The Girl in a Swing

by Richard Adams

shop.'

  'Well, I could, Mr Desland, but I didn't finish them until

  nearly six o'clock - two or three of them I typed again - I

  like to maintain high standards, as you know - and as it's a

  fine evening, I decided I could easily walk -'

  'You walked?'

  'Oh, yes; well, I mean walking's good for you, isn't it? and

  there was that Dr Barbara Moore who walked round the

  world, and as for some of those 'bus conductors nowadays,

  well I always think a lot of them are a great deal too

  familiar with the passengers -'

  'You shouldn't have done it, really. I'm most touched, Mrs

  Taswell, I really am.' (Indeed, I was. It was just the kind of

  characteristically pathetic thing that made me feel affection

  for her.) 'Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea or a drink

  or something.'

  'Well, perhaps a cup of tea in a minute, Mr Desland, thank

  you. But the letters first, I think. Here they are. Now in this

  one to Phillips, Son and Neale, you did say "green enamelling",

  didn't you? Only I've got "clean enamelling", but that

  didn't seem quite right, so I typed "green" -'

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  We finished the letters and I, having slipped quickly upstairs

  to tell Kathe what was happening, went to make the

  tea. When I brought it into the drawing-room Mrs Taswell

  was standing at the open window, apparently listening to

  something outside.

  'Mr Desland, can you hear a child crying?'

  I joined her at the window. It was a beautiful evening, the

  shadows falling and faint scents of nicotiana and nightscented

  stock drifting across the garden. The swifts were

  plunging and screaming out of a clear sky and above the

  lawn shone tiny, golden flashes as the wings of one dancing

  gnat and then another momentarily caught the last sunlight

  slanting through the trees. Plenty of fly up, I thought. It

  would have been nice to go down and fish the Kennet this

  evening: bitten to pieces, but worth it.

  'No, I can't, Mrs Taswell. 'Sure you're not mistaken? Or

  perhaps it's stopped -'

  'No, it was only just now, Mr Desland -'

  'I can hear the swifts-'

  'It was a little way off, but quite distinct.'

  'Oh, well, I mean, children do cry from time to time, you

  know, and usually someone does something about it. That's

  why they do it -'

  I was turning away from the window, but she put a hand

  lightly and quickly on my arm.

  'It's not quite like that, Mr Desland. If you wouldn't mind

  listening for a few moments - a little worrying, perhaps -'

  I felt slightly irritated. I really wanted her to go, so that

  I could get back to Kathe and our unfinished game of picquet.

  However, Mrs Taswell had that odd sort of authority often

  possessed by very limited people. 'Come along now, brush

  those toothy-pegs properly,' says the stupid old aunt; and

  since there's no discussing anything with her, it's quickest

  and easiest just to do as she says.

  I listened again. This time I not only heard it, but realized

  at once what she had meant. There are several kinds of

  children's crying - enraged, disappointed, frightened, the

  bellowing of sudden pain and so on. What I could hear now,

  however, was different from any of these. It seemed, as she

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  had said, some little way off and I couldn't be sure from

  which direction it was coming. It was very sorrowful - one

  might almost have said 'heart-broken'; long, hopelesssounding

  sobs at intervals, like a small child deserted, lost,

  or bitterly unhappy. Whoever was crying like that was obviously

  very much upset, and one did not have to listen long

  to feel bothered about it.

  'Yes, I see what you mean, Mrs Taswell. 'Sounds as though

  some little girl's strayed in here and got lost, doesn't it? I

  suppose I'd better go out and do something about it. I won't

  be long. Make yourself comfortable and have a cup of tea

  till I come back.'

  'Oh, no, I'll come out with you, Mr Desland, if I may. After

  all, one never knows, does one?'

  What this meant, if anything, I had no idea - it was the

  sort of remark she often made - but having called up the

  stairs to Kathe that we were just going into the garden and

  wouldn't be long, I took Mrs Taswell with me through the

  kitchen and out into the yard.

  As soon as we got into the garden I heard the weeping

  again, faint but distinct. It seemed to be coming from the

  shrubbery down at the bottom, but there was something

  odd about it which I found hard to define. Though clearly

  audible, it was not like the screaming of the swifts, the

  minute insect-noises or the rustling of the leaves. The dissimilarity

  was something like that between live conversation

  and a voice on the wireless. Though distressing to hear, it

  did not quite seem spontaneous and appeared, as it were,

  to reach the ear from elsewhere. This peculiar quality was

  so striking and perplexed me so much that I stopped for a

  few seconds to try to make it out. I put it down to the

  emotional effect of the weeping, but all the same I knew that

  this did not really account for what I was feeling.

  As we walked down the lawn the sounds continued intermittently.

  They didn't seem to be getting any louder, so that

  I began to wonder whether we were going in the right direction.

  Mrs Taswell, however, appeared in no doubt, and as we

  reached the little path between the flower-beds unhesitatingly

  went ahead of me and herself opened the gate into the

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  shrubbery. When we had walked a tew yards between the

  rhododendrons she stopped and called, 'Coo-ee! Coo-ee!' in

  a high-pitched voice. Silly twit! I thought, but then realized

  that this, to a little girl lost in a strange place, would be

  less alarming and easier to answer than me bellowing,

  'Hullo, there!' or 'Where are you?'

  However, although she repeated it several times, pausing

  to listen, there was no reply, and the weeping had now

  ceased. I tried 'Don't be frightened! Just call out to us!'

  but this produced no result either.

  'Perhaps she's afraid - hiding, do you think?' I said. 'I

  suppose we'd better take a look through the bushes.'

  For the next ten minutes or so we searched the shrubbery

  more thoroughly than ever it had been searched since Flick

  and I used to play hide-and-seek. I knew the hiding-places,

  of course, and looked in all of them, even crawling on my

  hands and knees into the pirates' cave (it seemed a lot

  smaller now) inside the bigger rhododendron clump. Emerging

  on the far side, by the swing, I was annoyed to see that

  the tap was dripping quite fast and had half-filled the little

  hollow. As I stooped to turn it off I saw a wooden Dutch

  doll, about as big as my hand, lying on the bottom. I fished

  it out. It couldn't have been there very long, for none of the

  paint had soaked off. I showed it to Mrs Taswell.

  'I suppo
se she must have been playing with the tap, drat

  her, and either she dropped this and didn't notice, or else

  she just ran off and left it. But where the hell is she now?

  That's the point.'

  Til take it, Mr Desland, and give it back to her when we

  find her.'

  'Well, if she was here - in the shrubbery, I mean - I'm

  virtually certain she's not here now.'

  'Ought we perhaps to have a look round the garden, Mr

  Desland, do you think?'

  'Is there really any point? Wherever she's got to, she

  doesn't seem to be crying any more. I reckon she just slipped

  off down the lane when she heard us coming.'

  'Well, that's always possible, of course, Mr Desland, and

  just as you think best. But I'd be happier to look in the

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  garden. After all, when people think they're going away

  from something, they very often find they've gone straight

  towards it, don't they?'

  'I can't say I've ever experienced that myself, but I'm ready

  to give it five minutes if it'll make you feel better.'

  We walked round the garden calling, but the weeping had

  stopped altogether and there was no one to be found. I

  tried the sheds, the coal-house and the length of the over-'

  grown laurel bank, but only succeeded in becoming still

  more annoyed. The pity I had been feeling evaporated. This

  infuriating little girl had evidently made her way into my

  garden, turned on the tap, wasted quite a bit of water, put us

  all to a deal of trouble and then, not to mince words, buggered

  off, leaving neither hair nor hide.

  I rejoined Mrs Taswell on the lawn. The light in the west

  had faded and it was getting dark. The moths were already

  fluttering round the nicotianas and I could hear the crickets

  rousing up to their chirping in the big, yellow-leaved hollybush

  behind the herbaceous border.

  'She must have gone, Mrs Taswell. I know every inch of the

  garden, you know - well, naturally I do - and I'm as good as

  certain she's not here now.'

  'It's a pity we couldn't find her, though, Mr Desland. The

  crying sounded so - well, upsetting, don't you think?'

  'Yes, I admit that. All the same, I dare say just hearing us

  may have brought her to her senses and she simply went

  home. Shall I take the doll, just in case she turns up again?'

  'Certainly, Mr Desland. Why, that's very odd! I don't seem

  to have it. I wonder where -'

  'Oh, never mind. It'll be there to-morrow, wherever it is.

  Let's go indoors again. I'm afraid that tea won't be worth

  drinking now. I'll make some fresh - it won't take a

  moment.'

  'No, thank you, Mr Desland. Not for me. I think it's

  getting rather-' she glanced at her watch - 'good gracious, it

  is getting late! I must be starting back. I've got several other

  matters to see to this evening. Foreign coins are the most

  awkward things, I always think, don't you? - apart from

  razor-blades, of course -'

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  'Well, I'm sure you can spare ten minutes for a cup of tea

  or a drink, can't you, Mrs Taswell? I don't like to let you

  go without something. It was really very kind of you to walk

  all the way up here with the letters, and now you've had a

  lot of extra trouble on top of that -'

  'Thank you, no, Mr Desland. I've done what was required

  of me and that's all that matters. Who was that man on the

  wireless, do you remember? - oh, a long time ago now - who

  used to say "I go. I come back"? I can't recall the name -'

  'I'm not letting you walk.'

  'Oh, yes, Mr Desland, it's nothing. It's all downhill from

  here, you know-' '

  'No, I'll run you down in the car. I really insist, Mrs

  Taswell. Just wait a moment while I tell Mrs Desland what's

  happening. I assure you it'll be no trouble at all.'

  She was plainly about to raise some lunatic objection, but

  I left the room without waiting for it and ran upstairs.

  'Kathe, look, I'm just going to -'

  I stopped. Kathe was lying with the bedclothes over her

  head, and gave no sign that she had heard me.

  'Come out, sweetheart, can you? There's something I want

  to tell you. I'm just going to run Mrs T. home in the car -'

  I gave the blanket a little tug and she cried out as though

  in terror.

  'Kathe, what on earth's the matter? Look, do come out a

  moment, darling. It's only me, for God's sake.'

  In one swift movement she flung back the bedclothes, sat

  up and threw her arms round my neck, crying frantically,

  'Oh, Alan, Alan, save me! You can save me -'

  'Here, steady on! Don't be an ass! Mrs Taswell will hear

  you. She's only just downstairs-'

  'You don't realize, Alan! You don't understand-'

  'How can I, unless you tell me? Dearest, don't be hysterical,

  whatever it is. Tell me, are you bleeding or what? Do

  you want me to ring up the doctor?'

  'Don't let it, Alan, don't let it come here! It was for you,

  it was all for you! You said I changed your life -'

  'Of course you did, darling. Just calm yourself, now,

  there's a good girl. Come on, lie down and take it easy.'

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  I laid her back on the bed and sat beside her. Taking my

  hands in hers, she lay staring into my eyes as though afraid

  to look anywhere else, even for an instant. I was at a loss

  to know what sort of help it was that she was asking me for.

  At last I said, 'But you were all right a little while ago.

  What's gone wrong?'

  'You heard it, didn't you?' she whispered. iYou heard it?'

  'The little girl crying, you mean? Yes, we looked all over

  the garden, but there was no one there. She must have

  pushed off when she heard us coming. Oh, don't take on

  about it, love. I agree it was a distressing thing to hear - she

  cetjainly sounded absolutely wretched - but I'm sure she

  can't have come to any actual harm.'

  At this she dropped my hands and buried her face in the

  pillows, sobbing. Impatient less with her than my own helplessness,

  I bent over her and said, 'Look, I'm sorry, darling,

  but you've got me worried and this is more than I can cope

  with. I'm going to ring up the doctor. You need a sedative

  - hypnotic - something or other. You're thoroughly overwrought.'

  She sat up, brushed the tears from her eyes and, obviously

  making every effort to speak calmly, answered, 'Alan, all I'm

  asking is that you should stay here with me. You must stay

  here! I don't need anything else, believe me.'

  I forced a smile. 'All right - that's easy enough, for I

  certainly don't want to be anywhere else. But I must go down

  and see to Mrs Taswell. I said I'd run her home in the car,

  but I'll get her a taxi instead. Now don't take on, darling!

  Honestly, I won't be any time at all. Only I can't just let her

  go on waiting downstairs, can I? Look, I'll leave this door

  open and I'll be back in less than five minutes.'

  With this I went straight out on the landing and down to

  the drawing-roo
m. The drawing-room was empty. I ran to

  the front door and then out to the gate, but Mrs Taswell was

  nowhere in sight. Returning, I saw for the first time a

  pencilled note propped against the telephone on the hall

  table.

  'Dear Mr Desland, I assure you it is not the least trouble

  to me to walk. The weather is perfectly fine at the moment,

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  though I believe high wind is forecast for later to-night. I am

  glad to have done what I came to do. Thank you. Vera

  Taswell.'

  24

  KATHE, very pale, was standing with bowed head and closed

  eyes at the top of the stairs. She was breathing hard and

  gripping the banisters with both hands. Sweat stood on her

  forehead.

  I took her arm and said, 'This is like that old Punch joke,

  darling, about the channel steamer, " 'You can't be sick here,

  sir!' 'Can't I?' (Is.)" Come on, let's get you back to bed,

  shall we? Are you going to be sick?'

  She shook her head, went back into the bedroom and sat

  down in front of the glass. After a few moments, as though

  speaking to herself, she said slowly, 'I'm not going to - not

  any more - try to escape. Das ist sinnlos. I'd rather - yes keep

  my dignity.' And then, with a sudden burst of bitter

  tears which cut me to the heart, 'My beauty! I believe - Oh,

  Alan, I believe I wouldn't mind, if it weren't for my beauty!'

  'Kathe, I thought you were so happy to be pregnant? Of

  course it won't spoil your beauty, you silly pet! I'd say it'd

  make you more beautiful, only that wouldn't be possible.

  This is only a passing mood, you wait and see. You'll feel

  better to-morrow. Just hang on a tick while I put this moth

  outside, and then why not let's go on with our game, unless

  you feel too tired?'

  A pale-green moth with bronze-coloured eyes - one of the

  geometridae - had fluttered in through the open window and

  was beating its frail, papery wings against the bedside light.

  I could hear, from inside the lamp-shade, the rapid, intermittent

  pattering against the bulb. Although I knew that it

  stood every chance, in the garden, of being snapped up by

  a bat, it was so beautiful that I could not leave it to batter

  itself to a crawling wreck. After one or two attempts I

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  managed to catch it in my cupped hands, carried it over to

  the window and tossed it into the deep twilight outside.

  I was still standing at the window, gazing down into the

  quiet, dusky garden, when the crying began again. Very close

  it was this time; the child might have been no more than

  thirty feet away on the grass below me. Yet there was nothing

  to be seen. As I bent forward, peering and leaning out

  over the sill, it ceased; and then, a few seconds later, resumed

  among the trees at the far end of the garden. No living

  creature could have covered the distance during those

  seconds.

  My head swam and I clutched at the sill for support.

  Turning to look behind me into the lit room I saw Kathe,

  lips compressed and hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching

  me steadily from where she sat at the dressing-table.

  After a few moments she said, 'Don't go out, Alan. Shut the

  window and draw the curtains.'

  In that instant the room, which I had known all my life,

  became strange to me. The furniture and other things about

  us no longer seemed familiar. This was not my home, but an

  unknown place of dread, dark as a forest, alien and minatory;

  a place where, as for a wild animal, to move freely or

  make any noise was to expose oneself to mortal danger.

  I stood motionless, feeling the beating of my pulse and

  my tongue dry against the roof of my mouth. In horrible fear

  I waited for whatever must surely be about to happen. Yet

  nothing broke the room's stillness. The distant crying ceased:

  and at length, since my legs would not support me, I sank

  down where I was, on the carpet under the window.

  Kathe said again, 'Shut the window, Alan;' and then, since

  I did not move, came over and shut it herself, leaning across

  me where I crouched on the floor. Having drawn the curtains

  closely, she turned and was about to go back to her chair

  when I reached up and caught her hand.

  'You - you know - about this?' I blurted, scarcely able to

  mouth the words. 'You know - why?'

  She answered 'Yes,' went across to the bed and lay down

  on it.

  I tried to get to my feet but could not; and so crawled

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