75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees 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 karakas 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 to Sunday night 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-chock of wooden hammers. Someone whistled, someone sang out, ‘Are you right there, matey?’ ‘Matey!’ The friendliness of it, the – the – 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 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 it wants 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.

‘Ra-ther,’ 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? Your 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. ‘Huh,’ she sighed, and the moment after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the kitchen regions 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 castors. 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 inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.

The front door bell pealed, 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 – canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems.

‘O-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 canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse.’