Rhoda Cantrip was a tall woman, but as she was bending down to the pool her head was on a level with Kate's. Now they glared at each other, Kate heated and tearful, Aunt Rhoda cold and pale. Those eyes were not gray, not blue, they were almost white, the iris just a faint shadow around the pupil. As Kate looked into them, they seemed for a moment like two misted globes containing all wisdom, all experience, so that she suddenly wanted more than anything else, to be dominated by Aunt Rhoda, seeing everything through those strange eyes. The next instant she remembered Thomas, and insults to Mrs. Beer, and turned her face away.
“'First we'll wait, then we'll whistle, then we’ll dance together,' “ whispered Aunt Rhoda as if she was repeating a promise. And there was wind in the green leaves hanging all round the pool, so that they moved together.
“You're taking up the lilies as well, please don’t,” said Kate.
“They're too old to be any good, they don’t flower, do they?”
“They've always been there.”
“I can make things come in this water, beautiful things; I could make a bonfire burn in the middle of it.”
“No one could do that,” Kate answered crossly.
“I can prove it to you: you help me to clear it, and then see what I can make come in it.” But Kate would not look at her, she did not want to be drawn again by those terrible wise eyes.
“I don't care, I can't stop you spoiling it all; but Father will be angry, when he comes home: my mother planted those lilies.”
“When is your father coming home, Kate dear?”
“Quite soon, as it happens,” and she turned abruptly and went towards the house. Thomas passed her, running down to the pond; no doubt he would help to clear the rubbish; serve him right if he fell in. She felt sad, and heavy, and in no mood for the swing. She took up her book as she passed it, and going to the arbor where her mother used to sit, flopped down on the grass beside the wooden garden seat that was broken now. She had a hand in her pocket, absentmindedly feeling about among her hanky and some sweet papers and a bit of string, and then her fingers closed around something small and hard. At first she thought it was a bit of toffee, and brought it out to comfort her; but it was not toffee. Then she remembered the bit of lead she had picked up off the floor at church. The whole of that shiny morning came into her mind as she sat on the grass in the rose bower, and the memory of its light and color made her present condition drearier than ever.
She sorted out the various things that had happened, and began to see that they made a kind of pattern, as she sat there turning the lead over and over in her fingers. First they had found the writing on the statue, and the dog had got into the garden. Then Thomas had torn out the picture of the dog at Mrs. Beer's, and thrown it into the fire. Mrs. Beer had seen Rhoda Cantrip in the village, and told the story of how she had suddenly left with her mother, and how their house had subsequently burned. Then Aunt Rhoda had come to stay that had been Kate's fault. (But she must have intended to be asked, because she had already written on the statue.) She remembered that afternoon on top of the hill, not so long ago oh, she had really wanted her to come, she had been bewitched; however, once she was inside the house Rhoda Cantrip did not bother to weave spells for Kate any more, she made them for Thomas instead. And as she crossed the threshold the window had blown out upon the path. there were all sorts of things connected with Aunt Rhoda that had come in with her -- or threatened to come in.
And what was the design that had been scratched under the wallpaper by the window in her room? It had been old Mrs. Cantrip's room: had she drawn it? And the black dog -- she had had one. But old Mr. Pawley had hated it, had turned it out, perhaps with his wife as well.
Had Aunt Rhoda come back-to complete what her mother had begun? And what was that?
The afternoon seemed suddenly much colder, and Kate realized that she was shaking. She was afraid. Aunt Rhoda had a purpose, she was certain, and she was systematically pursuing it, crushing whatever got in her way. Mrs. Beer, for instance: once it had seemed impossible that anything should stop her from coming to Hurst Camber; when she spent almost more time there than she did in her own house. Now it seemed unlikely that she would be there much longer. Aunt Rhoda had cleverly weaned Thomas from her, and made her feel paid and humiliated. Kate scrambled to her feet, dropped the scrap of lead back into her pocket and ran into the house in search of Mrs. Beer. She could not really have said why she was so relieved, so immensely relieved, to see that stout shape buttoning itself into a scarlet cardigan; she had just caught her.
“I'm off up home.”
“Yes,” said Kate, breathless, leaning against the frame of the open door, and not knowing in the least what to say.
“You oughtn't to run in the sun, it's not good for the brain, I'd a cousin who went mad with that.”
“I didn't know it could make you mad,” she answered, deferentially.
“He spent various times in the hospital, all to no unveil,” said Mrs. Beer tightlipped, but deigning to continue. “He was a dreadful sight. I should think he lost two stone in a fortnight.”
“How ghastly.”
“Oh yes, and, of course, the doctors put it down to something different; but I had seen him with my own eyes at the sports (he was gymnastics teacher at the school) leaping across the fields in the afternoon sun, and I said to myself then, such activations would do him no good. And nor they did,” she concluded, fixing Kate with an accusing stare.
“Oh, Mrs. Beer, why has everything got so horrid since Aunt Rhoda came?”
And there was utter silence in the kitchen, but for the clock, and a wretched fly in a spider web that buzzed and buzzed to get free.
Mrs. Beer heaved her bag with her overall and house shoes in it onto the table, and leaned her full weight on it.
“She'll have to go.”
“But we can't just turn her out.”
“Sooner or later it's got to be done; better sooner, before more harm's done.”
“She hasn't actually done any harm, only she seems to make us all so miserable.”
“No harm done? When even the cat won't come into the house now! I've to give him his meat outside. No harm done? When your brother's half-witted daft, and all because of her?” Her face was flushed crimson, and her honest eyes were full of tears. “You know what I think? She's onto making him so silly, he'll do anything she says; or if he doesn't, of a sudden, she could get him put away soon enough.”
“How do you mean, put away?”
“They have schools, don't then for little boys who don't talk.”
“But she wouldn't do that, she knows him she loves him.”
“Oh no, she doesn't. She wants him, to use. If she couldn't use him she wouldn't want him she doesn't want you, does she? You let her into the house, now she doesn't want you anymore. If you went away tomorrow it'd suit her well.”
Kate knew that this was true. “But how is she using Thomas?”
“He's the head of the family, isn't he, when your father is away; this place is tailed onto the male line, like ours is. It belongs to him now.”
“How can it when he's only four?”
“That's what I say; I know. There was discord when her mother was here, I saw it; she never did the place any good. She's got to go, Kate, and if Thomas won't do it --”
“I will,” interrupted Kate.
“She doesn't have to listen to you, it isn't your place; any more than if there was a fight over our house, it would matter what I said.”
“But what do you mean, a fight over the house?”
“That's what it is, isn't it.”
“But she hasn't any rights here.”
“She's making her own rights, and your brother will let her because he's only a baby; and so I think you should get your father back to deal with it. Even then, she's a clever woman. She might think she'd have every right here if she got him to marry her.”
“What nonsense!” cried Kate.
“Is it such nonsen
se as all that I You think on it, Kate, of what's happened here these weeks, and take a long look at your brother: I think then you'll see it my way.”
“I wish you lived here.”
Mrs. Beer gave a short laugh. “A fine how-d'you-do that would be! I don't think we quite get on, Miss Rhoda Cantrip and me.”
“But, anyway, you'd never stop coming here, Mrs. Beer, would you?”
“I might have to. I'm not staying to be unsalted and put upon, not even for your brother's sake, and you know what he means to me. But she's no hand over our place, and that's where I always am if you want me. Now I must go on up. Will you look at the time! Your tea's ready in the front room; there's just the tea to make and don't forget to warm the pot. I'll be down first thing tomorrow.”
Kate rescued the fly from the web, and shook him into the garden where he few away in the sunshine. She filled the kettle, and then Mr. Beer stood for a moment outside, talking to her through the open window.
“I thought when you write to your father . . .', he began.
Now why did he start off like that? He must have been listening to their talk, or maybe his wife had signaled to him as she went down the path.
“There's that extra fencing along the top, over the compost, that I paid for; and I've bought some seedlings for planting out along the front, and there's the fertilizer, and I'd like to get a new hose for the spray. I've got the bills, if you'd put them along of your letter.”
“Yes, I will, if you let me have them.”
He kept them inside his hat; he took it off and gave them to her.
“I thought you should be writing, what with one thing and another.” His voice, ordinarily soft and vague, was full of meaning; his small eyes scrutinized her through the window. He smelled of cloth, and tobacco and as well the garden smells drifted in, warm and sweet.
“l will write to my father,” and at once she saw that he had taken the double meaning. He touched his hat and ambled off home. She was not used to these secret conversations; she felt that soon she must wake up, out of a troubling dream.
But Rhoda Cantrip, dark and straight behind the steamy teapot, was no dream; and neither was the way Thomas behaved. He began to draw on the clean white cloth with raspberry jam. Kate lost her temper, which she tried, when Rhoda was there, particularly hard, not to lose; she slapped his arm, raising a scarlet welt on the skin, and for the rest of the meal he sat on Aunt Rhoda's knee, alternately roaring and being fed with pieces of chocolate biscuit.
“What a violent girl you are, Kate,” she remarked coldly.
“He was never like that before you came; you make trouble between us. Father will be jolly upset to see the way he behaves.”
“You talk about your father; has he told you when he's coming home, then?” There were sparks of interest in her chilly eyes.
Kate thought of his last postcard, now nearly a month old, still hidden under her mattress. She knew what it said by heart: . . . thinking of staying on for a few more weeks love Father. Her heart sank, she must write to him; but suppose he had moved from that address? “He'll be back soon, he doesn't have to tell us, he just comes,” she said bravely.
“I see,” said Rhoda Cantrip, and in fact she could see through Kate quite easily, for she had not the habit of lying. It was a horrid, uncomfortable meal.
Kate had to clear away and wash up when Mrs. Beer was not there. At first she had done so willingly, but now she felt that it was expected of her; and especially this afternoon, after her talk with Mrs. Beer, she noticed that her brother and Aunt Rhoda behaved as though they owned the house, and it was her duty to wait on them.
“Is it this evening that your friend is coming for coffee, whom you want me to meet?”
“Yes -- are you going out, then?”
“I thought you wanted me to meet her -- whoever it is -- Miss Hereicome.”
“Bybegone.”
“Then why should I be going out?”
“You usually do.”
Aunt Rhoda was standing with her back to the window, her face as dark as a black screen; she stood there thin and black between the blood-red curtains.
“Where do I go, then? What do I go to do? Do you know that as well?”
“Why should I? I don't follow you.”
“Don't you think you ought to keep track of me, my dear?” She made those last two words so menacing, Kate would have preferred a hateful name. “You aren't being very clever.”
“I don't understand you, I don't understand what you’re trying to do. Why can't you live here like an ordinary person?”
“But I understand you very well. That's good, isn't it? One of us had better understand the other. You wanted me to come here at first, you asked me in: now, you don't want me; in fact, my dear, do you know -- I believe you're a little bit frightened!”
This was true enough, and, after all, she was frightening bending forward slightly with her back to the light, just her eyes gleaming in her dark face. Kate collected the dishes, scarlet-cheeked, and rushed them to the sink.
Aunt Rhoda spoiled Thomas, but that was all she did for him: Kate got him up in the morning, and put him to bed at night. In the steamy bathroom it was possible for them to get together, over games in the bath; and he settled to sleep quite happily having kissed her good night, however much he had fought her during the day. This evening, as she maneuvered a nailbrush boat between pumice-stone rocks, Kate thought to say: “Do you really like her, Thomas? Why do you let her make you so stupid?” But, of course, he did not answer, only looked at her with his pale blue eyes.
Aunt Rhoda's eyes were as pale as her dog's, in fact she resembled it altogether, black and silent and slinking. Had she always been like that? Or had she taken on its habits, more and more, as a pupil copies a master? She had talked about “little master,” down by the pond that afternoon.
“Now you shall come to one who loves you,” she had said. Was that why she was clearing the lily pond, so that the dog should come? It must be a most fastidious dog.
But she would have to find out more. It was true that she was not being very clever. She wiped out the bath, listening as Aunt Rhoda climbed the stairs and went into her room. If there was a clue anywhere, it would be in her bedroom. She spent a great deal of time there alone.
The thoughts of going into that room, where she had not been since the first evening, gave Kate the shivers. She went to change her clothes for Miss Bybegone.
It has been said that Miss Bybegone hated the country. As a protection against any rustic scent or sound that might assail her, she went about on an automatic bicycle, very old, very noisy, very smelly, that enveloped her genie-like in a cloud of blue smoke. Seated upright upon it, every hair miraculously in place, she sped about at breakneck speed, a hazard to the countryside. On this machine she scorched to a halt outside the wrought-iron gate of Hurst Camber at nine o'clock that evening.
Kate was hovering anxiously in the drawing room. She wore her best dress, now two years old, it had split under one arm and she had pinned it where she mistakenly believed it would not show. She had done some perfunctory dusting in the drawing room, lit a fire and put flowers about; and had intended to raise the curtain and display her father's picture but she did not like the dark spots on it, they looked so like creatures peering out of the brown.
She ushered Miss Bybegone into the drawing room, quite sick and shaky with nervousness. As luck would have it, the guest picked the chair by the fireplace that was badly sprung, and as she settled herself back into it, it gave out uncomfortable twongs like an instrument being tuned. “I'm terribly sorry,” muttered Kate, “it's the chair, it wants springing.”
Miss Bybegone was not at all put out. “It is reminiscent of modern music,” she observed, “and is more to my taste than those chairs one sits upon only to crack one's head (metaphorically speaking, of course) against the ceiling. Modern music, yes,” she went on -- she prided herself on being able to discourse at length upon any subject -- “or one could a
lmost say that from here I shall speak ex cathedra, don't you know, with a voice over which I have no control.” This twist to the subject amused her, although she was well aware that it was lost upon Kate; she might have enlarged upon the theme, only at that moment Rhoda Cantrip entered the room.
She was dressed in dark red, and she had let down her hair so that it fell shining black, covering her shoulders, the streaks of white in it like lines of foam on dark water. She looked very beautiful, and outlandish: Kate was as taken aback as she would have been if she had come in naked; and, full of admiration, she forgot how she had hated her only two hours ago and humbly went to make coffee, leaving the two spinsters to get to know one another.
They must have talked while she was out of the room: certainly Miss Bybegone did. But they were sitting in silence when she returned, and she suddenly saw that it was going to be a sticky evening. She poured out coffee badly, slopping it in the saucers because she was nervous. How did one encourage conversation between grownups? These two met on their own level, and although Miss Bybegone might eventually share her own opinion of Aunt Rhoda, she would have formed that opinion for different, adult reasons.
But something brought her up with a jerk as she handed coffee to Rhoda Cantrip. She was wearing a brooch made of silver, wrought into the very shape that was scratched under the wallpaper in her room: three triangles, laid across to make a star. And as she helped herself to sugar (she took coffee black, with plenty of sugar in it) she leaned forward so that her beautiful head was close to Kate's rough one, and said in a very low voice: “It was my mother's.”
However, Miss Bybegone could not bear to be silent for long; presently she remarked on the piano. “What a magnificent instrument! Now, Kate, I never realized that you were a handmaid of Euterpe.”
Before she could mumble a denial, Aunt Rhoda spoke up. “Kate is not -- her mother used to play.” And the conversation lapsed again, and the ticking of the clock, that should have filled the gap, did not because the clock had stopped.
“Is that one of your father's paintings?” Miss Bybegone asked, rallying again.
Moon Eyes Page 6
