A Sea-Grape Tree

by Rosamond Lehmann

  ‘I won’t forget it. But must you be still so strident on that topic?’

  ‘What topic?’

  ‘Emancipation of women—all that stuff. You were such a bore.’

  A tremor, as of one shocked—or hurt perhaps. The voice said uncertainly: ‘The young are … Was I tedious, strident? These realms I inhabit now are fluid: one is apt to reassume discarded garments. Earth memories flood in, the old bitternesses. Where I am now, those you refer to so contemptuously free themselves from those particular chains that were so lacerating. Chains of emancipation. But the suffering, the dedication, the sisterliness in selfless striving—these are not made naught. They form—how shall I say?—a spiritual essence which enfolds them, in which they can bathe and heal them of their grievous wounds. You are far from their eminence, Rebecca.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure! I am worthless, self-indulgent, self-involved, far from your eminence as well. Completely, totally non-eminent­­­­.’

  Silence again, a puzzled silence. Then doubtfully:

  ‘I am too didactic?’

  ‘Well—you do go on, you always did. I wondered what would happen if I teased you. Did anybody, ever?’ The air was beginning to become charged, electric. ‘It’s better to be teased than worshipped, isn’t it?’ Pressure, agitation grew. ‘Did anybody love you enough for that?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes! And laughter!—laughing together. Our souls laughed together.’

  ‘You miss that?’

  The voice sank; sweat broke out on her to hear it say triumphantly:

  ‘Though my cloak covers him I have not altogether shed it. There’s a riddle for you! My old dexterity in witchery gone: I read that once, I liked it. Not gone, my old dexterity, no, not gone! My beauty back! I lived for beauty—what I sowed I reap. All beautiful, my lovers!—the last the most beautiful of all. I see him as you cannot, I see him in his whole and perfect body. We are well matched for beauty. He is mine. Mine!’

  ‘You are wicked, Mrs Jardine, wicked!’

  Springing up in bed she gasps aloud these words; and whatever it was—hallucination, spirit visitor, thins away on a thread of mocking laughter. She flings aside the mosquito net, runs to the window, pushes the shutters open, leans out. Dark: no sign of dawn. Throughout immensities of lustred indigo the great stars blaze, pulsate, swing towards earth as if to listen to her multitudinous vibrations. Frogs. Cicadas. Dogs far and near. Moths. Fireflies in cloudy scintillating swarms.

  In her shack Daisy stamps once, twice. Can she be missing her mad master? He is absent for the night, gone, according to Miss Stay, to visit an old friend, the Roman Catholic priest on the other side of the island. It seems unlikely, yet the guest-house car certainly removed him, spruced up beyond recognition by Miss Stay, around teatime. Mercifully, Phil and Madge are also absent: living it up with young Mr de Pas and Jackie and the rest, heaven knows where. Miss Stay has elected to sleep down there in the bungalow with Ellie in case the Captain should turn up late—or not at all. From the direction of the Lancashire couple’s suite issues the reassuring sound of snoring.

  Nothing unusual or threatening. Two more days and then I shall be leaving, accompanied by Kit and Trevor, in a spanking new fast German pleasure cruiser from Port of Spain. One of the Mums has had a stroke, both lads must hurry to her bedside. What a piece of luck! No matter what’s in store I shall be cherished for ten days, played with, lots of jokes and drink.

  And never see Johnny again.

  The wind of night stirs suddenly, breathes out a perfumed breath that dies away with a sound like a long sigh.

  Something surprising happens. Far down in the huge well of stars and darkness, where the hut, the sea-grape tree must be, as if a lid had opened to show a lambent eye, a light appears, stares back at her unwinkingly. Johnny has lit his lamp.

  Is calling?

  The door was open; she went in and found him lying on his bed, reading, still dressed as when she had last seen him.

  He said quietly: ‘Anonyma.’

  ‘Were you expecting me?’

  ‘What have you got in your hair? Come here. Sit down.’ He took her hand and pulled her down to sit near the head of the bed. ‘Fireflies! Two—three. How pretty.’ He brushed them off and they fell on the floor, extinguished.

  ‘Do you mind my coming, uninvited, at this compromising hour?’

  ‘Not in the very least.’

  His manner was the usual one of formal courtesy. What to do, say, next?

  ‘No mosquito net?’

  ‘Not necessary. Mosquitoes seem to be repelled by me. Or the duppies frighten them.’

  ‘I wish I repelled them. But they’re not the worst. There’s some horrible invisible something in the sand. I was stupid enough to go barefoot the first few days, and oh! my feet. They still itch.’

  ‘Your poor feet, what a shame! I’m afraid you’re a temptation to the local carnivores.’ He took up her hand again, turned it over, as if examining it carefully, put it down. ‘Hands all right? Very pretty hands.’

  She said shyly: ‘Thank you.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Were you expecting me?’

  He shut his book with a marker in it, looked at her quickly, looked away. ‘Well—it’s nice,’ he said, as if making a difficult admission. ‘I rather wanted to come to you. But I couldn’t. So—’

  ‘Have you been asleep?’

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘Not really. I was looking out of the window and I saw your light. I’d been thinking about you. So I thought I’d come.’ Vivid colour rose suddenly in his face; and she thought with surprise: Can he be blushing? Addressing his averted cheek, she continued less nervously: ‘Besides, I’d been having such an extraordinary—sort of dream. I had to come.’

  ‘Why not?’ He sat up and looked round his austerely furnished cell. ‘Not many amenities, I fear. Would you like an armchair? A drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. Where is Louis?’

  ‘Gone fishing. Did your dream frighten you?’

  ‘Not till the last bit of it. But then yes, very much. This is a place where queer things happen, isn’t it?’ He glanced at her. ‘As if,’ she went on lamely, ‘one was between two worlds, or on the fringe of another and could step over very easily. One does step over.’ It was a query but he did not answer, and she finished: ‘I wasn’t asleep, yet I wasn’t awake. I was having—I thought I was having—a long talk with someone.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds confusing.’

  ‘With Mrs—with Sibyl.’

  ‘How unnerving.’ His face and his voice were impenetrable.

  ‘Johnny, do you have dreams?’

  ‘About her? No, never. Not about her or anyone. I never dream. It doesn’t do.’

  ‘How can you prevent it? No one can.’

  ‘Oh yes one can.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By staying awake.’

  ‘Is that what you do? You don’t sleep?’

  ‘Not much. Off and on. Cat naps. Quite enough. I read quite a bit.’ He picked up the book he had laid down and said with a faint smile: ‘The History of Henry Esmond. Very enjoyable. I wasn’t born a reader. Sibyl started my education—from scratch, I must admit. Most of these books are hers.’ He indicated well-filled bookshelves along one wall.

  ‘She left them to you?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  His voice remained dismissive; but she took the plunge.

  ‘You never seem to want to talk about her.’

  ‘Not really. Not … what’s the point?’ He sounded awkward, embarrassed.

  ‘What’s the point because she is dead, you mean?’

  ‘Partly I mean that.’ Heaving a sigh, he flung an arm across his eyes, for all the world like a sulky boy, cross-questioned.

  ‘Are you cross?’

  ‘No. But talking … All
this talk, it’s so tedious. It never stops.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ She stooped and kissed his cheek; seeming to see in a flash what underlay his formality, his winning social smile, his attentiveness and joking ways. They were a fortress he had raised around his ruined life. If his defences came down he could only stammer. Presently he said:

  ‘No need to sound so contrite. Don’t imagine the subject of Sibyl is too sacred—or too painful. I miss her, of course. She was extremely good to me. But—it’s a long long story. Boring. I hate post mortems. The point is, must we talk about her now?’

  ‘Of course not. Then we won’t.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps. There’s plenty of time … Or isn’t there?’

  ‘You mean, how much longer shall I be here?’

  ‘I suppose that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Two more nights; and then I cross to Port of Spain with Kit and Trevor, to catch a boat.’

  ‘For England. What an enviable prospect.’ He had dropped his arm, but his eyes remained shut. ‘I can’t think what you’re doing here. Why you ever came.’

  ‘I could tell you—try to. But it would be another long long story, which you would certainly find boring. It doesn’t make much sense, even to me.’

  ‘I realised,’ he said politely, ‘that you’d had some sort of a knock.’

  ‘I expect Ellie told you.’

  ‘She didn’t actually—not in so many words.’

  ‘You mean, she hums There’s a silver lining when my name crops up.’

  He grinned and nodded.

  ‘I’ll tell you briefly,’ she said, ‘and get it over. I came, I mean I thought I was coming with a person who—wanted to go far away from England. He asked me to come with him: in fact, that was the crux of the whole idea, that we should go away together. It sounded like Paradise, this island. He’d heard of it.’

  She stopped. The great confession sounded lame and feeble.

  ‘I see,’ said Johnny. ‘Perhaps he’d heard of the orchid, the one found only here. Is he interested in orchids? I can’t seem to get a picture of the chap.’

  ‘Nor can I. Not any more. No, he’s not interested in orchids. He wanted to write—he’s a writer—about the Caribs. And he wanted to burn his boats. But he must have changed his mind.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’ He sounded perplexed, impatient.

  ‘Why did I come alone, you mean. I didn’t know he’d changed his mind till I was on the boat. The telegram was waiting for me in my cabin. I couldn’t think what to do. I couldn’t get off the boat, it was too late, and anyway nowhere to go back to. I hid in my cabin, pretending to be seasick. After three days I sent him a cable. I can’t remember what I said, quite. I thought he would follow by the next boat, or get on a plane or something. “Thought” is the wrong word. I was beginning to get frightened: the walls of my cabin were starting to close in and suffocate me. So I went up on deck. But that was worse. I didn’t know any longer who I was. I sweated with panic; but nobody seemed to notice anything odd. There were attempts to get me to join in fun and games. There was a Colonel who wanted to marry me, would you believe it! I told him: “I’m not what you think I am,” meaning I was a walking dummy, automatic. But he thought I meant I was a tart and said he’d overlook it. He must have been mad too.’

  Johnny opened his eyes, shot her a searching glance, smiled faintly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know it’s funny. Well, that’s all. Here I am. I haven’t heard a word. I’m going back. What will happen then I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’ve got a home or something, I suppose?’

  ‘My mother still lives in our old home, where I was born. An aunt of mine, a widowed sister, lives with her. They worry because I don’t get married. The reason I don’t is this man. But I don’t want to say any more, you don’t want to hear any more about him, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She watched him for a few moments, noting the curious slanting cut of his long eyelids, their trick of lifting and dropping lazily, like a pair of black-fringed wings. She said:

  ‘I’ll just finish relating my history. When my father died he left us each some money. One of my sisters and I clubbed together to buy a small cottage—it’s in Berkshire, on the downs. But that sister did get married so now it’s mine. Sometimes I share it with a girl friend who likes gardening, or I’m alone, or with the person we don’t want to talk about. He’s got a flat in London, and that’s where I often am—or have been. Do you think it’s all over? I do.’

  He remained silent, his eyelids lowered still; then said, without expression: ‘The girls I knew—one or two—had some sort of a job. But that was in the war, of course.’

  ‘I’ve had several jobs.’ She felt stung, as if he had reproached her. ‘I quite agree, it’s time I changed my life. It’s an idiotic waste, keeping oneself free, or half free anyway, in case—It serves me right, it’s—’

  ‘Don’t cry!’ He caught her hand again, kissed it. ‘You’re cold, you’re shivering. Are you cold?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come here, lie down, get warm.’

  She lay down by his side and went on shivering violently. He dried her tears with his pocket handkerchief, pulled a soft grey and brown striped rug from the foot of the bed, covered them both, put his arms tightly round her, saying: ‘If you don’t mind rather a squash.’ After a while he turned the lamp down to a thin circle and said: ‘Go to sleep.’

  Next moment he, not she, appeared to have fallen asleep, his cheek, rather rough, against her forehead. Not shivering any more she lay awake listening to his quiet breathing, considering, not for the first time, with amusement mixed with tenderness the capacity of men for falling fast asleep at crucial moments. After half an hour perhaps he stirred, sighed heavily. She drew his face down to kiss him.

  ‘Anny-moan,’ he said in a teasing voice, ‘are you feeling better?’

  ‘Much better, darling Johnny. Are you?’

  ‘Oh yes. I didn’t mean to drop off, though. I meant you to. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. It felt nice. But isn’t this extraordinary?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘To fall through a hole in space, thinking: “This is all a nightmare. I shall wake up soon,” and land up—in your arms.’

  ‘It seems to me quite natural.’ He turned over lazily towards her. ‘How are your poor feet?’

  ‘They seem to have stopped itching.’

  ‘Good. And stop now about holes in space and nightmares and being alone. You’re not alone any more, see? Or having morbid dreams or seeing ghosts. If I may say so, you seem to me a very charming person. Not at all spookishly inclined or down in the mouth. Great fun, and very attractive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said fervently, hugging him, heartened by this image of herself as up to any lark and worthy of pre-war gallantry. ‘That’s just what I’ve been trying to explain. The moment I saw you I began—to get a foothold.’

  ‘The moment I saw you I began to think about—well, this sort of possibility!’

  ‘You didn’t, did you! Did you really?’

  ‘Oh yes, really and truly, you silly silly girl.’

  Presently he added, in a different, stilted voice: ‘Not that I could see much future in it.’

  She ventured: ‘I don’t want to seem spooky, but actually I saw you before I came that first time with Ellie to pay you a visit. Do you believe that?’

  ‘If you say so. Though I don’t know what you mean.’

  He stirred as if uneasy; or bored perhaps with mystifications; so she added lightly: ‘I’ll tell you another time.’

  ‘Yes do.’ He gave her an encouraging kiss.

  ‘Anyway, you looked wonderful. May I go on talking?’

  ‘If you really must.’

  ‘I really must. You can’t imagine
the relief after all these throttled weeks. It’s about—Sibyl. How could I ever have imagined finding her again here?—I mean, that she came here, of all places, to end her days?’

  ‘It is rather rum, I agree: that is, if you and your family were so mixed up with her as you make out.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘She didn’t come here to die, you know. It was the last thing she wanted, or intended. It was a shame.’

  ‘I’m sure the last thing she intended was to leave you. I expect she planned to be immortal. Do you know, I remember that blue cape you sometimes have across your knees. Wasn’t that hers?’

  He said quickly: ‘My legs are apt to get chilly. Bad circulation­­­­. Yes, that was hers. Her old campaigner’s cloak she called it.’

  He was smiling to himself. She loosened her clasp of him and turned on her back, listening intently, fearfully, defiantly, and yet with a sense of wishing to placate, apologise, for some sign of Mrs Jardine. But there was no tremor, no rumour of her presence. She was alone with him.

  ‘Johnny, do you believe that—after people die they go on living?’ Seeing his suspicion of another approach to the case of his relationship to Mrs Jardine, upon which he intended never to be drawn, she hurried on: ‘Miss Stay is certain that death is only a change of consciousness, that everyone goes on—animals as well. She says she’s proved it by direct experience. She seems mad, like everyone else here except you. And yet—’

  ‘She’s not mad,’ he interrupted firmly. ‘Cracked, bonkers, barmy if you like. Not mad at all. Actually I’d be inclined not to rule out what she says.’

  ‘How strange. Nobody I know seems to believe it.’

  ‘Perhaps your friends are very clever.’ She was uncertain whether or not he spoke sarcastically.

  ‘Ellie thinks Miss Stay is a sort of saint.’

  ‘Ellie has reason to think so.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked diffidently. ‘You have reason to think so?’

  Silence. Then brusquely: ‘She believes she can restore me.’

  ‘What part of you?’

  He laughed; but his voice had an edge of bitterness. ‘Oh! the whole of me. Restore me whole again. One day I shall take up my bed and walk. That is what she thinks.’