Free Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal and Other Stories by H.E. Bates Page A

extended, ash dropping greyly and seedily down her breast, the lady with the yellow cigarette holder was heard, with a delicate hiss, to accuse someone of bitchiness.
    â€˜But then we’re all bitches, aren’t we,’ she said, ‘more or less? But she especially.’
    â€˜Did she ever invite you? She gets you to make up a number for dinner and when you get there a chap appears on the doorstep and says they don’t need you any more. Yes, actually!’
    â€˜She’s a swab. Well, poor Alex, he knows it now.’
    â€˜That’s the trouble, of course—when you do know, it’s always too bloody late to matter.’
    Everywhere the air seemed to smoke with continuous white explosions. Soon Clara started to move away and found herself facing a flushed eager Lafarge, who in turn was pushing past a heavy woman in black trousers, with the jowls of a bloodhound and bright blonde hair neatly brushed back and oiled, like a man.
    â€˜There you are, Mrs Corbett. You’ve no drink. Nothing to eat. You haven’t met anybody.’
    A man was edging past her and Lafarge seized him by the arm.
    â€˜Siegfried. Mrs Corbett, this is my friend Siegfried Pascoe. Siegfried, dear fellow, hold her hand. Befriend her while I get her a drink. It’s our dear Mrs Corbett, Siegfried, of heart fame.’ He squeezed Mrs Corbett’s arm, laughing. ‘His mother called him Siegfried because she had a Wagner complex,’ he said. ‘Don’t move!’
    An object like an unfledged bird, warm and boneless, slid into her hand. Limply it slid out again and she looked up to see a plump creaseless moon of a face, babyish, almost pure white under carefully curled brown hair, staring down at herwith pettish, struggling timidity. A moment later, in a void, she heard the Pascoe voice attempting to frame its syllables like a little fussy machine misfiring, the lips loose and puffy.
    â€˜What do you f-f-f-feel about Eliot?’ it said.
    She could not answer; she could think of no one she knew by the name of Eliot.
    To her relief Lafarge came back, bearing a glass of sherry and a plate on which were delicate slices of meat rolled up and filled with wine-red jelly. ‘This,’ he told her, ‘is the heart. Yes, your heart, Mrs Corbett. The common old heart. Taste it, dear. Take the fork. Taste it and see if it isn’t absolute manna. I’ll hold the sherry.’
    She ate the cold heart. Cranberry sauce squeezed itself from the rolls of meat and ran down her chin and just in time she caught it with a fork.
    The heart, she thought, tasted not at all unlike heart and in confusion she heard Lafarge inquire, ‘Delicious?’
    â€˜Very nice.’
    â€˜Splendid. So glad——’
    With a curious unapologetic burst of indifference he turned on his heel and walked away. Five seconds later he was back again, saying, ‘Siegfried, dear boy, we shall do the rose in five minutes. Could you muster the spade? It’s stopped raining. We’ll fling the doors open, switch on the lights, and make a dramatic thing of it. Everybody will pour forth——’
    He disappeared a second time into the mass of gibbering faces, taking with him her glass of sherry, and when she turned her eyes she saw that Siegfried Pascoe too had gone.
    â€˜What on earth has possessed Henry? They say she’s the butcher’s wife. Not grocer’s after all.’
    â€˜Oh, it’s a gag, dear. You know how they hot things up. It’s a gag.’
    She set her plate at last on a table and began to pick her way through the crush of drinkers, seeking the kitchen. To her great relief there was no one there. Suddenly tired, hopelessly bewildered and sick, she sat down on a chair, facing a wreckage of half-chewed vol-au-vents, canapés, salted biscuits and cold eyes of decorated egg. The noise from the big drawing-room increased like the hoarse and nervous clamour rising from people