She looked at him seriously. ‘And this time round it had to be you.’
He agreed sheepishly.
‘Rise above it,’ she urged, in a tragic tone, and took away the old bucket of paste to clean it.
Later he asked her, ‘Have you been doing any work today?’
‘No. I’m in between books.’
‘That must be an odd feeling.’
‘Mmm. Sort of vacuum. Nasty. I try to fill it with all sorts of things.’
Am I one? he wondered.
*
Eventually he was able to say, ‘Almost finished.’ His arms ached and the smell of paste was thick inside his head. ‘My inside feels soggy.’
‘It’s because you’re hungry, I don’t suppose you’ve had anything, you must have been at this for hours. I’ll make something to eat while you finish off in here. No, I insist. We gels have ouruses,’ she said in a headmistressy voice, and went away.
‘I’ve practically cleared out your fridge,’ she said, when he went down to the kitchen.
‘That’s all right, I always try to. I won’t be here for a week, anyway. I’m starving. I’ve had a wash, I wanted a bath but I daren’t. Supposing the steam made it all peel off?’
‘The process could go on indefinitely. You’d be forever sticking paper up and getting yourself unstuck from it ... rushing out of the house with it wound round you like tentacles. You’d be a local landmark.’ She gave a delighted, explosive giggle and went on in a country accent, ‘They do say, hereabouts, there be a policeman who don’t wear nuthin’, on occasion, ’cept that fancy Lunnon wallpaper. A sight ’e do be, my dear, asight...’
He laughed across the table at her. Her gift for mimicry was mercurial, almost casual, never overdone. ‘You’re a great loss to the acting profession.’
‘No thanks.’ She concentrated on putting salad on his plate.
He watched her. He knew the answers, but he asked just the same, ‘That sounds as if you might have some contact with it? Remote? Or reluctant?’
She shrugged and made a non-committal sound. He would have been insensitive in the extreme not to have noticed how often she turned aside any question too personally concerning herself.
He said, ‘We shouldn’t be sitting here like this. I should entertain you properly. Next weekend. Let me take you out to dinner. You will?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, and thought for a moment. ‘I’ll call for you, Saturday evening.’
About to protest, he hesitated, resigning himself to a state of affairs that would become a strain if prolonged. For the present they would do things her way.
She said, ‘What time have you got to go, tonight?’
‘Not for a few hours.’
‘No. I think you should have a rest before driving all that way. And perhaps the rain will have stopped.
The light that came in through the window was tinged with green, a filmy wavering green that altered in density as the fitful sun paled and the day turned towards dusk. She said, ‘It’s like being under water.’
‘Yes. I’ve noticed it before on rainy days, something to do with the reflection of the trees and bushes, sometimes it seems as if the house is floating. In a city, evenings like this are metallic, the puddles glaring, the buildings shining, hard. But here, everything’s soft, as if it’s been smudged and blotted.’
‘Yes. I hate cities ... towns ...’ She gave a slight shake of her head, dismissing them, and smiled at him. ‘No more work today.’
‘No.’
The tension of activity was unravelling slowly; beyond the occasional words they spoke he felt silence bloom softly and time expand: seconds, minutes slowing down to give him space to attend to her charming, enigmatic presence.
When they had finished eating they sat at the table with coffee and cigarettes. ‘I feel tired,’ he said happily, and then, remembering, ‘Oh, God, the bloody paste brushes. I never washed them.’ He got up. ‘Don’t go away, will you? I won’t be long.’
In the bathroom he saw to the brushes, compulsively cleaned up here and there until he realised what he was doing and, exasperated with himself, turned and left.
She was on the landing, waiting there with an expectant stillness. He wondered how long she had been there, he had not heard her footsteps on the stairs. He said, ‘How quietly you move.’ And belatedly noticing how her dress had lost its crispness, scraps of paper sticking to it like exotic, tenacious flags — ‘Oh, there, I’m sorry — your dress.’
She seemed not to hear. She took his hand very deliberately and held it, saying, ‘Henry ...’ and in the way she spoke his name there was an invitation, a question, acquiescence, some uncertainty.
They went into his room, where the feather bed, the marble washstand, the faded wallpaper swam in the green light. She stood facing him and he put his hands on her shoulders, sensing the tremor of nerves ensnaring her excitement. Understanding it, too, because in every first encounter, in every first, hesitant reaching out of strangers to each other, there were hazards.
She looked down at her dress, saying quietly, ‘Yes, it is dirty, isn’t it? I think you’d better take it off.’
*
Somewhere the green light dissolved into darkness; her body was engulfed and lay close to him, inexact, reassured. She murmured, ‘Nice man.’
‘Thank you. Nice girl.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Cas —’
‘Don’t ask me anything about myself. Let me just come here when you want me.’
He checked the small uncurling movement of her body by holding her close. ‘That will be whenever I’m here.’
‘Will it? I’m not trespassing, am I? You’re not someone else’s property —’ hugging him in a sudden childish affection, not waiting for his answer. ‘Ooh, I hope not. Nice, nice man. Ilike you. I want to be with you. There isn’t anyone?’
‘No. And you?’
‘No.’
He had a moment to wonder if she was telling the truth before she went on:
‘That isn’t why. Did you think ... No, I’m not cheating on anyone. I want to keep you — separate. Ineedto.Iknow whereyou are. That’s enough, isn’t it?’
‘For the present,’ he said.
She nodded her head on his shoulder and relaxed against him and they lay driftingly at peace for a while. He murmured, ‘I never noticed it growing dark. I liked being with you under water.’
She gave a soft wriggle of contentment, put her mouth to his ear and whispered, ‘I liked being under you.’
Her fragility had excited and worried him before her narrow body deliberately sought the overwhelming of his weight: her eyes glittering in defenceless face, her fierce, helpless whisper,lie on me ... In answer to that recollection, as much as the words she spoke, he gave a soft growl in his throat, making her giggle, half lift herself over him, put her hands on his chest. ‘And I like your fur, here.’
‘Do you?’ He stroked her body, stirring its delicate responsiveness, slipping his hand between her legs. ‘And I like your little nest, here.’
After a moment she gasped, reaching out for him with the same tenderness and urgency he gave to her.
6
One of the undignified truths Henry had learnt to accept about himself was that women often made a fool of him; his respect for them, combining with his need for them, provoked a blindness of trust that was expressed in no other area of his life.
He was never sure how this had come about. The wreckage of his family life had taught him something about love, something about survival; in the slow progression through childhood, youth and maturity, his personality evolved; at no discernible point he arrived at his own freedom, and for all the mistakes he made he valued that freedom; at least it allowed him to admit that where women were concerned he would rather be a fool than a bastard.
A degree of cynicism accumulated with experience, enough for him to acknowledge that most affairs began with small deceptions; scarcely thinking of Cass’s first lies to him, he forgave them. In his way, he had
an advantage that was a continuing deception — the information provided by the gossiping Misses lack: before he even spoke to Cass he knew her name and where she lived.
She could not for long imagine that hedidn’t — in a place as small as Marchstearn; yet she never mentioned her home, or anything concerning it. He never called for her or took her home, not because she did anything as direct as refusing these courtesies but because, to his baffled amusement, she managed to suggest they were superfluous. Some women loved mystery for its own sake, he doubted this was the case with her; in the ingenuous manner with which she expected him to accept the state of things there was more the artlessness of a child engrossed in a game. She had the generosity of a child, she bought him small, unexpected gifts, left mad notes for him all over the house — and sometimes in his pockets, hiding them for him to find when he was miles away from her: scraps of paper that evoked her presence and, echoing the personality she presented to him, were enigmatic, unfinished.
She had two talents, she claimed, both devoted to him. One was for being amusing; for his diversion she used her gift of mimicry with deadly accuracy to impersonate people they knew, she also had an extensive repertoire of favourite characters that were pure invention. But even as he watched her, and laughed with her, he caught himself wondering where, in that one inconstant character, invention ended and the real woman began.
Her other talent was for making love, and this she did passionately, her fragility belied by an earthy enjoyment, loving his body generously, unreservedly, with her own, seeking her pleasure in his. After these times, when she was lying peacefully beside him and he imagined her to be asleep, the contentment they had given each other began to ebb away, leaving her unreachably folded into the separateness of herself.
Then, sometimes, he thought that if she was making a fool of him she was doing it delightfully; but suspicion, furtive and unwelcome, prowled the half-awake boundaries of his mind and before he could struggle against it it had done its work, transforming her games of pretence, her secrets and evasions into deceits; his warmly loving Cass into a selfish woman who, caring nothing for him, used him merely to nourish her romantic pretensions — or, beyond that, exploited him for some purpose he had not begun to understand.
Out of these disturbing thoughts, dismissed by an act of will, filtered the clouded consciousness of a melancholy that seemed to slip away with her into the dark as she slept, inscrutable and solitary as the cry of the owl in the night, the moon riding the shoulders of the hills. Involuntarily his arms would tighten round her, a physical reassurance to which all fears surrendered. Mindful that she was asleep he would release her gently; but a moment later — either because he had disturbed her or because she had been awake all the time — she would nudge him softly, her voice whispering out of the darkness, amused, in scornful disbelief, ‘Ambrose ...’
*
Sometimes she spent a few hours with him, sometimes the whole weekend. When she stayed they got up early in fine weather and went out; she always chose the route — the woods, or the river path — taking his agreement for granted.
Her rather sedate, carefully plotted walks were nothing like the rambling explorations he had made alone, he told her about these because his knowledge of the countryside seemed to surprise her a little. He wanted to show her some of the trackways he had found but she was reluctant to wander from the walk she had decided upon, saying indifferently, ‘Oh ... I know about those. Let’s go my way, please.’ Whatever she asked of him she asked with an eagerness he found irresistible, and it was a joy to be with her in her favourite place, the river path, where the broad river glinted green and silver in the dazzling mornings and willows sighed along the banks.
‘It’s my favourite ride, too, I go for miles along here,’ she said one day.
She seldom offered any information about what she did when she was not with him; he looked at her in pleasure and surprise. ‘You ride ... I didn’t know.’ There was so much he did not know about her; this fraction of her suddenly made more real to him also made her more accessible, he imagined her on her horse, cantering along beneath the willows, her eyes shining, her hair tumbled.
She told him about her horse — ‘He’s a blue roan, called Cesar, spelt without the A. Rather elderly, very well mannered. A kind old gent.’
‘Ilike horses,’ Henry said. ‘I’d like to see him.’
She gave him a sideways smile and murmured, as if to herself, ‘Oh, you arefunny, sometimes ...’
That evening she said goodbye to him with her wistfulness and sighs, hugging him, touching his face with her fingertips as he kissed her. ‘When will you be leaving?’
‘In about an hour.’
‘Yes. All right. Drive carefully. Goodbye, my darling.’
*
Almost exactly an hour later he took some things out to where his car was parked at the back gate. There had been rain in the afternoon, dried by the sun; but with the approach of dusk a dampness breathed from the earth, a dampness rich with the death of summer, scented by trodden leaves and the fading honeysuckle.
A totally unfamiliar sound made him stop what he was doing and stand, the car door open, staring into the gloom of the great trees that gathered behind the house.
The sound — a heavy shuffling, ponderous but measured, growing nearer — materialised into a bulk that moved between the trees; just in the split second that Henry’s vision adjusted to the dark that obscured it, there came the delicate jingle of steel, Cass’s laughter floating softly, ‘Here you are ... I brought him to see you.’
He could think of nothing to say except, joining her laughter, ‘Cass, you fool.’
She slid lightly down from the horse and led it to him. It seemed enormous, benign and dignified, mouthing its bit thoughtfully and blowing moist, warm breath over Henry’s hands.
‘He’s beautiful ... He’s immense. Oh, I haven’t got anything to give him. Cass, it’ll be dark soon, should you be riding about in the dark? Isn’t it dangerous?’
‘Not with this old dear.’
‘But he must take some managing. There are tons of him. Tons.’
‘Henry, I’m a wild coward. I can guarantee this is the safest horse in England. In Europe. I wouldn’t get on him if he wasn’t.’
Henry had his doubts; but Cass’s manner was efficient, the way she handled Cesar, the way he responded, demonstrated a mutual trust. And she had brought her horse to see him as she would bring a present, an impulsive, charming thing to do, typical of her. He looked at her appreciatively. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you wearing trousers.’
‘You’resupposed to be looking at the horse.’
‘Mmm. They suit you.’ They were very tight; he patted her bottom. ‘Nice. You’ve got a boy’s bum.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Hallo. Queer tendencies?’
‘Not yet. I’m saving that for when I stop attracting women.’
‘You should live so long,’ she said in her Jewish voice, taking his hand and returning it to Cesar.
Henry stroked the horse’s neck, feeling the play of tension in the strong muscles as Cesar swung his head and regarded him with velvety eyes; there was the same pleasure in touching the great, gentle creature as there was in touching Lydia’s little dog. ‘Don’t theysmell nice. Darling, be careful, won’t you?’
‘Don’tfuss, Hen,’ she answered, a little reproachfully, but with a smile in her voice.
Lydia’s gate opened and Wanda frisked out. At the sight of the horse she froze, poised in delicate astonishment, ears folded, one paw raised.
‘Come on, here’s a friend for you,’ Henry coaxed, squatting down, holding out his hand. Wanda’s affection for him generally projected her straight at him in a single leap, but she was seized by wariness of the huge animal that had usurped her territory and stayed where she was, alert and quivering. ‘Come on, little. Come and say hello, he won’t hurt you — will he, Cass? Oh, Mrs Marshall —’
Lydia followed Wanda out. Her glanc
e went beyond Henry; if the unexpected appearance of the horse surprised her she gave no sign. She said, ‘Good evening. We’re late for our walk. Come along, Wanda.’ and the next moment was walking rapidly away.
Henry stared after her. She called once to Wanda, not looking back, turning her head slightly, then she was gone into the shadowy light, Wanda speeding to follow.
There was an awkward silence; Cass said nothing until Henry spoke. He scarcely knew what to say, he would never have thought it possible Lydia could be so rude. ‘I’m sorry — I was going to introduce you. I didn’t have the chance, did I? I wonder if something’s wrong, she’s always so polite.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t like horses,’ Cass said.
*
The incident left Henry bewildered and a little embarrassed. And there had never been any embarrassment with Lydia concerning what she tactfully termed his ‘guests’. Most of the time she avoided calling on him when he had company, and once she found occasion to make a seemingly inconsequential statement about the necessity for everyone to have a private life in the full confidence that it was private: ‘Talk between friends is one thing. Gossip, prying, passing judgement — I detest.’
‘Good for you,’ Henry said, letting her know he understood and appreciated her discretion about his personal affairs.
She was a woman of dependable common sense, there was also, always, a polite formality in her manner; when Henry looked back over the preceding weeks he had to admit he had been too careless, too occupied with Cass to take account of an increase of formality on Lydia’s part. She was diffident with strangers, it was true, anxious never to intrude; even so, when he remembered lately the few occasions she had shared a cup of coffee with him, or chatted to him in the garden, he remembered, too, that the slightest suggestion he was ‘expecting someone’ would be enough to send her scampering away, lopsided and confused, with urgent recollections of something boiling on the stove. It was more than tact, it was more than politeness — it was Cass herself. He had always suspected it, and Lydia’s attitude when the two women finally came face to face proved it.
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