Saturn Over the Water by J. B. Priestley, J.B. Priestley Page A
Authors: J. B. Priestley, J.B. Priestley
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lamps, a dark and glowering girl seemed to be waiting for me not very patiently. ‘You’re Mr Bedford, aren’t you? I’m Rosalia Arnaldos.’ She had a slight American accent. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘No, thank you, Miss Arnaldos. What I need now is a bath and a change of clothes.’
‘I believe you. Well, there’ll be cocktails along there about eight. My grandfather asked me to tell you. Dinner about half-past eight.’
That was all. I’d obviously been out sketching, but she didn’t care. I couldn’t catch even the beginning of a smile. I began to see what Mrs Candamo had meant. However, some kind soul, a long way removed from Rosalia, had put a bottle of Scotch in my room, and I took an inch of it neat while my bath was filling, and then felt better. While I was lying in the bath, with plenty of time to spare, I had a last long look at the copy of Joe Farne’s list, until I found I’d memorised it. And now, with the typist’s additions, I knew it like this: Gen . Giddings – V . Melnikov – von Emmerich – Steglitz – Magorious – Slatina – Merlan - Smith – Old Astrologer on the mountain? – Osparas and Emerald L . – Charoke , Vic . ? – Blue Mtns? – high back Brisbane? – Semple , Rother , Barsac? – fig . 8 above wavy l . – Why Sat . ? Before I got dressed I tore the list into small pieces and flushed it down the lav. Nobody was going to steal that one. Then after I was dressed, suddenly going into a panic, I had to test my memory again, but found I could rattle off the whole meaningless thing with ease. Not that I believed by this time that it really was meaningless – after all, I’d met three of them in London, and one, von Emmerick, in America, already, and I knew something about two more, Semple and Giddings – but of course all of it from Old Astrologer on the mountain? to Why Sat . ? still seemed as whacky as it had done on the train from Cambridge.
In the far corner of the long sitting-room, where some fine old Indian pots in black and red and yellow were on display, I found Rosalia alone with the drinks. The lighting was better than it had been in the hall and she had tidied herself up a bit, though she hadn’t worked very hard at it. The general effect was still dark, for her hair was almost black and so were her rather thick straight eyebrows, and her face, neck and arms were deeply tanned. She was wearing a very dark red dress. But to my surprise and pleasure, her eyes, when she finally let me see them properly, turned out not to be black or brown but a deep blue, somewhere between ultramarine and indigo. She had a rather broad face, with plenty of mouth and not much nose, and was a squarely-built girl, not bony and not lumpy but too substantial to be taken on anywhere as a model. She didn’t really look very bad-tempered but she still seemed to be sulking and glowering.
However, she asked me what I would have, and when I mentioned a dry martini, she asked me not unpleasantly if I’d make it myself. ‘There are only four of us for dinner. Grandfather has another guest, and he warned me they wouldn’t be down before half-past. I don’t like him – the guest, I mean.’
There were several replies to that, but I preferred to say nothing. I turned and raised my glass, gave her what I hoped was a smile though it was probably a grin, and tried my martini, finding it excellent. But I still said nothing.
This produced an outburst. ‘Why did you come here – to pass judgment on my pictures – to tell my grandfather whether I could paint or not?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘Miss Arnaldos, I never even knew of your existence before this morning.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said angrily.
I went across to the table and took a few nuts, ate one or two and examined the Indian pots. After a few moments she was asking the back of my neck if I was always so bad-mannered.
As I stepped round, she stepped back, still angry. ‘You
‘No, thank you, Miss Arnaldos. What I need now is a bath and a change of clothes.’
‘I believe you. Well, there’ll be cocktails along there about eight. My grandfather asked me to tell you. Dinner about half-past eight.’
That was all. I’d obviously been out sketching, but she didn’t care. I couldn’t catch even the beginning of a smile. I began to see what Mrs Candamo had meant. However, some kind soul, a long way removed from Rosalia, had put a bottle of Scotch in my room, and I took an inch of it neat while my bath was filling, and then felt better. While I was lying in the bath, with plenty of time to spare, I had a last long look at the copy of Joe Farne’s list, until I found I’d memorised it. And now, with the typist’s additions, I knew it like this: Gen . Giddings – V . Melnikov – von Emmerich – Steglitz – Magorious – Slatina – Merlan - Smith – Old Astrologer on the mountain? – Osparas and Emerald L . – Charoke , Vic . ? – Blue Mtns? – high back Brisbane? – Semple , Rother , Barsac? – fig . 8 above wavy l . – Why Sat . ? Before I got dressed I tore the list into small pieces and flushed it down the lav. Nobody was going to steal that one. Then after I was dressed, suddenly going into a panic, I had to test my memory again, but found I could rattle off the whole meaningless thing with ease. Not that I believed by this time that it really was meaningless – after all, I’d met three of them in London, and one, von Emmerick, in America, already, and I knew something about two more, Semple and Giddings – but of course all of it from Old Astrologer on the mountain? to Why Sat . ? still seemed as whacky as it had done on the train from Cambridge.
In the far corner of the long sitting-room, where some fine old Indian pots in black and red and yellow were on display, I found Rosalia alone with the drinks. The lighting was better than it had been in the hall and she had tidied herself up a bit, though she hadn’t worked very hard at it. The general effect was still dark, for her hair was almost black and so were her rather thick straight eyebrows, and her face, neck and arms were deeply tanned. She was wearing a very dark red dress. But to my surprise and pleasure, her eyes, when she finally let me see them properly, turned out not to be black or brown but a deep blue, somewhere between ultramarine and indigo. She had a rather broad face, with plenty of mouth and not much nose, and was a squarely-built girl, not bony and not lumpy but too substantial to be taken on anywhere as a model. She didn’t really look very bad-tempered but she still seemed to be sulking and glowering.
However, she asked me what I would have, and when I mentioned a dry martini, she asked me not unpleasantly if I’d make it myself. ‘There are only four of us for dinner. Grandfather has another guest, and he warned me they wouldn’t be down before half-past. I don’t like him – the guest, I mean.’
There were several replies to that, but I preferred to say nothing. I turned and raised my glass, gave her what I hoped was a smile though it was probably a grin, and tried my martini, finding it excellent. But I still said nothing.
This produced an outburst. ‘Why did you come here – to pass judgment on my pictures – to tell my grandfather whether I could paint or not?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘Miss Arnaldos, I never even knew of your existence before this morning.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said angrily.
I went across to the table and took a few nuts, ate one or two and examined the Indian pots. After a few moments she was asking the back of my neck if I was always so bad-mannered.
As I stepped round, she stepped back, still angry. ‘You
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