by Nina Bawden
“Roses and honey.”
“That’s nicer than soap.”
“But not so godly.”
“Will you kiss me?”
I dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. She turned to look at me with delighted eyes and I saw, just above her collar bone, two small, mauve ridges, a love bite.
I said, “You’d better dry yourself. Put your washing things in the sponge bag.”
The curt tone startled her, her eyes widened at me. Then, submissively, she took the sponge bag from its hook and jumbled the things in nervously, watching me out of the tail of her eye.
I ignored her. Briskly, I folded dresses, slapped shoes into the corners where they would fit, newspaper wrapped round the dusty soles. The case held all her clothes, on the top lay the sponge bag and a metal model of the Eiffel Tower. When the lid was closed it jabbed sharply through the soft fabric, a weird and curious skeleton. Her teddy bear, she was to carry in a capacious, tartan bag. She was thrusting him head downwards among the presents we had bought. The bag was too full, the sad, furry legs stuck stiffly through the opening. She pushed at it clumsily; the tears spilled wastefully and youthfully down her cheeks. Her dress fell away at the neck and showed the purple bruise; her small hands, fumbling with the teddy bear, were grubby with bitten, black-ridged nails.
I took the bag from her and rearranged it, drawing the cord tight at the top. She stood beside me. Bending over the bag, I could see her blue skirt, the slender calves, the sandalled feet.
She said forlornly, “You’re angry with me.”
I did not answer, the sobs tore at her chest. Then she leaned against me, weeping on my shoulder.
“Stop now,” I said. “Please stop. It’s all over. I’m not angry. I promise you, I’m not angry.”
She was still. She said, against my shoulder, “Really, not, Harriet? You do love me, don’t you?”
“You know I do.”
“More than Daddy?”
“In a different sort of way.”
She lifted her head. “But more? Harriet, you must love me more than anyone. You must. Or I won’t be safe.” She dug her nails into my arm. “Love me best. If you don’t, there won’t be anyone to keep me safe. They’re all around me, chasing me down the sky, in the storm and the thunder, down into the pit.”
I was appalled by the look in her eyes.
“Who are they?” I said lightly, trying to humour her.
She was silent. Then she made a terrible obvious effort, like someone trying to translate the language of another world. “Awful grinning devils.…”
I shook myself free. “I’m not in the mood for such nonsense. There isn’t time, anyway.”
Her eyes were wet, grey stars. “Harriet, dear, darling, Harriet, I only want you to love me.”
“I do, you greedy little ass. Blow your nose. You look a sight.”
She blew her nose tearfully. “I don’t want to go home.”
“You’re spoiled, that’s the trouble with you. Stay here, I’m going to get a taxi.”
I raced downstairs into the windy day. The sun shone in my eyes and the breeze puffed in my face. I ran through the alleyway opposite the hotel where they held the market. Eggs and butter and fruit lay on the stalls, women in black dresses filled their shopping baskets, talking in liquid, foreign voices. Ten minutes was long enough, I thought, long enough to telephone or to scribble a note to her lover. I thought of the furtive good-bye whispered across the wire under the eye of the manager, in the public hall, the brief, unhappy note. I wept for her in my heart.
I passed through the cold shadow of the archway into the shouting street. The taxis waited in a long indolent line. I hailed the first
and gave the address of the hotel.
London was grey and cold. A bitter wind met us at the airport. It sighed under the hollow roof of Paddington Station, it beat against our bodies and our nerves. People hurried with mindless faces, scarves wound tight against the treacherous weather, the shock of spring. In the suburban gardens daffodils bowed and broke, stamped into the cold earth. Against a metal sky the frosted pear blossom endured the gale. We bought tea from a platform trolley and sat in the train, jealously clutching the damp, cardboard mugs. Maggie, her fingers bloodless, looked like an ice maiden. Steam drifting round her still face, she looked out at the cold centre of the world.
She said, “When I was little, Aunt Ann used to tell me to be afraid of hell.”
I buried my face in the sweet tea; it slopped over my mouth and chin as the train jolted in an abortive attempt to move. We shunted back and then forward; like a creature waking from its winter sleep, the train left the station. The open wounds of London fled past the windows; we stared out at the lines of flimsy houses, so alike that you wondered how the inhabitants found their way back to them at night. Then, after a timeless stretch, we were out in the open country, endless and bereft of joy.
A man in a white coat came down the corridor, announcing tea. We stumbled to our feet and along the swaying passage to the dining-car. As we sat there, the day darkened in a premature twilight.
I thought of James. Noble sentiments flowed through my mind. Whatever he had done, I loved him. I felt a glow of virtue because I loved him. In my position, few women would have found it easy, they would have been too afraid. I was afraid, but I was sustained by a firm purpose; I would stick by him. Pale and heroic, my reflection mopped and mowed at me from the ghostly window; I laughed aloud.
Maggie was looking at me curiously. “I think the waiter wants us to pay.” He was standing by our table. She smiled at him and his tired Cockney face lit with astonished pleasure. As we left the dining-car he gave her a huge, lubricous wink.
I stood by the open window in the corridor and leaned out into the bitter, rushing air. I felt wild, exhilarated. The wind stopped the breath in my nose and throat, it tore at my hair and blinded me with tears. I remembered what William had said about James and his first wife: if she were an adultress he had only to divorce her. And I knew, quite suddenly, that it is what he would have done unless there was something to prevent it, something that I knew nothing about.…
Maggie was leaning heavily against me, peering over my shoulder. I felt her breath on my cheek, her hand between my shoulder blades. The door rattled in its lock.
“Don’t push,” I said. “The door may not be safe.”
I moved away from the window. Her face was pale in the dim light. I could see the dark line of her mouth and the empty shadows of her eyes.
She was a stranger. I felt very cold and still. I said, “Was it you, then, who pushed me down the stairs?”
White hands waved aimlessly in front of her, moved up to her heart.
“Maggie,” I said in fear, and she moved out of the shadows towards me. Her face showed only shocked surprise.
“Oh no, Harriet.” She blinked nervously, hands twisting together. “What’s the matter? Have I done something wrong? Did someone push you down the stairs? I don’t understand.…”
Relief swept over me. And, once relieved, I was sickened by my own lack of trust. It was like a disease, creeping and destructive, crippling intelligence and reason. I was suspicious of everything, even of this sad, lovely child. It was nothing, I told myself, but an after-effect of my miscarriage; there was no danger anywhere except the danger that lay in my overwrought, tired mind.
“Maggie dear, I’m so sorry. Forgive me?”
She stared at me, bewildered, hurt, uncomprehending.
I tried to laugh. “It’s nothing. I had a silly dream. Come back to the carriage.”
I rang James from the station, but there was no answer. There was an outside bell at the house so that you could hear the telephone from the buildings or the adjacent fields. Standing in the lighted box, I imagined him making his way across the orchard, wiping his feet on the sack that lay inside the dairy door, stretching out his hand to the receiver.
The operator said, “Sorry, there’s no reply. Press Button B.”
<
br /> We hired a taxi and drove home. Out in the country it was not yet quite dark. All the colours had drained out of the landscape and the fields were grey and silver and navy blue. I was excited; leaning against the soft upholstery, I envisaged the warmth and pleasure of our return. At first, he would be surprised. “Is there anything wrong?”
“No, my darling, there is nothing wrong. Only I couldn’t bear to be away from you any longer.” There was no need to lie, only a need to keep silent. It wouldn’t be easy, the desire to share the responsibility was so very great, but for Maggie’s sake it must be done. Above all, she must be kept safe; if this were to be done, I must be wise and watchful and strong. She had had so little chance of security; it was not too late, now, to give it to her with both hands. I had neglected her in Paris, I would not do so again. Proudly sure of my own strength, I looked into the future without fear.
Outside Ann’s cottage, we slowed down for a laden cart. Head down, misty breath blowing, the horse strained against the hill. We pulled into the bank and the grasses whispered against the car. The cottage windows were alight, and in the trim, chintzy interior Ann was bending over the cacti that grew in big bowls on a table beneath the window.
Maggie said, “Shall we go in and see Auntie?”
“Not now. Don’t you want to get home?”
I had mistrusted Ann. I had betrayed her kind and guarded friendship. I was self-conscious about meeting her.
Maggie sighed, the car gathered speed and drove on. We bumped through the brook and up the lane. The house rose, pale in the twilight, the black trees bent and cracked above our heads. The windows were dark.
The front door was open. We turned on the lights. The taxi-driver puffed noisily up the stairs and set the cases down on the polished floor. I paid him and he touched his cap.
“Good evening to you.” His light Welsh voice echoed up as from a vault. He closed the front door behind him and a moment later the car hummed into life.
“Well …” We looked at each other.
“The fire will be lit,” I said.
The empty passage rang loud with our feet. Self-consciously, we tried to walk lightly. The drawing-room was clean and the fire laid, but a thin film of dust lay over everything as if Janet had cleaned the room after our departure and it had not been used again. Something was missing from the room; I looked round and saw that the television set had gone. There was a mark on the wall where it had stood.
“I’ll light the fire.”
It spluttered damply into life. The paper caught and briefly, the fire roared. We crouched beside it, stretching cold fingers to the short-lived blaze. The paper burned to grey ash, the sticks sizzled: they were damp and green.
“No one knew we were coming home,” I said.
Maggie huddled in her coat. “I’m cold.”
“The boiler must have gone out.” Oppressed by the silence and the emptiness, we carried our suitcases to the bedrooms, talking in whispers. The house was full of shadows and dark corners; I was suddenly aware of the black, empty rooms below and above our lighted floor. My room was in a turmoil. The furniture stood in the middle of the room, the carpet was rolled back. The walls were freshly painted, round the edges of the room there were paint splashes on the floor.
“Daddy said he was going to paint your bedroom while we were away. He said I mustn’t tell you because it was going to be a surprise.”
“Oh!” I felt guilty. “Perhaps we’d better pretend we didn’t come in here. I’ll leave my case on the landing.”
I looked into James’s dressing-room. The bed was neatly made but there was no sign of personal disorder. No shoes stood beneath the bed, no folded clothes on the chair.
“I wonder where he’s been sleeping?”
“Downstairs, on the big couch.”
She spoke simply and surely. I stared at her and the blood rose under her thin skin.
“He often used to. When Mummy was alive, I mean.”
“I see.”
“Shall we go and look?”
She ran down the wide stairs, across the hall to the heavy door. She flung it open and the darkness beyond was like a pit. Then a light blazed; as I went in the chandelier tinkled gently in the draught from the door. The lustres had been cleaned, the whole room was clean, the solid furniture threw back the light. The wide couch was drawn up to the fireplace; oak logs smouldered on a pile of white ash. Bed-clothes were piled at the end of the couch, his slippers stood in the hearth, two pipes lay in a wooden ashtray on the table. The television set had been installed by the book shelves; it faced a lonely chair. The room had a warm, inhabited air. Now it was lived in, it was easy to see its beauty, the high, carved ceiling, the good proportions.…
Maggie prodded at the logs and they shot into bright flames.
“We used to have a fire here all the time. We lit it in the autumn and it never went out until the spring. When I was little I sat on a rug and Mummy played to me. Sometimes, when there was a party, she played the piano and I used to sit on the stairs and listen. After I was sent to bed, I mean. I was allowed to be here at the beginning of the party to see the pretty dresses and say hallo to everyone. There was a man who used to throw me up to the ceiling and tickle me with his moustache, like this … brrrrrrrr.” Her lips fanned out, quivering and spitting, and she laughed up at me from the rug.
“We used to have lots of flowers in here. All the time. Even in winter, bowls and bowls of them. Especially lilies. I remember the lilies. Daddy used to bring them into the house in enormous bundles, so fat he could hardly get his arms round them.…”
She screwed up her eyes at the light. “Granny thought the flowers were an awful extravagance. She was angry about it. She didn’t like Mummy. When she died, Daddy was cross because Mummy had said she wasn’t really ill, so he didn’t go to see her. And then she died—Granny, I mean, and he couldn’t.…” She put her head on one side and watched the fire. Her voice was soft and thoughtful. “Mummy was awfully pretty. I expect Daddy was quite sorry when he killed her, don’t you think?”
“Maggie,” I cried, and she raised her eyes to me, wide and inquiring, with a tiny flicker of alarm.
“Dear Harriet, are you cross?”
“Cross? No.” I steadied myself with an effort. “Darling, you mustn’t say these things. Whoever said this to you—you mustn’t believe it. It isn’t true.”
She said, with a faint frown, “You won’t tell Daddy I told you, will you? He would be terribly angry with me, he’d send me away. He said I could only stay if I promised not to tell you.”
“I won’t tell him, my darling. But it’s a fib, you know that, And whoever told you is wicked and wrong.…”
She squinted at me. “No one told me,” she said. “I was frightened. …”
“Then you mustn’t be.” I squatted down on the rug beside her and held her cold hands in mine. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. It’s just part of the games you play, like the wireless game. You make it up in your head. But it’s not real, any more than the plays on television are real. Do you understand?”
She nodded slowly, watching my face. I felt that she was a long way away from me.
“Go and play the piano,” I said. “I’m going to look for Daddy.”
I went round the back of the house, through the orchard, to the cow-sheds. The dog yelped in the yard, eyes bulging, he rushed to the length of his chain.
I could hear the hum of the milking machine. Evans was washing a cow with a sore udder, talking gently: “Whoa there, Maisie. Softly, old lady, easy does it.”
He looked up and saw me, shifting his milking cap to the back of his head. He stared at me vacantly.
I said, “We came home unexpectedly. Where is my husband?”
He said slowly, “Reckon he’ll still be down in the eighteen acre.”
“What’s he doing there?”
He mumbled something that I couldn’t catch. Then he said, “They burned a rick down there this morning. It’s still
smouldering Mr. Random thought that the wind might get it going again.”
“They burned a rick?” I said.
He didn’t want to tell me. He blustered a little and swore under his breath. In the end he came to the point. The trouble had started a few days after we had left the farm. At first it hadn’t been very much: a spilled milk churn, some cows turned out on to the main road. Then, yesterday, a group of boys from the village had fired the big rick in the eighteen acre. It couldn’t be seen from the house and was well under way by the time James and Evans had got there. The boys had thrown a few stones and run away.
“But why?”
His eyes fell. There had been trouble, he repeated stubbornly, and that was all I could get out of him.
Under the moon the field shone grey like a sheet of water. I ran across the wet grass to the place where there were planks laid across the narrow stream at the edge of the copse; the eighteen acre was on the other side of the little wood. I had never been in the field at night; I misjudged the direction and came to the stream at an unfamiliar point where the ground sloped sharply down to the brook and an old bridge. The bridge was half hidden by creeping plants; in the daylight I might not have noticed it but, moonlit, the white wood gleamed in the darkness. As soon as I put my foot upon it I knew it was rotten and long disused; I stepped back hastily as the plank swayed beneath my foot. Once, it had been a good bridge, wide enough to take a cow, too high above the stream to be flooded in rainy weather. I wondered why it had been abandoned; with a few nails and planks it could have been made safe again. And then I knew.
She had died here. She had been going to cross the bridge. The words thudded dully in my mind. She had come here, to the bridge, and he had shot her.
“Harriet.” I turned and James was standing above me, at the top of the slope, black against the moon. He was about four feet away from me and he was carrying a gun. I had a sick and vivid picture. She was shot at close range, shot as she turned from the bridge because he called to her.
And then I saw that it wasn’t a gun on his arm but a walking-stick.
“Harriet, what are you doing here?” His voice was shocked. He put out a hand and hauled me up from the hollow. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, old love?”
