Lay Her Among The Lilies

No one seemed to be in a hurry to open the gates, so I dragged myself out of the car and

hung myself on to the end of the bell chain. The bell had been muffled, and rang timorously.

Nothing happened. The sun beat down on me. The temperature hoisted itself up another

knotch. It was too hot even for such a simple exercise as pulling a bell chain. Instead, I

pushed on the gate, which swung creakily open under my touch. I looked at the stretch of

lawn before me that was big enough for tank manoeuvres. The grass hadn’t been cut this

month, nor for that matter the month before. Nor had the two long herbaceous borders on

either side of the broad carriageway received any attention this spring, nor for that matter last

autumn either. The daffodils and tulips made brown patterns of untidiness among the dead

heads of the peonies. Shrivelled sweet william plants mingled with unstaked and matted

delphiniums. A fringe of straggling grass disgraced the edges of the lawn. The tarmac

carriageway sprouted weeds. A neglected rose rambler napped hysterically in the lazy breeze

11

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

that came off the desert. An unloved, uncared-for garden, and looking at it I seemed to hear

old man Crosby fidgeting in his coffin.

At the far end of the carriageway I could see the house: a two-storey, coquina-built

mansion with a red tile roof, green shutters and an overhanging balcony. Sunblinds screened

the windows. No one moved on the green tile patio. I decided to walk up there rather than

wrestle with the gates to bring in the Buick.

Halfway up the weed-strewn tarmac I came upon one of those arbor things covered with a

flowering vine. Squatting on their heels in the shade were three chinamen shooting craps.

They didn’t bother to look up as I paused to stare, just as they hadn’t bothered for a long, long

time to look after the garden: three dirty, mindless men, smoking yellow-papered cigarettes

with not a care in the world.

I tramped on.

The next bend in the tarmac brought me to the swimming-pool. There had to be a

swimming-pool, but not necessarily one like this one. There was no water in it, and weeds

grew out of the cracked tile floor. The concrete surround was covered with a brownish,

burned-up moss. The white awning which must have looked pretty smart in its day had come

loose from its moorings and flapped querulously at me.

At right angles to the house was a row of garages, their double doors closed. A little guy in

a pair of dirty flannel trousers, a singlet and a chauffeur’s cap sat on an oil drum in the sun,

whittling wood. He looked up to scowl at me.

“Anyone at home?” I asked, searching for a cigarette and lighting it when I found one.

It took all that time before he worked up enough strength to say: “Don’t bother me, Jack.

I’m busy.”

“I can see that,” I said, blowing smoke at him. “I’d love to sneak up on you when you’re

relaxing.”

He spat accurately at a tub of last summer’s pelargoniums from which no one had bothered

to take cuttings, and went on with his whittling. As far as he was concerned I was now just

part of the uncared-for landscape.

I didn’t think I would get anything useful out of him, and besides, it was too hot to bother,

12

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

so I went on to the house, climbed the broad steps and leaned my weight on the bell-push.

A funereal hush hung over the house. I had to wait a long time before anyone answered my

ring. I didn’t mind waiting. I was now in the shade, and the drowsy, next-year-will-do

atmosphere of the place had a kind of hypnotic influence on me. If I had stayed there much

longer I would have begun whittling wood myself.

The door opened, and what might have passed for a butler looked me over the way you

look someone over who’s wakened you up from a nice quiet nap. He was a tall, lean bird,

lantern-jawed, grey-haired, with close-set, yellowish eyes. He wore one of those waspcoloured

vests and black trousers that looked as if he had slept in them, and probably had, no

coat, and his shirt sleeves suggested they wanted to go to the laundry, but just couldn’t be

bothered.

“Yes?” he said distantly, and raised his eyebrows.

“Miss Crosby.”

I noticed he was holding a lighted cigarette, half-concealed in his cupped hand.

“Miss Crosby doesn’t receive now,” he said, and began to close the door.

“I’m an old friend. She’ll see me,” I said, and shifted my foot forward to jam the door.

“The name’s Malloy. Tell her and watch her reaction. It’s my bet she’ll bring out the

champagne.”

“Miss Crosby is not well,” he said in a flat voice, as if he were reading a ham part in a

hammier play. “She doesn’t receive any more.”

“Like Miss Otis?”

That one went past him without stirring the air.

“I will tell her you have called.” The door was closing. He didn’t notice my foot. It startled

him when he found the door wouldn’t shut.

“Who’s looking after her?” I asked, smiling at him.

A bewildered expression came into his eyes. For him life had been so quiet and gentle for

so long he wasn’t in training to cope with anything out of the way.

13

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES