Sequence of Events (part four)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sequence of Events

Chapter One

A Personal Choice

 

 

iv.

 

 

“I’d thought…or, I’d worried…”

Stanley bent with his teacup and saucer over the table, pausing here, and gliding The Mason Bees nearer Freda’s. Freda had leafed The Mason Bees. She had then laid it on the day’s post.

But this uncle, like her stepmother, was a Carpenter; and Dolores, if feeling a gift underappreciated, would draw attention to it in exactly that way.

“Let me just take a moment to put this on my nightstand. I’m so glad you thought of a book, Uncle Stanley.”

She heaved a private sigh, and told herself Stanley’s comment could well linger. That would make it the conversational equivalent of portioning. Her uncle’s supply of small talk seemed limited; her larder was likewise limited. She had been able, with the tea, to offer toast and jam. As a rule she didn’t have guests.

 

She had found a working jet, filled the kettle and set it to boil, the first thud only half catching her notice. A second weight landed, and she heard a male voice speak, another answer.

He really has come back. I hope he’s flush, damn him, spending money on a bleeding taxicab…

Mrs. Ruald, who owned the house, had fitted the door with two tightly-strung lace panels, and these Freda parted to watch the passenger extract his fare from his wallet. He faced the driver in profile.

He was not Phillip. He was haggard looking, thin, had neglected visiting a barber…

But handsome, almost dashing with it, that tortured air.

She saw him hike his valise under an arm, contract his shoulders with a start, as though she were seeing him steal the welcome mat. But he marshalled himself, and she began to believe she had met this man.

“You were saying,” she took up, rejoining him on the sofa.

He looked worried, but didn’t seem to remember having remarked it.

“About the telegram. Stanley is Phillip’s middle name.”

“Ah. As for myself, I rarely send them…telegrams. I don’t suppose I’ve explained things very well. But of course, you had the letter. Only you tell me you have never received my letter. I find it unaccountable.”

He said more, and Freda, not listening, came to a decision. She would propose a frank and friendly bargain.

“Stanley. Do you anticipate a long stay in America? Hotels, you know, can be quite expensive…”

He cleared his throat and repeated: “Desanges. Captain Desanges. If I am able at all to locate him.”

“Outside my circle, I’m afraid.”

Around the door, silently inched to make way for it, a familiar face thrust in.

“Oh, look. Phillip, Stanley. My uncle, Phillip.”

“Uncles, when a man’s away,” Phillip murmured. He entered without luggage, took the armchair opposite and threw an ankle onto a knee. Freda poured herself a cup of cold tea, rather than meet his eye.

“My husband has been away,” she finished, for Stanley’s benefit. “He sells things.”

“Desanges,” Phillip said. “Now there’s a respectable-sounding nom de guerre. Military man, one assumes. Where did you happen to meet him?”

“Where…hmm?” Stanley resorted to tea himself, and in a display of poor theater, shrugged. “We are such old friends, I hardly recall.”

 

 

4

 

 

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A Personal Choice

Sequence of Events (part one)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Stephanie Foster, 2017, 2021, 2026)