“Do you want me to do out the spare room?” she demanded later.
“Oh no, I can.”
“Then in that case you may. It's quite clean; it just wants the sheets out and a dust over. I'll get on up home, then, I've enough to do without diddelly-daddellying here if you don't want me.”
Kate pushed back her chair and, going to the affronted Mrs. Beer, put her arms around her.
“It isn't that I don't want you: but I can manage to do the spare room and I know you've a lot to do at your own house.”
Those were not the words Mrs. Beer wanted to hear. She gathered her things together with unwonted speed.
“I'll be down tomorrow morning, then, as usual. What time will Rhoda Cantrip be arriving?”
“Later this afternoon.” She began stacking her books. “Where's Thomas?”
“I don't know I've hardly seen him all day. He's down in the garden somewhere.”
Kate took a mop and duster upstairs, and got clean sheets out of the linen cupboard. The spare room smelled of damp and dust; and spiders were busy in it, their gray tapestries showed how long it was since the window had been opened. She made up the bed and mopped and dusted, but not thoroughly because her mind was on other things. She opened the window, with a single pull destroying the soft webs and sending the spiders scuttling for safety behind the sashcords; she leaned out over the common, breathing in the early summer air. Then she noticed that the outside windowsill was marked with quite deep scratches, as though some creature had tried to get in. Immediately she thought of Rhoda Cantrip's dog, that she had seen down by the pond. Would it have to live here now, with its mistress?
She turned round with her back to the window and studied the room, frowning. It certainly was rather dark and unwelcoming. Her mother had had it decorated with a light paper, but the walls were dirty again, the joins of the wallpaper pieces showed in dark lines, and had been rubbed back into dog-ears by the curtains. I haven't got time to glue back those pieces, Kate thought, but at least they are hidden by the curtains, and with her fingernail she experimentally lifted a loose piece of paper. It came away easily; the wall underneath had been painted green originally, and someone had made a pattern on it she pulled the paper back a little further yes, there was a diagram scratched on the wall, a star shape, quite deeply done, with a pin perhaps or scissors. It showed up white against the green.
Three triangles laid across to make a star, said Kate to herself, tracing them with her forefinger; and as she did so she suddenly felt certain, as she had by the pond, that she was being watched. She turned and there was the black dog staring in through the open window with its pale eyes. She slammed the window shut immediately, in a fright. Next instant it had gone.
It must have been waiting there all the time, she thought she felt quite shaky. Then she remembered that it had not been there all the time, because I was leaning out over the common, and I know I would have seen it. It must have suddenly come, while I had my back turned, when I was looking at the wallpaper . . . And then she had a very odd idea. It's almost as though there's some connection between the dog and that pattern on the wall. I traced it with my finger, and suddenly there was the dog. She dared herself to do it again, to see if the dog would come. After all, what harm can it do -- the window's shut, and it's only a dog, not a dragon, or a ghost, or anything. But she did not dare, she did not want the dog to come again. In crowded all the stories she had heard from Mrs. Beer; old tales she had hardly listened to, and thought she had forgotten, of “things” being “called up” of “familiar spirits” and “black magic.” “What a lot of nonsense,” she said out loud, and began energetically to dust and mop; but still she did not open the window to shake the dust out over the common. She decided to collect some flowers to make the room more cheerful.
There was a northeast wind outside that got into the thick beech hedges, making them rattle, and bowed the long grass of the lawn in silvery swaths. Kate went down to the pond to pick lilies of the valley: here she found Thomas, playing under the larch trees. He had made a tiny house out of pieces of stick, and was laying out a miniature garden with a rockery of pebbles and red and yellow flower heads. “Aunt Rhoda will be arriving any minute,” she said. “You'd better go and wash your face and hands. And look, the front of your jersey is covered with green slime you've been at the pond -- you are a little devil.” She hustled him back to the house and gave him a good scrub in the kitchen. He took a pencil and paper and sat down at the table; then she remembered the flowers that she had not yet picked, and went out again.
And it was quite cold, and the wind rustled, how it rustled, and sighed in the larches and the rhododendrons; and they were full of moving shadows as though there were many dogs, now, in hiding.
She picked a handful of the lilies, crouching among them, breathing in their scent: and then as she was scrambling to her feet she had again that feeling of being watched. She was certain that something stood just behind her, she expected to feel the dog's warm breath on the backs of her bare legs. She was not usually nervous, or particularly imaginative, but it took her a few minutes to get enough courage to turn round. When she did, no dog was there, but Aunt Rhoda Cantrip stood on the steps, wearing the same brown mackintosh, and carrying the same suitcase. Kate was still half kneeling on the paved path beside the water, and for an instant she had the curious feeling that she was the intruder there, not Rhoda: she held out her handful of lilies in explanation.
“I was picking these for your room.”
“And you saw my reflection in the pond.”
“Oh no, it's too full of twigs and leaves to reflect anything.”
“It ought to be cleaned out.”
“Mr. Beer hasn't really time to do both gardens.” They walked slowly back to the house. “The grass needs cutting too, but Mr. Beer just hasn't got time. I must say I like it to be wild.” Rhoda Cantrip did not answer, so she went on making conversation. “It's a lot colder today. I think there must be an east wind.” The beech hedge rustled as they went through the arch, exactly as though people were hiding in it, whispering. Kate opened the front door for Aunt Rhoda.
And at that moment a stray gust clapped against the side of the house, and one of the large panes in the drawing-room window was blown clean out upon the path. It happened so suddenly that Kate could hardly believe it, the empty space looked in the gray light like the panes beside it: but there were a thousand slivers on the gravel in front of them, and wind had entered the room, it was poking and lifting at the curtain over her father's picture. “What an extraordinary thing!” she exclaimed, and then she saw that there was a look, almost of triumph on Rhoda Cantrip's face, as she stood on the threshold like a conqueror.
“Anything could get in through that hole,” said she.
“There are shutters on the inside, I’ll bolt them tonight,” Kate answered. “Mr. Beer will have to mend it in the morning.”
“You didn't bring your dog,” she continued, leading the way through the hall.
“It will be along, by and by.”
Thomas behaved rudely; he seemed not to see Aunt Rhoda, he bent over the table, intent on his drawing. “Go and shake hands,” muttered Kate, pushing him off his chair. “Can I take your suitcase upstairs for you?’
“Oh no, that is not necessary, I can easily manage. I suppose I am in the spare room?”
“Yes, I'll show you where it is.”
“I know the way, my dear; my mother used to have that room.” And she went up alone. Kate busied herself by setting the table for tea.
Mrs. Beer was right: Aunt Rhoda had a bad effect on Thomas. The meal began badly when he threw his bread and butter on the floor and spilled his milk on purpose. Then he began opening and shutting his mouth, and making frogs' eyes. He got worse and worse until he was quite uncontrollable, and at last came the inevitable finale of early bed for howling Thomas. Aunt Rhoda sat at the table and hardly spoke, but just the fact that she was there seemed to encourage his bad behav
ior; and even then she seemed to take sides with Thomas, against law and order as enforced by Kate.
At last he was put to bed, and left bellowing but soon he went to sleep. And Kate looked for Aunt Rhoda but could not find her. She knocked on her bedroom door and got no answer; she was not in the kitchen or the dining room. The drawing-room door had banged shut and stuck in the jamb, she had to push hard to open it. Inside it was gloomy, and the wind through the broken pane ran about, moving and lifting like a housebreaker. She pulled back the curtain over her father's picture, and stood by the window looking at it.
This was a dark room even on a sunny day: now the sky between the hills was overcast, and the space between the window and the beech hedge quite in shadow. She did not think to put the light on: instead she peered at the brown and gray picture her father had left behind. It was painted with vertical, thick brushstrokes, like tree trunks; it was like a gloomy forest with no path between the trees. She fancied that creatures lived there, one or two black marks might have been the muzzles of beasts poking out of ambush. And, as she looked, those black marks seemed to move, from tree to tree, and now she did not remember seeing them before on the picture her father had painted. The shadows and the gray corners of the room suddenly frightened her, and so did the rustling of the wind among the sheet music on the piano. She pulled the shutters across the drawing-room window and bolted them close, and groped her way out. She went to the warm, friendly kitchen, and sat down at the table to get on with her homework.
Mrs. Beer came in later with a cold pie she had made for their supper. Kate had to explain that Miss Cantrip had gone out, probably down to the village. “Well, I never,” remarked the good housekeeper, and took the opportunity to stand talking a little while, arms folded and legs apart, a stout red and brown figure, a comfort in the dusk. “What's those flowers doing, Iying there in the wet sink? They'll spoil, it's wasteful.”
“Oh, I'll do them, I meant to put them upstairs,” and Kate pushed her books away, thankfully. She could not concentrate this evening.
Mrs. Beer went home at last; and, chewing a large piece of pie, Kate arranged the flowers in a jam jar from which she had bothered to scrub most of the label, and took them upstairs. She knocked again on the spare-room door, but there was still no answer; so she went in, switching on the electric light, as it was quite dark.
At first she thought that the light must have fused. But there was a glow in the room: Aunt Rhoda had taken out the ordinary clear bulb and put in a scarlet one. As her eyes got accustomed to it she could see quite well. She put down the flowers on the dressing table, between a pair of heavy silver hairbrushes with the initials M.C. on them, and looked around.
Aunt Rhoda had done her unpacking most tidily: there were no other personal belongings about, save a round mirror on her bedside table, about the size of a dinner plate, standing up in a silver frame. Kate had a closer look at the glowing electric bulb: it did not contain the usual twist of wire element, and it was not stamped with the maker's name, although something was scratched into the glass. She traced the pattern of the scratching with her finger, the bulb was just warm; and then she saw that her arm and finger, against the scarlet, were magnified to giant size in the silver-edged mirror on the bedside table. And as she stared down into it she saw a huge Aunt Rhoda's face looking over her own shoulder: she turned around with a jump.
“I'm terribly sorry, I was just looking at your lamp.”
“I don't like too much light, it is not good for my eyes.”
“I just put some flowers on your dressing table.”
“I hope, Kate, that you are not an inquisitive child.”
“Oh no, really I'm not; I just wanted to see what sort of bulb you had put in.”
“You were playing with my looking glass.”
“How do you mean? I just noticed it was a magnifying glass, I didn't touch it.”
“You had better go to bed, it's getting late.”
“I will, then. Good night.”
She had to pass Aunt Rhoda to leave the room. How tall and thin she stood by the door, her curiously light, fat eyes looking down at Kate, disliking her. “There's some pie in the kitchen Mrs. Beer brought, if you would like some,” she said, but the door was already shut and Aunt Rhoda did not answer. So she cut herself another hunk, and, chewing meditatively, made her way to bed.
The black dog did not come: perhaps it was being looked after by somebody else, Kate thought. Aunt Rhoda probably guessed that she did not want it in the house. But she did not really believe, after a few days, that Rhoda Cantrip cared to please her. Thomas was her joy, and could do no wrong, although he behaved atrociously when she was there; with Kate she was remote. What did it matter, after all, but nevertheless she was hurt: she had invited Aunt Rhoda to the house, and she still wanted to impress her. She tried to make clever remarks, but somehow they always fell flat.
Breakfast was the nicest time. Aunt Rhoda did not come down for it, she did not eat breakfast; so Thomas was good, and Mrs. Beer was there. As the days passed, and Rhoda Cantrip made more and more shadow in the house, Kate began to rely, more and more, on Mrs. Beer.
She cycled to school. Sometimes it was windy, but usually it was dry, and the rubber tires crunched through the dust as she pedaled mechanically along. She would have liked to discuss Aunt Rhoda with Miss Bybegone, she would have liked them to meet; and her daydreams were of a dinner party, exquisitely cooked by herself for their enjoyment, and cultured conversation. She compromised at last by asking her to come one evening to coffee, to meet her aunt.
And the shadow of Rhoda Cantrip deepened in the house.
It was difficult to know exactly why she made a shadow. First, of course, she did excite Thomas: he understood very well that she approved when he made a fuss and a noise. As she did nothing to stop him, Kate seemed to spend all day nagging at him, trying to keep him in order. That made him angry with her, and he quickly discovered that he could irritate her by running and making up to Aunt Rhoda. There was always discomfort between the three of them; a sort of tug-of-war went on, with Thomas as the rope.
Then she did not speak much, she had not a lively character. Although she lived with them, and spoiled Thomas, she kept apart from the household. She was detached and yet watchful, like a person in hiding who is keeping a lookout.
But because of her influence, their pattern of life gradually changed. She did not approve of eating in the kitchen. Now when Kate came home from school Mrs. Beer had laid a formal tea for three in the dining room, and Mrs. Beer had gone home because Aunt Rhoda had made it quite clear that she did not want familiarity with servants. You could not have found two more opposite personalities than Rhoda Cantrip and Mary Beer: one tall, thin, dark and reserved, the other round, pink and cheerful.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Kate sat on the swing under the cedar tree, lazily pushing herself to and fro, reading and thinking. The house was pretty in the sun, the common was yellow with buttercups and dotted with butterflies, she could see the white pony grazing peacefully, his coat shone like silver and she thought she could hear the slow, contented munching of his jaws. Birds fluttered around the cupid on the lawn, darting in and out of the shell he held up to them. Mr. Beer was gardening, and the grate of the hoe into dry earth rang on the hot air.
Aunt Rhoda came out of the front door, and went around to the kitchen garden. Kate could hear her steps on the path, and pushed herself higher until she could see over the beech hedge. Mr. Beer touched his old straw hat that he wore against the sun: she just acknowledged the salute, and went into the toolshed by the compost heap. This shed was always treated as the hallowed property of Mr. Beer Kate herself had hardly been in it, and felt annoyed at Aunt Rhoda's cavalier behavior. Soon she came out, with a large basket and a rake evidently she meant to do some gardening. She passed out of the kitchen garden, behind Mr. Beer, who was stiff with indignation, and came onto the lawn. She did not speak to Kate, she did not seem to see her where she swung u
nder the cedar tree. She went down the steps to the pond.
Suddenly Kate's annoyance swelled into a thick, hot resentment. What right had she to behave as though this was her house? She was not even a real aunt. She threw her book to the earth, jumped off the swing and went to see what was happening by the pond.
Aunt Rhoda was clearing the water. There was a heap of sticks and a black lily pad dripping in her basket. Intent on her work, she did not hear Kate behind her, but talked to herself as she raked in the rubbish and gathered it up with her long thin hands. “Now, my bun, my bunting, my dandiprat, shall you come to one who loves you, my little master.” Strange words Kate heard, whispered into the pond; strange, and familiar. Where had she heard them before? And as she remembered Mrs. Beer's story of old Mrs. Cantrip and the black dog in the drawing room, Rhoda Cantrip suddenly turned round upon her, with glaring eyes and a furious face.
“What are you doing here?”
Kate was taken aback, but she replied with some spirit: “I've as much right to be here as you: more, in fact.”
“You little spy; why are you spying on me?”
“I’m not.”
“You always are, you're always watching me, you hate me.”
“You know I don't, it was me that asked you to come here, you know that quite well.”
“Aha, but now I am here, you'll find it's not so easy to get rid of me.”
“I never said I wanted to get rid of your” protested Kate, with the hopeless feeling that Aunt Rhoda would not understand, whatever she said; and seeing, for the first time, that having opened the door to her it would indeed be difficult to put her out again.
At the end of the pond stood the little boy made of stone, looking gravely into his empty hands. Kate stared at him, blinking back tears she hated but could not help; and then she suddenly knew who had been writing on that statue.
“It was you! It was you all the time! You came here before we ever met you, to do it!”
Moon Eyes Page 5
