The first time this happened, Désirée told her later, “I’m afraid you unsettle Barry.”
“What do you mean?” said Sybil.
Désirée dabbed her watery eyes and blew her nose. “Well, of course, it stands to reason, Sybil, you’re out to attract Barry. And he’s only a man. I know you do it unconsciously, but …”
“I can’t stand this sort of thing. I shall leave right away,” Sybil said.
“No, Sybil, no. Don’t make a thing of it. Barry needs you. You’re the only person in the Colony who can really talk to him about his poetry.”
“Understand,” said Sybil on that first occasion, “I am not at all interested in your husband. I think he’s an all-round third-rater. That is my opinion.”
Désirée looked savage. “Barry,” she shouted, “has made a fortune out of passion-fruit juice in eight years. He has sold four thousand copies of Home Thoughts on his own initiative.”
It was like a game for three players. According to the rules, she was to be in love, unconsciously, with Barry, and tortured by the contemplation of Désirée’s married bliss. She felt too old to join in, just at that moment.
Barry came to her room while she was packing. “Don’t go,” he said. “We need you. And after all, we are only human. What’s a row? These quarrels only happen in the best marriages. And I can’t for the life of me think how it started.”
“What a beautiful house. What a magnificent estate,” said Sybil’s hostess.
“Yes,” said Sybil, “it was the grandest in the Colony.”
“Were the owners frightfully grand?”
“Well, they were rich, of course.”
“I can see that. What a beautiful interior. I adore those lovely old oil lamps. I suppose you didn’t have electricity?”
“Yes, there was electric light in all the rooms. But my friends preferred the oil-lamp tradition for the dining-room. You see, it was a copy of an old Dutch house.”
“Absolutely charming.”
The reel came to an end. The lights went up and everyone shifted in their chairs.
“What were those large red flowers?” said the elderly lady.
“Flamboyants.”
“Magnificent,” said her hostess. “Don’t you miss the colours, Sybil?”
“No, I don’t, actually. There was too much of it for me.”
“You didn’t care for the bright colours?” said the young man, leaning forward eagerly.
Sybil smiled at him.
“I liked the bit where those little lizards were playing among the stones. That was an excellent shot,” said her host. He was adjusting the last spool.
“I rather liked that handsome blond fellow,” said her hostess, as if the point had been in debate. “Was he the passion-fruiter?”
“He was the manager,” said Sybil.
“Oh yes, you told me. He was in a shooting affair, did you say?”
“Yes, it was unfortunate.”
“Poor young man. It sounds quite a dangerous place. I suppose the sun and everything …”
“It was dangerous for some people. It depended.”
“The blacks look happy enough. Did you have any trouble with them in those days?”
“No,” said Sybil, “only with the whites.”
Everyone laughed.
“Right,” said her host. “Lights out, please.”
Sybil soon perceived the real cause of the Westons’ quarrels. It differed from their explanations: they were both, they said, so much in love, so jealous of each other’s relations with the opposite sex.
“Barry was furious,” said Désirée one day, “– weren’t you, Barry? – because I smiled, merely smiled, at Carter.”
“I’ll have it out with Carter,” muttered Barry. “He’s always hanging round Désirée.”
David Carter was their manager. Sybil was so foolish as once to say, “Oh surely David wouldn’t –”
“Oh wouldn’t he?” said Désirée.
“Oh wouldn’t he?” said Barry.
Possibly they did not themselves know the real cause of their quarrels. These occurred on mornings when Barry had decided to lounge in bed and write poetry. Désirée, anxious that the passion-fruit business should continue to expand, longed for him to be at his office in the factory at eight o’clock each morning, by which time all other enterprising men in the Colony were at work. But Barry spoke more and more of retiring and devoting his time to his poems. When he lay abed, pen in hand, worrying a sonnet, Désirée would sulk and bang doors. The household knew that the row was on. “Quiet! Don’t you see I’m trying to think,” he would shout. “I suggest,” she would reply, “you go to the library if you want to write.” It was evident that her greed and his vanity, facing each other in growling antipathy, were too terrible for either to face. Instead, the names of David Carter and Sybil would fly between them, consoling them, pepping-up and propagating the myth of their mutual attraction.
“Rolling your eyes at Carter in the orchard. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Carter? That’s funny. I can easily keep Carter in his place. But while we’re on the subject, what about you with Sybil? You sat up late enough with her last night after I’d gone to bed.”
Sometimes he not only smashed the crystal bowls, he hurled them through the window.
In the exhausted afternoon Barry would explain, “Désirée was upset – weren’t you, Désirée? – because of you, Sybil. It’s understandable. We shouldn’t stay up late talking after Désirée has gone to bed. You’re a little devil in your way, Sybil.”
“Oh well,” said Sybil obligingly, “that’s how it is.”
She became tired of the game. When, in the evenings, Barry’s voice boomed forth with sonorous significance as befits a hallowed subject, she no longer thought of herself as an objective observer. She had tired of the game because she was now more than nominally committed to it. She ceased to be bored by the Westons; she began to hate them.
“What I don’t understand,” said Barry, “is why my poems are ignored back in England. I’ve sold over four thousand of the book out here. Feature articles about me have appeared in all the papers out here; remind me to show you them. But I can’t get a single notice in London. When I send a poem to any of the magazines I don’t even get a reply.”
“They are engaged in a war,” Sybil said.
“But they still publish poetry. Poetry so-called. Utter rubbish, all of it. You can’t understand the stuff.”
“Yours