The Shadow and the Peak

by Richard Mason

  “I’m far too happy to care . . .” She panted swiftly, and the slow shudders began. They seemed to come from some deep source, like tremors of the earth. “Oh, Douglas, why couldn’t this have happened before? How much of the term we’ve wasted . . . !”

  The physical change that had come over her was almost as marked as the change in her manner. Her breasts were fuller and less wrinkled, and the red irritations on her neck had vanished.

  Presently he told her she must go.

  “I’d stay for ever if you asked me,” she said.

  “I shan’t ask you.”

  “Ten more minutes.” She sighed. “Do you love me, Douglas?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re afraid to say it,” she said. “How funny you are!”

  Before she left, she said, “Oh, I forgot, there’s a letter for you.” She felt in the pocket of her slacks.

  He became tense—there had been time now for a letter of explanation to have followed Judy’s cable by air. It would only repeat the cable’s shallow regrets, but he wanted it: he wanted to know that she had bothered to write, he wanted to read her insincerities. He wanted to begin a new chapter of prodding sores . . .

  Mrs. Pawley handed him the letter. It was not from Judy—it was a circular from a Kingston bookshop. He dropped it into the wastepaper-basket.

  “Good night, Douglas.” She clung round his neck.

  “Good night . . .”

  He nearly called her Mrs. Pawley. It was ridiculous: he could bring himself to touch her, and could restrain himself from shrinking beneath her caresses, but he still found the simple name of Joan quite impossible to pronounce.

  The next day Silvia came into the library to see him. She had written another story.

  “It’s babyish,” she said. “But you told me to write about what I remembered.”

  The story was short, and by far the best she had ever written, and also the most honest. It was about a girl called Eve. In the garden of the house where Eve lived there was a bush with foliage that spread across the path. Eve always contorted herself as she passed it, believing that if she allowed it to touch her, or that if it ever came to any harm, it would release a malignant spirit to punish her. One day her father told her that he was going to have the bush removed. He took no notice of her protests. Eve was in a perfect fury with him, and not quite sure that she could rely on the malignant spirit to punish an insensitive adult, she took her own revenge by breaking something inside his radio set. Before her father had found this out, he relented about the bush. He told her he was not going to have it removed after all. Eve now felt guilty about the radio, which she had no idea how to mend; and in order to create a reason for what she had done, she went out secretly into the garden and tore up the bush. Then she accused her father of tearing it up and going back on his word. She worked herself up into a terrible temper, screaming at him and calling him dreadful names. Later, eavesdropping outside the drawing-room when she was meant to be in bed, she heard her father recounting the incident to a friend, and saying in a puzzled tone, “She must have realized that I knew quite well she’d done it herself. I simply don’t understand her,” And Eve went to bed and cried, “because she didn’t understand herself either.”

  “Isn’t it silly?” Silvia said.

  “No,” he said. “If Eve goes on like this, she’ll soon understand herself very well. And if she goes on persevering, she might become a very good writer.”

  “If you take me away with you, I’ll write every day,” she said. “I’m going to dedicate my first book to you. I already know what it’s going to be about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About the school, and how I was unhappy here, and how you were unhappy, too, until we discovered about each other and ran away together. The only difference is that in the book we run away in the middle of the term. It makes it more dramatic.”

  “It would be quite dramatic enough, anyhow,” he said.

  “I’ve already decided what I’m going to call it, too. I’m going to call it The Peak, because all the time we’re unhappy we keep looking at Blue Mountain Peak and longing to climb it, in the same sort of way that we’re longing for happiness. When we run away, we shall set off towards the Peak, and the book will finish as we reach the top. It’ll be the first story I’ve written with a happy ending.”

  “We’ll leave it as a story, then,” he said. “If you try to live something like that, you’re always disappointed. You break an ankle as you’re climbing, or find the top in clouds when you arrive.”

  She smiled, unabashed.

  “Oh, that part’s only put in to be symbolical. We shan’t really have to go up the Peak—we’ll have to go straight down to the airport and catch the plane to Barbados.”

  That week passed slowly. It was only enlivened by Morgan, who kept threatening them with destruction by violent storms. He had even invaded the library and erected a blackboard and easel in front of the fireplace. He had drawn a map on the board, and he dashed in from time to time, regardless of classes, to record his latest prognostications in coloured chalk. Soon the Caribbean had become a formidable complexity of red zigzags, green crosses, and circles shaded in blue. By Wednesday morning one of the zigzags had found its way, as if by some inexorable compulsion, to the vicinity of Jamaica. At lunch-time its tip suddenly sprouted a menacing arrowhead. Even without reference to the explanatory legend—which had become confused with the outline of Florida in the top right-hand corner—it was enough to strike alarm. That night they pulled in chairs from verandahs, closed shutters, and generally battened down. Shortly after ten it rained gently for twenty minutes. The rest of the night was calm, and in the morning they awoke to another fine day, to discover that the zigzag had zigged out to sea again. The arrowhead, drawn with rather less flourish, now tentatively menaced Havana. The children were disappointed, but for Douglas the threat had served its purpose. It had kept Mrs. Pawley away.

  He was impatient for the term to end, although he still hadn’t made up his mind what to do. He amused himself with the day-dream that he really took Silvia away: not as a wife, but as a child, for if she loved him at all, it was in the way that she should have loved her father. He saw her, in this day-dream, as his one success—the rough clay that he had begun to shape, the unfinished creation that, with the possessiveness of the artist, he dreaded losing to the rough-handling of others. He saw her becoming the missing centre of his existence, the purpose of his future, the only pure love of his life. He saw her by his side on the beach at Barbados, scribbling away at another story; then he was introducing her to Europe—to the Opera in Paris, to the Scala in Milan—and then she was writing again in the window of an English country house; and later, in a scene that was strangely Victorian, he saw her kneeling at his side to tell him that she had fallen in love; and there was a tug at his heart—but he had known this must happen, and he smiled . . . And he smiled at this day-dream; for as much as Silvia’s dreams, it must have derived from some film he had seen or some book he had read. Yet for a few minutes it had been vivid enough to make him forget Judy, and the anguish of waiting for a letter that never came.

  On Saturday morning the red zigzag on Morgan’s blackboard veered back towards Jamaica. At breakfast he said:

  “It looks as though it’s really going to hit us this time. The centre may pass to the south, but we’ll get some nasty winds on the circumference. Anything up to a hundred miles an hour.”

  According to the inaccuracy of his previous predictions, they might have expected to be missed again, but on this occasion he was right. The storm started in the evening; but before that, about three o’clock in the afternoon, it began to rain. It began suddenly and rained violently, and Douglas sat just inside his bungalow door watching the cascades that fell from the overflowing gutters and splashed on to the edge of the verandah. In the midst of it Mrs. Pawley appeared.
She was wearing Wellington boots and carried an umbrella.

  “I shan’t be able to come tonight,” she said. “I’ve come this afternoon instead.”

  “You’re mad,” he said.

  “Douglas—we’ve only four days left.”

  “You can’t stay now,” he said.

  “Can’t I?” She laughed. Her eyes were bright. She took off her Wellingtons and closed the door and locked it.

  “Anyone might come,” he said.

  “Not in this rain.”

  “Of course they might.”

  “I don’t care.” She drew the curtains.

  “Have you any letters for me?” he said.

  “No; you’re not still worrying about that girl, are you?”

  “How absurd!”

  She seemed to accept this, and came across to him.

  “No,” he said. “You must go.”

  “I wouldn’t care if we were discovered—I might even be glad. If you had to leave the school I’d go away with you anywhere.”

  He laughed at that. He would take a retinue with him to Barbados, and to the Scala in Milan.

  “Why are you laughing?” she said.

  He almost told her about Silvia, but stopped himself in time.

  “I’m going, anyhow,” he said.

  The light in her face died. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m leaving the school at the end of this term.”

  “I thought you’d decided to stay.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “No, Douglas,” she said. “No. You can’t do that. You can’t go. You can’t leave me here. I couldn’t stand it without you.”

  She pressed herself against him, letting her tears and her passion do the rest of her pleading. The rain thrashed down on the jungle outside and pounded on the roof. He couldn’t hear her panting for the din, he could only see the quick rise and fall of her breasts. Then the rain ceased quite suddenly, leaving the sound of dripping trees and gutters still running. At the same time there was the sound of dogs scratching and whining at the door.

  “You’d better take them away quickly,” he said.

  “Douglas, that was beautiful.” She sighed. “That was beautiful.”

  “You mustn’t come again,” he said. “It was the last time.”

  “You’re not leaving, after all? You’ve changed your mind?”

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “You’re taking me with you?” She still seemed to believe that he might.

  “I can’t take you. What about your husband? What about the school? Anyhow, I don’t want to.”

  “But after this?” she said. “After this?” She thrust her body against him again to remind him what she meant. He drew himself away and got up. The dogs were still whining outside on the verandah.

  “You don’t love me,” she said, lying there.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “You do really, but you’re afraid.”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “I shan’t go unless you promise to let me come again.”

  “All right,” he said. “You can come again. There are only four more days.”

  She took ages tidying her hair and making herself up. He walked about impatiently, thinking he might leave the school tomorrow. There would be little teaching in the last few days and they could easily manage without him. By the time she was ready he had made up his mind quite definitely to do this.

  “I shall come tomorrow night,” she said.

  “Very well,” he said. It was safer not to tell her what he had decided.

  “Remember how much I need you, Douglas.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The dogs leapt on to her with their wet paws as she went out on to the verandah. She scolded them, “Down, Rex! Down, Queenie!” and then smiled back at him and went off down the muddy path with her slacks tucked into her Wellington boots. It sounded as though it was still raining, but it was only the drip from the trees. The air was very fresh and clear, and Kingston never looked closer. As he turned back into the bungalow he noticed that Mrs. Pawley had left her umbrella on the verandah. It was still wet. He opened it to shake it before he took it inside; and while he was doing this his attention was caught by some movement in the bushes by the path, and he looked up and saw Silvia.

  He was uncertain, for a moment, whether she had been standing in the bushes or had just come down the path from the Great House. Then he saw that she was soaked to the skin. Her dress clung to her skinny body and her hair hung lankly. Her face was quite white. She stood still and stared at him, and there was an expression in her eyes that he had only seen once before, when he had sent her back to the school from the expedition.

  He was still holding Mrs. Pawley’s umbrella.

  “Hullo, Silvia,” he said.

  She didn’t move. Her arms were skinny and white and taut at her sides.

  “I hate you,” she said. “You’re just the same as my father. I hate you.”

  She spat savagely in his direction. Then she suddenly turned and dashed swiftly away through the mud.

  *

  She was not in the Great House. The other children were having tea, and had not seen her for an hour. She had told them she was going down to have tea with Douglas. He left them and went down through the garden to the garage, to find out if Joe had seen her leave the grounds. The garage was open and the station-wagon was inside, but Joe had disappeared. He walked on through the gates as far as the corner. There was no sign of her on the road, so he returned to the grounds and followed the path round to Duffield’s bungalow. Duffield was on his verandah, but hadn’t seen her either,

  “Probably gone off for good this time,” he said cheerfully, “What’s she got? Another boy-friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not the sort of chap to say ‘I told you so.’ But you don’t knock sense into children with bars of chocolate. I reckon you’re beginning to see that now. You’ll keep a yard of stick handy, like me, next term. You’ve heard what I caught Alan doing, haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Showing off his bruises to the other boys. There were a couple of girls at the keyhole—that’s what made me go in. Doesn’t do any harm, mark you. It shows it made an impression.” He smiled. “In more ways than one.” That was too much to resist.

  Douglas walked round the grounds, then went up to the Great House, and then walked round the grounds again. After that he made a longer circuit, below the farm and through the jungle. It was six o’clock, and the rain had gone—and it was quite a clear evening. He returned to the Great House, but Silvia had still not turned up. At half-past six he went down to Pawley and told him that she was missing. He did not explain why. Pawley hugged his head, and said that he had known they were not going to get through the term without some terrible disaster. Douglas left him and walked round the grounds again, and as he was returning towards the main gate he suddenly became aware of an extra­ ordinary stillness, so intense and in some indefinable way so unlike any stillness he had known up in the mountains before that he was compelled to stop and listen.

  There was no sound whatever—not the stirring of a leaf. He had stood there for almost a minute when a tree suddenly creaked, and at the same time he heard an unfamiliar noise in the distance, a kind of hum that at first he could only think was some car on the hill. Then it became too loud and too close for this, it was like the roar made by a water­ fall of tremendous volume, and all at once he realized it was the approaching storm.

  He looked round him. The two tall eucalyptus trees on either side of the gate were still perfectly motionless. He turned towards the farm. At that moment the wind hit the farm slope. It moved swiftly across the slope, throwing the fruit-trees into incredible tumult, snapping some of the banana plants with the first impact, and
snatching the broad, flat fronds from others and juggling with them in the air. A few seconds later it reached the eucalyptus trees. They became on the instant a frenzy of motion, epileptically writhing and tossing like wild animals surprised by sudden bullets.

  Douglas had crouched as it came, but when he braced himself against it he could stand and keep his balance. He saw that the gate had been left open. It was being flung back violently against the post. He went down towards it to make it secure. As he did so he caught sight of Silvia.

  She was on the road just below the Great House, making her way up in the shelter of the bank. She saw him and came on. She was in a filthy state and her dress was torn. She reached the gate before him, and waited there, holding on to the post for support. He could see that she was laughing hysterically and shouting, but he could hear nothing for the noise of the wind. Then as he drew closer he realized that she was shouting, over and over again, the word that she had written on his bungalow wall. He stopped in front of her. She went on shouting, but now she was laughing and crying all at once, and the tears that streamed from her eyes were being torn from her cheeks by the wind. He took her arm to lead her up to the Great House, but as he touched her she started to yell. He slapped her face and she gasped and was silent. She stared at him.

  “I’ll tell everyone what I’ve done,” she said. “It’ll ruin the school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been with Joe,” she said. “It serves you right.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The scene in the library reminded Douglas of an air-raid shelter in wartime; and for that matter the noise outside sounded something like an unending series of near-misses. The electric lights had gone—they had gone out in the first half-hour—and the room was now lit by four or five paraffin lamps standing on the tables. The children were lying on their mattresses in lines on the floor, the boys at one end and the girls at the other. The removal from the dormitories had been organized by Duffield, and had been carried out in an orderly fashion.