by Nina Bawden
“You didn’t notice anything?”
“Why should I? Was it burnt?”
“No,” I answered, watching him cunningly now with his own look, my eyes half veiled. Through the screen of lashes his outline was blurred and indistinct. I said triumphantly, he would never guess, not in a thousand years, “There was glass in the porridge. It sticks into your guts, tears them to pieces.”
He bent towards me with a ridiculous expression of anxiety, as if he didn’t know, as if this was the first he’d heard of it.
“Harriet.” I did not answer him and he muttered, as if to himself, “Poor child.” I felt his hand on my forehead.
“Go to bed, love. You’ll be all right in a little while.”
I jerked my head back, away from that kind, treacherous hand.
“It’s true. Ask Maggie, she was there.” My voice rose to a high, imperious scream. “Fetch her, ask her. It’s true. Unless I’m going mad.”
“Ssh!” He laid a finger on my mouth. “She’ll hear you.”
It was too late. She had come, not in answer to my summons but to say, incongruously and absurdly, that the man had come to look at the television. There was something wrong, wasn’t there, with one of the valves? I saw her in the doorway, the fair hair seemed to float around her face, she looked like Ophelia in the stream.…
Then she vanished. James’s hand was beneath my elbow, he was helping me on to the bed, covering me with a blanket.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
Then I saw his hand. The thumb was bandaged, a little blood spotted the white gauze.
“What have you done to your hand?” His bewildered face looked down at me.
“I cut it,” he said, “on a piece of glass.”
Chapter Thirteen
Time became blurred. I remember Dr. Cole standing by my bed. I couldn’t see his face very clearly because the room was darkened. His shirt cuffs were shiny white and his hand, holding my wrist, felt soft and pulpy. His voice boomed like a voice in a tunnel.
“How are you, Mrs. Random? A bit under the weather, I take it.” He sat down on the bed and the springs creaked. “I won’t bother you long, then you can go back to sleep.”
He put a thermometer in my mouth. It tasted cold and antiseptic.
From somewhere in the room James said, “She’s been working too hard. Our girl’s out of commission and she wouldn’t get anyone else.”
The doctor turned away from the bed and asked a question but I didn’t hear what he said. My eyelids felt heavy and my ears were singing as they do when an aeroplane loses height rapidly. Then Cole took the thermometer out of my mouth and held it towards the light.
He said to me, “Nothing there. A bit subnormal, but that’s not unusual, if you’re tired.”
He stood up and the bed-springs creaked again. He bent over his case; he was wiping the thermometer with a piece of cotton wool. I couldn’t see James but I knew he was there. If only he would go away, I could talk to the doctor. My head ached and nothing was very clear, but if I could only talk to him, make an effort for a little while, I would be safe in his comforting, kind hands.
Dr. Cole had moved out of my range of vision. Then there was more light in the room. I turned my head carefully on the pillow and saw that he was washing his hands in the basin. James was by the window; he had opened the curtains. They were talking. The singing in my ears was less loud and I could hear fragments of their conversation.
“Illness … some degree of hysteria … not uncommon.”
James said, “Certainly.” He went out of the room and closed the door.
The doctor was drying his hands on a towel. He was looking out of the window.
I called him. “Dr. Cole.” I was surprised to find that my voice was quite clear and strong. He came over to the bed. His big body blocked out the light.
“Yes?” His smile was gently encouraging, the kind of smile reserved for children and invalids, and my heart sank. He believed me to be ill; I would have to be very sensible and logical to break through the barrier of his indulgence, his kindly bedside manner.
Perhaps it wasn’t worth it. I was very tired. I couldn’t remember what I was going to say. There was something I must tell him, something that it was important to tell him because he was a link with the world of sanity and order and while he was there nothing could happen to me. But my tongue was thick and clumsy in my mouth and the words that were to form a clear and lucid appeal for help were slipping away from me like a dream at the moment of waking.
“Yes, Mrs. Random?”
How long had he been waiting for me to speak? There was faint impatience in his voice.
I said quickly, “Dr. Cole, I’m not really ill. But something terrible is going to happen.” His expression did not change, his smile remained attentive and polite. I clutched at the sleeve of his jacket. “I may die.”
He bent over me, “We’re all going to die, dear. Some of us sooner than others. But not for a long time. You feel ill now because your husband gave you a sleeping pill and you have woken up before the effect wore off.”
“You don’t understand …” If only I could wake up properly for a little while. Then I could explain, I was sure I could explain. …
He seemed to hesitate, as if perplexed he frowned a little. Then he pulled up a chair to the bed and sat down.
“Shut your eyes,” he said, “you’ll feel better if you shut your eyes.” He was silent for a moment. Then he went on, “There isn’t anything wrong with you. Your husband tells me you’ve been worried about your health. You have no reason to be.”
“I’m not worried now. I was, but it was a long time ago. This is different.…”
“Not entirely.” He coughed. “You know, you’re still feeling the effect of your miscarriage. It’s quite common for there to be some degree of mental upset after these things, tiredness, a little hysteria. …”
I opened my eyes. “Please. Please. You must listen to me. It’s important. I’m not hysterical, really.…”
My eyes didn’t focus properly. The light hurt them.
He broke in soothingly, “I know, I know. A little trouble about some broken bottles, isn’t it? Your husband told me. Now, you’re not to reproach yourself about that or worry about why you did it. Forget all about it and concentrate on getting yourself well and fit so that you can look after that nice husband of yours. We men are sensitive creatures,” he gave a loud, embarrassed laugh, “and he’s had a hard time, a lot of nasty knocks. More than his share. Your job is to look after him. Stop worrying about yourself. We’ll try and make things easier for you.”
I was drifting into darkness. “Glass,” I murmured against the waves of sleep, “broken glass …”
“Poor old girl.” His voice, unexpectedly tender, sounded very close to the pillow. “I know how you feel. We’re not all so stupid, you know. Most of us nowadays are psychiatrists in a small way. This thing that troubles you— it seems to you quite sensible and clear in a way a dream is sensible. Till you wake up and find it’s nothing but a lot of muddled nonsense and means nothing at all. Now, you take my advice and go back to sleep.…”
His voice was too loud. I wanted to escape it. I had no strength left. I heard the door open and then their whispered conversation as if it were taking place at the other end of a long distance telephone call.
“I’ll give her some tablets, old boy. One to-night. I’ve got a few in my bag. Save you going to the chemist.…”
“Thank you for coming. A long way in this weather.”
“Not at all. Glad to do it if it relieves your mind. It looks like snow.”
“Snow on high ground.…”
I remembered what I had been going to tell him. If he looked in the dustbins in the chicken field he would find the casserole and the remains of the porridge. That would be proof.… I had tried to tell him but he had thought I was talking about the smashed bottles.
I lifted my hand and clutched feebly
at the air. My hand was a dragging weight; the effort exhausted me. I must have spoken or cried out because he said, from the door:
“Now, Mrs. Random, you go to sleep and remember what I said. You’ll feel a new woman when you wake up.”
He was gone. Through the closed doors I heard him laugh. The room was empty.
When I woke, the empty night waited beyond the black windows. The bedside lamp was lit; someone had draped a red handkerchief over the shade to keep the glare from my eyes. My head still ached a little; otherwise, I felt quite well.
I sat on the edge of the bed and felt for my slippers. Leaning over the basin, I splashed my face with cold water. I put on my clothes and combed my hair. Every movement seemed to have an immense and slow importance as if I were giving a theatrical performance. When I was ready I moved the stool and looked at the carpet. It was clean and swept; nothing remained except a dark stain where James had washed a smear of grease from the pile. I crouched by the dressing-table and tried to think. Why had I done such a wanton, filthy thing? When? Doubt shattered the sureness of my memory; the fragments of the day showed a hundred different faces.
Mrs. Evans opened the door. She was rubbing her finger along her lower lip; when she saw me, she started guiltily as if she had been caught in a private act.
“Oh, so you’re better, Mrs. Random? Mr. Random said you were ill, so I came to oblige.”
“Thank you. I’m all right, really. Just tired.”
Her pale face was curious. “Well then … I’ve seen to the supper.”
“It’s kind of you.”
She lingered. “I’ll be off now. Mr. Random said would I come in to-morrow and give you a hand. I’ll see what I can do. There’s Charlie to look after and the men are coming about the telephone. I don’t know that I like to leave them alone in the house, you can’t trust anyone nowadays.”
“The telephone?”
“Mr. Random said he wanted it fixed so that if you were on your own there’d be someone handy.” She sniffed and patted her hair. “Not that I would have thought you were the nervous type myself.…”
“I’m not really. But it’s a big house.”
“Yes.” She looked at me. “You’re lucky to have got a nice thoughtful husband. When you get to my age, you’ll know what a blessing it is.”
James was in the kitchen. Crouching on his haunches, a cloth in his hand, he peered into the oven. He stood up, smiled at me.
“Hallo, love. Feeling better?”
“Yes.” I watched him warily. “Where’s Maggie?”
He did not look at me. He shook salt into a saucepan on the top of the stove. He said casually, “She’s not here. We’ll talk about it after supper.”
The kitchen was very steamy and hot and far away. The wall behind the stove glistened with moisture.
“Where is she?”
He stood, the cloth over his bent arm, like a waiter. His face was blank, the eyes empty of expression.
“She’s staying with Ann to-night. She may be going away for a holiday.”
“Why?”
“We thought it a good idea. We thought she was too much for you.”
“I see. You’ve been discussing me with Ann?”
“She thought you were tired. That’s all.”
“Where is Maggie going?”
“To her grandparents. Not immediately—in a day or so. We only wanted to ease the strain a little.”
I felt as if I were feeling my way, blindfolded, across a dangerous bridge. “And you decided this without consulting me?”
“Darling.” He made an awkward gesture towards me and then stopped. He looked at his raised hand, arrested in mid-air, and dropped it to his side. “You aren’t well. It seemed better.”
“That I should be alone with you?”
His eyes narrowed, he moved towards me, I felt panic beating in my throat. I said quickly, “I’m sorry. It was a shock. I shall miss her.”
He smiled. “You’re fond of her, aren’t you?”
“You know I love her dearly.”
“Yes. I believe you do. Otherwise …” His face thoughtful, he bit his lip.
“What?”
“Nothing, my darling.” He said gaily, “I must see to the vegetables. I had strict instructions.” He turned out a gas jet and drained the potatoes over the sink. The steam rose about his face. “Your mother is coming to-morrow. Cole gave me a talking to. It seems we have been neglecting you. You should have company.…”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“This afternoon. She can only come for one night because apparently she’d arranged to visit a cousin in Chester before she came here for the week-end and doesn’t like to put her off. But she can come back on Saturday and stay as long as you want her to.…”
I said slowly, “Why did you ask her to come?”
“Why do you think? Because I thought it would please you. Now smile for me.”
I smiled.
Early the next morning, the first snow fell. The thick flakes drifted briefly, thistledown in May, melting as they touched the roof, the windows, the hard earth.
James came in from the farm, stamping his feet. Crystals hung in his hair.
“I’m going to the station. It’s dirty weather.”
“But I want to go.” Dressed in my outdoor clothes, I watched him helplessly. “Please, James, let me meet her.”
“Not on your life.” He buttoned his coat up to the neck, drew on his leather gloves. “It’s not fit weather for gallivanting. Learn to obey orders, my girl, and you’ll go far.”
He kissed me lightly on the cheek and ran down the stairs. I stood at the window and watched him go. Hope plummeted like a stone to the earth. Of course he did not want me to see her until she had been put on her guard against me; she was to be told I was ill, perhaps out of my mind. Sick, suddenly, with fear, I ran out of the house and into the field. Snow blew against me, clung icily to my face. The lid of the dustbin clattered. I plunged my hands into the rubbish; there was a mass of wet, brown paper that fell apart as I lifted it. Beneath it there was nothing; the casserole and the dishes had gone.
The house darkened. From the window I could see nothing but the dancing snow, a white veil shutting out the world. I made lunch, laid the table, lit the fires. The snow fell down the wide chimney and sizzled on the logs. The house was a vast and empty hull, a dead thing, shrouded in silence. Alone, I moved through the rooms on tiptoe.
I tried not to watch the clock. They would be late, of course they would be late. The trains would be held up by the snow and it was a long journey from the station.
At two o’clock I turned out the oven and made coffee. I carried it to the drawing-room on a tray.
They did not come. I crouched by the fire in the big drawing-room, the heat tingled on my cold hands. Beyond the immediate area round the fire, the room was in wavering shadow. The white walls glimmered dustily and small, yellow flames burned in the dark heart of the window.
Thoughts drifted sluggishly across the blank surface of my mind. I had no reason to be afraid. My mother was coming. When she came I would turn on the lights, the house would blaze with them. I would no longer be alone with James. She would follow me from room to room with cries of pleasure; she would tell me how lucky I was to live in such a lovely house. She would be cold and hungry after her journey, she would need food and a hot bath. She would stay—James had said she would stay as long as I wanted her. She would put off her visit to Chester. Her cousin would not expect her in this weather.…
It was nearly four o’clock. The train must have been very late. Perhaps they had had to clear the line of snow. There was no reason to worry, she would come. In a little while I would ring up the station and inquire about the train.
Suddenly I laughed aloud. The sound echoed in the big room and I put my hand to my mouth. How stupid I must sound, laughing to myself in an empty room. But there was no one to hear me and if there were, they would surely understand that I was only laughi
ng for joy?
I had forgotten about the telephone. I was not alone unless I chose to be. There was no reason to be afraid. I had only to cross the hall, lift the receiver and the whole bright, ordered world would listen. I could cry for help, organise a party.…
Shaking with secret laughter, I left the room. There was no need to switch on the light because I wasn’t afraid of the dark any more.
With my hand on the receiver, I hesitated, putting off the safe, delicious moment when the telephone would ring and a voice answer. What should I say to Ann? I framed sentences in my mind. I could not say that I was frightened of being alone, that would upset her, she would shy away like a startled horse. Of course—I must ask her to dinner. She had not met my mother; she would be waiting, expecting me to telephone and arrange a family party, hurt, perhaps, because I had not already done so.
I lifted the receiver and there was no sound at all.
There was a moment, I remember, of utter disbelief. Gently I moved the rest up and down. There was nothing except a clicking noise inside the instrument. I replaced the receiver.
I bit my fingernails. They had been going to fix the telephone in the cottage to-day. The weather would have prevented them from doing any work outside the house; I had not seen Mrs. Evans, perhaps they had not even come. Had they taken down the line, or had it been broken by the snow? Whatever had happened there was no reason to suspect it was anything other than ordinary and explicable, there was no reason for panic.
The darkness of the hall oppressed me. I fumbled for the switch. The light exposed the bleak nakedness of the house, it exaggerated the shadows, it made the dark seem cosy. I switched off the light and, blinded, made my way back to the drawing-room.
This was better. Tucked down in a corner, biting my nails, unobserved in the safe dark, the friendly dark, quiet as a mouse, I waited.
The clock in the hall struck four with an ecclesiastical boom.
I heard the car, the whine of the engine and the slushy sound of the wheels in the snow.
