The Eye of the Storm

by Patrick White

  The moon was at its highest and fullest above the ring of mineral hills. Her exertion, and the icy draught from the opening window, flung her back. She might have fallen if he had not been there behind her to support and comfort her nakedness with his own.

  ‘You’ve got to admit it’s beautiful.’ It was her brother looking over her shoulder at the landscape at ‘Kudjeri’.

  ‘Oh God, yes, we know that!’ she had to agree; ‘beautiful—but sterile.’

  ‘That’s what it isn’t, in other circumstances.’

  ‘Other circumstances aren’t ours.’

  It rent him to touch with his hand the hair his sister had screwed up in a knob for the night.

  She let him lead her back to the bed. It had become an island of frozen ridges and inky craters. They lay huddled together, and he tried to conjure their former illusion of warmth, under a reality of wretched blankets.

  Eleven

  ‘IS IT COLD, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, dear, it’s cold,’ Sister Manhood replied, ‘or cold for here.’

  At the sandier end of the park, people were tramping, exerting their bodies in the kind of makeshift clothes worn for a cold snap in a climate which is officially warm. Clothes and sand were making the going heavy for the walkers; every one of them looked middle-aged; when probably the majority, without clothes and exposed to summer, would have turned out young and aggressively athletic.

  Sister Manhood was glad of her woolly. Pink and fluffy, it made her look bulky. It couldn’t be helped: she ought to be thickening.

  ‘The bed’s cold,’ Mrs Hunter complained.

  ‘You feel warm. You’ve got the hot-water bottle. And your jacket and socks. Your feet are warm.’ The nurse was unscrewing her dried prawn of a patient from the position a nap had left her in

  ‘Oh, it isn’t the body! I had a dream.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a nice one?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t. I was in my bed. I don’t know where my husband was. Perhaps he had died. No. It was worse than that. He had gone off leaving me alone at “Kudjeri”—with my children Basil and Dorothy—before they were born. Were they twins, though?’

  Sister Manhood could hardly stick it. (What if it was twins inside herself?)

  ‘In the dream, yes,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘But in life, I can’t remember. Were they, Sister?’

  ‘You’re the one who ought to know. You had them.’ For God’s sake!

  ‘In the dream they wanted to be twins. I could hear them calling from inside me—blaming me because I prevented them loving each other.’

  Sister Manhood shoved a chair aside so hard she overturned it: she had just about had this old sod.

  ‘That isn’t uncommon,’ Mrs Hunter remembered. ‘People who aren’t capable of loving often blame someone else. I did from time to time. I blamed Alfred. That’s why he must have gone away and left me with my hateful children. They weren’t his, you know.’

  ‘I never heard that before.’

  ‘Oh, I got them from him. But I made them into mine. That is what the children resent—already—why they are protesting inside me.’

  ‘At that rate, by your own argument, Mrs Hunter, you are the one to blame.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Mrs Hunter must have sensed she had started something in her nurse: her hand began soothing, and she asked in a voice the nurses used, ‘Are you well, Sister? You seem well.’

  ‘I’m well enough.’ A baby isn’t an illness.

  ‘We’ll both feel the better for my visitor.’

  ‘Oh? Are you sure you’re expecting a visit? Nobody told me.’

  ‘Didn’t they? Some of the women in this house are so full of their own thoughts it doesn’t occur to them that anything happens outside their heads.’

  Sister Manhood could have fetched up, but was inquisitive enough to ask, ‘Is your visitor somebody I know?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Wyburd, and her own idea to call. I shouldn’t have thought of it.’ Mrs Hunter sounded quite definite.

  The nurse perked up: she had never set eyes on Mrs Wyburd and was curious to see what the solicitor had fancied; she even went so far as suggesting, ‘Better let me do your face so that your visitor will catch you at your best.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Hunter said, ‘Mrs Wyburd is an honest woman.’

  Sister Manhood was all the more curious to see. So when the doorbell rang, she went along the landing, and leaned over the banisters, as though hoping to surprise a secret or two before honesty closed down on them.

  Mrs Lippmann was opening the door to a person dressed in what the fashion reporters of some years ago would have written up as ‘donkey brown’. Mrs Wyburd was one of those women who go so far and no farther with clothes, Sister Manhood recognized. Clothes are to clothe, Mrs Wyburd’s garments seemed to claim; not that she hadn’t given them thought: they were in what is called ‘the best of taste’, and the materials, though unobtrusive, must have made a hole in her allowance. Above all, Mrs Wyburd’s general appearance suggested that she was a ‘lady’: another and independent mystery. That the mysterious ‘honesty’ referred to by Mrs Hunter in no way depended on Mrs Wyburd’s ladyhood was obvious enough, because Mrs Hunter herself was a lady, and Mrs Hunter’s honesty was of an intermittent, womanly persuasion. Better than nothing, Sister Manhood supposed. To solve the mystery of Mrs Wyburd she would have to get a better look at her. The solicitor’s wife, standing in the hall with the housekeeper, had probably never been so closely stared at, except by the inevitable doctors and dentists, and the ruthless eyes of children. But Sister Manhood’s inquiry got her nowhere: it was like as if she had been told to admire some brown, crumby vase because it was a valuable antique, and all she could see was its plain shape and ordinary dull old brown. She ended up a bit miserable: the imperviousness of this brown figure made her feel a liar, cheat, unmarried mother, and nympho into the bargain.

  Down below Mrs Lippmann was saying, ‘You must know to find your way, Mrs Wyburd, from being here before.’

  The angle at which Mrs Wyburd held her head conveyed surprise, amusement, perhaps also cynicism. ‘I know it of course. But from long ago. Yes, I know my way,’ she admitted; it was what she could see the housekeeper had been hoping for.

  It might have suited Mrs Wyburd well enough to be left to her own devices in a house she had known long ago. After the housekeeper retired, the nurse watching from the top of the stairs could see the solicitor’s wife was hesitating over what to open and where to enter; her time was short. But obviously the mysterious honesty referred to by Mrs Hunter got the better of Mrs Wyburd, and she began trying out the stairs with her unfashionable, but good, probably custom-made shoes.

  Feeling herself at an advantage, if only a very slight one, the nurse revealed her presence. ‘Oh, Mrs Wyburd,’ she called, while descending just enough of the stairs, ‘I’ll show you the way in case you’ve forgotten.’ She was smiling down at the mildly startled face below. ‘I am Sister Manhood. You won’t have heard of me,’ Flora knew she was being insincere; wasn’t it the sort of thing you do? ‘But you hardly count as a stranger—not as Mr Wyburd’s wife.’ At the same time she raised a hand in trying to control an express giggle propelled upward through the shaft of her throat.

  ‘I don’t know you, but have heard about you from my husband,’ Mrs Wyburd replied in a voice probably caused by her walking upstairs.

  Just how much she had heard, Sister Manhood wondered; a couple might be colourless but it didn’t prevent them enjoying purple talk. So she stared the harder, while smiling her formal kindliest, as the solicitor’s wife continued mounting.

  Though the face was guarded for most of the ascent by the brim of a velour hat, to one side of which was clamped an inverted cockade in stiff, grey, mushroom silk, Sister Manhood caught glimpses of powdered skin during Mrs Wyburd’s prudent approach. There was nothing you could criticize, finally. If the mouth was doctored it had not been treated in the unnaturally natural style of today, nor had it been dealt the
bloody wounds of a Hunter past. Mrs Wyburd’s mouth was what you would call natural natural. For that matter, you mightn’t have dropped to the powder if nervousness or haste hadn’t smudged it. Then when the visitor reached the top, Sister Manhood noticed what looked like a single deep pockmark where powder had lodged, beside the nose, on one cheek, and freckles (red ones) to which the powder clung. Flora Manhood was fascinated by Mrs Wyburd’s pock: there was nothing you could have done about that; as for the freckles, in trying to disguise them, the sufferer disclosed perhaps a faint crack in her honesty. It made Sister Manhood warm towards her: she hoped Mrs Wyburd, in spite of the badly camouflaged freckles, would be a match for Betty Hunter, who had chosen to remain undisguised.

  ‘A stiff climb!’ the thin trim lady murmured to fill the silence.

  For a moment she was staring back at the face of the glowing, pretty young nurse as though into a nostalgic morning of her own youth. Then as there was nothing else for either of them to say or do, Mrs Wyburd followed Sister Manhood down the passage.

  Mrs Hunter cleared her throat, an operation in which more than a hint of phlegm was involved, and raised her voice from where it was sunk amongst the pillows. ‘It was a charming idea,’ she said, ‘Lal—to pay me a visit.’ For all that, the old thing was looking in an opposite direction.

  ‘It was more than an idea, Mrs Hunter,’ said Mrs Wyburd with a jerk of her head which produced from the wing-shaped silk cockade a sound as of pin feathers, ‘I wanted to thank you for your present.’ She blushed, perhaps because she wasn’t wearing it. ‘Letters are unsatisfactory, and often get lost in the post.’ She lowered her glance. ‘A voice is more personal, don’t you think?’

  Mrs Hunter turned on her eyes. ‘Oh, I can see very well at times. Today for instance. But close up. Over there you look like something under water. Come here and sit beside me on this little chair.’

  As the visitor went to obey, the nurse fussed at pulling the chair closer to the bed. Though left out of things, it did not occur to her to sulk: the situation was too absorbing for an observer.

  Mrs Hunter was making a gentle noise of eiderdowns; she was stroking the back of one of Mrs Wyburd’s by now gloveless hands. ‘The freckles, Lal—you still have them. Are they all right? One used to hear that, with age, freckles can become dangerous.’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ Mrs Wyburd confessed.

  Sister Manhood watched the renewed blush gathering under the visitor’s skin; the increase in colour left the single pockmark with its drift of powder more exposed than ever.

  ‘Why not, Lal?’ Mrs Hunter asked. ‘I insist that you see a doctor. Have him examine the freckles. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?’

  ‘Reasonable—yes. But I don’t think I’d like to be told what I don’t want to hear. Or be the cause of distress in others.’

  ‘Pfooh! What good will it do the other ostriches—to have you walking amongst them—a living cancer?’

  Vehemence gave Mrs Hunter a fit of coughing. Sister Manhood offered water.

  ‘What—are you still here, Nurse? when I want to talk confidentially with my friend. Ask my housekeeper to make the tea. Only tea. I don’t think we’ll bother about anything to eat. Mrs Wyburd was never interested in food.’

  Mrs Wyburd had folded her hands in her lap. She sat smiling straight ahead. She did look honest.

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Lippmann won’t forget the tea. But isn’t it early, Mrs Hunter?’

  Mrs Hunter stared at her nurse, who left the room.

  ‘I have another nurse who brings me roses. She must have forgotten today. I can’t smell them.’

  ‘This isn’t the season for roses.’

  ‘No. There aren’t any.’

  ‘I remember how you loved roses. I should have brought you some if they had been in season.’

  ‘She is the one who is. The pretty one. Permanently. She thinks I can’t smell it, but I can.’

  Mrs Wyburd was not liking it at all. She glanced at one of the mirrors. Though she was in fact alone with this unpleasant old woman, other people might have been present.

  ‘Wasn’t his name “Arnold”?’ Mrs Hunter went on hammering.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The solicitor.’

  Mrs Wyburd uttered too hoarsely, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember the goatsbeard?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Astilbe.’

  ‘I can’t think what you mean, Mrs Hunter.’

  Mrs Hunter laughed. ‘You were the one for botanical names.’

  ‘My memory isn’t what it was.’

  ‘My mimulus of Double Bay!’ Mrs Hunter was mimicking somebody’s voice.

  Mrs Wyburd sat looking at her knotted hands. ‘How are the children?’ she asked of her protectress. ‘I was hoping they might find time to pay me a visit.’

  ‘They have their own affairs. Oh, yes!’ Mrs Hunter sighed. ‘Be thankful for your garden, Lal.’

  Mrs Wyburd was glad she had her reflection for company, even if an ugly one, its (cancerous) freckles masking the record of so many bungled attempts to console those she loved.

  ‘Does my husband love you?’ Mrs Hunter pursued.

  ‘I hardly think he did,’ Mrs Wyburd answered; ‘in fact you know he didn’t.’

  ‘Yes. I am the one.’ Mrs Hunter stirred.

  Mrs Wyburd was relieved when the nurse brought in the tea.

  ‘It’s the jasmine you’re so fond of,’ Sister Manhood informed. ‘Can’t you smell the scent from it?’

  Everything, as ever, was in honour of Elizabeth Hunter, but she who had been all for scents, turned her head and would barely breathe.

  Mrs Wyburd swallowed what she was not prepared to admit: her true feelings for Elizabeth Hunter.

  While Sister Manhood poured the tea and handed the cups, she was trying to crook a finger, but that seemed to have thickened, like her body. ‘Let me prop you up, Mrs Hunter. Shall I help you with your tea?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Then, ‘Leave it—thank you.’

  Sister Manhood left altogether, and Mrs Wyburd sat sipping too soon: her palate was scalded; the pouches under her eyes were running; her (cancerous) freckles must have looked, she guessed, like drops of rust. She no longer dared face herself in the glass.

  Mrs Hunter would not touch her tea, such was the crisis towards which they were heading. ‘Where is my husband?’ she asked.

  ‘I should have thought,’ gasped Mrs Wyburd, ‘buried.’

  ‘You needn’t remind me,’ Mrs Hunter said, ‘of what we know. What I meant was: Arnold—does he treat you kindly?’

  ‘He’s an honourable man, and I’m married to him.’

  ‘Oh, Lal! Does he love you?’

  Mrs Wyburd managed, ‘Yes.’ Why should this creature be allowed to explore your nakedness, first with her claws and now with her vindictive mind? ‘He loves me,’ she asserted, though it was like jumping into darkness.

  She felt completely naked, with Mrs Hunter always looking closer.

  ‘Arnold was hairless,’ Mrs Wyburd’s torturer seemed to remember.

  ‘How do you mean? He isn’t bald even now.’ Mrs Wyburd was shocked by her own laughter.

  ‘But does his beard?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell. Every morning he shaves it off;’ with the electric razor the girls persuaded him to adopt several birthdays ago.

  ‘No astilbe,’ Mrs Hunter only mumbled because she was already thinking of other things.

  Mrs Wyburd could feel that her eyes were controlled and dry, but she failed to prevent a perspired tear from plopping into the dregs of her tea. The roof of her mouth was cauterized.

  Mrs Hunter said, ‘Now I remember, Lal, why I was persuaded to send you that chain. I don’t know why I should say “persuaded” when I was compelled— isn’t that the word? If we care to admit, most of life is compulsion or coincidence. So I gave this chain. Which I was wearing in the storm—on Brumby Island. And survived. You are the one I wanted to have it.’
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  Was it generosity, or humbug? Lal Wyburd could not tell; she might have cried if she had not been trained by Arnold.

  Then Mrs Hunter decided, ‘I must ask you to go. I’m tired. Not as tired as Gladys Radford. They had to give her oxygen. Do you remember Gladys?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Wyburd; her cup almost shot out of its saucer. ‘You’re the one who has the memory.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘I have nothing else.’

  Mrs Wyburd was putting on her gloves. Mrs Hunter must have heard it, but she did not look relieved.

  ‘Will you kiss me, Lal?’ she asked.

  Mrs Wyburd laughed. ‘Why, yes! Did you think I wasn’t going to?’ She knew she was blushing for her lie: she preferred to kiss even Arnold in the dark.

  Mrs Hunter was raising her blind head on the end of its ringed neck: the effect was ancient and reptilian. Lal Wyburd felt herself contained in what might have been an envelope of vapour, or sentimental pity, inside which, again, her mind was reared in horror, not for the decayed humanity she had at her mercy, but beyond the mask, still the legend of Elizabeth Hunter’s beauty.

  By grace of desperation she recalled an incident of years ago when she and the girls were on their European tour. Dawdling with appropriate Protestant incredulity and disapproval through the town of Lourdes, they found themselves automatically taking their places in a queue. Too late Marjorie at the head of their party realized they had been roped in to pay their respects in the grotto of the miraculous vision. There was no way out. Marjorie, one saw, bend and actually kiss the rock in front of her like any Roman. Heather turned for a moment, crimson with scorn, if not panic, before they were jostled forward from behind. Heather marched past, her head held high. What, oh, what to do? Then Lal Wyburd ducked and, in no way disrespectfully, kissed the air several inches above the surface of the slimy rock. She walked on dazed but thankful she had managed to avoid hygienic and spiritual contamination without vulgarly demonstrating.

  And now here below her Mrs Hunter’s lips were probing trembling around at nothing.