She shrugged and flapped her eyes. Her eyes were too close together.
“It must have been gossip. It’s extraordinary what stories get around. It reminds me of a boy I once knew—he was a friend of my husband’s—who told someone in Port Antonio that the King of Sweden was coming to Jamaica for a holiday. He only said it as a joke. A month later he was being fitted for a suit in Kingston and the tailor told him that he’d been asked to prepare six suits for the King of Sweden on his arrival. Of course my friend told him he’d started the rumour. The tailor didn’t know where to look. He was so ashamed that he let my friend have his suit at half price.”
Douglas detached himself from the flapping eyes as soon as he could. The leprosy story had made him furious. It was the first he had heard about it since Pawley had received the anonymous letter, and he had almost forgotten about it. Anyhow, gossip couldn’t turn John into a leper. If the worst came to the worst they could publish a denial.
He found himself another whisky, and then entered into a dull conversation with a group of people about the rising cost of every-thing since the war. Rum, that used to cost two shillings a bottle, now cost six. He wandered away and discovered the Jew again, and the Jew’s eyes twinkled and he looked at his cuff and said:
“Dear me, I’ve used up this story on you already, haven’t I? Never mind—let me tell you about a little success I’ve had this evening. I believe I’m the only male resident on the island who isn’t a member of the secret brotherhood. I’ve been trying for some while to discover the brotherhood’s handshake. I think I’ve cracked it at last. I tried it out on a man who’s disliked me for a long time, and he became quite amiable for a moment or two. Unfortunately l haven’t mastered the confirmatory passwords, and he became rather hostile again. You see what I mean about human behaviour never being based on reason?”
Douglas spent the rest of the evening with the Jew. He was still twinkling very brightly and fingering the monocle when Mrs. Pawley came and said:
“Oh here you are, Douglas dear! I wondered what had happened to you. We ought to go.”
*
The lawn had been brightly lit by electric lamps, and he had hardly noticed it growing dark. The moon wasn’t up yet, but the headlights of the car threw a powerful beam along the road, making a tunnel of light under the trees.
Presently Mrs. Pawley said:
“I’m starving. Aren’t you, Douglas?”
“Not after all those snacks.” He had only eaten a couple of olives.
“You must have a proper meal. We’ll be much too late for anything at the Great House.”
“I could manage without.”
“I can’t let you. I’ve got to look after you properly. Let’s go to Mount Mansfield.”
“Its rather late,” he said. “It’s after nine.”
She said in her awkward, teasing way, “Is it after your bedtime?”
“I was thinking of your husband.”
“Oh, heavens! Do you think he’s afraid of you leading me astray?”
They went to Mount Mansfield. It was a restaurant on the road back to the Great House, a few hundred feet up in the foothills. There were tables and a gaily lit bar in an arbour outside. The bougainvillea tumbled all round. It was the kind of place you would call romantic. He had another whisky, and Mrs. Pawley had some gin. They ate cold ham.
“You seemed to enjoy the party,” Mrs. Pawley said.
“I met an interesting man.”
“That Jew?”
“He was most amusing.”
“Didn’t you meet any girls?”
“A very dull one.”
“I should have thought you’d want to meet some girls. You must be getting so bored.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re not getting drunk, are you, Douglas? I don’t think I’d trust you if you were drunk.”
“You could do—but I’m not.”
“What a pity!”
He recognized this sort of conversation. He tried to change it, and told her about the leprosy gossip.
“Oh,” she said impatiently, “you get that kind of thing.”
“It might do the school a lot of harm.”
“It might do. You can’t help it, though.” She waved it away. “We don’t want to bother about the school tonight, do we? Say something nice to me, Douglas.”
He could think of nothing nice to say. He said something about the bougainvillea.
“You’re hopeless at paying compliments, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re so shy. It’s sweet. I’ll say something nice to you instead. You were by far the most handsome man at the party. I felt quite proud of you.”
“Having such a handsome teacher at the school?”
“Yes.” She laughed quickly. “And having him to escort me.”
“You teased me enough the other night,” he said.
“You needn’t be so modest. I’m not teasing.”
“Why do you say it, then?”
“Can’t you imagine?”
“No.”
“You’re so amusing, Douglas. You’re so loyal.”
“Loyal?”
“You can never forget that I’m the headmaster’s wife.”
The moon was rising as they drove up the mountain road. It rose exactly behind the Peak. There was a white cloud over the Peak like a bonnet, and the moon shone from behind and turned the edges of the cloud into a fabulous glory of silvery-gold. You expected the voice of God to come ringing out of it.
“Let’s stop and look at it, Douglas,” Mrs. Pawley said.
“There’s not much room on the road.”
“You can stop under the cotton-tree farther up.”
The cotton tree was an ancient monster whose trunk rose for thirty feet before sending out gigantic branches. The coloured inhabitants of the locality believed that it was the assembly place of duppies—the spirits of the dead—and they never paused on the road if they passed at night. He stopped the station-wagon. The moon had risen above the Peak and shone through the windscreen.
“Do you want to get out?” he said.
“No, let’s sit and talk.”
“I’ve done a lot of talking since six o’clock.”
“There’s no need to talk, then.”
They sat in silence. He felt uncomfortable, and he wished he had drunk more and been able to make love to her: it would have been easier. He hated this. He would have preferred the discomfort of remembering what had happened next morning. He looked sideways at her. She smiled. She looked no prettier in the moonlight. Her face had the brittle hardness of a china doll’s. The white light made her red lips black; and he could see the little white spots in the shadows under her eyes.
“You remember I told you that my husband and I couldn’t have any children, Douglas?”
“Yes.”
“I expect you wondered why. It isn’t my fault. It’s my husband’s.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said.
“Because it isn’t my fault?”
“No. I’m sorry that anything should be the matter with your husband.”
She laughed awkwardly. “You’ll probably think this funny. But we’ve never consummated our marriage.”
“I don’t think it funny in the least.” It explained a good deal about Pawley, though.
“Of course I could have had the marriage annulled if I’d wanted; only it didn’t seem fair to him. It’s been difficult for both of us. He’s always felt so guilty about it.”
“I imagine so,” he said. “But the school was a good idea. You’ve always had heaps of children to take an interest in.”
She laughed again. “That doesn’t make up for everything.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I haven’t always been faithful to him. He’s been glad in a way. It�
��s made it easier for him.”
“It’s lucky he’s so broad-minded.” He tried not to sound ironical.
“Isn’t it?”
They were silent. He looked away from her.
“So you see there’s no need to be afraid of him,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Of course you are.” She said this in her teasing way, and to show that she was teasing she put her hand on his knee. She left it there, He didn’t touch it.
“Was your wife very attractive?”
“Too attractive.”
“She’s made you so unhappy.”
“I shall get over it.”
“Of course you will.”
She moved closer to him. He felt in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. As he did so he leaned unintentionally against her, and she responded at once with a yielding pressure; and then she saw that he had only been taking out the cigarettes and she withdrew herself with a sudden angry movement. He offered her the packet.
“Will you have one?”
“No.”
He drew one out for himself and lit it.
“You like smoking,” she said. Then all at once she got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked briskly forward for twenty yards and then stopped and stood still, looking towards the Peak. She stood like that for several minutes. He had almost finished the cigarette when she came back. She got into the car in a business-like way, sitting as far as possible from him on the seat.
“Aren’t you going to start the engine?” she said, as if she had been talking to a chauffeur.
He started the engine, switched on the headlights, and drove on. He said presently, to test her mood:
“This car’s splendid on hills.”
She didn’t speak. He could sense her fury. Another five minutes passed before she said suddenly:
“My husband tells me you’ve an engagement in town tomorrow.” She said it as if it was something she hadn’t wanted to say—something that had only been forced out by the mounting pressure of her anger.
“Yes, I have.”
“I’d better tell you that he doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.”
He laughed. “But he approves of me taking out his wife.”
“Are you trying to be insulting?”
“I don’t mean to be.”
She couldn’t speak for a minute; then all her bitterness exploded.
“That’s what comes of being sorry for people! I’ve only been nice to you because I was sorry for you. You don’t think I’d bother about you otherwise, do you?”
He said nothing.
“If you want to know the truth,” she said, “you absolutely repulse me.”
Chapter Eight
It took them another twenty minutes to reach the school. Neither of them spoke. He stopped the station-wagon outside the garage.
“Will you get out here?” he said.
She got out without a word. He let in the clutch to drive the car into the garage. At the same moment he saw that she was trying to open the door again. Her arm was dragged forward before he could put on the brake.
“I’m sorry,” he said, although it couldn’t have hurt her. “I didn’t notice what you were doing.”
She flung open the door. She was almost crying with anger.
“Where’s my bag?”
It had fallen to the floor. She snatched it out of his hands.
“If you wait a minute,” he said, “I’ll see you down to your bungalow.”
She slammed the door viciously, without answering, and walked off. He watched her disappear along the path. Then he put the station-wagon into the garage and closed the doors. He walked back to his bungalow. He thought a letter might have come from Judy, saying she could meet him tomorrow. Or couldn’t meet him. He went straight to his desk. Ivy had cleaned up the desk, the papers were all placed neatly in the trays, and there was no letter. He looked through the papers to make sure it hadn’t been put amongst them by mistake, and then sat down on the bed. As he did so he noticed a vase of roses on the bedside table. They were roses from Mrs. Pawley’s garden. She must have told her servant to put them there before leaving for the cocktail party. He looked at them and laughed. He didn’t know why he was laughing, because he was not very much amused.
The next morning at breakfast Duffield chaffed him dryly about taking out Mrs. Pawley, and then about his proposed trip to Kingston that day. He said that he had heard Douglas was meeting Judy, which meant he hadn’t heard at all. Douglas didn’t satisfy his curiosity. The Morgans came, and Duffield said to Douglas, “Well, I’m going to have a busy day by myself,” and left. Morgan said that he was expecting rain and a blow before sunset. He gave details of the meteorological data, as recorded by his instruments on the farm, which had led him to this belief. His prognostications were seldom correct, and Douglas looked forward to a fine day. He left the Great House, and went down towards Pawley’s bungalow. He thought he had better remind Pawley that he was having the day off.
Pawley was already in his study.
“Good morning, Lockwood. You probably want to see me before your first class?”
Douglas reminded him that he wasn’t going to have a first class. Pawley looked rather hurt.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” he said justly. “I did say you could take a day off, didn’t I? But I was rather hoping you might postpone it until next week.”
“I shall have a day off next week, anyhow.”
“Yes, naturally.” He goggled awkwardly. “It’s only that these alterations tend to upset our timetable . . .”
“I quite agree,” Douglas said indignantly. “But it wasn’t my suggestion in the first place. It was you that wanted me to take Mrs. Pawley to the cocktail party.”
Pawley calmed him with two outstretched hands, as if he was about to strike chords on the piano.
“That’s all right, Lockwood. If that’s how you feel about it, of course you must go. You’re quite right.”
He got up from his desk and came with Douglas to the french window. His sagging beard showed there was something else on his mind.
He said after a minute, “I’m afraid that something must have rather upset my wife last night . . .”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“I can’t understand it. It’s such a pity. I’d hoped you two might get on very well. I hate dissension in the camp, you know, Lockwood.”
“So do I.”
“Never mind,” he said, cheering up. “You’re both intelligent people. I’m sure you’ll settle your differences, whatever they are.”
“I’m sure we will.”
He left Pawley on the verandah. As he went through the garden he ran into Mrs. Pawley. She was coming down the path with the dogs. He thought he would make some casual remark about last night and try to pass it off. He said good morning. Mrs. Pawley kept her eyes turned away as if she hadn’t seen him. Then she walked right past him, cutting him dead.
It was only half-past eleven when he reached Myrtle Bank. He parked the station-wagon and went through to the pool. He hadn’t asked Judy to meet him until half-past three. He bathed, and then ordered lunch. The lunch came, but he didn’t feel much like eating. Kingston had never been muggier. The mugginess was held in by the leaden blanket of the sky. He thought that Judy wouldn’t come, and the Kingston mood settled over him heavily and the shadow of the heavy black vulture fell darkly on his soul. The waiter who served him was the waiter with the hair like Persian lamb. That made him think of Caroline again, and he spent half an hour masochistically prodding sores. After lunch he dressed again and walked round Kingston. He went into the public library and started looking at books; then he nearly fell asleep with the heat, so he went out and had an ice-cream soda in a bar on King Street. While he was having the ice-cream soda he talked to a mulatto with an un
shaven chin at the bar. The chap called him Mr. Lockwood. Douglas asked him how he knew his name was Lockwood, and the chap said that although he was a poor nigger he knew all the illustrious white men in Jamaica. It was the first time Douglas had heard a mulatto call himself a poor nigger. As he went off, the chap grinned obsequiously and said he had fallen on hard times. Douglas gave him sixpence and went back to the Myrtle Bank. He was quite sure that Judy wasn’t going to be there, and he tried to prepare himself against a tidal wave of disappointment. He looked round the pool and she wasn’t there, and the tidal wave broke and he might just as well not have prepared himself at all. He sat down under a parasol. A minute later he saw her coming out of the changing-room, and another tidal wave broke over him, a tidal wave of joy.
She was already wearing her bathing-costume. Her body was brown and slim.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“Why on earth not?”
“You didn’t write.”
“Was I meant to? I never thought of it. I’m rotten at letters.”
After they had bathed they had tea, and it was the waiter with the Persian-lamb hair, but he didn’t think about Caroline. He had never liked her in the Persian lamb, anyhow.
“I don’t know anything about you,” he told Judy.
“Except that I rush about after men and commit suicide.”
“I mean before that. Where were you born? I can’t fit you into a background.”
“I’m one of those people without backgrounds.” She smiled and pushed away her hair. “Cities throw us up. We end in brothels in China.”
“You had a family, didn’t you?”
“After a fashion.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m too inquisitive.”
“I’ll tell you if you like—I never mind telling people in the least. I’m illegitimate.” She laughed. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to look shocked?”
“I’m terribly shocked,” he said lightly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Well, nobody cares about that sort of thing nowadays, do they?’ and then you talk about the weather.”
The Shadow and the Peak Page 13
