“Leave him alone, he's to stay there, he's with me.” She raised her hand and at the same time saw the flowers on Kate's jersey. Her hand stayed up, but she did not strike.
“He's my brother, he doesn't belong to you, nor does this house. It's our house and you can get out of it.”
There was a silence and the whole room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for her answer. Her face was twisted with rage, and she shook because against her will she had to control herself.
“You little fool; do you think you can order me? Do you believe that people, and places, are yours to dispose of? You don't even know who I am, what I mean. I have more power in my little finger than you have in the whole of your body. You are stupid and insolent, and I shall not forget. I shall make you sorry for it, you will wish then that you had let your brother alone.”
“Come on, Thomas,” said Kate. He moved like a sleep walker. Aunt Rhoda went quickly to the door, slammed it shut, and faced them with her back to it. Her face worked with anger, her hands shook so that her fingernails tapped against the wooden door. But there was fear, as well as rage, in her wild eyes. And Kate was frightened; her heart beat so high, so quickly, she felt that if she opened her mouth it would flutter out into the room.
She forced herself to take the half-dozen steps to the door, where Rhoda Cantrip stopped the way out as the black dog had lain in wait at the end of the wood. And how was she armed against a witch? She had Thomas's wrist in her left hand, in her right she clutched the scrap of lead from church. Still Aunt Rhoda stayed, rigid, against the door, staring, not at Kate, but at the yellow flowers pinned on her jersey. And the room waited: not a chair creaked, not a stick fell in the smoking grate. In the half-light it was easy to imagine that each piece of furniture had an anxious face.
“Please get out of the way.”
“Make me,” growled Rhoda Cantrip.
So Kate touched her with the lead. She gave a howl and leaped back as though she had been burned; and in fact, above the smoky odor from the fire, there was a smell of burning rubber, although her mackintosh was not marked. Kate had the door open in a flash and pulled Thomas through, and they went out by the front way, into the dreary drizzling afternoon. Kate marched down the hill, talking aloud, and he stumbled after, gradually coming to his senses.
There was no more whistling.
“I wish Father would come home, he must have got my letter by now, where can he be? Suppose he left that hotel and never gave them another address. Surely otherwise he would be home by now.” She nodded and smiled at Mrs. Mardy and her daughter all bundled up in blue plastic raincoats, and realized that she and Thomas were going to be soaked through. “But I'm not going back, not until bedtime; or we could stay at Mrs. Beer's.”
She was hungry, though, and the potatoes would burn until the stove went out again. She had one and fourpence in her pocket, and they went into Morris's shop, and spent it on sweets and chocolate. Miss Morris was dusting the shelves, so Thomas sat on a high wooden chair while Kate helped, handing things up and down and picking up the small packets that fell and went rolling into the dark under the counter. It was warm and dry in the shop and Miss Morris was a kind, sharpnosed lady who did not talk much. The tins of golden syrup and jars of jam, and packets of cereal and soapflakes, were familiar and cheerfully colored; and when they had finished, Kate was given a cup of bitter tea. Farmer Wyatt's grandson came in and bought a packet of gum, but there were no other customers. At half-past five Miss Morris pulled down the blinds and Kate and Thomas had to go.
It had rained so much that a thin stream trickled down the middle of the road towards the bridge. As they stood there in the wet, young Wyatt passed in his new blue car and splashed their legs with dirty water.
They could climb the hill to Mrs. Beer's, but it seemed a miserable way. Kate decided to go into the church, which was not far. They could stay there for a little while, and then walk slowly home and it would be time to put Thomas to bed. The gate was cold and creaked, and as it opened, a string of drops flew off onto the gravel path. She dreaded that Mr. Hughes would come out, but he did not. The door was studded with nails, and had an awkward handle in the shape of a ring, heavy enough to have dented the wood behind it. They sidled into the church.
Kate had not the habit of praying. She went to the morning service on Sundays, where she joined in the hymns and prayers with satisfaction; otherwise, she thought of God (when she thought of Him) as a sort of fountain that one drank out of if one was thirsty. Now she stood in His house, which was cold and smelled of damp, and had cheap brown furniture; even the colored windows were dull this dreary afternoon. She walked slowly up between the pews to the altar rails. It was the first time she had really wanted to pray; and now, for the first time, she wondered whether God was a kind of super Father Christmas, there simply to bestow. But, then, if He wanted something from her, what had she got to give? The window over the altar depicted Jesus Christ in majesty, dressed in scarlet robes and a crown, between the archangels Michael and Gabriel. Gabriel had splendid wings and held a lily; Michael wore armor and a sword.
She stood at the crimson-carpeted communion step, staring up. What was there, more than stained glass? What did one pray to, how did one pray? Was there ever an answer?
Thomas was at the other end of the church, examining the font whose pedestal was carved with figures hurrying to baptism. He liked especially the man standing in the pond, having water poured on his head out of a shell held by another man in robes. The artist had included animals and birds in the scene : he could count four dogs of different sizes, a pair of doves and an eagle looking on with interest. He traced the forms with his finger, and then he noticed that Kate had not shut the church door properly, for it swung open in a sudden draught, so that he could see down the valley.
And the movement of air that opened the door, parted the clouds west of it, and a sudden ray of light slanted directly through the west window of the church and, striking his sister, held her for a moment transfigured. Instantly the clouds pushed together and it had gone. But Thomas had seen, in that second she had been more brilliant than the colored angels over the altar. And Kate too felt the warmth of it, and thought: “Well, I have nothing to give but what You have given me, which is Thomas, I love him and I offer him to You; take care of him.”
She walked back by a side aisle, reading the plaques to Pawleys and Plentipots, black writing on white marble with the dates in roman figures. Outside it had stopped raining, but the flowers among the graves hung heavy heads. Some of the gravestones had mottoes carved: “Fight the Good Fight,” “A tender Husband and devoted Friend,” “For the Righteous, Death is the Gate of Life.” Their slow steps crunched on the gravel.
So they went in at their own gate, the wrought-iron gate; she did not want to shut it behind them, and stood for a moment looking over. The whole village was indoors, having its supper; the little gray houses were crested with smoky chimneys and television aerials. The only sound was the secret dripping of the trees, like a licking of lips. She was holding the gate by the letters that made “Hurst Camber,” and she noticed that a spider had stretched its web across the u, stringing a hundred raindrops into an elaborate pattern between the iron bars.
Kate did not want to go into that house, all her natural instinct was against it. She went round by the front to see if the drawing-room shutters were still closed. They were open, and so was the front door. She suddenly thought: “Father has come home!” She was so sure, all in a moment, that she burst into the house, raced upstairs and into his room. She shouted for him, but nobody answered. There was nobody there, not even Aunt Rhoda.
The house had a looser feeling, as though all its rooms had stretched and settled themselves more comfortably on the foundations.
Aunt Rhoda had gone, Aunt Rhoda had gone. She knew it, but she looked in the spare room to make sure. Not a trace of her, she might never have set foot in it but for the grinning green wall. Kate's heart grew lighter and li
ghter, she wanted to dance and sing. She went into the drawing room with hardly a qualm. A little of the old smell hung about, in corners, but the grate was swept clean, the plants had gone, the cloth was pulled down over her father's picture. Perhaps she should Lave lifted it and looked underneath, but she suddenly realized, that she was simply ravenous, she'd had nothing but a cup of tea since breakfast She lit the stove again and put the burned potato pan to soak; she cooked a huge meal of bacon and eggs, and made a jug of cocoa. The house was light, warm, friendly. She wanted to shout with relief.
But I haven't done anything, she thought I didn't even ask. Aunt Rhoda has gone, just like that, and everything is safe. She kept hugging Thomas, and ruffling his hair, but he looked tired. There was no hot water, so after supper she wiped his face and hands with a damp washcloth, and put him in his cot.
She ran into the garden then, in the last daylight. No more Rhoda Cantrip. She stood on the swing and worked it high, until almost she flew. She bore her no ill will, either; in fact, she was a bit sorry for her. It must be dreadful to spread trouble wherever you went, to be disliked and avoided by everyone.
Though Thomas seemed to like her, of course, and want to be with her. But he was too young to know. She wondered whether he would miss her? Want her back? Not for long, anyhow, and Father would be home soon, certainly tomorrow.
She jumped off the swing. Down by the pond it was dripping and cool. There was a strong smell of decaying leaves, and wet earth, an autumnal smell although it was summer. She tipped her head back and stared at the pieces of gray sky between the wreathed wet branches. They should have been blue; this ought to be a shining, golden evening.
But the writing was still around the statue: “First we'll wait, then we'll whistle, then we'll dance together.” Aunt Rhoda might have scrubbed it out. Well, Mr. Beer would do so tomorrow.
It was a chilly evening, she noticed particularly on her way back to the house. She went in by the back door, glancing down the kitchen garden. The plants on the compost heap had grown prodigiously in the rain; they were three feet high at least, there was a positive bush of them.
She felt cold even to her bones, and decided to have a hot bath. She pulled out the dampers of the old stove, and while it was heating she washed up and leafed through a couple of magazines Mrs. Beer kept behind the coalbox. But all the time she was conscious of a crumb of disquiet at the back of her mind, like the grain of sand that irritates an oyster.
Why was the writing still around the statue? Why was the bedroom wall still alive? Why were those plants still flourishing on the compost heap, that should have withered and died?
It had been a tiring day, she wanted to get to bed. She locked the back door and shut up the boiler, and closed the windows in the drawing room. Upstairs, she looked at Thomas, who was peacefully asleep. The water was piping hot; she filled the bath as full as she could, allowing for displacement, and lowered herself into its comfort. The coldness, the tiredness, peeled off her like an old skin.
And still that tiny doubt nagged in her mind. She began to sing “He who would valiant be,” loudly filling the bathroom with courage. She had forgotten to draw the bathroom curtains, but the window was misted up, anyhow.
And in the pause between verses she thought she heard Aunt Rhoda slipping up the stairs.
That was ridiculous. She was letting her imagination run away with her.
But she did not usually imagine things. She had always thought of herself as a practical, realistic person.
Supposing it was all a trap? Supposing Aunt Rhoda wanted to catch her off her guard? Supposing the decks had simply been stripped for action?
She felt vulnerable, lying there in the bath. She pulled out the plug and began to dry herself. The water gurgled away, so that she could not hear properly. (Not that there was anything to hear.) It took a maddeningly long time to empty the bath. She put on her pajamas and did her teeth, always staring in the mirror above the washbasin, sure that the door was opening, opening behind her. She felt that she was held together by vibrating wires, her heart so high in her throat that she could not swallow.
She wiped round the inside of the bath and folded the damp towels, making herself take time. She was going to bed and she was going to sleep. Aunt Rhoda had gone, there was no trace of her in her bedroom or in the drawing room, and she was not going to work herself up into a state over nothing. She had hardly slept last night: well, tonight she was going to. She was going to open the bathroom door there, you see, nothing on the landing (and if Aunt Rhoda was in her room she would have the light on and it would show under the door, but all is quiet and dark); now she would put on her bedroom light, now she would cross the bathroom again and turn out the bathroom light, and now she would go back to her room
Something was breathing outside the bathroom window.
She stopped dead and knocked into a stool which clattered against the wall. If there was anything outside the window it held its breath. She turned the light on again and peered out, rubbing the misted pane, but, of course, she could not see anything. She must take hold of herself. She marched to bed.
First she recited all the poetry she knew, and then she counted nine hundred and twenty-four sheep. At the end of it she felt twice as wide awake. Then she thought she was too hot, so she kicked off a couple of blankets, and then she began to shiver, so she put them on again. Every time she turned on the light she expected to see Rhoda Cantrip standing in the doorway, and every time she turned it off she was certain she could hear breathing in her room. She lay perfectly still and tried to make her mind a blank, and she did violent bicycling with her legs; but all to no avail. Sleep would not come. And then the silence began to get on her nerves: the night was so perfectly still, with the stillness that comes before thunder. The air seemed to get hotter and hotter, she could hardly breathe, and threw off all her bedclothes. She wished that she had thought to push Thomas's cot into her room. He slept, and she would hear easily if he wanted anything with her own and the bathroom doors open. But she wished he was with her. It would be stupid to move him now, to wake him up for no reason, especially as he had had a bad night last night.
It was so silent. She began to think that even the whistling was preferable to this; and now that she had let it into her mind she could not get it out: she remembered especially how Thomas had whistled, by the pool. Was she really sure of Thomas? And if she was not, how could she be sure that Aunt Rhoda really had gone?
She turned over, and pushed her pillow about, trying to find a cool place for her burning cheek. And then with her uppermost ear she did hear whistling.
It was not the long clear piping she knew so well. It was a perfectly natural whistle, that would have been in no way remarkable if there had been anyone in the house to make it. As it was, Kate sat bolt upright with a beating heart, telling herself that she had imagined it. She had not, for it came again.
It seemed to come from further along the house from the landing or the spare room. She crept to her bedroom doorway and peered across the bathroom and the landing. There was no light under the spare-room door. But how hot the house was! As though a thunderstorm was brewing under their very roof.
There was the whistling again no, it was not in the house, but just outside, on the common. She did not dare to switch on her bedroom light, but she felt for a cotton wrapper and put it on. With utmost caution she poked her head out of her bedroom window.
The cool night air was surprising on her cheek. Suddenly she longed, more than anything, to climb out of her window and run away over the common, into the dark freedom. She stared wistfully out through the night, that was quite black at first, until her eyes got used to it and she could make out the humped wood on the right, a line of cloud along the furthest horizon and Mrs. Beer's cottage as tidy as a toy, with its shiny roof and neat fence. The weather had cleared, there were some stars. Only inside the house the heat and tension mounted.
She looked along the wall and caught her breath. There
was another head sticking out, for a terrible moment it seemed to be just next to her own; and then she realized that someone was looking, as she was, over the common, but out of the spare-room window. Someone? Certainly it was Aunt Rhoda, Aunt Rhoda with hair let out and hanging like a fag; and, as Kate watched, she whistled again, not loudly, as a woman may whistle for her dog. And the air of the common, and Kate's fearful ear, received her whispered words: “Come home, my little master!”
Staring, fixed in terror, propped out of the window as stiff as a pole, Kate did see a great black shape slip along the wall beneath her. It was the dog, silent and intent, coming home.
Thomas, Thomas! She must get Thomas. There was not a moment to lose.
Why had she not pushed his cot into her own room? Why had she thought Aunt Rhoda would be so easily driven out? She was not stupid: it was Kate, Kate who was stupid.
She crept through the bathroom, and round the head of the stairs. No lights -- she did not want to disturb Aunt Rhoda and the dog. The palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, felt sticky, the temperature of the house seemed practically at boiling point The carpet seemed to heave along the landing.
But there was moonlight in Thomas's room. It struck the bars of his cot, throwing a striped shadow against the wall behind it so that there appeared to be a cage in that corner of the nursery. She ran to it, and leaned over the side breathlessly.
He was not in it.
Moon Eyes Page 11
