurie. She took his arm. She pressed up against him. I say, you're not crying, eh?

You asked her brother. Laura shook her head. She was. Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. Don't cry, he said in his warm, loving voice. Was it awful? No. Laura, it was simply marvelous, but Laurie.

She stopped, she looked at her brother. Isn't life? She stammered. Isn't life? But what life was, she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood. Isn't it, darling, said Laurie.

End of Section 3. Section 4 of The Garden Party and other stories. This Libravox recording is in the public. domain, read by Peter Dan. The Daughters of the late Colonel. One. The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when they went to bed, it was only their bodies that lay down and rested. Their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, trying to remember where. Constancia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin.

She stared at the ceiling. Do you think Father would mind if we gave his top hat to the porter? The porter, snapped Josephine. Why ever the porter? What a very extraordinary idea. Because, said Constantia slowly, he must often have to go to funerals, and I noticed at the cemetery that he only had a bowler.

She paused. I thought then how very much he'd appreciate a top hat. we were to give him a present too. He was always very nice to Father. But, cried Josephine flouncing on her pillow and staring across the dark at Constangia, Father's head? And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not of course that she felt in the least like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago when they had stayed awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porter's head, disappearing, popped out like a candle, under father's hat. The giggle mounted, mounted. She clenched her hands. She fought it down.

She frowned fiercely at the dark and said, remember, terribly sternly. We can decide tomorrow, she said. Constancia had noticed nothing. She sighed. Do you think we ought to have our dressing gowns died as well? Black, almost shrieked Josephine. Well, what else, said Constancia. I was thinking it doesn't seem quite sincere in a way to wear black out of doors and when we're fully dressed, and then when we're at home. But nobody sees her, said Josephine.

She gave the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up the pillows to get them well under again. Kate does, said Constancia, and the postman very well marked. Josephine thought of her dark red slippers which matched her dressing gown, and of Constancia's favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. black, two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. I don't think it's absolutely necessary, said she. Silence. Then Constancia said,

We shall have to post the papers with the notice in them tomorrow to catch the salon mail. How many letters have we had up till now? 23. Josephine had replied to them all and 23 times when she came to her. we miss our dear father so much. She had broken down and had to use a handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light blue tear with an edge of blotting paper.

Strange, she couldn't have put it on, but 23 times. Even now, though, when she said over to herself sadly, we miss our dear father so much, she could have cried if she'd wanted to. Have you got enough stamps, came from Constantia? Oh, how can I tell? said Joseph. Josephine Crossley. What's the good of asking me that now? I was just wondering, said Constantine, mildly. Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. A mouse, said Constantine. It can't be a mouse,

because there aren't any crumb, said Josephine. But it doesn't know there aren't, said Constantia. A spasm of pity squeezed her heart, poor little thing. She wished she left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing table. It was awful to think of it not finding anything. What would it do? I can't think how they managed to live at all, she said slowly. Who, demanded Josephine? And Constantine said more loudly than she meant to, Mise! Josephine was furious. Oh, what nonsense, Conchie said. What have mice got to do with it? You're asleep.

I don't think I am, said Constancia. She shut her eyes to make sure she was. Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that her fists came under her ears and pressed her cheek hard against the pillow, too. Another thing which complicated matters was that they had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that week. It was their own fault they had asked her. It was Josephine's idea. On the morning, well, on the last morning when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, don't you think it would be rather nice

if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for a week as our guest? Very nice, said Constancia. I thought, went on Josephine quickly, I should just say this afternoon after I've paid her. My sister and I would be very pleased, after all you've done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a week as our guest. I'd have to put that in about being our guest in case...

Oh, but she would hardly expect to be paid, cried Constancia. One never knows, said Dr. Bollinger. Josephine sagely. Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea, but it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, whereas if they'd been alone, they could just have asked Kate if she wouldn't have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were, and meal-times, now that the strain was over, were rather a trial. Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really, they couldn't help feeling that about butter, at least. She took advantage of their kindness.

And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch more of bread to finish what she had on a plate, and then at the last mouthful, absent-mindedly, of course it wasn't absent-mindedly, taking another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she fastened her small bead-like eyes on the tablecloth, as if she saw a minute, strange insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia's long, pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away, away, far over the desert, where that line of camels unwound like a thread of wool. When I was with Lady Chook, said Nurse Andrews, she had such a dainty little contravence for the butter.

It was a silver cupid, balanced on the border of a glass dish, holding a tiny fork, and when you wanted some butter, you simply pressed his foot, and he bent down and speared you a piece. It was quite a game. Josephine could hardly bear that. But I think those things are very extravagant, was all she said. "'But why?' asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses.

"'No one surely would take more butter than one wanted, would one?' "'Ring! Con!' cried Josephine. "'She couldn't trust herself to reply. "'And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, "'came in to see what the old Tabby's wanted now. "'She snatched away their plates of mock something or other "'and slapped down a white, terrified blemange. "'Jam, please, Kate,' said Josephine kindly.

Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off. I'm afraid, said Nurse Andrews a moment later. There isn't any. Oh, what a bother, said Josephine. She bit her lip. What did we better do? Constantia looked dubious. We can't disturb Kate again, she said softly. Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia, in despair, went back to her camels. Josephine frowned heavily, concentrated. If it hadn't been for this idiotic woman, she and Con would, of course, have eaten their blemange without. Suddenly the idea came.

I know, she said, Marmalade. There's some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con. I hope, laughed Nurse Andrews, and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine glass. I hope it's not very bitter marmalade. Three. But, after all, it was not long now, and then she'd be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both Constancia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone

than not leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say goodbye, Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn't have been necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say something, something private to them. Not that he had, or far from it, he lay there purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even looked at them when they came in. Then, as they was standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a different thing. it would have made. What a difference to their memory of him? How much easier to tell people about it if he had

only opened both? But no, one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then went out. Four. It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Faroles of St John's called the same afternoon. The end was quite peaceful, I trust, were the first words he said as he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. "'Quite,' said Josephine faintly. "'They both hung their heads. "'Both of them felt certain that eye wasn't at all a peaceful eye. "'Won't you sit down?' said Josephine.

"'Thank you, Miss Pinner,' said Mr. Peral, gratefully. "'He folded his coat-tails and began to lower himself into father's arm-chair, "'but just as he touched it, he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair instead. "'He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands, Constantine. looked vague. I want you to feel Miss Pinner, said Mr. Farol, and you, Miss Constancia, that I'm trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you both if you will let me.

These are the times, said Mr. Faroles, very simply and earnestly, when God means us to be helpful to one another. Thank you very much, Mr. Farol, said Josephine and Constancia. Not at all, said Mr. Faroles gently. He drew his kid gloves through his fingers and lent forward. and if either of you would like a little communion, either or both of you, here and now, you have only to tell me. A little communion is often very help, a great comfort, he added tenderly. But the idea of a little communion terrified them. What, in the drawing-room, by themselves,

with no altar or anything? The piano would be much too high, thought Constancia, and Mr. Ferolz could not possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine, and supposing the bell rang in the middle. It might be somebody important about their mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have to wait in torture? Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care for it later, said Mr. Farol. Oh yes, thank you very much, they both said. Mr. Ferol got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. And about the funeral, he said softly, if I may arrange that as your dear father's old friend and yours, Miss Pena,

and Miss Constancia. Josephine and Constanceya got up too. I should like it to be quite simple, said Josephine firmly, and not too expensive. At the same time I should like a good one that will last, thought Dreamy Constancia, as if Josephine were buying a nightgown. But of course Josephine didn't say that. One suitable to our father's position. She was very nervous.

I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight, said Mr. Farol soothingly. I will ask him to come and see you. I'm sure you will find him very helpful indeed. Five. Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery while the coffin was lowered

to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. Buried! You two girls had me buried? She heard his stick-thumping. Oh, what would they say? What possible excuse could they make?

It sounded such an appallingly heartless thing to do, such a wicked advantage to take of a person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. they were strangers, they couldn't be expected to understand that father was the very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for it all would fall on her in constancia. And the expense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab, when she had to show him the bills, what would he say then? She heard him absolutely roaring, and do you expect me to pay for this Jim-crack excursion of yours?

Oh, groaned poor Josephine aloud. done it, Con. And Constancia, pale as a lemon and all that blackness, said in a frightened whisper, "'Done what, Jugg?' "'Let them bury father like that,' said Josephine, breaking down and crying into her new, queer-smelling morning, handkerchief. "'But what else could we have done?' asked Constantia, wonderingly. We couldn't have kept him, Jugg. We couldn't have kept him unburied, at any rate, not in a flat that size.' Josephine blew her nose. The cab was dreadfully stuffy. I don't know, she said forlornly.

It was also dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to, just for a time at least, to make perfectly sure. One thing's certain, and her tears sprang out again. Father will never forgive us for this. Never! Six. Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever

when two mornings later they went into his room to go through his things. They had discussed it quite calm, It was even down on Josephine's list of things to be done. Go through Father's things and settle about them. But that was a very different matter from saying after breakfast, Well, are you ready, Con? Yes, Jug, when you are.

Then I think we'd better get it over. It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb Father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to open the door without knocking even. Constantia's eyes were enormous at the idea Josephine felt weak in the knees You go in first she gasped pushing Constantia

But Constantia said as she always said on these occasions No jug that's not fair you're the eldest Josephine was just going to say What at other time she wouldn't have owned to for the world What she kept for her very last weapon But you're the tallest When they noticed that the kitchen door was open And there stood Kate

Very stiff, said Josephine, grasping the door handle and doing her best to turn it, as if anything ever deceived Kate. It couldn't be helped. That girl was... Then the door was shut behind them, but they weren't in father's room at all. They might have suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to look. Josephine knew that if it was, it was holding itself tight shut.

Constancia felt that like the doors in dreams it hadn't any handle at all. It was the coldness which made it so awful, or the whiteness, which. Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed, a huge fan of white paper filled the fireplace. Constancia timidly put out her hand. She almost expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her nose as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab clopped over the cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces. I'd better pull up a blind, said Josephine bravely.

Yes, it might be a good idea, whispered Constancia. They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up, and the cord flew after, rolling round the blindstick, and the little tassel tapped as if trying to get free. That was too much for Constancia. Don't you think we might put it off for another day, she whispered? "'Why?' snapped Josephine, feeling as usual, much better now that she knew for certain that Constancia was terrified. It's got to be done, but I do wish you wouldn't whisper Con. "'I didn't know I was whispering,' whispered Constancia. "'And why do you keep staring at the bed?' said Josephine, raising her voice almost defiantly.

"'There's nothing on the bed.' "'Oh, Chuck, don't say so,' said poor Connie. "'At any rate, not so loudly.' Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew it back again. Connie, she gasped, and wheeled round and leaned with her back against the chest of drawers.

Oh, jug, what? Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain to Constancia that father was in that chest of drawers? He was in the top of the top of, drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his shirts and pyjamas,

or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was watching there, hidden away, just behind the door handle, ready to spring. She pulled a funny, old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in the old days when she was going to cry. I can't open, she nearly wailed. No, don't jug, whispered Constancia earnestly. It's much better not to. Don't let's open anything. At any rate not for a long time. But it seems so weak, said Josephine, breaking down. But why not be weak for once, Jug, argued Constancia, whispering quite fiercely. If it is weak, and her pale stare flew from the locked writing table, so safe to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began to breathe in a queer panting way. Why shouldn't we be weak for once in our lives, jug? It's quite excusable. Let's be

weak, be weak, jug. It's much nicer to be weak than to be strong. And then she did, one of those amazingly bold things that she'd done about twice before in their lives, she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the key and took it out of the lock, took it out of the lock and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile that she knew what she'd done. She'd risked deliberately farther being in there among his overcoats. If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had Crushed down on Constantia, Josephine wouldn't have been surprised. On the contrary, she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the bigger flakes of cold air fell on Josephine's shoulders and knees. She began to shiver. Come, jug, said Constancea, still with that awful, callous smile, and Josephine followed, just as she had that last time, when Constantia had pushed Benny into the round pond. But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining room.

They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other. I don't feel I can settle to anything, said Josephine, until I've had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water? I really don't see why we shouldn't, said Constancia carefully. She was quite normal again. I won't ring, I'll go to the kitchen door and ask her. Yes, do, said Josephine, sinking down into a chair.

tell her just two cups, Con, nothing else, on a tray. She needn't even put the jug on, need she said Constancia, as though Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there. Oh no, certainly not. The jug's not at all necessary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle, cried Josephine, feeling that would be a labour-saving indeed. Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her small red hands around the cup.

Constantine sat up and blew on the wavy seat. steam, making it flutter from one side to the other. Speaking of Benny, said Josephine, as though Benny hadn't been mentioned, Constancia immediately looked as though he had. He'll expect us to send him something of fathers, of course, but it's so difficult to know what to send to Salon. You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage, murmured Constancia.

No, lost, said Josephine sharply. You know there's no point, only runners. Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the pale fields for dear life with a large brown paper parcel in his hands. Josephine's black man was tiny. He scurried along glistening like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless

about Constantia's tall, thin fellow, which made him she decided a very unpleasant person indeed. On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand, shone. up and down as fathers did when he was impatient, and behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the Tatler. I think his watch would be the most suitable present, said Josephine.

Constancia looked up. She seemed surprised. Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native? But of course I'd disguise it, said Josephine. No one would know it was a watch. She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard corset box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But no, it wouldn't be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it. Medium women's, 28, extra firm busks. It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open that and find Father's wall.

watch inside. And of course it isn't as though it would be going, ticking, I mean, said Constancia, who was still thinking of the natives' love of jewellery. At least, she added, it would be very strange if after all that time it was. Eight. Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn't it more usual for the only grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative and a gold watch. And then dear Cyril was so appreciative and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches, men so seldom wore waistcoats in those hot climates,

whereas Cyril in London wore them from year's end to years end. And it would be so nice for her and Constancia when he came to tea, to know it was there. I see you've got on grandfather's watch, Cyril. It would be somehow so satisfactory. Dear boy, what a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note. had been. Of course they quite understood, but it was most unfortunate. It would have been such a point, having him, said Josephine. And he would have enjoyed it so, said Constancia,

not thinking what she was saying. However, as soon as he got back, he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats. Now, Cyril, you must be frightened of our cakes. Your auntie Conn and I bought them at Bussard's this morning. We know what a man's appetite is, so don't be ashamed of making a good tea. Josephine cut recklessly into the rich, dark cake that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and healing of Constantia's only respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite. I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only just had lunch, you know. Oh, Cyril, that can't be true. It's after four, cried Josephine. Constancea sat with her knife

poised over the chocolate roll. It is all the same, said Cyril. I had to meet a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about till there was only time to get lunch and to come on here. And he gave me, shirle put his hand to his forehead, a terrific blowout, he said. It was disappointing, today of all days. But still, he couldn't be expected to know.

But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril? said Aunt Josephine. These marangues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so fond of them. We were sure you are, too. I am, Aunt Josephine, cried Cyril ardently. Do you mind if I take half to begin with? Not at all, dear boy, but we mustn't let you off with that. Is your dear father still so fond of meringue's? asked Aunt Econ gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. Well, I don't quite know, Aunt Econ, said Cyril, breezily.

At that they both looked up. "'Don't know,' almost snapped Josephine. "'Don't know a thing like that about your own father, Cyril.' "'Surely,' said Aunt E. Con softly. "'Seryl tried to laugh it off. "'Oh, well, he said it's such a long time since—' "'He faltered. He stopped. "'Their faces were too much for him.

"'Even so,' said Josephine. "'And Auntie Con looked. "'Seryl put down his teacup. "'Wait a bit,' he cried. "'Wait a bit, Aunt Josephine. "'What am I thinking?' of? He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. Of course he said it was meringue's. How could I have forgotten? Yes, Aunt Josephine,

you're perfectly right. Father's most frightfully keen on meringue's. They didn't only beam, Aunt Josephine, went scarlet with pleasure. Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh. And now, Cyril, you must come and see father, said Josephine. He knows you were coming today. right said Cyril very firmly and heartily he got up from his chair suddenly he glanced at the clock i say auntie con isn't your clock a bit slow i've got to meet a man at paddington just after five i'm afraid i shan't be able to stay very long with grandfather oh you won't expect you to stay very long said auntie josephine constantia was still gazing at the clock she couldn't make up her mind if it was fast or slow it was one or the other she felt almost certain of that, at any rate, it had been. Cyril still lingered. Aren't you coming along, Auntie Con? Of course, said Josephine. We shall all go. Come on, Con. Nine. They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into grandfather's hot, sweetish room.

Come on, said Grandfather, Pinner, don't hang about. What is it? What have he been up to? He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful, pale, yellow silk handkerchief. It's Cyril, father, said Josephine shyly, and she took Cyril's hand and led him forward. Good afternoon, grandfather, said Cyril, trying to take his hand out of Aunt Josephine's. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril and the way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Kohn? She stood on the other side of Aunt Josephine, her long arms hung down in front of her, her hands were clasped.

She never took her eyes off grandfather. Well, said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, What have you got to tell me? What had he? What had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly,

Cyril says his father is still very fond of meringue's father dear. Eh, said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple meringue shell over one ear. Josephine repeated. Cyril says his father is still very fond of marangs. Can't hear, said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril.

Tell me what she's trying to say, he said. My God, must I, said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. Do dear, she smiled. It will please him so much. Come on, out with it, cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump again. and Cyril leant forward and yelled, Father's still very fond of meringue's.

Yet that Grandfather Pin had jumped as though he had been shot. Don't shout, he cried. What's the matter with the boy? Marangs? What about them? Oh, Aunt Josephine must we go on? Grown Cyril desperately. It's quite all right, dear boy, said Aunt Josephine,

as though he and she were at the dentists together. He'll understand in a minute. And she whispered to Cyril. He's getting a bit deaf, you know. Then she leant forward and really bold at Grandfather Pinner. Cyril only wanted to tell you, Father dear, that his father is still very fond of meringue's. Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and down. What an extraordinary thing, said old grandfather Pinner.

What an extraordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me. "'And Cyril felt it was.' "'Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,' said Josephine. "'That would be very nice,' said Constancia. "'I seemed to remember last time he came there was some little trouble about the time.' "'Ten.' They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall.

"'Fried or boiled?' asked the bold voice. "'Fried or boiled?' Josephine and Constantine were quite bewildered for the moment. They could hardly take it in. Fried or boiled what? Kate, asked Josephine, trying to begin to concentrate. Kate gave a loud sniff. Fish. Well, why didn't you say so immediately?

Josephine reproached her gently. How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great many things in this world, you know, which have fried or boiled. And after such a display of courage, she said quite brightly to Constantia. Which do you prefer, Con? I think it might be nice to have it, fried, said Constancia. On the other hand, of course, boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both equally well, unless you, in that case. I shall fry it, said Kate, and she bounced back,

leaving their door open and slamming the door of her kitchen. Josephine gazed at Constan she raised her pale eyebrows until they rippled away into her pale hair. She got up, she said, in a very lofty, imposing way. Do you mind following me into the drawing, room, Constantia. I've got something of great importance to discuss with you, for it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to talk over Kate. Josephine closed the door meaningly. Sit down, Constantine, she said, still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantine for the first time, and Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she felt indeed quite a stranger. Now, the question is, said Josephine, bending forward, whether we shall keep her.

or not. That is the question, agreed Constancia. And this time, said Josephine firmly, we must come to a definite decision. Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, yes, Jug.

You see, Con, explained Josephine, everything is so changed now. Constantia looked up quickly. I mean, went on Josephine, we're not dependent on Kate as we were. And she bled. faintly. There's not father to cook for. That is perfectly true, agreed Constancia. Father certainly doesn't want any cooking now, whatever else. Josephine broke in sharply.

You're not sleepy, are you, Con? Sleepy, jug? Constantine was wide-eyed. Well, concentrate more, said Josephine sharply, and she returned to the subject. What it comes to is, if we did, and this she barely breathed, glancing at the door, give Kate notice. She raised her voice again. We could manage our own food. Why not? cried Constangio. She couldn't help smiling. The idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands. What should we live on, Jug? Oh, eggs in various forms, said Jug, lofty again. And besides, there are all the cooked foods. But I've always heard, said Constancia, they are considered so very expensive.

not if one buys them in moderation, said Josephine, but she tore herself away from this fascinating by-path and dragged Constantia after her. What we've got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust Kate or not. Constantia leant back, her flat little laugh flew from her lips. Isn't it curious, jug, said she, that just on this one subject I've never been able to quite make up my mind.

Eleven. She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one prove things? How could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her and deliberately made a face. Mightn't she very well have been in pain? Wasn't it impossible at any rate to ask Kate if she was making a face at her? If Kate answered, no, and of course she would say, no, what a position, how undignified.

Then again, Constancia suspected she was almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and Josephine were out, not to take things, but to spy. Many times she had come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under her lace ties or on top of her evening bertha. More than once she had laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and then called Josephine to witness.

You see, Jug? Quite, con. Now we should be able to tell. But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof as ever. If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened as she closed the drawer. A jolt might have done it so easily.

You come, jug, and decide, I really can't. It's too difficult. But after a pause and a long glare, Josephine would sigh, You've put the doubt into my mind, Con. I'm sure I can't tell myself. Well, we can't postpone it again, said Josephine. If we postpone it this time...

Twelve. But at that moment in the street below, a barrel organ strike. up. Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together. Run, Con, said Josephine, run quickly, the sixpence on the... Then they remembered, it didn't matter. They would never have to stop the organ grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound that loud, strange bellow

when Father thought they were not hurrying enough. The organ grinder might play there all day and the stick would not thump. It will never thump again, it will never thump again, played the barrel organ. But what was Constantine thinking? She had such a strange smile. She looked different. She couldn't be going to cry. Jug, jug, jug, said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. Do you know what day it is? It's Saturday. It's a week today, a whole week. A week since father died, a week since father died, cried the barrel organ. And Josephine too forgot to be practical and sensible.

She smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there fell a square of sunlight, pale red. It came and went and came and stayed, deepened, until it shone, almost golden. The sun's out, said Josephine, as though it really mattered. A perfect fountain of bubbling note shook from, the barrel organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered. Constantia lifted her big cold hands as if to catch them, and then her hands fell again.

She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite Buddha. And the stone and guilt image, whose smile always gave her such a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed today to be more than smiling. He knew something, he had a secret. I know something that you don't know, said her Buddha. Oh, what was it? What could it be? And yet she had a worse felt there was something. The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. When it came to Mother's photograph, the enlargement over the piano,

it lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of Mother except the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did the photographs of dead people always fade, so wondered Josephine? As soon as a person was dead, their photograph died too. But of course this one of Mother was very old. It was 35 years old. Josephine remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa to Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed their mother in salon.

Would everything have been different if Mother hadn't died? she didn't see why. Aunt Florence had lived with them until they had left school and they had moved three times and had their yearly holiday and there'd been changes of servants, of course. Some little sparrows,

young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window ledge. Yeep, yep! Yeep! But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, not on the window ledge. It was inside her that queer little crying noise.

Yeep, be, yeep. Yeep, yep. Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn? If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody for them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends before he quarreled with them, but after that she and Constantia never met a single man except clergyman. How did one meet men?

Or even if they'd met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed and so on, but nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh, yes, there had been one year at Eastbourne, a mysterious man at their boarding house who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door, but by the time Connie had found it, the steam had made the writing too faint to read.

They couldn't even make out to which of them it was addressed, and he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking at, after father and at the same time keeping out of father's way. But now, but now? The thieving son touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams. Until the barrel organ stopped playing, Constantius stayed before the Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder was like longing. She remembered the

time she had come in here, crept out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The big pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the carved screen had leered at her, and she hadn't minded. She remembered, too, how whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself and got as close to the sea as she could and sung something, something she had made up, or she gazed all over that restless water. There had been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, getting things on approval, discussing them with jug, and taking them back to get more things on approval, and arranging father's trays and trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed

to have happened in a kind of tunnel. It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel. into the moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt herself. What did it mean? What was it? She was always wanting. What did it all lead to? Now? Now? She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went over to see where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to Josephine, something frightfully important about the future and what. Don't you think perhaps she began? But Josephine interrupted her. I was wondering if now, she murmured.

They stopped. They waited for each other. Go on, Con, said Josephine. No, no, Jug, after you, said Constangia. No, say what you were going to say. You began, said Josephine. I'd rather hear what you were going to say first, said Constancia. Don't be absurd, Con.

Really, Jug. Conny, oh, Jug! I pause. then Constantine said faintly I can't say what I was going to say joke because I've forgotten what it was that I was going to say Josephine was silent for a moment

she stared at a big cloud where the sun had been then she replied shortly I've forgotten two end of section four section five of the garden party and other stories this Libre of Ox recording is in the public domain read by Peter Dan Mr and Mrs Dove

Of course he knew No man better That he hadn't a ghost of a chance He hadn't an earthly The very idea of such a thing was preposterous So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it If her father Well, whatever her father chose to do

He'd perfectly understand In fact nothing short of desperation Nothing short of the fact that this was positively His last day in England For God knows how long Would have screwed him up to it And even now He chose a tie out of the chest of drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed.

Supposing she replied, what impertinence, would he be surprised? Not in the least he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down over the tie. He expected it to say something like that. He didn't see if he looked at the affair dead soberly what else she could say. Here he was, and nervously he tied a bow in front of the man. mirror, jammed his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket pockets. Making between £500 and £600 a year on a fruit farm in, of all places, Rhodesia, no capital, not a penny coming to him, no chance of his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all that sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't even

boast a top whole health for the East Africa business had knocked him out so thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was still fearfully pale, worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought, bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens, what had happened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash at all, he hadn't green hair at all events, that was a bit too steep. And then the green light trembled in the glass. It was the shadow from the tree outside. Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but, remembering how the mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted over to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one blessed thing in his favour while she.

Ah, he stopped dead, folded his arms and leant hard against the chest of drawers. And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the fact that she was an only child and far and away the most popular girl in the neighbourhood, in spite of her beauty and her cleverness, cleverness, it was a great deal more than that, there was really nothing, she couldn't do. He fully believed, had it been necessary, she would have been a genius at anything, in spite of the fact that her parents adored her, and she, them, and they just soon let her go all that ways. In spite of every single thing you could think of, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. Well, was it hope? Or was it this queer, timid longing to have the

chance of looking after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she wanted, and that nothing came nearer that wasn't perfect, Just love. How he loved her. He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and murmured to it. I love her. I love her. And just for the moment he was with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner, asleep. Her soft chin was tucked into a soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her cheeks. He doted on a delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear like a baby's and the gold-brown curl that half-covered it. They were passing through the jungle that was warm and dark and far away.

Then she woke up and said, have I been asleep? And he answered, Yes, are you all right? Here, let me. And he leant forward to, he bent over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, well, I can only try my luck, that's all. But his luck gave him a nasty jar,

to say the least, almost immediately. Promenading up and down the garden path with Cheney and Biddy, the ancient peaks, was the mater. Of course, Reginald was fond of the mater and all that. She meant well, she had no end of grit and so on, but there was no denying it. She was rather a grim parent. And there had been moments,

many of them in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alec died and left him the fruit farm, where he was convinced that to be a widow's only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She wasn't only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and the governor's relations before Reggie had won his first trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, Dear, what is life but love.

His only vision was of the mater, tall and stout, rustling down the garden path, with chinny and biddy at her heels. The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head off a dead something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie.

You're not going out, Reginald, she asked, seeing that he was. I'll be back for tea, Mater, said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands into his jacket pockets. Snip. Off came ahead. Reggie almost jumped. I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last afternoon, said she. Silence. The peaks stared. They understood every word of the maters.

Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out. She was so fat and glossy, she looked like a lump of half-melted Toffee. But Cheney's porcelain eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly as though the whole world were one unpleasant smell. Snip went the scissors again. Poor little beggars, they were getting it. And where are you going, if your mother may ask? Ask the mater. It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out of sight of the house and halfway to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he noticed what a top hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the morning. Late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear except for a long tail of little clouds like ducklings. sailing over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees.

One warm star splashed on his hand. Ping! Another drummed on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled a briar, and how big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel Proctor's, here it was already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringer bushes, and petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit, this was too quick altogether. He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was walking up the path with the huge rose bushes on either side.

It can't be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, and started it peeling wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was on fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that confounded bell had stopped ringing.

strangely enough, when it did, the big room, shadowy, with someone's parasol lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up, or rather excited him. It was so quiet, and yet in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at the dentist's. He was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself saying, Lord, thou knowest, thou hast not done much for me. That pulled him up. That made him realise again how dead serious it was. Too late, the door-handled turned, and came in, crossed the shadowy space between them, gave him her hand, and said in a small, soft voice,

I'm so sorry, father is out, and mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie. Reggie gasped, pressed his own hand to his jacket buttons, and stammered out, As a matter of fact, I've only come to say goodbye. Oh, cried Anne softly. She stepped back from him and her grey eyes danced. What a very short visit. Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft peel and walked away from him over to the piano and leant against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol.

I'm so sorry she said to be laughing like this. I don't know why I do. It's just a bad habit. And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe and took a pocket handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. I really must conquer it. It's too absurd, said she. Good heavens, Anne, cried Reggie. I love to hear you laughing. I can't imagine anything more. But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing. It wasn't really a habit. only ever since the day they'd met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where they were or what they were talking about.

They might begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious, at any rate as far as he was concerned, but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. Another queer thing about it was Reggie had an idea she didn't know herself why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peel sounded even while she cried, I don't know why I'm laughing.

It was a mystery. Now she tucked the handkerchief away. Do sit down, she said, and smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in that little box beside you. I'll have one too. He lighted a match for her, and as she bent forward she saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl ring she wore. It is tomorrow that you're going, isn't it? said Anne. Yes, tomorrow as ever was, said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of smoke.

Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it. It's frightfully hard to believe, he added. Yes, isn't it? said Anne softly, and she leant forward and rolled the point of her cigarette round the green ash tray. How beautiful she looked like that, simply beautiful, and she was so small in that immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, a soft voice that made him tremble. I feel you've been here for years, she said.

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. It's ghastly this idea of going back, he said. "'Goo-ro-go-go-go-go-go-go sounded from the quiet. "'But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?' said Anne. She hooked her finger through her pearl necklace. "'Father was saying only the other night, "'how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.' "'And she looked up at him.

"'Reginald's smile was rather won. "'I don't feel fearfully lucky,' he said likely. "'Roo-go-go-goo, coo, came again, and Anne murmured, You mean it's lonely? Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about, said Reginald, and he stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ashtray. I could stand any amount of it, used to like it even,

it's the idea of, suddenly, to his horror, he felt himself blushing. Roo-cou-cou-cou-cou, Roo-cou-cou. Anne jumped up. Come and say goodbye to my dove, she said. They've been moved to the side of, veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reggie? Awfully, said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French windows for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves instead.

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove house walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly bowing and bowing. You see, explained Anne, the one in front, she's Mrs Dove. She looks at Mr Dove and gives that little laugh and runs forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing, and that makes her laugh again. Away she runs, and after her, cried Anne, and she sat back on her heels, comes poor Mr Dove, bowing and bowing, and that's their whole life. They never do anything else, you know. She got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the Dovehouse. When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie,

you can be sure that is what they will be doing. Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. Anne, do you think you could ever care for me? It was done, it was over.

And in the little pause that followed, Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the verandah poles, and Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured slowly. No, never in that way. But she had scarcely time to feel anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the steps along the garden path

under the pink rose archers across the lawn. there with a gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced Reginald. It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you, she said. I am, but her eyes widened, not in the way. A quiver passed over her face. One ought to be fond of. Her lips parted, and she couldn't stop herself. She began laughing.

You see, you see, she cried, It's your chick, tie, even at this moment when one would think, one really would be solemn. Your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats wear in pictures. Oh, please, forgive me for being so horrid, please. Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. There's no question of forgiving you, he said quickly. How could there be? And I do believe I know why I make you laugh. It's because you're so far above me in every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne, but if I were to... No, no, Anne squeezed his hand hard. It's not that. That's all wrong. I'm not far above you at all. You're much better than I am.

You're marvellously unselfish and kind and simple. I'm none of those things. You don't know me. I'm the most awful character, said Anne. Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not the point. The point is, she shook her head. I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at. Surely you see that. The man I marry, breathed Anne softly. She broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie, she She smiled strangely, dreamily. The man I marry, and it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger

stepped in front of him and took his place. The kind of man that Anne and he had seen often at the theatre walking onto the stage from nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere. Reggie bowed to his vision. Yes, I see, he said huskily. "'Do you?' said Anne.

"'Oh, I do hope you do, because I feel so horrid about it. "'It's so hard to explain. "'You know, I've never—' "'She stopped. "'Reggy looked at her. "'She was smiling. "'Isn't it funny?' she said. "'I can say anything to you.

"'I have always been able to from the very beginning.' "'He tried to smile to say, "'I'm glad.' "'She went on, "'I've never known anyone I like as much as I like you. "'I've never felt so happy with anyone, but I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talk about love. Do you understand?

Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel, but we'd be like Mr and Mrs Dove. That did it. That seemed original final and so terribly true that he could hardly bear it. Don't drive it home, he said, and he turned away from a man and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage with a dark Ilex tree beside it, A wet blue thumb of transparent smoke hung above the chimney.

It didn't look real. How his throat ached. Could he speak? He had a shot. I must be getting a long home, he croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him. No, don't. You can't go yet, she said imploringly.

You can't possibly go away feeling like that. And she stared up at him, frowning, biting her lip. Oh, that's all right, said. said Reggie, giving himself a shake. I'll, I'll, and he waved his hand as much as to say, get over it. But this is awful, said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in front of him. Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don't you?

Oh, quiet, quite, said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for Mr. and Mrs. Dove, but imagine that in real life. imagine it. Oh, absolutely, said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Anne stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment this time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was going to cry. Then why, if you understand her, you're so unhappy, she wailed. Why do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so awful? Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. I can't help it, I said. I've had a blow.

if I cut off now, I'll be able to... How can you talk of cutting off now, said Anne scornfully? She stamped her foot at Reggie. She was crimson. How can you be so cruel? I can't let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as you were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that. It's so simple. But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly difficult.

Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that you're all that way away, only that awful mother to write to, and that you're miserable, and that it's all my fault. It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate. Reggie took a hand off his sleeve and kissed it. Don't pity me, dear little Anne, he said gently. And this time he nearly ran under the pink arches along the garden path. Rookoo-cou, roo-cou-cou, roo-cou-cou, sounded from the veranda. "'Reggie, Reggie!' "'He stopped, he turned. "'But when she saw his timid, puzzled look,

"'she gave a little laugh. "'Come back, Mr Dove,' said Anne. "'And Reginald came slowly across the lawn. "'End of Section 5. "'Section 6 of The Garden Party and Other Stories. "'This Librevox recording is in the public domain, "'read by Peter Dan. "'The young girl.'

In her blue dress with her cheeks slightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time, pinned up to be out of the way for her flight, Mrs. Radick's daughter might have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Radix's timid, faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance, looked as if she believed it too. But the daughter didn't appear any too pleased. Why should she, to have alighted on the steps of the casino? Indeed, she was bored, bored as though heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns to play with. You don't mind taking any, said Mrs. Radick. Sure you don't. There's the car and you'll have tea, and we'll be back here on this step, right here in an hour.

You see, I wanted to go in. She's not been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her. Oh, shut up, mother, she said wearily. Come along, don't talk so much. and your bags open, you'll be losing all your money again. I'm sorry, darling, said Mrs. Radick. I'll do come in. I want to make money, said the impatient voice.

It's all jolly well for you, but I'm broke. Here, take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred. I saw Mrs. Radick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. Henny and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile. I say, he cried, there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there? No, they're not.

He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. They frighten people so, and they're never fierce with the people they belong to. Suddenly he squeezed my arm. I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that?

Is she a gambler? The ancient withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black velvet cloak, and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires.

She stared in front of her. She was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself, her claws clutched round what looked like a dirty bootbag. But just at that moment there was Mrs. Radick again with her and another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Radick rushed at me. She was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature.

She was like a woman. who is saying goodbye to her friends on the station platform with not a minute to spare before the train starts. Oh, you're here still. Isn't that lucky? You've not gone. Isn't that fine? I've had the most dreadful time with her, and she waved at her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step miles away. They won't let her in. I swore she was 21, but they won't believe me. I showed the man my purse. I didn't dare. I didn't dare. do more, but it was no use. He simply scoffed. And now I've just met Mrs. McEwan from New York, and she just won 13,000 in the Salprivay, and she wants me to go back with her while the luck

lasts. Of course I can't leave her, but if you'd... At that, she looked up. She simply withered her mother. Why can't you leave me? She said furiously, what utter rot! How dare you make a scene like this? This is the last time I'll come out with you. You really are too awful for words. She looked her mother up and down. Calm yourself, she said superbly. Mrs. Radick was desperate, just desperate. She was wild to go back with Mrs. McEwen, but at the same time. I seized my courage. Would you, do you care to come to tea with us? Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I wanted, isn't it, darling? Mrs. McEwan, I'll be back here in an hour or less. Mrs. Ard, dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. So we three were left, but really it wasn't my

fault. Henny looked crushed to the earth too. When the car was there, she wrapped a dark coat round her to escape contamination. Even a little feet looked as though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. I am so awfully sorry, I murmured as the car started. Oh, I don't mind, said she. I don't want to look twenty-one. Who would if they were seven. It's—and she gave a faint shudder, the stupidity I love, the being stared at by old fat men, beasts. Henny gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. We drew up before an immense palace of pink and white marble with orange trees outside the doors in gold and black tubs. Would you care to go in, I suggested?

She hesitated, glanced, bitter lip, and resigned herself. Oh well, there seems nowhere. else said she, get out, Henny. I went first to find the table, of course. She followed. But the worst of it was having a little brother who was only twelve with us. That was the last final straw, having that child trailing at her heels. There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue tea napkins for sales. Shall we sit here? She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. We may as well, why not, said she. Henny squeezed past her and wriggled onto a stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table.

When a faint violin sounded, she winced and bit her lip again. Silence. The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. Tea, coffee, China tea or iced tea with lemon. Really, she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really want anything. Henny whispered, chocolate. But just as the waitress turned away, she cried out carelessly, Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate too. While we waited, she took out a little gold powder box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it and dabbed her lovely nose. Henny, she said, take those flowers away. She pointed with her puff to the carnations and I heard her murmur, I can't bear flowers on a table.

They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Henny buried his nose, emerged with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip, but he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't notice it, didn't see it, until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously. She faintly shuddered. Dreadfully sweet, said she. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries, row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations,

little melting dreams. He offered them to her. Oh, I'm not at all hungry, take them away. He offered them to Henny. Henny gave me a swift look. It must have been satisfactory, for he took a chocolate cream, a chocolate eclare, a meringue stuffed with chestnut, and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries.

She could hardly bear to watch him, but just as the boys swerved away, she held up her plate. Oh well, give me one, said she. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three, and a cherry tartlet. I don't know why you're giving me all these, she said, and nearly smiled.

I shan't eat them. I couldn't. I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, lent back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes and really did smile. Of course, said she,

I always expect people to. But at that moment, a tragedy happened to Henny. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Gastly affair. He turned crimson, even his ears fled, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.

You utter little beast, said she. Good heavens, I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, will you be abroad long? But she had already forgotten, Henny. I was forgotten too. She was trying to remember something. She was miles away. I don't know, she said slowly, from that faraway place. I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more. More. When I didn't go on, she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. More? "'Enfain, Gaia!' I cried, waving my cigarette. But that took a whole cake to consider.

Even then. Oh, well, that depends, was all she could safely say. Henny had finished. He was still very warm. I seized the butterfly list off the table. I say, what about an ice, Henny? What about Tangerine and Ginger? No, something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream? Henny strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs. Did you say Tangerine and Ginger? I like Ginger. You can bring me one. And then quickly, I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from the year one.

We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too sickening. But it was a charming air, now that I noticed it, it warmed me. I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Henny? I said. Henny said, ripping! He meant to say it very low, but it came out very high in a kind of squeak. Nice, this place, nice. For the first time she stared about her trying to see what there was. She blinked, her lovely eyes wandered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a

black ribbon, but him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him. Finally, the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Henny looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wristwatch. It got in her way. She tugged at it, tried to break the stupid little thing. It wouldn't break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw her after that. She couldn't stand this place a moment longer, and indeed she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars, the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up,

she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down. Henney bounded forward to open the door, and she got in and sank back with, oh, such a sigh. Tell him, she gasped, to drive as fast as he can. Henny grinned at his friend the chauffeur. Ali Viet, said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. The gold powder box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken.

Again there was that swift, deadly glance between her and the mirror. We tore through the blackened gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Henny had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something. And when we reached the casino, of course, Mrs. Raddock wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps, not a sign. Will you stay in the car, while I go and look? But no, she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no. Henny could stay. She couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. But I scarcely like to leave you, I murmured. I'd very much rather not leave you here. At that, she threw back her coat. She turned and faced me. Her lips parted.

"'Good heavens! Why! I don't mind it a bit. I... I like waiting.' And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned. Her eyes grew dark. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. "'Let me, please,' she stammered, in a warm, eager voice. "'I like it. I love waiting. Really? Really? I do. I'm always waiting, in all kinds of places.' The dark coat fell open, and her white throat, all her soft young body in the blue dress, was like a flower. that is just emerging from its dark bud. End of Section 6. Section 7 of The Garden Party and Other Stories.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan. Life of Ma Parker When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the darkly. little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. We buried him yesterday, sir, she said quietly. Oh, dear me, I'm sorry to hear that, said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing

gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand, but he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something, something more. Then, because these people sets that store by funerals, he said kindly, I hope the funeral went off all right. Beg parting, sir, said old Mar Parker huskily. Poor old bird, she did look dashed. I hope the funeral was a success, said he. Ma Parker gave no answer.

She bent her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things in an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. Overcome, I suppose, he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.

Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her tock and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied the laces.

That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees. "'Gran! Grand! A little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He'd just come in from playing in the street. Look what a state you've made your grand skirt into, you wicked boy!' But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. "'Grand, give us a penny,' he coaxed. "'Be off with you. "'Gran ain't got no pennies.' "'Yes, you have?

"'No, I ain't. "'Yes, you have. "'Give us one.' "'Already she was feeling for the old squashed black leather purse. "'Well, what'll you give you a grand?' "'He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. "'She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. "'I ain't got nothing,' he murmured.

"'The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off, the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail too and the washing-up bowl. It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week the literary gentleman did for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks, he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his system was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping. You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week

to clean up, and the thing's done. The results looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Mar Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds, they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges with holes in them, or dark stains like tea. While the water was heating, Mar Parker began sweeping the floor. Yes, she thought as the broom knocked, what with one thing and another, I've had my share, I've had a hard life. Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fish bag, she heard them,

at the corner or leaning over the area railing, say among themselves, she's had a hard life as Ma Parker. And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement back at number 27. A hard life. At 16 she'd left Stratford and come up to London as Kitching made. Yes, she was born in Stratford on Avon. Shakespeare, sir?

No, people were always asking her about him, but she'd never heard his name until she saw it on the theatres. Nothing remained of Stratford, except that, sitting in the fireplace of an evening, you could see the stars through the chimney, and Mother always had a side of bacon hanging from the ceiling. And there was something, a bush there was, at the front door, that smelled ever so nice.

But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once or twice in the hospital when she'd been taken bad. That was a dreadful place, her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. There was a fair cellar, and the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her letters from home before she'd read them

and throw them in the range because they made her dreamy. And the beedles, would you believe it? Until she came to London she'd never seen a black beetle. Here Mark Parker always gave a little laugh as though not to have seen a black beetle. Well, it was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet. When that family was sold up she went as help to a doctor's house and after two years there on the run from morning till night she married her husband he was a baker. A baker Mrs Parker the literary gentleman would say

for occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear at least to this product called Life it must be rather nice to be married to a baker Mrs Parker didn't look so sure such a clean trade said the gentleman Mrs Parker didn't look convinced And didn't you like handling the new loaves to the customers? Well, sir, said Mrs Parker, I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them.

If it wasn't the hospital, it was the infirmary, you might say. You might indeed, Mrs. Parker, said the gentleman, shuddering and taking up his pen again. Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small, her husband was taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor's told her at the time.

A husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back. Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker, said the doctor, you'd find his lungs chocker-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow! And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain

whether she saw, or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor, dead husband's lips. But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keep herself to herself, terrible it had been. Then, just when they were old enough to go to school, a husband's sister came to stop with them to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years, Mar Parker had another baby, and such a one for crying, to look after. Then young Maudy went wrong

and took a sister Alice with her. The two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lenny was born. And now little Lenny, my grandson. The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato

and finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed and the dresser and the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it. He'd never been a strong child, never from the first. He'd been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery, fair curls he had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child,

the things out of the newspapers they tried him with. Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Mar Parker did a washing. Dear sir, just a line to let you know my little Myrtle was laid out for dead. after four bottles gained eight pounds in nine weeks and is still putting it on. And then the egg cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would be written and Mar would buy a postal order on her way to work next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lenny put it on. Taking him to the cemetery even never gave him a colour.

A nice shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. But he was Grand's boy from the first. "'Whose boy are you?' said old Ma Parker, "'straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window. "'And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half-stifled her, "'it seemed to be in her breast, under her heart, laughed out, and said, "'I'm Grand's boy!' "'At that moment there was a sound of steps,

"'and the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking. "'Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out.' "'Very good, sir. "'And you'll find your half-crown, in the tray of the inkstand. Thank you, sir. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker, said the literary gentleman quickly.

You didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here, did you? No, sir. Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoon full of cocoa in the tin. He broke off, he said, softly and firmly. You'll always tell me when you throw things away,

won't you, Mrs. Parker? And he walked off, very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman. The door banged.

She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought of little Lenny was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child

have to ask for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that. From Lenny's little box of a chest There came a sound as though something was boiling There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out of his head His eyes bulged, his hands waved

And the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan But what was more awful than all Was that when he didn't cough He sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered Or even made as if he heard Only he looked offended "'It's not your poor old Grand's doing, my lovey,' said old Mar Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears.

But Lenny moved his head and edged away, dreadfully offended with her he looked, and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have believed it of his gran. But at the last, Mar Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't think about it. It was too much. She'd had too much in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now. She'd kept herself to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry, never by a living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a proud face always, but now, Lenny gone.

What had she? She had nothing. It was all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened to me, she wondered. What have I done? said old Ma Parker. What have I done? As she said those words, she suddenly let fall her brush. She found herself in the kitchen.

Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket, and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away, anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape. It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. went flitting by very fast. The men walked like scissors, the women trod like cats. And nobody knew,

nobody cared. Even if she broke down, even if at last, after all these years she were to cry, she'd find herself in the lock-up as like as not. But at the thought of crying, it was as though little Lenny leapt in his grand's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Grand wants to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything. beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctors and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lenny. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a long time, all the same, the time for it had come, she must do it, she couldn't put it off any longer, she couldn't

wait any more, where could she go? She's had a hard life as Ma Parker. Yes, a hard life indeed. Her chin began to tremble. There was no time to lose. But where? Where? She couldn't go home. Ethel was there.

It would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere. People would come along asking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat. She had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps, a policeman would speak to her. Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and hide, keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her.

Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out, at last? Mar-Parkas stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon, and now it began to rain. There was nowhere. End of Section 7. Section 8 of the Garden Party and other stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. read by Peter Dan Marriage a la mode On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of disappointment

that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies Poor little chaps It was hard lines on them Their first words were always As they ran to greet him What have you got from me, Daddy? And he had nothing He would have to buy them some sweets at the station

But that was what he had done For the past four Saturdays Their faces had fallen last time when they saw the same old boxes produced again. And Paddy had said, I had red ribbons on mine before. And Johnny had said, It's always pink on mine.

I hate pink. But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled. In the old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toy shop and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays, they had Russian toys, French toys, Serbian toys,

toys from God knows where. It was over a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because they were so dreadfully sentimental and so appallingly bad for the baby's sense of form. It's so important, the new Isabel had explained, that they should like the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to be taken to the Royal Academy. and she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate death to anyone. Well, I don't know, said William slowly. When I was their age, I used to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it.

The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. Dear William, I'm sure you did. She laughed in a new way. Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing in his pocket for change for the taxman. And he saw the kiddies handing the boxes round. They were awfully generous little chaps, while Isabelle's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves.

What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that too? Or a pineapple for pad and a melon for Johnny? Isabelle's friends could hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal times. All the same as he bought the melon, William had a horrible vision of one of Isabel's young poets

lapping up a slice for some reason behind the nursery door. With his two very awkward parcels he straight off to his train. The platform was crowded, the train was in, doors banged open and shut. There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker, stowed away his suitcase and parcels, taking a huge wad of papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to read. Our client, moreover, is positive. We are inclined to reconsider, in the event of... Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor.

The familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. With regard to our decision, he took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. Two men came in, stepped across him and made for the farther corner. A young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch. They were off. William glanced up and saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by the carriages. There was something strained and almost desperate in the way she waved and called.

Hysterical, thought William Dully. Then a greasy black-faced workman at the end of the platform grimed. at the passing train, and William thought, a filthy life, and went back to his papers. When he looked up again, there were fields and beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again.

The sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. We have examined our client's correspondence files. The last sentence he had read echoed in his mind. We have examined. William hung on to that sentence, but it was no good. It snapped in the middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water,

all said, Isabel. The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was on his way to meet Isabel, there began those countless imaginary meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from everybody else. She was sitting in the open taxi outside. She was at the garden gate,

walking across the parched grass, at the door, or just inside the hall. And her clear light voice said, It's William, or hello, William, and so William has come. He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. The exquisite freshness of Isabel. When he had been a little boy,

it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the rose-bole, over him. Isabel was that rose bush, petal soft, sparkling and cool, and he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside and shut his eyes. "'What is it, Isabel? What is it?' he said tenderly. They were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabelle sat on a painted stool before the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. What is what, William? And she bent forward and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks.

Ah, you know. He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a stranger. At that, Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. Oh, William, she cried imploringly and she held up the hairbrush. Please, please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and tragic. you're always saying or looking or hinting that I've changed, just because I've got to know really congenial people and go about more, and I'm frightfully keen on everything. You behave as though I'd... Isabel tossed back her hair and laughed, killed our love or something.

It's so awfully absurd. She bit her lip, and it's so maddening, William, even this new house and the servants, you grudge me. Isabel? Yes, yes, it's true in a way, said Isabel. "'You think they are another bad sign. "'Oh, I know you do. I feel it,' she said softly. "'Every time you come up the stairs.

"'But we couldn't have gone on living in that other pokey little hole, William. "'Be practical, at least. "'Why, there wasn't enough room for the babies even.' "'No, it was true. "'Every morning when he came back from chambers, "'it was to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. "'They were having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were playing shops with Isabel's desk for a counter,

or Pad was sitting on the hearth rug, rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old nanny. Yes, he supposed it was a pokey little house, a little white house with blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at the door with, See now, petunias, pretty terrific for London, don't you think?

think? But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing, was that he hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what blindness. He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she really hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat nanny was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that studio party at Moira Morrison's, if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they were leaving, I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like an exquisite little Titania.

If Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to Paris. If... The train stopped at another station, Bettingford. Good heavens, they'd be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his pockets. The young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the other two got out. The late afternoon's son shone on women in frock.

coats and little sun-burnt barefoot children. It blazed on a silky yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air ruffling through the windows smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with her this weekend? wondered William. And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with a little farm girl, rose to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey and a hair in a plait. She looked about fourteen. Lord, how his nose used to peel. The amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked together. William couldn't help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the full extent of his sentimentality. Hello, William.

She was at the station, after all, standing just as he had imagined, apart from the others, and William's heart leapt. She was alone. Hello, Isabel. William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that he had to say something. "'You look very cool?' "'Do I?' said Isabel. "'I don't feel very cool.

"'Come along, your horrid old train is late. "'The taxi's outside.' "'She put her hand lightly on his arm "'as they passed the ticket collector. "'We've all come to meet you,' she said, "'but we've left Robbie Kane at the sweet shop "'to be called for.' "'Oh,' said William,

"'that was all he could say for the moment. "'There in the glare waited the taxi "'with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green "'spralled on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and down.

No ice, no ice, no ice, no ice, she shouted gaily. And Dennis chimed in from under his hat, only to be had from the fishmongers. And Bill Hunt emerging added, With whole fish in it! Oh, what a bore, wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they had been chasing round the town

for ice while she waited for him, simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, beginning with the butter. We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter, said Dennis. May thy head, William, lack not ointment. Look here, said William. How are we going to sit? I'd better get up by the driver. No, Bobby Cain's by the driver, said Isabel. You ought to sit between Moira and me. The taxi started. What have you got in those mysterious parcels? Decapitated head.

"'Heads,' said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. "'Oh, fruit!' Isabel sounded very pleased. "'Wise William, a melon and a pineapple. How too nice!' "'No, wait a bit,' said William, smiling. "'But he really was anxious. I brought them down for the kiddies.' "'Oh, my dear,' Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. "'They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. "'No,' she patted his hand.

"'You must bring them something next time.' I refused to part with my pineapple. Cruel, Isabel. Do let me smell it, said Myra. She flung her arm across William appealingly. Oh, the strawberry bonnet fell forward. She sounded quite faint. A lady in love with a pineapple, said Dennis, as the taxi drew up before a little shop with a striped blind.

Out came Bobby Kane, his arms full of little packets. I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the colours. There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look at this nougat, he cried ecstatically. Just look at it. It's a perfect little ballet. But at that moment the shopman appeared. Oh, I forgot.

There's none of them paid for, said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman a note, and Bobby was radiant again. Hello, William. I'm sitting by the driver. And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to the shoulders. He leapt into his plate. "'Avanti!' he cried. After tea the others went off to bathe while William stayed and made his peace with the kiddies.

But Johnny and Paddy were asleep. The rose-red glow had paled. Bats were flying and still the bathers had not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall, carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite at William, someone had painted a young man, over-life size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ashtray full of cigarette ends.

William sat down on one of the armchairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one horn or a very fat dove out of Noah's Ark. One fished up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems. He thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was open, sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud,

shh. They had remembered him. William got up and went through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow, he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road. Their voices rang through the quiet. I think it's up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles. A tragic moan from Moira. We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played The Maid of the Mountains. Oh no, oh no, cried Isabel's voice. That's not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children. He's only staying until tomorrow evening. Leave him to me, cried Bobby Kane.

I'm awfully good at looking after people. The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace. They had seen him. Hello, William! And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. Pity you didn't come, William.

The water was divine, and we all went to a little pub afterwards and had slow gin. The others had reached the house. I say, Isabel, called Bobby. Would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress tonight? No, said Isabel. Nobody's going to dress.

We're all starving. William's starving too. Come along, Maisomey. Let's begin with sardines. I found the sardine, said Mara, and she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air. A lady with a box of sardine, said Dennis gravely. Well, William, and how much.

How's London? asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whiskey. Oh, London's not much changed, answered William. Good old London, said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. But a moment later, William was forgotten, where a Morrison began wondering what colour one's legs really were under water. Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour. Bill and Dennis ate enormously, and Isabel filled glasses and changed plates and found matches, smiling blissfully.

At one moment she said, I do wish Bill you'd paint it. Paint what? said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. Us, said Isabel, round the table, it would be so fascinating in twenty years' time. Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. Lights wrong, he said rudely, far too much yellow, and went on eating. and that seemed to charm Isabel too. But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn

until it was late enough to go to bed. It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suitcase down into the hall Isabelle left the others and went over to him. She stooped down and picked up the suitcase. What a wait, she said, and she gave a little awkward laugh. Let me carry it.

to the gate. No, why should you, said William? Of course not. Give it to me. Oh, please do let me, said Isabel. I want to, really. They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. There, said Isabel triumphantly,

setting the suitcase down, and she looked anxiously along the sandy road. I hardly seem to have seen you this time, she said breathlessly. It's so short, isn't it? I feel you've only just come. Next time. The taxi came into sight.

I hope they look after you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies have been out all day, but Miss Nell had arranged it. They'll hate missing you. Poor William, going back to London. The taxi turned. Goodbye. She gave him a little hurried kiss.

She was gone. Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pool to the station. The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded his arms against the dull, persistent, gnawing, and began in his mind to write a letter to Isabel. The post was late, as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at

Isabel's feet. It was dull, stifling. The day drooped like a flag. Do you think there will be Mondays in heaven? asked Bobby childishly. And Dennis murmured, Heaven will be one long Monday. But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon they had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for lunch, and now Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. It's so wonderful. one simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious. When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his tricycle, one felt the handlebars ought to have been oars. Bill Hunt put down his book. Letters, he said complacently, and they all waited. But heartless postman,

oh, malignant world, there was only one, a fat one for Isabel, not even a paper. And mine's only from William, said Isabel mourn to. from William already. He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder. Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for servants. Pages and pages. Look at her. A lady reading a letter, said Dennis. My darling, precious Isabel. Pages and pages there were. As Isabel read on, her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling.

What on earth had induced winter? William. How extraordinary it was! What could have made him? She felt confused, more and more excited, even frightened. It was just like, William, was it? It was absurd, of course. It must be absurd, ridiculous. Ha, ha, ha, oh dear, what was she to do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop laughing. Do tell us, said the others, you must tell us. I'm longing to, gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter and waved it at them. Gather round, she said. Listen, it's too marvellous. I love letter. A love letter, but how divine! Darling, precious, Isabel. But she had hardly begun before

their laughter interrupted her. Go on, Isabel, it's perfect. It's the most marvellous find. Oh, do go on, Isabel. God forbid, my darling, that I should be a dream. rag on your happiness. Oh, oh, oh, shh, sh, and Isabel went on. When she reached the end, they were hysterical. Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. You must let me have it, just as it is, entire for my new book, said Dennis firmly. I shall give it a whole chapter. Oh, Isabel, moira, that wonderful bit about holding you in his arms. I always thought those love letters and divorce cases were made up, but they pale before this. Let me hold it, let me read it, mine own self, said Bobby Kane.

But to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all. She looked exhausted. No, not just now, not just now, she stammered. And before they could recover, she had run into the house, through the hall, up the stairs into a bedroom. down she sat on the side of the bed. How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar, muttered Isabel. She pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro, and again she saw them, but not four, more like forty,

laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their hands while she read them, William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to have done! How could she have done it? God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness. William. Isabel pressed her face into the pillow, but she felt that even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was,

shallow, tinkling, vain. Presently from the garden below there came voices. Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come. Come, thou wife of William. Call her once before you go. Call once yet. Isabel sat up. Now is the moment. Now she must decide. Would she go with them or stay here and write to William? Which should it be? I must make up my mind. Oh, but how could there be any question?

Of course she would stay here and write. Titania, piped Moira. Isabelle. No, it was too difficult. I'll go with them and write to William later, some other time, later, not now. certainly right, thought Isabel hurriedly. And laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. End of Section 8. Section 9 of The Garden Party and other stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan, The Voyage. The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past 11. It was a beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the old wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under

Fenella's hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the old wharf, very dark. The woolsheds, the cattle trucks, the crane standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded woodpile that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness. It burned softly, as if for itself. Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him, her grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster. They went so fast that she had now and then to give an undignified little skip to keep up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage,

Fenella carried, clasped to her, her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too wanted her to hurry. Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swung by. A few women, all muffled, scurried along, and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and mother. He looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream. Then suddenly, so suddenly, that Fenella and her grandma both leapt,

there sounded from behind the largest woolshed that had a trail of smoke hanging over it. Meow! First whistle, said her father briefly, and at that moment they came inside of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she was more ready to

sail among stars and out into the cold sea. People pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then Fenella. There was a high step down onto the deck, and an old sailor in a jersey standing by gave his dry, hard hand. They were there. They stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck, they began to say goodbye. There, mother, there's your luggage, said Fenella's father, giving grandma another strapped up sausage. Thank you, Frank. And you've got your cabin tickets safe?

Yes, dear. And your other tickets? Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. That's right. He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired and sad. Meow! The second whistle blared just above their heads,

and a voice like a cry shouted, Any more for the gangway! "'You'll give my love to father,' Fenella saw her father's lips say, and her grandma very agitated, answered, "'Of course I will, dear. Go now. You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now.' "'It's all right, Mother, I've got another three minutes.' To her surprise, Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped Grandma in his arms and pressed her to him. God bless you, mother, she heard him say.

and Grandma put her hand with the black thread glove that was worn through on her ring finger against his cheek and she sobbed, God bless you, my own brave son. This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a mast head. But she had to turn round again.

Her father was going. Goodbye, Fenella, be a good girl. His cold, wet moustache brushed her cheek. but Vanella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. How long am I going to stay? she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look at her. He shook her off gently and gently said, We'll see about that. Here, where's your hand? He pressed something into her palm. Here's a shilling in case you should need it. A shilling? She must be going away forever.

Father, cried Fenella. But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sail is put their shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through the air and fell thump on the wharf. A bell rang, a whistle shrilled. Silently, the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fennella strained to sea with all her might. Was that farther turning round, or waving, or standing alone, or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round, steady, pointing out to sea. It was no good, looking any longer.

There was nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more lights, little patches of them on the dark hills. The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirt. She went back to her grandma. To her relief, Grandma seemed no longer sad. she had put the two sausages of luggage one on top of the other

and she was sitting on them her hands folded her head a little on one side there was an intent bright look on her face then Fenella saw that her lips were moving and guessed that she was praying but the old woman gave her a bright nod

as if to say the prayer was nearly over she unclasped her hands sighed them again bent forward and at last gave herself a soft shake And now, child, she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet strings. I think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me and mind you don't slip.

Yes, Grandma. And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw a beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over. Yes, Grandma. Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their pipes, a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of surprised-looking eyebrows. Fanella glanced up.

High in the air a little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the stars rocked, too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and skimmed past them.

They went through that doorway. Carefully over the high brass-bound step onto the rubber mat and then down such a terribly steep flight of stairs that Grandma had to put both feet on each step and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about the swan-necked umbrella. At the bottom Grandma stopped.

Fanella was rather afraid she was going to pray again, but no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They were in the saloon. It was glaring, bright and stifling. The air smelled of paint and burnt chop bones and India rubber. Fonella wished her grandma would go on but the old woman was not to be hurried

An immense basket of ham sandwiches caught her eye She went up to them and touched the top one delicately with her finger How much of the sandwiches she asked Tuppance, bawled a rude steward slamming down a knife and fork Grandma could hardly believe it Tuppance eat she asked That's right said the steward And he winked at his companion

Grandma made a small, astonished face, then she whispered primly to Vanilla. What wickedness! And they sailed out at the further door and along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nice stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons.

She seemed to know Grandma well. Well, Mrs Crane, said she, unlocking their washstand. We've got you back again. It's not often you give yourself a... cabin. No, said Grandma, but this time my dear son's thoughtfulness. I hope, began the

stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long, mournful look at Grandma's blackness and at Vanella's black coat and skirt, black blouse and hat with a crape rose. Grandma nodded. It was God's will, said she. The stewardess shut her lips, and taking a deep

breath, she seemed to expand. What I always say is, She said as though it was her own discovery. Sooner or later each of us has to go, and that's a certainty. She paused. Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know it's no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out.

Grandma shook her head. Nothing, thank you. We've got a few wine biscuits, and vanilla has a very nice banana. Then I'll give you a look later on, said the stewardess, and she went on, shutting the door. What a very sweet. small cabin it was. It was like being shut up in a box with Grandma. The dark round eye above the washstand gleamed at them dully. Fanella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her

luggage and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here? Already her grandma had taken off her bonnet and rolling up the strings, she fixed each with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her white hair shone like silk, the little bun at the back was covered with a black net. Vanella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered. She looked strange. I shall put on the woolen fascinator, your dear mother crocheted for me, said grandma, and unstrapping the sausage, she took it out and wound it round her head. The fringe of grey bobbles danced at her eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then she undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else underneath that. Then there seemed a

short, sharp tussle, and Grandma flushed faintly. Snip, snap, she had undone her stays. She breathed a sigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by side. By the time Fonella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her flannel dressing gown, Grandma was quite ready. Must I take off my boots, Grandma? Their lace! Grandma gave them a moment's deep consideration.

You'd feel a great deal more comfortable if you did, child, said she. She kissed, Fonella. Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when we are at sea, even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am an experienced traveller, said Grandma briskly, I shall take the upper berth. But Grandma, however, will you get up there?

Three little spider-like steps were all Fonella saw. The old woman gave a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered over the high bunk at the astonished Vanella. You didn't think your grandma could do that, did you? said she. And as she sank back, Fanella heard her light laugh again. The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in the bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn down those stiff sheets. You simply had to tear your way in. If everything had been different, Fanelma,

I might have got the giggles. At last she was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above a long, soft whispering, as though someone was gently, gently rustling among tissue paper to find something. It was Grandma saying her prayers. A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in. She trod softly and lent her hand on grandma's bunk. We're just entering the strait, she said. Oh, it's a fine night, but we're rather empty. We may pitch a little. And indeed at that moment the Picton boat rose and rose and hung in the air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, and there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Vanilla remembered she had left the swan-necked

umbrella standing up on the little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But Grandma remembered it too at the same time. I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella, she whispered. Not at all, Mrs Crane, and the stewardess coming back to Grandma breathed your little granddaughter's in such a beautiful sleep. God be praised for that, said Grandma. Poor little motherless mite, said the stewardess. And Grandma was still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell asleep. But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up again to see something waving in the air above her head. What was it?

or could it be? It was a small grey fort. Now another joined it. They seemed to be feeling about for something. There came a sigh. I'm awake, Grandma, said Fenella. Oh dear, am I near the ladder? asked Grandma. I thought it was this end. No, Grandma, it's the other. I'll put your foot on it. Are we there? asked Vanella. In the harbour, said Grandma, we must get up, child. You'd better have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move. But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp was still burning, but night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that round eye, she could see far off some rocks.

Now they were scattered over with foam, now a gull flipped by, and now there came a long piece of real land. "'It's land, Grandma,' said Fenella, wonderingly, as though they had been at sea for weeks together. She hugged herself. She stood on one leg and rubbed it with the toes of the other foot. She was trembling. Oh, it had all been so sad lately.

Was it going to change? But all her grandma said was, Make haste, child, I should leave your nice banana for the stewardess, as you haven't eaten it. And Fenella put on her black clothes again, and a button sprang off one of her gloves and rolled to where she couldn't reach it. They went up on deck.

But if it had been cold in the cabin on deck, it was like ice. The sun was not up yet, but the stars were dim, and the cold, pale sky was the same colour as the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose and fell. Now they could see quite plainly dark bush. Even the shapes of the umbrella ferns showed, and those strange silvery withered trees that are like skeletons. Now they could see the landing stage and some little houses, pale too, clustered together like shells on the lid of a box. The other passengers tramped up and down, but more slowly than they had the night before, and they looked gloomy.

And now the landing stage came out to meet them. Slowly it swam towards the Picton boat, and a man holding a coil of rope and a cart with a small drooping horse, and another man sitting on the step came too. It's Mr Penready, Fenella, come for us, said Grandma. She sounded pleased. Her white wax and cheeks were blue with cold, her chin trembled. and she had to keep wiping her eyes and her little pink nose. You've got by, yes, Grandma, Fenella showed it to her.

The rope came flying through the air and smack it fell onto the deck. The gangway was lowered. Again Fenella followed her grandma onto the wharf over to the little cart, and a moment later they were bowling away. The hooves of the little horse drummed over the wooden piles, then sank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was to be seen. was not even a feather of smoke. The mist rose and fell and the sea still sounded asleep as

slowly as it turned on the beach. I've seen Mr Crane yesterday, said Mr Penrady. He looked himself then. Mrs knocked him up a batch of scones last week. And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses. They got down. Fanella put her hand on the gate and the big, trembling dewdrop soaked through her glove tips. Up a little path of round white pebbles they went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grandma's delicate white picketies were so heavy with dew that they were fallen, but their sweet smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the little house. They mounted the steps onto the veranda. A pair of old bluishers was on one side of the door and a large red watering can on the other. Your grandpa, said Grandma.

She turned the handle, not a sound. She called, Walter! And immediately a deep voice that sounded half-stifled callback. Is that you, Mary? Wait, dear, said Grandma. Go in there. She pushed Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-room. On the table a white cat that had been folded up like a camel, rose, stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang onto the tips of its toes. Vanilla buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled timidly while she stroked and listened to Grandma's gentle voice and the rolling tones of Grandpa.

A door creaked. Come in, dear! The old woman beckoned. Fanella followed. There, lying on one side on an immense bed, lay Grandpa. Just his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard showed over the quilt. He was like a very old, wide away. bird. Well, my girl, said Grandpa, give us a kiss. Vanilla kissed him.

Mug, said Grandpa, her little nose is as cold as a button. What's that she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella. Fennella smiled again and crooked the swan neck over the bedrail. Above the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame. Lost one golden hour set with 60 diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for it is gone forever. Your grandma painted that, said Grandpa, and he ruffled his white tuft and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. End of Section 9. Section 10 of The Garden Party and other stories. This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan. Miss Brill. Although it was so perfectly fine, the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like

white wine splashed over the Gendarme Pablique, Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip. And now and again a leaf came drifting, from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up a hand and touched her fur, dear little thing, it was nice to feel it again. She had taken out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "'What has been happening to me?' said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red-eyed down.

But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock somehow. Never mind. A little dab of black sealing wax when the time came, when it was absolutely necessary. Little rogue. Yes, she really felt like that about it, little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands at arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed something light and sad, no, not sad exactly, something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday, and the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays,

out of season it was never the same. It was like someone playing with only the family to listen. It didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen, sitting in the green rotunda, blew out their cheeks, and glared at the music. Now there came a little flutie bit, very pretty, a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was. She lifted her head and smiled. Only two people shared her special seat. A fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking stick, and a big old woman sitting upright with a role of knitting on her embroidered apron.

They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her. She glanced sideways at the odd couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday too hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she buttoned boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles. She knew she needed them, but that it was no good getting any. They'd be sure to break, and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. It suggested everything. Gold rims, the kind that curved round

your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. They'll always be sliding down my nose. Miss Bill had wanted to shake her. The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro in front of the flower beds and the band rhod under, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing, little boys with big white silk bows under their chins. Little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees,

stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down flop until its small, high-stepping mother, like a young hen rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and Miss Brill had often noticed there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or even cupboards. Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping and through them just

a line of sea and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds. Dum-tum-tid-lum-titleum-tum-tid-lum-tidli-um-tum-tah blew the band. Two young girls in red came by, and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and pared and went off arm in arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me, Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not.

not. And now an ermine tock and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine tock she'd bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him, delighted. She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd been, everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming, didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still

talking and laughing, flicked the match away, and walked on. The Ehrman Tock was alone. She smiled more brightly than ever, but even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, the brute, the brute, over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine talk turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen someone else much nicer just over there and patted away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gaily than ever, and the odd couple on Miss Brill's seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.

Oh, how fascinating it was. How she enjoyed it. How she loved sitting here, watching it all. It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't until a little brown dog trotted on, solemn, and then slowly trotted off, like a little theatre dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was, that made it so exciting. They were all on this stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on,

they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there. She was part of the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like that before.

And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week so as not to be late for the performance. And it also explained why she had such a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder. Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud.

She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She'd got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high, pinched nose. if he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for weeks she wouldn't have minded but suddenly he knew who was having the paper read to him by an actress

an actress the old head lifted two points of light quivered in the old eyes an actress are ye and Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently yes I had been an actress for a long time the band had been having a rest Now they started again

And what they played was warm, sunny Yet there was just a faint chill A something, what was it? Not sadness, no not sadness A something that made you want to sing The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone And it seemed to miss Brill That in another moment all of them

All the whole company would begin singing The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together They would begin And the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too. She too, and the others on the benches. They would come in with a kind of accompaniment, something low that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful, moving. And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears, and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought. Though what they understood, she didn't know.

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed. They were in love. The hero and the heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht, and still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen. No, not now, said the girl. Not here.

I can't. But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there, asked the boy. Why did she come here at all? Who wants her? Why doesn't she keep a silly old mug at home? It's a fur which is so funny, giggled the girl. It's exactly like a fried whiting. Ah, be off with you, said the boy in an angry whisper. Then, tell me, my petite share. No, not here, said the girl. Not yet.

On her way home, she usually bought a slice of honey cake at the bakers. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond, it was like carrying home a tiny present, a surprise, something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. But today she passed the bakers by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room, her room like a cupboard,

and sat down on the red eider down. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly, quickly without looking, laid it inside. And when she put the lid on, she thought she heard someone crying. End of Section 10. Section 11 of The Garden Party and other stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan.

her first ball. Exactly when the ball began, Leela would have found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit, and away they bowled past waltzing lampposts and houses and venses and trees. "'Have you really never been to a ball before, Leela?

"'But my child, how too weird!' cried the Sheridan girls. "'Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,' said Leila softly, "'gently opening and shutting her fan. "'Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others. "'She tried not to smile too much. "'She tried not to care. "'But every single thing was so new and exciting. "'Miggs tuba roses,

"'Jose's long loop of amber, Laura's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower through snow. She would remember forever. It even gave her a pang to see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would have liked to have kept those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Lorry leant forward and put his hand on Laura's knee. Look here, darling, he said. The third and the ninth as usual. Dwig? Oh, how marvellous to have a brother. In her excitement, Leela felt that if there had been time,

if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever said, Twig, to her. No sister would ever say, as Meg said to Joes that moment, I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it has tonight. But of course there was no time. They were at the drill hall already. There were cabs in front of them and cabs behind.

The road was bright on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement, gay couples seemed to float through the air. Little satin shoes chased each other like birds. "'Hold on to me, Lilla, you get lost,' said Laura. "'Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it,' said Lorry. Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, and pushed into the little room marked ladies.

Here the crowd was so great there was hardly space to take off their things. The noise was deafening. Two benches and either side were stacked high with wraps. Two old women in white aprons ran up and down, tossing fresh armfuls, and everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little dressing table and mirror at the far end. A great quivering jet of gas lighted the lady's room. It couldn't wait, it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came a burst of tuning from the drill hall,

it leapt almost to the ceiling. Dark girls, fair girls, were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the front of their bodices, smoothing marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing, it seemed to Leila, they were all lovely. Aren't there any invisible hairpins? cried a voice.

Our most extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hairpin. Part of my back there's a darling, cried someone else. But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles in my head. miles of the frill, wailed a third. Then pass them along, pass them along. The straw basket of programs was tossed from arm to arm, darling little pink and silver programs with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Lela's fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask someone, am I meant to have one too, but she just had time to read, waltz, three, two,

two in a canoe. Polka, four, making the festival. feathers fly, when Meg cried, ready Layla, and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall. Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play, it would never be heard. Lela, pressing close to Meg, looked over Meg's shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy. She forgot how in the middle of dressing She had sat down on the bed with one shoe off

And one shoe on and begged her mother To ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after all And the rush of longing She had to be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home Listening to the baby owls crying Mop-Bok in the moonlight Was changed to a rush of joy So sweet it was hard to bear alone

She clutched her fan And gazing at the gleaming golden floor The azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, how heavenly, how simply heavenly. All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men at the other,

and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor towards the stage. This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her, find her partners. She's under my wing, said Meg. going up to one girl after another. Strange faces smiled at Leila, sweetly, vaguely.

Strange voices answered, Of course, my dear. But Leila felt the girls didn't really see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves.

Then, quite suddenly, as if they'd only just made up their minds, that that was what they had. had to do, the men came gliding over the parkard. There was a joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, ceased to program, scribbled something. Meg passed him on to Leila. May I have the pleasure? He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then came an old man, fat, with a big bald patch on his head, took her prong. He took her

and murmured, Let me see, let me see. And he was a long time comparing his program, which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Lela was ashamed. Oh, please don't bother, she said eagerly. But instead of replying, the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. Do I remember this bright little face, he said softly.

Is it known to me of your? At that moment the band began playing, the fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning. Layla had learned to dance at boarding school.

Every Saturday afternoon, the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where Miss Eccles of London held her select classes. But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall with calico texts on the wall, the poor terrified little woman

and a brown velvet tock with rabbits ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles, poking the girl's feet with her long white wand, and this was so tremendous that Lala was sure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch the others sliding,

gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars. Ours, I think. Someone bowed, smiled and offered her his arm. She hadn't to die, after all. Someone's hand pressed her waist, and she floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. Quite a good flaw, isn't it? drawled a faint voice close to her ear. I think it's most beautifully slippery, said Laila.

Pardon? The faint voice sounded surprised. Laila said it again, and there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed. Oh, quiet, and she was swung round again. He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other and stamped on each other's feet. The girl who was gentleman always clutched you so. The azaleas were separate flowers no longer. They were pink and white flags streaming by.

Were you at the bells last week? The voice came again. It sounded tired. Layla wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to stop. No, this is my first dance, said she. The partner gave a little gasping laugh. Oh, I say, he protested. Yes, it is, really, the first dance I've ever been to.

Layla was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. You see, I've lived in the country all my life up till now. At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs against the wall. Layla tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned herself while she blissfully watched the other couple's passing and disappearing through the swing doors. Enjoying yourself, Laila, asked Joes, nodding her golden head.

Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink. It made Laila wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. Floor's not bad, said the new voice. Did one always begin with the floor? And then, were you at the Neves on Tuesday? And again Laila explained, perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more interested, for it was thrilling, her first ball.

She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known, what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often, oh yes, but mournful somehow, solemn. And now it would never be like that again, and it had opened dazzling bright. Care for an ice, said her partner, and they went through the swing doors, down the passage to the supper room. Her cheeks burned as she was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ice has looked on little glass plates and how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too. And when they came back to the hall, there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how old he was. He ought to have been on the stage with

the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her other partners, he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off his glove, and his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk. Come along, little lady, said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away so gently it was more like walking than dancing, but he said not a word about the floor. Your first dance, isn't it? he murmured. How did you know? Ah, said the fat man, that's what it is to be old.

He weased faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. You see, I've been doing this kind of thing for the last thing. thirty years. Thirty years, cried Lela, twelve years before she was born. It hardly bears thinking about, does it? said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head,

and she felt quite sorry for him. I think it's marvellous to be still going on, she said kindly. Kind little lady, said the fat man, and he pressed her a little closer and hummed a bar of the walls. Of course, he said, you can't hope to last anything like as long as that,

"'No,' said the fat man. Long before that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on in your nice black velvet. All those pretty arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kind of fan, a black, bony one. The fat man seemed to shudder, and you'll smile away like the poor old dears up there

and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to kiss her at the club ball, and your heart will ache, ache. The fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that poor heart, because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on,

how dangerous they are. Eh, mademoiselle twinkle-toes, said the fat man softly. Lela gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was it, could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the beginning of her last ball after all? At that the music seemed to change. It sounded sad, sad.

It rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things changed. Why didn't happiness last forever? Forever wasn't a bit too long. I want to stop, she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to the door. No, she said, I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand here, thank you. She leant against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to smile.

But deep inside her, a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all? I say, you know, said the fat man, you mustn't take me seriously, little lady. As if I should, said Lela, tossing her small dark head and sucking her under lip. again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Layla didn't want to dance anymore.

She wanted to be home or sitting on the veranda listening to those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars they had long beams like wings. But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance. out of politeness, until she could find Meg.

Very stiffly, she walked into the middle. Very haughtily, she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel, and when her next partner bumped her into the fat man and said, Pardon, she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn't even recognise him again. End of Section 11.

Section 12 of the Garden Party and other stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan. The Singing Lesson With despair, cold, sharp despair, buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown, and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by. From the hollow classrooms came a quick drumming of voices. A bell rang, a voice like a bird, cried, Muriel!

And then they came from the staircase, a tremendous knock, knock, knocking. Someone had dropped her dumbbells. The science mistress stopped Miss Meadows. "'Good morning!' she cried in her sweet, affected draw. "'Isn't it cold? It might be winter!' Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the science mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair. "'It is rather sharp,' said Miss Meadows grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile. You look frozen, said she. Her blue eyes opened wide. There came a mocking light in them. Had she noticed anything? Oh, not quite as bad as that, said Miss Meadows, and she gave the science mistress in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on.

Forms four, five and six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform by the piano stood Mary Beasley, Miss Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows, she gave a loud warning, shh, girls, and Miss Meadows, her hand thrust in her sleeves,

the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with a baton for silence. Silence, please, immediately! And looking at nobody, her glance swept over that sea of colour, flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair bows and music books outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. Meady is in a wax.

Well, let them think it. Her eyelids quivered. She tossed her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to someone who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart by such a letter? I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but...

And the word disgust was scratched out lightly and regret written over the top. Basil Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano, and Mary Beasley, who was waiting for this moment, bent forward. Her curls fell over her cheeks while she breathed, good morning Miss Meadows, and she motioned towards, rather than handed to her mistress, a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it,

into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, Thank you, Mary, how very nice. Turned to page 32. What was Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but said in her voice of eyes, page 14, please, and mark the accents well. Staggering moment. Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand. Her voice rang through the music hall.

Page 14. We will begin with page 14. I lament. Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together, not in parts, all together, and without expression. Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand. She raised the baton. She tapped the music stand twice.

Down came Mary on the opening chord. Down came all those left hands beating the air, and in chimed those young mournful. voices. Faster to fast fade the roses of pleasure. Soon autumn yield unto winter drear. Fleetly our fleetly music's gay measure. passes away from the listening ear. Good heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament? Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness.

Miss Meadows lifted her arms in a white gown and began conducting with both hands. I feel more and more strongly that I'm going. marriage would be a mistake, she beat. And the voices cried, Fletely, ah, fleetingly! What could have possessed him to write such a letter? What could have led up to it? It came out of nothing.

His last letter had been all about a fumed oak bookcase he had bought for our books, and a natty little hallstand he had seen a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket holding three hat-brushes in its claws. How she had smiled at that. So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes from the listening ear sang the voices.

Once again, said Miss Meadows, but this time in parts, still without expression. Fast, ah, too fast. With the gloom of the contraltoes added, one could scarcely help shuddering. Fade the roses of Pleasure. Last time he had come to see,

Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit with that dark red rose. And he knew it too. He couldn't help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache. His teeth gleamed when he smiled.

The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place. But you can't refuse? Oh well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular. Music's gay measure, wailed the voices. The willow trees outside the high, narrow windows waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves.

The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. I am not a marrying man. The voices were silent. The piano waited. Quite good, said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. But now that we know it, we shall take it with expression, as much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast, thou too fast, cried Miss Meadows.

That ought to break out, a loud, strong forte, a lament. And then, in the second line, Winter drear, Make that drear sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. Drear! she said so awfully that Mary Beasley on the music stool wriggled her spine. The third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly, our fleetly, music's gay measure, breaking on the first word of the last line, passes. And then on the word, away, you must begin to die, to fade,

until the listening ear is nothing more than a faint whisper. You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please. Again the two light taps. She lifted her arms again. Fast, ah, too fast. And the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust. Disgust was what he had written.

That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. broken off, their engagement. People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The science mistress would not believe it at first, but nobody had been as surprised as she. She was 30, battle was 25. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say as they walked home from church that very dark night, you know, somehow or other I've got fond of you. And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather bower. Fuses away from the listening ear. Repeat, repeat, said Miss Meadows, more expression girls, once more.

Fast are too fast. The older girls were crimson, some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one could hear the willows whispering, not that I do not love you, But, my darling, if you love me, thought Miss Meadows, I don't mind how much it is, love me as little as you like. But she knew he didn't love her.

Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word disgust so that she couldn't read it. Soon autumn yields unto winter drear. She would have to leave the school too. She could never face the signs mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. passes away The voices began to die To fade to whisper

To vanish Suddenly the door opened A little girl in blue Walked Fustily up the aisle Hanging her head biting her lips and twisting the silver bangle on her red little wrist She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows

Well Monica, what is it? If you please Miss Meadows said the little girl gasping Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room. Very well, said Miss Meadows, and she called to the girls, I shall put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away. But they were too subdued to do anything else.

Most of them were blowing their noses. The corridors were silent and cold. They echoed to Miss Meadows' steps. The headmistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She was, as usual, disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace tie. Set down, Miss Meadows, she said, very kindly.

And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting pad. I sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you. A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt. Pazzo, he had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. I hope it's not bad news, she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open. "'Pay no attention to letter. Must have been mad. Bought hat-stand to-day, Basil,' she read.

She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram. "'I do hope it's nothing very serious,' said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward. "'Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,' blushed Miss Meadows. "'It's nothing bad at all. And she gave an apologetic little laugh. "'It's from my fiancée, saying that there was a pause.' "'I see,' said Miss Wyatt, and another pause. Then you're 15 minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?

Yes, Miss Wyatt. She got up. She half ran towards the door. Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows, said Miss Wyatt. I must say, I don't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death, explained Miss Wyatt, or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know. On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the musical, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.

Page 32, Mary, she said, page 32. And picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, wrapped with her baton. Page 32, girls, page 32. We come here today with flowers overlaid. with baskets of fruit and ribbons to boot to congratulate. Stop, stop, cried Miss Meadows.

This is awful. This is dreadful. And she beamed at her girls. What's the matter with you all? Think, girls. Think of what you're singing. Use your imagination with flowers overladen, baskets of fruit and ribbons to boot, and congratulate. Miss Meadows broke off. Don't look so dogged.

soulful girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager, congratulate. Once more, quickly, all together, now then. And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other voices, full, deep, glowing with expression. End of Section 12. Section 13 of The Garden Party and other stories. This Librevox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan, The Stranger. It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern.

You could just see little couples parading, little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower. deck, the cook's apron or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder onto the bridge. In the front of the crowd a strong-looking middle-aged man dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little

crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd. But what a fool. What a fool he had been not to bring any glasses. There wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir him up a bit. We might have managed a little signaling. Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless. Or, a welcome awaits you. All is forgiven. What? Hey? Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous. and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf,

roped in even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew every man jack of them that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat and that he was so tremendously excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant something for them too.

It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people, those old chaps over by the gangways too, fine, solid old chaps. What chest by Jove? And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe. Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months, on a visit to our eldest girl who was married last year. I brought her up here as far as Salisbury myself, so I thought I'd better come and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes. The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again

and searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, but a yellow watch again, and for the 20th, 50th, 100th time he made the calculation. Let me see now. It was 2.15 when the doctor's launch went off. 2.15. It is now exactly 28 minutes past 4. That is to say, the doctor's been gone 2 hours and 13 minutes.

two hours and thirteen minutes he gave a queer little half-wistle and snapped his watch too again but I think we should have been told if there was anything up don't you Mr Gavin oh yes Mr Hammond I don't think there's anything to anything to worry about said Mr Gavin knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe

at the same time quite so quite so cried Mr Hammond dashed annoying He paced quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gavin. It's getting quite dark too, and he waved his folded umbrella

as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother's hand. "'I want my tea, mammy!' she wailed. "'I expect you do,' said Mr. Hammond. I expect all these ladies want their tea.

And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so. He thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case, perhaps the deck steward

would bring her up a cup. If he'd been there, he'd have got it for him, somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand. fold round the cup in the way she had while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board. But now he was back here, and Lord only knew when the cursed captain

would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab stand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared. Backy swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. poor little beggar. He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.

Here, Jean, he said, like a lift-up, and easily, gently, he swung the little girl onto a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadinger, relieved it wonderfully, lightened his heart. Hold on, he said, keeping an arm round her. Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond, said Mrs. Scott. That's all right, Mrs. Scott, no trouble. It's a pleasure. Gene's a little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean? Yes, Mr Hammond, said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat.

But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. Look, Mr Hammond, she's moving, look, she's coming in. By Jove, so she was, at last. She was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water, and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose. They fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart, Mr Hammond couldn't say.

He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment, old Captain Johnson, the harbour master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. "'Gene'll be all right,' said Mr. Scott. "'I'll hold her.' He was just in time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. he sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson. Well Captain, the eager, nervous voice rang out again.

You've taken pity on us at last. There's no good blaming me, Mr Hammond, wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. You got Mrs Hammond on board, ain't you? Yes, yes, said Mr Hammond, and he kept by the Harbourmaster's side. Mrs Hammond's there. Hello, we shan't be long now. With their telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour master kept in front of the rest.

Hammond took off his hat. He raked the decks, they were crammed with passengers. He waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange, Hello! across the water, and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something, nothing, to old Captain Johnson. Seena, asked the harbour master. No, not yet. Steady, wait a bit.

And suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots, get out of the way there, he signed with his umbrella. He saw a hand raised, a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and thank God, thank God, there she was. There was Janie. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes, standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. Well, that's first class, first class. Well, well, well. He positively stamped. Like lightning, he drew out his cigarette case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. Have a cigar, Captain. They're pretty good. Have a couple. Here. And he pressed all the cigars in the case on the Harbourmaster.

I have a couple of boxes up at the hotel. "'Thanks, Mr Hammond,' "'weised old Captain Johnson.' "'Hamond stuffed the cigar case back. "'His hands were shaking, "'but he'd got hold of himself again. "'He was able to face Janie. "'There she was, leaning on the rail,

"'talking to some woman "'and at the same time watching him, "'ready for him. "'It struck him as the gulf of water closed, "'how small she looked on that huge ship. "'His heart was wrung with such a spasm "'that he could have cried out. "'How little,

she looked to have come all that long way and back by herself. Just like her, though, just like Janie. She had the courage of a... And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers. They had lowered the rails for the gangways. The voices on shore

and the voices on board flew to greet each other. All well, all well. How's mother? Much better. Hello, Jean. Hello, Aunt Emily. Had a good voyage. Splendid. Shan't be long now. Not like. now. The engine stopped. Slowly, she edged to the wharf side. Make way there, make way, make way,

and the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janie to stay where she was. The old harbour master stepped forward. He followed. As to ladies first or any rot like that, it never entered his head. After you, Captain, he cried genially, and treading on the old man's heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a beeline to Janie, and Janie was clasped in his arms. Well, well, yes, yes, here we are at last, he stammered. It was all he could say. And Janie emerged, and her cool little voice, the only voice in the world for him, said,

Well, darling, have you been waiting long? No, not long, or at any rate it didn't matter. It was over now. But the point was he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she ready to go off? Was her luggage ready? In that case, they could cut off sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until tomorrow.

He bent over her, and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She was just the same. Not a day changed, just as he'd always known her. She laid a small hand on his sleeve. How are the children, John? she asked. Hang the children. Perfectly well, never better in their lives. Haven't they sent me letters? Yes, yes, of course. I've left them at the hotel for you to digest later on.

We can't go quite so fast, she said, I've got people to say goodbye to, and then there's the captain. As his face fell, she gave his arm a small understanding squeeze. If the captain comes off the bridge, I want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully. Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes, as he gave way, she was surrounded.

The whole first class seemed to want to say goodbye to Janie. Goodbye, dear Mrs. Hammond, and next time you're in Sydney, you. Darling, Mrs. Hammond, you won't forget to write to me, will you? Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you! It was as plain as a pike-staff that she was by far the most popular woman on board, and she took it all, just as usual, absolutely composed, just her little self, just Janie all over, standing there with a veil thrown back. Amund never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the same to him, whatever she wore, but today he did notice that

she wore a black costume, didn't they call it, with white frills, trimmings, he supposed they were, at the neck and sleeve. All this while Janie handed him round. John, dear, and then I want to introduce you to... Finally, they did escape, and she led the way to her stateroom. To follow Janie down the passage that she knew so well, that was so strange to him, to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. but confounded the stewardess was there on the floor strapping up the rugs.

That's the last Mrs Hammond, said the stewardess, rising and pulling down her cuffs. He was introduced again, and then Janie and the stewardess disappeared into the passage. He heard whispersings. She was getting the tipping business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his hat off. There were the rug she had taken with her. They looked good as new. All her luggage looked fresh, purses. The labels were written in her beautiful little clear hand, Mrs. John Hammond. Mrs. John Hammond. He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, crossing his arms.

The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there forever, sighing his relief. The relief at being rid of that horrible tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling. They were on dry land again. But at that moment, Janie's head came round the corner. Darling, do you mind? I just want to go and say goodbye to the doctor. Hammond started up. I'll come with you.

No, no, she said, don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a minute. And before he could answer, she was gone. He had half a mind to run after her, but instead he sat down again. Would she really not be long? What was the time now?

Out came the watch. He stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey. wasn't it? Why couldn't she have told the stewardess to say goodbye for her? Why did she have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did it... Could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage? She was keeping something from him? That was it. He seized his hat. He was going off to find that fellow and to ring the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he'd noticed just something. She was

just a touch too calm, too steady, from the very first moment. The curtains rang. Janie was back. He jumped to his feet. Janie, have you been ill on this forge? You have. Ill? Her airy little voice mocked him.

She stepped over the rugs and came up close, touched his breast and looked up at him. Darling, she said, don't frighten me. Of course I haven't. Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look ill? But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at him

and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look after things. It was all right. Everything was. The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to hold it there, and she said, Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You've had your beard beautifully trimmed and you look younger, I think, and decidedly thinner. Bachelor life agrees with you. Agrees with me. He groaned for love and caught her close again. And again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that never was quite his. His.

Something too delicate, too precious, that would fly away once he let go. For God's sake, let's get off to the hotel so that we can be by ourselves. And he rang the bell hard for someone to look sharp with the luggage. Walking down the wharf together, she took his arm. He had her on his arm again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janie, to throw the red and yellow-striped blanket round them both, to tell the driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea.

No more going without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, squeezed her hand and said gently, teasingly, in the special voice he had for her. Glad to be home again, dearie. She smiled. She didn't even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to the brightest streets. We've got the best room in the hotel, he said.

I wouldn't be put off with another, and I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in case you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl, and I thought now we were here, we wouldn't bother to go home tomorrow, but spend the day looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There's no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough.

I thought a day's sightseeing might make a nice break in your journey, eh, Janey. Have you taken the tickets for the day after? she asked. I should think I have. He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his bulging pocketbook. Here we are. I reserved a first-class carriage to cook down. There it is, Mr and Mrs. John Hammond. I thought we might as well do ourselves comfortably and we don't want other people butting in, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit longer. Oh no, said Janie quickly, not for the world. The day after tomorrow then, and the children. But they had reached the hotel.

The manager was standing in the broad, brilliantly lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from the hall for their boxes. Well, Mr Arnold, here's Mrs Hammond at last. The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little hall tables, having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't going to risk interruption.

He looked neither to the right nor the left. They could think what they pleased If they didn't understand the more fools they And he stepped out of the lift Unlocked the door of their room And shepherded Janie in The door shut Now at last they were alone together

He turned up the light The curtains were drawn The fire blazed He flung his hat on the huge bed And went towards her But would you believe it Again they were interrupted This time it was the porter with the luggage

He made two journeys of it leaving the door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung down his overcoat onto the bedside. At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone, said Hammond. I feel I'll never have you to myself again, these cursed people, Janie. And he bent his flushed eager gaze upon her. let's have dinner up here.

If we go down to the restaurant, we'll be interrupted, and then there's the confounded music. The music he'd praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night. We shan't be able to hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of the fire. It's too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I?

How does that idea strike you? Do, darling, said Janie, and while you're away, the children's letters. Oh, later on we'll do, said Hammond. But then we'd get it over, said Janie, and I'd first have time to, Oh, I needn't go down, explained Hammond. I'll just ring and give the order. You don't want to send me away, do you? Janie shook her head and smiled.

But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying about something, said Hammond. What is it? Come and sit here. Come and sit on my knee before the fire. I'll just unpinned my hat, said Janie, and she went over to the dressing table. Ah, she gave a little cry. "'What is it? Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's all right. They will keep. No hurry now.' She turned to him, clasping them. She tucked them in her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily. Oh, how typical this dressing-table is of you. Why, what's the matter with it, said Hammond? If it were floating in eternity, I should say, John, laughed Janie, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of odourke, alone, the two hairbrushes,

and a dozen new collars tied with pink tape. Is this all your luggage? Hang my luggage, said Hammond, but all the same he liked being laughed at by Janie. Let's talk, let's get down to things. Tell me, and as Janie perched on his knees, he leant back and drew her into the deep, ugly chair. Tell me you're really glad to be back, Janie.

Yes, darling, I am glad, she said. But just as when he embraced her, he felt she would fly away, so Hammond never knew, never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this craving, this pang like hunger somehow, to make Janie so much part of him that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out everybody, everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light that might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children rustled in her blouse, he could have chucked them into the fire,

Janie, he whispered. Yes, dear. She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely, their breathing rose and fell together. Janie, what is it? Turn to me, he whispered. The slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. Kiss me, Janie, you kiss me.

It seemed to him there was a tiny pause, but long enough for him to suffer torture before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly, kissing them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss, how could he describe it, confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that wasn't what he wanted, that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt suddenly, horribly tired. If you knew, he said, opening his eyes, what it's been like, waiting today, I thought the boat never would come in, there we were, hanging about, what kept you so long?

She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames hurried, hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. Not asleep, are you? said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. No, she said, and then, don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As a matter of fact, she said, one of the passengers died last night, a man, that's what held us up. We brought him in. I mean, he wasn't buried at sea. So, of course, the ship's docked. and the shore doctor. What was it? asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death.

He hated this to have happened. It was in some queer way as though he and Janie had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious, said Janie. She was speaking scarcely above her breath. It was hard.

A pause. Poor fellow, she said, quite young. And she watched the fire flicker and fall. He died in my arms, said Janie. The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing, flowing into the big dark chair,

and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped him, forced him to bear it. What, he said, Dully, what's that, you say? The end was quite peaceful, said the small voice, he just, and Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand, breathed his life away at the end, and her hand fell. Who else was there? Hammond managed to ask.

Nobody. I was alone with him. Oh my God, what was she saying? What was she doing to him? This would kill him, and all the while she spoke. I saw the change coming, and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. he couldn't have done anything anyway.

But why you? Why you? moaned Hammond. At that, Janie turned quickly, quickly searched his face. You don't mind, John, do you? She asked. You don't... It's nothing to do with you and me. Somehow or other, he managed to make some sort of smile at her. Somehow or other, he stammered, no, go on, go on, I want you to tell me. But John, darling, tell me, Janie. There's nothing to tell, she said wonderingly.

He was one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board, but he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe attack in the afternoon, excitement, nervousness, I think, about arriving, and after that he never recovered. But why didn't the stewardess? Oh, my dear, the stewardess, said Janie. What would he have felt?

And besides, he might have wanted to leave a message to... Didn't he? muttered Hammond. Didn't he say anything? No, darling, not a word. She shook her head softly. All the time I was with him, he was too weak. He was too weak even to move a finger. Janie was silent, but her words, so light, so soft, so chill,

seemed to hover in the air to rain into his breast like snow. The fire had gone red Now it fell in with a sharp sound And the room was colder Cold crept up his arms The room was huge immense Glittering It filled his whole world

There was the great blind bed With his coat flung across it Like some headless man sang his prayers There was the luggage Ready to be carried away again Anywhere tossed into trains carted onto boats

He was too weak he was too weak to move a finger. And yet he died in Janie's arms, she, who'd never, never once in all these years, never on one single solitary occasion. No, he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he wouldn't face it.

He couldn't stand it, it was too much to bear. And now Janie touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the tie together. You're not sorry, I told her. you, John, darling. It hasn't made you sad. It hasn't spoilt our evening. Our being alone together. But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her. Spoilt their evening. Sport their being alone together. They would never be alone together again. End of Section 13. Section 14 of The Garden Party and other stories.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan. Bank Holiday A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small for him perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken wing,

breathes into a flute, and a tall thin fellow with bursting overripe butt, boots draws ribbons, long twisted streaming ribbons of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit shop. The pink spider of a hand beats the guitar. The little squat hand with a brass and turquoise ring forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler's arm tries to soar the fiddle in two. A crowd collects eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, dividing. sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, but she does not eat them.

Aren't they dear? She stares at the tiny pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs. Here go on, that's not more than a mouthful. But he doesn't want her to eat them either. He likes to watch her little frightened face and her puzzled eyes lifted to his. Aren't they a price? He pushes out his chest and grins. old fat women in velvet bodices, old dusty pin cushions, lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top, young women in muslins with hats that might have grown on hedges and high pointed shoes. Men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks,

young jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, hospital boys in blue, the sun discovers them. The loud, bold music, hot. holds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging, the old ones are talking. So I said to him, if you want the doctor to yourself, fetch him, says I. And by the time they was cooked, there wasn't so much as you could put in the palm of me hand.

The only ones who are choir to the ragged children. They stand as close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their backs, their eyes big. a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny staggerer, overcome, turns around twice, sits down, solemn, and then gets up again. Ain't it lovely? whispers a small girl behind her hand. And the music breaks into bright pieces and joins together again, and again breaks and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up the hill. At the corner of the road the stalls begin. Ticklers, Tappen's a tickler.

Who'll have a tickler? Tickle them up, boys. Little soft brooms on wire handles. They're eagerly bought by the soldiers. Buy a gollywog. Tupence a gollywog. Buy a jumping donkey. All alive, vol.

Superior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys. Buy a rose. Give her a rose, boy. Roses lady. Fevers, feathers. They are hard to resist. Lovely streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow.

Even the babies wear feathers threaded through their bonnets. And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were a final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to his senses. Buy a three-cornered hat, my dear, and put it on. It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in, a shadow flies over. when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burning their backs,

their breasts and their arms. They feel their bodies expanding, coming alive, so that they make large, embracing gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into laughter. Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth, and lemons like blunted fishes bob in the yellow water.

It looks solid like a jelly in the thick glass. Why can't they drink it without spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back, the last drops are thrown in a ring. Around the ice cream cart, with its striped dawning and bright brass cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunged in,

one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching. Let these little birds tell you your future. She stands beside the cage, a shrivelled, ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green and cold scarf, and inside their prison the lovebirds flutter towards the papers in the seed tray. You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman.

Look out, look out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur. comes rushing down the hill. Inside there is a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward, rushing through your life. Beware, beware. Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I tell you is not the truth, I am liable to have my license taken away from me and a heavy imprisonment. He holds the license across his chest. The sweat pours down his face into his paper collar. His eyes look glazed. When he takes off his hat, there is a deep, pucker of angry flesh on his forehead. Nobody buys a watch. Look out again. A huge barouche

comes swinging down the hill with two old old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol, he sucks the knob of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill. Under a tree Professor Leonard in cap and gowner stands beside his banner. He is here for one day from the London, Paris and Brussels exhibition to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands smiling encouragement like a clumsy dentist. When the big men romping and swearing a moment before,

hand across their sixpence and stand before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner. stepping from behind a tree. The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is, how fine it is. The public house is open and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the pavement edge with her baby and the father brings her out a glass of dark brownish stuff and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek of beer floats from the public house and a loud clatter and rattle the voices.

The wind has dropped and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the mouth of a sweet jar. And up, up the hill come the people with ticklers and gollywogs and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something far below and by the sun far ahead of them, drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling radiance to what? End of Section 14 Section 15 of

The Garden Party and other stories This Librevox recording is in the public domain Read by Peter Dan An Ideal Family That evening for the first time in his life As he pressed through the swing door And descended the three broad steps to the pavement Old Mr Neve felt he was too old for the spring

Spring More meagre restless Was there waiting for him and the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn't meet her. No, he couldn't square up once more and stride off jaunty as a young man. He was tired, and although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand this gaiety and bright movement any longer that confused him.

He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, Be off with you. Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual, tipping his wide awake with his stick all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, I'm a match and more for any of you, that old Mr. Neve could not manage at all.

He stumped along, lifting his knees, high as if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the homeward-looking crowd hurried by. The trams clanked, the light-carts clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams. It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where had he been? What did he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father know. Old Mr. Neve had happened to be in the vestibule, saying goodbye to a caller,

when Harold sorted in perfectly. Turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating. Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far. That had been the trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes and such lips. It was uncanny. As for his mother, his son.

sisters and the servants. It was not too much to say they made a young god of him. They worshipped Harold. They forgave him everything, and he had needed some forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother's purse, taken the money and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom. Old Mr. Neve struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement edge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected. That was everybody. He had only to look and to smile and down they went before him. So perhaps it wasn't to be wondered at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition. Hmm, hmm, but it couldn't be done. No business, not even as successful, established big-paying concern could be played with. A man had either to put his

whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes. And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole thing over to Harold, to retire and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying himself. Old Mr. Neve stopped dead under a group of ancient cabbage palms outside the government buildings. Enjoying himself.

The wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin, airy cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine fingers while Harold smiled. Why will you be so unreasonable

father. There's absolutely no need for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when people persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge house and garden. Surely you could be happy in appreciating it for a change, or you could take up some hobby. And Lola, the baby, had chimed in loftily. All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven't. Well, well, he couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to. to climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and his sisters and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies he'd like to know?

Hobbies couldn't pay for the townhouse and the seaside bungalow and their horses and their golf and the 60-guinea gramophone in the music room for them to dance to? Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman that was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs.

No other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neve, pushing the cigar box across the smoking table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one reads about or sees on the stage. That's all right, my boy, old Mr. Neve would reply. Try one of those. I think you like them. and if you care to smoke in the garden you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anybody, but they had too good a time at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. Hmm, well, well, perhaps so. By this time he had walked the length of fashionable High Court Avenue. He'd reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed back. there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive.

And then he faced the big white-painted house with its wide-open windows, its tall curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch, their hydrangeers, famous in the town, were coming into flower. The pinkish, bluish masses of flower

lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow it seemed to old Mr. Neve that the house and the flowers and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, there is young life here, there are girls. The hall, as always, was dusky with raps, parasols, gloves piled on the oak chests.

From the music room sounded the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar, voices floated. And were there ices? Came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her rocker. Icees, cried Ethel.

My dear mother, you never saw such ices. only two kinds, and one a common little strawberry shop-ice in a sopping wet frill. The food altogether was too appalling, came from Marion. Still, it's rather early for ices, said Charlotte easily. But why, if one has them at all? began Ethel. Oh, quite so, darling, crooned Charlotte. Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed at the sight of old Mr. Neve.

"'Cratious father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?' Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over her forehead, and she breathed as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neve stared at his youngest daughter. He felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father. It was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone rang. Ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him.

The door of the telephone room slammed and at the same moment Charlotte called, Is that you, father? You're tired again, said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the rocker and offered her warm, plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear. Did you walk back, father? father asked Charlotte. Yes, I walked home, said old Mr. Neve, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs. But why didn't you take a cab, said Ethel? There are hundreds of cabs about at that

time. My dear Ethel, cried Marion, if father prefers to tie himself out, I really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere. Children, children, coaxed Charlotte. But Marion wouldn't be stopped. No, mother, you spoil, father, and it's not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty. She laughed her hard, bright laugh, and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange. When she was a little girl, she had such a soft, hesitating voice. She had even stuttered. And now, whatever she said, even if it was only jam, please, father, had rang out as though she were on the stage. Did Harold leave the office before you, dear? asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. I'm not sure, said old Mr. Neve. I'm not sure. I didn't see him after four

o'clock. He said, began Charlotte. But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. There, you see, she cried, that's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver.

Don't you agree? Give it to me, love, said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. Very sweet, she crooned vaguely. She looked at Ethel over her spectacles, but I shouldn't have the train. Not the train, wailed Ethel tragically, but the train's the whole point. Here, Mother, let me decide. Marion snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte.

I agree with Mother, she cried triumphantly. The train overweights it. Old Mr. Neve, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and dozing heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it. He was tired out. He had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him tonight. They were too, too, but all his drowsing brain could think of was too rich for him. And somewhere at the back of everything, he was watching a little withered, ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was? Who was? He was. He was, he was climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he? I shan't dress tonight, he muttered. What do you say, father? Huh? What? What? Oh, Mr. Neve woke with a start and stared across at them.

I shan't dress tonight, he repeated. But father, we've got Lucille coming and Henry Davenport and Mrs. Teddy Walker. It will look so very out of the picture. Don't you feel well, dear? You needn't make any effort? What is just? Charles for? But if you're really not up to it, Charlotte Waven, very well, very well. Old Mr. Neve got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing room. There, young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel around the hot water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he'd come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Mr. Mr.

De Nive lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs and made his little evening joke. Dress him up, Charles! And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie. Hmm, hmm, very well. It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant, a fine, mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below. He heard the soft chur of the mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion's voice ring out, Good for you, partner! Oh, played, partner!

Oh, very nice, indeed. Then Charlotte, calling from the veranda, Where is Harold? And Ethel, he's certainly not here, Mother. And Charlotte's vague, he said... Old Mr. Neve's side, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles

and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals and spectacle case. That'll do, my lad. The door shut. He sank back. He was alone. And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering gay dining room. What legs he had! They were like a spider's thin, withered. You're an ideal family, sir. An ideal family. But if that were true, I'd.

in Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider and then to his horror. Old Mr. Neve saw him slip past the dining room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody. Old Mr. Neve started up. It was dark in his dressing room. the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the big, airy, darkened house there floated faraway voices, far away sounds. Perhaps he thought vaguely he had been asleep for a long time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him,

this house and Charlotte, the girls, and Harold? What did he know about them? They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his. his wife, his wife. A dark porch half hidden by a passion vine that dripped sorrowful, mournful as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, Goodbye, my treasure. My treasure.

Goodbye, my treasure. Which of them had spoken? Why had they said goodbye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. Then the door opened, and young child, standing in the light, put his hand by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "'And dinner is on the table, sir.' "'I'm coming, I'm coming,' said old Mr. Neve. End of Section 15. Section 16 of the Garden Party and other stories.

This Libravox recording is in the public domain, read by Peter Dan. The Ladies' Made Eleven o'clock, a knock at the door. I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep, were you? But I've just given my lady her tea and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps. Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing.

She drinks it in bed after her prayers to walk. her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers. But it's always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people and they've all got to be prayed for, every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear, whenever someone knew has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, Alan, give me my little red book. I feel quite wild. I do.

There's another, I think. keeping her out of a bed in all wethers. And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam. She kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her, I've spread out the eiderdown,

but the first time I did it, oh, she gave me such a look. Holy it was, madam. Did our Lord have an eider down, Ellen, she said? But I was younger at the time, I felt inclined to say, no, but our Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know what it

was to have your lumbago. Wicked, wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen, saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow, so pretty, I couldn't help thinking, now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out. Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did a hair, soft like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam. They shall never forget them.

I thought tonight when I looked at my lady, now, if only the pansies were there, no one could tell the difference. Only the last year, madam, only after she'd got a little, well, feeble, as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous. She was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was,

she thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, couldn't settle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down. You'd meet her everywhere, on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you and she'd say, just like a child, I've lost it, I've lost it.

Come along, I'd say, come along and I'll lay out your patience for you. But she'd catch me by the hand. I was a favourite of hers and whisper, Find it for me, Alan, find it for me. Sad, wasn't it? No, she never recovered, Madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last word she ever said was, very slow, look in the, look in, and then she was gone. No madam, I can't say I noticed it, perhaps some girls. But you see,

it's like this. I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather who kept a hairdresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll's hair, copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all, and there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet. The customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the tablecloth. But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors, and would you believe it, madam, I cut off all my hair, snipped it off all in bits like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious. He caught hold of the tongs. I shall never forget it, grabbed me by the hand and

shut my fingers in them. That'll teach you, he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got the mark of it today. Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter before the customers came and do it something beautiful, big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round and me, ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done. But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather, wild he was, at the fright I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did. Round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far I didn't run. Oh dear, I must have looked to sight with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out.

People must have laughed when they saw me. No, Madam Grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight of me after, couldn't eat his dinner even if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress, tiny. She had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs, and it was helping her I met my lady. Not so very, madam, I was thirteen turned, and I don't remember ever feeling, well, a child, as you might say. You see, there was my uniform and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes, once I did. That was funny. It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her. We were at Sheldon at the time, and there was a fair on the common. Now, Ellen, she said, I want you to take the two young

ladies for a ride on the donkeys. On we went, solemn little loves they were, each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys, they were too shy to go on, so we stood and watched instead. beautiful those donkeys were. They were the first I'd seen out of a cart, for pleasure, as you might say. They were a lovely silver grey with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells jingling on their ears, and quite big girls, older than me, even, were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the little feet went down in the eyes, so gentle and the soft ears, made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world.

Of course I couldn't. I had my young ladies, and what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it was donkeys, donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I didn't tell someone, and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed, I was sleeping in Mrs. James' bedroom, how cook that was at the time. As soon as the lights was out there, they were, my donkeys, jingling a lot,

with their neat little feet and sad eyes. Well, madam, would you believe it? I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep. And then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could. I do want to go on a donkey, I do want a donkey ride. You see, I had to say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful, wasn't it?

Just what a silly child would think. No, madam, never now. Of course I did think of it at one time, but it wasn't to be. He had a little flower shop just down the road and across from where we was living. Funny, wasn't it? And me, such a one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time and I was in and out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I, his name was Harry, got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged, and that began it.

Flowers. You wouldn't believe it, madam. The flowers he used to bring me. stop at nothing. It was lilies at the valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating. Well, of course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange. Oh, how I'd have done that window over Saturday. Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas, motto in holly and all, and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star, all daffodils in the

middle, I've hung, well, that's enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of course, she never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold and a little nose looked pinched. I didn't like leaving her. I knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last, I asked her if she'd rather, put it off. Oh no, Ellen, she said, you mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint your young man. I'm so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder. Then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself.

I think she never did. Whatever are you doing, I cried, running to stop her. Well, she said, smiling, you know, madam, I shall have to begin to practice. Oh, it was a all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her if she'd rather I didn't get married. No, Ellen, she said. That was her voice, Madam, like I'm giving you. No, Ellen, not for the wide world. But while she said it, madam, I was looking in her glass, of course. She didn't know I could see her. She put her little hand on her heart, just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes.

Oh, madam. When Harry came, I had his letters already, and the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me, a silver bird it was, with a chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing. I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word.

There you are, I said. Take them all back, I said, it's all over. I'm not going to marry you, I said. I can't leave my lady. What? He turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood all of a tremble till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door, believe me or not, madam, that man was gone. I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and my house shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road, staring.

People must have laughed if they saw me. Goodness gracious, what's that? It's the clock striking, and here I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me. Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet every night, just the same. And she says, good night, Ellen, sleep sound, and wake early. I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that now. Oh dear, I sometimes think, whatever should I do if anything were to...

But there, thinking's no good to anyone, is it, madam. Thinking won't help, not that I do it often. And if ever I do, I pull myself up sharp. Now then, Ellen, at it again, you silly good. If you can't find anything better to do, then start thinking. End of Section 16. End of The Garden Party and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield.