Kind Are Her Answers

by Mary Renault

  “I shouldn’t have called you,” she murmured under her breath.

  The yellow glare of the light, high up in its cut-glass shade, dazzled in his eyes.

  “Where can we go?”

  Am I saying this, asked a distant and bewildered voice within him, intruding from the day. He let it fall silent. She turned softly in his arms and said, “I’ll—”

  They both stiffened, fixed in an embrace which they no longer felt. There had been a sound—a step, or some other movement—on the floor above.

  “Quick!” She slipped from his arms, folding her gown round her, and snatched his coat from the stand by the door. “Quick, put this on, say something ordinary.”

  “I—” His voice trailed off. He could think of absolutely nothing to say: he was dazed as if he had been wakened from deep sleep by an explosion. She shook the coat out and held it up to him, crooked, with the sleeves out of reach. Recovering himself, he took it away from her and threw it over his arm. The house was perfectly silent.

  “It wasn’t anything,” he said. “A board creaking somewhere, I expect.”

  She clutched him by the sleeve and pulled him towards the door. “No. It was Pedlow. I could tell it was.”

  He detached her clenched fingers and held them. They felt cold at the tips. “You’re not frightened of Pedlow, are you?” he said.

  “No. Not really. Of course not.” She smiled, looking past him at the stairs.

  He warmed her hands in his. “You mustn’t be frightened. All these old retainers get a bit queer. I’ve seen a lot. She’s only on your nerves because you’re continually cooped up with her, and overtired. I’ll make you up a tonic; you ought to be taking one.”

  She laughed under her breath. “How delicious you are. Will you really mix me a tonic?”

  “No,” said Kit as a thought occurred to him. “Better not. I’ll find you a good proprietary one.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because,” he said slowly, “it would make you technically a patient of mine.”

  “Don’t you want me to be?”

  He dropped his coat on the floor, and pulled her to him by the shoulders.

  “No. I don’t.”

  After a little while she pushed him away. “I’m sure she heard you. You must go.”

  “Yes. How shall I see you again?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” she said softly. “You know when we wake in the morning we shan’t be able to forget this fast enough.”

  “That’s impossible.” But he knew, as he spoke, that it was true. He looked down at her hair tangled behind her ears; her face was turned away. “Life’s hopeless, isn’t it?” he said.

  She nodded, and moved to free herself; but at the last moment he caught her back again. She struggled with unexpected strength.

  “No. You don’t. … Go now. Please.”

  Her arms slipped suddenly round him. He felt her hair against his throat and heard his own heart like some external noise.

  “What is it, then?” She tilted her face upwards against his shoulder. “Don’t you want it to be to-morrow morning?”

  “My God.” He kissed her angrily; she put her hand over his mouth.

  “It is to-morrow, you know, already. It must be after one.”

  Impatiently, without thinking, he said, “Oh, this doesn’t count.”

  “I know. The small hours never seem part of any day, do they? A sort of No Man’s Land.”

  “Yes, that’s what I always—” He stopped, because the conversation between their eyes had taken a different turn, and the rest of the sentence had left his mind. They were silent; her hand, with which she had been idly caressing his shoulder, rested there motionless.

  At last she said slowly, “I’m so afraid Pedlow may have heard the car.”

  He steadied his voice. “She sleeps like a log. If she’d heard it she’d have been down by now.”

  “Yes. … I don’t know.” She strained away, listening and staring into the darkness; then suddenly turned back and clung to him. Joining her hands behind his head she pulled his face down to hers. “Listen. Drive your car away. Leave it somewhere else. Walk round the lawn, by the side of the shrubbery, where it’s dark. I’ll leave the glass doors open, and have a light burning.” _

  Staring at her closed eyes he whispered, “We must be out of our minds.”

  “Yes. We are, of course. You mustn’t make any noise.”

  “No. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of all that.”

  “Well, go then. Go now. What are you waiting for?” She twisted out of his hands. “Here, you’ve left your coat again. No, put it on. Don’t you see it’s pouring with rain? Do you want to get pneumonia? Don’t leave the car too near the house. How long will you be?”

  “I don’t know. Six or eight minutes, I should think.”

  “All that time? We shall both have long enough to change our minds.”

  “No.”

  “If you do you’re to stay away. Mind that. I shall know if you have. I shan’t want you.”

  “Be quiet.” He bent to her, but she pushed him away. “And if you change your mind?” he asked. “What then?”

  She looked up at him, thoughtfully and without protest. “If I do I’ll put the light out and close the doors.”

  “All right,” said Kit. He turned towards the porch, then came back and caught her by the arm.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Oh, do go.”

  “I will. But I had to … I wasn’t sure; you do know, don’t you, that I’m …”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course I do. Don’t fuss, dear.” Then, seeing that he still hesitated, “Surely you’re not going to begin telling me …” She smiled. “No; you never would.”

  “Would what?”

  “Oh, nothing. I meant—that tale about her being your wife only in name. But you wouldn’t.”

  Kit let go of her arm. After a little pause he said, “I don’t think, really, it makes any essential difference.”

  She was staring at his face. “My dear, have I … I didn’t … Don’t pay attention to what I say. I don’t pay half enough myself.”

  “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. In any case, probably the less we relate this to real life the better.”

  She was silent for a moment. “You’re refreshingly honest,” she said at length.

  “I don’t know—I—”

  “Are you going to stand here talking till it’s light, or we’ve both got bored?”

  She opened the door, letting in a swirl of rain. The wind lifted back her hair, as he had once seen it lifted in fancy.

  “Did you have a hat? Or gloves? For God’s sake don’t leave anything about.”

  “I didn’t bring any.” He smiled at her. “If you remember, I came in a hurry.”

  “Did you?” she murmured vaguely. “Oh … yes, you did.” She coloured faintly. “I’d forgotten you could hurry, we seem to have been at this door all night.” She gave him a little push towards it; then checked him by the coat lapels. “You’re sweet.” She kissed him without passion, tenderly and gently, and shut the door behind him. He went out, the rain beating suddenly into his face.

  CHAPTER 4

  “HARK TO THE RAIN,” she said.

  The wind had shifted, and was tossing handfuls of drops against the tall glass panes of the doors. Their voices rose a little under the screen of its noise, sinking to whispers in the silences between. “Are you cold, my darling? Your shoulders feel cold.”

  “Cold?” said Kit drowsily. “Don’t be silly.”

  She fished up the eiderdown from the floor beside her and tucked it round him, murmuring, with childish tenderness, “You mustn’t ever be cold.”

  “I never will be again.”

  “You’re going to sleep.” She drew her fingertips in the darkness exploringly over his closed eyes.

  “Not really.”

  “You mustn’t go to sleep. I should have to wake you and I couldn’t bear it. What a shame. Let’s put the light
on again.”

  She leaned across him and switched it on; it stood on a low table beside the bed, a little gimcrack battery affair like a ship’s lantern. He turned to look at her as she slid down beside him again; she lay with casual grace and well-being, as if she were resting after a swim.

  “You’re good,” he said, and saw her smile. But he had used the word as one might use it of bread. In the language which was, so far, the only one in which they had exchanged confidences, she had spoken with a perfect honesty and completeness. Seeing his eyes on her she stretched again, contentedly, as people stretch in the sun.

  “I’m glad you like me.”

  Exactly, he thought, as if she were a little girl who had given somebody a birthday present. She had a curious fortuitous innocence which had never left her, even in the moments which had most belied it.

  He folded her into the eiderdown, and she curled herself into his arms. Over her head he could see the room, which had only been a vague confused background before. The far end of it was almost invisible in shadow: he could just make out a great marble fireplace carved in high Gothic relief, and filled with brass; an arched mirror over it, reflecting innumerable silver oddments on the mantelpiece. Above their heads, like an inverted fountain of muddy water, hung the dusty crystals of an Empire chandelier, returning the small glow of the lamp. The carpet was pink, with a lattice of darker pink flowers; it seemed to stretch away like a sea; a gilded chair, a mahogany occasional table piled with knickknacks and photographs, islanding its distances here and there. The bed, a stiff guest-room affair with high wrought-brass head and foot, looked accidental and lonely, like a raft.

  “What a cavern to sleep in,” he said. “Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”

  “Sometimes it’s fun. I act costume plays when I go to bed. I remember, though, it did frighten me once when I woke in the dark and couldn’t remember where I was. I wish you’d been there.”

  “Mightn’t that have been a bit upsetting too?”

  “Not even for a minute.” She tucked her head under his chin.

  A yard or so from the bed was a gilt, spindle-legged sofa, covered with faded rose brocade. Her blue gown was lying in a heap over one end of it, and it must have been the place where she kept her clothes at night, for, overflowing from behind one of the cushions, there emerged the top of a silk stocking and a pink satin suspender. The blue gown was over the near end; he could see that the little loop for hanging it up was broken. (Janet was always much preoccupied with such things, so that he had grown unconsciously to notice them.)

  A little way along, against the wall, stood a mahogany chest of drawers, the only other bedroom furniture besides the bed. Her brushes and cream-jars were strewn at random over the top; one of the drawers had jammed because it was too full to shut, and from a corner protruded a bunch of crêpe de Chine. On the tall foot-piece of the bed the second stocking of the pair hung by itself, looking appealing, as if it were waiting for Christmas. She must be shockingly untidy, he thought, if this represented her party manners for a visitor; and, pierced by a sudden irrational tenderness, he gathered her in and began to kiss her again.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  He did not know, so answered, since it was true, “I shall have to go in a minute.”

  “Ah, no.” She wrapped herself round him, making herself soft and cherishing. “I can’t send you out of the warm into the cold rain.”

  “Don’t,” he said involuntarily; and pressed her face into his shoulder to silence her.

  “Don’t what? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” He pushed the hair back from her ear. “I really will have to go; I’ve a midder case that might come off tonight.”

  “But you can’t go now. What is it? I make you unhappy?”

  “Oh, God, no. I can’t explain.”

  “Why—what do I do?”

  He shook his head. She raised herself on her arm and bent over him, leaning her cheek on his so that her hair fell darkly across his face. He whispered unevenly, “It’s nothing. … It’s only—you’re very kind.”

  “What? Oh, my sweet.” She lifted herself to look at him, and caught his face between her hands. Soothingly, as if she were consoling a baby, she murmured over him, “I’ll always be kind to you, my precious, always, I promise I will. You’re such a darling and I love you so much.”

  “No,” said Kit quickly. He moved a little away from her. “Don’t spoil it. It’s good enough as it is.”

  “But I only said I loved you. Don’t you want me to love you? Darling?”

  “I don’t want you to say you do as if you were offering me a lollipop.”

  She looked round at him quickly. “But I—” She slid away from him, and lay with her chin cupped in her hands. “You frighten me,” she said slowly. “People generally—” Her head jerked a little, as if she were flicking something away. “Are you always as devastatingly sincere as this?”

  “I didn’t mean to be brutal. But from you it’s too … Oh, well, anyway, don’t do it.”

  “You don’t want to love any one, do you?”

  He was silent, startled that she should have perceived this. For a moment he cast about for some evasion, but in the end said simply, “No. I don’t.”

  He was unhappy at the thought of hurting her; but she only leaned over and stroked his face. “It doesn’t matter, pet,” she said fondly. “You don’t have to. Don’t get all worked up about it.”

  “I wish I could tell you,” he said slowly, “how you—”

  “S-sh. I promise I won’t love you if you don’t like it. Cross my heart I won’t. I only said it to be nice to you. Dear … what do they call you? What’s your name?”

  Kit looked into her earnest face, and was suddenly overtaken by laughter. He choked it down, till he found that she was laughing too. They clung to one another, shaking, till he forgot not to make a noise, and she stuffed a handful of eiderdown into his mouth. During this moment of enforced quiet it occurred to him that he had, as far as he could remember, never laughed in bed before.

  “Well?” she asked when she had ungagged him. “What is your name?”

  “I adore you. It’s Christopher.”

  “Is it? But mine’s Christina. Our names are nearly the same.” She looked at him wide-eyed. “That must mean something, you know.”

  “So it seems.” He kissed her, still laughing a little. “People call me Kit as a rule.”

  “Kit. That’s nice. I like that. Do you know mine?”

  “The important part. Christie what—or ought I to know?”

  “Christie Heath, of course. My grandfather was Aunt Amy’s brother.”

  “Christie Heath.” He repeated it because the sound of it pleased him; and affectionately, without thinking much about it, stroked his hand over her side. He felt her flinch a little, and stopped.

  “It’s all right. It’s only a bruise. You’re stronger than you think you are, you know.” Kit had heard something of this kind before, and his response was instinctive. With the prompt obedience of habit he moved himself out of the way and said, “I’m awfully sorry.”

  She was quite still for a moment; then with a little murmuring sound reached up and flung her arms round him with a violence that nearly throttled him. Her face was pressed tightly to his, and he could feel her lashes grow warm and wet. “I didn’t mean it, I was making it up. You didn’t hurt me, dear, you didn’t. You’ve been unhappy and I didn’t know.”

  “Hush,” whispered Kit, stroking her hair. “Don’t—please; I—” His throat hurt him and he could not say any more.

  One of her tears ran, thinly salt, over his mouth. “Dear, dear Kit. I’m here now. Everything’s going to be all right. I’m going to look after you, you’re never going to be unhappy any more.” He wanted to laugh at her absurdity, but the tightness in his throat prevented him. Her warmth hung, heavy and softly clinging, about his neck: he shut his eyes, and bent to her lifted mouth.

  Slowly and moment
ously, seeming to clear its throat beforehand, the grandfather clock in the hall struck the half-hour. The little battery in the bedside lamp was fading; the bulb had grown dim and yellow, and its faint circle of light hardly reached beyond the bed. Kit stretched himself, and gave a sigh into which a yawn intruded. “Oh, darling, and you’ve got to work all to-morrow. Go to sleep for a little while. I’ll wake you up; I promise I will.”

  “No.” He shook himself awake. “I must leave at once. I’m expecting a case.”

  “What sort of case?”

  “A woman having a baby.”

  “Oh.” She let go of him. “I wish you’d told me.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, made ashamed by her concern. “It may not be for days yet, and there’s a good nurse in the house.”

  “I shouldn’t have kept you.”

  “Don’t worry. If it were really urgent, my—some one would have rung for me here. I always scribble down the address before I start on a night call.” He had been meditating on this for the last few minutes; but Christie seemed consoled.

  “Come here, darling, and I’ll see to your tie.”

  “Thanks; but I expect, really, I can do it better myself.” He pulled at it, rather awkwardly; the necessity for having kept on most of his clothes made him feel a little self-conscious and boorish.

  “Sweet, that’s worse than ever. Let me a minute. Don’t look so nervous; I’m very good at ties.”

  She was: Kit got up and put on his coat, surprised to discover how angry it made him. “Can I borrow your brush?” he asked.

  “Of course. Anything. You can’t see over there, give it to me.”

  It was backed with painted wood, pale green with a pattern of tiny flowers; a cheap, pretty thing. She brushed his hair back, stroked it down with her hands and kissed him. The brush she dropped, with a matter-of-fact air of dismissal, on the floor. Kit picked it up and put it back in its place.

  “Don’t get up,” he said. “I can let myself out.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her. He had not known, till the moment came, how hard it would be to leave her. She took his hand in both hers, and held it against her cheek.