by A. J. Cronin
‘I offered the car but she prefers to return as she came, by boat. She goes home at once. All she wishes is to go home.’
‘But Frida …’ he faltered. ‘She has given up her job. She can’t go to Willie. Where is her home?’
‘You have put the question. You had better answer it.’
A pause.
‘Was she – much hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘In – in what way?’
‘Cannot you guess?’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘The truth. For her sake and ours it was necessary to perform a surgical operation. And I did so.’
‘You told everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you – explained that I had meant well.’
‘All was explained.’
‘And yet – she was hurt – badly?’
‘Yes.’ With increasing sharpness: ‘Have I not already said it.’
‘Surely she understood I couldn’t go out there.’
‘She did not come here for you to go.’
He threw up his hands.
‘But how in God’s name was I to know the Mission would burn down.’
‘In the present circumstances it was more than a possibility. They are making bonfires of all the missions.’
‘My God, Frida, I feel horribly upset. I worry about her getting back.’ He looked at the clock. ‘She may have missed the boat – and it’s the last to Melsburg. I should go after her … if she’s still on the pier.’
‘Then go.’
She said it cuttingly. The look in her yellow eyes, with their narrow slits of pupils, made him flush and wilt.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re quite right. It wouldn’t be wise.’
Silence again. Then firmly she put her hand on his shoulder.
‘For the sake of pity, pull yourself into something like a man. She is young and, like her mother, will get over it. You can afford to make a settlement to her, and a large one. Later you must send it in proper legal form.’
‘Yes.’ His face lifted slightly. ‘I can do that, thank God, and I will. Make her comfortable for life. But, Frida …’. He hesitated, then, after a longish pause, said pleadingly, ‘I don’t want to be alone tonight.’
She seemed to study him, with almost a clinical curiosity, seemed about to refuse, then relented.
‘Well, then, though you should be punished, I shall stay. You must go upstairs and take your bath. Then to bed, for you are tired. I will speak with the servants and have a tray brought to you. Afterwards I will come.’
He looked at her abjectly.
‘Bless you, Frida.’
She waited until he had climbed the stairs; then, passing through the drawing-room, she went out upon the terrace. The moon, behind ragged clouds, shone faintly. It was thawing, the snow on the lawn had turned a dirty yellow, a damp sensual smell of leaves filled the air. She gazed out across the lake. Yes, there was the steamer, a little fountain of light, cosy and bright, already on its way, quite far on its way, to Melsburg. A faint thrum of the engines came back to her. Kathy must just have managed to get on board. Turning, she looked down at the little pier. Yes. All quiet and deserted. The single yellow lamp that was kept alight all night shone upon the solitary wooden bench. No one was seated there.
Chapter Twenty
Starting painfully from a restless snatch of sleep Moray awoke to the muddled consciousness of unfamiliar darkness. Where was he? And why alone? Then, through the oppression clamped on his forehead, the first dulled glint of consciousness brought the humiliating answer.
God, it had been frightful, his inability to find consolation in Frida’s arms! She had tried to help him, at first with desire, then with encouragement, and finally in a state of weary patience. All useless – he could not succeed. And then, sorely tried by his futile fumblings, she had said, in a tone which concealed contempt but not bitterness and frustration: ‘ We both need some rest if we’re to be off tomorrow morning. Would it not be wise if you moved to another room?’
And so he was here, in the guest room – a guest, almost, in his own house. Why, he agonised, had his normal virility deserted him? Had the sudden shock of Kathy’s reappearance induced a depressive impotence? It might well be so – the oversized female in his antique bed, her musky odours and muscular anatomy, had brought paralysing images of the slender young form he had once possessed: Kathy, whom he could easily have had, and instead had hopelessly lost.
Kathy … Stretched out on his back, he groaned. If only he had not failed her, everything would have turned out as he had wished. Oh God, what a fool he had been, in his weakness, his craving for sympathy, to marry Frida. She had caught him: he had swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker, and was now landed, gasping, on the bank. And how skilfully she had angled for him: first that resigned acceptance of his departure, congratulations, sweet offers of assistance; then the gradual dissemination of doubt, working up to a frontal assault upon his fears; and finally, when he had been sufficiently reduced, that determined stand, a command virtually, to take her. Miserably he acknowledged her strength. She would possess him body and soul.
God, what a horrible situation! Weak rage flooded him, followed by a spasm of self-disgust. Tears came burning to his eyes at the thought of his disloyalty to Kathy. Yet it had not been a deliberate betrayal, he told himself, simply a moment of aberration, a lapse for which he had already been punished, and for which he would eventually make amends.
Amends – yes, that was still the key, the imperative word. At all costs he must not lose contact with Kathy. No matter what had happened she was still his responsibility, his charge, as essential to him as he to her. He must, yes, he must get in touch with her at once. A letter, explanatory; contrite yet constructive, was the immediate necessity, not only to outline his plans to make provision for her, but also to express the hope that when sorrow had been tempered by compassion they might meet again. He would pour out his heart in it, and since he must leave early with Frida tomorrow it was essential for him to write it now. A faint and wavering gleam dawned in the grisly prospect of his future. There was always hope – one need never give up; with his money especially there were many ways and means. Perhaps in due course everything might be straightened out. He began even to envisage, though dimly, an amicably arranged divorce that would set him free. Surely he could rely on his dear child’s forgiveness.
Stirring himself with an effort, he got up, switched on the light and, while struggling into his dressing gown, looked at his wrist watch. Twenty minutes to twelve – he couldn’t have been asleep for much more than an hour. Guardedly, he felt his way across the landing. Rhythmic unmelodious crescendos, percolating from his room, now hers, made him wince. He hastened past. Downstairs in the library, he sat at the bureau by the window, switched on the shaded lamp, and took notepaper from the central inlaid drawer. Then, pen in hand, he stared into the outer darkness, anxiously seeking the most appropriately, touching form of address. Should it be ‘Dear Kathy,’ ‘ My Dearest Kathy,’ or even ‘ Darling Kathy,’ or simply the restrained, sombre, but oh, so significant, ‘My Dear’?
After some thought he had decided on the last when, through his abstraction, he became conscious of a glow, shining distantly through the opacity of the night. The moon is rising, he thought, seeing a hopeful omen in this sudden brightness; he was indeed in a mood receptive to signs and portents. Yet it could scarcely be the moon, for the sky still remained darkly unbroken and the light itself seemed less a radiance than a strange coruscation, a shifting sparkle of pin-point lights dancing like wildfire against the unseen waters of the lake below. What on earth was it? Accustomed to the wildest elements unleashed amongst these unpredictable peaks, he was unlikely to be startled by any terrestrial phenomenon: Yet so overwrought and unstable was his present state of mind, he could not repress a faint shiver of distrust. He got to his feet, opened the french window and, despite the lightness of his attire – he had always had a te
ndency to catch cold – went out on the terrace.
The night, as he had suspected, was pitch and unexpectedly chill. Clutching his thin dressing gown about him he peered down towards the lights. They were near, mysteriously and disconcertingly near. But suddenly he understood, and in a reflex of absurd relief could have smiled, though he did not, at his own foolishness. It was the little fishing fleet, half a dozen boats bouncing gaily on the waves, the men casting their nets, night fishing with naphtha flares. The felchen must be running, and in shoals, to have brought them out so late.
He was about to turn back into the comfort of the house when a thought arrested him. Surely the felchen didn’t run in winter and never, to his knowledge, in this part of the lake? They always swarmed at the mouth of the river where it flowed in through the Reisenberg gorge. And shading his eyes – though this was unnecessary – for a more particular scrutiny, he saw with amazement that a number of people were gathered on the pier. At this hour of the night! He hesitated. He wanted to leave it, leave the matter as it stood, but something impelled him to run into the house for his field glasses, the splendid Zeiss binoculars he had bought in Heidelberg.
At first he could not find them, but after rummaging untidily through several drawers, they came to hand. Back on the terrace, he focussed them hurriedly. Then, just as he saw that all the flares were now congregated round the pier, one by one all of them went out and a curtain of darkness, barely relieved by the feeble pier lamp, cut off his view.
He lowered the glasses uncertainly. He had a splitting headache and for some extraordinary reason his heart was fluttering against his ribs. He ought to go in, he had the letter to write, the letter beginning simply and movingly, ‘ My Dear.’ And he would have gone in, but the sound of approaching footsteps detained him. He swung round. Two men, at first dimly seen, then gradually taking recognisable shape, were coming up the path from below. The pier-master and Herr Sacht from the village Polizeiwache.
It had always been for him a source of mild entertainment that the cantonal police, in entire outward look – their stiff helmet, blue uniform and capacious boots – bore so close a resemblance to the London bobbies: perhaps a delicate compliment, he had surmised, contrived in earlier days to make the visiting English milords feel safe and more at home. But now Moray was not entertained, nor did he feel safe and reassured as Herr Sacht and his companion advanced towards him. He felt instead a sinking of his heart that was the sickening premonition of unknown yet inevitable disaster.
‘Grüss Gott, mein Herr.’ Respectfully, apologetically almost, the pier-master made himself spokesman – Sacht, a slow and stolid man, was at all times sparing of words. ‘We have some trouble down below, and have come for your advice – though not wishing to disturb you. A young woman …’.
‘No … no …’ said Moray, barely breathing.
‘Alas, yes. We have just found her.’
‘But how …?’ He could say nothing more. Pale and rigid, he had ceased to breathe.
‘After the night boat I heard a splash – like a springing fish. Of it, I thought nothing. But when I made my last round of the pier, there was a handbag, fallen down, and in the water, floating, a lady’s small brown hat. I thought it wise to alarm the Polizei.’ He glanced at Sacht, who nodded in heavy confirmation. ‘We got the boats out and after dragging, just two hours, we found the young person – of course completely dead.’ He paused in respectful sympathy. ‘I fear it is – may be a friend to you.… The young Englische girl, she who came this afternoon on the five o’clock boat.’
He drew back, staring at them, horrified. Then, all at once he was crying hysterically.
‘Oh, my God, it can’t be. But yes, a young lady … she did come … Kathy … Kathy Urquhart … a friend, as you say, daughter of an old, very dear friend.… She left us, running, running to catch the last boat…’.
‘Ach, so?’ Sacht said, with a slow comprehending nod. ‘She was running, in the darkness. Perhaps – or surely, then, this has been an accident.’
Moonfaced, Moray looked from one to the other, grasping towards the chance of exoneration, dizzily seeking a way out of the impact of this atrocious disaster.
‘But what else could it be?’ Struggling, he forced himself to bring out explanatory words. ‘She was on her way home, looked in to visit me again … briefly … to say goodbye. She was a nurse, you understand … fully trained … a fully trained nurse … meaning to work with her uncle in Africa … a missionary. I wanted to send her back by car … but she had her ticket and liked the boat. She must have slipped, missed her footing … it had been raining, the melting snow is very treacherous.… And now …’. He covered his face with his hand.
‘It is sad for you, Herr Moray,’ said the pier-master, ‘and we do not wish to cause you inconvenience. But you could help. Herr Sacht says, if only you will come to identify the body, he can then complete his report.’
‘Yes, of course.… Yes, I will come,’ His tone was expressive of assistance, complete willingness to co-operate.
‘First you must put on warmer clothes, so you do not get chilled. We will wait here until you are ready.’
He had not realised his state of undress. In the hall cupboard he found a coat, cap and scarf, a pair of felt-lined snow boots. Hastily rejoining the other two, he went down the path. Still in a state of shock, he was instinctively, protectively, acting a part, but as they approached the little-pier, where a silent group stood gathered outside the low wooden shed that served as waiting-room, he could not repress a shudder of numbed and, silent dread.
The group parted, still in silence, as they drew near. They went into the bare waiting-room, where they had laid her on the pitchpine table under a single hanging electric globe. There was no sheet; she lay half covered by a fisherman’s jacket which Sacht now discreetly withdrew. At first Moray could not look. Frozen. Too much to demand of him. A physical impossibility. He stared woodenly at the near end of the table, seeing only the worn sole of one small brown shoe, hearing a slow steady drop of water from the upper edge of the table. The room smelled of the drifted fume of the paraffin flares and of stale cigarette smoke. Wandering away to safety, his gaze caught an ashtray, stamped Melsburg Bier, on the floor. It was filled with stubs and had been removed. But the pier-master was speaking to him; he must look or they would begin to think something was seriously out of order. Slowly and with great effort he raised and twisted his head, still protecting himself, not looking at the face, not yet, making only a swift and limited survey.
Her total stillness was astounding, and her extraordinary immaturity. God knew he had reason to know that she was small and slight – but never had he dreamed her to be so – so young as this. The sodden clothes moulded her thin body, cupped the tender breasts, bisected the slender limbs, nakedly revealing the delicate swell between, the mons veneris – the phrase came – he was a doctor – and all, all with the stark indecency of death. One of her stockings had come down, wrinkling about the ankle, a button on the blouse was undone; one hand, the palm upturned receptively, the soaked skin already blanched, hung over the table edge.
A faint convulsion went through him as, knowing it must be done, he forced himself to look towards her face. Once he had looked, he could not look away. Upturned to the light, the face was shrunken and of a greenish colour, the blue lips flattened and fallen away, the drenched hair plastered back from the brow, hanging in dank switches about the thin white neck, still exuding the trickle that kept drip, dripping to the floor. Almost unrecognisable in its dead ugliness, the face was wrapped in a strange unbearable enigma. Most mysterious, most unbearable, were the eyes, still open, expressionless, gazing directly at him. Within their unfathomable depths, suddenly, in a moment of truth, he saw himself, exactly as he was, without illusion, naked under the watchful sky.
‘Ach so? It is the young English lady?’ It was spoken in a low voice of sympathy.
Moray turned, made a slow, melancholy gesture of assent. Revelation might have
shattered him, but habit, the style and form of years, persisted.
‘Alas – yes,’ he said, with careful articulation. ‘It is too painful for words. Cut off so suddenly – and so young. Only an accident could account for it. Did you observe the shoe, the sole – worn smooth? On the wet planks of the pier – the slippery edge …’.
‘Yes, it is always bad in such weather.’ The pier-master spoke defensively. ‘But not possible for me to dry it.’
‘Oh, I only pray God she did not suffer.’
‘Ach, no,’ Sacht said, crudely, yet trying to be kind. ‘The cold of the water would kill quickly.’ He had taken out his notebook.
‘Well, you will want particulars,’ Moray said, and standing erect, he gave them calmly, name, age, nationality, while Sacht indited in the dog-eared book with a moistened stub of pencil.
When it was all done, the pier-master, presuming in his sympathy, pressed Moray’s arm.
‘You do not look well, Herr Moray. Come to my house for a cup of coffee.’
‘You are most kind. But, thank you, no.’ He turned to Sacht. ‘You are finished with me now? I suppose you have no further need of me.’
‘For the present, no. But of course we will require you at the Leichenschau.’
‘Ah, the inquest …’. Moray said, in an extinguished voice. ‘You consider it will be necessary?’
‘It is for you only a formality, Herr Moray, but officially required, for the records of the Stadt.’
‘I see.’ He drew himself up. ‘You understand, of course, that it will be my privilege to defray all expenses of the interment’
Was there anything more to say? Apparently not. He shook hands with both men and, not looking again, went out.
Though he went slowly, sparing himself with many enforced stops, his breath suffocated him as he went up the hill. He was sweating too, despite the cold, an abject sweat that ran from his armpits and the back of his knees, sweating from the ghastly futility of his effort at self-deception. All part of the usual sham, the impressive front, the grand façade. He knew the truth now, the truth about himself. And soon they would all know. Yes, it would all come out, all, all, the party for Willie, his engagement to Kathy, the heroic announcement of his departure for Africa. And now, within a few days, he was still here, married to Frida, and Kathy dead. God, what would they think of him? The gossip, the scandal, the odium that would fall upon him. And he couldn’t escape it, not this time, couldn’t leave with Frida in the morning, couldn’t slide away and conveniently forget. He must stay for the Leichenschau, stay till it all came out, and afterwards stay bound hatefully to Frida, who would never let him go, but would grind him down remorselessly to an ultimate subjection. And all this when he might have had Kathy, when even at this moment she might have been alive, warm and loving, in his arms.
