75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

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 handle-bars ought to have been oars.

Bill Hunt put down his book. ‘Letters,’ he said complacently, and they all waited. But, heartless postman – O malignant world! There was only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper.

‘And mine’s only from William,’ said Isabel mournfully.

‘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 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, 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. A 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 drag on your happiness.’

‘Oh! oh! oh!’

‘Sh! sh! 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,’ moaned Moira, ‘that wonderful bit about holding you in his arms!’

‘I always thought those letters in 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 her 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 was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, 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.

‘Isa-bel?’

No, it was too difficult. ‘I’ll – I’ll go with them, and write to William later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write,’ thought Isabel hurriedly.

And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs.