Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees. Anne Mather
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“Yes.” Eve hesitated. “When I first wrote to tell Grandfather about my father’s death, I didn’t mention my career, and when he wrote back to me it was obvious that he thought I was – well, you know – some sort of clerk. So I let him go on thinking it.”
“But why?” Sophie was astounded.
“Oh, if I’d told him I was a journalist, I guess I’d have ruined the image.”
“In what way?”
“Well, journalists – women journalists particularly – are usually very competent, self-confident types. Hard, if you like. I just knew that my grandfather wouldn’t respond to anyone like that, so I pretended to be a secretary.”
“Oh, Eve!”
Eve shrugged. “So what? I might well have been.”
“But what has that got to do with you going out there?”
“My grandfather is an old man. My letters have made him happy. They’ve reassured him, if you like. If I refuse to go out there now, can’t you see what it would do to him?”
Sophie hunched her shoulders. Of course. She could see quite well. This old man had clung to the small comfort of Eve’s letters. He had built his hopes up of seeing her, of possibly spending some of his last days with her. How could she disappoint him now?
Sophie was aware of Eve’s eyes upon her and with a helpless shrug she said: “You’ll have to go.”
“But I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“No, I mean I can’t. Apart from anything else, I have this assignment coming up. John Fellowes; you know John Fellowes, don’t you?” Sophie had heard of him and she nodded, and Eve went on: “Well, John and I have been offered the chance to go to the Middle East. The paper wants to do a series of articles about Middle-Eastern statesmen, and if it’s successful who knows where it will lead? There’s been talk of a television series –”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Sophie held up a protesting hand. “This has nothing to do with me. The trip sounds great – the Middle Eastern trip, I mean, but so far as your grandfather is concerned –”
“Darling, would you deny me the chance to work with John? It’s what I’ve been angling for for years –”
“Eve, It’s nothing to do with me! You simply can’t have your cake and eat it. You’ll have to choose.”
There was silence for a long time and then Eve said slowly: “And I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend.” Sophie sounded exasperated.
“Friends help one another. Like I helped you when you wanted to leave the typing pool and join a repertory company.”
Sophie stared at her in disbelief. “But that was altogether different.”
“How was it? Without my help you’d probably still be pounding the typewriter. Making your own way in the theatre world is no sinecure.”
“I know that, but – but –”
“But what? But you’d have made it anyway?”
“I didn’t say that.” Sophie felt shocked. “Eve, do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”
“Yes, I realize. I’m asking you to spend a few weeks on a plantation in the West Indies pretending to be me, and in so doing helping an old man to die happy.”
“You make it sound so easy!”
“It is easy. Where’s the problem? They’ve never met me. They know nothing about me except what I’ve chosen to write in my letters. You say you want to be an actress. Well, here’s a chance to prove you can do it. And there’s still the summer school in Rome to look forward to later.”
Sophie pressed her fingers through the long thick hair which fell about her slim shoulders. “You’re making things terribly difficult for me, Eve,” she admitted.
Eve pressed home her advantage. She came to kneel before Sophie, taking her hands in both of hers and saying: “Darling, I don’t want to blackmail you into doing this, but can’t you see – you can do it! Don’t you want to be responsible for bringing a little happiness into Brandt St. Vincente’s life?”
Sophie blinked. “Brandt St. Vincente? Is that your grandfather’s name?”
Eve nodded.
“Do you have a – a grandmother?”
Eve shook her head. “No, she died about ten years ago.”
“And this old man – does he live alone ?”
“No. There’s his son, my mother’s brother, Edge.”
“Edge?” Sophie tried not to become interested. “He lives with your grandfather ?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not married?”
“He’s a widower. I imagine he’s my grandfather’s manager. He must be middle-aged now.”
“Is – is that the whole ménage?”
“No. There’s my great-aunt Rosalind, generally known as Rosa, I believe. That’s how my grandfather used her name in the letters.”
“I see.” Sophie released one hand and pushed back her hair from her face. “And that’s all ?”
“As far as I know. And after all, you’ll be expected to know no more than what was written in the letters. You can read them if you like. Then you’ll see it all firsthand.”
“No, thanks.” Sophie felt a sense of distaste. Eve’s grandfather had written those letters in good faith. He had not expected them to be shown around to her friends.
Eve looked impatiently at her. “Well?” she urged. “Will you do it?”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. Give me time to think about it.”
But of course she had eventually given in, as Eve had known she would. Sophie tried to tell herself that her motives were mainly concerned with saving Brandt St. Vincente from disappointment, but deep down she despised the knowledge that the proposed visit to the Actors’ Summer School had helped to persuade her.
And now here she was in the hotel room in Port of Spain, waiting with impatience for Eve’s grandfather to come and greet his long-lost granddaughter. It had been Eve’s idea to wait until she was actually in Port of Spain before contacting the St. Vincentes. That way it avoided the awkwardness of passports and so on at the airport. Sophie had been amazed at the deviousness Eve could display when called upon to do so, and she was beginning to wonder how well she had known the other girl all these years.
She went to the window now and looked out on the busy street below her. Eve had insisted that she book into one of the better known hotels, and this one was in the very heart of the city. It was also alarmingly exepensive and Sophie wondered how long her money would last out if she had to stay here longer than expected. From the window, the bustling throng of humanity outside frightened her a little. She was not a seasoned traveller and nor was she an extrovert, and the knowledge that she knew no one amongst all these people of so many different colours and nationalities was rather terrifying.
There were Indian women in saris, American men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats; dhotis and turbans, lace mantillas and fezes. She saw beautiful olive-skinned Chinese girls in gorgeously patterned cheongsams slit daringly to thigh level, and black African women carrying enormous bundles on their heads with casual elegance. Car horns blared impatiently, bicycle bells jangled, and those who were brave enough to board the gaily painted buses clung carelessly to the rails and seemed to jump on and off wherever they liked. To Sophie the whole scene