Samain

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  It was Saturday and Henry still had not told Lydia about the two women. He had been occupied all that day in the house until, remembering just in time an invitation to have drinks with some people across the common, he rushed to get ready and go out.

  When he returned he made sandwiches and coffee, being half hungry, half full of the savoury bits and pieces that had accompanied the drinks. He ate in the kitchen, looking through the window at the lushness of the garden. The rain had stopped but there was moisture everywhere, glinting and scattering as laden leaves spilled and flickered, shaking the drops that had weighed them down.

  He pondered what to do. Change and get on with some work? Go for a walk? Read? Go in and see Lydia?

  The decision was made for him by a faint knock on the front door. When he answered it there was an instant when he thought he must be dreaming. Nothing had ever come his way easily, fate seldom put what he wanted in his path, he had to go out and find it ... But she was there, standing a little back from the door, looking at him hesitantly. The woman he had seen in the bookshop.

  Through the glass roof of the verandah the last light of the day glittered around her. She wore a long dress of some gauzy fabric, the colours blurring together as if they had been washed by the rain. When he thought, afterwards, of that first instant when she scarcely appeared to be a real woman, he understood it was her long, filmy dress, her fragile air, the light that fell about her — everything transforming her flesh and blood reality into something insubstantial, as if she was part of the evening itself: the drenched green and blue, the sweet smell of the earth, the air breathing softly in and out, as she breathed.

  Her voice was light, as he had expected, but not cool; in fact she almost stammered, ‘Oh, it’s you ... I didn’t know ... I mean, in the bookshop yesterday morning ... I didn’t know you were Mr Beaumont — um, Inspector Beaumont.’

  ‘Well, I am.’ He held the door wider. ‘Please come in.’

  She hesitated and even seemed to draw back. He wanted to reach forward, put his hands round those fine wrists, trap her, hold her, bring her into his house. He thought.

  ... Christ, ever since I arrived here I’ve been haunted by women who vanish ... Not this one, this one I’m going to hang on to.

  Besides, he knew who she was, and if she did vanish, he knew where to look for her.

  She stepped into the hall. Close to him she was smaller than he expected, her nerviness apparent. He led her into the sitting room. ‘Just ... just a social call,’ she murmured.

  He smiled encouragingly. ‘I’ve had quite a lot of those since I’ve been here.’

  ‘How nice ... To be made welcome ...’

  She murmured a few conventional words which he scarcely heard. He saw in the half dusk how her eyes glittered in the pale oval of her face, heard her dress whispering as she moved delicately about the heavy, old-fashioned furniture. He allowed himself the luxury of being spellbound by her — even though he conceded that any other woman, setting out on a rainy evening, would have worn a mac and shoes, but he had noticed when she stepped into the lighted hall that the hem of her dress was damp and she had walked in sandalled feet through the wet grass. He thought she would not consciously strive for a romantic effect; certain women instinctively gave to an occasion exactly what that occasion demanded, choosing unerringly the mood, the dress, the hour. It was the essence of femininity, to be in tune with a world that had been generous with them.

  He remembered his manners, asked her to sit down, switched on the lamps, offered her a drink. She introduced herself, told him her name: Cassandra Allen. He already knew it. He said, ‘You live in the village?’ and she answered imprecisely, ‘Just outside,’ not telling him where, and for a while they talked meaningless social talk. Then he said, ‘I stared at you in the bookshop. Oafish of me. I apologise.’

  ‘Oh,’ she moved uneasily.

  ‘But really ... I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘Here, in the village,’ she suggested.

  ‘No, not here.’

  ‘Well, I don’t go about much.’ She gave the faintest shrug of her slim shoulders. ‘I don’t go to things ... cricket club dances, whist drives and fêtes, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I know, or I’d have met you. I do.’

  A smile flickered for an instant about her mouth and was gone. ‘Yes. You like being here ...’

  ‘Very much. You don’t?’

  She glanced straight at him, startled. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you don’t mix with people.’

  ‘Oh, no ... no,’ she said softly. Then apologetic, ‘I’m not very good at it. Mixing.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ he answered, politely doubting. When women reached their late thirties and claimed shyness they were ridiculous, or pathetic. She was neither; the deer like grace that suggested gentleness and flight would draw men to her, it would be only too easy to be protective about her.

  But the woman who had walked through the town with her head held high, who had with disdain met his eyes in the mirror — she needed nobody’s protection ...

  So which was the real woman?

  ‘What do you do with yourself, then?’ he asked, adding before she could reply, ‘I’m from the north, we’re blunt about things there. If we want to know, we ask.’

  ‘Yes.’ This time the smile was less hesitant. ‘I illustrate books.’

  ‘Good. What sort of books? I read, um —’ he paused to think. ‘Everything. Except Chinese medieval poetry.’ She laughed, a quick, breath-catching, nervous sound.

  ‘Whodoes? Anything. Children’s mostly.’ He thought she must do very well out of it, she looked as if everything expensive came naturally to her. ‘As a matter of fact, that was how I knew your aunt, we used to spend hours talking about books. She was a great reader, as you can tell.’ She got up and went to the crowded shelves that ran the length of one wall. Idly, her fingertips touching along the spines of the books, she said over her shoulder, ‘You’ve got a lot to go at, if you’re fond of them, too. Have you put any of your own amongst these?’

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t really sorted through those yet.’ She looked at the books, occasionally taking one down from the shelf to glance at it; her manner changing imperceptibly, she grew more at ease. He went to her and began to look through the books with her. As a pastime it was always a pleasure, with her for company, her long fine hands moving, her cloudy dark hair turning this way and that, her scent drifting, it was a delight. They talked in a random way, falling upon treasures — ‘Did you know you’d got this?’ ... ‘I never knew this was here ...’ She worked down to the lower shelves where the larger books were kept and drew out Ogilby’sBritannia Depicta, saying, ‘Ilove this —’ and unselfconsciously sitting on the floor, opening the book and turning the pages.

  He knelt down beside her, carefully moving the spread of her skirt so that he would not crush it; the fabric floated softly as mist through his fingers.

  She said, ‘It’s like a world all on its own isn’t it? The little roads going over bridges and through valleys. The landmarks ...’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t had time to look at it properly yet. Let’s see if Marchsteam is on it.’

  ‘I don’t think it will be. Ogilby did the main routes, and we’re right in the middle of nowhere.’

  She was right, they could not find it. And she was right, too, that the book of maps was a world on its own; drawn on from page to page by the coloured roads, discovering, wondering, they laughed softly, saying to each otherlook, oh look ...

  Eventually Henry sat back on his heels, intending to say, ‘I’ll get you another drink’ or ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ or some neutrally hospitable remark. But his moving away a little drew her attention from the book; she turned her head, looking at him.

  Without any preceding train of thought, with an unexpectedness that astonished him, he saw projected from the recesses of his mind the woman who had crossed the common his first golden mornin
g in Marchstearn: her absorbed significant expression, her round eyes gazing into his. Then the image faded and the other face was there, dean-boned and narrow, the winged brows, the wide grey eves long-lidded, and he asked — speaking perhaps to that woman in his head, perhaps to the woman beside him — ‘Why did you come?’

  She looked away, down at her hands nervously smoothing her dress. His question did not startle her, did not disturb the ease that had grown between them as they looked at the maps together. Instead, in her apologetic air, in the way she sat silently waiting for him to make the next, inevitable statement, there was a suggestion of complicity, as if they both knew there was a great deal to be said between them and they must begin without further delay.

  ‘You were never my aunt’s friend — not in the way the people I’ve come to know were her friends. Perhaps you never even spoke to her.’

  After a moment she answered quietly, ‘That’s true.’

  Then?’

  ‘There was something I came here to ask you — but the minute I got here I lost my nerve. If you hadn’t answered the door so quickly I would have gone away. When you did ... I said the first thing that came into my head, and it was a lie. I’m sorry.’

  He studied her. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does. You must think I’m mad.’

  ‘No. Highly strung, apprehensive about something.’ ... And a pretty cool liar, he could have added. Because that first lie:just a social call,if it had been prompted by momentary panic — as she would have him believe — had been followed later, calculatedly, by another:That was how I knew your aunt, we used to spend hours talking ...

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said, with an air of defeat.

  ‘No, not at all. Please stay. I’ll get you another drink, here ...’ He picked up her glass and, with his own, went to the sideboard. ‘Besides, you can’t. Not until you’ve asked — whatever it was you came here to ask.’

  When she did not reply he paused in his preoccupation with the drinks and looked at her image in the mirror before him. She still sat on the floor, her dress blurring bluey-green around her. She had changed her position, sitting with her chin resting on the half-curled fingers of her right hand, her left hand cupping her right elbow, and in that restful, somehow expectant posture, she was looking at him.

  In their wordless, exchanged regard there was again the hint of complicity; and it was as if, looking into the mirror, she saw reflected there two people whose strangeness to each other was moving away so swiftly words were inadequate to measure its passing. All subtlety, all guile was contained in the mirror image; the real woman, her face friendly and vulnerable, waited for the real man to turn to her.

  He took her glass and sat down in the armchair opposite her. ‘Well?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I haven’t found it yet. My nerve. Perhaps I might never ... Do you mind?’

  ‘Why should I? It’s got you as far as here. That’s a start.’

  ‘Well, yes ... Thank you. Can we pretend this is just a social call?’

  He almost answered: Isn’t it? Because the thought had come to him that she might have no reason at all, beyond curiosity, which she could not very well admit, to account for her presence. The thought extended itself to cover the surmise that ‘Can we pretend?’ was a large part of her life.

  She said, ‘You know, in the shop — I thought you were going to try and pick me up.’

  ‘I was.’

  She lifted her head, laughing. ‘Aah ...’ There was something provocative in the way she accepted his candour, and it pleased her, it was reassuring.

  He did not say to her: Tell me about yourself, because he guessed it was not her intention to reveal herself too personally, at once; if it had been she would have been honest with him, and less inaccurate about where she lived. She had her own reasons, he thought, and wondered what they were; he knew that if he tried to find out she would get up and go, and he did not want that.

  Instead, he asked her about her work, and from there their talk drifted to the illustrations that had fascinated them as children — inAlice, Wind in the Willows, the Pooh books. They were at ease with each other, and the last of the evening slid away into darkness. She began to ask him questions about his house: did he like it, just as it was? Or would he alter it?

  ‘Alter it,’ he groaned. ‘This is the only room left intact. Everywhere else I’m knee deep in alterations. Didn’t you notice the mess in the hall?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t notice anything,’ for an instant her nervous manner returned. ‘Will you show me what you’re doing?’

  ‘I get terribly boring about it all. I was going to offer you some coffee.’

  ‘Tea,’ she said, getting up. ‘I’d like tea. I’ll help you, and you can show me.’

  ‘I ought to do one room at a time — normally, I would, I’m a very organised person,’ Henry explained and, as he had said to himself a dozen times, ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I’ve just gone mad ...’

  ‘You have, rather,’ she agreed, when they were finally in the kitchen making tea. There were wood shavings clinging to the hem of her dress and, Henry was horrified to see, a dark smear on one sleeve.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. Is it the floor stain? I think the tin was open. You should have stopped me, not let me drag you all over the house.’

  She was busy at the sink where she had gone to wash her hands and then, quite naturally, stayed to clear away the clutter he had left from his makeshift meal. She smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter about the stain ... And I enjoyed looking round. Are you really going to make the two downstairs rooms into one?’

  ‘I think so. I think I’d like to. I’m not sure if lean knock that wall down in between, though. I’ve got a friend who’s an architect, I’d better get him along and ask his advice.’ It was a project that had occupied him for some time; it took his attention again and he wandered into the dining room and stood looking at the wall, weighing up possibilities. Her voice from the kitchen recalled him, ‘Tea —’

  He went back to her. ‘I’m sorry. I told you — I get carried away. I think it’s retaining walls that you shouldn’t pull down, presumably because they retain ...’ He was deep in thought, drinking his tea; her grave agreement reached him only distantly. He pondered aloud for a little while longer, gradually surfacing to an awareness of her perched on the high kitchen stool, her chin in her hand. ‘What am I thinking of — keeping you in the kitchen like this.’ What he meant was: I’m out of my mind, alone with a beautiful woman and ignoring her.

  ‘Walls,’ she answered, with extreme politeness. ‘I’ve finished my tea, thank you. So have you, but you hadn’t noticed. I must go now.’

  ‘Oh, no — must you? What’s the time? Good God, it’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘Help, I shall turn into a pumpkin,’ she said absently, looking round, murmuring, ‘Handbag ...’

  He went into the sitting room and found it, a tiny thing, scarcely larger than his hand, of supple and expensive leather, blue to match her dress. She waited in the hall, by the door, and he felt a stab of dismay at the finality of her going. ‘No — wait, let me take you home.’

  She smiled and shook her head, reaching out to take her handbag, her fingers brushing his. ‘No. My car’s parked near.’

  ‘But I must see you again.’

  She accepted this, saying, ‘Yes,’ and then, looking about the hall, added softly, ‘You’re sobusy. I’ll come tomorrow ... sometime. You’ll be in? Perhaps lean help you — being busy.’ The door was open, she had stepped out with her quick, gliding grace and already — it seemed to him — even as she spoke was melting into the summer dark. But she paused, half turned away, ‘Oh, it’s Sunday tomorrow. You’ll be going back to ... where is it? Lancashire. Won’t you?’

  ‘Not until later. I often drive at night, it saves me time. I’ll be here. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes ...’ The pale blur of her form receded into the night; her voice lingered, breathing abo
ut him as he stood alone. ‘Yes ...’

  He worked frantically the next day, to keep the thought of her from his mind. He left the front door ajar and when, at last, he heard her hesitant step in the hall, he knew how he had been waiting for her.

  He called, ‘I’m up here. The bathroom. Sorry — I’m on a ladder.’ Suddenly clumsy, he struggled with the roll of wallpaper he was trying to hang.

  She appeared in the doorway, gulping back a sudden giggle. ‘You’re practicallywearing that. Very exotic, though — the design. I like it.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s fiendish stuff. Slippery. It was stupid to start this today.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to finish it now you have.’

  ‘I know. But I want to talk to you.’

  ‘You can. While I help. Let me.’

  He stopped in his rather frenzied smoothing of the paper to look down over his shoulder at her. Her cloudy hair shone, a fine silver bangle circled her wrist; her crisp green and white dress was the one she had worn when he first saw her, her legs were bare, golden with a faint suntan. An uncharacteristic shyness made it difficult for him to tell her than her casual elegance was a delight to him, that he wanted her to go on looking just as she was. Instead he said, ‘You shouldn’t ... it isn’t ... you’d get all untidy ... your dress ...’

  There was something childish in her eagerness. ‘It won’t matter if it gets messed up, it’s cotton, it’ll wash. Please.’

  ‘Well ... you can pass things. Like the scissors, for instance.’

  She had her way, she helped him. Sometimes they talked, sometimes he was lost in concentration. Stirring paste, she said deliberately, ‘Henry. Beaumont. What’s the A for? Your car — outside — the number plate’s HAB, it must be your initials.’

  ‘Ambrose.’ In his childhood his name had provoked insult and derision; too proud to admit that it was outrageously fancy for a working-class lad from a two-up and two-down terraced house, he had defended it in the approved manner — with his fists. The scars were buried along with his childhood; somehow he had never managed to inter the embarrassment. ‘It’s in the family, I’ve never quite known why. Someone’s always called Ambrose somewhere.’