The Drowning People

by Richard Mason

  “I’m afraid we haven’t opened all the bedrooms,” Ella told us as she led us down a vaulted passage. “There are only us three in the house. And Dr. Pétin, of course, who’s in there.” She pointed to a door. “Jacques and Madame Clancy live in the village and we didn’t think it worthwhile opening and airing everything for so few.”

  I followed her, delighting in the lilting cadences of her voice.

  “You’ll meet the good doctor later,” she went on. “I expect he’s gone for one of his rambles.” As she spoke she paused outside a paneled oak door. “This is your room,” she said to us. “I thought I’d put you two in one without any leaks.” And she turned a handle and motioned Eric and me inside a large airy room, more homely than the others, which gave onto the garden. A strong smell of lavender mingled with the odor of wood and fire met us and Ella, sniffing, pretended to choke. “Madame Clancy is a great devotee of scented bedrooms, you know,” she explained as she went to one of the sash windows and opened it. “But we’ll clear the stench soon, don’t you worry.”

  Outside, a fog was creeping over the thick screen of yews at the garden’s end. It was a garden past its prime, a once-formal grid of gravel walks and hedges and pruned trees in long lines which had thrown over the yoke of human control and run wild once more. It was ghostly, that garden; romantic and appealing as all ruins are.

  “We don’t use the house anymore,” Ella said quietly. “It was my mother’s favorite, you know. She and my father bought it just after they married and I don’t think Pamela likes it much.” She paused and looked about the room. “But Daddy would never sell it…. He lets it molder instead and thinks that a weekly visit from Madame Clancy is enough to keep it in working order.”

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “I do.” Her eyes met mine. “But I don’t like it falling down like this. And it’s terribly gloomy this time of year.”

  I nodded.

  Ella smiled at me and Eric. “That’s why I’m delighted you’re both here,” she said lightly. “You can relax after all your hard work in Prague and we can keep each other company.”

  I nodded and looked towards my friend but he was facing away from me, looking out of the window at the long expanse of garden. I could not see his face and as Ella talked easily of towels and bathrooms I noticed a tension in his shoulders which I dismissed as weariness, remembering how little we had slept in the past twenty-four hours. So when Ella asked us whether we were tired, I said that I, for one, was exhausted.

  “Well that’s hardly surprising after your journey.” Her small hand squeezed mine. “Why don’t you both have a rest? Shall I see you for a drink at sevenish?”

  “That would be perfect,” I replied, thinking with pleasure of all the time that lay ahead of us to be filled as we wished. Eric, still by the window, said nothing.

  “Well then, till seven.” And Ella was gone, closing the door gently behind her as she left.

  Slowly I unpacked, dreamily examining the room about me as I did so, catching lingering traces of Ella’s smell. By the bed were old French novels, nicely bound; an armoire held a large china washbowl and a jug with blue flowers painted on it: forget-me-nots, I think. By the fire was a screen embroidered with courtly figures in a stylized rose garden. The house, I could see now, showed traces of once-careful attention only half-forgotten; and I wondered what Ella’s mother had been like, the woman who had chosen the furniture for this room, who had placed the novels by the bed for the amusement and edification of her guests. I went to where Eric stood, quite still, and looked at the view with him. What flowers there were, and they were few now, ran amok; and I saw row upon row of gravel paths lined with yew hedge stretching to a tall boundary line of trees. In the middle was a fountain; and as I watched it sputtered into life and water poured from the open mouths of its frogs.

  “What do you think of it?” I asked, but Eric’s only response was a noncommittal grunt. There was a pause while I wondered if anything more serious than tiredness had caused the change in his mood, for even I could not pretend that the taciturn figure at the window bore any relation to the laughing companion I had traveled with; and I thought that maybe the strange atmosphere of that lonely house had depressed him. Certainly it could not have been further in mood from the eclectic splendors of Sokolska 21 and the deep rich colors of Madame Mocsáry’s apartment.

  Abruptly he moved away from the glass. “I think I shall have a walk,” he said, and left me.

  “Do you want some company?” I called after him as he shut the door. For a moment he paused, opened the door again and looked back at me through black unbrushed curls.

  “It is not me who you want to keep you company now, James,” he said quietly; and before I could speak again he had closed the door and I could hear the measured tread of his feet on the stone as he went away down the passage.

  Alone in the house with Ella I conquered my impulse to go to her, telling myself that there was plenty of time; and instead I had a hot bath and a shave, for a lover’s vanity could not be satisfied by my dirty travel-stained reflection. I wanted to be fresh for the evening. And as I was dressing Eric returned from his walk more cheerful than he had been when he left for it and full of talk of a deserted quarry beyond the trees at the end of the garden. Pleased at the improvement in his mood I spent a pleasant half hour talking to him before dinner, which we ate with Ella in a small dining room that led off the kitchen. I remember that meal; I remember the old-fashioned china on which it was served, the cozy fire which crackled as an accompaniment to our conversation. We were alone, just us three, for Dr. Pétin had been called out to deliver a baby in the village and was not expected back until very late. We ate a selection of cold meats, left that afternoon by Madame Clancy. We talked of Prague, of the Mocsáry sale, of the quarry which Eric had seen on his walk.

  “It’s where they mined the stones for the house,” Ella told us. “It’s very deep; my mother had it flooded for her guests to swim in.” She took a sip of wine. “Now most of the water has drained away and I’m not sure how deep the pool still is. But you’re welcome to a dip, of course, though as December is beginning I wouldn’t advise it very strongly.”

  It was Eric who said he wanted to see the quarry by moonlight, and when dinner was over and Dr. Pétin had still not returned we decided that there was no time like the present. So armed with torches the three of us made our way across the gravel paths and through the yew trees, laughing at first—for the atmosphere between us had eased—but gradually falling silent as the spell of the garden took its hold over us. Ella’s small hand found mine in the darkness and held it tightly. Eric, out in front with the torch, shone it back for us and then forwards. Beyond the screen of yews there was nothing to see but a field with rows of neatly planted apple trees that loomed sinister in the darkness.

  “We’re heading up there, past the orchard,” Ella whispered to me and pressed me on over the hard ground.

  We passed through another line of trees and as we emerged from their cover Eric flicked off his torch and plunged us into darkness. For a moment all was black. Then the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud and from far off schooldays a line of poetry recurred to me, sole survivor of many, and I thought of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King and of the line about “The barren lake / And the long glories of the winter moon.” Here was a barren lake; here was a winter moon luminous in pale gold. Before us was the steep cliff of the quarry, dropping away to black water many feet below. From a cloudless heaven the moon cast an eerie light over the scene and turned bushes into hob-goblins and trees into scrawny giants. We were all silent. In the moonlight I saw Eric’s profile: the prominent arch of his Gallic nose; the line of his jaw; the curls of his black gypsy locks. Beside him was Ella, fragile as china, her skin glowing ghostlike, her fingers interlocked. I stood between them, watching her play with her rings.

  I remember telling myself as I stood there that here was beauty. But there was something uncomfortable about the
beauty of that scene nonetheless, something disturbing about the quarry’s isolation and its vast unplumbed depths. I thought of huge beasts moving at its murky bottom, waiting. And when my eyes left Ella’s small hands and their glinting rings I looked up and saw Eric watching me with something like pain in his eyes. I saw that Ella was watching him but it was too dark to see the look on her face. My eyes met my friend’s and he switched on the torch once more; the spell, cast so delicately, was broken abruptly. “Come on,” he said, “I’m cold.” And he led the way back to the house with quick defiant steps. Ella and I followed without a murmur.

  During that walk a change came over us. Nothing was said; none of us spoke at all, in fact. But when we reached the house things were not as they had been when we left it. There was no comfort in our silence. And as we passed the guest wing on our way to the front door I saw with relief that Dr. Pétin’s light was on.

  Ella walked past his windows without acknowledging them. “I can’t face him now,” she said as we climbed the steps; and she looked at me and began to say more but thought better of it. She had not taken my hand or offered me hers on the walk back and as I touched her shoulder now she moved away. “I have to be bubbly and vivacious at all times,” she said eventually with a weak attempt at a smile, “or I don’t get a good report sent to Daddy and Pamela. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.” And she let Eric and me into the darkened hall and bolted the great oak door behind us. “This place gives me the creeps,” she said suddenly, looking about the dim room.

  “Me too,” I answered feelingly, wishing that Eric were not with us and that I could be alone with Ella. My friend’s presence and the strange mood which had overtaken him on the walk back made me uncomfortable.

  “I think it’s beautiful.” Eric’s tone rang out, unnaturally loud, from the half-darkness. He was standing by the fireplace at the other end of the room, hardly visible in the dying glow of the embers.

  “Don’t drift off like that,” I said, startled, surprised by my own edginess.

  “Are you two frightened of ghosts?” His tone was derisive and I saw Ella trying to decide whether the mockery in it was friendly.

  At length she spoke. “You’re right, this is silly. Good night to you both. May you sleep dreamlessly.” And with a kiss on my cheek she slipped out of the room.

  I began to follow her but at the door she turned, looked back, and shook her head. I stood hesitating in the middle of the room. She disappeared. Irritated suddenly, I turned to Eric. “Come on, bedtime,” I said.

  “Are you sure I’m the person you want to be sharing with?” His tone was coolly level.

  “Shut up.”

  Silently I led the way to our cozy room, lit now by a coal fire burning in a recently polished grate. The scent of lavender was once again everywhere and I detected the conscientious presence of Madame Clancy. In the warm half-light Eric and I undressed without much conversation and got into our respective beds. The sheets were crisp and cold.

  “Sleep well,” I said.

  “You too.”

  And he turned out the lights and left me with my thoughts of Ella. But I did not sleep for many hours. I lay awake instead, struggling with my disappointment that on this, the first night of my reunion with her, I should be sleeping alone.

  And thus ended that first day.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE NEXT WAS BRIGHTER THAN ITS PREDECESSOR, a cold day of clear winter skies and sparkling light. Frost covered the ground. Eric and I woke early and were the first to take our places at the breakfast table, where a garrulous Frenchwoman (Madame Clancy, we supposed) handed us croissants and made dire predictions about the weather. Her speech was so fast and her accent so new to my ears that when she had gone I looked to Eric for a full translation.

  “She says it will get very cold now,” he said. “Very cold. And she says also that Ella has gone out for a walk. She will be back shortly.”

  As he finished speaking Ella walked in, cheeks apple red. “Mornin’ boys.” Her tone was cheerful but she avoided my eyes.

  “Good morning.” I was sullen in her presence, a little sulky after the dismissal of the night before. She ignored this.

  “The good doctor Pétin usually comes down at about nine for a cup of coffee and a croissant,” she said. “I imagine that’s him now.” And as she spoke a rather apologetic middle-aged man walked in, slightly rotund, more than slightly balding, with wispy gray hair grown long at the sides and brushed over his head to hide this.

  “Good morning, Ella,” he said in a gentle, ingratiating voice, the tone of one humoring a child. “I trust that you slept well.” His English was perfect.

  “Very well, thank you,” she replied, smiling with a brightness I thought studied as she poured the coffee and introduced us.

  The doctor nodded his greeting.

  “I’m glad,” he said to Ella. “It is important for you to get as much sleep as possible before you return to London.” Turning to Eric and me he went on, underlining his points with leisurely jabs of his fat fingers. “Sleep, rest, warmth; and moderation above all,” he said. “These are what I believe in, gentlemen; these are my principles.” And with this he took his place at the table and proceeded to eat four croissants in quick succession.

  It was not until the middle of the morning that I was able to get Ella to myself, for she disappeared soon after breakfast and I was left politely observing a game of chess between Dr. Pétin and Eric. They played in the salon, a large square room in the middle of the house with long windows which gave onto the gravel paths of the garden. Sitting on one of its sofas, smiling occasionally to the doctor and my friend to assure them of my continuing interest in their game, thinking continuously of Ella, I saw her emerge quite suddenly from the yew trees and hastily excused myself to the two men. When I reached her she was by the fountain, walking quickly towards the house, tightly muffled in a man’s greatcoat, with a pale blue school scarf which must have been her father’s wound around her neck. She stopped when she saw me. There was a moment’s pause.

  “Hello,” she said finally.

  “Hello.”

  She made as if to move on but I caught her arm. “Why are you treating me like a stranger?” The wakeful hours of a frustrated night gave an edge to my voice which I could not disguise. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at me steadily for a moment. At last she said, slowly, “Don’t you know?” and looked away from me.

  I shook my head. She raised her eyes to mine and studied my face for a moment. The confusion she found there seemed to satisfy her, and she felt in her pockets for a cigarette. I watched as she put it to her lips and lit it. She inhaled slowly, deeply, and blew the smoke upwards, tilting her head. I followed it until it was lost in the bright, cold blue above us.

  “Talk to me,” I said simply.

  Abruptly she turned away. There was a tangible moment of hesitation which made my heart beat. “Very well,” she said finally, seeming to resolve on something. “But follow me. This way.” And she walked quickly down the gravel path and through the line of trees. I followed her, seeing to my relief that the orchard by day was picturesque and unthreatening, its giants apple trees once more. The frost on the grass glinted in the sunlight and crunched under our feet as we crossed the field. I realized then that I was being taken to the quarry; and as Ella led me through the trees that separated it from the orchard I felt a residual shiver from the night before. But like the orchard, the quarry had been robbed of its terror by the daylight; and it stretched—a pool of dirty water, nothing more—beneath us. On its edge was a bench I had not seen the night before. Ella sat down on it and motioned for me to join her.

  She lit another cigarette and took two meditative drags on it. There was silence.

  Feeling her distance from me and not understanding it, I spoke. “Why?” I asked more gentle now than I had been before.

  “Why what?” She looked at me sharply.

  I blushed but steeled myself. “Why did you send me
to my room last night when I could have been with you?” I took her hand. She let me keep it, but grudgingly. “I’ve wanted you so badly for so long. We’ve been separated for so long. I didn’t write from Prague because you asked me not to. Now I…”

  She took her hand from mine and raised it to stop me. “You really don’t know why, do you?” she said again, ignoring everything but my question, her voice quivering.

  I looked at her and saw the tenderness in her face tinged with something I took to be derision. Again I shook my head. Then I looked away and when my eyes returned to hers I saw with a shock that she was on the verge of tears; and she saw that I saw and set her thin lips together. When she spoke again her voice was even and firm.

  “I don’t know how anybody could be so naïve,” she said at last.

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me.” The tenderness had gone from her face now.

  “What am I being so naïve about?” I asked humbly.

  She looked at me steadily. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you really don’t know?”

  “I really do not know.”

  “All right.” She took a deep breath. “Eric is wildly in love with you,” she said slowly, framing each syllable with deliberate precision.

  I can hear her saying it now; can see the way her eyes looked into and held mine; can feel the wave of my own surprise and her almost tangible astonishment as I started to laugh. I, who had thought something seriously wrong between us, laughed partly with relief and partly with humor at her error. “Rubbish,” I said. And it was only as I said this that I remembered odd moments of my time with Eric in Prague: truths half-offered and refused; looks observed but not understood; secret smiles. “Rubbish,” I said again, more weakly this time.