Not to Disturb. Muriel Spark

      I

      THE OTHER SERVANTS FALL SILENT as Lister enters the room.

      ‘Their life,’ says Lister, ‘a general mist of error. Their death, a hideous storm of terror. – I quote from The Duchess of Malfi by John Webster, an English dramatist of old.’

      ‘When you say a thing is not impossible, that isn’t quite as if to say it’s possible,’ says Eleanor who, although younger than Lister, is his aunt. She is taking off her outdoor clothes. ‘Only technically is the not impossible, possible.’

      ‘We are not discussing possibilities today,’ Lister says. ‘Today we speak of facts. This is not the time for inconsequential talk.’

      ‘Of facts accomplished,’ says Pablo the handyman.

      Eleanor hangs her winter coat on a hanger.

      ‘The whole of Geneva will be talking,’ she says.

      ‘What about him in the attic?’ says Heloise, the youngest maid whose hands fold over her round stomach as she speaks. The stomach moves of its own accord and she pats it. ‘What about him in the attic?’ she says. ‘Shall we let him loose?’

      Eleanor looks at the girl’s stomach. ‘You better get out of the way when the journalists come,’ she says. ‘Never mind him in the attic. They’ll be making inquiries of you. Wanting to know.’

      ‘Oh,’ says Heloise, holding her stomach. ‘It’s the quickening. I could faint.’ But she stands tall, placid and unfainting, gazing out of the window of the servants’ sitting-room.

      ‘He was a very fine man in his way. The whole of Geneva got a great surprise.’

      ‘Will get a surprise,’ Eleanor says.

      ‘Let us not split hairs,’ says Lister, ‘between the past, present and future tenses. I am agog for word from the porter’s lodge. They should be arriving. Watch from the window.’ And to the pregnant maid he says, ‘Have you got out all the luggage?’

      ‘Pablo has packed his bags already,’ says Heloise, swivelling her big eyes over to the handyman with a slight turn of her body.

      ‘Sensible,’ says Lister.

      ‘Pablo is the father,’ Heloise declares, patting her stomach which quivers under her apron.

      ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Lister says. ‘And neither would you.’

      ‘Well it isn’t the Baron,’ says Heloise.

      ‘No, it isn’t the Baron,’ says Lister.

      ‘It isn’t the Baron, that’s for sure,’ says Eleanor.

      ‘The poor late Baron,’ says Heloise.

      ‘Precisely,’ says Lister. ‘He’ll be turning up soon. In the Buick, I should imagine.’

      Eleanor is putting on an apron. ‘Where’s my carrot juice? Go and ask Monsieur Clovis for my carrot juice. My eyes have improved since I went on carrot juice.’

      ‘Clovis is busy with his contract,’ Lister says. ‘He left it rather late. I made mine with Stern and Paris-Match over a month ago. Now of course there’s still the movie deal to consider, but you want to play it cool. Don’t forget. Play it cool and sell to the highest bidder.’

      Clovis looks up, irritably, from his papers. ‘France, Germany, Italy, bid high. But don’t forget in the long run that English is the higher-income language. We ought to coordinate on that point.’ He continues his scrutiny of documents.

      ‘Surely Monsieur Clovis is going to prepare a meal tonight, isn’t he?’ says Eleanor. She goes through the door to the kitchen. ‘Clovis!’ she calls. ‘Don’t forget my carrot juice, will you?’

      ‘Quiet!’ says Clovis. ‘I’m reading the small print. The small print in a contract is the important part. You can get your own damn carrot juice. There’s carrots in the vegetable store and there’s the blender in front of you. You all get your own supper tonight.’

      ‘What about them?’

      ‘They won’t be needing supper.’

      Lister stands in the